10987	----	LITTLE BEWILDERED HENRY. By The Author Of _Nothing At All_, &c. &c. [Illustration: FRONTISPIECE. _See Page 9_] The Extraordinary Adventures Of Poor Little Bewildered Henry, _Who was shut up in an old Abbey for Three Weeks_. A Story Founded On Fact. by The Author Of "Nothing At All," Etc. 1850. The Adventures Of _Little Bewildered Henry_ [Illustration] "Oh, mamma! mamma! where is you, mamma?" sobbed little Henry, a sweet child of three years old, as he stood in the lawn, opposite the door, with the wind blowing his pretty hair and clothes all about him: "Oh, mamma! mamma! where is you? I don't know where is you, my own mamma." "What are you crying for?" said Bill Boldface, a naughty boy in the village, "eh, what are you crying for, you bold puppy? It's a good scelping you want. Don't you know what a scelping is, my boy?----a good whipping." "No, no! me don't want a whipping, me don't want a whipping; me want mamma. Oh! where is you, my own mamma?" "Well, she's gone into the wood there; and, if you don't make haste and run after her, a big pig that's there under the tree, all bloody, with long ears and cocked tail, will eat her. Run, my boy: that's right: run, now, run." Poor little Henry, much more alarmed for his mamma than for himself, flew into the wood with the hope of saving her; and having run a good way without stopping, calling all the time for his dear mamma, he tripped against a tree and fell: but quickly recovering, he stood up and continued his race, till, quite exhausted, he sat down on the grass, and there continued panting and crying bitterly. At last, he turned round; and what should he see, to his great joy, but his favourite dog Fidelle. "O, Fidelle! Fidelle!" said the baby, hugging his little arms round the dog's neck, "O! where's mamma? and where's papa? and where's nurse? Where, Fidelle? cannot you tell me where?" But having received no answer, he stood up, and again commenced his journey, and Fidelle ran on before; and it was astonishing what a length of way the baby walked, till, at last, he came to the foot of a high mountain. And now night came on, and the wind blew strong and cold; and little Henry, quite bewildered, turned into a narrow path, shaded by oak, and elm, and sycamore trees, and the baby again tripped against the root of one of them, and fell; and his little hand came against a stone, and he was much hurt, and his heart beat, and the tears streamed down one of the prettiest little faces that ever was seen, and the wind blew his pretty hair off his forehead, and it would go to your very heart to hear his little mournful cry, calling out for his mamma, his own dear mamma. [Illustration: ] At length, the moon arose in great splendour, and little Henry saw at a distance an old abbey, all covered with ivy, and looking so dark and dismal, it would frighten any one from going in. But Henry's little heart, occupied by the idea of his mamma, and with grief that he could not find her, felt no fear; but walking in, he saw a cell in the corner that looked like a baby-house, and, with Fidelle by his side, he bent his little steps towards it, and seating himself on a stone, he leaned his pretty head against the old wall, and fell fast asleep. [Illustration:] Overcome with fatigue, the sweet baby slept soundly till morning; but when he awoke Fidelle was gone, and he felt very hungry. And he again set up his little cry, "Oh, mamma! mamma! where is you, mamma? Oh! I want my breakfast! I want my breakfast!" At length, he spied Fidelle cantering in with something in her mouth, and having laid it by Henry's side, she darted out of the abbey. Henry took it up: it was a large piece of white bread, which the faithful creature had met with somewhere, and brought to her little favourite.[1] [Footnote 1: A fact.] You may suppose how happy the poor child was to get it; and while he was eating it, a grey owl marched from her nest in the wall, and began picking up the crumbs. This greatly amused little Henry; and, in a few minutes after, there came a great set of sparrows, and a robin-redbreast, and two of them began to fight. And this made Henry laugh; and, on the whole, they so occupied him all day, he was less unhappy than the day before: and, when night came, he lay down near the nest of the owl and her young ones, and slept soundly. Next day, faithful Fidelle again appeared with a piece of boiled beef in her mouth, which having left at Henry's feet, she scampered off, and Henry ate heartily, and gave some to the owls. And when he could forget his mamma, which indeed was not often, these birds used to amuse his little mind. But, towards evening, getting very thirsty, he again began to cry, and to call for mamma; and God, who watches over little infants just the same as if they were grown men, put it into his little heart to walk outside the abbey, where was a nice stream running through the grass: and the baby, recollecting he had seen a boy, the week before, lying on the ground drinking out of a stream near papa's house, knelt down and took a hearty drink of the clear water. [Illustration: ] And now, near a week passed over, Fidelle constantly bringing a supply of food, and the owls, and the sparrows, and the robin, sharing the welcome morsel, and affording Henry's little mind constant amusement and occupation. At length, the little birds began not to be afraid of Henry; and they would come and hop by his side, and pick up the crumbs, and almost eat from his hand. And one of them built its nest close to him, and laid two eggs, and every evening would sing such a sweet song, that really the baby began to get reconciled, and used to feel like a little king among them all. And now we must leave our mighty _monarch_ for a while, and return to his disconsolate parents. [Illustration: ] The evening Bill Boldface had met him, and sent him so cruelly into the wood, mamma was out walking, and on her return enquired for the baby. "O," said papa, "he is safe: I saw him in nurse's arms a few minutes ago." Mamma immediately went up to the nursery, and there heard that nurse had gone off to see her sister, who lived about two miles distant, "and, of course," said the nursery-maid, "she has taken Master Henry with her." Impressed with this idea, mamma returned to tea; but when night came, she began to get very uneasy, for nurse did not return. "O," said papa, "you know she often remains at her sister's; and though she has done very wrong in keeping the baby out, yet she is so fond and careful of him, we need not be uneasy." But what was their distraction when morning came?--nurse returned, but no baby! The whole country was searched, the ponds and lake were searched, every spot searched but the very place the baby was in. Advertisements were put in all the papers, and the poor father and mother were near sinking under the distraction of their mind. Unfeeling Bill Boldface, who could have set all to rights, had sailed off to America the very morning after the sweet baby had disappeared. At length, one morning, the distracted father perceived Fidelle jumping upon the table and seizing a large piece of bread, fly off with it to the wood. The Lord instantly put it in his heart to follow the dog, who led him into the abbey; and there, surrounded by his little subjects the birds, fast asleep, (for he had just fallen asleep on his throne,) lay the little _monarch_. His hand was placed under his little head, and the leaves of the ivy and the yew were all scattered about him. "My child! my child!" said the poor father, darting forward, and snatching him in his arms; "'tis my Henry! my cherub! my darling! O gracious God! is it indeed my child?" [Illustration: ] The well-known voice aroused Henry, and flinging his little arms around papa's neck, he begged to be taken instantly to mamma, saying, as his happy papa carried him out of the abbey, "Good-bye, little birds, good-bye: I'll come back to-morrow, and bring you some white bread; but now I must go see mamma. Good-bye, little birds, good-bye." Poor mamma, when she saw him, overcome by her feelings, fainted away. When she recovered, she threw herself on her knees in gratitude to God for thus so wonderfully preserving her little darling. And now, my children, pause for a moment, and reflect on the goodness of God so powerfully displayed in this little story. You see how he directed Fidelle to bring food for the support of this little baby; you see how wonderfully he was preserved, and how, at length, he was restored to his parents. Those parents were truly religious, and _therefore_ their prayers were heard--_For the eyes of the Lord are over the righteous, and his ears are open unto their prayers: but the face of the Lord is against them that do evil_. (1 Pet. iii. 12.) O my children! love God, and make Christ your friend, and then they will watch over you as they did over little Henry; and, when you die, they will take you up to live with themselves, and you shall be surrounded by the happy angels in heaven. Perhaps my little readers may like to hear something of poor Fidelle. Soon after her visits to the abbey, she had two little pups. One of them died, but the other Henry reared with the greatest tenderness; while its good old mother, beloved and even respected (which is not generally the case with dogs) by all the family, lived to an advanced age: and when she died, they buried her in the garden, under the spreading branches of an old sycamore tree. Little Henry, trained in the love and fear of God, grew up one of the best of children. Every where he went, the blessing of God was with him, for Christ was his friend: and when little Henry had committed a fault, he would apply to his kind Saviour, who was then always ready to procure God's pardon for him. In the course of time, his mamma taught him the following little poem. Thou Friend of my childhood, and Guide of my youth, Thou Father of mercies, and Fountain of truth;-- Protect and direct me wherever I stray, And bless little Henry each hour in the day. When up in the morning I rise from my bed, O, let thy kind angels be plac'd o'er my head; And when at my tasks, at my school, or my play, Still bless little Henry each hour in the day. When night spreads its shade o'er the waves of the deep, And Henry is sunk in the stillness of sleep, O, still let thy poor child be dear in thy sight, And bless little Henry each hour in the night. FINIS. BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR, _Poems Appropriate For A Sick Or A Melancholy Hour_. Price _6s_. in extra boards. _A Whisper To A Newly-Married Pair, from a Widowed Wife_. Price _3s. 6d_. in extra boards. _Parnassian Geography; or, the Little Ideal Wanderer_. Price _2s. 6d_. in extra boards. _The Flowers Of The Forest_. Price _2s. 6d_. in extra boards. _A Gift From The Mountains, Or, The Happy Sabbath_. Price _1s_. _A Walk To Weller's Wood_. Price _2d_. _Enquiries Into Natural Causes And Effects_. Price _2d_. _Nothing At All_. Price _1d_. 
21371	----	Our Soldier Boy, by George Manville Fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ Well, this certainly is a departure from the usual Fenn style. Suspense as always there certainly is, but the intended audience is much younger than his usual teenager one. The date is the Peninsular War, in Portugal. A British family of merchants in Portugal are unaware of the intensity of the nearby fighting in the vicinity. They are at their country home, and go out for a few minutes, leaving their eight-year old son with the servants. The French attack, slay the servants, and leave the child with a severe injury to the head. Later the 200th Fusiliers come by, and the corporal sees the villa, and goes up there to see if he can get anything useful for his men to eat. He sees the slain servants, and comes across the little boy, whom he carries back to his wife, to see if she can bring him round. The boy does recover, becomes the mascot of the regiment, and eventually after a battle with the French, heroically rescues the Colonel himself. The boy comes to believe that the corporal and his wife are his real parents. Months go by, while the boy, who does not have the faintest memory of his real father and mother, becomes more and more the favourite of the Regiment. The Portuguese give a great party to celebrate the British victory, and at the Ball there are present the Trevors, the real father and mother of the boy. There are touching scenes as recognition dawns. So there is quite a lot of action for a short book. ________________________________________________________________________ OUR SOLDIER BOY, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. "You, Tom Jones, let that pot-lid alone." It was a big brown-faced woman who said that crossly, and a big rough-looking bugler, in the uniform of the 200th Fusiliers, with belts, buttons and facings looking very clean and bright, but the scarlet cloth ragged and stained from the rain and mud, and sleeping in it anywhere, often without shelter, who dropped the lid as if it were hot and shut in the steam once more, as the iron pot bubbled away where it hung from three sticks, over a wood fire. It was in a lovely part of Portugal, and the regiment was halting among the mountains after a long weary tramp; fires had been lit for cooking, and the men were lying and sitting about, sleeping, cleaning their firelocks, pipeclaying their belts, and trying to make themselves look as smart as they could considering that they were all more or less ragged and torn after a fortnight's tramp in all weathers in pursuit of a portion of the French army which had been always a few hours ahead. But it was easy enough to follow their steps, for everywhere they had plundered, and destroyed; villages and pleasant homes were burned; and blackened ruins, cut-up gardens and vineyards met the soldiers' eyes wherever the enemy had been. There had been a straggling little village by the side of the mountain stream, where the 200th had halted at midday after their long march under a burning sun, at a spot where there was plenty of fresh water, and it was the pot over one of these cooking fires whose lid Tom Jones had lifted off. "On'y wanted to smell what was for dinner," he said. "What have you got, Mother Beane?" "Never you mind. Rare ohs for meddlers, and pump-handle sauce, perhaps; and look here, you sir, you come when we halt to-night and I'll mend some of them rags. You're a disgrace." "Ain't worse than the rest of the fellows," said Tom, grinning. "The Colonel's horse went down 's morn'." "Oh, dear, dear!" cried the woman excitedly; "is he hurt?" "Broke both his knees, and bled ever so." "The Colonel?" "Now-w-w! His horse. Colonel only went sliding down 'mong the stones, and ripped his jacket sleeve right up." "Oh, that's a blessing," said the woman. "You go to him when we camp, and say Mrs Corp'ral Beane's dooty and she's got a needle and silk ready, and may she mend his jacket." "All right, but you might tell us what's for dinner." "Wait and see. And why don't you go and forage about and see if you can't find a bit o' fruit or some vegetables?" "'Tarn't no good. Old Frog-soups clears everything." "Yes," said the woman, with a sigh, as she re-arranged her battered old straw bonnet cocked up as if it were a hat, and took off the old scarlet uniform tail coat she wore over her very clean cotton gown, before going to the pot, wooden spoon in hand, to raise the lid and give the contents a stir round. "Oh, I say, Mother Beane, it does smell good! What's in it?" "Shoulder o' goat," said the woman. "Yah! Don't care much for goat," said the boy. "Arn't half so good as mutton." "You must take what you can get, Tom. Two chickens." "Why, that they ain't. I see 'em: they was an old cock and hen as we chivied into that burnt house this mornin', and Corp'ral shot one, and Mick Toole run his bay'net through the other. Reg'lar stringies." "Never mind. I'm cooking 'em to make 'em taste like chicken, and it's time they were all back to mess. Which way did my old man go?" "Climbed up yonder. Said he knowed there'd be a house up somewheres there." "And why didn't you go with him, sir?" said Mrs Corporal Beane. "Might have found a melon or some oranges." "Not me," grumbled the boy. "Frenchies don't leave nothing: hungry beggars. Murd'rin' wermin. Wish we could ketch 'em." "Ah, so do I, and it makes my heart bleed to see what we do." "Ah, but you wait a bit. We shall ketch 'em one o' these days." "You won't. You're too lazy." "That I ain't. I'd ha' gone foraging 's morning, and there's an old boot nail made a hole in one foot, and t'other's all blisters." "Oh, my poor boy! And I haven't finished that pair of stockings I was knitting for you. Look here, you go and sit down till the men come back, and bathe your feet in the stream." "Did," said the boy, with a chuckle. "Ah! Where abouts? Not above where we get our drinking water?" "Course I didn't," said the boy scornfully. "I ain't a Frenchy." "Ahoy-y-y-y!" The hail came from high up in a woody ravine far above their heads, and the boy shaded his eyes and said excitedly--"Here, look. It's Joe Beane, and he's found something good. Got it on his shoulder." "What is it?" cried Mrs Beane. "A kid?" "No, it's a bag o' something. It's--no, he's hid among the trees again. It was a bag, though--looked whitish." "It's flour," cried Mrs Beane triumphantly. "Oh, Tom! We'll have cakes to-night, and you shall carry some to the officers' mess." "Give us one if I do, Mother Beane?" "Ah, pig! I never saw such a boy to eat." "Well, how can I help it? I get so holler," grumbled the boy. "It's 'cause I'm growing." Five minutes later a tall manly-looking soldier came down the rugged track, with his face and hands torn and bleeding, and dropped upon his knees before his astonished wife and a group of half a dozen men who hurried up. "Oh, Joe," cried the woman, "what have you got there?" "Young shaver," panted the man. "Found big house yonder, half burnt. Five dead folk, and this here." "Oh, Joe!" cried the woman, taking her husband's burden from him, sinking upon her knees, and laying the head of a handsome little fellow of about eight against her breast, to begin rocking herself to and fro and sobbing bitterly. "Oh, the wicked cruel wretches! To go and murder a poor little boy like this! Look at his face! Look at his hair, half burned off, and the rest all blood. Oh! If you were men you'd ketch and kill some of 'em for this." A low growl arose from the soldiers around, and Tom Jones sniffed, drew his bugle round from where it hung at his back, and dropped two silent tears in its mouth. "You Tom," cried Mrs Beane, "don't stand sniffing and snivelling there like a great bull calf. Take the tin dipper and fetch it full of clean water. Oh, Joe, Joe! It's too late. The poor little darling's dead." "Warn't when I fun' him," said the corporal. "He'd crep' away a bit, and he moved one hand." "Yes, and he's warm still," cried the woman excitedly. "Here, you men, clear off. You go and serve out the mess, Joe. Never mind me." "But you'll want a bit o' dinner, missus; and I found two ripe melons up in the garden there, but I left 'em behind." "Don't talk to me about melons and dinners," cried the woman angrily. "Go and get your own, all of you; and how much longer's that boy going to be?" Not many minutes before he appeared, not with the tin dipper but a whole bucketful of clear cold water, forgetting all about his sore feet; and while the men went and sat round the iron pot of savoury hotch-potch, Tom Jones stayed behind to help bathe and bandage the head of the handsome little fellow upon whose sunburned face more than one hot tear fell, as loving hands made him up a temporary bed of great-coats in the shade. "Oh, Tom, Tom!" sobbed the big rough coarse woman, as she knelt there at last after doing all she could, "many's the time that I've prayed that I might have a little boy to call my own; but Heaven knows best, and he might have lived to die like this." "He ain't a-going to die," said Tom, sniffing again. "He is--he is; and no doctor near!" "No," said Tom, with another sniff; "he's miles away, along o' them poor wounded chaps we left behind." "I can do nothing, nothing more--and he's somebody's bairn!" "Yes," said the boy hoarsely, "and the Frenchies killed 'em, for Joe Beane telled the men as the sight he see was horrid." "Hush! Ah, look," whispered the woman, and she bent over the poor little victim, who wailed faintly, "Oh, don't--don't--Ah!" Then he lay silent and motionless, as his rough nurse softly laid her hand upon the fire-scorched forehead. "Why, that there ain't Portygeeze," whispered Tom, staring. "Well, old gal, what about him now?" "Oh, I don't know, Joe; I don't know. He just spoke a little." "Poor little nipper. All right, my gal; you'll bring him round." Tom had ceased sniffing and had turned to give a long stare at the men grouped round the pot, to see that they had done eating and were lighting their pipes. "Might ha' arxed a pore chap to have had a bit, corporal," he said. "Ay, we might, lad; but then you see we was all so hungry we mightn't, and you're only a boy." "Yes, that's it," grumbled Tom, wrenching his bugle round and giving it a vicious polish with his sleeve. "Allus the same; on'y a boy; just as if I could help that!" "And such a hungry sort o' boy; holler all through. It's a waste to give you good food. That there stoo was evvinly." Joe turned away from Tom's sour puckered face, to bend over the insensible little patient with a look full of pity, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I should just liked to have been there, missus, with my bay'net fixed when they cut that little fellow down. Here, I'll sit and have a pipe and keep the flies off him, while you go and pick a bit. The boys wouldn't touch a morsel till I'd put aside some for you and Tom." That night the 200th was still marching on where they were to camp in the mountains, while on a rough kind of litter formed of a long basket strapped upon the back of a mule, with a couple of great-coats and a blanket for bed, lay the poor child whose life Mrs Beane was trying to save. It was a long and a weary forced march, for scouts had brought in news which made the officers hope to come in touch of the retreating army before morning, for the news had spread, and during the night the Colonel and officers found opportunities for coming and asking Mother Beane about her little patient. But there was always the same reply, and Colonel Lavis did not have his uniform mended, neither were any stitches added to Tom Jones's new worsted stockings, for the corporal's wife had all her work to do to try and save her patient's life, and the shake of the head she gave at daybreak told more forcibly than words or the bitter tears she shed, that she had given up all hope. CHAPTER TWO. The 200th was in high glee to a man, which is including about twenty men who were wounded not so badly but that they could shout "Hurrah!" For there was a brush with the retreating French, who were driven from the strong camp they had formed, and the little patient had, to use Mrs Beane's words, "begun to pick up a bit." During the next week of marching and counter-marching the wounded boy began to pick up a good many bits, for the doctor had rejoined the regiment, and he did something to the little fellow's head where beneath the cruel cut he had received the bone was dinted in, and from that hour the change was wonderful. In another week he delighted Mrs Corporal Beane by watching her constantly with wondering eyes, and suddenly asking her who she was. In her motherly delight she told him "Mother Beane," and he began calling her mother directly, while in another week Corporal Joe had taught the patient to call him Dad, and wondering began. "Haven't you asked him?" said Joe. "Yes, as much as I dared, old man, but I'm afraid to do much, because it seems to muddle his poor dear head, and he wrinkles up and tries to think, but he can't." "But don't he remember who cut him down?" said Joe. "No." "Nor yet about the house bein' set a-fire?" "No." "Well, did you ask him his name?" "Yes, and he only shook his head." "Did you ask him who his father and mother was?" "Yes, but he didn't know." "Well, it's ama-a-azin'," said Joe. But it was true. The boy's life had been saved just when it had been ebbing away, but that was all. With the cruel blow which struck him down all recollection of the past was cut away, and the boy had, as it were, to begin life all over again, not as a little child, for he could talk and chat merrily; but the dark cloud which came down so suddenly had shut everything else away. "Well, it's ama-a-azin'," said Joe to his wife, "and it seems to me as we found him and saved him alive and all as belonged to him was killed dead, why, he must belong to us. What do you say to keeping him?" "Oh, Joe, if we only could!" cried his wife. "Ah, if we on'y could," said Joe thoughtfully. "I know," cried Mrs Corporal; "I'll ask the Colonel next time I take him his washing back." "You just don't," said Joe; "because if you do he'll say as you mustn't." "Oh!" sighed Mrs Corporal; "that's just what I'm 'fraid of." They were very silent as they sat by the camp-fire that night in an orange-grove, with the big stars peeping down at them, and Tom Jones, who took a great interest in what was said, sat and waited for ever so long, and then being tired out with the long day's tramp, lay down to listen, and dropped off fast asleep, just as Joe Beane said thoughtfully:-- "Look here, missus, if I was on'y a private instead of being an officer I should say something, but as I am full corporal, why, I can't." "Just think you are a private, Joe, and say it," whispered his wife. "Shall I?" he said slowly. "Yes, Joe, dear, do. He's such a nice boy." "Ay, he is, missus." "And I love him a'ready." "Well, I won't go so far as love him, 'cause I don't like boys, but I like him because he's such a good, happy-looking little chap, and how anyone as calls himself a man could have--" "Yes, yes, you've said that before, Joe," whispered his wife pettishly. "Tell me what you'd say if you warn't a corporal." "Why, I'd say nothing," said Joe. "Oh, how can you be so stupid as to go on like that! I thought you'd got something sensible in your head." "So I have," said Joe gruffly, "on'y you're in such a hurry. I should say nothing to nobody, and go on just as if he warn't here." "Oh, Joe, dear, would you?" "Yes, that's what I should say. We could manage right enough, and if at last the Colonel should come with: `Hallo there! What boy's that?'-- why, we could tell him then, and if he said: `Send him away'--" "Yes, and what then, Joe?" cried Mrs Corporal excitedly. "Why then," said Joe, "we should have to obey orders." "Ah, and he mightn't say that, Joe, as he's such a nice little fellow." "Course, he mightn't," replied Joe. "Hah!" ejaculated Mrs Corporal Beane, and she said no more. But at the next halting-place she began to think: and the result of her thinking was that she got hold of an old uniform suit and by working very hard every time the regiment halted she contrived to cut the suit down till it roughly fitted the little invalid, braiding it like the drum and bugle boys', and making a little military cap as well, so that by the time he was able to trot along in the rear of the regiment he did not seem out of place. "Joe," said Mrs Corporal one morning, "look at him; don't he look splendid? He's our soldier boy now, and I shall call him Dick." "All right," said the corporal; "Dick ain't bad, but you might ha' called him Joe the second." CHAPTER THREE. It was quite six weeks after Dick had been found, and he was weak still, but that only troubled him by making him feel tired, and at such times there was always a ride ready for him on the top of a pack carried by a mule. And there he was happy enough, for he was rapidly growing into being the pet of the regiment, and first one of the men brought him fruit, and some one thing and some another; but Mrs Corporal was always pretty close at hand to take care that he was not spoiled or made ill, and Corporal Joe said over and over again to his wife, that it was "ama-a-azin'." "What's amazing, Joe?" she said one day. "What do you keep saying that for?" "'Cause it is," he said. "Yes, but why, Joe?" "'Cause ever since I found that there boy you've been as proud as a peacock with two tails." "And enough to make me," said Mrs Corporal tartly. "There never was such a boy before. Look at him!" and she pointed to where the little fellow, in full uniform, was perched on a mule-pack, and the baggage guard with fixed bayonets marched close beside. "Yes," said Joe drily, as he screwed up his face; "I've been a-looking at him a deal. His coatee fits horrid." "That it don't," said Mrs Corporal; "and it was the best I could do out of such old stuff." "Well, it weer old," said her husband; "but it's all crinkles and creases, and that boy puzzles me." "Why? How?" "'Cause you'd think after he'd seen his people killed and the house burnt about his ears he'd ha' been frightened like; but he don't seem to mind nothing about it, not a bit." "Ah, it is strange," said Mrs Corporal; "but there couldn't be a braver nor a better little chap." "That there couldn't," said the Corporal proudly; "but I think I've found out what's the matter with him. That crack on the head made him an idjit." "For shame, Joe!" cried his wife. "He's as clever and bright a little fellow as ever stepped." "So he is, missus; but he puzzles me. It's ama-a-azin'." The boy puzzled Tom Jones the bugler boy too, who whenever he got a chance came alongside of the mule or baggage wagon in the rear, and let the little invalid earn his bugle on condition that he did not try to blow it, and Tom made this an excuse for solemnly asking the same questions over and over again. "I say, who's your father?" "Corporal Joe Beane," said the boy promptly; "I say, Tom, mayn't I have a blow now?" "What? No, of course not. You don't want to send the men at the double up a hill like this." "Why not? I should like to run too, only I so soon get tired." "You shall have a blow some day. But I say, who's your mother?" "Mrs Corporal Joe Beane," was the prompt reply, and the boy drummed the mule's sides to make it go faster, but without effect. "Well, where did you live before Joe Beane found you?" "I don't know," said the boy, shaking his head, and Tom Jones stared hard with his mouth open before asking his next question. "I say, how's your head?" "Quite well, thank you," said the boy; "how's yours?" Tom scratched his as if he did not know. "Look here," he cried, after a pause, as a happy thought crossed his mind, and without pausing to state how his own head was, he fired off another question:--"I say, who did you live with before we found you?" "I don't know," said the boy, looking at him wonderingly, and as if he felt amused by his companion's questions. "You ask mother." "Here! Quick," whispered Tom. "Give me my bugle." "Shan't. I want it," replied the boy coolly. "But you must. Here's the Colonel and half the officers reined up at the side to see us go by." He snatched the bugle away as he spoke and threw the cord over his shoulder, drawing himself up smartly, and keeping step with the guard. Mrs Corporal Beane had caught sight of the group of officers they were approaching, and with her heart in her mouth as she called it, she hurried up to the side of the mule, catching up to it just as they came abreast of the Colonel, a quiet stern-looking officer whose hair was sprinkled with grey. Nothing escaped his sharp eyes, and he pressed his horse's side and rode close to the baggage mule. "What boy's that, my good woman?" "Mine, sir," said Mrs Beane huskily. "Indeed? Is that the little fellow who was found in the burned village?" "Yes, sir," faltered the woman, as she gazed in the Colonel's stern frowning countenance. "Humph!" he ejaculated, and drew rein for the rear of the regiment to file past. "And now my poor boy will be sent away, Joe," said the agitated woman that night; but Joe said nothing, not even when he felt his wife get up and go to where the little fellow was sleeping soundly, and he heard her utter a curious sobbing sound before she came to lie down again. But no orders were given next day for the boy to be sent to the rear, nor yet during the next week, during which the men were still hunting frogs, as they called it--frogs which took such big leaps that the toiling British soldiers could not come up to them. "Oh, if they only would let us," Joe used to say every night when he pulled off his boots to rest his feet. "It's my one wish, for we must give 'em a drubbing, or we shall never have the face to go back to old England again." Joe had his wish sooner than he expected. It was in a wild mountainous part of the beautiful country, so full of forest and gorge that there was plenty of opportunity for the French to hide their force on the mountain slopes of a lovely valley and let the English regiment get well past them before they attacked. The result was a desperate fight which lasted a couple of hours before the 200th managed to extricate themselves with the loss of many killed and wounded, and in spite of every man fighting like a hero, they were beaten and had to suffer the miseries of a retreat as well as a defeat. But the 200th did not fall back many miles before the major of the regiment halted the main body of the men on the slopes of a rocky mount which he determined to hold and to give the scattered and wounded a chance to return, so a stand was made. For there was no hiding the fact; the poor 200th had been badly beaten, as an English regiment might reasonably be when every man was surprised and called upon to fight six, mostly hidden from him by rocks and trees. The enemy did not follow their advantage, so that the English had the whole of that night to rest and refresh, though there was not much of either, for upon the roll of the companies being called a hundred brave men did not answer; many were wounded; and, worst misfortune of all, the Colonel was among the missing, and had been seen last fighting like a hero as he tried with a small company of men to save the baggage and ammunition. "And our poor boy, Joe," sobbed Mrs Corporal that night, as she sat by the watch-fire, "trampled down and killed, just as I had begun to love him as much as if he had been my own." "Cheer up, old lass," said Joe, wincing as he spoke, for a bullet had ploughed a nasty furrow in one arm; "we don't know yet that he isn't all right. Prisoner, perhaps. Let's wait till morning, and see." Mrs Corporal sobbed, and of course waited, with the men under arms all night and expecting an attack. But the night passed away without any alarm, and soon after sunrise in the beautiful chestnut wood, about fifty of the missing crawled back into camp, but there was no news of the Colonel, none of Dick, and poor Mrs Corporal Beane had another terrible trouble on her mind as she nursed and held water to her husband's feverish lips, for in the terrible fight at the surprise brave stout-hearted Joe Beane had been shot close to the Colonel's side, and he remembered seeing that officer wave his sword, and hearing him cry, "Forward, my lads; this way," but he could recollect no more. CHAPTER FOUR. Dick could remember every thing that took place then, though all that had occurred before he was hurt still remained blank. He remembered the crashing volleys fired from both sides of the gorge, and the way in which the long line of the marching regiment faced both ways and fired again, before making a brave charge forward, led by their officers, to fight their way through the enemy in front, but only to be beaten back, withered as their formation was by the terrible fire on all sides. He remembered this, and how all of a sudden, as the mule he rode was carried along in the crowd, and he clung tightly to the bundle with which it was loaded, the poor beast suddenly stood still, uttered a strange squeal, and then reared up so that Dick was nearly jerked off. But the poor animal, which had been pierced through the lungs by a bullet, came down again on all-fours, and then dashed off at full gallop towards the clouds of smoke in front, bore off to the left as some dimly-seen men stabbed at it with their bayonets, and tore on over rock and bush, higher and higher up the side of the gorge, with Dick still clinging tightly to the ropes of the bundle, till all at once it uttered a shrill cry, reared up again, and then fell, throwing the boy down among the tangled growth, rolled over, once kicked out its legs for a few moments, and then lay perfectly still. Dick lay as still for a few minutes, feeling too much startled to move. Then he managed to crawl out of the rocky rift into which he had been thrown, and stood up, all ragged, with his red coatee split up the back, and one sleeve torn out at the shoulder. For a few minutes he stood listening to the shouting and firing far below and watched the smoke curling up; his face was all puckered up, and he rubbed himself where he was pricked and scratched. Then he examined his damaged clothes, and lastly he climbed up to where the mule lay, on its side with its heels higher up the slope than its stretched-out neck and head. "Poor old fellow!" he said. "Did the shooting frighten you? Come on, get up." But the mule did not stir, and the boy knelt down by it to raise its head a little, but only to let it sink back, and shrink away, in horror--the poor animal, who had always been ready to eat grass or pieces of unripe melon from his hand, lay dead, pierced by the bullet, and bayonetted in three places by the French. And now the tears which the little fellow had manfully kept back began to flow fast, and he knelt down by the poor beast's side, feeling stunned. And as he knelt there the firing went on, but in a scattered way, as the 200th fell back with the enemy in full pursuit, the boy turning at last to watch the progress of the fight far below and seeing the scarlet coats of his friends growing more and more distant in the smoke, and the blue uniforms of the French as they crowded after them, till the reports of the muskets grew faint; and the echoes from high up on either side of the gorge more soft till they died away. Dick's first idea was to hurry off, but there was only one way, and that was down the wooded ravine; but he could not go that way, for the place between him and his friends was swarming with the French soldiers, and he shuddered at the thought of trying to get through them. He had of late seen and heard so much of their cruel acts. What should he do? He had hardly asked himself this question when he heard a shout, and his heart leaped--it was his friends coming back. No; he could see below him the uniforms of the French soldiers, and their bayonets flashing in the golden light of the sinking sun, and in fear he shrank back among the thick bushes and hid below the place where he had been thrown, to lie listening as the voices came nearer, a peep or two that he stole showing that the enemy were spread out low down by the rugged track, evidently very busy, and it seemed to the boy that they were hunting for him to kill him. He grew more and more sure of this as the voices came nearer, but at last he realised the truth--that the men were searching amongst the bushes for the wounded and dead. This went on for an hour, and Dick's courage rose as he saw them carrying man after man down to the track, men in red and men in blue, and bearing them away, with the voices growing fewer and fewer. "And it will soon be dark," the boy said to himself, "and then I can go back and find mother and father." Just then he heard shouts again, and he shrank back beneath the bushes, to listen, not understanding a word; but the voices came nearer and nearer and Dick's heart sank, for there was a shout and two men ran up to within a dozen yards of where the boy lay. "They can see me, and are going to shoot," he thought, and he shut his eyes and shivered, and thought of the corporal and his wife. But no shot was fired; no bright keen bayonet plunged through the bushes; and taking courage the boy raised his head and peered upward towards where two French soldiers were busy doing something, and another came and joined them, to stand talking and laughing. Then the boy grasped the fact that they had seen the mule, and were cutting the ropes and opening the pack to see if there was anything worth taking. At last the notes of a bugle came echoing up the ravine from side to side. The soldiers immediately rose from where they were busy, shouldered their muskets, and began to descend the slope, while Dick lay listening to the crackling and brushing sounds as they forced their way through the bushes. There was another bugle call, and some time after another, sounding quite faint, and as the boy crept out of his hiding-place at last, to find the contents of the mule's pack, the belongings of the corporal's mess for the most part scattered about the ground, he looked keenly in search of danger! And how still it was! Not a sound--even the cry of a bird; only a faint silvery rippling tinkle somewhere near; a sound which set the boy creeping, to find it low down between some rocks slippery with green moss which grew all about a tiny pool, into which after lying flat upon his chest he plunged his lips, and drank again and again to quench his thirst. CHAPTER FIVE. That long, deep draught of sweet, cool water seemed to send fresh life through Dick, and he rose up, thinking that it would be easy now to get down to the track and find his way back to his friends, but he shook his head. No, he said, the Frenchmen would be about, and he might lose his way in the dark. Better wait a bit. But it was so horribly lonely, and the stillness made him shiver as if he were cold, and obeying a natural instinct to be near something, he climbed back to where the dead mule lay, dragged a blanket from where the French soldiers had tossed it, and threw it over him. Then he crept close to the mule's side, to sit watching the light die out on the tops of the mountains and the stars begin to come out. His head began to sink sidewise, nodded once or twice, and in spite of the darkness and the horror of his situation he fell fast asleep, to begin dreaming of Mother Beane, of the camp-fire and the cooking, and Tom Jones the bugle boy making a horrible noise on his copper horn, as he would sometimes in play: and then he started into wakefulness, to crouch there listening, for the hoarse sound sounded again from somewhere below. The boy shuddered, for he knew it was not the note of the bugle, but a horrible long-drawn cry, faint and strange, and the cold drops began to gather on his forehead, for it sounded like the howling of a wolf, such a cry as he had heard Mother Beane talk about when telling him and Tom Jones about her adventures over the camp-fire. He listened and shuddered as the cry came again out of the darkness: and then the frightened feeling passed away. "'Tisn't a wolf," he said, and he started to his feet. "Where are you?" he shouted, wishing that he had not spoken in his excitement, for he felt that it might be a French soldier. Then he began to feel his way slowly through the bushes, for it was no enemy who replied, but someone English calling out from the thick darkness of the night that terribly stirring word,--Help. Dick had only one thought then, a thought which overmastered fear. Someone was in trouble and wanted help. It must be a wounded soldier, some one of his many friends who had chatted to him as he rode, for everyone in the regiment had a kind word to say. "Hoi! Where are you?" he shouted, and the voice answered from very near: but the bushes were thick, the rocks many, and the darkness deep, so that it was some time before Dick could reach the spot and pass his hands over someone lying there. "Water." That was the only answer to his question, "Who is it?" Dick remembered the terrible thirst brought on by his own excitement, and the delicious draught of water from the little pool, as he eagerly turned away, wondering whether he could find the water again in the dark. "Of course I can," he said to himself the next minute, for he had only to listen to the musical trickling sound, and find the way by his ears. But the next trouble was not so easy to get over. What was he to fetch the water in? He laughed softly to himself. The mule had been loaded with things belonging to the corporal's mess, and he felt certain that he could find a tin. But he had first of all to find out where the dead mule lay, no easy task in a strange place, and in the dark: but he tried and tried again, twice over finding himself near the pool, and it was not until he had passed near it over and over again that he kicked against something thrown away by the French soldiers, and the rest was easy. The next minute he was upon his knees searching about among the tumbled-together things, till to his great joy he touched the very article he wanted, and armed with this he sought for and found the little pool, filled the tin, and started upon the difficult task of carrying the water down a slope amongst rocks and trees and roots and creepers which seemed to be frying to trip him up. At last after trying for long enough he stopped short in despair, feeling completely lost. Half the water had been spilt, and he had called again--"Where are you?" but there was no reply. And now a terrible feeling of dread came over him again, as the thought took possession of his mind that the wounded man was dead. So strong was this that it took away all the courage which had helped him so far, and in the poor fellow's misery and despair he felt that the only thing to do now was to sit down and let the tears run while he waited till it was morning. But that was not to be, for just when his courage was at its lowest ebb he started and nearly dropped the tin, for from out of the darkness close by there was a piteous moan, and as he sought cautiously for the place from whence it came, he was helped by a low muttering as of someone saying a prayer very slowly. And it was, for he heard the words, "Thy will be done," and sank upon his knees by the sufferer's head without spilling another drop. Dick did not speak, but waited for the prayer to be finished: but there was no farther sound, and he whispered gently: "I've brought the water." Still there was no sound, and the boy began to think that he had come too late. He spoke again and again, but there was no reply, and after feeling about a little he dipped his fingers in the tin and let a few drops fall upon the poor fellow's dry lips. Then more and more, as he found they moved. Then he scooped up as much as his little hand would hold, guided it carefully and held it there so that a few drops trickled between the man's lips and the others ran over his face and neck, with a strangely reviving effect. For there was a low sigh or two, and he could hear the sound repeated of his patient trying to swallow, after which his mouth opened widely, so that he was able to pour in more water, which now was swallowed with avidity. All this had such a reviving effect that suddenly to Dick's great delight there was a hoarse whisper-- "More--more. Water--water." This was responded to at once, and after a few more tiny portions had been poured between the sufferer's lips a hoarse voice said:-- "Heaven bless you, it has saved my life." "Can you sit up a little and drink?" said Dick eagerly. "I don't know--I'll try." There was a faint rustling, a piteous groan of pain, and then:-- "Now quick. I can do no more. Water." By touch Dick found that his companion had raised himself on one elbow, and he guided the tin to his lips with one hand, passing the other round the poor fellow's head to try and support him, as he drank eagerly till the last drops were drained from the tin. "Like life--like life," was sighed, and Dick felt his patient sink down again with a sigh of content. "Shall I fetch some more?" said the boy. "Not yet. Tell me. Who are you? Is it a woman?" Dick laughed in his great joy at hearing the words. "No," he said: "it's only me." "You? Who are you?" "Dick. Mrs Corporal Beane's Dick." "Oh, my boy, my boy, you have saved my life," moaned the sufferer, catching the little fellow's hand and pressing it to his fevered lips. "But who are you?" said the boy. "I don't know your voice." "Don't you, my brave little fellow? Yes, you do--the Colonel, Colonel Lavis." "Oh," said Dick wonderingly, "and did somebody shoot you?" "Yes. I was hit twice. I crawled away among the bushes and rocks after I fell, and then all was dark, and I was trying to creep to where I could hear water. But tell me, my brave lad. They drove the Frenchmen off?" "No," said Dick sadly, and as he told all he knew the Colonel groaned again and again and to Dick's horror he heard him mutter to himself:-- "Better that I had died--better that I had died than suffer this. The defeat--the shame." Then all was still in the darkness, the fear began to creep into Dick's breast again, and he gently stretched out his hand to touch the Colonel's, when to his great joy his hand was seized: then another hand touched it, and he felt it kissed and then held fast, drawing him forward so that he half lay across the wounded man's breast, and could feel the beating of his heart, lying thinking there till he heard a low sigh or two, followed by a steady regular breathing as if he slept. And at last, utterly wearied out, sleep came to the boy as well, and he lay dreaming there, keeping what might have been the chill of death from a brave man's breast, till the sun rose again and was beating down warmly upon the back of Dick's head, when he opened his eyes to stare wonderingly at the stained and blackened face so close to his. Dick did not dare to stir for fear of awakening the Colonel again: but he was not asleep, for after a time he opened his eyes and smiled pleasantly. "The fortune of war, little comrade," he said. "Yes, sir," said Dick, and he stared at him, wondering that the stern, fierce officer who ordered the men about so could look so pleasant. "That's right," said the Colonel: "we have been successful many times. But let's see, Dick, you were brought into camp wounded." "Yes," said Dick. "My head was very bad." "Of course. I remember all about it. How was it you were injured?" Dick shook the head that had been hurt. "You don't know? But you speak well. Who are your father and mother?" "Corporal Beane and Mrs Corporal." The Colonel looked at the boy curiously. "Yes," he said at last: "so I remember hearing. Well, Dick, you were wounded, and we helped you: now it is my turn and you have helped me." "Yes," said Dick. "I am thirsty, my boy: will you fetch me some water?" "Yes," said Dick, seizing the tin. "But look carefully round: the enemy may be holding the ground." "Would they kill us if they saw us, sir?" "I hope not, boy: but if I can bear my wounds I'll keep in hiding, for my brave lads must make an effort to find us soon." "I'll mind," said Dick, and he took a long look round, and then crept on hands and knees to the spring, looked at it longingly, but forebore to drink, and filling the tin he bore it to the Colonel, who lay just as he had left him. "Can you lift my head, boy?" he said. "Set down the tin." Not an easy thing to do without spilling the water, but Dick succeeded, and then managed with the Colonel's help to raise him a little so that he could reach the water, of which he drank with avidity and was once more lowered back, to lie faint and giddy for a few minutes, but he recovered soon and said he was better, speaking so freely and kindly to the boy that Dick took courage. "I say," he said: "you've got such a dirty face." "Have I, Dick?" said the Colonel, smiling. "Yes, it's all over gunpowder, and all bloody. Shall I wash it?" "Please, Dick, my boy," said the Colonel, and Dick took the tin to the spring as carefully as before, after looking up and down the great ravine, filled it, and this time had a good draught himself, and felt hungry as he took the refilled tin back, set it down by the Colonel's head, and then began to purse up his lips and think what he should do. He was not long making up his mind, and tearing the lining out of his damaged sleeve to soak in the water and use for a sponge. "But I haven't a towel," he said. "There's a clean handkerchief in the breast pocket of my coat," said the Colonel, smiling. "Take it out." "That hurt you?" said Dick, after unbuttoning the uniform and taking out the carefully folded handkerchief just as Mrs Corporal Beane had brought it to him from the wash. "Yes, but not very much," said the Colonel. "Go on, it will be cool and refreshing." He was in great pain, but he lay smiling with a very kindly, fatherly look at the clever little fellow, as Dick carefully washed away the stains, having to go over the officer's face twice before it was quite clean, after which he dried it, and knelt there looking at the bright sword which was hanging by its golden knot to the Colonel's right arm. "Shall I take that off before I wash your hands?" The Colonel nodded and smiled in the same fatherly way as the boy unloosed the sword-knot, laid the weapon close by and then washed and dried the wounded man's hands. "I say," said Dick then, "I can tear this handkerchief when it's dry. Shall I tie up your cuts?" "No," said the Colonel sadly: "they must wait till the Doctor comes, Dick, if he ever does. They are not cuts, my boy, but bullet-holes, and they have ceased to bleed. Now what is to be done next?" "Get up, and let's find the men." "No, boy," said the Colonel sadly. "I could not move. We must wait. But you are hungry. Were there any rations on the mule?" "No," said Dick, shaking his head: "they were on the other mule. We must wait: but I am so hungry. Aren't you?" "No," said the Colonel sadly, and his eyes wandered round, but he looked in vain. They were in a wild ravine, and not so much as a berry was in sight. "We must wait, Dick," he said at last. "Surely they will come in search of us soon." CHAPTER SIX. The sun shone down hotter and hotter, and all was still but the twittering of a bird at times. Dick took the blanket he had wrapped about him overnight and spread it over two pieces of rock so as to form a screen, propping it a little with a broken bough or two. So long as he was busy doing little things for the Colonel, Dick did not seem to mind so much, but just when the sun was highest and it was hotter than ever in the valley, the poor Colonel grew more feverish. He asked for water often, and then all at once the boy felt frightened, for the wounded man began to talk and mutter wildly: then he began to shout to his men to come on and charge, and at last poor Dick broke down. Hunger, misery, loneliness and the heat, were too much for him: the wild nature of the Colonel's words, and his fierce look when he felt for and waved his sword, making the little fellow shrink away and go and sit behind a stone, his head aching, and the terrible solitude there amongst the mountains seeming more than he could bear. But as the evening came on and a soft breeze sprang up, a change came over the wounded man, and Dick heard himself called. He crept back to the Colonel's side, and the wounded man took his hand, and he said, "Can you be brave and strong?" "No, sir," faltered the boy, with his lip quivering, "but I'll try to be." "That is being brave, my boy. Now look here, I have been asleep, and dreaming wild things, but I am cool and calm now. Listen to me. You are faint and hungry, and you must not stay here any longer. You must go." "But I can't leave you all alone, sir." "You must, my boy. Here is what I want you to do. Throw the blanket over me and fill the tin with water." The boy did this and felt better, for it kept off the feeling of misery. "That is good," said the Colonel. "Now start off at once down the valley, and if you see any of the French soldiers before you, strike off to left or right and try and get by them, and don't go down to the track again till they are left behind." "And then find our men, sir?" cried the boy excitedly. "Yes." "And tell them where you are, and bring some back to carry you to your tent?" "Yes," said the Colonel, smiling. "But suppose I can't find them, sir?" "Then--" said the Colonel, looking sadly at the boy, before closing his eyes, "then--we won't talk about that, my boy: a brave little fellow like you must find them." "Yes, I'll try," said Dick eagerly. "When shall I go?" "Now," said the Colonel, and the boy dashed off at once among the rocks and bushes, but in five minutes he was back again. "What, boy, do you give it up?" "No," said Dick stoutly. "I was in such a hurry I didn't say good-bye, sir--and--and--" "Well, what?" said the Colonel, smiling, for the little fellow stopped. "I was afraid!" "Afraid?" "You'd think I didn't mind, and wanted to get away and leave you." "But you do not, my boy?" "Only to find someone to help you." The Colonel caught his hand and drew him down closer and closer till he could kiss him, when the tears started to Dick's eyes and he flung his arms round the wounded man's neck and clung to him and kissed him in return. "Now go, Dick," said the Colonel. "I have just such a little fellow at home in England, and I want to see him again." "Have you?" cried Dick eagerly: "then I will find our men so that you shall." "Hah," sighed the Colonel as Dick started off, and he watched the boy till he disappeared. Then he sighed again, drew the blanket more over him and closed his eyes, and as the sun went down and the darkness fell he sank into a deep sleep. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was just beginning to get dusk the next evening and the sentries about the little hill where the 200th lay had been doubled. For the French regiments not many hundred yards away had crept in closer, and were so placed that the English were surrounded, and their case was very desperate, for though they had plenty of water their provender was getting low, and the scouts sent out had reported to the Major that it looked as if an attack was going to be made. So the wounded had been placed together behind a rough wall built of pieces of rock, and the men stationed, all hungry and desperate, ready to meet the enemy when they came and drive them back. "And oh, dear! It's weary work," said Mrs Corporal, who had had nothing to cook for the men, but made up for it by acting as nurse and helping the wounded. She was kneeling down by Corporal Beane when she spoke, and had been trying to comfort him, for he had done nothing but growl because the doctor said he must not think of getting up, and as she talked to him she said suddenly: "Oh, if I could only know what has become of my boy." She stopped short, for at that moment a shot was fired, and Corporal Beane sat up and reached for his musket. "Here they come," he cried. "I don't care what the doctor says--I won't lie here. Give me my cartridge-box, old woman: I'm going to fight." There was another shot, close at hand, and then a shrill voice rang out:--"Oh, don't shoot--don't shoot!" "_My boy Dick_!" shouted Mrs Beane, and she rushed out, as torn and bleeding, the boy staggered up between two of the men, and the next minute was surrounded by the officers, but could not speak for exhaustion: but he made signs for water, drank some thirstily, and one of the sentries stated to the Major that he had seen something crawling up towards his post and fired. "And then I see it, and fired too, sir," said the other. "Poor boy," cried the Major. "Where are you hurt?" "I don't know--everywhere. I'm scratched, and I tumbled, and my knees are sore. But do go directly, oh! Do go, or he'll be dead." It was some time before in his weak, half-starved state the poor boy could make them understand, for he had completely broken down: and it was not until he had swallowed a little biscuit soaked in wine, as he lay with his head in Mrs Beane's lap, that he at last told hysterically of how he had managed to crawl by the French outposts and reached his friends. His last words were, "Why don't you go?--the Colonel--you'll be too late." There was silence for a few minutes, all present watching the little messenger as he lay back insensible in Mrs Beane's arms. Then the Major walked away: the men were formed up in a hollow square: and he addressed them and told them that their Colonel was lying wounded and dying away yonder, on the slope of the ravine, and he called for volunteers to fetch him in. They stepped forward to a man, and a strong company was told off under one of the captains, the doctor being of the party, and the men carrying a litter ready for their load. "But we must have the boy for a guide," said the Major. There were difficulties in the way, and Mrs Corporal Beane was consulted, for it was evident that Dick was in too exhausted a state to be moved, and she said so as she paused for a few moments in the task of giving him food, a little at a time. "No, I'm not, sir," said the boy, to the great surprise of all present. "I can't walk, but if father came too he could carry me on his back, and I'll show you the way." There was a moment's silence, and Mrs Corporal sobbed. "He's wounded badly, my dear," she said, kissing him: "but I'm as stout and strong as father is, and I'll go and carry you." "With every man of us to help you," cried the Captain, and in half an hour's time, aided by the darkness, the little party stole out of the fortified camp, and by great good fortune passed with Dick's guidance beyond the enemy's lines. Then every effort was made, and soon after daybreak the spot where the disastrous fight had been was reached. It was a sad group which surrounded the motionless figure lying covered with a blanket, which the doctor removed and knelt down; Dick struggling to the other side, while the Captain and his men waited to hear the worst. "We are not too late," said the doctor, rising: and after administering stimulants, the words proved true, for the Colonel opened his eyes, looked wildly round, and then smiled as his gaze rested upon Dick, who was holding his hand. "Thank you, Dick, boy," he said, in a faint whisper. "I knew you would." The cheer which rose from the men made the rocks echo again, and the Captain turned from grasping his old friend's hand, and said sharply:-- "Silence in the ranks--no, I mean, another cheer, my lads." And it was given. A short halt was made by the pool, while stimulants were administered again to the Colonel, and Mrs Beane insisted on Dick having more, the men eating their scanty rations by the pool. Then the wounded man was carefully laid in the litter so that Dick could lie there too, with his head the opposite way: the men raised their poles, and the march back was begun. It was just after dark that evening that they were proceeding very cautiously, when there was a sudden outburst of firing. The Captain needed no telling what was going on, for the long expected attack was being made upon the weakened regiment upon the hill. He did not hesitate, but pressed on with his little band, quite unnoticed by the attacking force, coming upon their rear in the darkness just as they were receiving a check from the brave defenders of the camp, and the Captain poured in volley after volley so unexpectedly that the French broke, and began to retreat before their foes. The Major, grasping what had occurred, turned his defence into a brave attack, and the result was that in a few minutes the enemy was in full retreat, and soon after, this in their confusion became a rout. CHAPTER SEVEN. In a month's time, in spite of weakness, the Colonel had sufficiently recovered to resume the command of his regiment, and Dick was the hero and idol of the men. But poor Mrs Corporal Beane was jealous and unhappy--jealous because the Colonel made so much of Dick; unhappy on account of the Corporal, whose recovery was very slow. But the Colonel, she owned, behaved very well to her. He said that he would not interfere much, as he looked upon herself as the boy's mother, but sooner or later they would find out who Dick's parents were, and that he should stay with the regiment, but he must be looked after well. "As if he could be looked after better," Mrs Corporal said to her invalid husband. "I do look after you well, Dick, don't I?" "Yes, mother; of course you do," said the boy. "And love you too; and you love me and father, don't you?" "Why, you know I do," said the boy, laughing, "and Colonel Lavis sent for the tailor this morning, and I was measured for a new uniform like the men in the band." "Bless us and save us!" cried Mrs Beane. "Well, that is handsome of him, but like a drummer, Dick, not with gold lace?" "Yes, scarlet and gold," said the little fellow proudly; "and I'm to learn to play." It would be a long story to tell of the terrible fights the 200th were in all through that terrible Peninsular War: but Dick was with the regiment and through it all, not fighting, but with the doctor and the men whose duty it was to look after the wounded, and many were the blessings called down upon the head of the brave boy, who seemed to bear a charmed life, as he ran here and there with water to hold to the lips of the poor fellows who were stricken down. But all things have an end, the bad like the good, and in the days of peace the 200th were being feasted at one of the towns by the Portuguese gentry and some of the English merchants who had been nearly ruined by the war. Dick was in it all, for he was strong and well as could be--happy too as a boy, but his memory was still a perfect blank about the past. He could recall everything which had happened since he was nursed back to health and strength, but nothing more; and poor Corporal Joe, who was never likely to be able to join the ranks again, and only too grateful at being allowed to act as the Colonel's servant, never mentioned to the boy the day when he found him up at the burning house. "Only set him thinking about them murdering camp-followers, missus, and make him unhappy, and we don't want that, do us?" "No, Joe, dear," she cried; "I should think we don't." And so the time had nearly come for the remnant to march to the port and embark for England, when a farewell party was given to the officers by a Mr and Mrs Trevor, the principal merchant and his lady, and out of compliment the Colonel and officers sent the band up to the mansion to play in the garden during dinner, Dick being told that he might go with the musicians to see the sight. Everyone of note was there, and the sight was grand in the lit-up grounds. There was feasting and speech-making and thanks given to the brave men who had saved the country from the oppressor, and the Colonel returned thanks. It was just then that the band-master turned to Dick and said:-- "Go up to the Colonel and ask him if we shall play the dance music now." The band was stationed by one of the open windows, and Dick, in his best uniform, had only to step in and go round behind the Colonel's chair to whisper to him. "Ah, Dick, my boy," he said. "Dance music? Yes. Stop; I'll ask our hostess. By the way, Mrs Trevor," he said, turning to the tall, sad-looking lady at whose side he was sitting, "let me introduce to you the greatest man in our corps, the brave little fellow who saved my life." Mrs Trevor turned smilingly round, when a sunburned gentleman on her other side gave utterance to a gasp and sprang from his chair. "My dear madam," cried the Colonel, "are you ill?" For Mrs Trevor uttered a wild cry, as, to the astonishment of all, the little fellow in scarlet and gold sprang to her side and threw his arms about her neck. "_Oh, mother_! Why, father," he cried, "do you live here?" The boy's memory of the past had come back like a flash of light, and as he caught at Mr Trevor's hand he suddenly turned pale, shivered, and clapped his hands to the scar upon his head, for the horror of the scene before he was struck down by one of a gang of French camp-followers came back to him with terrible vividness. The banquet was nearly at an end when this scene took place and after warm congratulations from the visitors, they had the good taste to hurry away, and the band was dismissed, the Colonel only stopping with the boy to help him relate how he was retained in the regiment. He heard in return an explanation from Mr Trevor, who told how it was that the burned house was their country villa among the mountains, where in ignorance of danger being near, the boy was left with the servants for a few hours, the father and mother returning to find only smoking ruins and the traces of a horrible massacre having taken place. So convinced were they that their son had perished in the fire with the servants that no search was made, and the Trevors fled, glad to escape with their lives, Mr Trevor having a hard task to restore his wife to reason after the terrible shock. To them their child was dead, and they had felt that they would never thoroughly recover from the dreadful blow. "But you see, Colonel, one never knows what is in store, and it is not right to despair. Now, how can we thank you enough for all that you have done?" "I don't want thanks," said the Colonel. "I ought to thank you for all that he so bravely did for me; and besides, Dick, boy, there was someone else who--" He stopped, for a servant entered the room. "I beg pardon, sir, but there's a woman and a soldier outside. I told them you were engaged, but the woman said she would see you." "A woman and a soldier?" cried Mr Trevor--"will see me?" "I know," cried Dick excitedly, "it's mother and father--I mean--I--" He too stopped short, and looked from one to the other. "I mean," he cried bravely, "my other father and mother, who saved me and brought me back to life." "Where is he?" cried an angry voice in the hall. "I will see him. Dick, my darling Dick!" Mrs Trevor turned white, and a pang shot through her, as she saw her newly-recovered son rush to the door, throw it open and call out loudly:--"Here I am, mother: this way." "Oh, my darling!" cried Mrs Corporal: "I've just heard--Oh, what does it mean? I--I beg your pardon, my lady, and you too, sir, and Colonel, but--but they've been telling me--" "Yes, it's all true," cried Dick, interrupting her. "Mother dear, this is my other mother, and father dear, this is Corporal Joe." "Oh--oh--oh!" sobbed Mrs Corporal wildly; "after all this time, and me getting to love him and look upon him as my own! Oh, my lady, my lady, you never would be so cruel as to take him away? It would be so wicked, so hard upon us now." "My own boy?" said Mrs Trevor gently, as Dick stood gazing wildly from one to the other. "But for us never to see him again," cried Mrs Corporal fiercely, and she caught the boy by the arm. "Don't say you won't love us still, Dick dear!" "Why should he say such cruel words to one who has been a second mother to him,--to one who brought him back to life? And why should you never see him again? We are going to England too, and while we have a home it shall be yours as well." Mrs Trevor took the rough woman's hand, leaned towards her, and kissed her cheek. "For saving my darling's life," she said softly, and then burst into tears. Poor Mrs Corporal's anger melted at this, and she caught Mrs Trevor's hand in hers and kissed it again and again. "Oh, my dear lady," she sobbed; "I'm a wicked, selfish woman, and he is your own flesh and blood. Come with you to be where I could always see the dear, brave, darling boy? Oh, I'd go down on my knees and be thankful, but I can't leave my poor man. I wouldn't if he was strong and well, and now he's wounded and broken and got to leave the regiment--no, not if we had to beg our bread from door to door. Kiss me, my darling boy, once more, and then--oh Joe, my man, I can't bear it! Take me away, take me away." Joe, who had stood back stiffly in the background near where Dick's father was whispering with Colonel Lavis, took two steps to the front with a painful limp, saluted the company, and caught his half-blind wife in his arms. "It's quite right, my lass," he said huskily, "and--from my heart, my lady, I say thank God the dear lad's coming to his own. Don't mind what the missus said--she--she, you see, loved him, and--good-bye, Master Dick, my lad--good--" "Stop," said Mr Trevor, stepping towards him with his eyes moist, and clapping the invalided soldier on the shoulder. "Corporal, your Colonel says that you are as brave and true a man as ever stepped. I feel that it must be so. While I live the wounded soldier to whom we owe so much shall never want a home. Dick, as they call you--Frank, my boy, what do you say to this?" "Say?" faltered the boy, as he stood trembling, and then he could not speak. The next moment he had rushed to his mother to kiss her passionately, giving her a look that seemed to say, "Don't think I shall not love you more than ever;" and then he ran and caught Joe's hand, holding it fast for a moment, before flinging his arms about poor Mrs Corporal's neck, to whisper something in her ear which made the poor woman wipe away her tears. "Hah!" cried the Colonel huskily, "this is peace indeed." That night mother and father stole hand in hand into the room next their own, where their son lay sleeping peacefully. They did not bend down to kiss him lest he should start awake, but they knelt by his side in thankfulness for the great joy which filled their hearts, before thinking sadly of those to whom they owed so much. Strangely enough, just about the same time Mrs Corporal rose from her knees and said:-- "There, Joe, old man, I won't cry another drop, for I feel now that it's right and what should be. But just in here somewhere there's a little place where he'll always seem to be--our soldier boy to the very end." 
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29683	----	THE LITTLE GIRL LOST ELEANOR RAPER The Dumpy Books for Children. No. XIV. THE LITTLE GIRL LOST. The Dumpy Books for Children _Cloth, Royal 32mo, 1/6 each._ 1. THE FLAMP, THE AMELIORATOR, AND THE SCHOOLBOY'S APPRENTICE, _by E.V. Lucas_ 2. MRS. TURNER'S CAUTIONARY STORIES 3. THE BAD FAMILY, _by Mrs. Fenwick_ 4. THE STORY OF LITTLE BLACK SAMBO. Illustrated in Colours, _by Helen Bannerman_ 5. THE BOUNTIFUL LADY, _by Thomas Cobb_ 6. A CAT BOOK, Portraits _by H. Officer Smith_, Characteristics _by E.V. Lucas_ 7. A FLOWER BOOK. Illustrated in Colours _by Nellie Benson_. Story _by Eden Coybee_ 8. THE PINK KNIGHT. Illustrated in Colours _by J. R. Monsell_ 9. THE LITTLE CLOWN, _by Thomas Cobb_ 10. A HORSE BOOK, _by Mary Tourtel_. Illustrated in Colours 11. LITTLE PEOPLE: AN ALPHABET, _by Henry Mayer and T. W. H. Crosland_. Illustrated in Colours 12. A DOG BOOK. Pictures in Colours _by Carton Moore Park_. Text _by Ethel Bicknell_ 13. THE ADVENTURES OF SAMUEL AND SELINA, _by Jean C. Archer_. Illustrated in Colours 14. THE LITTLE GIRL LOST, _by Eleanor Raper_ 15. DOLLIES. Pictures _by Ruth Cobb_. Verses _by Richard Hunter_ 16. THE BAD MRS. GINGER, _by Honor C. Appleton_. Illustrated in Colours _A Cloth Case to contain Twelve Volumes can be had, price 2/ net; or the First Twelve Volumes in Case, price £1 net_. LONDON: GRANT RICHARDS 48 LEICESTER SQUARE, W.C. The Little Girl Lost A Tale for Little Girls BY ELEANOR RAPER LONDON: GRANT RICHARDS 1902 _Printed by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh_. TO LITTLE PHYLLIS E. R. CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE 1. _Nelly and Her Friends_ 1 2. _Lost_ 9 3. _A Journey in a Cart_ 24 4. _Alone among the Chinese_ 35 5. _The Search_ 45 6. _In Captivity_ 53 7. _The Cheshire Cat_ 63 8. _The Chang Family_ 74 9. _Chi Fu's Scheme_ 85 10. _Preparations for Flight_ 96 11. _An Unpleasant Surprise_ 107 12. _Poor Mule!_ 121 13. _The Road to Peking_ 136 14. _Father and Mother_ 146 _Conclusion_ 156 The Little Girl Lost CHAPTER I NELLY AND HER FRIENDS Nelly Grey was a little English girl who had never been in England. She was born in China, and went with her father and mother to live in the British Legation compound in Peking when she was only three years old. A compound is a kind of big courtyard, with other courts and houses inside. Nelly's was a large one, and very open. It had several houses in it: not like we have in England, but only one storey high, and with deep, shady verandahs round them. There were also a little church, some tennis-courts, and several small buildings for the Chinese servants at the back. Nelly could speak both English and Chinese very well. She could play the piano a little, though not so well as most English children of nine years old. She could ride a donkey, skate, and play tennis, but she had never seen a bicycle or a real carriage, because there were no such things in Peking. But Nelly was quite lively although she was shut up in a compound all the time. She would have been ashamed to feel dull and cross, for she had once heard the Minister's wife say, 'Nelly Grey is an intelligent child and has sense enough to amuse herself.' Since then she had felt that she must not let the lady change her opinion. Besides, there were several other foreign[1] children in Peking whom Nelly saw from time to time. In her compound, living next door, was Baby Buckle. He had only been there six months, for that was his age, and Nelly loved him very much. He was such a jolly little fellow, always laughing and crowing, and almost jumping out of the arms of his Chinese nurse (who was called an amah) when he saw Nelly coming. And he used to open his mouth wide and try to bite this old yellow woman, and put his little fists into her eyes and kick her, until the poor old thing was almost worn out and could scarcely walk or even stand on her little misshapen feet. To be sure, he slept a great deal, or the amah would have been obliged to hand him over to a younger woman. There was another boy in the Legation, a little Scotchman, who was one year older than Nelly. They played together very often. But Nelly did not like boys--only baby boys, she said. Indeed, she often made Arthur Macdonald feel very lonely and unhappy because she preferred to leave him and go off to play with a Chinese girl of her own age, called Shiao Yi. Shiao in Chinese means 'little,' so we will call her Little Yi. [1] English, Americans, French, and all other white people are called foreigners in China. Little Yi's feet had never been bound, because she was a Manchu child, and the Manchu women do not bind their feet; so she could run and skip about the compound almost as freely as Nelly. Almost, I say, not quite, because Chinese children are not dressed for running about. Their shoes are hard and clumsy, and in winter their clothes are so thickly wadded that they look like little balls. Then there were two little girls of eleven and twelve who lived at the German Legation, and were called Bertha and Liza Wolf. It was very strange for Nelly the first time these children came to see her. Mrs. Grey was calling upon their mother, who told her that they had just arrived from home with their governess. At once Mrs. Grey invited them to come to tea the next day, and she did not think of asking if they could speak English; neither did their mother, who spoke English beautifully, remember that her children could not do so. When they arrived, Nelly was alone with Chu Ma, her amah, and they all laughed a great deal when they found that they could not understand one another. Bertha Wolf had picked up the Chinese word 'pu,' which means 'not,' and she kept repeating that and mixing it up with German. It sounded very funny. Nelly showed them her dolls' house, and Liza made the dolls sit down and stand up in a marvellous way by bending their legs and sticking pins into them. When tea-time came the children had become fast friends by means of nods, shakes of the head, and the Chinese word 'pu'; which shows that little girls can get on very well together even when they don't chatter all the time. Since then Nelly had been taken to the German Legation twice a week to have German lessons from Fraulein, Liza's and Bertha's governess, and they, besides quickly picking up Chinese, came and took English lessons from Mrs. Grey very often. At the American Legation Nelly had a friend, Bessie Bates, who had a brother named Bob, a regular tease. Bessie was only eight, but Bob was eleven, and every one said that he ought to be at school in America. Then there were several children living in the mission compounds, but none of them were near Nelly. At one of the missions there were fifteen children among the four families stationed there. Nelly told her mother that it made her hoarse to go to that mission, because there were so many people to talk to. Even if there had been no other companions, Nelly would have been content to be with her father and mother. She used to love the time just before she went to bed, when Mrs. Grey nearly always read to her and told her stories about England. They often talked of Nelly's brother Tom, who had gone to school at Brighton when the Greys came to Peking. With seven o'clock came Nelly's amah to put her to bed. The amah would have willingly done everything for Nelly, but Mrs. Grey insisted that she must undress herself and not become helpless, as children brought up in the East often do, because there are so many servants to wait on them. At first she used to feel a little afraid when the amah blew out the candle and left her alone in her little bed in the middle of a great big dark room; but her mother had taught her that God takes care of us in the dark just the same as at any other time, and she soon learnt to curl herself up and go quietly to sleep. CHAPTER II LOST One Monday, when Nelly had had her tea, she went out of doors to watch for her father coming home. He had been out on his pony, and Nelly wanted him to take her up and give her a ride round the compound. The large gates were open, because the gatekeeper had just been out and seen Mr. Grey coming, so Nelly ran out into the road without thinking what she was doing. If she had stopped to think, most likely she would not have passed the gate, as she knew that she never went outside the Legation compound alone. However, she soon saw her father, who was very much surprised and rather alarmed to see his little girl there. But Mr. Grey, who spoilt Nelly, did not scold her, but stopped, took her up, and gave her the ride she wanted. He meant to reprove Chu Ma for not looking better after her charge, but he did not see her again that evening, and in the morning he forgot it. The next evening, after tea, when Chu Ma was chattering to Mrs. Buckle's amah, Nelly thought it would be nice to have another ride with her father. The gate was again open, and Little Yi was standing near it. When Nelly said that she was going to meet her father, Little Yi offered to go with her. The two children went out, but saw nothing of Mr. Grey. 'We'll walk to the end of the road and look up Legation Street,' said Nelly. Little Yi was quite willing, and they trotted along, all the Chinese staring very hard to see a little foreign girl in the streets without even an amah to look after her. They had not far to go before they came to the corner, but when they looked up the street they could see no one but Chinese. 'We might walk on a little,' Nelly said. 'He is sure to come this way, and it will be such a nice long ride back. You, Little Yi, can ride with the ma-fu (groom). It will be fun.' But Mr. Grey had not gone in that direction at all, and the little girls were not likely to see him. Of course the Chinese went on staring at the children, and a crowd soon gathered round them. Presently some rude boys began to ask them all sorts of questions and to laugh at them. Nelly did not like it at all. She thought she would not wait for her father any longer, but go home. They tried to turn back, but found Chinese all round them, and felt quite frightened. Then a nice, clean-looking woman came up to them and said: 'Don't mind all those people. Come through my house and return home round the other way; I'll show you.' Nelly and Little Yi thought the woman very kind. They went with her through a door into her compound, and, after crossing two or three court-yards, they came to a small set of rooms which the woman said were hers. She asked the children to sit down, gave them some sugared walnuts, and said she would go and ask her son to take them home. Chinese sugared walnuts are very good, although they don't look tempting, being of a purplish whity-brown colour. Nelly liked them better than the chocolate creams which auntie always sent for her in the big box of groceries Mrs. Grey had from England twice a year. When all the walnuts were eaten, the children amused themselves by wandering round the room and examining everything in it. It was not at all like any room in an English house. The floor was stone, and part of it, called a kang, was raised like a platform. Every house in North China has one of these kangs, with a little fireplace underneath. In winter the Chinese burn charcoal in this fireplace, and at night they spread wadded quilts on the warm brick platform and sleep there. In the daytime the quilts are rolled up and the kang is used as a seat. The windows were small, with tiny-squares filled in with paper instead of panes of glass. There were two large square arm-chairs and a square table with a tray and some tea-cups upon it. On the walls were scrolls with funny pictures of men running all over each other, like flies on a cake, Nelly thought. When they had waited a very long time and it was getting dark, the children began to be afraid. The door was locked and they could not get out. Nelly was a brave little girl, but she could not help crying when she thought of the anxiety her parents would be in about her. 'Oh dear,' she sobbed, 'why don't they let us out? Let us scream, Little Yi.' And both the children shrieked their hardest, until they heard footsteps hurrying across the court. The door was unlocked, and the woman who had brought the children there came in with a very old woman, a girl of sixteen, and a boy of ten. 'What is the matter?' they asked. 'Oh, take us home,' cried Nelly. 'It is quite dark.' The boy having brought a lamp, the room was no longer in darkness, but Nelly meant that as it was dark it must be late. 'We can't take you home,' said the woman. 'None of us know the way to the British Legation except my son, who is not here. He will not be home now until to-morrow. He went outside the city into the country, and must have arrived at the gate after it was closed.' 'Then please take us to the door you brought us through and lend us a lantern, and we can find our way quite well,' said Nelly. 'No, no, you can't. You would get lost,' replied the woman. 'You must wait here until my son comes home.' 'We won't,' said Little Yi, and made a rush for the door. But the boy caught her and forced her back on the kang. 'Why do you want to keep us?' asked Nelly. 'It is our custom in China, when we find children, to keep them until we can hand them over to their parents,' said the woman whom they had thought so nice, but whom they now considered very cruel. She was a tidy-looking woman, wearing black trousers bound tight round the ankles, and the usual blue cotton smock. Her feet were not very small, and she could walk about fairly quickly. The old woman was very ugly and untidy, but the girl evidently gave a good deal of attention to her toilet. She had silk trousers and a handsomely embroidered smock over them. Her feet were very small, and just like a claw. Her hair, which was a beautiful jet black, was dressed most elaborately with a sort of comb behind, and flowers stuck in. Her lips were stained red and her face was powdered. She wore long silver nail-protectors on the third and fourth fingers of each hand, and had very large round jewelled earrings. The boy had a greasy black cotton coat and a thick long tail of hair. Nelly tried her best to persuade the family to allow Little Yi and her to go, but they would not listen to her. Then Little Yi began. 'You don't know what bad luck you will have if you keep a foreign child all night,' she said. 'The foreigners are wonderful people. They can do all sorts of things--take out their teeth and put them back again, their eyes too, some of them.' There was once at Peking a gentleman with a glass eye, and Little Yi had heard that he was able to remove it. As for teeth, she knew quite well that the British Minister slept with his on his wash-stand every night. When Little Yi found that the women were not at all afraid, she said: 'If you keep us here, she (pointing to Nelly) will die, and then she will always haunt you. Everything you eat will taste bitter and make you ill.' But Nelly never would allow Little Yi to romance and tell untruths. She was crying bitterly now, but she stopped and told the woman that she was a Christian, and that Christians do not die on purpose to haunt people out of spite, as heathen do. But the children found that it was useless to try to persuade or frighten the Chinese. Nelly gave it up and asked for something to eat. 'To be sure,' said their first acquaintance; 'I have told the coolie (a Chinese servant who does only the rough work) to bring you something.' She had hardly finished speaking when the man arrived with two bowls, in which was a sort of soup containing little pieces of meat and vegetables. The children were given chopsticks with which to fish out the meat, and were expected to take the soup from the bowl. Then they had a piece of Chinese bread, which is like steamed dumpling, and half an apple each. Nelly might have enjoyed the meal if there had not been eight eyes watching her all the time, and the old woman constantly peering at her clothes and feeling them. When all was eaten they were told that they were to sleep on the kang with the girl, who would look after them until morning. The other three then left them, shutting and locking the door. As soon as they were gone, the girl began to talk freely. She said her name was An Ching, and that she was the daughter-in-law of the woman Ku Nai-nai who had brought them there. Her husband was the son who, Ku Nai-nai said, was to take them home. The boy was his brother and the old woman their grandmother. Lowering her voice, she told them that her husband was not away from home at all, and that he intended to keep Nelly and Little Yi until he heard that a reward had been offered for finding them, and for her part she was very glad that they were there. It was very dull for An Ching. Her mother-in-law would not let her stand at the door and look up and down the street as some young wives were allowed to do. She also told them that Hung Li, her husband, lived at a city called Yung Ching, and he, she, and Ku Nai-nai were to go back there next day. An Ching was very anxious to see Nelly undress, and got quite excited over her clothes. She had never seen foreign clothes before. Little Yi became quite lively in showing off Nelly and talking about all the wonderful things foreigners had, but Nelly felt very unhappy. She longed for her dear father and mother and her own little bed, and she wanted to kneel down and say her prayers, but felt afraid to do it before An Ching. At last she found courage to say that she was going to pray, and Little Yi at once began to explain the whole of the Christian religion to An Ching. Meanwhile Nelly quietly knelt down upon the kang and said her prayers, taking care to ask God to comfort her parents and send her back to them soon. The poor child felt much happier when she had done this. She crept into her quilt, and was soon asleep. Little Yi and An Ching presently came and curled themselves up on the kang, and all was silence until next morning. CHAPTER III A JOURNEY IN A CART When Nelly woke next morning she felt rather stiff, for she had never slept on a stone kang before. Little Yi and An Ching being still asleep, Nelly got up very gently and said her prayers. Then she thought she would get dressed before An Ching was able to annoy her by fingering all her clothes. How thankful Nelly felt that she could dress herself! Bessie Bates, she thought, would not have known what to do; for Bessie never even put on her own shoes and stockings. Nellie would have liked her bath to-day, although she often felt that she could do very well without it. But she knew that it was impossible to have one, and made up her mind to dress without washing. Imagine her surprise when she found that her clothes had been taken away from the corner of the kang where she had left them, and a little suit of Chinese girl's things put in their place! They were not new clothes either, although they certainly did look fairly clean. Just then An Ching woke, and laughed when she saw Nelly standing without anything on but the little white petticoat she had slept in, and looking for her clothes. 'Where are they?' asked Nelly. 'Ku Nai-nai came in early this morning and took them away,' replied An Ching. 'She wants you to put on our kind of clothes. Make haste and we will go across the courtyard to Ku Nai-nai's room for breakfast.' Then An Ching awoke Little Yi, who was very much amused to see Nelly putting on her Chinese dress. 'But her hair won't do,' said Yi. 'No,' replied An Ching, 'we must see to that.' Poor Nelly! She had to swallow very hard to keep back the tears. What did they mean to do with her? She soon found out, however, when they had all taken some Chinese porridge in Ku Nai-nai's room, and wiped their faces and hands with wet towels. Ku Nai-nai told her that she was to have her head shaved in front and the back dressed in a tail like Little Yi's. Nelly begged and protested and cried in vain. An Ching told her that it was of no use to cry, and that if she made any trouble or noise she would be whipped, but if she were good and quiet no one would be unkind to her. A Chinese barber arrived, and poor Nelly was obliged to submit to having her front hair cut away and a small portion of her head shaved. Nelly's hair was dark, though not black, like a Chinese child's. They all said she looked very nice, and the boy grinned from ear to ear. Nelly would have liked to slap him. The barber seemed very well satisfied with his work and the pay he received. Ku Nai-nai threatened him with all sorts of revenge if he breathed a word of what he had done, and told him that if he kept quiet they would perhaps employ him to take Nelly back to her parents. When the barber had gone, two carts appeared in the small compound, and out of one stepped a young, surly-looking man, who, An Ching said, was her husband. His name was Hung Li, as Nelly soon found out by his mother screaming all sorts of directions at him, when he began to pack the carts. Boxes and bundles and food for the journey were put in, and the children began to understand that they were to be taken to Yung Ching with Hung Li, his wife and mother. However, they had been so much comforted by learning, through the talk with the barber, that they really were to be given back to their parents, that going to Yung Ching at first did not seem to matter much, especially as they had no idea where Yung Ching was. There was no putting on of cloaks and hats, the Chinese not using these articles. An Ching and the children were in one cart, which was driven by a carter, while Ku Nai-nai occupied the other with her son as driver. The cart was most uncomfortable; it looked like a large arched travelling-trunk, covered with dark blue cotton. Open at one end, it was placed between two heavy wooden wheels, and had a square board in front, from which the shafts stuck out. It was on the side of this board that the driver sat, and the others were inside under the covering, sitting flat on the bottom of the cart, for there was no seat. It was a fine, bright, breezy April day. As the cart jumped and jolted over the lumpy, unpaved road, Nelly could not see outside at all, for the carter had pulled down the curtain, with its square piece of gauze for a window, and besides, there were such clouds of dust that when she tried to look through the gauze she could not tell where they were. Little Yi fixed her eye to a tiny hole she had found in the blue cotton. She noticed that they passed the American Legation, but after that the road was quite strange to her, as she had never been far from home. The carters were yelling to their mules and the street hawkers were crying their wares, but above their noise the children could hear the humming of birds' whistles overhead. The Chinese tie whistles under pigeons' wings, and when the birds fly they make a strange kind of humming or whistling noise. Nelly thought they must be the pigeons that often flew over the Legation compound, and belonged to a mandarin who lived not far away. The birds seemed to Nelly to hover about the carts for some time; but at last they evidently remembered that it was the hour for them to feed, and they turned round and flew home. About noon the travellers reached the great, high wall that stands all round the city, and passed through the gate. When they were well on the road outside Peking, Hung Li stopped the carts and said every one was to get out for a time. But Nelly and Little Yi were only allowed to stretch their limbs for about five minutes, after which they were made to get into the cart again, and the curtain was pulled down as before. They were given a little food, and were quite glad to be alone, as they had not been able to speak to each other, without being overheard, since the day before. 'Do you think your father will give money to have you back?' asked Little Yi. 'Yes, of course. Won't yours? They won't ask him so much as mine,' answered Nelly. 'Well, you see, I am only a girl,' said Little Yi. 'I know my father likes me as much as my brothers, but he would be ashamed to make a fuss over a girl.' 'Oh, what will my mother do?' cried Nelly. 'I am afraid she will think I am dead. I would not mind so much if only I could write to her. Won't your mother be miserable too?' 'No,' replied Little Yi. 'She has her sons, and she will know that I am with you, but I am afraid she will scold me for going outside the gate.' 'I should not like to have a Chinese mother,' said Nelly. 'They don't love their little girls as English ladies do.' Just then An Ching threw back the curtain and got in. There was really not enough room for three in the cart, and they were soon dreadfully cramped. An Ching told the children they had better try to sleep, and she let them put their heads on her lap. They were glad to do it, for they were very tired. Nelly dreamed about her father and mother and Baby Buckle. She thought she heard the baby calling her name. Indeed, she was sure she heard him crying, even after she was sitting up awake. She was about to rush out of the cart, which had stopped, when An Ching held her back and told her that what she had heard was a Chinese baby in the inn at which they had just arrived, and where they were to pass the night. CHAPTER IV ALONE AMONG THE CHINESE The children were glad to climb down from the cart and breathe the pure, fresh, country air. No house was to be seen except the inn. All around were stubbly fields, with trees in the distance. The road along which they had come ran in front of the inn, and was almost hidden by grass. The inn itself was surrounded by a low wall. There were several buildings, a large one in the centre for the inn-keeper and his family, some sleeping-rooms, and sheds for the carts and mules. Ku Nai-nai, An Ching, and the children were shown into one of the sleeping-rooms. Then the girls were allowed to stroll about the yard. No one took any notice of Nelly. Ku Nai-nai explained that she was a southern child whom they had adopted. She forbade Nelly to speak any English, and would not allow either of the children to talk to the people of the inn. Little Yi, she said, was her grandchild. After supper (bowls of rice only) the women went out and sat down on the side of the road and chattered. The children came too, and Nelly watched the sun set. It was the first time in her life that she had ever seen it go right down behind the earth and leave nothing but the fields in front of them, all quite flat. She asked Ku Nai-nai if they would be up in time to see it rise again in the morning. Ku Nai-nai told her that they intended to start very early, and she could come out and look if An Ching would come with her. An Ching said she would if she were not too sleepy. An Ching had never thought of wanting to see the sun rise. 'Foreigners had such funny ideas,' she said. When the sun had quite set they went in to bed, all four on one kang, and slept well in spite of the fleas. Next morning, before daybreak, Hung Li knocked at their door and asked for their bedding, so that he could put it in the carts. Nelly remembered the sun first thing, and as soon as she and Little Yi had put on some of their clothes, they made An Ching come out with her hair unbrushed. The children ran in front to the spot where they were the night before, but saw only a grey mist. 'Why, there is no sun!' said Little Yi. 'We are too early.' 'I quite forgot that the sun never rises in the same place as it sets. We must go round to the other side of the inn,' said Nelly. An Ching was quite puzzled, and thought it wonderful for Nelly to know where to look for the sun when she had never been there before. They went round the inn and found the sun just appearing like a golden ball. It seemed to come up very quickly, and then all around was quite light and bright. When they went back to the inn An Ching was very anxious for Nelly to explain all about the sun's movements, but Ku Nai-nai said it was time to go, at which Nelly was not sorry, because she was not sure that she remembered all there was in her geography book about the sun. Ku Nai-nai said that the sun did the same thing where she lived in the country when she was a girl, and it used to set behind different trees at different times of the year. 'When you are as old as I am, An Ching, you will know more about things,' said she. 'You would know more now if you spent less time in looking into the glass.' And then they certainly would have quarrelled, if Hung Li had not appeared and scolded them for not being ready; at which Ku Nai-nai turned upon him and asked in a loud voice what he meant by being rude to his parent in a public inn. As no Chinaman likes to appear disrespectful to his mother, Hung Li said no more. At last they were ready to start again. Nelly could scarcely climb into the cart, so stiff and sore was she with her long cart ride of yesterday and two nights on a stone kang with only a wadded quilt to lie upon. But she did manage to get in, though not without shedding some tears at the thought that she was going farther away from her parents. And somehow the cart did not seem to bump so badly to-day, and the stiffness wore off instead of growing worse as she had expected. She was getting used to it. They went along very slowly all day, and put up again that night at another inn. This time it was a small village, and there was no open space in front. The children were too tired even to talk. They both went to sleep almost as soon as they arrived, and slept until rather late the next morning, for Hung Li did not now seem to be in such great haste to reach Yung Ching. When they woke they were quite fresh, and Little Yi was anxious to be off once more; for An Ching said that there was a river to cross, which she seemed to think rather exciting. In about two hours' time they came to this river, which was after all only a muddy stream with steep banks. There was a flat ferry-boat with two men to manage it. These men, the carter, and Hung Li took the mules out of the carts and made the women and children sit well back in them. Then they slid the carts slowly down the incline and on to the boat, and took them over, after which they fetched the mules and harnessed them again. Then came the difficult part, to get the mules to pull the carts up the incline at the other side, with the men pushing behind and shouting and screaming at each other and the poor mules, enough to deafen you. The children's cart was tilted so high that they were looking up at their toes all the time: at least Nelly and Little Yi were, for An Ching's toes had become claws some years ago. At last, with a mighty pull from the sturdy mules, they got up the bank, and the other cart was not long in following. Two hours more and they were at Yung Ching. As they entered the town Hung Li came and pulled down the curtain, but not before Nelly had peeped round the opening and noticed that the roads were not black, like those of Peking, but proper dust colour. Everything had a brownish look, she thought, and it certainly was not a large city such as Peking. 'Here we are at last,' said An Ching, and the carts turned under an arch and Hung Li knocked at a large door, which was opened by a middle-aged woman, who was the only servant of the Ku family, Nelly learnt afterwards. This woman stared very hard upon seeing the children, but Ku Nai-nai told her in a low voice not to ask any questions while the carter was there, and said she would tell her all about them when he was gone, which she did, promising a portion (very small) of the reward they were to get for the children when they were taken home. The compound seemed clean and well kept, and Nelly thought that the Kus ought to be far too respectable and well-off people to steal children for money. 'But they are only heathen,' she said to herself. Nelly and Little Yi were given a small room adjoining Ku Nai-nai's in the centre or chief building of the compound. An Ching and her husband had their quarters at the right, across the court. The children were sorry that they were no longer to be with An Ching, but, as she said, it was only at nights that they need be separated. Nelly was the only European in Yung Ching among thousands of Chinese. She never thought of that. Had she done so she must have felt glad that she was shut up in a compound, away from curious eyes and fingers. CHAPTER V THE SEARCH Chu Ma was the first to miss Nelly in the Legation. She rushed about as fast as her little feet would allow, calling, 'Ni-li! Ni-li! Ni-li! Ku-niang!' (Ku-niang means 'Miss' or 'girl'). She overturned Arthur Macdonald's top in her flurry, just when he had lashed it up into a beautiful spin. Arthur was cross about the top, but he could not help laughing to see solid Chu Ma in such a fuss. 'She is hopping about like a hen on a rail,' he thought. 'What is the matter?' he asked. 'I can't find Nelly anywhere,' replied Chu Ma. 'Do you know where she is?' 'I don't know,' said Arthur, 'but I should think that she is playing some girl's game with Little Yi and her dolls.' Chu Ma had not thought of Little Yi. She at once tottered off to the girl's house, only to find that Lin Nai-nai, Little Yi's mother, was wondering what had become of her. Lin Nai-nai, seeing that Chu Ma was scarcely able to hobble any farther, offered to go and look for both the children. She, being a Manchu, had unbound feet, and soon inquired about the children at every house in the compound, but she was obliged to return to Chu Ma without them. The two women then went back to Mrs. Grey's house, and there made further search and inquiries. Mrs. Grey was dressing to go to dine at the American Legation with Mr. and Mrs. Bates. Chu Ma knocked at her room door to see if Nelly were there. Of course she was not. Then Chu Ma told Mrs. Grey that Little Yi could not be found either. Just then Mr. Grey arrived and was told too. Remembering that Nelly had come out to meet him the day before, he at once went to question the gatekeeper as to whether the gate had been left open again. The man declared that it had not, that he had never left it a moment, and that only Little Yi had been near it that afternoon. She, he said, he had seen walking towards her own home. This was not true, as we know, for the gatekeeper had left the gate open while he went to buy some rice, and it was then that the children had slipped out. Mr. and Mrs. Grey became quite uneasy, for they knew that the children could not be hiding such a long time, as Arthur Macdonald suggested. Mrs. Grey declared that she could not think of going out to dine until they were found, and Mr. Grey then went himself to each house in the compound. After another hour's fruitless search, Mrs. Grey wrote a note to Mrs. Bates, explaining why she could not come, and asking if by any chance Bob and Bessie knew anything about Nelly. Bob persuaded his mother to allow him to go back with the coolie who had brought the note and help to look for Nelly. When he arrived at the British Legation, he and Arthur Macdonald set to work to look in all the places that they had ever hidden in when playing hide-and-seek together. They insisted also upon going into all the Chinese and students' quarters, and looking into places where it would have been impossible to hide. 'You forget, Arthur, that we are looking for girls, not a thimble,' said Bob, when he saw Arthur rummaging in a small pigskin trunk of Chu Ma's. And now it was quite dark, and still there was no news of the girls. Mr. Grey went to all the Legation and Customs' people, but no one knew anything about the missing ones. The search had to be given up for that day, and Bob went back to Bessie, who was sitting up, anxious to hear the news. After a sleepless night Mr. and Mrs. Grey rose early and began the search again. Mrs. Grey wrote notes to all the missionaries, and Mr. Grey went out to inquire among the Chinese. Perhaps if he had turned to the right up Legation Street, as Nelly and Little Yi had done, he might have heard something about the foreign child who had gone with a woman into a Chinese house near. But he went over the bridge in the other direction. That afternoon, when Bob Bates set out for his usual ride with his ma-fu, he decided to make inquiries among the Chinese. The ma-fu suggested that they should ask at some of the shops in Legation Street near them, and sure enough they soon heard that a crowd had been seen following a European and a Chinese child in the streets the evening before. Bob was very persistent, and gave cash (small coins) for everything which appeared to be reliable information. At length, by means of questions and cash, he found some one who had seen Nelly and Little Yi follow Ku Nai-nai into the native house. He at once left his pony with the ma-fu, found the house, and knocked hard without any result. He could get no answer at all. Then Bob went breathlessly to the British Legation with the news that he believed that Nelly was shut up in a house close by; but Nelly, as we know, was asleep in the cart on her way to Yung Ching. Mr. Grey was still out, and Bob had to wait until he returned. They went together to the house and knocked again. This time the old woman of whom we have heard admitted them, and when questioned, said: 'Yes, the children did step in here with a woman who comes to see me sometimes, but they only stayed until the crowd had gone. Then they set off home.' This was all that old Ku Tai-tai would say. She declared she knew no more, and did not know where the woman lived. Her name was Wang, she said. Mr. Grey was obliged to return to his wife with no news but this. He went to the Chinese magistrate, who thought the children were being kept in hiding until a sufficient reward was offered for their release, and advised him to have bills printed and stuck up, announcing how much he would pay to any one who brought back the little girls. When this was done, Nelly's and Little Yi's parents could only wait, which is often the hardest thing we have to do. CHAPTER VI IN CAPTIVITY By the time that Nelly and Little Yi had been at Yung Ching a month, Nelly and An Ching had become great friends. Poor Nelly would have been very miserable but for An Ching, who used to cheer her by constantly talking about Mr. and Mrs. Grey and when Nelly would be back in Peking. And An Ching used to tell Nelly about her own childhood, which must have been very dull, Nelly thought; her marriage to Hung Li when she had seen him only twice, and how she was carried in a red chair from her parents' house to Ku Nai-nai's. She told Nelly that Hung Li was very greedy, and would do anything for money. It was he who prevented his mother from taking the children home the evening they left the Legation, as she at first fully intended to do; but Ku Nai-nai was herself rather fond of money, and did not require much persuasion. An Ching taught Nelly to sew backwards in Chinese fashion, using a thimble without an end, like a thick ring, on her finger; and she cut out and helped her to make a little blue cotton coat which they thought would fit Baby Buckle. Nelly used to kiss and pat that little coat, and loved it quite as much as any doll she had ever had. In return Nelly taught An Ching to knit, with some chopsticks, which they pointed at the ends, for needles. The children were rarely allowed to go outside the Kus' compound, and never alone, but they could play out of doors as much as they wished. The larger court had the houses or set of rooms in it, and there was a smaller court which was entered through a queer gateway just like a large round hole in the wall. This court was at the side of Ku Nai-nai's rooms, and had no windows looking into it. An Ching, Nelly, and Little Yi used often to go and sit there with their work, and the children sometimes played at jumping through the hole. They saw no one but the Kus and their servant. Even when the barber came to shave Hung Li's head they were shut up out of sight, and their hair was kept short with Ku Nai-nai's scissors. Little Yi was becoming almost reconciled to life in Yung Ching, for although she was fond of her parents, she did not love them as Nelly did hers. She missed the large compound of the British Legation, and would have been very pleased to know at any moment that she was to be sent home. But she ate, slept, and was just as contented all day long as she had always been. But Nelly, poor child, was no longer the merry little hopping and skipping creature she had been in Peking. She never had a fit of the giggles now, and she was thin and pale; still, she was not absolutely miserable, for she felt sure she was going to leave Yung Ching soon, especially after she overheard a conversation which took place in Ku Nai-nai's room one night after she and Little Yi were in bed. Hung Li began by telling Ku Nai-nai he had been cheated out of some money by a man with whom he had done business that day; and he added: 'It is time these children went home now. I must have more money. I shall go and see the barber when next I go to Peking, and arrange with him to give them up to their parents.' 'How do you mean to do it?' asked Ku Nai-nai. 'If the barber goes to the Ying-Kua-Fu (British Legation) he will certainly be arrested, and then he is sure to tell about us.' 'Do you think I shall let him go to the Legation?' replied Hung Li, scornfully. 'No,' he went on; 'I shall write a letter to the foreign girl's father, asking him to send some one alone with the money to the Chien Mên (centre gate). I will be there to meet the messenger, and the barber will be outside with the children in some retired place. I shall take the messenger to see the children, and then he will hand over the money. The barber can slip away afterwards.' 'Yes,' grunted Ku Nai-nai, 'and what's to prevent the child telling her father where to find us in Yung Ching?' 'And what if she does?' replied Hung Li. 'No one has seen the children. The mandarin of this district is my friend, and I can make it all right. You don't suppose I want to adopt the children? You (turning to An Ching) would like to keep that pale-faced little foreign imp, I suppose, but you shan't do it.' An Ching did not reply, but next day, when Nelly told her that she had been awake and heard the talking in the next room, she said: 'No one cares for me here, and I am of no use in the world. If I can get away I shall try to come to you in Peking.' 'Oh, do,' said Nelly, delighted. 'How can it be managed?' 'I don't know. We must think it all out. I am not as stupid as Hung Li thinks,' replied An Ching. 'If I were sure that your father and mother would take me as a servant, I'd manage it.' 'I am certain they will when they hear how kind you have been to me,' said Nelly. 'You shall come as my maid to England; but you can't do much, can you? You don't know about our ways; but never mind, I'll teach you. Wouldn't you like to learn some English to begin with?' And Nelly at once began to give English lessons to An Ching, and Little Yi sometimes condescended to listen. They had no books, and it was only by repeating words and short sentences over and over again that anything could be done. Nelly was much bothered when she was asked the names of things that do not exist in English, such as the hair ornaments worn by the Chinese women. She was obliged to invent names for them. For instance, the embroidered band a Chinese girl wears as soon as she is old enough not to have her hair shaved in front Nelly called a 'hair-belt,' and the curved, flat ornament sticking out behind An Ching's head she christened 'head-protector.' Nelly was not quite sure that it was good English to invent names, but she said to herself, 'The Chinese call a tea-cosy "a tea-pot's hat" and a sewing machine "an iron tailor."' Greatly to Nelly's surprise and sorrow, there were times when she could not remember the names of things in English. She was, in fact, beginning to forget her own language. One day, when it had taken her a very long time to remember that 'wa-tzu' meant stockings, she was in great trouble, until Little Yi reminded her that she had always called them 'wa-tzu' in Peking. 'I've often heard you say that and lots of other things in Chinese when you were speaking English,' added Little Yi, decidedly. Nelly next set to work to teach An Ching to sing hymns, and succeeded pretty well, as far as the tune was concerned, with the help of Little Yi, who, having often listened with all her ears to the singing in the Legation chapel on Sunday mornings, knew some of the airs quite well. An Ching and the two children used to go through the round gateway into the inner court, and while Nelly sang the words very distinctly, An Ching and Little Yi hummed the tune. 'Art thou weary' was their favourite hymn. CHAPTER VII THE CHESHIRE CAT It began to be very hot about the middle of May. The Ku family had put their wadded clothes away and taken to cottons and thin silks. Nelly and Little Yi were also supplied with some very plain unwadded cotton coats and trousers at the same time. But in spite of this the little foreigner, as the Chinese called her, began to feel the heat and confinement of the small compound. She thought of her friends, who would all be preparing to go to the hills with their parents, and the days seemed very long. It was hard just to wait, with nothing at all happening. One day was just like another. There were no Sundays, no letters, no books, no lessons. The time was not even divided into weeks. Nelly quite lost count of the date. She only knew it Chinese fashion, by the number of new moons there had been since the Chinese New Year. It appeared as though Hung Li never would go to Peking as he had said, but he did start one day at the end of May, and An Ching told the children that he intended to see the barber and arrange for them to be handed over to their parents. He had business to do on the way to Peking as well as in that city, so that he would be away some time, An Ching said. Nelly was very glad to see Hung Li start, and she leaped through the round hole in the wall again and again, really and truly jumping for joy. She made An Ching and Little Yi sing their very best and loudest, until the small court resounded with the strains of 'Art thou weary,' and Ku Nai-nai, who was rather deaf, and shouted a good deal when she talked, heard the singing in her room, where she was sitting smoking on the kang. Little Yi and An Ching soon tired of singing so hard this hot day, but Nelly was too full of delight at the thought that Hung Li was actually off to feel any fatigue. She was more like little Nelly Grey of the British Legation than she had been since that unlucky day on which she wandered from home. She kept up her spirits and energy for two or three days, and then something happened. One morning the two children and An Ching had been singing and Nelly giving her English lessons as usual, when Ku Nai-nai came out, and in her usual rough, loud, screaming voice when angry, demanded why they were wasting time there instead of helping to get the mid-day meal ready. An Ching had quite forgotten that the old woman-servant was not well, and was shut up in her room out of the way. The children began to follow An Ching; but Ku Nai-nai, who certainly appeared to have got out of bed the wrong side that morning (only you can't get off a kang except at one side), would not allow Nelly in the cook-house. 'No foreigners shall meddle with _my_ food,' she said; whereat Nelly was very glad, for she had only offered to go and help on An Ching's account. So Ku Nai-nai hustled off An Ching and Little Yi, at the same time telling Nelly to stay where she was. Nelly, left to herself, drew the bench upon which she had been sitting quite near the wall, so as to be in the shade. Presently she heard something scraping against the wall on the other side, and it seemed as though there were voices quite close. The Chinese being very fond or privacy, all the compound walls are built very high and solid, and as the houses are only one storey high, no one can see into his neighbour's premises. Nelly did not remember to have heard any sounds coming from the next compound before; but noises there were, sure enough, and the talking became more and more distinct. Nelly got up from her seat to look at the wall. As she did so, she saw what was evidently a Chinaman's head just above the top, and she heard him quite distinctly tell some one below 'to hold the ladder tight.' Nelly was just wondering what she should do, and was half inclined to run through the hole into the next court, when the rest of the head came into view, and she saw that it belonged to a plump, pleasant looking Chinaman. It was very round, and Nelly was at once reminded of the Cheshire cat in _Alice in Wonderland_. It and she looked at each other for some seconds. Nelly was the first to speak. 'Oh!' she said. 'A fine day,' said the head. 'Rather hot,' replied Nelly. 'Was that you singing?' asked the head. 'Yes,' answered Nelly. 'I can sing that too,' said the head. Nelly was too much astonished to reply. Then the head rose a little higher, and showed a pair of shoulders and arms. 'He does not look like the Cheshire cat now,' thought Nelly, 'but a rather nice Chinaman.' He continued: 'How is it that you have large feet? You look like a foreigner. Don't be afraid of me.' Thus encouraged, Nelly replied: 'I am a foreigner, and of course I have large feet.' 'What are you doing here?' asked the man. 'I have been brought here,' replied Nelly vaguely, 'and I want to get away, but Ku Nai-nai will be very angry if she knows I am talking to you.' 'Then don't tell her,' said the man. 'I shan't. She is the woman who speaks so loudly, I suppose. I'll bob down if she comes. Where do you live?' 'Peking, the British Legation.' And then Nelly told the man all about Little Yi and herself being brought to Yung Ching by Hung Li and Ku Nai-nai. When she had finished the man seemed to be considering for some time. At length he said: 'Perhaps I can help you to escape. You had better not say a word to any one. Would you come with me and leave the Chinese girl?' 'Oh no,' replied Nelly. 'Little Yi does not mind being here nearly so much as I do, but she does not want to stay, and I am afraid they would never take her home without me. I wish An Ching could come with us.' 'Who is An Ching?' 'She is Hung Li's wife,' Nelly replied, 'and is very kind to me. Hung Li and Ku Nai-nai don't care for her. They make fun of her and call her stupid, but she isn't, although Little Yi can cook and help with the work better than she can. Her feet are very small, so of course she can't run about much. She is pretty, too. Her skin is almost white, and she can embroider beautifully, and I want her to come and be my maid and learn English. Mayn't I tell her about you? Little Yi might let it out, but I don't think An Ching would.' 'No,' said the man. 'Tell no one yet. I will talk to my family about it, but I don't think we can take An Ching. She belongs to Hung Li, but you don't. I will come again to-morrow or the next day when you are alone. Look here,' he continued, thrusting his right hand up his left sleeve and producing some red paper, which he threw down; 'pick this up quickly and hide it.' Nelly did so at once, thrusting the precious paper into her sleeve. 'When you are alone,' he continued, 'tear off a bit of paper and throw it over the wall. If any one comes, and you hear me on the ladder, begin to talk loudly, and I shall keep away. Could you be here to-morrow morning while the women are brushing their hair?' 'Oh yes,' replied Nelly, delighted. 'I could easily come. Little Yi likes to watch the hairdressing, and I don't. I am often here alone then.' 'Very well, expect me to-morrow morning. I will go now.' 'Stop,' said Nelly. 'How is it that you can sing that hymn? Are you sure you can?' The man smiled, and in a low voice began: Lao-lu kun-fa fu chung tan ti Hsin li chiao ku-nan Yu i wei k'ai en-tien ch'ing ni Te p'ing-an. As he went on Nelly opened her eyes and mouth wider and wider, so surprised was she. 'Why,' she exclaimed, when he stopped, 'I don't know it in Chinese,' and she was too puzzled to say more. 'The hymn has been translated by a missionary,' the man said. 'I am a Christian. See you again.' And he bowed and bobbed down out of sight, leaving Nelly in the middle of the court, too astonished to move. CHAPTER VIII THE CHANG FAMILY Nelly stood perfectly still for some seconds, gazing at the empty space on the top of the wall. Then she pinched herself to make sure that she was not dreaming, and said, 'Well, I never! A Christian! That is why he looks so nice.' Then she went back to her bench and began to think hard, keeping up a small flow of conversation to herself all the time, somewhat after this fashion: 'Now let me see. He is a Christian, and this is Yung Ching. Have I ever heard of any missionaries who live at Yung Ching? No, I haven't. If there are other Christians here, there must be a missionary who comes sometimes. Should I ask Ku Nai-nai if there are any Christians in Yung Ching? I'd better not. I wish it was to-morrow morning. It may rain, and then what shall I do? Oh dear, some of that red paper is sticking out of my sleeve. I must tuck it in,' which she did, and continued: 'Perhaps after all he is only a Roman Catholic Christian. Well, that is a great deal better than being a heathen, although some missionaries' children don't seem to think so. Do Catholics sing "Art thou weary," I wonder? There is that red paper again. Where can I hide it? Behind this little heap of stones in the corner; and then I'll go and see what the others are doing.' Nelly made a hole in the heap of stones and carefully hid the red paper. She had barely finished when Little Yi came running to call her. 'Come and see what I have made to eat,' she panted. 'I really am a good cook. I don't know how my mother can get along without me. I know so much about foreigners, too,' said Little Yi, who was certainly becoming more conceited than ever. She was a smart child, and more energetic than most Chinese. Ku Nai-nai was becoming quite fond of her in a selfish fashion, because Little Yi could fill her pipe, arrange the rooms, and run to fetch things much better than any child of her age whom she had ever known, although she did not always remember that none of her family and friends were Manchus, and that the poor little Chinese girls of Yi's age were all suffering from foot-binding. Luckily for Nelly, Little Yi's concoction of meat, flour, and sauce quite took up the attention of the household; otherwise, they might have noticed how thoughtful she was. Indeed, Little Yi did remark that Nelly did not appear to think much of her dish. There was plenty of time for reflection all the afternoon and evening, for Ku Nai-nai seemed determined to have a regular turnout while the old woman was out of the way, and kept An Ching and Little Yi quite busy. Nelly decided that if the Christian--for that was how she thought of the Chinaman--could help Little Yi and herself to get away before Hung Li returned, they had better go with him. But would Little Yi consent? When the children were together in Peking, Little Yi gave way to Nelly in everything, but now Nelly did not feel so sure of her. She went to bed early, and never ceased to wonder what was going on in the next compound until she fell asleep. Now the next compound was built on nearly the same plan as the Kus'. The dwelling-places were all in the centre court, and there was the same large round entrance left in the wall, through which you could pass into a small court at the side. This was next to the Kus' small court, and it was there that Nelly's Christian, whose surname was Chang, had appeared over the wall. Hung Li and Ku Nai-nai did not know that there were any native Christians in Yung Ching, but there were, and they even had a small room set aside for preaching and Christian worship, where an English clergyman from Peking sometimes held services. The room was in the compound of the native lay reader's house, quite at the other side of the town, and Chang and his family were the only converts who did not live close to this little meeting-house. When Chang, chuckling to himself at the astonishment he had caused, descended the ladder, he found his wife waiting for him at the bottom. They both went through the round hole in the centre court and then indoors. Chang Nai-nai was most eager to learn all that Nelly had said, for she had only heard one-half of the talk from her post at the foot of the ladder, and as it was she who had first heard the sound of hymn-singing coming from their neighbours', she considered herself entitled to know everything. When her husband had satisfied her on this point, she demanded of him what he was going to do. Her little eyes twinkled as she suggested that they might just as well have a reward on the children's account as Hung Li. 'And,' she added, 'we have to live, even if we are Christians.' 'To be sure,' said Chang, 'and are we not living pretty comfortably on the type-cutting I get from the missionaries in Peking? I shall do my best to help the children to get home, even if I gain nothing by it, but if the foreign child's father offers me something afterwards I shall not refuse it. Suppose our son had been stolen, what should we have done? There he is.' A tall, pale boy of fourteen appeared in the doorway. 'Listen, Chi Fu,' he continued; 'I have seen one of the hymn-singers,' and he repeated his account of his adventure of the morning, and told his son how he and Chang Nai-nai had gone into the small court and heard Ku Nai-nai call away her daughter-in-law and Little Yi, and tell Nelly to stay where she was. When they found that only one person was there, Chang had ventured to fetch a ladder and look over. 'Now, Chi Fu, my clever son, you must tell us how we are to get hold of these children, and then I can easily take them to Peking.' 'You'll be only too glad of an excuse to get to Peking,' struck in Chang Nai-nai, 'and I shall be left here to look after all those young fowls. It is not easy this hot weather, and Chi Fu there has his head too full of books and learning to be of any use.' 'Now don't scold, old woman,' replied Chang. 'I can take some of your chickens to sell in Peking at the same time. Fatten them up well, and the foreigners will give me good prices.' Chang Nai-nai only grunted. She was not really mean and greedy, but she loved to make a fuss. Meanwhile Chi Fu had been reflecting, his knees crossed one over the other and his head resting, in what he thought was a graceful attitude, on the palm of his left hand, supported by his elbow on the table. 'Respected father,' he said, when he could get a word in, 'it seems to me that the first thing to be done is to write to the young lady's parents. All we need do is to inform the honourable gentleman where his daughter is to be found.' 'That is so, my son, and you can write the letter.' 'I will write to-morrow, after you have inquired the correct name and address of the young lady's father. To avoid risks, in case the letter should be opened on the way, instead of writing in the usual characters of our language I'll use the Romanised, which I learnt in the mission school in Peking.' 'You'll write your letter and send it, and before any one can come the children will be off with that man Ku Hung Li. We must get them here before he returns,' said Chang Nai-nai. 'You are right too, my mother. The letter shall be written, and we will also try to think of some other plan to benefit the foreign and native young ladies.' With which Chi Fu rose slowly and majestically, and glided into the next room. CHAPTER IX CHI FU'S SCHEME Chang and his wife saw no more of their son that day until it was time to eat rice in the evening. Chi Fu had been at the mission compound. Naturally the Changs were both full of excitement over the morning's adventure; so little happens to disturb the tranquillity of home life in China. They had talked of nothing else, and were quite ready to begin again when Chi Fu arrived. 'Well, have you thought of a plan to get hold of those children?' his mother asked, as soon as he had swallowed one bowl of rice. The family oracle replied slowly that he had thought a good deal about it, and that he had inquired at the mission when the courier was going to Peking. 'You surely did not tell about those children?' screamed Chang Nai-nai. 'No, I only asked about the courier,' quietly replied Chi Fu, 'and as he has only just left, my letter could not go until next month. It would not be prudent to send a letter written in foreign characters otherwise than by the mission courier, and were I to use Chinese writing it might be read on the way.' Chi Fu partook of another half bowl of rice, and then continued: 'Therefore it would be advisable to make some plan for the escape of the two young ladies, and receive them here.' 'But what plan?' cried his mother. 'Your father and I have been thinking it over all the afternoon, and there seems no way.' 'No, there is no way unless we get the help of some one in the compound,' replied Chi Fu. Then he dropped a little of his dignity, and warming to the subject, unfolded his plan, which was that his father should question Nelly next day about An Ching, and that if she seemed reliable Nelly should tell her everything, and they would arrange a meeting between her and Chang. If An Ching were willing to help, it would be quite possible to get the children over the wall by means of ropes. Chi Fu, who certainly had a good head on his shoulders and could use it to some purpose when he forgot his affectation, suggested also that in case of an extra courier being sent from the mission, or the arrival of a missionary, Nelly had better write a letter to her parents, which he could enclose. 'But,' said Chang, 'if we get the children, are we to keep them here until they are taken back to Peking?' Chi Fu replied that he was afraid his father would be obliged to make the journey to Peking, and told his mother to fatten her fowls in readiness. There would be plenty of time, as Ku Hung Li was not likely to be back yet, and they could not attempt to get the children away except by night, in which case they must wait for the moonlight. Chang and his wife thought that their clever son had planned everything marvellously, and next morning Chang went into the small court and waited to see what would happen. He had not been there long when he saw a little red ball on the other side of the wall rise up in the air several times. Nelly was trying to throw a pebble wrapped in a piece of red paper over the wall, but as Bob Bates had often told her, she threw just like a girl, and it was only after several attempts that her little red messenger landed on Chang's side. Very soon after her successful throw Nelly saw Chang's pleasant, round, smiling face appearing cautiously over the wall. When he was satisfied that no one else was looking, he came a step higher. 'Good-morning, Ku-niang (young lady),' he said. 'What are the others doing, and where are they?' 'They are all busy doing their hair,' Nelly replied; 'at least An Ching and Ku Nai-nai are. Little Yi is washing some rice at the well, and the old servant is still ill. I'll begin to sing at once if I see any one coming. I can see quite well through the hole when I stand here in the middle of the court. Please will you tell me your name?' Chang did so, and said: 'My son thinks that we ought to let An Ching know of the plan to get you away. Are you sure she is to be trusted?' 'Oh yes, quite,' replied Nelly. 'You are sure she won't tell her mother-in-law or any female friends who come to the house?' 'I am certain she won't say anything about it to Ku Nai-nai, and I don't believe she has any friends. She wants to get away from here and come to me in Peking. But there's Little Yi,' Nelly went on. 'She'll be cross if I tell An Ching and not her.' 'Well, well,' said Chang, 'of course she will have to know, and it may as well be now.' And then he told Nelly about his son's idea that she should write to her father. Nelly was delighted, until she suddenly remembered that she had nothing to write with. Chang at first said that she must do her best with Chinese paper and the brush that the Chinese use for a pen, but then he recollected that Chi Fu had a lead pencil and some foreign paper, of which he was very proud. He promised to throw them over the wall, and went on to talk about his clever son. He had by no means finished when Nelly, who spied An Ching coming, suddenly began to sing most vigorously. Chang broke off and vanished, leaving Nelly standing in the middle of the court foolishly looking at the wall. 'Whatever is the matter?' An Ching asked when she had hobbled into the court. 'What are you looking at?' 'Nothing,' said Nelly; 'at least he's gone now.' 'Who? What do you mean?' exclaimed An Ching. 'The Christian--I mean Chang.' An Ching was more and more puzzled, and looked at Nelly in wonder. At length Nelly said, 'Come and sit down and I'll tell you all about it.' They both sat down on the bench near the wall, and Nelly told her tale to the astonished An Ching, or rather she half told it, for just as she was in the middle of it Ku Nai-nai came shouting for that lazy An Ching to come indoors. You may be sure that An Ching made haste to finish up her work after they had all eaten their mid-day meal. She and Nelly got out to the court alone, and Nelly was able to finish the exciting story. An Ching was too surprised to offer any advice. She agreed, however, that Little Yi must know at once, and when that young lady joined them she was told the wonderful news of the man in the next compound who was willing to help them to get away. Little Yi was quite as enthusiastic about it as was possible to a Chinese girl. She wanted Nelly to throw over some red paper at once to call Chang, but An Ching said that as Ku Nai-nai had already been smoking and dozing some time, she might call them at any moment, so it was decided that they should wait until next day, and throw over the paper as soon as ever Ku Nai-nai was comfortably settled on the kang with her pipe. Poor An Ching! she hated the thought of being left behind, and was dreadfully disappointed when she heard that Chang had said he could not take her; but she promised to do nothing to hinder their flight in any case. There was one thing she did not want to do, though, and that was to talk to Chang over the wall unless his wife were there. 'You must see him first, Nelly,' she said, 'and tell him to send up his wife to talk to me, or else get two ladders. It would not be at all proper for me to speak to a strange man alone. Respectable Chinese young women never do that.' Nelly saw no objection, though she thought An Ching was foolish, and it was decided that she and Little Yi should receive Chang next day. CHAPTER X PREPARATIONS FOR FLIGHT If Ku Nai-nai had been more wide-awake, she could hardly have failed to notice how quickly the housework and cooking were done next day; but as she was not given to interesting herself in other people's motives (although she was very suspicious when there was the slightest cause for it, and sometimes when there was none at all), she did not observe that Little Yi was eager to prepare her pipe and pot of tea, while An Ching and Nelly wiped out the bowls and put them in the cook-house. There is not much to do in a Chinese family--no scrubbing or polishing; the cooking, too, is quite simple in the ordinary home. The stone floors are swept and the furniture wiped over. The Chinese don't mind dust, but they like to have things in their places and the rooms orderly. Chinese girls never come in from a walk and throw their hats and gloves on a chair, because, to begin with, they don't wear hats and gloves, and they very seldom go for walks. An Ching pretended to be cross because Nelly had spilled some rice, and told the children to go off and leave her to finish alone. They went directly to their favourite side court, and at once got the red paper out of the heap of stones and threw a piece with a pebble inside over the wall. Nelly finding that she could not throw any better than before, Little Yi tried, and succeeded very well--so well, indeed, that Chang was there with his ladder in almost no time after they had left the house. He gave the children the usual Chinese greeting of, 'Fine day. Are you well?' Nelly replied: 'Quite well. It is rather hot. This is Little Yi.' Chang hoped Little Yi was well, and when she had replied that she was, and hoped he was too, he asked for 'the young Ku Nai-nai,' meaning An Ching. Nelly explained (not without the assistance of Little Yi, who liked to put in her word) that An Ching did not consider it proper to talk to Chang without his wife. Chang repeated this to his wife, who was at the foot of the ladder. 'She is quite right,' said Chang Nai-nai. 'Then,' said Chang, 'you must come up and talk to her.' Now Chang Nai-nai had never mounted a ladder, and she was rather afraid to do it, but she thought she would like to see into the next compound, and resolved to try. Chang came down, and she cautiously went up a few rungs, but stopped and asked Chang to follow her, as she felt rather nervous. When Chang had reassured her, she ventured to go two rungs higher, gave a great sigh, and exclaimed, 'You are not following me!' Chang told that he could not very well do so until she was higher still. Chang Nai-nai, who was very determined and not lacking in courage, resolutely went up a little higher. She was now more than half way to the top, and there she stuck, seized by a sudden terror. She looked very funny, clinging with both hands to the ladder, and her little claw-like feet close together on one of the rungs. Chang could not help smiling, which greatly annoyed the poor woman, and she at once began a tirade against the foolishness of An Ching. Why could she not talk with a grey-headed old man (Chang had about six grey hairs) who might have been a grandfather had their little baby girl lived and been married at sixteen, as she herself was? 'I won't have anything to do with helping the children to get home to their parents, no matter what the reward may be, if I am obliged to climb ladders and talk with ridiculous young women,' she went on. 'Come down, then,' said Chang. But this was more than could be expected of her. As we all know from experience, especially girls who have got so far as climbing into a hay-loft, it is very much easier to go up a ladder than to come down. Chang Nai-nai might have remained where she was until she dropped off, had not Chang mounted after her and almost carried her down. When the little woman was safely deposited on the ground, she became less irate against An Ching. 'What can be done?' she said. 'The young woman is in the right, but mount that ladder again I will not. If she can find a ladder and climb up on her side, let her do so. If she can't, as she is trying to help a foreigner, she might adopt the foreign custom of talking to any one. You can go up again and tell the children what I say. When she knows what I've suffered on that ladder she will give in, I think.' So Chang mounted once more and told the children, who had heard a good deal of the talk, about Chang Nai-nai's efforts to converse with An Ching. They both went to try and persuade her to come, and found her in her own room. She finally consented, and, half dragged by the children, appeared through the round hole. Chang, who was still at his post, took away all An Ching's embarrassment by greeting her with: 'Is the young Ku Nai-nai well?' Then, after a few more formalities, he asked Little Yi to go and stand in the round gateway, so as to be able to warn them if any one came, and he began at once to discuss with An Ching ways and means for releasing the children. The arrangements were very simple. In eight days' time there would be sufficient moonlight. The children were to wait until they were sure that Ku Nai-nai was asleep, and then squeeze themselves through the window over their kang and come out into the court. Chang would be on his side with Chi Fu, and they would let down a large round basket, into which the children must get, one at a time, and be hauled over the wall. An Ching suggested that she should ask Ku Nai-nai to allow her to go and visit a relative on the day which would be arranged for the flight, and she would stay there all night, to avoid suspicion. She saw very well that Chang could not take her away too, but she begged him to aid her if she found any means of joining Nelly later. Chang promised to think about it. Then he threw Nelly the pencil and a sheet of paper, and took leave of them all for that day. Nelly at once began to consider what to say to her parents, and finally wrote the following letter: 'DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER--I am quite safe here in Yung Ching with the Kus, and so is Little Yi, but we want to come home. Chang, who lives next door and heard us singing, is going to try to help us to get away. Ku Hung Li, who stole us, says he will send us home with a barber, but I would rather go with Chang. There is a very nice girl called An Ching, who is very kind to us, and I want her to come and live with us in Peking, but her feet are very small, so she can't do much, though she can sew beautifully. How is Baby Buckle? and Bob and Bessie and Arthur, and all the other children? I wear Chinese dress now, but my hair has only been shaved once. There is no more room on this paper, and this is all I have. Chang gave me it; he is a Christian. 'Your loving daughter, 'NELLY GREY.' This letter took Nelly more than a day to write. When it was done she threw it over the wall into Chang's compound. Chang and Chi Fu were very busy during the next few days in making arrangements for a cart to be ready on the night fixed for the flight. Nelly and Little Yi on their side were all impatience for the day to arrive, and poor An Ching was despondent. She hunted over all her treasures, and gave each of the children a keepsake. Nelly's was a little square looking-glass with tassels, to hang from her belt, and Little Yi had a thick silver ring with an enamelled green frog in the centre. Nelly thought of plan after plan for An Ching's escape, but An Ching shook her head at each one. 'Oh, Nelly,' she said one day, 'how lucky you are not to have been born a China-woman!' CHAPTER XI AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE Everything went on well in both compounds. Chang came at the call of the little red signal every day, and let An Ching know what he and Chi Fu were doing. Nelly asked Chang if he thought that Chi Fu could tell her the date, and Chi Fu sent her an almanac which had been given to him by a missionary at the beginning of the year, but it was of no use to Nelly until Chang told her that the longest day was only nine days off; so she put a cross at the date which was nine days before the 21st of June, and thus found out the exact date. In this way she knew when Sunday came, and although there would be only one more for her to spend in Yung Ching, she resolved to keep it in the best way she could, by saying over to herself all the hymns she could remember and taking more time for her prayers that morning; neither would she do any teaching or sewing. The day before the one fixed for the moonlight adventure arrived. An Ching had got permission to go and see her relatives the next day; the old servant, who was better, was to go with her. It was very hot, almost too hot to talk. Ku Nai-nai said there would be a thunderstorm. An Ching, Nelly, and Little Yi were sitting on the bench in the small court. They had just had a visit from Chang, who told them not to expect him the next day, as he must go and fetch the mule in the evening. He and Chi Fu would certainly be there the next night, he said, and he cautioned the children to close the window after they had climbed through. Little Yi was almost asleep, and was swaying to and fro as she sat on the bench. Nelly had hold of An Ching's hand, and was telling her how she should send her messages through Chang's mission. Nelly had got over the excitement, and was quietly happy at the thought of going home. How she longed to see her dear father and mother and Baby Buckle! She thought of all this for some time, with her hand still in An Ching's; and An Ching was thinking of her loneliness when the children would be no longer with her, and of Hung Li's wrath when he returned. Then Nelly too was overcome by the heat, and she nodded and bobbed about until at last her head fell in An Ching's lap. An Ching stroked the pretty little cheek, and felt as if her heart would break at losing her friend. She was resolutely keeping back her tears, when all three gave a great start, and the children were wide awake in a moment. There was a loud rumbling sound. 'The thunder!' exclaimed Nelly. But An Ching knew better. She realised that the noise came from a cart passing under the archway into the outer court next to the street, and that Hung Li had come back. She said nothing, and all three stood listening. Sure enough, it was a cart, and the large gate was being opened. The children heard it too, and although no one spoke a word, each one knew that it must be Hung Li. There was no mistaking now; it was his voice in the inner court talking to Ku Nai-nai. 'I must go,' said An Ching. 'We will talk it over again this afternoon. You two must pretend to be glad that Hung Li has come back.' An Ching left them, and was greeted by her husband with a command to get him something to drink. Ku Nai-nai began to scold her for being out of the way when needed. She did not mind though, for now, perhaps, she thought, the children would not go away the next night. Hung Li set about unharnessing the mule, and tied it to a post in the court. He then partook of some food, which they had hastily prepared for him, and flung himself down on the kang, where he was soon fast asleep. When An Ching could get away, she took the children's bowls and chopsticks into the small court, and they fetched their food from the cook-house. Little Yi was the first to ask if they should still get out of the window and be hauled up the wall in a basket, as arranged. 'It would be of no use,' said An Ching. 'Hung Li has the mule ready, and would easily overtake your cart next morning.' 'But,' exclaimed Nelly, 'Chang says he has as much right to us as Hung Li, and I don't see why we can't go.' 'Hung Li would kill me if you escaped while I am here to look after you,' replied An Ching. 'If I go away to-morrow you might try to get off, but we can't decide anything until we hear what he intends to do.' Hung Li slept peacefully for a couple of hours. Then he got up, called for Ku Nai-nai and An Ching, refreshed himself by wiping his face with a rag dipped in hot water, and took a deep draught from the spout of the tea-pot, after which he began to talk. 'We shall start to-night' he said. 'There are bills out all over Peking offering 500 taels (£100) reward for the children. I shall take them back at once. An Ching must go too, to look after them. The barber will wait for us at the city gate, and send a message to the _ying kua jên_ (Englishman) as soon as we arrive. It is all settled.' Ku Nai-nai grunted. She did not really care what became of the children, but she told Hung Li she hoped he would make sure of the money, and that too much of it would not stick to the barber's fingers. An Ching was delighted, though she did not dare to show it. She left the room, saying she must make ready. Her first care was to find the little girls and tell them the news. Although Nelly and Little Yi would rather have gone with Chang, they were very pleased to hear that they were to start so soon, especially as An Ching was to go with them. 'Then we shall not go over the wall in a basket after all,' said Little Yi. 'I should have liked that.' 'We must write a letter at once,' said Nelly, 'and throw it into Chang's compound.' 'Yes,' said An Ching, 'but who is to write it?' This was a puzzle. An Ching, like nearly all Chinese women, could not write at all, and Nelly could only do so in English. 'You know some characters, Little Yi,' continued An Ching. 'Suppose you try.' Little Yi felt very much flattered. 'All right,' she said. 'Give me a piece of paper and I'll do it.' An Ching tottered off to her room, and returned with a piece of the rough tissue paper which the Chinese use for writing upon, a brush, a piece of Indian ink, and a slate slab to mix it on, all tucked up her sleeve. Little Yi knelt down and spread her materials on the bench, while An Ching stood ready to sit down on the letter in case Hung Li or his mother came. Little Yi could only make a few characters, and had never written a letter, but she began boldly with a beautiful 'we.' 'Can not come,' said Nelly. 'I can't make "can,"' said Little Yi; so she wrote 'not' and as much as she could remember of 'come.' 'Hung Li is here,' dictated Nelly. 'How can you expect me to know how to make "Hung" and "Li"?' objected the scribe. An Ching said that the character for 'Hung' was the same as that used for the word 'red,' and she thought she could make the 'Li.' She took the pen and did it, very badly and quite crooked. Then Little Yi found she was not able to make 'is.' She missed that and put 'here.' The letter then read, 'We not come. Hung Li here.' 'That's enough,' said An Ching. 'Fold it up and put any character which means Chang on the outside.' Little Yi did so, and they screwed the bit of paper up with a pebble inside and threw it over the wall. The preparations for departure were very few and simple. They had no luggage. An Ching had a small bundle with some extra clothing, comb, etc., and a box was fastened on behind the cart with cups, a tea-pot, a few cooking utensils, and some charcoal for cooking their food on the way. Nelly could hardly believe that they were to start. They had only been a few months in Yung Ching, but it seemed like years. Ku Nai-nai was unusually pleasant at the last. She told Little Yi that she should miss her, and said a few kind words to Nelly. Just before sunset the party started. An Ching and the children were inside the cart, with Hung Li as driver, sitting on the shafts. Hung Li had forgotten to pull down the curtain in front of the cart, and just as they turned out of the compound into the street they came face to face with Chang. Nelly and Little Yi both started and bent forward to greet him, but An Ching held them back and whispered, 'Hush!' Chang, after making sure that Hung Li was not looking, quickly put his head forward and asked under his breath, 'To Peking?' The children nodded vigorously, but An Ching said, in a low voice, 'I don't know.' Chang vanished, and the children looked questioningly at An Ching. She motioned to them to keep silent, and they did so, greatly wondering. When Hung Li, who was sitting with his back to the others, turned and saw that the curtain was not drawn, he angrily pulled it down, whipped up the mule, and they were off at a good pace. Nelly was quite pleased to feel the jolting of a cart once more. 'But surely,' she thought, 'this one bumps more than others.' It seemed so to her because she had not been in a cart for so long a time. Just when they were getting outside Yung Ching, the thunderstorm which they had been expecting came, and the rain fell heavily, so that they were glad to keep well inside the cart. Hung Li tried to get under shelter too, but he found that he must make up his mind to bear the rain, if he meant to get any distance on the road before it became dark. He was very cross, and no one dared to speak a word. CHAPTER XII POOR MULE! It was very uncomfortable for every one during the next couple of hours. The cotton covering of the cart became soaked, and drops of water began to fall through. Hung Li was in a dreadful temper because the mule had gone slightly lame, and he was afraid that it would not be able to reach the first stopping-place. How he did lash and scold the poor creature! An Ching took the opportunity, when he was obliged to get down and lead it, to explain why she had told Chang she was not sure that they were going to Peking. 'I heard him say,' she jerked out, 'that if he were questioned about a foreign child on the road, or if people seemed inquisitive, he should branch off half way and go to some quiet country place. Ku Nai-nai told him he would be very foolish to do so; but he is very obstinate, and if he gets a little too much wine there is no knowing what he will do.' 'Dear me!' sighed Nelly, 'shall we ever get home?' 'To be sure you will,' replied An Ching. 'Chang will let the foreigners in Peking know where you have been, and your letter will be sent.' 'Yes, and mother will know that I am well,' thought Nelly. They went on until they came to the river, which it was too late to cross, even if the mule had been able to do it. There was a small inn close at hand. Hung Li knocked at the door, roused the inn-keeper, and asked for one small room for his wife and children. He said that one of them, a boy, had hurt his leg, and he should carry him in. Nelly found that she was the boy. An Ching bundled her up well about the head, and Hung Li carried her to the kang, where she was soon fast asleep. 'You will have to carry Little Yi too,' An Ching told Hung Li. 'If the inn-keeper sees her feet he will never believe she is your child.' Hung Li did so, pretending that he did not want her shoes to get wet. Then, being afraid that the mule might die, he gave it a good feed and comfortable quarters for the night. Next morning the children were very stiff, and would have liked to run about, but they were kept shut up in the room while An Ching fetched their food, and as soon as the cart was ready they were carried back to it, with the same excuses. It was with great difficulty, in spite of the good food and rest which had been given to the mule, that it was able to pull the cart up the steep muddy bank after crossing the river. It stood panting hard for some time when the task was finished, quite regardless of the blows administered by the cruel driver. 'You'll never get to Peking with that mule,' called out the ferryman as they started. They went along very slowly. An Ching suggested, when they arrived at a quiet, open part of the road, that the children should walk to lighten the cart, and they were very glad to be out in the fresh morning air; even An Ching got out when they came to a slight incline, but Hung Li took care to make the children climb in again whenever he saw a human being approach. Now that Yung Ching was well behind them, Hung Li decided not to urge the mule too much, in case it died before he was able to return it to the man from whom he had hired it in Peking; so that morning passed pleasantly enough. The children gathered flowers by the wayside, and the sunshine made Nelly hopeful. It was a delight to be in the country, with all so fresh and cool after the rain. At mid-day they passed through a dirty village, where they bought some eggs and bread. When they were well outside the village they cooked the eggs and took a meal, after which the mule was unharnessed and fed, greatly to his surprise, and the children had a sleep in the cart, while Hung Li and An Ching reposed on some straw close by. That afternoon they passed a funny little hut with a red dog painted on the door, which Nelly remembered to have seen on the journey from Peking. She wondered if they would go to any of the same inns they had stayed at before, but Hung Li carefully avoided them, and took a different road as often as possible. When they put up at the inn that night the children were again carried, with the same explanations, although the ground was not very wet this time. 'To-morrow we shall be in Peking,' said Nelly delightedly. 'No,' replied An Ching. 'We have come very slowly; we shall be three nights on the road this time.' Nelly was disappointed, but made the best of it. She slept badly that night, and had a headache the next morning. An Ching was away a long time getting the breakfast, and when she returned with her hands full she was very excited. 'One of the placards offering the reward for you two has just been stuck on the wall of this inn,' she exclaimed. 'Hung Li is in a great rage. He says he must be off at once. He intends to get another mule and hurry off to Peking.' 'So he is not going to take us to some other place? I am so glad,' said Nelly. 'No, he seems to have changed his mind. I am to get a small coat for Little Yi, and she is to pretend to be a boy.' 'Why me?' exclaimed Little Yi. 'My ears are pierced. I could not be a boy, and I won't. Nelly was the boy yesterday.' 'What does it matter? No one will notice the holes in your ears if you take out the earrings, and then you can run about. Nelly must not be seen at all, Hung Li says. It's no use objecting. You'll have to do it. You naughty boy!' she shouted, as she heard Hung Li and another man talking outside the door. Little Yi and Nelly giggled. Then An Ching locked them in and went to buy the coat. There was very little difference between it and the one she was wearing. An Ching saw that Little Yi's queue was right, took out her earrings, and then removed her bracelets. Nelly was carried to the cart in a bundle, and Little Yi, in no amiable mood at having lost her earrings and wooden bracelets, was hustled in after An Ching. Nelly was still feeling rather weak and tired, and so was the poor mule. He dragged them wearily along the road for a couple of hours, and then his troubles were all over, for he stopped quite still and dropped to the ground, and before Hung Li could get him out of the shafts he was quite dead. Of course every one was obliged to come down from the cart. Little Yi and An Ching helped to undo the harness and Hung Li dragged the mule out of the way. Nelly shed a few tears over the poor dead animal which had toiled on so bravely to the end. Hung Li was in a worse temper than ever. He wished he had never seen the little foreign imp and big-footed Manchu child; 'and I wish I could get rid of you as well,' he said to An Ching. At last he set off to fetch another mule, threatening all sorts of penalties to whoever stirred from the spot or spoke to passers-by. Before going, he propped up the shafts of the cart and made them all get inside. They were relieved when the angry man had gone, and tried to settle themselves comfortably in the cart; but when he was well out of sight, Little Yi, regardless of consequences, got out and looked round. An Ching did not trouble much, as she knew Hung Li could not be back very soon, but when after a time she put her head outside and could not see Little Yi at all, she became uneasy and herself got out. Nelly did the same. They called and ran in every direction before they found her. An Ching thought she saw something moving behind a clump of bushes some yards away. She asked Nelly, who could walk much better than she, to go and see. Nelly went behind the bushes, and sure enough she saw Little Yi a long way off, running away as hard as she could towards two men, one of whom Nelly to her great surprise and joy recognised as Chang. The other she thought must be Chi Fu. She waited until they came near, then she rushed forward, caught hold of Chang's hand and burst into tears. Tears of joy don't last very long. Nelly's were soon gone, and there was no trace of them when they all went to the other side of the bushes, where they found An Ching, who stood as if spellbound when she saw them. 'However did you find us?' she asked Chang. 'But you must go away,' she added; 'Hung Li may be back any moment. He will kill me if he finds you here,' and she hurried the children into the cart and got in herself. When they were safely in, Chang said: 'This is my son Chi Fu. He will keep a good look-out and I will talk to you here. If Hung Li comes we can walk quietly away. But he can't be back for a long time yet if he has gone to get a mule; the next village is nearly as far as the one you left this morning.' Chang then told them how he and Chi Fu came to be there. 'When I saw you start,' he said, 'I at once went into my house and consulted with my son, who said that he and I must certainly follow you. He got two mules at once and we set off early next morning. We rode hard and reached the river well before noon. At the inn near the river we heard about a party which had crossed earlier, and although the inn-keeper said the children were boy and girl, we felt sure that it must have been you.' Here Chi Fu came up and put in his word. 'Don't forget to tell the young foreign lady that her letter has been sent off,' he said. 'No,' replied Chang; 'I'll tell her. You must go farther away and keep a good look-out on the road the way Hung Li went.' And Chang turned to Nelly and told her that a courier had started for the Peking mission two days ago and taken her letter enclosed in one for the missionary from Chi Fu. 'And did you get my letter?' asked Little Yi. 'We threw it over the wall.' Chang replied that his wife had picked up a piece of paper with some writing upon it, but it was nearly all blotted out by the rain and could not be read. 'It was of no consequence,' said An Ching, at which Little Yi was not pleased. 'How did you manage to find us?' 'We rode on quickly, and very soon saw your cart in the distance; then we followed by a side road too narrow for a cart. When you stopped to rest at noon I got off my mule and came quite close. I saw the young Ku Nai-nai as she lay asleep.' An Ching did not much like this, but she said nothing. Chang continued: 'It was easy to follow you and put up at the same inn at night, especially as Hung Li did not know us. We rode after you this morning, and when we saw that the mule had fallen we left ours with an old man in a hut over there,' pointing beyond the bushes, 'and began to walk towards you. Little Yi saw us coming, and here we are.' CHAPTER XIII THE ROAD TO PEKING 'Now what are you going to do?' asked An Ching. 'We shall follow you to Peking or wherever Hung Li takes you, and then go at once and tell the English gentleman where you are. You have no need to fear now,' turning to Nelly, 'that you will not get home.' 'And can't An Ching come with us?' 'I dare not take her,' said Chang, 'but perhaps your father can arrange something. Now I will go and ask Chi Fu what we had best do.' Chi Fu thought that all they could do for the present was to keep the party well in sight and put up at the same inn that night. Chang returned and told An Ching this, and said they would go and get their mules. He cautioned all three not to appear to know either of them, even if they came and spoke to Hung Li. After Chang and Chi Fu went away it seemed a very long time before Hung Li returned with another mule. He was accompanied by a man who brought a cart and took away the dead animal. Hung Li told An Ching that he had only been able to get a mule to take them as far as the next village, and they must put up there. He had brought some food, and they prepared another meal by the roadside. The children ate sitting in the cart. As soon as they had finished, Hung harnessed the mule and then set off once more. This was a good strong beast and took them along briskly to the next village, but as so much time had already been wasted it was late in the afternoon when they arrived. Hung Li was now obliged to go in search of another mule and return the one he had to its owner. By the time this was done, it was too late to start again that day. The inn was about a hundred yards from the main road. It stood in an open space and was reached by a narrow winding path. All round and between the inn and the road was short grass and stubble. But on the opposite side of the road, a short distance on the way they had come, there was a hillock with a clump of trees at one side. The room which had been engaged for An Ching had its door, and also a small window, opening towards the road. Nelly and Little Yi could quite well see the hillock and clump of trees on the other side of the road from the window, and they had not been long in the room before they noticed that Chang and Chi Fu were there with their mules. Later in the evening they saw the two come over to the inn and heard them make arrangements to put up there for the night. An Ching went outside and passed them quite close, but they took no notice of her. She heard Chang inquire of Hung Li if he were going to Peking next day. 'I am not sure,' said Hung Li, in a very surly tone. Chang took no notice of his rudeness, but said politely: 'I hope you will permit my son and me to follow your party, as we are strangers to these parts and not very sure of the road.' 'You can if you like,' replied Hung Ching ungraciously, and walked away. An Ching felt sure he had been drinking. Nelly was still feeling far from well when she awoke next morning. She got up early, slipped the bolt, went out on to the dewy grass and looked up the road towards Peking. The fresh air revived her, although she was still very languid and depressed when she returned to the room. An Ching was awake, and reproved her for going out. 'You know how dreadfully angry Hung Li would be with me if he saw you,' she said. But she let Nelly stand at the open window, and Little Yi, being in boy's clothing, was not prevented from going in and out as she pleased. An Ching went as usual to get the breakfast. Hung Li was still half tipsy. He said he was in a hurry to be off, although he did not appear to be making any preparations. Chang and Chi Fu took their mules and went to the hillock to wait until Hung Li's party started. Nelly was sitting listlessly in the room, and Little Yi had gone outside to have a look round. Presently a cloud of dust began to rise from the road in the distance, and four riders came in sight. Little Yi looked intently, suddenly turned round, and ran back to the room where Nelly was, crying breathlessly: 'There's your father and another gentleman riding from Peking!' Nelly jumped up, dashed through the door and into the grassy space, paused a moment to look, and set off as fast as she could go. How she ran! but her legs felt weak, something thumped in her head, and her heart went pit-a-pat. Mr. Grey rode with his head bent, and was looking at the ground. 'Father! father! father! do stop!' Nelly called out. But her father did not see or hear, and there was An Ching shouting to her, and she knew that Hung Li might be after her directly. 'Father! father!' she wailed. She thought she shouted loudly, but her voice was very weak and quite drowned by the clattering of the pony's hoofs. Still he did not look up, and was going by without seeing her! It was too much for the poor child. She felt as though everything was turning upside down, and just as her father rode past she fell to the ground in a faint. But Chi Fu had seen it all from the hillock; and as Nelly fell he dashed forward and stood with outstretched arms in the middle of the road, ready to stop Mr. Grey's pony. When it came up he caught hold of the bridle and turned the head right round, greatly to the astonishment of the rider. 'What does this mean?' exclaimed Mr. Grey angrily. 'Your daughter! your daughter!' replied Chi Fu, pointing to Nelly as she lay on the ground. Mr. Grey asked no more questions, but spurred his pony and galloped back to where the little girl lay, Chi Fu running after him. He jumped off his pony and stooped anxiously over the little figure. 'It's Nelly,' he said, when he looked at the face, and he kissed her. Mr. Grey soon saw that she was only in a faint, and taking her in his arms he carried her towards the inn, feeling very happy to have recovered his little girl. When Little Yi came up he recognised her in spite of her boy's clothing, and giving her a kindly pat on the head he told her to keep close to him and run to get some water as soon as they were at the inn. Little Yi showed him the room they were occupying and went for the water, while Mr. Grey sat with his child on his knee. When her father bathed her head with the water Nelly soon recovered. Her happiness and delight when she found herself in her father's arms cannot be described. Let each girl who reads this imagine it for herself. CHAPTER XIV FATHER AND MOTHER With the help of Little Yi, who talked sixteen to the dozen, Nelly soon told her father the whole story. Then came such a string of questions, about Nelly's mother and Baby Buckle, and all Nelly's Peking friends and Little Yi's as well! The talking was nearly all in Chinese. Nelly found it difficult to get back into English, she said. 'You will make Hung Li give up An Ching and take her with us, father, won't you?' asked Nelly. 'I'll see what I can do,' her father promised, 'but I am afraid it cannot be managed.' 'It can be done easily enough if you will buy her, Sir,' said Little Yi. 'Hung Li does not like her, and he loves money.' This was a new idea to Mr. Grey. He thought he might be able to arrange it after all. 'We will go and see them and talk about it,' he said. The courtyard of the inn was in a state of great confusion when Mr. Grey and the children entered it. Hung Li was raging and fuming in a dreadful way, while An Ching stood by with a frightened face. The two Changs were trying to explain things to the Legation student who had come with Mr. Grey from Peking to go with him to Yung Ching in search of Nelly. They had started as soon as Nelly's letter reached the Legation. This young gentleman, who had been in China only a short time, understood very little Chinese, and Chang and Chi Fu were trying to talk to him by signs. It was funny to see them pointing to the wall, a basket, red paper and a rope. The poor student was hopelessly muddled, but the Chinese grooms who had come with him and Mr. Grey quite understood and were enjoying themselves thoroughly. The inn-keeper was shouting directions to every one, and his wife trying to question An Ching, who was in a terrible fright. A crowd of villagers began to collect, and every one was talking at once. Leaving the children in charge of his companion, Mr. Grey pushed his way into the midst of the throng, shouting at the top of his voice: 'Where's the man who stole my daughter?' The noise stopped at once. A dozen pair of hands seized Hung Li and An Ching and brought them face to face with Mr. Grey, while the crowd closed eagerly round. Hung Li was dreadfully afraid. He had counted on the children being handed over by his friend the barber in exchange for a nice round sum of money, and had never thought the affair would bring him within arm's length of a fierce foreigner. 'Why did you do this?' asked Mr. Grey sternly. 'I did not,' said the coward. 'It was my mother who stole the child and hid her from me. I was taking her back to Peking.' 'Very well,' said Mr. Grey, 'I must hand you over to the magistrate.' This was quite enough for Hung Li, who knew that if he were once inside a Chinese prison he might have to stay there a very long time. 'Don't tell me any lies,' Mr. Grey continued. 'You kept my daughter shut up in your house, and she might have died if it had not been for your wife.' Hung Li grunted, but said nothing. 'But,' went on Mr. Grey, 'I will let you go on one condition, that you give up all claim to your wife and let her come to live with my daughter in Peking, and I will give you fifty taels for her.' Hung Li did not expect to be let off so easily. 'Take the woman,' he said. 'She has no children and I don't want her.' 'All right,' replied Mr. Grey. 'I take all these people to witness our bargain.' There was a chorus of 'Hao, hao' (good, good), from the crowd, and everybody seemed pleased. Mr. Grey at once ordered his servant to fetch his bag containing the lumps of silver and long strings of copper cash with a hole through the middle, which are the only coins the Chinese have. The inn-keeper brought a scale; the silver was weighed and handed over to Hung Li. He went away without taking any notice of An Ching, and nobody was surprised. The Chinese do not think much of women, you see. As for An Ching, she was delighted. All this time Chang and his son had kept quietly in the background. They were Hung Li's neighbours and did not want to make an enemy of him. This was their Chinese caution. As soon as he had gone they came forward. Mr. Grey thanked them warmly, and told them that they should have the reward he had offered if they would come with him to Peking, which they were very glad to do. They were soon ready to leave the inn. Mr. Grey's servant had hired a cart and good strong mule. An Ching and the children got into the cart and the others rode alongside, excepting the Legation student, who went ahead to prepare Mrs. Grey. Nelly was almost too excited to sit still as they came into Peking, and even Little Yi was very anxious. 'How do you feel, An Ching?' asked Nelly. 'I don't know,' she replied. 'Glad and sorry, but more glad than sorry. Nobody cares for me but you now. My parents did, a little, but no Chinese girl is ever loved by her father as yours loves you.' 'That's not true,' said Little Yi, although she knew that it was. 'Well, I hope I am wrong, Little Yi. When children are as good and truthful as Nelly perhaps their parents are very fond of them; but I never knew a Chinese girl so good.' Little Yi sniffed, but said no more. When the large gates of the Legation were opened and the cart drove in, Nelly almost fainted again. It was a very pale, fragile-looking little creature that Mr. Grey lifted out of the cart. Mrs. Grey had been on the look-out, and could not remain indoors when she saw the party arrive. She rushed hatless across the compound, and Nelly bounded to meet her. Mother and child clung to each other with all their might, while Chu Ma fairly wept for joy to see her baby, as she called Nelly. At the same time Little Yi's parents dashed towards her and embraced her, and they all began chattering and crying. Little Yi hoped An Ching would notice how affectionate her father was. It was not until they had gone indoors that Mr. and Mrs. Grey remembered the Changs and An Ching. When Mr. Grey at length brought An Ching into the room, Mrs. Grey kissed her too and thanked her for being so good to Nelly. Mrs. Grey herself put Nelly to bed that night. It seemed so strange to Nelly to see everything just as she had left it. There was actually the almanac on the wall with the coloured picture of Ruth and Boaz in the field. Nelly had pinned this almanac up months ago when she was attending a dancing class at the American Legation, because, she said, 'Boaz was doing the first position of the waltz step beautifully.' She laughed, and it did her good and she felt glad and happy. As she said her prayers that night, she felt as though she really loved God and that He quite understood when she thanked Him for the gift of a good father and mother. CONCLUSION The next few days Nelly spent quietly with her parents, and in showing An Ching all the wonders of a foreign household. Then she was taken by her father and mother to spend the rest of the summer in a Chinese temple at the hills, where she soon saw all her friends. Baby Buckle did not know her, of course, and the coat she had brought him was too small, as he had grown very much. But he was 'darlinger' than ever, Nelly said. Bessie Bates and Liza and Bertha were delighted to see Nelly, but they seemed shy with her at first, and Bob Bates and Arthur Macdonald treated her almost as though she had been a grown-up lady. She was not very well all the summer, and the doctor advised a change. 'England,' he said, 'would be a good thing.' 'And school,' added Mr. Grey. And to England Nelly went in the autumn with her mother and An Ching. She was left with her aunt in Brighton, where she attended a day school near her brother Tom's. An Ching stayed with her and learnt to speak English very well. The people of Brighton used to stare at An Ching almost as much as the Chinese did at Nelly when she was stolen in Peking. She became a Christian in time and used to go to church regularly. Two years later, Arthur Macdonald came to Tom's school and often spent his holiday afternoons at Nelly's aunt's. Bob and Bessie Bates went to school in America, but Liza and Bertha stayed with their governess in Peking. Baby Buckle grew into a very mischievous little boy; so troublesome was he that his father decided to send him home, and he, too, when he was a very small boy, came to the school where Tom had been. Nelly used to go and see him and bring him to her aunt's. No matter how naughty he was, she always made excuses for him. 'He was such a darling baby, you know,' she used to say. Little Yi never tired of telling her adventures, and all her female relatives, none of whom had ever been outside Peking, looked upon her as a great traveller. Chi Fu studied so well that he became a school teacher in the Church Mission. His parents admired him more than ever, and left Yung Ching to come and live near him. One day he received a letter from Nelly in English, and was able to read it to them in Chinese quite easily. 'He is a great scholar, my son,' said the good Chang to himself. It was the proudest day of his life! FINIS 
14475	----	[Illustration: MARY ERSKINE'S FARM] MARY ERSKINE A Franconia Story, BY THE AUTHOR OF THE ROLLO BOOKS. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS. FRANKLIN SQUARE. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by HARPER & BROTHERS, In the Clerk's Office for the Southern District of New York. PREFACE. The development of the moral sentiments in the human heart, in early life,--and every thing in fact which relates to the formation of character,--is determined in a far greater degree by sympathy, and by the influence of example, than by formal precepts and didactic instruction. If a boy hears his father speaking kindly to a robin in the spring,--welcoming its coming and offering it food,--there arises at once in his own mind, a feeling of kindness toward the bird, and toward all the animal creation, which is produced by a sort of sympathetic action, a power somewhat similar to what in physical philosophy is called _induction_. On the other hand, if the father, instead of feeding the bird, goes eagerly for a gun, in order that he may shoot it, the boy will sympathize in that desire, and growing up under such an influence, there will be gradually formed within him, through the mysterious tendency of the youthful heart to vibrate in unison with hearts that are near, a disposition to kill and destroy all helpless beings that come within his power. There is no need of any formal instruction in either case. Of a thousand children brought up under the former of the above-described influences, nearly every one, when he sees a bird, will wish to go and get crumbs to feed it, while in the latter case, nearly every one will just as certainly look for a stone. Thus the growing up in the right atmosphere, rather than the receiving of the right instruction, is the condition which it is most important to secure, in plans for forming the characters of children. It is in accordance with this philosophy that these stories, though written mainly with a view to their moral influence on the hearts and dispositions of the readers, contain very little formal exhortation and instruction. They present quiet and peaceful pictures of happy domestic life, portraying generally such conduct, and expressing such sentiments and feelings, as it is desirable to exhibit and express in the presence of children. The books, however, will be found, perhaps, after all, to be useful mainly in entertaining and amusing the youthful readers who may peruse them, as the writing of them has been the amusement and recreation of the author in the intervals of more serious pursuits. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I.--JEMMY II.--THE BRIDE III.--MARY ERSKINE'S VISITORS IV.--CALAMITY V.--CONSULTATIONS VI.--MARY BELL IN THE WOODS VII.--HOUSE-KEEPING VIII.--THE SCHOOL IX.--GOOD MANAGEMENT X.--THE VISIT TO MARY ERSKINE'S ENGRAVINGS. MARY ERSKINE'S FARM--FRONTISPIECE. CATCHING THE HORSE THE LOG HOUSE MARY BELL AT THE BROOK THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS MRS. BELL MARY BELL AND QUEEN BESS MARY BELL GETTING BREAKFAST THE SCHOOL GOING TO COURT THE STRAWBERRY PARTY THE FRANCONIA STORIES. ORDER OF THE VOLUMES. MALLEVILLE. WALLACE. MARY ERSKINE. MARY BELL. BEECHNUT. RODOLPHUS. ELLEN LINN. STUYVESANT. CAROLINE. AGNES. SCENE OF THE STORY The country in the vicinity of Franconia, at the North. PRINCIPAL PERSONS MARY ERSKINE. ALBERT. PHONNY and MALLEVILLE, cousins, residing at the house of Phonny's mother. MRS. HENRY, Phonny's mother. ANTONIO BLANCHINETTE, a French boy, residing at Mrs. Henry's; commonly called Beechnut. MRS. BELL, a widow lady, living in the vicinity of Mrs. Henry's. MARY BELL, her daughter. MARY ERSKINE. CHAPTER I. JEMMY. Malleville and her cousin Phonny generally played together at Franconia a great part of the day, and at night they slept in two separate recesses which opened out of the same room. These recesses were deep and large, and they were divided from the room by curtains, so that they formed as it were separate chambers: and yet the children could speak to each other from them in the morning before they got up, since the curtains did not intercept the sound of their voices. They might have talked in the same manner at night, after they had gone to bed, but this was against Mrs. Henry's rules. One morning Malleville, after lying awake a few minutes, listening to the birds that were singing in the yard, and wishing that the window was open so that she could hear them more distinctly, heard Phonny's voice calling to her. "Malleville," said he, "are you awake?" "Yes," said Malleville, "are you?" "Yes," said Phonny, "I'm awake--but what a cold morning it is!" It was indeed a cold morning, or at least a very _cool_ one. This was somewhat remarkable, as it was in the month of June. But the country about Franconia was cold in winter, and cool in summer. Phonny and Malleville rose and dressed themselves, and then went down stairs. They hoped to find a fire in the sitting-room, but there was none. "How sorry I am," said Phonny. "But hark, I hear a roaring." "Yes," said Malleville; "it is the oven; they are going to bake." The back of the oven was so near to the partition wall which formed one side of the sitting-room, that the sound of the fire could be heard through it. The mouth of the oven however opened into another small room connected with the kitchen, which was called the baking-room. The children went out into the baking-room, to warm themselves by the oven fire. "I am very glad that it is a cool day," said Phonny, "for perhaps mother will let us go to Mary Erskine's. Should not you like to go?" "Yes," said Malleville, "very much. Where is it?" The readers who have perused the preceding volumes of this series will have observed that Mary Bell, who lived with her mother in the pleasant little farm-house at a short distance from the village, was always called by her full name, Mary Bell, and not ever, or scarcely ever, merely Mary. People had acquired the habit of speaking of her in this way, in order to distinguish her from another Mary who lived with Mrs. Bell for several years. This other Mary was Mary Erskine. Mary Erskine did not live now at Mrs. Bell's, but at another house which was situated nearly two miles from Mrs. Henry's, and the way to it was by a very wild and unfrequented road. The children were frequently accustomed to go and make Mary Erskine a visit; but it was so long a walk that Mrs. Henry never allowed them to go unless on a very cool day. At breakfast that morning Phonny asked his mother if that would not be a good day for them to go and see Mary Erskine. Mrs. Henry said that it would be an excellent day, and that she should be very glad to have them go, for there were some things there to be brought home. Besides Beechnut was going to mill, and he could carry them as far as Kater's corner. Kater's corner was a place where a sort of cart path, branching off from the main road, led through the woods to the house where Mary Erskine lived. It took its name from a farmer, whose name was Kater, and whose house was at the corner where the roads diverged. The main road itself was very rough and wild, and the cart path which led from the corner was almost impassable in summer, even for a wagon, though it was a very romantic and beautiful road for travelers on horseback or on foot. In the winter the road was excellent: for the snow buried all the roughness of the way two or three feet deep, and the teams which went back and forth into the woods, made a smooth and beautiful track for every thing on runners, upon the top of it. Malleville and Phonny were very much pleased with the prospect of riding a part of the way to Mary Erskine's, with Beechnut, in the wagon. They made themselves ready immediately after breakfast, and then went and sat down upon the step of the door, waiting for Beechnut to appear. Beechnut was in the barn, harnessing the horse into the wagon. Malleville sat down quietly upon the step while waiting for Beechnut. Phonny began to amuse himself by climbing up the railing of the bannisters, at the side of the stairs. He was trying to poise himself upon the top of the railing and then to work himself up the ascent by pulling and pushing with his hands and feet against the bannisters themselves below. "I wish you would not do that," said Malleville. "I think it is very foolish, for you may fall and hurt yourself." "No," said Phonny. "It is not foolish. It is very useful for me to learn to climb." So saying he went on scrambling up the railing of the bannisters as before. Just then Beechnut came along through the yard, towards the house. He was coming for the whip. "Beechnut," said Malleville, "I wish that you would speak to Phonny." "_Is_ it foolish for me to learn to climb?" asked Phonny. In order to see Beechnut while he asked this question, Phonny had to twist his head round in a very unusual position, and look out under his arm. It was obvious that in doing this he was in imminent danger of falling, so unstable was the equilibrium in which he was poised upon the rail. "Is not he foolish?" asked Malleville. Beechnut looked at him a moment, and then said, as he resumed his walk through the entry, "Not very;--that is for a boy. I have known boys sometimes to do foolisher things than that." "What did they do?" asked Phonny. "Why once," said Beechnut, "I knew a boy who put his nose into the crack of the door, and then took hold of the latch and pulled the door to, and pinched his nose to death. That was a _little_ more foolish, though not much." So saying Beechnut passed through the door and disappeared. Phonny was seized with so violent a convulsion of laughter at the idea of such absurd folly as Beechnut had described, that he tumbled off the bannisters, but fortunately he fell _in_, towards the stairs, and was very little hurt. He came down the stairs to Malleville, and as Beechnut returned in a few minutes with the whip, they all went out towards the barn together. Beechnut had already put the bags of grain into the wagon behind, and now he assisted Phonny and Malleville to get in. He gave them the whole of the seat, in order that they might have plenty of room, and also that they might be high up, where they could see. He had a small bench which was made to fit in, in front, and which he was accustomed to use for himself, as a sort of driver's seat, whenever the wagon was full. He placed this bench in its place in front, and taking his seat upon it, he drove away. When the party had thus fairly set out, and Phonny and Malleville had in some measure finished uttering the multitude of exclamations of delight with which they usually commenced a ride, they began to wish that Beechnut would tell them a story. Now Beechnut was a boy of boundless fertility of imagination, and he was almost always ready to tell a story. His stories were usually invented on the spot, and were often extremely wild and extravagant, both in the incidents involved in them, and in the personages whom he introduced as actors. The extravagance of these tales was however usually no objection to them in Phonny's and Malleville's estimation. In fact Beechnut observed that the more extravagant his stories were, the better pleased his auditors generally appeared to be in listening to them. He therefore did not spare invention, or restrict himself by any rules either of truth or probability in his narratives. Nor did he usually require any time for preparation, but commenced at once with whatever came into his head, pronouncing the first sentence of his story, very often without any idea of what he was to say next. On this occasion Beechnut began as follows: "Once there was a girl about three years old, and she had a large black cat. The cat was of a jet black color, and her fur was very soft and glossy. It was as soft as silk. "This cat was very mischievous and very sly. She was _very_ sly: very indeed. In fact she used to go about the house so very slyly, getting into all sorts of mischief which the people could never find out till afterwards, that they gave her the name of Sligo. Some people said that the reason why she had that name was because she came from a place called Sligo, in Ireland. But that was not the reason. It was veritably and truly because she was so sly." Beechnut pronounced this decision in respect to the etymological import of the pussy's name in the most grave and serious manner, and Malleville and Phonny listened with profound attention. "What was the girl's name?" asked Malleville. "The girl's?" repeated Beechnut. "Oh, her name was--Arabella." "Well, go on," said Malleville. "One day," continued Beechnut, "Sligo was walking about the house, trying to find something to do. She came into the parlor. There was nobody there. She looked about a little, and presently she saw a work-basket upon the corner of a table, where Arabella's mother had been at work. Sligo began to look at the basket, thinking that it would make a good nest for her to sleep in, if she could only get it under the clock. The clock stood in a corner of the room. "Sligo accordingly jumped up into a chair, and from the chair to the table, and then pushing the basket along nearer and nearer to the edge of the table, she at last made it fall over, and all the sewing and knitting work, and the balls, and needles, and spools, fell out upon the floor. Sligo then jumped down and pushed the basket along toward the clock. She finally got it under the clock, crept into it, curled herself round into the form of a semicircle inside, so as just to fill the basket, and went to sleep. "Presently Arabella came in, and seeing the spools and balls upon the floor, began to play with them. In a few minutes more, Arabella's mother came in, and when she saw Arabella playing with these things upon the floor, she supposed that Arabella herself was the rogue that had thrown the basket off the table. Arabella could not talk much. When her mother accused her of doing this mischief, she could only say "No;" "no;" but her mother did not believe her. So she made her go and stand up in the corner of the room, for punishment, while Sligo peeped out from under the clock to see." "But you said that Sligo was asleep," said Phonny. "Yes, she went to sleep," replied Beechnut, "but she waked up when Arabella's mother came into the room." Beechnut here paused a moment to consider what he should say next, when suddenly he began to point forward to a little distance before them in the road, where a boy was to be seen at the side of the road, sitting upon a stone. "I verily believe it is Jemmy," said he. As the wagon approached the place where Jemmy was sitting, they found that he was bending down over his foot, and moaning with, pain. Beechnut asked him what was the matter. He said that he had sprained his foot dreadfully. Beechnut stopped the horse, and giving the reins to Phonny, he got out to see. Phonny immediately gave them to Malleville, and followed. "Are you much hurt?" asked Beechnut. "Oh, yes," said Jemmy, moaning and groaning; "oh dear me!" Beechnut then went back to the horse, and taking him by the bridle, he led him a little way out of the road, toward a small tree, where he thought he would stand, and then taking Malleville out, so that she might not be in any danger if the horse should chance to start, he went back to Jemmy. "You see," said Jemmy, "I was going to mill, and I was riding along here, and the horse pranced about and threw me off and sprained my foot. Oh dear me! what shall I do?" "Where is the horse?" asked Beechnut. "There he is," said Jemmy, "somewhere out there. He has gone along the road. And the bags have fallen off too. Oh dear me!" Phonny ran out into the road, and looked forward. He could see the horse standing by the side of the road at some distance, quietly eating the grass. A little this side of the place where the horse stood, the bags were lying upon the ground, not very far from each other. The story which Jemmy told was not strictly true. He was one of the boys of the village, and was of a wild and reckless character. This was, however, partly his father's fault, who never gave him any kind and friendly instruction, and always treated him with a great degree of sternness and severity. A circus company had visited Franconia a few weeks before the time of this accident, and Jemmy had peeped through the cracks of the fence that formed their enclosure, and had seen the performers ride around the ring, standing upon the backs of the horses. He was immediately inspired with the ambition to imitate this feat, and the next time that he mounted his father's horse, he made the attempt to perform it. His father, when he found it out, was very angry with him, and sternly forbade him ever to do such a thing again. He declared positively that if he did, he would whip him to death, as he said. Jemmy was silent, but he secretly resolved that he would ride standing again, the very first opportunity. Accordingly, when his father put the two bags of grain upon the horse, and ordered Jemmy to go to mill with them, Jemmy thought that the opportunity had come. He had observed that the circus riders, instead of a saddle, used upon the backs of their horses a sort of flat pad, which afforded a much more convenient footing than any saddle; and as to standing on the naked back of a horse, it was manifestly impossible for any body but a rope-dancer. When, however, Jemmy saw his father placing the bags of grain upon the horse, he perceived at once that a good broad and level surface was produced by them, which was much more extended and level, even than the pads of the circus-riders. He instantly resolved, that the moment that he got completely away from the village, he would mount upon the bags and ride standing--and ride so, too, just as long as he pleased. Accordingly, as soon as he had passed the house where Phonny lived, which was the last house in that direction for some distance, he looked round in order to be sure that his father was not by any accident behind him, and then climbing up first upon his knees, and afterward upon his feet, he drew up the reins cautiously, and then chirruped to the horse to go on. The horse began to move slowly along. Jemmy was surprised and delighted to find how firm his footing was on the broad surface of the bags. Growing more and more bold and confident as he became accustomed to his situation, he began presently to dance about, or rather to perform certain awkward antics, which he considered dancing, looking round continually, with a mingled expression of guilt, pleasure, and fear, in his countenance, in order to be sure that his father was not coming. Finally, he undertook to make his horse trot a little. The horse, however, by this time, began to grow somewhat impatient at the unusual sensations which he experienced--the weight of the rider being concentrated upon one single point, directly on his back, and resting very unsteadily and interruptedly there,--and the bridle-reins passing up almost perpendicularly into the air, instead of declining backwards, as they ought to do in any proper position of the horseman. He began to trot forward faster and faster. Jemmy soon found that it would be prudent to restrain him, but in his upright position, he had no control over the horse by pulling the reins. He only pulled the horse's head upwards, and made him more uneasy and impatient than before. He then attempted to get down into a sitting posture again, but in doing so, he fell off upon the hard road and sprained his ankle. The horse trotted rapidly on, until the bags fell off, first one and then the other. Finding himself thus wholly at liberty, he stopped and began to eat the grass at the road-side, wholly unconcerned at the mischief that had been done. Jemmy's distress was owing much more to his alarm and his sense of guilt, than to the actual pain of the injury which he had suffered. He was, however, entirely disabled by the sprain. "It is rather a hard case," said Beechnut, "no doubt, but never mind it, Jemmy. A man may break his leg, and yet live to dance many a hornpipe afterwards. You'll get over all this and laugh about it one day. Come, I'll carry you home in my wagon." "But I am afraid to go home," said Jemmy. "What are you afraid of?" asked Beechnut. "Of my father," said Jemmy. "Oh no," said Beechnut. "The horse is not hurt, and as for the grist I'll carry it to mill with mine. So there is no harm done. Come, let me put you into the wagon." "Yes," said Phonny, "and I will go and catch the horse." While Beechnut was putting Jemmy into the wagon, Phonny ran along the road toward the horse. The horse, hearing footsteps, and supposing from the sound that somebody might be coming to catch him, was at first disposed to set off and gallop away; but looking round and seeing that it was nobody but Phonny he went on eating as before. When Phonny got pretty near to the horse, he began to walk up slowly towards him, putting out his hand as if to take hold of the bridle and saying, "Whoa--Dobbin,--whoa." The horse raised his head a little from the grass, shook it very expressively at Phonny, walked on a few steps, and then began to feed upon the grass as before. He seemed to know precisely how much resistance was necessary to avoid the recapture with which he was threatened. "Whoa Jack! whoa!" said Phonny, advancing again. The horse, however, moved on, shaking his head as before. He seemed to be no more disposed to recognize the name of Jack than Dobbin. [Illustration: CATCHING THE HORSE.] "Jemmy," said Phonny, turning back and calling out aloud, "Jemmy! what's his name?" Jemmy did not answer. He was fully occupied in getting into the wagon. Beechnut called Phonny back and asked him to hold his horse, while he went to catch Jemmy's. He did it by opening one of the bags and taking out a little grain, and by means of it enticing the stray horse near enough to enable him to take hold of the bridle. He then fastened him behind the wagon, and putting Jemmy's two bags in, he turned round and went back to carry Jemmy home, leaving Malleville and Phonny to walk the rest of the way to Mary Erskine's. Besides their ride, they lost the remainder of the story of Sligo, if that can be said to be lost which never existed. For at the time when Beechnut paused in his narration, he had told the story as far as he had invented it. He had not thought of another word. CHAPTER II. THE BRIDE. Mary Erskine was an orphan. Her mother died when she was about twelve years old. Her father had died long before, and after her father's death her mother was very poor, and lived in so secluded and solitary a place, that Mary had no opportunity then to go to school. She began to work too as soon as she was able to do any thing, and it was necessary from that day forward for her to work all the time; and this would have prevented her from going to school, if there had been one near. Thus when her mother died, although she was an intelligent and very sensible girl, she could neither read nor write a word. She told Mrs. Bell the day that she went to live with her, that she did not even know any of the letters, except the round one and the crooked one. The round one she said she _always_ knew, and as for S she learned that, because it stood for Erskine. This shows how little she knew about spelling. Mrs. Bell wanted Mary Erskine to help her in taking care of her own daughter Mary, who was then an infant. As both the girls were named Mary, the people of the family and the neighbors gradually fell into the habit of calling each of them by her full name, in order to distinguish them from each other. Thus the baby was never called Mary, but always Mary Bell, and the little nursery maid was always known as Mary Erskine. Mary Erskine became a great favorite at Mrs. Bell's. She was of a very light-hearted and joyous disposition, always contented and happy, singing like a nightingale at her work all the day long, when she was alone, and cheering and enlivening all around her by her buoyant spirits when she was in company. When Mary Bell became old enough to run about and play, Mary Erskine became her playmate and companion, as well as her protector. There was no distinction of rank to separate them. If Mary Bell had been as old as Mary Erskine and had had a younger sister, her duties in the household would have been exactly the same as Mary Erskine's were. In fact, Mary Erskine's position was altogether that of an older sister, and strangers visiting, the family would have supposed that the two girls were really sisters, had they not both been named Mary. Mary Erskine was about twelve years older than Mary Bell, so that when Mary Bell began to go to school, which was when she was about five years old, Mary Erskine was about seventeen. Mrs. Bell had proposed, when Mary Erskine first came to her house, that she would go to school and learn to read and write; but Mary had been very much disinclined to do so. In connection with the amiableness and gentleness of her character and her natural good sense, she had a great deal of pride and independence of spirit; and she was very unwilling to go to school--being, as she was, almost in her teens--and begin there to learn her letters with the little children. Mrs. Bell ought to have required her to go, notwithstanding her reluctance, or else to have made some other proper arrangement for teaching her to read and write. Mrs. Bell was aware of this in fact, and frequently resolved that she would do so. But she postponed the performance of her resolution from month to month and year to year, and finally it was not performed at all. Mary Erskine was so very useful at home, that a convenient time for sparing her never came. And then besides she was so kind, and so tractable, and so intent upon complying with all Mrs. Bell's wishes, in every respect, that Mrs. Bell was extremely averse to require any thing of her, which would mortify her, or give her pain. When Mary Erskine was about eighteen years old, she was walking home one evening from the village, where she had been to do some shopping for Mrs. Bell, and as she came to a solitary part of the road after having left the last house which belonged to the village, she saw a young man coming out of the woods at a little distance before her. She recognized him, immediately, as a young man whom she called Albert, who had often been employed by Mrs. Bell, at work about the farm and garden. Albert was a very sedate and industrious young man, of frank and open and manly countenance, and of an erect and athletic form. Mary Erskine liked Albert very well, and yet the first impulse was, when she saw him coming, to cross over to the other side of the road, and thus pass him at a little distance. She did in fact take one or two steps in that direction, but thinking almost immediately that it would be foolish to do so, she returned to the same side of the road and walked on. Albert walked slowly along towards Mary Erskine, until at length they met. "Good evening, Mary Erskine," said Albert. "Good evening, Albert," said Mary Erskine. Albert turned and began to walk along slowly, by Mary Erskine's side. "I have been waiting here for you more than two hours," said Albert. "Have you?" said Mary Erskine. Her heart began to beat, and she was afraid to say any thing more, for fear that her voice would tremble, "Yes," said Albert. "I saw you go to the village, and I wanted to speak to you when you came back." Mary Erskine walked along, but did not speak. "And I have been waiting and watching two months for you to go to the village," continued Albert. "I have not been much to the village, lately," said Mary. Here there was a pause of a few minutes, when Albert said again, "Have you any objection to my walking along with you here a little way, Mary?" "No," said Mary, "not at all." "Mary," said Albert, after another short pause, "I have got a hundred dollars and my axe,--and this right arm. I am thinking of buying a lot of land, about a mile beyond Kater's corner. If I will do it, and build a small house of one room there, will you come and be my wife? It will have to be a _log_ house at first." Mary Erskine related subsequently to Mary Bell what took place at this interview, thus far, but she would never tell the rest. It was evident, however, that Mary Erskine was inclined to accept this proposal, from a conversation which took place between her and Mrs. Bell the next evening. It was after tea. The sun had gone down, and the evening was beautiful. Mrs. Bell was sitting in a low rocking-chair, on a little covered platform, near the door, which they called the stoop. There were two seats, one on each side of the stoop, and there was a vine climbing over it. Mrs. Bell was knitting. Mary Bell, who was then about six years old, was playing about the yard, watching the butterflies, and gathering flowers. "You may stay here and play a little while," said Mary Erskine to Mary Bell. "I am going to talk with your mother a little; but I shall be back again pretty soon." Mary Erskine accordingly went to the stoop where Mrs. Bell was sitting, and took a seat upon the bench at the side of Mrs. Bell, though rather behind than before her. There was a railing along behind the seat, at the edge of the stoop and a large white rose-bush, covered with roses, upon the other side. Mrs. Bell perceived from Mary Erskine's air and manner that she had something to say to her, so after remarking that it was a very pleasant evening, she went on knitting, waiting for Mary Erskine to begin. "Mrs. Bell," said Mary. "Well," said Mrs. Bell. The trouble was that Mary Erskine did not know exactly _how_ to begin. She paused a moment longer and then making a great effort she said, "Albert wants me to go and live with him." "Does he?" said Mrs. Bell. "And where does he want you to go and live?" "He is thinking of buying a farm," said Mary Erskine. "Where?" said Mrs. Bell. "I believe the land is about a mile from Kater's corner." Mrs. Bell was silent for a few minutes. She was pondering the thought now for the first time fairly before her mind, that the little helpless orphan child that she had taken under her care so many years ago, had really grown to be a woman, and must soon, if not then, begin to form her own independent plans of life. She looked at little Mary Bell too, playing upon the grass, and wondered what she would do when Mary Erskine was gone. After a short pause spent in reflections like these, Mrs. Bell resumed the conversation by saying, "Well, Mary,--and what do you think of the plan?" "Why--I don't know," said Mary Erskine, timidly and doubtfully. "You are very young," said Mrs. Bell. "Yes," said Mary Erskine, "I always was very young. I was very young when my father died; and afterwards, when my mother died, I was very young to be left all alone, and to go out to work and earn my living. And now I am very young, I know. But then I am eighteen." "Are you eighteen?" asked Mrs. Bell. "Yes," said Mary Erskine, "I was eighteen the day before yesterday." "It is a lonesome place,--out beyond Kater's Corner," said Mrs. Bell, after another pause. "Yes," said Mary Erskine, "but I am not afraid of lonesomeness. I never cared about seeing a great many people." "And you will have to work very hard," continued Mrs. Bell. "I know that," replied Mary; "but then I am not afraid of work any more than I am of lonesomeness. I began to work when I was five years old, and I have worked ever since,--and I like it." "Then, besides," said Mrs. Bell, "I don't know what I shall do with _my_ Mary when you have gone away. You have had the care of her ever since she was born." Mary Erskine did not reply to this. She turned her head away farther and farther from Mrs. Bell, looking over the railing of the stoop toward the white roses. In a minute or two she got up suddenly from her seat, and still keeping her face averted from Mrs. Bell, she went in by the stoop door into the house, and disappeared. In about ten minutes she came round the corner of the house, at the place where Mary Bell was playing, and with a radiant and happy face, and tones as joyous as ever, she told her little charge that they would have one game of hide and go seek, in the asparagus, and that then it would be time for her to go to bed. Two days after this, Albert closed the bargain for his land, and began his work upon it. The farm, or rather the lot, for the farm was yet to be made, consisted of a hundred and sixty acres of land, all in forest. A great deal of the land was mountainous and rocky, fit only for woodland and pasturage. There were, however, a great many fertile vales and dells, and at one place along the bank of a stream, there was a broad tract which Albert thought would make, when the trees were felled and it was brought into grass, a "beautiful piece of intervale." Albert commenced his operations by felling several acres of trees, on a part of his lot which was nearest the corner. A road, which had been laid out through the woods, led across his land near this place. The trees and bushes had been cut away so as to open a space wide enough for a sled road in winter. In summer there was nothing but a wild path, winding among rocks, stumps, trunks of fallen trees, and other forest obstructions. A person on foot could get along very well, and even a horse with a rider upon his back, but there was no chance for any thing on wheels. Albert said that it would not be possible to get even a wheelbarrow in. Albert, however, took great pleasure in going back and forth over this road, morning and evening, with his axe upon his shoulder, and a pack upon his back containing his dinner, while felling his trees. When they were all down, he left them for some weeks drying in the sun, and then set them on fire. He chose for the burning, the afternoon of a hot and sultry day, when a fresh breeze was blowing from the west, which he knew would fan the flames and increase the conflagration. It was important to do this, as the amount of subsequent labor which he would have to perform, would depend upon how completely the trees were consumed. His fire succeeded beyond his most sanguine expectations, and the next day he brought Mary Erskine in to see what a "splendid burn" he had had, and to choose a spot for the log house which he was going to build for her. Mary Erskine was extremely pleased with the appearance of Albert's clearing. The area which had been opened ascended a little from the road, and presented a gently undulating surface, which Mary Erskine thought would make very beautiful fields. It was now, however, one vast expanse of blackened and smoking ruins. Albert conducted Mary Erskine and Mary Bell--for Mary Bell had come in with them to see the fire,--to a little eminence from which they could survey the whole scene. "Look," said he, "is not that beautiful? Did you ever see a better burn?" "I don't know much about burns," said Mary Erskine, "but I can see that it will be a beautiful place for a farm. Why we can see the pond," she added, pointing toward the south. This was true. The falling of the trees had opened up a fine view of the pond, which was distant about a mile from the clearing. There was a broad stream which flowed swiftly over a gravelly bed along the lower part of the ground, and a wild brook which came tumbling down from the mountains, and then, after running across the road, fell into the larger stream, not far from the corner of the farm. The brook and the stream formed two sides of the clearing. Beyond them, and along the other two sides of the clearing, the tall trees of those parts of the forest which had not been disturbed, rose like a wall and hemmed the opening closely in. Albert and Mary Erskine walked along the road through the whole length of the clearing, looking out for the best place to build their house. "Perhaps it will be lonesome here this winter, Mary," said Albert. "I don't know but that you would rather wait till next spring." Mary Erskine hesitated about her reply. She did, in fact, wish to come to her new home that fall, and she thought it was proper that she should express the cordial interest which she felt in Albert's plans;--but, then, on the other hand, she did not like to say any thing which might seem to indicate a wish on her part to hasten the time of their marriage. So she said doubtfully,--"I don't know;--I don't think that it would be lonesome." "What do you mean, Albert," said Mary Bell, "about Mary Erskine's coming to live here? She can't come and live here, among all these black stumps and logs." Albert and Mary Erskine were too intent upon their own thoughts and plans to pay any attention to Mary Bell's questions. So they walked along without answering her. "What could we have to _do_ this fall and winter?" asked Mary Erskine. She wished to ascertain whether she could do any good by coming at once, or whether it would be better, for Albert's plans, to wait until the spring. "Oh there will be plenty to do," said Albert. "I shall have to work a great deal, while the ground continues open, in clearing up the land, and getting it ready for sowing in the spring; and it will be a great deal better for me to live here, in order to save my traveling back and forth, so far, every night and morning. Then this winter I shall have my tools to make,--and to finish the inside of the house, and make the furniture; and if you have any leisure time you can spin. But after all it will not be very comfortable for you, and perhaps you would rather wait until spring." "No," said Mary Erskine. "I would rather come this fall." "Well," rejoined Albert, speaking in a tone of great satisfaction. "Then I will get the house up next week, and we will be married very soon after." There were very few young men whose prospects in commencing life were so fair and favorable as those of Albert. In the first place, he was not obliged to incur any debt on account of his land, as most young farmers necessarily do. His land was one dollar an acre. He had one hundred dollars of his own, and enough besides to buy a winter stock of provisions for his house. He had expected to have gone in debt for the sixty dollars, the whole price of the land being one hundred and sixty; but to his great surprise and pleasure Mary Erskine told him, as they were coming home from seeing the land after the burn, that she had seventy-five dollars of her own, besides interest; and that she should like to have sixty dollars of that sum go toward paying for the land. The fifteen dollars that would be left, she said, would be enough to buy the furniture. "I don't think that will be quite enough," said Albert. "Yes," said Mary Erskine. "We shall not want a great deal. We shall want a table and two chairs, and some things to cook with." "And a bed," said Albert. "Yes," said Mary Erskine, "but I can make that myself. The cloth will not cost much, and you can get some straw for me. Next summer we can keep some geese, and so have a feather bed some day." "We shall want some knives and forks, and plates," said Albert. "Yes," said Mary Erskine, "but they will not cost much. I think fifteen dollars will get us all we need. Besides there is more than fifteen dollars, for there is the interest." The money had been put out at interest in the village. "Well," said Albert, "and I can make the rest of the furniture that we shall need, this winter. I shall have a shop near the house. I have got the tools already." Thus all was arranged. Albert built his house on the spot which Mary Erskine thought would be the most pleasant for it, the week after her visit to the land. Three young men from the neighborhood assisted him, as is usual in such cases, on the understanding that Albert was to help each of them as many days about their work as they worked for him. This plan is often adopted by farmers in doing work which absolutely requires several men at a time, as for example, the raising of heavy logs one upon another to form the walls of a house. In order to obtain logs for the building Albert and his helpers cut down fresh trees from the forest, as the blackened and half-burned trunks, which lay about his clearing, were of course unsuitable for such a work. They selected the tallest and straightest trees, and after felling them and cutting them to the proper length, they hauled them to the spot by means of oxen. The ground served for a floor, and the fire-place was made of stones. The roof was formed of sheets of hemlock bark, laid, like slates upon rafters made of the stems of slender trees. Albert promised Mary Erskine that, as soon as the snow came, in the winter, to make a road, so that he could get through the woods with a load of boards upon a sled, he would make her a floor. From this time forward, although Mary Erskine was more diligent and faithful than ever in performing all her duties at Mrs. Bell's, her imagination was incessantly occupied with pictures and images of the new scenes into which she was about to be ushered as the mistress of her own independent household and home. She made out lists, mentally, for she could not write, of the articles which it would be best to purchase. She formed and matured in her own mind all her house-keeping plans. She pictured to herself the scene which the interior of her dwelling would present in cold and stormy winter evenings, while she was knitting at one side of the fire, and Albert was busy at some ingenious workmanship, on the other; or thought of the beautiful prospect which she should enjoy in the spring and summer following; when fields of waving grain, rich with promises of plenty and of wealth, would extend in every direction around her dwelling. She cherished, in a word, the brightest anticipations of happiness. [Illustration: THE LOG HOUSE.] The house at length was finished. The necessary furniture which Albert contrived in some way to get moved to it, was put in; and early in August Mary Erskine was married. She was married in the morning, and a party of the villagers escorted her on horseback to her new home. CHAPTER III. MARY ERSKINE'S VISITORS. Mary Erskine's anticipations of happiness in being the mistress of her own independent home were very high, but they were more than realized. The place which had been chosen for the house was not only a suitable one in respect to convenience, but it was a very pleasant one. It was near the brook which, as has already been said, came cascading down from among the forests and mountains, and passing along near one side of Albert's clearing, flowed across the road, and finally emptied into the great stream. The house was placed near the brook, in order that Albert might have a watering-place at hand for his horses and cattle when he should have stocked his farm. In felling the forest Albert left a fringe of trees along the banks of the brook, that it might be cool and shady there when the cattle went down to drink. There was a spring of pure cold water boiling up from beneath some rocks not far from the brook, on the side toward the clearing. The water from this spring flowed down along a little mossy dell, until it reached the brook. The bed over which this little rivulet flowed was stony, and yet no stones were to be seen. They all had the appearance of rounded tufts of soft green moss, so completely were they all covered and hidden by the beautiful verdure. Albert was very much pleased when he discovered this spring, and traced its little mossy rivulet down to the brook. He thought that Mary Erskine would like it. So he avoided cutting down any of the trees from the dell, or from around the spring, and in cutting down those which grew near it, he took care to make them fall away from the dell, so that in burning they should not injure the trees which he wished to save. Thus that part of the wood which shaded and sheltered the spring and the dell, escaped the fire. The house was placed in such a position that this spring was directly behind it, and Albert made a smooth and pretty path leading down to it; or rather he made the path smooth, and nature made it pretty. For no sooner had he completed his work upon it than nature began to adorn it by a profusion of the richest and greenest grass and flowers, which she caused to spring up on either side. It was so in fact in all Albert's operations upon his farm. Almost every thing that he did was for some purpose of convenience and utility, and he himself undertook nothing more than was necessary to secure the useful end. But his kind and playful co-operator, nature, would always take up the work where he left it, and begin at once to beautify it with her rich and luxuriant verdure. For example, as soon as the fires went out over the clearing, she began, with her sun and rain, to blanch the blackened stumps, and to gnaw at their foundations with her tooth of decay. If Albert made a road or a path she rounded its angles, softened away all the roughness that his plow or hoe had left in it, and fringed it with grass and flowers. The solitary and slender trees which had been left standing here and there around the clearing, having escaped the fire, she took under her special care--throwing out new and thrifty branches from them, in every direction, and thus giving them massive and luxuriant forms, to beautify the landscape, and to form shady retreats for the flocks and herds which might in subsequent years graze upon the ground. Thus while Albert devoted himself to the substantial and useful improvements which were required upon his farm, with a view simply to profit, nature took the work of ornamenting it under her own special and particular charge. The sphere of Mary Erskine's duties and pleasures was within doors. Her conveniences for house-keeping were somewhat limited at first, but Albert, who kept himself busy at work on his land all day, spent the evenings in his shanty shop, making various household implements and articles of furniture for her. Mary sat with him, usually, at such times, knitting by the side of the great, blazing fire, made partly for the sake of the light that it afforded, and partly for the warmth, which was required to temper the coolness of the autumnal evenings. Mary took a very special interest in the progress of Albert's work, every thing which he made being for her. Each new acquisition, as one article after another was completed and delivered into her possession, gave her fresh pleasure: and she deposited it in its proper place in her house with a feeling of great satisfaction and pride. "Mary Erskine," said Albert one evening--for though she was married, and her name thus really changed, Albert himself, as well as every body else, went on calling her Mary Erskine just as before--"it is rather hard to make you wait so long for these conveniences, especially as there is no necessity for it. We need not have paid for our land this three years. I might have taken the money and built a handsome house, and furnished it for you at once." "And so have been in debt for the land," said Mary. "Yes," said Albert. "I could have paid off that debt by the profits of the farming. I can lay up a hundred dollars a year, certainly." "No," said Mary Erskine. "I like this plan the best. We will pay as we go along. It will be a great deal better to have the three hundred dollars for something else than to pay old debts with. We will build a better house than this if we want one, one of these years, when we get the money. But I like this house very much as it is. Perhaps, however, it is only because it is my own." It was not altogether the idea that it was her own that made Mary Erskine like her house. The interior of it was very pleasant indeed, especially after Albert had completed the furnishing of it, and had laid the floor. It contained but one room, it is true, but that was a very spacious one. There were, in fact, two apartments enclosed by the walls and the roof, though only one of them could strictly be called a room. The other was rather a shed, or stoop, and it was entered from the front by a wide opening, like a great shed door. The entrance to the house proper was by a door opening from this stoop, so as to be sheltered from the storms in winter. There was a very large fire place made of stones in the middle of one side of the room, with a large flat stone for a hearth in front of it. This hearth stone was very smooth, and Mary Erskine kept it always very bright and clean. On one side of the fire was what they called a settle, which was a long wooden seat with a very high back. It was placed on the side of the fire toward the door, so that it answered the purpose of a screen to keep off any cold currents of air, which might come in on blustering winter nights, around the door. On the other side of the fire was a small and \ very elegant mahogany work table. This was a present to Mary Erskine from Mrs. Bell on the day of her marriage. There were drawers in this table containing sundry conveniences. The upper drawer was made to answer the purpose of a desk, and it had an inkstand in a small division in one corner. Mrs. Bell had thought of taking this inkstand out, and putting in some spools, or something else which Mary Erskine would be able to use. But Mary herself would not allow her to make such a change. She said it was true that she could not write, but that was no reason why she should not have an inkstand. So she filled the inkstand with ink, and furnished the desk completely in other respects, by putting in six sheets of paper, a pen, and several wafers. The truth was, she thought it possible that an occasion might arise some time or other, at which Albert might wish to write a letter; and if such a case should occur, it would give her great pleasure to have him write his letter at her desk. Beyond the work table, on one of the sides of the room, was a cupboard, and next to the cupboard a large window. This was the only window in the house, and it had a sash which would rise and fall. Mary Erskine had made white curtains for this window, which could be parted in the middle, and hung up upon nails driven into the logs which formed the wall of the house, one on each side. Of what use these curtains could be except to make the room look more snug and pleasant within, it would be difficult to say; for there was only one vast expanse of forests and mountains on that side of the house, so that there was nobody to look in. On the back side of the room, in one corner, was the bed. It was supported upon a bedstead which Albert had made. The bedstead had high posts, and was covered, like the window, with curtains. In the other corner was the place for the loom, with the spinning-wheel between the loom and the bed. When Mary Erskine was using the spinning-wheel, she brought it out into the center of the room. The loom was not yet finished. Albert was building it, working upon it from time to time as he had opportunity. The frame of it was up, and some of the machinery was made. Mary Erskine kept most of her clothes in a trunk; but Albert was making her a bureau. Instead of finding it lonesome at her new home, as Mrs. Bell had predicted, Mary Erskine had plenty of company. The girls from the village, whom she used to know, were very fond of coming out to see her. Many of them were much younger than she was, and they loved to ramble about in the woods around Mary Erskine's house, and to play along the bank of the brook. Mary used to show them too, every time they came, the new articles which Albert had made for her, and to explain to them the gradual progress of the improvements. Mary Bell herself was very fond of going to see Mary Erskine,--though she was of course at that time too young to go alone. Sometimes however Mrs. Bell would send her out in the morning and let her remain all day, playing, very happily, around the door and down by the spring. She used to play all day among the logs and stumps, and upon the sandy beach by the side of the brook, and yet when she went home at night she always looked as nice, and her clothes were as neat and as clean as when she went in the morning. Mrs. Bell wondered at this, and on observing that it continued to be so, repeatedly, after several visits, she asked Mary Bell how it happened that Mary Erskine kept her so nice. "Oh," said Mary Bell, "I always put on my working frock when I go out to Mary Erskine's." The working frock was a plain, loose woolen dress, which Mary Erskine made for Mary Bell, and which Mary Bell, always put on in the morning, whenever she came to the farm. Her own dress was taken off and laid carefully away upon the bed, under the curtains. Her shoes and stockings were taken off too, so that she might play in the brook if she pleased, though Mary Erskine told her it was not best to remain in the water long enough to have her feet get very cold. When Mary Bell was dressed thus in her working frock, she was allowed to play wherever she pleased, so that she enjoyed almost an absolute and unbounded liberty. And yet there were some restrictions. She must not go across the brook, for fear that she might get lost in the woods, nor go out of sight of the house in any direction. She might build fires upon any of the stumps or logs, but not within certain limits of distance from the house, lest she should set the house on fire. And she must not touch the axe, for fear that she might cut herself, nor climb upon the wood-pile, for fear that it might fall down upon her. With some such restrictions as these, she could do whatever she pleased. She was very much delighted, one morning in September, when she was playing around the house in her working frock, at finding a great hole or hollow under a stump, which she immediately resolved to have for her oven. She was sitting down upon the ground by the side of it, and she began to call out as loud as she could, "Mary Erskine! Mary Erskine!" But Mary Erskine did not answer. Mary Bell could hear the sound of the spinning-wheel in the house, and she wondered why the spinner could not hear her, when she called so loud. She listened, watching for the pauses in the buzzing sound of the wheel, and endeavored to call out in the pauses,--but with no better success than before. At last she got up and walked along toward the house, swinging in her hand a small wooden shovel, which Albert had made for her to dig wells with in the sand on the margin of the brook. "Mary Erskine!" said she, when she got to the door of the house, "didn't you hear me calling for you?" "Yes," said Mary Erskine. "Then why did not you come?" said Mary Bell. "Because I was disobedient," said Mary Erskine, "and now I suppose I must be punished." "Well," said Mary Bell. The expression of dissatisfaction and reproof upon Mary Bell's countenance was changed immediately into one of surprise and pleasure, at the idea of Mary Erskine's being punished for disobeying _her_. So she said, "Well. And what shall your punishment be?" "What did you want me for?" asked Mary Erskine. "I wanted you to see my oven." "Have you got an oven?" asked Mary Erskine. "Yes," said Mary Bell, "It is under a stump. I have got some wood, and now I want some fire." "Very well," said Mary Erskine, "get your fire-pan." Mary Bell's fire-pan, was an old tin dipper with a long handle. It had been worn out as a dipper, and so they used to let Mary Bell have it to carry her fire in. There were several small holes in the bottom of the dipper, so completely was it worn out: but this made it all the better for a fire-pan, since the air which came up through the holes, fanned the coals and kept them alive. This dipper was very valuable, too, for another purpose. Mary Bell was accustomed, sometimes, to go down to the brook and dip up water with it, in order to see the water stream down into the brook again, through these holes, in a sort of a shower. Mary Bell went, accordingly, for her fire-pan, which she found in its place in the open stoop or shed. She came into the house, and Mary Erskine, raking open the ashes in the fire-place, took out two large coals with the tongs, and dropped them into the dipper. Mary Bell held the dipper at arm's length before her, and began to walk along. "Hold it out upon one side," said Mary Erskine, "and then if you fall down, you will not fall upon your fire." Mary Bell, obeying this injunction, went out to her oven and put the coals in at the mouth of it. Then she began to gather sticks, and little branches, and strips of birch bark, and other silvan combustibles, which she found scattered about the ground, and put them upon the coals to make the fire. She stopped now and then a minute or two to rest and to listen to the sound of Mary Erskine's spinning. At last some sudden thought seemed to come into her head, and throwing down upon the ground a handful of sticks which she had in her hand, and was just ready to put upon the fire, she got up and walked toward the house. "Mary Erskine," said she, "I almost forgot about your punishment." "Yes," said Mary Erskine, "I hoped that you had forgot about it, altogether." "Why?" said Mary Bell. "Because," said Mary Erskine, "I don't like to be punished." "But you _must_ be punished," said Mary Bell, very positively, "and-what shall your punishment be?" "How would it do," said Mary Erskine, going on, however, all the time with her spinning, "for me to have to give you two potatoes to roast in your oven?--or one? One potato will be enough punishment for such a little disobedience." "No; two," said Mary Bell. "Well, two," said Mary Erskine. "You may go and get them in a pail out in the stoop. But you must wash them first, before you put them in the oven. You can wash them down at the brook." "I am afraid that I shall get my fingers smutty," said Mary Bell, "at my oven, for the stump is pretty black." "No matter if you do," said Mary Erskine. "You can go down and wash them at the brook." "And my frock, too," said Mary Bell. "No matter for that either," said Mary Erskine; "only keep it as clean as you can." So Mary Bell took the two potatoes and went down to the brook to wash them. She found, however, when she reached the brook, that there was a square piece of bark lying upon the margin of the water, and she determined to push it in and sail it, for her ship, putting the two potatoes on for cargo. After sailing the potatoes about for some time, her eye chanced to fall upon a smooth spot in the sand, which she thought would make a good place for a garden. So she determined to _plant_ her potatoes instead of roasting them. She accordingly dug a hole in the sand with her fingers, and put the potatoes in, and then after covering them, over with the sand, she went to the oven to get her fire-pan for her watering-pot, in order to water her garden. The holes in the bottom of the dipper made it an excellent watering-pot, provided the garden to be watered was not too far from the brook: for the shower would always begin to fall the instant the dipper was lifted out of the water. [Illustration: MARY BELL AT THE BROOK.] After watering her garden again and again, Mary Bell concluded on the whole not to wait for her potatoes to grow, but dug them up and began to wash them in the brook, to make them ready for the roasting. Her little feet sank into the sand at the margin of the water while she held the potatoes in the stream, one in each hand, and watched the current as it swept swiftly by them. After a while she took them out and put them in the sun upon a flat stone to dry, and when they were dry she carried them to her oven and buried them in the hot embers there. Thus Mary Bell would amuse herself, hour after hour of the long day, when she went to visit Mary Erskine, with an endless variety of childish imaginings. Her working-frock became in fact, in her mind, the emblem of complete and perfect liberty and happiness, unbounded and unalloyed. The other children of the village, too, were accustomed to come out and see Mary Erskine, and sometimes older and more ceremonious company still. There was one young lady named Anne Sophia, who, having been a near neighbor of Mrs. Bell's, was considerably acquainted with Mary Erskine, though as the two young ladies had very different tastes and habits of mind, they never became very intimate friends. Anne Sophia was fond of dress and of company. Her thoughts were always running upon village subjects and village people, and her highest ambition was to live there. She had been, while Mary Erskine had lived at Mrs. Bell's, very much interested in a young man named Gordon. He was a clerk in a store in the village. He was a very agreeable young man, and much more genteel and polished in his personal appearance than Albert. He had great influence among the young men of the village, being the leader in all the excursions and parties of pleasure which were formed among them. Anne Sophia knew very well that Mr. Gordon liked to see young ladies handsomely dressed when they appeared in public, and partly to please him, and partly to gratify that very proper feeling of pleasure which all young ladies have in appearing well, she spent a large part of earnings in dress. She was not particularly extravagant, nor did she get into debt; but she did not, like Mary Erskine, attempt to lay up any of her wages. She often endeavored to persuade Mary Erskine to follow her example. "It is of no use," said she, "for girls like you and me to try to lay up money. If we are ever married we shall make our husbands take care of us; and if we are not married we shall not want our savings, for we can always earn what we need as we go along." Mary Erskine had no reply at hand to make to this reasoning, but she was not convinced by it, so she went on pursuing her own course, while Anne Sophia pursued hers. Anne Sophia was a very capable and intelligent girl, and as Mr. Gordon thought, would do credit to any society in which she might be called to move. He became more and more interested in her, and it happened that they formed an engagement to be married, just about the time that Albert made his proposal to Mary Erskine. Mr. Gordon was a very promising business man, and had an offer from the merchant with whom he was employed as a clerk, to enter into partnership with him, just before the time of his engagement. He declined this offer, determining rather to go into business independently. He had laid up about as much money as Albert had, and by means of this, and the excellent letters of recommendation which he obtained from the village people, he obtained a large stock of goods, on credit, in the city. When buying his goods he also bought a small quantity of handsome furniture, on the same terms. He hired a store. He also hired a small white house, with green trees around it, and a pretty garden behind. He was married nearly at the same time with Albert, and Anne Sophia in taking possession of her genteel and beautiful village home, was as happy as Mary Erskine was in her sylvan solitude. Mr. Gordon told her that he had made a calculation, and he thought there was no doubt that, if business was tolerably good that winter, he should be able to clear enough to pay all his expenses and to pay for his furniture. His calculations proved to be correct. Business was very good. He paid for his furniture, and bought as much more on a new credit in the spring. Anne Sophia came out to make a call upon Mary Erskine, about a month after she had got established in her new home. She came in the morning. Mr. Gordon brought her in a chaise as far as to the corner, and she walked the rest of the way. She was dressed very handsomely, and yet in pretty good taste. It was not wholly a call of ceremony, for Anne Sophia felt really a strong attachment to Mary Erskine, and had a great desire to see her in her new home. When she rose to take her leave, after her call was ended, she asked Mary Erskine to come to the village and see her as soon as she could. "I meant to have called upon you long before this," said she, "but I have been so busy, and we have had so much company. But I want to see you very much indeed. We have a beautiful house, and I have a great desire to show it to you. I think you have got a beautiful place here for a farm, one of these days; but you ought to make your husband build you a better house. He is as able to do it as my husband is to get me one, I have no doubt." Mary Erskine had no doubt either. She did not say so however, but only replied that she liked her house very well. The real reason why she liked it so much was one that Anne Sophia did not consider. The reason was that it was her own. Whereas Anne Sophia lived in a house, which, pretty as it was, belonged to other people. All these things, it must be remembered, took place eight or ten years before the time when Malleville and Phonny went to visit Mary Erskine, and when Mary Bell was only four or five years old. Phonny and Malleville, as well as a great many other children, had grown up from infancy since that time. In fact, the Jemmy who fell from his horse and sprained his ankle the day they came, was Jemmy Gordon, Anne Sophia's oldest son. CHAPTER IV. CALAMITY. Both Mary Erskine and Anne Sophia went on very pleasantly and prosperously, each in her own way, for several years. Every spring Albert cut down more trees, and made new openings and clearings. He built barns and sheds about his house, and gradually accumulated quite a stock of animals. With the money that he obtained by selling the grain and the grass seed which he raised upon his land, he bought oxen and sheep and cows. These animals fed in his pastures in the summer, and in the winter he gave them hay from his barn. Mary Erskine used to take the greatest pleasure in getting up early in the cold winter mornings, and going out with her husband to see him feed the animals. She always brought in a large pile of wood every night, the last thing before going to bed, and laid it upon the hearth where it would be ready at hand for the morning fire. She also had a pail of water ready, from the spring, and the tea-kettle by the side of it, ready to be filled. The potatoes, too, which were to be roasted for breakfast, were always prepared the night before, and placed in an earthen pan, before the fire. Mary Erskine, in fact, was always very earnest to make every possible preparation over night, for the work of the morning. This arose partly from an instinctive impulse which made her always wish, as she expressed it, "to do every duty as soon as it came in sight," and partly from the pleasure which she derived from a morning visit to the animals in the barn. She knew them all by name. She imagined that they all knew her, and were glad to see her by the light of her lantern in the morning. It gave her the utmost satisfaction to see them rise, one after another, from their straw, and begin eagerly to eat the hay which Albert pitched down to them from the scaffold, while she, standing below upon the barn floor, held the lantern so that he could see. She was always very careful to hold it so that the cows and the oxen could see too. One day, when Albert came home from the village, he told Mary Erskine that he had an offer of a loan of two hundred dollars, from Mr. Keep. Mr. Keep was an elderly gentleman of the village,--of a mild and gentle expression of countenance, and white hair. He was a man of large property, and often had money to lend at interest. He had an office, where he used to do his business. This office was in a wing of his house, which was a large and handsome house in the center of the village. Mr. Keep had a son who was a physician, and he used often to ask his son's opinion and advice about his affairs. One day when Mr. Keep was sitting in his office, Mr. Gordon came in and told him that he had some plans for enlarging his business a little, and wished to know if Mr. Keep had two or three hundred dollars that he would like to lend for six months. Mr. Keep, who, though he was a very benevolent and a very honorable man, was very careful in all his money dealings, said that he would look a little into his accounts, and see how much he had to spare, and let Mr. Gordon know the next day. That night Mr. Keep asked his son what he thought of lending Mr. Gordon two or three hundred dollars. His son said doubtfully that he did not know. He was somewhat uncertain about it. Mr. Gordon was doing very well, he believed, but then his expenses were quite heavy, and it was not quite certain how it would turn with him. Mr. Keep then said that he had two or three hundred dollars on hand which he must dispose of in some way or other, and he asked his son what he should do with it. His son recommended that he should offer it to Albert. Albert formerly lived at Mr. Keep's, as a hired man, so that Mr. Keep knew him very well. "He is going on quite prosperously in his farm, I understand," said the doctor. "His land is all paid for, and he is getting quite a stock of cattle, and very comfortable buildings. I think it very likely that he can buy more stock with the money, and do well with it. And, at all events, you could not put the money in _safer_ hands." "I will propose it to him," said Mr. Keep. He did propose it to him that very afternoon, for it happened that Albert went to the village that day. Albert told Mr. Keep that he was very much obliged to him for the offer of the money, and that he would consider whether it would be best for him to take it or not, and let him know in the morning. So he told Mary Erskine of the offer that he had had, as soon as he got home. "I am very glad to get such an offer," said Albert. "Shall you take the money?" said his wife. "I don't know," replied Albert. "I rather think not." "Then why are you glad to get the offer?" asked Mary Erskine. "Oh, it shows that my credit is good in the village. It must be very good, indeed, to lead such a man as Mr. Keep to offer to lend me money, of his own accord. It is a considerable comfort to know that I can get money, whenever I want it, even if I never take it." "Yes," said Mary Erskine, "so it is." "And it is all owing to you," said Albert. "To me?" said Mary Erskine. "Yes," said he; "to your prudence and economy, and to your contented and happy disposition. That is one thing that I always liked you for. It is so easy to make you happy. There is many a wife, in your situation, who could not have been happy unless their husband would build them a handsome house and fill it with handsome furniture--even if he had to go in debt for his land to pay for it." Mary Erskine did not reply, though it gratified her very much to hear her husband commend her. "Well," said she at length, "I am very glad that you have got good credit. What should you do with the money, if you borrowed it?" "Why, one thing that I could do," said Albert, "would be to build a new house." "No," said Mary Erskine, "I like this house very much. I don't want any other--certainly not until we can build one with our own money." "Then," said Albert, "I can buy more stock, and perhaps hire some help, and get more land cleared this fall, so as to have greater crops next spring, and then sell the stock when it has grown and increased, and also the crops, and so get money enough to pay back the debt and have something over." "Should you have much over?" asked Mary. "Why that would depend upon how my business turned out,--and that would depend upon the weather, and the markets, and other things which we can not now foresee. I think it probable that we should have a good deal over." "Well," said Mary Erskine, "then I would take the money." "But, then, on the other hand," said Albert, "I should run some risk of embarrassing myself, if things did not turn out well. If I were to be sick, so that I could not attend to so much business, or if I should Jose any of my stock, or if the crops should not do well, then I might not get enough to pay back the debt." "And what should you do then?" asked Mary Erskine. "Why then," replied Albert, "I should have to make up the deficiency in some other way. I might ask Mr. Keep to put off the payment of the note, or I might borrow the money of somebody else to pay him, or I might sell some of my other stock. I could do any of these things well enough, but it would perhaps cause me some trouble and anxiety." "Then I would not take the money," said Mary Erskine. "I don't like anxiety. I can bear any thing else better than anxiety." "However, I don't know any thing about it," continued Mary Erskine, after a short pause. "You can judge best." They conversed on the subject some time longer, Albert being quite at a loss to know what it was best to do. Mary Erskine, for her part, seemed perfectly willing that he should borrow the money to buy more stock, as she liked the idea of having more oxen, sheep, and cows. But she seemed decidedly opposed to using borrowed money to build a new house, or to buy new furniture. Her head would ache, she said, to lie on a pillow of feathers that was not paid for. Albert finally concluded not to borrow the money, and so Mr. Keep lent it to Mr. Gordon. Things went on in this way for about three or four years, and then Albert began to think seriously of building another house. He had now money enough of his own to build it with. His stock had become so large that he had not sufficient barn room for his hay, and he did not wish to build larger barns where he then lived, for in the course of his clearings he had found a much better place for a house than the one which they had at first selected. Then his house was beginning to be too small for his family, for Mary Erskine had, now, two children. One was an infant, and the other was about two years old. These children slept in a trundle-bed, which was pushed under the great bed in the daytime, but still the room became rather crowded. So Albert determined to build another house. Mary Erskine was very much interested in this plan. She would like to live in a handsome house as well as any other lady, only she preferred to wait until she could have one of her own. Now that that time had arrived, she was greatly pleased with the prospect of having her kitchen, her sitting-room, and her bed-room, in three separate rooms, instead of having them, as heretofore, all in one. Then the barns and barn-yards, and the pens and sheds for the sheep and cattle, were all going to be much more convenient than they had been; so that Albert could take care of a greater amount of stock than before, with the same labor. The new house, too, was going to be built in a much more pleasant situation than the old one, and the road from it to the corner was to be improved, so that they could go in and out with a wagon. In a word, Mary Erskine's heart was filled with new hopes and anticipations, as she saw before her means and sources of happiness, higher and more extended than she had ever before enjoyed. When the time approached for moving into the new house Mary Erskine occupied herself, whenever she had any leisure time, in packing up such articles as were not in use. One afternoon while she was engaged in this occupation, Albert came home from the field much earlier than usual. Mary Erskine was very glad to see him, as she wished him to nail up the box in which she had been packing her cups and saucers. She was at work on the stoop, very near the door, so that she could watch the children. The baby was in the cradle. The other child, whose name was Bella, was playing about the floor. Albert stopped a moment to look at Mary Erskine's packing, and then went in and took his seat upon the settle. "Tell me when your box is ready," said he, "and I will come and nail it for you." Bella walked along toward her father--for she had just learned to walk--and attempted to climb up into his lap. "Run away, Bella," said Albert. Mary Erskine was surprised to hear Albert tell Bella to run away, for he was usually very glad to have his daughter come to him when he got home from his work. She looked up to see what was the matter. He was sitting upon the settle, and leaning his head upon his hand. Mary Erskine left her work and went to him. "Are you not well, Albert?" said she. "My head aches a little. It ached in the field, and that was the reason why I thought I would come home. But it is better now. Are you ready for me to come and nail the box?" "No," said Mary, "not quite; and besides, it is no matter about it to-night. I will get you some tea." "No," said Albert, "finish your packing first, and I will come and nail it. Then we can put it out of the way." Mary Erskine accordingly finished her packing, and Albert went to it, to nail the cover on. He drove one or two nails, and then he put the hammer down, and sat down himself upon the box, saying that he could not finish the nailing after all. He was too unwell. He went into the room, Mary Erskine leading and supporting him. She conducted him to the bed and opened the curtains so as to let him lie down. She helped him to undress himself, and then left him, a few minutes while she began to get some tea. She moved the box, which she had been packing, away from the stoop door, and put it in a corner. She drew out the trundle-bed, and made, it ready for Bella. She sat down and gave Bella some supper, and then put her into the trundle-bed, directing her to shut up her eyes and go to sleep. Bella obeyed. Mary Erskine then went to the fire and made some tea and toast for Albert, doing every thing in as quiet and noiseless a manner as possible. When the tea and toast were ready she put them upon a small waiter, and then moving her little work-table up to the side of the bed, she put the waiter upon it. When every thing was thus ready, she opened the curtains. Albert was asleep. He seemed however to be uneasy and restless, and he moaned now and then as if in pain. Mary Erskine stood leaning over him for some time, with a countenance filled with anxiety and concern. She then turned away, saying to herself, "If Albert is going to be sick and to die, what _will_ become of me?" She kneeled down upon the floor at the foot of the bed, crossed her arms before her, laid them down very quietly upon the counterpane, and reclined her forehead upon them. She remained in that position for some time without speaking a word. Presently she rose and took the tea and toast upon the waiter, and set them down by the fire in order to keep them warm. She next went to look at the children, to see if they were properly covered. Then she opened the bed-curtains a little way in order that she might see Albert in case he should wake or move, and having adjusted them as she wished, she went to the stoop door and took her seat there, with her knitting-work in her hand, in a position from which, on one side she could look into the room and observe every thing which took place there, and on the other side, watch the road and see if any one went by. She thought it probable that some of the workmen, who had been employed at the new house, might be going home about that time, and she wished to send into the village by them to ask Dr. Keep to come. Mary Erskine succeeded in her design of sending into the village by one of the workmen, and Dr. Keep came about nine o'clock He prescribed for Albert, and prepared, and left, some medicine for him. He said he hoped that he was not going to be very sick, but he could tell better in the morning when he would come again. "But you ought not to be here alone," said he to Mary Erskine. "You ought to have some one with you." "No," said Mary Erskine, "I can get along very well, alone, to-night,--and I think he will be better in the morning." Stories of sickness and suffering are painful to read, as the reality is painful to witness. We will therefore shorten the tale of Mary Erskine's anxiety and distress, by saying, at once that Albert grew worse instead of better, every day for a fortnight, and then died. During his sickness Mrs. Bell spent a great deal of time at Mary Erskine's house, and other persons, from the village, came every day to watch with Albert, and to help take care of the children. There was a young man also, named Thomas, whom Mary Erskine employed to come and stay there all day, to take the necessary care of the cattle and of the farm. They made a bed for Thomas in the scaffold in the barn. They also made up a bed in the stoop, in a corner which they divided off by means of a curtain. This bed was for the watchers, and for Mary Erskine herself, when she or they wished to lie down. Mary Erskine went to it, herself very seldom. She remained at her husband's bedside almost all the time, day and night. Albert suffered very little pain, and seemed to sleep most of the time. He revived a little the afternoon before he died, and appeared as if he were going to be better. He looked up into Mary Erskine's face and smiled. It was plain, however, that he was very feeble. There was nobody but Mrs. Bell in the house, at that time, besides Mary Erskine and the baby. Bella had gone to Mrs. Bell's house, and Mary Bell was taking care of her. Albert beckoned his wife to come to him, and said to her, in a faint and feeble voice, that he wished Mrs. Bell to write something for him. Mary Erskine immediately brought her work-table up to the bedside, opened the drawer, took out one of the sheets of paper and a pen, opened the inkstand, and thus made every thing ready for writing. Mrs. Bell took her seat by the table in such a manner that her head was near to Albert's as it lay upon the pillow. "I am ready now," said Mrs. Bell. "I bequeath all my property,"--said Albert. Mrs. Bell wrote these words upon the paper, and then said, "Well: I have written that." "To Mary Erskine my wife," said Albert. "I have written that," said Mrs. Bell, a minute afterwards. "Now hand it to me to sign," said Albert. They put the paper upon a book, and raising Albert up in the bed, they put the pen into his hand. He wrote his name at the bottom of the writing at the right hand. Then moving his hand to the left, he wrote the word '_witness_' under the writing on that side. His hand trembled, but he wrote the word pretty plain. As he finished writing it he told Mrs. Bell that she must sign her name as witness. When this had been done he gave back the paper and the pen into Mary Erskine's hand, and said that she must take good care of that paper, for it was very important. He then laid his head down again upon the pillow and shut his eyes. He died that night. Mary Erskine was entirely overwhelmed with grief, when she found that all was over. In a few hours, however, she became comparatively calm, and the next day she began to help Mrs. Bell in making preparations for the funeral. She sent for Bella to come home immediately. Mrs. Bell urged her very earnestly to take both the children, and go with her to _her_ house, after the funeral, and stay there for a few days at least, till she could determine what to do. "No," said Mary Erskine. "It will be better for me to come back here." "What do you think you shall do?" said Mrs. Bell. "I don't know," said Mary Erskine. "I can't even begin to think now. I am going to wait a week before I try to think about it at all." "And in the mean time you are going to stay in this house." "Yes," said Mary Erskine, "I think that is best." "But you must not stay here alone," said Mrs. Bell. "I will come back with you and stay with you, at least one night." "No," said Mary Erskine. "I have got to learn to be alone now, and I may as well begin at once. I am very much obliged to you for all your--" Here Mary Erskine's voice faltered, and she suddenly stopped. Mrs. Bell pitied her with all her heart, but she said no more. She remained at the house while the funeral procession was gone to the grave; and some friends came back with Mary Erskine, after the funeral. They all, however, went away about sunset, leaving Mary Erskine alone with her children. As soon as her friends had gone, Mary Erskine took the children and sat down in a rocking-chair, before the fire, holding them both in her lap, the baby upon one side and Bella upon the other, and began to rock back and forth with great rapidity. She kissed the children again and again, with many tears, and sometimes she groaned aloud, in the excess of her anguish. She remained sitting thus for half an hour. The twilight gradually faded away. The flickering flame, which rose from the fire in the fire-place, seemed to grow brighter as the daylight disappeared, and to illuminate the whole interior of the room, so as to give it a genial and cheerful expression. Mary Erskine gradually became calm. The children, first the baby, and then Bella, fell asleep. Finally Mary Erskine herself, who was by this time entirely exhausted with watching, care, and sorrow, fell asleep too. Mary Erskine slept sweetly for two full hours, and then was awaked by the nestling of the baby. [Illustration: THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS.] When Mary Erskine awoke she was astonished to find her mind perfectly calm, tranquil, and happy. She looked down upon her children--Bella asleep and the baby just awaking--with a heart full of maternal joy and pleasure. Her room, it seemed to her, never appeared so bright and cheerful and happy as then. She carried Bella to the bed and laid her gently down in Albert's place, and then, going back to the fire, she gave the baby the food which it required, and rocked it to sleep. Her heart was resigned, and tranquil, and happy, She put the baby, at length, into the cradle, and then, kneeling down, she thanked God with her whole soul for having heard her prayer, and granted her the spirit of resignation and peace. She then pushed open the curtains, and reclined herself upon the bed, where she lay for some time, with a peaceful smile upon her countenance, watching the flashing of a little tongue, of flame, which broke out at intervals from the end of a brand in the fire. After lying quietly thus, for a little while, she closed her eyes, and gradually fell asleep again. She slept very profoundly. It was a summer night, although, as usual, Mary Erskine had a fire. Clouds rose in the west, bringing with them gusts of wind and rain. The wind and the rain beat against the window, but they did not wake her. It thundered. The thunder did not wake her. The shower passed over, and the sky became, serene again, while Mary Erskine slept tranquilly on. At length the baby began to move in the cradle. Mary Erskine heard the first sound that its nestling made, and raised herself up suddenly. The fire had nearly gone out. There was no flame, and the room was lighted only by the glow of the burning embers. Mary Erskine was frightened to find herself alone. The tranquillity and happiness which she had experienced a few hours ago were all gone, and her mind was filled, instead, with an undefined and mysterious distress and terror. She went to the fire-place and built a new fire, for the sake of its company. She took the baby from the cradle and sat down in the rocking-chair, determining not to go to bed again till morning. She went to the window and looked out at the stars, to see if she could tell by them how long it would be before the morning would come. She felt afraid, though she knew not why, and holding the baby in her arms, with its head upon her shoulder, she walked back and forth across the room, in great distress and anguish, longing for the morning to come. Such is the capriciousness of grief. CHAPTER V. CONSULTATIONS. Mrs. Bell went home on the evening of the funeral, very much exhausted and fatigued under the combined effects of watching, anxiety, and exertion. She went to bed, and slept very soundly until nearly midnight. The thunder awaked her. She felt solitary and afraid. Mary Bell, who was then about nine years old, was asleep in a crib, in a corner of the room. There was a little night lamp, burning dimly on the table, and it shed a faint and dismal gleam upon the objects around it. Every few minutes, however, the lightning would flash into the windows and glare a moment upon the walls, and then leave the room in deeper darkness than ever. The little night lamp, whose feeble beam had been for the moment entirely overpowered, would then gradually come out to view again, to diffuse once more its faint illumination, until another flash of lightning came to extinguish it as before. Mrs. Bell rose from her bed, and went to the crib to see if Mary Bell was safe. She found her sleeping quietly. Mrs. Bell drew the crib out a little way from the wall, supposing that she should thus put it into a somewhat safer position. Then she lighted a large lamp. Then she closed all the shutters of the room, in order to shut out the lightning. Then she went to bed again, and tried to go to sleep. But she could not. She was thinking of Mary Erskine, and endeavoring to form some plan for her future life. She could not, however, determine what it was best for her to do. In the morning, after breakfast, she sat down at the window, with her knitting work in her hand, looking very thoughtful and sad. Presently she laid her work down in her lap, and seemed lost in some melancholy reverie. Mary Bell, who had been playing about the floor for some time, came up to her mother, and seeing her look so thoughtful and sorrowful, she said, "Mother, what is the matter with you?" "Why, Mary," said Mrs. Bell, in a melancholy tone, "I was thinking of poor Mary Erskine." "Well, mother," said Mary Bell, "could not you give her a little money, if she is poor? I will give her my ten cents." [Illustration: MRS. BELL.] Mary Bell had a silver piece of ten cents, which she kept in a little box, in her mother's room up stairs. "Oh, she is not poor for want of money," said Mrs. Bell. "Her husband made his will, before he died, and left her all his property." "Though I told Mr. Keep about it last night," continued Mrs. Bell, talking half to herself and half to Mary, "and he said the will was not good." "Not good," said Mary. "I think it is a very good will indeed. I am sure Mary Erskine ought to have it all. Who should have it, if not she?" "The children, I suppose," said her mother. "The children!" exclaimed Mary Bell. "Hoh! They are not half big enough. They are only two babies; a great baby and a little one." Mrs. Bell did not answer this, nor did she seem to take much notice of it, but took up her knitting again, and went on musing as before. Mary Bell did not understand very well about the will. The case was this: The law, in the state where Mary Erskine lived, provided that when a man died, as Albert had done, leaving a wife and children, and a farm, and also stock, and furniture, and other such movable property, if he made no will, the wife was to have a part of the property, and the rest must be saved for the children, in order to be delivered to them, when they should grow up, and be ready to receive it and use it. The farm, when there was a farm, was to be kept until the children should grow up, only their mother was to have one third of the benefit of it,--that is, one third of the rent of it, if they could let it--until the children became of age. The amount of the other two thirds was to be kept for them. In respect to all movable property, such as stock and tools, and furniture, and other things of that kind, since they could not very conveniently be kept till the children were old enough to use them, they were to be sold, and the wife was to have half the value, and the children the other half. In respect to the children's part of all the property, they were not, themselves, to have the care of it, but some person was to be appointed to be their guardian. This guardian was to have the care of all their share of the property, until they were of age, when it was to be paid over into their hands. If, however, the husband, before his death, was disposed to do so, he might make a will, and give all the property to whomsoever he pleased. If he decided, as Albert had done, to give it all to his wife, then it would come wholly under her control, at once. She would be under no obligation to keep any separate account of the children's share, but might expend it all herself, or if she were so inclined, she might keep it safely, and perhaps add to it by the proceeds of her own industry, and then, when the children should grow up, she might give them as much as her maternal affection should dictate. In order that the property of men who die, should be disposed of properly, according to law, or according to the will, if any will be made, it is required that soon after the death of any person takes place, the state of the case should be reported at a certain public office, instituted to attend to this business. There is such an office in every county in the New England states. It is called the Probate office. The officer, who has this business in charge, is called the Judge of Probate. There is a similar system in force, in all the other states of the Union, though the officers are sometimes called by different names from those which they receive in New England. Now, while Albert was lying sick upon his bed, he was occupied a great deal of the time, while they thought that he was asleep, in thinking what was to become of his wife and children in case he should die. He knew very well that in case he died without making any will, his property must be divided, under the direction of the Judge of Probate, and one part of it be kept for the children, while Mary Erskine would have the control only of the other part. This is a very excellent arrangement in all ordinary cases, so that the law, in itself, is a very good law. There are, however, some cases, which are exceptions, and Albert thought that Mary Erskine's case was one. It was owing, in a great measure, to her prudence and economy, to her efficient industry, and to her contented and happy disposition, that he had been able to acquire any property, instead of spending all that he earned, like Mr. Gordon, as fast as he earned it. Then, besides, he knew that Mary Erskine would act as conscientiously and faithfully for the benefit of the children, if the property was all her own, as she would if a part of it was theirs, and only held by herself, for safe keeping, as their guardian. Whereas, if this last arrangement went into effect, he feared that it would make her great trouble to keep the accounts, as she could not write, not even to sign her name. He determined, therefore, to make a will, and give all his property, of every kind, absolutely to her. This he did, in the manner described in the last chapter. The law invests every man with a very absolute power in respect to his property, authorizing him to make any disposition of it whatever, and carrying faithfully into effect, after his death, any wish that he may have expressed in regard to it, as his deliberate and final intention. It insists, however, that there should be evidence that the wish, so expressed, is really a deliberate and final act. It is not enough that the man should say in words what his wishes are. The will must be in writing, and it must be signed; or if the sick man can not write, he must make some mark with the pen, at the bottom of the paper, to stand instead of a signature, and to show that he considers the act, which he is performing, as a solemn and binding transaction. Nor will it do to have the will executed in the presence of only one witness; for if that were allowed, designing persons would sometimes persuade a sick man, who was rich, to sign a will which they themselves had written, telling him, perhaps, that it was only a receipt, or some other unimportant paper, and thus inducing him to convey his property in a way that he did not intend. The truth is, that there is necessity for a much greater degree of precautionary form, in the execution of a will, than in almost any other transaction; for as the man himself will be dead and gone when the time comes for carrying the will into effect,--and so can not give any explanation of his designs, it is necessary to make them absolutely clear and certain, independently of him. It was, accordingly, the law, in the state where Mary Erskine lived, that there should be three witnesses present, when any person signed a will; and also that when signing the paper, the man should say that he knew that it was his will. If three credible persons thus attested the reality and honesty of the transaction, it was thought sufficient, in all ordinary cases, to make it sure. Albert, it seems, was not aware how many witnesses were required. When he requested Mrs. Bell to sign his will, as witness, he thought that he was doing all that was necessary to make it valid. When, however, Mrs. Bell, afterwards, in going home, met Mr. Keep and related to him the transaction, he said that he was afraid that the will was not good, meaning that it would not stand in law. The thought that the will was probably not valid, caused Mrs. Bell a considerable degree of anxiety and concern, as she imagined that its failure would probably cause Mary Erskine a considerable degree of trouble and embarrassment, though she did not know precisely how. She supposed that the children's share of the property must necessarily be kept separate and untouched until they grew up, and that in the mean time their mother would have to work very hard in order to maintain herself and them too. But this is not the law. The guardian of children, in such cases, is authorized to expend, from the children's share of property, as much as is necessary for their maintenance while they are children; and it is only the surplus, if there is any, which it is required of her to pay over to them, when they come of age. It would be obviously unjust, in cases where children themselves have property left them by legacy, or falling to them by inheritance, to compel their father or mother to toil ten or twenty years to feed and clothe them, in order that they might have their property, whole and untouched, when they come of age. All that the law requires is that the property bequeathed to children, or falling to them by inheritance, shall always be exactly ascertained, and an account of it put upon record in the Probate office: and then, that a guardian shall be appointed, who shall expend only so much of it, while the children are young, as is necessary for their comfortable support and proper education; and then, when they come of age, if there is any surplus left, that it shall be paid over to them. In Mary Erskine's case, these accounts would, of course, cause her some trouble, but it would make but little difference in the end. Mrs. Bell spent a great deal of time, during the day, in trying to think what it would be best for Mary Erskine to do, and also in trying to think what she could herself do for her. She, however, made very little progress in respect to either of those points. It seemed to her that Mary Erskine could not move into the new house, and attempt to carry on the farm, and, on the other hand, it appeared equally out of the question for her to remain where she was, in her lonesome log cabin. She might move into the village, or to some house nearer the village, but what should she do in that case for a livelihood. In a word, the more that Mrs. Bell reflected upon the subject, the more at a loss she was. She determined to go and see Mary Erskine after dinner, again, as the visit would at least be a token of kindness and sympathy, even if it should do no other good. She arrived at the house about the middle of the afternoon. She found Mary Erskine busily at work, putting the house in order, and rectifying the many derangements which sickness and death always occasion. Mary Erskine received Mrs. Bell at first with a cheerful smile, and seemed, to all appearance, as contented and happy as usual. The sight of Mrs. Bell, however, recalled forcibly to her mind her irremediable loss, and overwhelmed her heart, again, with bitter grief. She went to the window, where her little work-table had been placed, and throwing herself down in a chair before it, she crossed her arms upon the table, laid her forehead down upon them in an attitude of despair, and burst into tears. Mrs. Bell drew up toward her and stood by her side in silence. She pitied her with all her heart, but she did not know what to say to comfort her. Just then little Bella came climbing up the steps, from the stoop, with some flowers in her hand, which she had gathered in the yard. As soon as she had got up into the room she stood upon her feet and went dancing along toward the baby, who was playing upon the floor, singing as she danced. She gave the baby the flowers, and then, seeing that her mother was in trouble, she came up toward the place and stood still a moment, with a countenance expressive of great concern. She put her arm around her mother's neck, saying in a very gentle and soothing tone, "Mother! what is the matter, mother?" Mary Erskine liberated one of her arms, and clasped Bella with it fondly, but did not raise her head, or answer. "Go and get some flowers for your mother," said Mrs. Bell, "like those which you got for the baby." "Well," said Bella, "I will." So she turned away, and went singing and dancing out of the room. "Mary," said Mrs. Bell. "I wish that you would shut up this house and take the children and come to my house, at least for a while, until you can determine what to do." Mary Erskine shook her head, but did not reply. She seemed, however, to be regaining her composure. Presently she raised her head, smoothed down her hair, which was very soft and beautiful, readjusted her dress, and sat up, looking out at the window. "If you stay here," continued Mrs. Bell, "you will only spend your time in useless and hopeless grief." "No," said Mary Erskine, "I am not going to do any such a thing." "Have you begun to think at all what you shall do?" asked Mrs. Bell. "No," said Mary Erskine. "When any great thing happens, I always have to wait a little while till I get accustomed to knowing that it has happened, before I can determine what to do about it. It seems as if I did not more than half know yet, that Albert is dead. Every time the door opens I almost expect to see him come in." "Do you think that you shall move to the new house?" asked Mrs. Bell. "No," said Mary Erskine, "I see that I can't do that. I don't wish to move there, either, now." "There's one thing," continued Mrs. Bell after a moment's pause, "that perhaps I ought to tell you, though it is rather bad news for you. Mr. Keep says that he is afraid that the will, which Albert made, is not good in law." "Not good! Why not?" asked Mary Erskine. "Why because there is only one witness The law requires that there should be three witnesses, so as to be sure that Albert really signed the will." "Oh no," said Mary Erskine. "One witness is enough, I am sure. The Judge of Probate knows you, and he will believe you as certainly as he would a dozen witnesses." "But I suppose," said Mrs. Bell, "that it does not depend upon the Judge of Probate. It depends upon the law." Mary Erskine was silent. Presently she opened her drawer and took out the will and looked at it mysteriously. She could not read a word of it. "Read it to me, Mrs. Bell," said she, handing the paper to Mrs. Bell. Mrs. Bell read as follows: "I bequeath all my property to my wife, Mary Erskine. Albert Forester. Witness, Mary Bell." "I am sure that is all right," said Mary Erskine. "It is very plain, and one witness is enough. Besides, Albert would know how it ought to be done." "But then," she continued after a moment's pause, "he was very sick and feeble. Perhaps he did not think. I am sure I shall be very sorry if it is not a good will, for if I do not have the farm and the stock, I don't know what I shall do with my poor children." Mary Erskine had a vague idea that if the will should prove invalid, she and her children would lose the property, in some way or other, entirely,--though she did not know precisely how. After musing upon this melancholy prospect a moment she asked, "Should not I have _any_ of the property, if the will proves not to be good?" "Oh yes," said Mrs. Bell, "you will have a considerable part of it, at any rate." "How much?" asked Mary Erskine. "Why about half, I believe," replied Mrs. Bell. "Oh," said Mary Erskine, apparently very much relieved. "That will do very well. Half will be enough. There is a great deal of property. Albert told me that the farm and the new house are worth five hundred dollars, and the stock is worth full three hundred more. And Albert does not owe any thing at all." "Well," said Mrs. Bell. "You will have half. Either half or a third, I forget exactly which." "And what becomes of the rest?" asked Mary Erskine. "Why the rest goes to the children," said Mrs. Bell. "To the children!" repeated Mary Erskine. "Yes," said she, "you will have to be appointed guardian, and take care of it for them, and carry in your account, now and then, to the Judge of Probate." "Oh," said Mary Erskine, her countenance brightening up with an expression of great relief and satisfaction. "That is just the same thing. If it is to go to the children, and I am to take care of it for them, it is just the same thing. I don't care any thing about the will at all." So saying, she threw the paper down upon the table, as if it was of no value whatever. "But there's one thing," she said again, after pausing a few minutes. "I can't keep any accounts. I can not even write my name." "That is no matter," said Mrs. Bell. "There will be but little to do about the accounts, and it is easy to get somebody to do that for you." "I wish I had learned to write," said Mary Erskine. Mrs. Bell said nothing, but in her heart she wished so too. "Do you think that I could possibly learn now?" asked Mary Erskine. "Why,--I don't know,--perhaps, if you had any one to teach you." "Thomas might teach me, perhaps," said Mary Erskine, doubtfully. Then, in a moment she added again, in a desponding tone,--"but I don't know how long he will stay here." "Then you don't know at all yet," said Mrs. Bell, after a short pause, "what you shall conclude to do." "No," replied Mary Erskine, "not at all. I am going on, just as I am now, for some days, without perplexing myself at all about it. And I am not going to mourn and make myself miserable. I am going to make myself as contented and happy as I can, with my work and my children." Here Mary Erskine suddenly laid her head down upon her arms again, on the little work-table before her, and burst into tears. After sobbing convulsively a few minutes she rose, hastily brushed the tears away with her handkerchief, and went toward the door. She then took the water pail, which stood upon a bench near the door, and said that she was going to get some water, at the spring, for tea, and that she would be back in a moment. She returned very soon, with a countenance entirely serene. "I have been trying all day," said Mrs. Bell, "to think of something that I could do for you, to help you or to relieve you in some way or other; but I can not think of any thing at all that I can do." "Yes," said Mary Erskine, "there is one thing that you could do for me, that would be a very great kindness, a very great kindness indeed." "What is it?" asked Mrs. Bell. "I am afraid that you will think it is too much for me to ask." "No," said Mrs. Bell, "what is it?" Mary Erskine hesitated a moment, and then said, "To let Mary Bell come and stay here with me, a few days." "Do you mean all night, too?" asked Mrs. Bell. "Yes," said Mary Erskine, "all the time." "Why, you have got two children to take care of now," replied Mrs. Bell, "and nobody to help you. I should have thought that you would have sooner asked me to take Bella home with me." "No," said Mary Erskine. "I should like to have Mary Bell here, very much, for a few days." "Well," said Mrs. Bell, "she shall certainly come. I will send her, to-morrow morning." CHAPTER VI. MARY BELL IN THE WOODS. Mary Erskine had a bible in her house, although she could not read it. When Albert was alive he was accustomed to read a chapter every evening, just before bed-time, and then he and Mary Erskine would kneel down together, by the settle which stood in the corner, while he repeated his evening prayer. This short season of devotion was always a great source of enjoyment to Mary Erskine. If she was tired and troubled, it soothed and quieted her mind. If she was sorrowful, it comforted her. If she was happy, it seemed to make her happiness more deep and unalloyed. Mary Erskine could not read the bible, but she could repeat a considerable number of texts and verses from it, and she knew, too, the prayer, which Albert had been accustomed to offer, almost by heart. So after Mrs. Bell had gone home, as described in the last chapter, and after she herself had undressed the children and put them to bed, and had finished all the other labors and duties of the day, she took the bible down from its shelf, and seating herself upon the settle, so as to see by the light of the fire, as Albert had been accustomed to do, she opened the book, and then began to repeat such verses as she could remember. At length she closed the book, and laying it down upon the seat of the settle, in imitation of Albert's custom, she kneeled down before it, and repeated the prayer. The use of the bible itself, in this service, was of course a mere form:--but there is sometimes a great deal of spiritual good to be derived from a form, when the heart is in it, to give it meaning and life. Mary Erskine went to bed comforted and happy; and she slept peacefully through each one of the three periods of repose, into which the care of an infant by a mother usually divides the night. In the morning, the first thought which came into her mind was, that Mary Bell was coming to see her. She anticipated the visit from her former charge with great pleasure. She had had Mary Bell under her charge from early infancy, and she loved her, accordingly, almost as much as if she were her own child. Besides, as Mary Bell had grown up she had become a very attractive and beautiful child, so kind to all, so considerate, so gentle, so active and intelligent, and at the same time so docile, and so quiet, that she was a universal favorite wherever she went. Mary Erskine was full of joy at the idea of having her come and spend several days and nights too, at her house, and she was impatient for the time to arrive when she might begin to expect her. At eight o'clock, she began to go often to the door to look down the road. At nine, she began to feel uneasy. At ten, she put on her hood and went down the road, almost to the corner, to meet her--looking forward intensely all the way, hoping at every turn to see her expected visitor advancing along the path. She went on thus until she came in sight of the corner, without seeing or hearing any thing of Mary Bell; and then she was compelled to return home alone, disappointed and sad. She waited dinner from twelve until one, but no Mary Bell appeared. Mary Erskine then concluded that something had happened to detain her expected visitor at home, and that she might be disappointed of the visit altogether. Still she could not but hope that Mary would come in the course of the afternoon. The hours of the afternoon, however, passed tediously away, and the sun began to decline toward the west; still there was no Mary Bell. The cause of her detention will now be explained. When Mary Bell came down to breakfast, on the morning after her mother's visit to Mary Erskine, her mother told her, as she came into the room, that she had an invitation for her to go out to Mary Erskine's that day. "And may I go?" asked Mary Bell. "Yes," said her mother, "I think I shall let you go." "I am _so_ glad!" said Mary Bell, clapping her hands. "Mary Erskine wishes to have you stay there several days," continued her mother. Mary Bell began to look a little sober again. She was not quite sure that she should be willing to be absent from her mother, for so many days. "Could not I come home every night?" said she. "Why, she wishes," answered Mrs. Bell, "to have you stay there all the time, day and night, for several days. It is an opportunity for you to do some good. You could not do Mary Erskine any good by giving her your money, for she has got plenty of money; nor by carrying her any thing good to eat, for her house is full of abundance, and she knows as well how to make good things as any body in town. But you can do her a great deal of good by going and staying with her, and keeping her company. Perhaps you can help her a little, in taking care of the children." "Well," said Mary Bell, "I should like to go." So Mrs. Bell dressed Mary neatly, for the walk, gave her a very small tin pail, with two oranges in it for Mary Erskine's children, and then sent out word to the hired man, whose name was Joseph, to harness the horse into the wagon. When the wagon was ready, she directed Joseph to carry Mary to the corner, and see that she set out upon the right road there, toward Mary Erskine's house. It was only about half a mile from the corner to the house, and the road, though crooked, stony, and rough, was very plain, and Mary Bell had often walked over it alone. There was, in fact, only one place where there could be any danger of Mary Bell's losing her way, and that was at a point about midway between the corner and Mary Erskine's house, where a road branched off to the right, and led into the woods. There was a large pine-tree at this point, which Mary Bell remembered well; and she knew that she must take the left-hand road when she reached this tree. There were various little paths, at other places, but none that could mislead her. When Joseph, at length, set Mary Bell down in the path at the corner, she stood still, upon a flat rock by the side of the road, to see him turn the wagon and set out upon his return. "Good-bye, Joseph," said she. "I am going to be gone several days." "Good-bye," said Joseph, turning to look round at Mary Bell, as the wagon slowly moved away. "Bid mother good-bye," said Mary Bell,--"and Joseph, don't you forget to water my geranium." "No," said Joseph, "and don't you forget to take the left-hand road." "No," said Mary Bell. She felt a slight sensation of lonesomeness, to be left there in solitude at the entrance of a dark and somber wood, especially when she reflected that it was to be several days before she should see her mother again. But then, calling up to her mind a vivid picture of Mary Erskine's house, and of the pleasure that she should enjoy there, in playing with Bella and the baby, she turned toward the pathway into the woods, and walked resolutely forward, swinging her pail in her hand and singing a song. There were a great many birds in the woods; some were hopping about upon the rocks and bushes by the road-side. Others were singing in solitary places, upon the tops of tall trees in the depths of the forest, their notes being heard at intervals, in various directions, as if one was answering another, to beguile the solemn loneliness of the woods. The trees were very tall, and Mary Bell, as she looked up from her deep and narrow pathway, and saw the lofty tops rocking to and fro with a very slow and gentle motion, as they were waved by the wind, it seemed to her that they actually touched the sky. At one time she heard the leaves rustling, by the side of the road, and looking in under the trees, she saw a gray squirrel, just in the act of leaping up from the leaves upon the ground to the end of a log. As soon as he had gained this footing, he stopped and looked round at Mary Bell. Mary Bell stopped too; each looked at the other for several seconds, in silence,--the child with an expression of curiosity and pleasure upon her countenance, and the squirrel with one of wonder and fear upon his. Mary Bell made a sudden motion toward him with her hand to frighten him a little. It did frighten him. He turned off and ran along the log as fast as he could go, until he reached the end of it, and disappeared. "Poor Bobbin," said Mary Bell, "I am sorry that I frightened you away." A few steps farther on in her walk, Mary Bell came to a place where a great number of yellow butterflies had settled down together in the path. Most of them were still, but a few were fluttering about, to find good places. "Oh, what pretty butterflies!" said Mary Bell. "They have been flying about, I suppose, till they have got tired, and have stopped to rest. But if I were a butterfly, I would rest upon flowers, and not upon the ground." Mary Bell paused and looked upon the butterflies a moment, and then said, "And now how shall I get by? I am sure I don't want to tread upon those butterflies. I will sit down here, myself, on a stone, and wait till they get rested and fly away. Besides, I am tired myself, and _I_ shall get rested too." Just as she took her seat she saw that there was a little path, which diverged here from the main road, and turned into the woods a little way, seeming to come back again after a short distance. There were many such little paths, here and there, running parallel to the main road. They were made by the cows, in the spring of the year when the roads were wet, to avoid the swampy places. These places were now all dry, and the bye-paths were consequently of no use, though traces of them remained. "No," said Mary Bell. "I will not stop to rest; I am not very tired; so I will go around by this little path. It will come into the road again very soon." Mary Bell's opinion would have been just, in respect to any other path but this one; but it so happened, very unfortunately for her, that now, although not aware of it, she was in fact very near the great pine-tree, where the road into the woods branched off, and the path which she was determining to take, though it commenced in the main road leading to Mary Erskine's, did not return to it again, but after passing, by a circuitous and devious course, through the bushes a little way, ended in the branch road which led into the woods, at a short distance beyond the pine-tree. Mary Bell was not aware of this state of things, but supposed, without doubt, that the path would come out again into the same road that it left, and that, she could pass round through it, and so avoid disturbing the butterflies. She thought, indeed, it might possibly be that the path would not come back at all, but would lose itself in the woods; and to guard against this danger, she determined that after going on for a very short distance, if she found that it did not come out into the road again, she would come directly back. The idea of its coming out into a wrong road did not occur to her mind as a possibility. She accordingly entered the path, and after proceeding in it a little way she was quite pleased to see it coming out again into what she supposed was the main road. Dismissing, now, all care and concern, she walked forward in a very light-hearted and happy manner. The road was very similar in its character to the one which she ought to have taken, so that there was nothing in the appearances around her to lead her to suppose that she was wrong. She had, moreover, very little idea of measures of time, and still less of distance, and thus she went on for more than an hour before she began to wonder why she did not get to Mary Erskine's. She began to suspect, then, that she had in some way or other lost the right road. She, however, went on, looking anxiously about for indications of an approach to the farm, until at length she saw signs of an opening in the woods, at some distance before her. She concluded to go on until she came to this opening, and if she could not tell where she was by the appearance of the country there, she would go back again by the road she came. The opening, when she reached it, appeared to consist of a sort of pasture land, undulating in its surface, and having thickets of trees and bushes scattered over it, here and there. There was a small elevation in the land, at a little distance from the place where Mary Bell came out, and she thought that she would go to the top of this elevation, and look for Mary Erskine's house, all around. She accordingly did so, but neither Mary Erskine's house nor any other human habitation was anywhere to be seen. She sat down upon a smooth stone, which was near her, feeling tired and thirsty, and beginning to be somewhat anxious in respect to her situation. She thought, however, that there was no great danger, for her mother would certainly send Joseph out into the woods to find her, as soon as she heard that she was lost. She concluded, at first, to wait where she was until Joseph should come, but on second thoughts, she concluded to go back by the road which had led her to the opening, and so, perhaps meet him on the way. She was very thirsty, and wished very much that one of the oranges in the pail belonged to her, for she would have liked to eat one very much indeed. But they were not either of them hers. One belonged to Bella, and the other to the baby. She walked back again to the woods, intending to return toward the corner, by the road in which she came, but now she could not find the entrance to it. She wandered for some time, this way and that, along the margin of the wood, but could find no road. She, however, at length found something which she liked better. It was a beautiful spring of cool water, bubbling up from between the rocks on the side of a little hill. She sat down by the side of this spring, took off the cover from her little pail, took out the oranges and laid them down carefully in a little nook where they would not roll away, and then using the pail for a dipper, she dipped up some water, and had an excellent drink. "What a good spring this is!" said she to herself. "It is as good as Mary Erskine's." It was the time of the year in which raspberries were ripe, and Mary Bell, in looking around her from her seat near the spring, saw at a distance a place which appeared as if there were raspberry bushes growing there. "I verily believe that there are some raspberries," said she. "I will go and see; if I could only find plenty of raspberries, it would be all that I should want." The bushes proved to be raspberry bushes, as Mary had supposed, and she found them loaded with fruit. She ate of them abundantly, and was very much refreshed. She would have filled her pail besides, so as to have some to take along with her, but she had no place to put the oranges, except within the pail. It was now about noon; the sun was hot, and Mary Bell began to be pretty tired. She wished that they would come for her. She climbed up upon a large log which lay among the bushes, and called as loud as she could, "_Mary Erskine! Mary Erskine!_" Then after pausing a moment, and listening in vain for an answer, she renewed her call, "_Thom--as! Thom--as!_" Then again, after another pause, "_Jo--seph! Jo--seph!_" She listened a long time, but heard nothing except the singing of the birds, and the sighing of the wind upon the tops of the trees in the neighboring forests. She began to feel very anxious and very lonely. She descended from the log, and walked along till she got out of the bushes. She came to a place where there were rocks, with smooth surfaces of moss and grass among them. She found a shady place among these rocks, and sat down upon the moss. She laid her head down upon her arm and began to weep bitterly. Presently she raised her head again, and endeavored to compose herself, saying, "But I must not cry. I must be patient, and wait till they come. I am very tired, but I must not go to sleep, for then I shall not hear them when they come. I will lay my head down, but I will keep my eyes open." She laid her head down accordingly upon a mossy mound, and notwithstanding her resolution to keep her eyes open, in ten minutes she was fast asleep. She slept very soundly for more than two hours. She was a little frightened when she awoke, to find that she had been sleeping, and she started up and climbed along upon a rock which was near by, until she gained a projecting elevation, and here she began to listen again. She heard the distant tinkling of a bell. "Hark," said she. "I hear a bell. It is out _that_ way. I wonder what it is. I will go there and see." So taking up her pail very carefully, she walked along in the direction where she had heard the bell. She stopped frequently to listen. Sometimes she could hear it, and sometimes she could not. She, however, steadily persevered, though she encountered a great many obstacles on the way. Sometimes there were wet places, which it was very hard to get round. At other times, there were dense thickets, which she had to scramble through, or rocks over which she had to climb, either up or down. The sound, however, of the bell, came nearer and nearer. "I verily believe," said she at length, "that it is Queen Bess." Queen Bess was one of Mary Erskine's cows. The idea that the sound which she was following might possibly be Queen Bess's bell, gave her great courage. She was well acquainted with Queen Bess, having often gone out to see Mary Erskine milk her, with the other cows. She had even tried many times to milk her herself, Mary Erskine having frequently allowed her to milk enough, in a mug, to provide herself with a drink. "I hope it is Queen Bess," said Mary Bell. "She knows me, and she will give me a drink of her milk, I am sure." Mary Bell proved to be right in her conjecture. It was Queen Bess. She was feeding very quietly, Mary Erskine's other cows being near, some cropping the grass and some browsing upon the bushes. Queen Bess raised her head and looked at Mary Bell with a momentary feeling of astonishment, wondering how she came there, and then put down her head again and resumed her feeding. "Now," said Mary Bell, "I shall certainly get home again, for I shall stay with you until Thomas comes up after the cows. He will find you by your bell. And now I am going to put these oranges down upon the grass, and milk some milk into this pail." So Mary Bell put the oranges in a safe place upon the grass, and then went cautiously up to the side of the cow, and attempted to milk her. But it is very difficult to milk a cow while she is grazing in a pasture. She is not inclined to stand still, but advances all the time, slowly, step by step, making it very difficult to do any thing at milking. Mary Bell, however, succeeded very well. She was so thirsty that she did not wait to get a great deal at a time, but as soon as she had two or three spoonfuls in the pail, she stopped to drink it. In this manner, by dint of a great deal of labor and pains, she succeeded, in about a quarter of an hour, in getting as much as she wanted. [Illustration: MARY BELL AND QUEEN BESS.] She remained in company with the cows all the afternoon. Sometimes she would wander from them a little way to gather raspberries, and then she would creep up cautiously to Queen Bess, and get another drink of milk. When she had thus had as many raspberries, and as much milk, as she wished, she amused herself for some time in gathering a bouquet of wild flowers to give to Mary Erskine on her return. The time, being thus filled up with useful occupation, passed pleasantly and rapidly along, and at length, when the sun was nearly ready to go down, she heard a distant voice shouting to the cows. It was Thomas, coming to drive them home. Thomas was of course greatly astonished to find Mary Bell in the woods, and his astonishment was not at all diminished at hearing her story. He offered to carry her, in going home,--but she said that she was not tired, and could walk as well as not. So they went down together, the cows running along before them in the paths. When they reached the house, Thomas went to turn the cows into the yard, while Mary Bell went into the house to Mary Erskine, with her little pail in one hand, and her bouquet of flowers in the other. CHAPTER VII. HOUSE-KEEPING. One of the greatest pleasures which Mary Bell enjoyed, in her visits at Mary Erskine's at this period, was to assist in the house-keeping. She was particularly pleased with being allowed to help in getting breakfast or tea, and in setting the table. She rose accordingly very early on the morning after her arrival there from the woods, as described in the last chapter, and put on the working-dress which Mary Erskine had made for her, and which was always kept at the farm. This was not the working-dress which was described in a preceding chapter as the one which Mary Bell used to play in, when out among the stumps. Her playing among the stumps was two or three years before the period which we are now describing. During those two or three years, Mary Bell had wholly outgrown her first working-dress, and her mind had become improved and enlarged, and her tastes matured more rapidly even than her body had grown. She now no longer took any pleasure in dabbling in the brook, or planting potatoes in the sand,--or in heating sham ovens in stumps and hollow trees. She had begun to like realities. To bake a real cake for breakfast or tea, to set a real table with real cups and saucers, for a real and useful purpose, or to assist Mary Erskine in the care of the children, or in making the morning arrangements in the room, gave her more pleasure than any species of child's play could possibly do. When she went out now, she liked to be dressed neatly, and take pleasant walks, to see the views or to gather flowers. In a word, though she was still in fact a child, she began to have in some degree the tastes and feelings of a woman. "What are you going to have for breakfast?" said Mary Bell to Mary Erskine, while they were getting up. "What should you like?" asked Mary Erskine in reply. "Why I should like some roast potatoes, and a spider cake," said Mary Bell. The spider cake received its name from being baked before the fire in a flat, iron vessel, called a spider. The spider was so called probably, because, like the animal of that name, it had several legs and a great round body. The iron spider, however, unlike its living namesake, had a long straight tail, which, extending out behind, served for a handle. The spider cake being very tender and nice, and coming as it usually did, hot upon the table, made a most excellent breakfast,--though this was not the principal reason which led Mary Bell to ask for it. She liked to _make_ the spider cake; for Mary Erskine, after mixing and preparing the material, used to allow Mary Bell to roll it out to its proper form, and put it into the spider. Then more than all the rest, Mary Bell liked to _bake_ a spider cake. She used to take great pleasure in carrying the cake in her two hands to the fire-place, and laying it carefully in its place in the spider, and then setting it up before the fire to bake, lifting the spider by the end of the tail. She also took great satisfaction afterward in watching it, as the surface which was presented toward the fire became browned by the heat. When it was sufficiently baked upon one side it had to be turned, and then set up before the fire again, to be baked on the other side; and every part of the long operation was always watched by Mary Bell with great interest and pleasure. Mary Erskine consented to Mary Bell's proposal in respect to breakfast, and for an hour Mary Bell was diligently employed in making the preparations. [Illustration: MARY BELL GETTING BREAKFAST.] She put the potatoes in the bed which Mary Erskine opened for them in the ashes. She rolled out the spider cake, and put it into the spider; she spread the cloth upon the table, and took down the plates, and the cups and saucers from the cupboard, and set them in order on the table. She went down into the little cellar to bring up the butter. She skimmed a pan of milk to get the cream, she measured out the tea; and at last, when all else was ready, she took a pitcher and went down to the spring to bring up a pitcher of cool water. In all these operations Bella accompanied her, always eager to help, and Mary Bell, knowing that it gave Bella great pleasure to have something to do, called upon her, continually, for her aid, and allowed her to do every thing that it was safe to entrust to her. Thus they went on very happily together. At length, when the breakfast was ready they all sat down around the table to eat it, except the baby. He remained in the trundle-bed, playing with his play-things. His play-things consisted of three or four smooth pebble stones of different colors, each being of about the size of an egg, which his mother had chosen for him out of the brook, and also of a short piece of bright iron chain. The chain was originally a part of a harness, but the harness had become worn out, and Albert had brought in the chain and given it to the baby. The baby liked these play-things very much indeed,--both the pebbles and the chain. When he was well, and neither hungry nor sleepy, he was never tired of playing with them,--trying to bite them, and jingling them together. "Now," said Mary Erskine to the children, as they were sitting at the table, at the close of the breakfast, and after Thomas had gone away, "you may go out and play for an hour while I finish my morning work, and put the baby to sleep, and then I want you to come in and have a school." "Who shall be the teacher?" said Mary Bell. "You shall be _one_," said Mary Erskine. "Are you going to have two teachers?" asked Mary Bell. "If you do, then we can't have any scholars;--for the baby is not old enough to go to school." "I know it," said Mary Erskine, "but we can have three scholars without him." "Who shall they be?" asked Mary Bell. "You and I, and Bella," answered Mary Erskine. "I will tell you what my plan is. I expect that I shall conclude to stay here, and live in this house alone for some years to come, and the children can not go to school, for there is now nobody to take them, and it is too far for them to go alone. I must teach them myself at home, or else they can not learn. I am very sorry indeed now that I did not learn to read and write when I was a child: for that would have saved me the time and trouble of learning now. But I think I _can_ learn now. Don't you think I can, Mary?" "Oh, yes, indeed," said Mary Bell, "I am sure you can. It is very easy to read." "I am going to try," continued Mary Erskine, "and so I want you to teach me. And while you are teaching me, Bella may as well begin at the same time. So that you will have two scholars." "Three--you said three scholars," rejoined Mary Bell. "Yes," said Mary Erskine. "You shall be the third scholar. I am going to teach you to draw." "Do you know how to draw?" asked Mary Bell, surprised. "No," said Mary Erskine, "but I can show _you_ how to learn." "Well," said Mary Bell, "I should like to learn to draw very much indeed. Though I don't see how any body can teach a thing unless they can do it themselves." "Sometimes they can," said Mary Erskine. "A man may teach a horse to canter, without being able to canter himself." Mary Bell laughed at the idea of a man attempting to canter, and said that she should be very glad to try to learn to draw. Mary Erskine then said that after they had finished their breakfast the children might go out an hour to walk and play, and that then when they should come in, they would find every thing ready for the school. Mary Bell concluded to take a walk about the farm during the time which they were allowed to spend in play, before the school was to begin. So she and Bella put on their bonnets, and bidding Mary Erskine good morning, they sallied forth. As they came out at the great stoop door their attention was arrested by the sound of a cow-bell. The sound seemed to come from the barn-yard. "Ah," said Mary Bell, "there is Queen Bess going to pasture this morning. How glad I was to see her yesterday in the woods! Let us go and see her now." So saying she led the way around the corner of the house, by a pleasant path through the high grass that was growing in the yard, toward the barns. Bella followed her. They passed through a gate, then across a little lane, then through a gate on the other side of the lane, which led into the barn-yards. The barns, like the house, were built of logs, but they were very neatly made, and the yards around them were at this season of the year dry and green. Mary and Bella walked on across the barn-yard until they got to the back side of the barn, when they found Thomas turning the cows into a little green lane which led to the pasture. It was not very far to the pasture bars, and so Mary Bell proposed that they should go and help Thomas drive the cows. They accordingly went on, but they had not gone far before they came to a brook, which here flowed across the lane. The cows walked directly through the brook, while Thomas got across it by stepping over some stones at one side. Mary Bell thought that the spaces were a little too wide for Bella to jump over, so she concluded not to go any farther in that direction. Bella then proposed that they should go and see the new house. This Mary Bell thought would be an excellent plan if Bella's mother would give them leave. They accordingly went in to ask her. They found her in the back stoop, employed in straining the milk which Thomas had brought in. She was straining it into great pans. She said that she should like to have the children go and see the new house very much indeed, and she gave them the key, so that they might go into it. The children took the key and went across the fields by a winding path until they came out into the main road again, near the new house. The house was in a very pleasant place indeed. There was a green yard in front of it, and a place for a garden at one side. At the other side was a wide yard open to the road, so that persons could ride up to the door without the trouble of opening any gate. The children walked up this open yard. They went to the door, intending to unlock it with their key, but they were surprised to find that there was not any key hole. Mary Bell said that she supposed the key hole was not made yet. They tried to open the door, but they could not succeed. It was obviously fastened on the inside. "Now how can we get in?" said Bella. "I don't see," replied Mary Bell, "and I can't think how they locked the door without any key-hole." "Could not we climb in at one of the windows?" said Mary Bell,--"only they are so high up!" The children looked around at the windows. They were all too high from the ground for them to reach. There was, however, a heap of short blocks and boards which the carpenters had left in the yard near the house, and Mary Bell said that perhaps they could build up a "climbing pile" with them, so as to get in at a window. She accordingly went to this heap, and by means of considerable exertion and toil she rolled two large blocks--the ends of sticks of timber which the carpenters had sawed off in framing the house--up under the nearest window. She placed these blocks, which were about two feet long, at a little distance apart under the window, with one end of each block against the house. She then, with Bella's help, got some short boards from the pile, and placed them across these blocks from one to the other, making a sort of a flooring. "There," said Mary Bell, looking at the work with great satisfaction, "that is _one_ story." Then she brought two more blocks, and laid them upon the flooring over the first two, placing the second pair of blocks, like the first, at right angles to the house, and with the ends close against it to keep them steady. On these blocks she laid a second flooring of short boards, which made the second story. She then stepped up upon the staging which she had thus built, to see if it was steady. It was very steady indeed. "Let _me_ get up on it," said Bella. Bella accordingly climbed up, and she and Mary Bell danced upon it together in great glee for some time to show how steady it was. Mary Bell then attempted to open the window. She found that she could open it a little way, but not far enough to get in. So she said that she must make one more "story." They then both went back to the pile, and got two more blocks and another board to lay across upon the top of them for a flooring, and when these were placed, Mary Bell found that she could raise the window very high. She got a long stick to put under it to hold it up, and then tried to climb in. She found, however, that the window sill over which she was to climb was still rather too high; but, at length, after various consultations and experiments, _Bella_ succeeded in getting up by means of the help which Mary Bell, who was large and strong, gave her, by "boosting her," as she called it, that is, pushing her up from below while she climbed by means of her arms clasped over the window sill above. Bella being thus in the house, took the key, which Mary Bell handed her for the purpose, and went along to the entry to unlock the door, while Mary Bell, stepping down from the scaffolding, went to the door on the outside, ready to enter when it should be opened. The children had no doubt that there was a key-hole in the lock on the inside, although there was none made in the door on the outside. When, however, Bella reached the door on the inside, she called out to Mary Bell, through the door, to say that she could not find any key-hole. "It is in the lock," said Mary Bell. "But there is not any lock," said Bella. "Is not there any thing?" asked Mary Bell. "Yes," said Bella, "there is a bolt." "Oh, very well, then, open the bolt," replied Mary Bell. After a great deal of tugging and pushing at the bolt, Bella succeeded in getting it back, but even then the door would not come open. It was new, and it fitted very tight. Bella said that Mary Bell must push from the outside, while she held up the latch. Mary Bell accordingly pushed with all her force, and at length the door flew open, and to their great joy they found themselves both fairly admitted to the house. They rambled about for some time, looking at the different rooms, and at the various conveniences for house-keeping which Albert had planned, and which were all just ready for use when Albert had died. There was a sink in the kitchen, with a little spout leading into it, from which the water was running in a constant stream. It came from an aqueduct of logs brought under ground. There was a tin dipper there upon the top of the post which the water-spout came out of, and Mary Bell and Bella had an excellent drink from it the first thing. The kitchen floor was covered with shavings, and the children played in them for some time, until they were tired. Then they went and got another drink. When they at last got tired of the kitchen, they went to a window at the back side of the sitting-room, which looked out toward the garden, and commanded also a beautiful prospect beyond. They opened this window in order to see the garden better. A fresh and delightful breeze came in immediately, which the children enjoyed very much. The breeze, however, in drawing through the house, shut all the doors which the children had left open, with a loud noise, and then having no longer any egress, it ceased to come in. The air seemed suddenly to become calm; the children stood for some time at the window, looking out at the garden, and at the pond, and the mountains beyond. At length they shut the window again, and went to the door at which they had entered, and found it shut fast. They could not open it, for there was now no one to push upon the outside. Mary Bell laughed. Bella looked very much frightened. "What shall we do?" said she. "We can't get out." "Oh, don't be afraid," said Mary Bell, "we will get out some way or other." She then tried again to open the door, exerting all her strength in pulling upon the latch, but all in vain. They were finally obliged to give up the attempt as utterly hopeless. Mary Bell then led the way to the window where Bella had got in, and looked out upon the little scaffolding. It looked as if the window was too high above the scaffolding for them to get down there safely. One of them might, perhaps, have succeeded in descending, if the other had been outside to help her down; but as it was, Mary Bell herself did not dare to make the attempt. "I will tell you what we will do," said Mary Bell. "We will go to another window where there are no blocks below, and throw all the shavings out from the kitchen. That will make a soft bed for us to jump upon." "Well," said Bella, "let us do that." So they went to the kitchen, and opening one of the windows, they began to gather up the shavings in their arms from off the floor, and to throw them out. They worked very industriously at this undertaking for a long time, until the kitchen floor was entirely cleared. They picked out carefully all the sticks, and blocks, and pieces of board which were mixed with the shavings, before throwing them out, in order that there might be nothing hard in the heap which they were to jump upon. When the work was completed, and all the shavings were out, they went to the window, and leaning over the sill, they looked down. "I wish we had some more shavings," said Mary Bell. "Yes," said Bella, "that is too far to jump down. We can't get out any way at all." So saying, she began to cry. "Don't cry, Bella," said Mary Bell, in a soothing tone. "It is no matter if we can't get out, for your mother knows that we came here, and if we don't come home in an hour, she will come for us and let us out." "But perhaps there is a ladder somewhere," added Mary Bell, after a short pause. "Perhaps we can find a ladder that the carpenters have left somewhere about. If there is, we can put it out the window, and then climb down upon it. Let us go and look." "Well," said Bella, "so we will." The two children accordingly set off on an exploring tour to find a ladder. Mary Bell went toward the front part of the house, and Bella into the back kitchen. They looked not only in the rooms, but also in the passage-ways and closets, and in every corner where a ladder could possibly be hid. At length, just as Mary Bell was going up the stairs, in order to look into the little attic chambers, she heard Bella calling out from the back part of the house, in a tone of voice expressive of great exultation and joy. "She has found the ladder," said Mary Bell, and leaving the stairs she went to meet her. She found Bella running through the kitchen toward the entry where Mary Bell was, calling out with great appearance of delight, "I've found the key-hole, Mary Bell! I've found the key-hole!" This was indeed true. The lock to which the key that Mary Erskine had given the children belonged, was upon the _back_ door, the principal door of the house being fastened by a bolt. Mary Bell went to the back door, and easily opened it by means of the key. Glad to discover this mode of escape from their thraldom, the children ran out, and capered about upon the back stoop in great glee. Presently they went in again and shut all the windows which they had opened, and then came out, locking the door after them, and set out on their return home. When they arrived, they found that Mary Erskine had got every thing ready for the school. CHAPTER VIII. THE SCHOOL. Good teachers and proper conveniences for study, tend very much, it is true, to facilitate the progress of pupils in all attempts for the acquisition of knowledge. But where these advantages cannot be enjoyed, it is astonishing how far a little ingenuity, and resolution, and earnestness, on the part of the pupil, will atone for the deficiency. No child need ever be deterred from undertaking any study adapted to his years and previous attainments, for want of the necessary implements or apparatus, or the requisite means of instruction. The means of supplying the want of these things are always at the command of those who are intelligent, resolute, and determined. It is only the irresolute, the incompetent, and the feeble-minded that are dependent for their progress on having a teacher to show them and to urge them onward, every step of the way. When Mary Bell and Bella returned home they found that Mary Erskine had made all the preparations necessary for the commencement of the school. She had made a desk for the two children by means of the ironing-board, which was a long and wide board, made very smooth on both sides. This board Mary Erskine placed across two chairs, having previously laid two blocks of wood upon the chairs in a line with the back side of the board, in such a manner as to raise that side and to cause the board to slope forward like a desk. She had placed two stools in front of this desk for seats. Upon this desk, at one end of it, the end, namely, at which Bella was to sit, Mary Erskine had placed a small thin board which she found in the shop, and by the side of it a piece of chalk. This small board and piece of chalk were to be used instead of a slate and pencil. At Mary Bell's end of the desk there was a piece of paper and a pen, which Mary Erskine had taken out of her work-table. By the side of the paper and pen was Bella's picture-book. This picture-book was a small but very pretty picture-book, which Mary Bell had given to Bella for a present on her birth-day, the year before. The picture-book looked, as it lay upon the desk, as if it were perfectly new. Mary Erskine had kept it very carefully in her work-table drawer, as it was the only picture-book that Bella had. She was accustomed to take it out sometimes in the evening, and show the pictures to Bella, one by one, explaining them at the same time, so far as she could guess at the story from the picture itself, for neither she herself, nor Bella, could understand a word of the reading. On these occasions Mary Erskine never allowed Bella to touch the book, but always turned over the leaves herself, and that too in a very careful manner, so as to preserve it in its original condition, smooth, fresh, and unsullied. Mary Bell and Bella looked at the desk which Mary Erskine had prepared for them, and liked it very much indeed. "But where are _you_ going to study?" asked Mary Bell. "I shall study at my work-table, but not now. I can't study until the evening. I have my work to do, all the day, and so I shall not begin my studies until the evening when you children are all gone to bed. And besides, there is only one pen." "Oh, but you will not want the pen," said Mary Bell. "You are going to learn to read." "No," said Mary Erskine. "I am going to learn to write first." "Not _first_," said Mary Bell. "We always learn to _read_, before we learn to write." "But I am going to learn to write first," said Mary Erskine. "I have been thinking about it, and I think that will be best. I have got the plan all formed. I shall want you to set me a copy, and then this evening I shall write it." "Well," said Mary Bell, "I will. The first copy must be straight marks." "No," said Mary Erskine, "the first thing is to learn to write my name. I shall never have any occasion to write straight marks, but I shall want to write my name a great many times." "Oh, but you can't _begin_ with writing your name," said Mary Bell. "Yes," said Mary Erskine, "I am going to begin with _Mary_: only _Mary_. I want you to write me two copies, one with the letters all separate, and the other with the letters together. "Well," said Mary Bell, "I will." So she sat down to her desk, taking up her pen, she dipped it into the inkstand. The inkstand had been placed into the chair which Mary Bell's end of the ironing-board rested upon. It could not stand safely on the board itself as that was sloping. Mary Bell wrote the letters M--A--R--Y, in a large plain hand upon the top of the paper, and then in a same line she wrote them again, joining them together in a word. Mary Erskine stood by while she wrote, examining very attentively her method of doing the work, and especially her way of holding the pen. When the copy was finished, Mary Erskine cut it off from the top of the paper and pinned it up against the side of the room, where she could look at it and study the names of the letters in the intervals of her work during the day. "There," said she in a tone of satisfaction when this was done. "I have got my work before me. The next thing is to give Bella hers." It was decided that Bella should pursue a different method from her mother. She was to learn the letters of the alphabet in regular order, taking the first two, _a_ and _b_, for her first lesson. Mary Bell made copies of those two letters for her, with the chalk, upon the top of the board. She made these letters in the form of printed and not written characters, because the object was to teach Bella to read printed books. "Now," said Mary Erskine to Bella, "you must study _a_ and _b_ for half an hour. I shall tell you when I think the half hour is out. If you get tired of sitting at your desk, you may take your board and your chalk out to the door and sit upon the step. You must spend all the time in making the letters on the board, and you may say _a_ and _b_ while you are making the letters, but besides that you must not speak a word. For every time that you speak, except to say _a_ and _b_, after I tell you to begin, you will have to pick up a basket of chips." Picking up baskets of chips was the common punishment that Bella was subjected to for her childish misdemeanors. There was a bin in the stoop, where she used to put them, and a small basket hanging up by the side of it. The chip-yard was behind the house, and there was always an abundant supply of chips in it, from Albert's cutting. The basket, it is true, was quite small, and to fill it once with chips, was but a slight punishment; but slight punishments are always sufficient for sustaining any just and equitable government, provided they are certain to follow transgression, and are strictly and faithfully enforced. Bella was a very obedient and submissive child, though she had scarcely ever been subjected to any heavier punishment than picking up chips. "Shall I begin now?" said Bella. "No," replied her mother, "wait, if you like, till Mary Bell has taken her lesson." "I don't see how I am going to draw," said Mary Bell, "without any pencil." "You will have to draw with the pen," said Mary Erskine. "I am very sorry that I have not got any pencil for you." So saying, Mary Erskine took up the picture-book, and began turning over the leaves, to find, as she said, the picture of a house. She should think, she said, that the picture of a house would be a good thing to begin with. She found a view of a house in the third picture in the book. There was a great deal in the picture besides the house, but Mary Erskine said that the house alone should be the lesson. There was a pond near it, with a shore, and ducks and geese swimming in the water. Then there was a fence and a gate, and a boy coming through the gate, and some trees. There was one large tree with a swing hanging from one of the branches. "Now, Mary," said Mary Erskine, speaking to Mary Bell, "you may take the house alone. First you must look at it carefully, and examine all the little lines and marks, and see exactly how they are made. There is the chimney, for example. See first what the shape of the outline of it is, and look at all _those_ little lines, and _those_, and _those_," continued Mary Erskine, pointing to the different parts of the chimney. "You must examine in the same way all the other lines, in all the other parts of the picture, and see exactly how fine they are, and how near together they are, so that you can imitate them exactly. Then you must make some little dots upon your paper to mark the length and breadth of the house, so as to get it of the right shape; and then draw the lines and finish it all exactly as it is in the book." Bella looked over very attentively, while her mother was explaining these things to Mary Bell, and then said that _she_ would rather draw a house than make letters. "No," said her mother, "you must make letters." "But it is harder to make letters than it is to make a house," said Bella. "Yes," said her mother, "I think it is." "And I think," said Bella, "that the littlest scholar ought to have the easiest things to do." Mary Erskine laughed, and said that in schools, those things were not done that seemed best to the scholars, but those that seemed best to the teachers. "Then," said Mary Bell, "why must not you write marks." Mary Erskine laughed still more at this, and said she acknowledged that the children had got her penned up in a corner. "Now," said Mary Erskine, "are you ready to begin; because when you once begin, you must not speak a word till the half hour is out." "Yes," said the children, "we are ready." "Then _begin_," said Mary Erskine. The children began with great gravity and silence, each at her separate task, while Mary Erskine went on with her own regular employment. The silence continued unbroken for about five minutes, when Bella laid down her chalk in a despairing manner, saying, "O dear me! I can't make a _a_." "There's one basket of chips," said Mary Erskine. "Why I really can't," said Bella, "I have tried three times." "Two baskets of chips," said her mother. "Make two marks on the corner of your board," she continued, "and every time you speak put down another, so that we can remember how many baskets of chips you have to pick up." Bella looked rather disconsolate at receiving this direction. She knew, however, that she must obey. She was also well aware that she would certainly have to pick up as many baskets of chips as should be indicated by the line of chalk marks. She, therefore, resumed her work, inwardly resolving that she would not speak another word. All this time, Mary Bell went on with her drawing, without apparently paying any attention to the conversation between Bella and her mother. [Illustration: THE SCHOOL.] Bella went on, too, herself after this, very attentively, making the letters which had been assigned her for her lesson, and calling the names of them as she made them, but not speaking any words. At length Mary Erskine told the children that the half hour had expired, and that they were at liberty. Bella jumped up and ran away to play. Mary Bell wished to remain and finish her house. Mary Erskine went to look at it. She compared it very attentively with the original in the picture-book, and observed several places in which Mary Bell had deviated from her pattern. She did not, however, point out any of these faults to Mary Bell, but simply said that she had done her work very well indeed. She had made a very pretty house. Mary Bell said that it was not quite finished, and she wished to remain at her desk a little longer to complete it. Mary Erskine gave her leave to do so. Bella, who had gone away at first, dancing to the door, pleased to be released from her confinement, came back to see Mary Bell's picture, while her mother was examining it. She seemed very much pleased with it indeed. Then she asked her mother to look at her letters upon the board. Mary Erskine and Mary Bell both looked at them, one by one, very attentively, and compared them with the letters which Mary Bell had made for patterns, and also with specimens of the letters in the books. Bella took great interest in looking for the letters in the book, much pleased to find that she knew them wherever she saw them. Her mother, too, learned _a_ and _b_ very effectually by this examination of Bella's work. Mary Erskine selected the two best letters which Bella had made, one of each kind, and rubbed out all the rest with a cloth. She then put up the board in a conspicuous place upon a shelf, where the two good letters could be seen by all in the room. Bella was much pleased at this, and she came in from her play several times in the course of the day, to look at her letters and to call them by name. When Bella's board had thus been put up in its conspicuous position, Mary Bell sat down to finish her drawing, while Bella went out to pick up her two baskets of chips. Mary Bell worked upon her house for nearly the whole of another half hour. When it was finished she cut the part of the paper which it was drawn upon off from the rest, and ruled around it a neat margin of double black lines. She obtained a narrow strip of wood, from the shop which served her as a ruler. She said that she meant to have all her drawing lessons of the same size, and to put the same margin around them. She marked her house No. 1, writing the numbering in a small but plain hand on one corner. She wrote the initials of her, name, M.B., in the same small hand, on the opposite corner. Mary Erskine did not attempt _her_ lesson until the evening. She finished her work about the house a little after eight o'clock, and then she undressed the children and put them to bed. By this time it was nearly nine o'clock. The day had been warm and pleasant, but the nights at this season were cool, and Mary Erskine put two or three dry sticks upon the fire, before she commenced her work, partly for the warmth, and partly for the cheerfulness of the blaze. She lighted her lamp, and sat down at her work-table, with Mary Bell's copy, and her pen, ink, and paper, before her. The copy had been pinned up in sight all the day, and she had very often examined it, when passing it, in going to and fro at her work. She had thus learned the names of all the letters in the word Mary, and had made herself considerably familiar with the forms of them; so that she not only knew exactly what she had to do in writing the letters, but she felt a strong interest in doing it. She, however, made extremely awkward work in her first attempts at writing the letters. She, nevertheless, steadily persevered. She wrote the words, first in separate letters, and then afterwards in a joined hand, again and again, going down the paper. She found that she could write a little more easily, if not better, as she proceeded,--but still the work was very hard. At ten o'clock her paper was covered with what she thought were miserable scrawls, and her wrist and her fingers ached excessively. She put her work away, and prepared to go to bed. "Perhaps I shall have to give it up after all," said she. "But I will not give up till I am beaten. I will write an hour every day for six months, and then if I can not write my name so that people can read it, I will stop." The next day about an hour after breakfast Mary Erskine had another school for the children. Bella took the two next letters _c_ and _d_ for her lesson, while Mary Bell took the swing hanging from the branch of the tree in the picture-book, for the subject of her second drawing. Before beginning her work, she studied all the touches by which the drawing was made in the book, with great attention and care, in order that she might imitate them as precisely as possible. She succeeded very well indeed in this second attempt. The swing made even a prettier picture than the house. When it was finished she cut the paper out, of the same size with the other, drew a border around it, and marked it No. 2. She went on in this manner every day as long as she remained at Mary Erskine's, drawing a new picture every day. At last, when she went home, Mary Erskine put all her drawings up together, and Mary Bell carried them home to show them to her mother. This was the beginning of Mary Bell's drawing. As for Mary Erskine, her second lesson was the word _Erskine_, which she found a great deal harder to write than Mary. There was one thing, however, that pleased her in it, which was that there was one letter which she knew already, having learned it in Mary: that was the _r_. All the rest of the letters, however, were new, and she had to practice writing the word two evenings before she could write it well, without looking at the copy. She then thought that probably by that time she had forgotten _Mary_; but on trying to write that word, she was very much pleased to find that she could write it much more easily than she could before. This encouraged her, and she accordingly took Forester for her third lesson without any fear of forgetting the Mary and the Erskine. The Forester lesson proved to be a very easy one. There were only three new letters in it, and those three were very easy to write. In fine, at the end of the four days, when Mary Bell was to go home, Mary Erskine could read, write, and spell her name very respectably well. Mrs. Bell came herself for Mary when the time of her visit expired. She was very much pleased to learn how good a girl and how useful her daughter had been. She was particularly pleased with her drawings. She said that she had been very desirous to have Mary learn to draw, but that she did not know it was possible to make so good a beginning without a teacher. "Why I _had_ a teacher," said Mary Bell. "I think that Mary Erskine is a teacher; and a very good one besides." "I think so too," said Mrs. Bell. The children went out to get some wild flowers for Mary Bell to carry home, and Mrs. Bell then asked Mary if she had begun to consider what it was best for her to do. "Yes," said Mary Erskine. "I think it will be best for me to sell the farm, and the new house, and all the stock, and live here in this house with my children." Mrs. Bell did not answer, but seemed to be thinking whether this would be the best plan or not. "The children cannot go to school from here," said Mrs. Bell. "No," said Mary Erskine, "but I can teach them myself, I think, till they are old enough to walk to the school-house. I find that I can learn the letters faster than Bella can, and that without interfering with my work; and Mary Bell will come out here now and then and tell us what we don't know." "Yes," said Mrs. Bell, "I shall be glad to have her come as often as you wish. But it seems to me that you had better move into the village. Half the money that the farm and the stock will sell for, will buy you a very pleasant house in the village, and the interest on the other half, together with what you can earn, will support you comfortably." "Yes," said Mary Erskine, "but then I should be growing poorer, rather than richer, all the time; and when my children grow large, and I want the money for them, I shall find that I have spent it all. Now if I stay here in this house, I shall have no rent to pay, nor shall I lose the interest of a part of my money, as I should if I were to buy a house in the village with it to live in myself. I can earn enough here too by knitting, and by spinning and weaving, for all that we shall want while the children are young. I can keep a little land with this house, and let Thomas, or some other such boy live with me, and raise such things as we want to eat; and so I think I can get along very well, and put out all the money which I get from the farm and the stock, at interest. In ten or fifteen years it will be two thousand dollars. Then I shall be rich, and can move into the village without any danger. "Not two thousand dollars!" said Mrs. Bell. "Yes," said Mary Erskine, "if I have calculated it right." "Why, how much do you think the farm and stock will sell for?" asked Mrs. Bell. "About eight hundred dollars," said Mary Erskine. "That put out at interest will double in about twelve years." "Very well," rejoined Mrs. Bell, "but that makes only sixteen hundred dollars." "But then I think that I can lay up half a dollar a week of my own earnings, especially when Bella gets a little bigger so as to help me about the house," said Mary Erskine. "Well;" said Mrs. Bell. "That," continued Mary Erskine, "will be twenty-five dollars a year. Which will be at least three hundred dollars in twelve years." "Very well," said Mrs. Bell, "that makes nineteen hundred." "Then," continued Mary Erskine, "I thought that at the end of the twelve years I should be able to sell this house and the land around it for a hundred dollars, especially if I take good care of the buildings in the mean while." "And that makes your two thousand dollars," said Mrs. Bell. "Yes," replied Mary Erskine. "But suppose you are sick." "Oh, if I am sick, or if I die," rejoined Mary Erskine, "of course that breaks up all my plans. I know I can't plan against calamities." "Well," said Mrs. Bell, rising from her seat with a smile of satisfaction upon her countenance, "I can't advise you. But if ever I get into any serious trouble, I shall come to you to advise me." So bidding Mary Erskine good-bye, Mrs. Bell called her daughter, and they went together toward their home. CHAPTER IX. GOOD MANAGEMENT. Whenever any person dies, leaving property to be divided among his heirs, and not leaving any valid will to determine the mode of division, the property as has already been said, must be divided on certain principles, established by the law of the land, and under the direction of the Judge of Probate, who has jurisdiction over the county in which the property is situated. The Judge of Probate appoints a person to take charge of the property and divide it among the heirs. This person is called the administrator, or, if a woman, the administratrix. The Judge gives the administrator or the administratrix a paper, which authorises him or her to take charge of the property, which paper is called, "Letters of Administration." The letters of administration are usually granted to the wife of the deceased, or to his oldest son, or, if there is no wife or son, to the nearest heir who is of proper age and discretion to manage the trust. The person who receives administration is obliged to take a solemn oath before the Judge of Probate, that he will report to the Judge a full account of all the property that belonged to the deceased which shall come to his knowledge. The Judge also appoints three persons to go and examine the property, and make an inventory of it, and appraise every article, so as to know as nearly as possible, how much and what property there is. These persons are called appraisers. The inventory which they make out is lodged in the office of the Judge of Probate, where any person who has an interest in the estate can see it at any time. The administrator usually keeps a copy of the inventory besides. If among the property left by a person deceased, which is to go in part to children, there are any houses and lands,--a kind of property which is called in law _real estate_, to distinguish it from moveable property, which is called _personal estate_,--such real estate cannot be sold, in ordinary cases, by the administrator, without leave from the Judge of Probate. This leave the Judge of Probate will give in cases where it is clearly best for the children that the property should be so sold and the _avails of it_ kept for them, rather than the property itself. All these things Mrs. Bell explained to Mary Erskine, having learned about them herself some years before when her own husband died. Accordingly, a few weeks after Albert died, Mary Erskine went one day in a wagon, taking the baby with her, and Thomas to drive, to the county town, where the Probate court was held. [Illustration: GOING TO COURT.] At the Probate court, Mary Erskine made all the arrangements necessary in respect to the estate. She had to go twice, in fact, before all these arrangements were completed. She expected to have a great deal of trouble and embarrassment in doing this business, but she did not find that there was any trouble at all. The Judge of Probate told her exactly what to do. She was required to sign her name once or twice to papers. This she did with great trepidation, and after writing her name, on the first occasion which occurred requiring her signature, she apologized for not being able to write any better. The Judge of Probate said that very few of the papers that he received were signed so well. Mary Erskine was appointed administratrix, and the Judge gave her a paper which he said was her "Letters of Administration." What the Judge gave to her seemed to be only one paper, but she thought it probable, as the Judge said "Letters" that there was another inside. When she got home, however, and opened the paper she found that there was only one. She could not read it herself, her studies having yet extended no farther than to the writing of her name. The first time, however, that Mary Bell came to see her, after she received this document, she asked Mary Bell to read it to her. Mary Bell did so, but after she had got through, Mary Erskine said that she could not understand one word of it from beginning to end. Mary Bell said that that was not strange, for she believed that lawyers' papers were only meant for lawyers to understand. The appraisers came about this time to make an inventory of the property. They went all over the house and barns, and took a complete account of every thing that they found. They made a list of all the oxen, sheep, cows, horses, and other animals, putting down opposite to each one, their estimate of its value. They did the same with the vehicles, and farming implements, and utensils, and also with all the household furniture, and the provisions and stores. When they had completed the appraisement they added up the amount, and found that the total was a little over four hundred dollars, Mary Erskine was very much surprised to find that there was so much. The appraisers then told Mary Erskine that half of that property was hers, and the other half belonged to the children; and that as much of their half as was necessary for their support could be used for that purpose, and the rest must be paid over to them when they became of age. They said also that she or some one else must be appointed their guardian, to take care of their part of the property; and that the guardian could either keep the property as it was, or sell it and keep the money as she thought would be most for the interest of the children; and that she had the same power in respect to her own share. Mary Erskine said that she thought it would be best for her to sell the stock and farming tools, because she could not take care of them nor use them, and she might put the money out at interest. The appraisers said they thought so too. In the end, Mary Erskine was appointed guardian. The idea appeared strange to her at first of being _appointed_ guardian to her own children, as it seemed to her that a mother naturally and necessarily held that relation to her offspring. But the meaning of the law, in making a mother the guardian of her children by appointment in such a case as this, is simply to authorize her to take care of _property_ left to them, or descending to them. It is obvious that cases must frequently occur in which a mother, though the natural guardian of her children so far as the personal care of them is concerned, would not be properly qualified to take charge of any considerable amount of property coming to them. When the mother is qualified to take this charge, she can be duly authorized to do it; and this is the appointment to the guardianship--meaning the guardianship of the property to which the appointment refers. Mary Erskine was accordingly appointed guardian of the children, and she obtained leave to sell the farm. She decided that it would be best to sell it as she thought, after making diligent enquiry, that she could not depend on receiving any considerable annual rent for it, if she were to attempt to let it. She accordingly sold the farm, with the new house, and all the stock,--excepting that she reserved from the farm ten acres of land around her own house, and one cow, one horse, two pigs, and all the poultry. She also reserved all the household furniture. These things she took as a part of her portion. The purchase money for all the rest amounted to nine hundred and fifty dollars. This sum was considerably more than Mary Erskine had expected to receive. The question now was what should be done with this money. There are various modes which are adopted for investing such sums so as to get an annual income from them. The money may be lent to some person who will take it and pay interest for it. A house may be bought and let to some one who wishes to hire it; or shares in a rail-road, or a bank, or a bridge, may be taken. Such kinds of property as those are managed by directors, who take care of all the profits that are made, and twice a year divide the money among the persons that own the shares. Mary Erskine had a great deal of time for enquiry and reflection in respect to the proper mode of investing her money, for the man who purchased the farm and the stock was not to pay the money immediately. The price agreed upon for the farm, including of course the new house, was five hundred dollars. The stock, farming utensils, &c, which he took with it, came to three hundred and sixty dollars. The purchaser was to pay, of this money, four hundred dollars in three months, and the balance in six months. Mary Erskine, therefore, had to make provision for investing the four hundred dollars first. She determined, after a great deal of consideration and inquiry, to lay out this money in buying four shares in the Franconia bridge. These shares were originally one hundred dollars each, but the bridge had become so profitable on account of the number of persons that passed it, and the amount of money which was consequently collected for tolls, that the shares would sell for a hundred and ten dollars each. This ten dollars advance over the original price of the shares, is called _premium_. Upon the four shares which Mary Erskine was going to buy, the premium would be of course forty dollars. This money Mary Erskine concluded to borrow. Mr. Keep said that he would very gladly lend it to her. Her plan was to pay the borrowed money back out of the dividends which she would receive from her bridge shares. The dividend was usually five per centum, or, as they commonly called it, _five per cent._, that is, five dollars on every share of a hundred dollars every six months.[A] The dividend on the four shares would, of course, be twenty dollars, so that it would take two dividends to pay off the forty dollar debt to Mr. Keep, besides a little interest. When this was done, Mary Erskine would have property in the bridge worth four hundred and forty dollars, without having used any more than four hundred dollars of her farm money, and she would continue to have forty dollars a year from it, as long as she kept it in her possession. [Footnote A: _Per_ is a Latin word meaning _for_, and _centum_ another meaning _a hundred_.] When the rest of the money for the farm was paid, Mary Erskine resolved on purchasing a certain small, but very pleasant house with it. This house was in the village, and she found on inquiry, that it could be let to a family for fifty dollars a year. It is true that a part of this fifty dollars would have to be expended every year in making repairs upon the house, so as to keep it in good order; such as painting it from time to time, and renewing the roof when the shingles began to decay, and other similar things. But, then, Mary Erskine found, on making a careful examination, that after expending as much of the money which she should receive for the rent of her house, as should be necessary for the repairs, she should still have rather more than she would receive from the money to be invested, if it was put out at interest by lending it to some person who wanted to borrow it. So she decided to buy the house in preference to adopting any other plan. It happened that the house which Mary Erskine thus determined to buy, was the very one that Mr. Gordon lived in. The owner of the house wished to sell it, and offered it first to Mr. Gordon; but he said that he was not able to buy it. He had been doing very well in his business, but his expenses were so great, he said, that he had not any ready money at command. He was very sorry, he added, that the owner wished to sell the house, for whoever should buy it, would want to come and live in it, he supposed, and he should be obliged to move away. The owner said that he was sorry, but that he could not help it. A few days after this, Mr. Gordon came home one evening, and told Anne Sophia, with a countenance expressive of great surprise and some little vexation, that her old friend, Mrs. Forester, had bought their house, and was going to move into it. Anne Sophia was amazed at this intelligence, and both she and her husband were thrown into a state of great perplexity and trouble. The next morning Anne Sophia went out to see Mary Erskine about it. Mary Erskine received her in a very kind and cordial manner. "I am very glad to see you," said Mary Erskine. "I was coming to your house myself in a day or two, about some business, if you had not come here." "Yes," said Anne Sophia. "I understand that you have been buying our house away from over our heads, and are going to turn us out of house and home." "Oh, no," said Mary Erskine, smiling, "not at all. In the first place, I have not really bought the house yet, but am only talking about it; and in the second place, if I buy it, I shall not want it myself, but shall wish to have you live in it just as you have done." "You will not want it yourself!" exclaimed Anne Sophia, astonished. "No," said Mary Erskine, "I am only going to buy it as an investment." There were so many things to be astonished at in this statement, that Anne Sophia hardly knew where to begin with her wonder. First, she was surprised to learn that Mary Erskine had so much money. When she heard that she had bought the house, she supposed of course that she had bought it on credit, for the sake of having a house in the village to live in. Then she was amazed at the idea of any person continuing to live in a log house in the woods, when she had a pretty house of her own in the middle of the village. She could not for some time be satisfied that Mary Erskine was in earnest in what she said. But when she found that it was really so, she went away greatly relieved. Mary Erskine told her that she had postponed giving her final answer about buying the house, in order first to see Mr. Gordon, to know whether he had any objection to the change of ownership. She knew, of course, that Mr. Gordon would have no right to object, but she rightly supposed that he would be gratified at having her ask him the question. Mary Erskine went on after this for two or three years very prosperously in all her affairs. Thomas continued to live with her, in her log-house, and to cultivate the land which she had retained. In the fall and winter, when there was nothing to be done in the fields or garden, he was accustomed to work in the shop, making improvements for the house, such as finishing off the stoop into another room, to be used for a kitchen, making new windows to the house, and a regular front door, and in preparing fences and gates to be put up around the house. He made an aqueduct, too, to conduct the water from a new spring which he discovered at a place higher than the house, and so brought a constant stream of water into the kitchen which he had made in the stoop. The stumps, too, in the fields around the house, gradually decayed, so that Thomas could root them out and smooth over the ground where they had stood. Mary Erskine's ten acres thus became very smooth and beautiful. It was divided by fences into very pleasant fields, with green lanes shaded by trees, leading from one place to another. The brook flowed through this land along a very beautiful valley, and there were groves and thickets here and there, both along the margin of the brook, and in the corners of the fields, which gave to the grounds a very sheltered, as well as a very picturesque expression. Mary Erskine also caused trees and shrubbery to be planted near the house, and trained honey-suckles and wild roses upon a trellis over the front door. All these improvements were made in a very plain and simple manner, and at very little expense, and yet there was so much taste exercised in the arrangement of them all, that the effect was very agreeable in the end. The house and all about it formed, in time, an enchanting picture of rural beauty.[A] [Footnote A: See Frontispiece.] It was, however, only a few occasional hours of recreation that Mary Erskine devoted to ornamenting her dwelling. The main portion of her time and attention was devoted to such industrial pursuits as were most available in bringing in the means of support for herself and her children, so as to leave untouched the income from her house and her bridge shares. This income, as fast as it was paid in, she deposited with Mr. Keep, to be lent out on interest, until a sufficient sum was thus accumulated to make a new investment of a permanent character. When the sum at length amounted to two hundred and twenty dollars, she bought two more bridge shares with it, and from that time forward she received dividends on six shares instead of four; that is, she received thirty dollars every six months, instead of twenty, as before. One reason why Mary Erskine invested her money in a house and in a bridge, instead of lending it out at interest, was that by so doing, her property was before her in a visible form, and she could take a constant pleasure in seeing it. Whenever she went to the village she enjoyed seeing her house, which she kept in a complete state of repair, and which she had ornamented with shrubbery and trees, so that it was a very agreeable object to look upon of itself, independently of the pleasure of ownership. In the same manner she liked to see the bridge, and think when teams and people were passing over it, that a part of all the toll which they paid, would, in the end, come to her. She thus took the same kind of pleasure in having purchased a house, and shares in a bridge, that any lady in a city would take in an expensive new carpet, or a rosewood piano, which would cost about the same sum; and then she had all the profit, in the shape of the annual income, besides. There was one great advantage too which Mary Erskine derived from owning this property, which, though she did not think of it at all when she commenced her prudent and economical course, at the time of her marriage, proved in the end to be of inestimable value to her. This advantage was the high degree of respectability which it gave her in the public estimation. The people of the village gradually found out how she managed, and how fast her property was increasing, and they entertained for her a great deal of that kind of respect which worldly prosperity always commands. The store-keepers were anxious to have her custom. Those who had money to lend were always very ready to let her have it, if at any time she wished to make up a sum for a new investment: and all the ladies of the village were willing that their daughters should go out to her little farm to visit Bella, and to have Bella visit them in return. Thus Mary Erskine found that she was becoming quite an important personage. Her plan of teaching herself and her children succeeded perfectly. By the time that she had thoroughly learned to write her own name, she knew half of the letters of the alphabet, for her name contained nearly that number. She next learned to write her children's names, Bella Forester and Albert Forester. After that, she learned to write the names of all the months, and to read them when she had written them. She chose the names of the months, next after the names of her own family, so that she might be able to date her letters if she should ever have occasion to write any. Mary Bell set copies for her, when she came out to see her, and Mary Erskine went on so much faster than Bella, that she could teach her very well. She required Bella to spend an hour at her studies every day. Thomas made a little desk for her, and her mother bought her a slate and a pencil, and in process of time an arithmetic, and other books. As soon as Mary Erskine could read fluently, Mary Bell used to bring out books to her, containing entertaining stories. At first Mary Bell would read these stories to her once, while she was at her work, and then Mary Erskine, having heard Mary Bell read them, could read them herself in the evening without much difficulty. At length she made such progress that she could read the stories herself alone, the first time, with very little trouble. Thus things went on in a very pleasant and prosperous manner, and this was the condition of Mary Erskine and of her affairs, at the time when Malleville and Phonny went to pay her their visit, as described in the first chapter of this volume. CHAPTER X. THE VISIT TO MARY ERSKINE'S. Malleville and Phonny arrived at Mary Erskine's about an hour after Beechnut left them. They met with no special adventures by the way, except that when they reached the great pine-tree, Phonny proposed to climb up, for the purpose of examining a small bunch which he saw upon one of the branches, which he thought was a bird's nest. It was the same pine-tree that marked the place at which a road branched off into the woods, where Mary Bell had lost her way, several years before. Malleville was very unwilling to have Phonny climb up upon such a high tree, but Phonny himself was very desirous to make the attempt. There was a log fence at the foot of the tree, and the distance was not very great from the uppermost log of the fence, to the lowermost branch of the tree. So Phonny thought that he could get up without any difficulty. Malleville was afraid to have him try, and she said that if he did, he would be acting just as foolish as the boy that Beechnut had told them about, who nipped his own nose; and that she should not stop to see him do any such foolishness. So she walked along as fast as she could go. Phonny unfortunately was rendered only the more determined to climb the tree by Malleville's opposition. He accordingly mounted up to the top of the fence, and thence reaching the lower branches of the tree he succeeded at length, by dint of much scrambling and struggling, in lifting himself up among them. He climbed out to the limb where he had seen the appearances of a bird's nest, but found to his disappointment that there was no bird's nest there. The bunch was only a little tuft of twigs growing out together. Phonny then began to shout out for Malleville to wait for him. "Mal--le--ville! Mal--le--ville!" said he. "Wait a minute for me. I am coming down." He did not like to be left there all alone, in the gloomy and solitary forest. So he made all the haste possible in descending. There are a great many accidents which may befall a boy in coming down a tree. The one which Phonny was fated to incur in this instance, was to catch his trowsers near the knee, in a small sharp twig which projected from a branch, and tear them. When he reached the ground he looked at the rent in dismay. He was generally nice and particular about his clothes, and he was very unwilling to go to Mary Erskine's, and let her and Bella see him in such a plight. He was equally unwilling to go home again, and to lose his visit. "Provoking!" said he. "That comes from Malleville's hurrying me so. It is all her fault." Then starting off suddenly, he began to run, shouting out, "Malleville! Malleville!" At length, when he got pretty near her, he called out for her to stop and see what she had made him do. "Did I make you do that?" said Malleville, looking at the rent, while Phonny stood with his foot extended, and pointing at it with his finger. "Yes," said Phonny,--"because you hurried me." "Well, I'm sorry;" said Malleville, looking very much concerned. Phonny was put quite to a nonplus by this unexpected answer. He had expected to hear Malleville deny that it was her fault that he had torn his clothes, and was prepared to insist strenuously that it was; but this unlooked-for gentleness seemed to leave him not a word to say. So he walked along by the side of Malleville in silence. "Was it a pretty bird's-nest?" said Malleville in a conciliatory tone, after a moment's pause. "No," said Phonny. "It was not any bird's nest at all." When the children reached the farm as they called it, Mary Erskine seated Phonny on the bed, and then drawing up her chair near to him, she took his foot in her lap and mended the rent so neatly that there was afterwards no sign of it to be seen. Little Albert was at this time about three years old, and Bella was seven. Phonny, while Mary Erskine was mending his clothes, asked where the children were. Mary Erskine said that they had gone out into the fields with Thomas, to make hay. So Phonny and Malleville, after getting proper directions in respect to the way that they were to go, set off in pursuit of them. They went out at a back-door which led to a beautiful walk under a long trellis, which was covered with honey-suckles and roses. Malleville stopped to get a rose, and Phonny to admire two humming-birds that were playing about the honey-suckles. He wished very much that he could catch one of them, but he could not even get near them. From the end of the trellis's walk the children entered a garden, and at the back side of the garden they went through a narrow place between two posts into a field. They walked along the side of this field, by a very pleasant path with high green grass and flowers on one side, and a wall with a great many raspberry bushes growing by it, and now and then little thickets of trees, on the other. The bushes and trees made the walk that they were going in very cool and shady. There were plenty of raspberries upon the bushes, but they were not yet ripe. Phonny said that when the raspberries were ripe he meant to come out to Mary Erskine's again and get some. Presently the children turned a sort of a corner which was formed by a group of trees, and then they came in sight of the hay-making party. "Oh, they have got the horse and cart," said Phonny. So saying he set off as fast he could run, toward the hay-makers, Malleville following him. The horse and cart were standing in the middle of the field among the numerous winrows of hay. The two children of Mrs. Forester, Bella and Albert, were in the cart, treading down the hay as fast as Thomas pitched it up. As soon as Phonny and Malleville reached the place, Malleville stood still with her hands behind her, looking at the scene with great interest and pleasure. Phonny wanted to know if Thomas had not got another pitch-fork, so that he might help him pitch up the hay. Thomas said, no. He, however, told Phonny that he might get into the cart if he pleased, and drive the horse along when it was time to go to a new place. Phonny was extremely pleased with this plan. He climbed into the cart, Bella helping him up by a prodigious lift which she gave him, seizing him by the shoulder as he came up. Malleville was afraid to get into the cart at all, but preferred walking along the field and playing among the winrows. Phonny drove along from place to place as Thomas directed him, until at length the cart was so full that it was no longer safe for the children to remain upon the top. They then slid down the hay to the ground, Thomas receiving them so as to prevent any violent fall. Thomas then forked up as much more hay as he could make stay upon the top of his load, and when this was done, he set out to go to the barn. The children accompanied him, walking behind the cart. When the party reached the barn, the children went inside to a place which Phonny called the bay. Thomas drove his cart up near the side of the barn without, and began to pitch the hay in through a great square window, quite high up. The window opened into the bay, so that the hay, when Thomas pitched it in, fell down into the place where the children were standing. They jumped upon it, when it came down, with great glee. As every new forkful which Thomas pitched in came without any warning except the momentary darkening of the window, it sometimes fell upon the children's heads and half buried them, each new accident of this kind awakening, as it occurred, loud and long continued bursts of laughter. After getting in two or three loads of hay in this manner, dinner time came, and the whole party went in to dinner. They found when they entered the house that Mary Erskine had been frying nut-cakes and apple-turnovers for them. There was a large earthen pan full of such things, and there were more over the fire. There were also around the table four bowls full of very rich looking milk, with a spoon in each bowl, and a large supply of bread, cut into very small pieces, upon a plate near the bowls. The children were all hungry and thirsty, and they gathered around the table to eat the excellent dinner which Mary Erskine had provided for them, with an air of great eagerness and delight. After their dinner was over, Mary Erskine said that they might go out and play for half an hour, and that then she would go with them into the fields, and see if they could not find some strawberries. Accordingly, when the time arrived, they all assembled at the door, and Mary Erskine came out, bringing mugs and baskets to put the strawberries in. There were four mugs made, of tin; such as were there called _dippers_. There were two pretty large baskets besides, both covered. Mary Erskine gave to each of the children a dipper, and carried the baskets herself. She seemed to carry them very carefully, and they appeared to be heavy, as if there might be something inside. Phonny wanted very much to know what there was in those baskets. Mary Erskine said he must guess. "Some cake," said Phonny. "Guess again," said Mary Erskine. "Apples," said Phonny. "Guess again," said Mary Erskine. "Why, have not I guessed right yet?" asked Phonny. "I can't tell you," replied Mary Erskine. "Only you may guess as much as you please." Phonny of course gave up guessing, since he was not to be told whether he guessed right or not; though he said he was sure that it was cake, or else, perhaps, some of the turn-overs. The party walked along by very pleasant paths until they came to a field by the side of the brook. There were trees along the banks of the brook, under which, and near the water, there were a great many cool and shady places that were very pleasant. Mary Erskine led the way down to one of these where there was a large flat stone near the water. She hid her two baskets in the bushes, and then directed the children to go up into the field with her and get the strawberries. The strawberries were not only very abundant, but also very large and ripe. Mary Erskine said that they might all eat ten, but no more. All that they got, except ten, they must put into their dippers, until the dippers were full. She herself went busily at work, finding strawberries and putting them into the dippers of the children, sometimes into one and sometimes into another. In a short time the dippers were full. The whole party then went back to the brook and sat down upon the great flat stone, with their dippers before them. Mary Erskine then brought out one of her baskets, and lifting up the cover, she took out five saucers and five spoons. "There," said she, "I brought you some saucers and spoons to eat your strawberries with. Now take up the bunches from your dippers, and pull off the strawberries from the stems, and put them in the saucers." While the children were all busily engaged in doing this, Mary Erskine opened the other basket, and took out a pitcher of very rich looking cream. The sight of this treasure of course awakened in all the party the utmost enthusiasm and delight. They went on hulling their strawberries very industriously, and were soon ready, one after another, to have the cream poured over them, which Mary Erskine proceeded to do, giving to each one of the children a very abundant supply. [Illustration: THE STRAWBERRY PARTY.] Phonny finished his strawberries first, and then went to the margin of the brook to look into the water, in order, as he said, "to see if he could see any fishes." He did see several, and became greatly excited in consequence, calling eagerly upon the rest of the party to come down and look. He said that he wished very much that he had a fishing-line. Mary Erskine said that Thomas had a fishing-line, which he would lend him, she had no doubt; and away Phonny went, accordingly, to find Thomas and to get the line. This procedure was not quite right on Phonny's part. It is not right to abandon one's party under such circumstances as these, for the sake of some new pleasure accidentally coming into view, which the whole party cannot share. Besides, Phonny left his dipper for Mary Erskine or Malleville to carry up, instead of taking care of it himself. Mary Erskine, however, said that this was of no consequence, as she could carry it just as well as not. Mary Erskine and the three remaining children, then went back to the house, where Bella and Malleville amused themselves for half an hour in building houses with the blocks in Thomas's shop, when all at once Malleville was surprised to see Beechnut coming in. Beechnut, was returning from the mill, and as the children had had to walk nearly all the way to Mary Erskine's, he thought it very probable that they would be too tired to walk back again. So he had left his horse and wagon at the corner, and had walked out to the farm to take the children home with him, if they were ready to go. "I am not _ready_ to go," said Malleville, after having heard this story, but I _will_ go for the sake of the ride. I am too tired to walk all the way. But Phonny is not here. He has gone a-fishing." "Where has he gone?" said Beechnut. "Down to the brook," replied Malleville. "I will go and find him," said Beechnut. So saying, Beechnut left the shop, went out into the yard, and began to walk down the path which led toward the brook. Very soon he saw Phonny coming out from among the bushes with his pole over his shoulder, and walking along with quite a disconsolate air. Beechnut sat down upon a log by the side of the road, to wait for him. "Did you catch any fishes?" said Beechnut, as Phonny approached him. "No," said Phonny, despondingly. "I am glad of that," said Beechnut. "Glad!" said Phonny, looking up surprised, and somewhat displeased. "What are you glad for?" "For the sake of the fishes," said Beechnut. "Hoh!" said Phonny. "And the other day, when I did catch some, you said you were glad of that." "Yes," said Beechnut, "then I was glad for your sake. There is always a chance to be glad for some sake or other, happen what may." This, though very good philosophy, did not appear to be just at that time at all satisfactory to Phonny. "I have had nothing but ill-luck all this afternoon," said Phonny, in a pettish tone. "That great ugly black horse of Thomas's trod on my foot." "Did he?" said Beechnut; his countenance brightening up at the same time, as if Phonny had told him some good news. "Yes," said Phonny, "Thomas came along near where I was fishing, and I laid down my fishing-line, and went up to the horse, and was standing by his head, and he trod on my foot dreadfully." "Did he?" said Beechnut, "I am very glad of that." "Glad of that!" repeated Phonny. "I don't see whose sake you can be glad of that for. I am sure it did not do the horse any good." "I am glad of that for your sake," said Beechnut. "There never was a boy that grew up to be a man, that did not have his foot trod upon at some time or other by a horse. There is no other possible way for them to learn that when a horse takes up his foot, he will put it down again wherever it happens, and if a boy's foot is under it, it will get trod upon. There is no possible way for boys to learn that but by experiencing it. The only difference is, that some boys take the treading light, and others get it heavy. You have got it light. So if you have only learned the lesson, you have learned it very easily, and so I am glad." "No, it was not light," said Phonny. "It was very heavy. What makes you think it was light?" "By your walking," replied Beechnut. "I have known some boys that when they took their lesson in keeping out of the way of horses' forefeet, could not stand for a week after it. You have had most excellent luck, you may depend." By the time that Beechnut and Phonny reached the house, Malleville had put on her bonnet and was ready to go. Mary Erskine said that she would go with them a little way. Bella and Albert then wanted to go too. Their mother said that she had no objection, and so they all went along together. "Did you know that we were going to have a new road?" said Mary Erskine to Beechnut. "Are you?" asked Phonny eagerly. "Yes," said Mary Erskine. "They have laid out a new road to the corner, and are going to make it very soon. It will be a very good wagon road, and when it is made you can ride all the way. But then it will not be done in time for my raspberry party." "Your raspberry party?" repeated Phonny, "what is that?' "Did not I tell you about it? I am going to invite you and all the children in the village that I know, to come here some day when the raspberries are ripe, and have a raspberry party,--like the strawberry party that we had to-day. There are a great many raspberries on my place." "I'm _very_ glad," said Malleville. "When are you going to invite us?" "Oh, in a week or two," said Mary Erskine. "But then the new road will not be done until the fall. They have just begun it. We can hear them working upon it in one place, pretty soon." The party soon came to the place which Mary Erskine had referred to. It was a point where the new road came near the line of the old one, and a party of men and oxen were at work, making a causeway, across a low wet place. As the children passed along, they could hear the sound of axes and the voices of men shouting to oxen. Phonny wished very much to go and see. So Mary Erskine led the way through the woods a short distance, till they came in sight of the men at work. They were engaged in felling trees, pulling out rocks and old logs which were sunken in the mire, by means of oxen and chains, and in other similar works, making all the time loud and continual vociferations, which resounded and echoed through the forest in a very impressive manner. What interested Phonny most in these operations, was to see how patiently the oxen bore being driven about in the deep mire, and the prodigious strength which they exerted in pulling out the logs. One of the workmen would take a strong iron chain, and while two others would pry up the end of a log with crow-bars or levers, he would pass the chain under the end so raised, and then hook it together above. Another man would then back up a pair of oxen to the place, and sometimes two pairs, in order that they might be hooked to the chain which passed around the log. When all was ready, the oxen were started forward, and though they went very slowly, step by step, yet they exerted such prodigious strength as to tear the log out of its bed, and drag it off, roots, branches, and all, entirely out of the way. Monstrous rocks were lifted up and dragged out of the line of the road in much the same manner. After looking at this scene for some time, the party returned to the old road again, and there Mary Erskine said that she would bid her visitors good-bye, and telling them that she would not forget to invite them to her raspberry party, she took leave of them and went back toward her own home. "If all the children of the village that Mary Erskine knows, are invited to that party," said Phonny, "what a great raspberry party it will be!" "Yes," said Beechnut, "it will be a raspberry _jam_." THE END. 
11660	----	ETHEL MORTON'S ENTERPRISE By MABELL S.C. SMITH CONTENTS I HOW IT STARTED II A SNOW MAN AND SEED CATALOGUES III DOROTHY TELLS HER SECRET IV GARDENING ON PAPER V A DEFECT IN THE TITLE VI WILD FLOWERS FOR HELEN'S GARDEN VII COLOR SCHEMES VIII CAVE LIFE IX "NOTHING BUT LEAVES" X THE U.S.C. AND THE COMMUNITY XI THE FLOWER FESTIVAL XII ENOUGH TO GIVE AWAY XIII IN BUSINESS XIV UNCLE DAN'S RESEARCHES XV FUR AND FOSSILS XVI FAIRYLAND XVII THE MISSING HEIRESS CHAPTER I HOW IT STARTED Ethel Morton, called from the color of her eyes Ethel "Blue" to distinguish her from her cousin, also Ethel Morton, whose brown eyes gave her the nickname of Ethel "Brown," was looking out of the window at the big, damp flakes of snow that whirled down as if in a hurry to cover the dull January earth with a gay white carpet. "The giants are surely having a pillow fight this afternoon," she laughed. "In honor of your birthday," returned her cousin. "The snowflakes are really as large as feathers," added Dorothy Smith, another cousin, who had come over to spend the afternoon. All three cousins had birthdays in January. The Mortons always celebrated the birthdays of every member of the family, but since there were three in the same month they usually had one large party and noticed the other days with less ceremony. This year Mrs. Emerson, Ethel Brown's grandmother, had invited the whole United Service Club, to which the girls belonged, to go to New York on a day's expedition. They had ascended the Woolworth Tower, gone through the Natural History Museum, seen the historic Jumel Mansion, lunched at a large hotel and gone to the Hippodrome. Everybody called it a perfectly splendid party, and Ethel Blue and Dorothy were quite willing to consider it as a part of their own birthday observances. Next year it would be Dorothy's turn. This year her party had consisted merely in taking her cousins on an automobile ride. A similar ride had been planned for Ethel Blue's birthday, but the giants had plans of their own and the young people had had to give way to them. Dorothy had come over to spend the afternoon and dine with her cousins, however. She lived just around the corner, so her mother was willing to let her go in spite of the gathering drifts, because Roger, Ethel Brown's older brother, would be able to take her home such a short distance, even if he had to shovel a path all the way. The snow was so beautiful that they had not wanted to do anything all the afternoon but gaze at it. Dicky, Ethel Brown's little brother, who was the "honorary member" of the U.S.C., had come in wanting to be amused, and they had opened the window for an inch and brought in a few of the huge flakes which grew into ferns and starry crystals under the magnifying glass that Mrs. Morton always kept on the desk. "Wouldn't it be fun if our eyeth could thee thingth like that!" exclaimed Dicky, and the girls agreed with him that it would add many marvels to our already marvellous world. "As long as our eyes can't see the wee things I'm glad Aunt Marion taught us to use this glass when we were little," said Ethel Blue who had been brought up with her cousins ever since she was a baby. "Mother says that when she and Uncle Roger and Uncle Richard," said Dorothy, referring to Ethel Brown's and Ethel Blue's fathers, her uncles--"were all young at home together Grandfather Morton used to make them examine some new thing every day and tell him about it. Sometimes it would be the materials a piece of clothing was made of, or the paper of a magazine or a flower--anything that came along." [Illustration: "It looked just as if it were a house with a lot of rooms"] "When I grow up," said Ethel Blue, "I'm going to have a large microscope like the one they have in the biology class in the high school. Helen took me to the class with her one day and the teacher let me look through it. It was perfectly wonderful. There was a slice of the stem of a small plant there and it looked just as if it were a house with a lot of rooms. Each room was a cell, Helen said." "A very suitable name," commented Ethel Brown. "What are you people talking about?" asked Helen, who came in at that instant. "I was telling the girls about that time when I looked through the high school microscope," answered Ethel Blue. [Illustration: Single Cell] [Illustration: Double Cell] "You saw among other things, some cells in the very lowest form of life. A single cell is all there is to the lowest animal or vegetable." [Illustration: Multiple Cells] "What do you mean by a single cell?" "Just a tiny mass of jelly-like stuff that is called protoplasm. The cells grow larger and divide until there are a lot of them. That's the way plants and animals grow." "If each is as small as those I saw under the microscope there must be billions in me!" and Ethel Blue stretched her arms to their widest extent and threw her head upwards as far as her neck would allow. "I guess there are, young woman," and Helen went off to hang her snowy coat where it would dry before she put it in the closet. "There'th a thnow flake that lookth like a plant!" cried Dicky who had slipped open the window wide enough to capture an especially large feather. "It really does!" exclaimed Ethel Blue, who was nearest to her little cousin and caught a glimpse of the picture through the glass before the snow melted. "Did it have 'root, stem and leaves'?" asked Dorothy. "That's what I always was taught made a plant--root, stem and leaves. Would Helen call a cell that you couldn't see a plant?" "Yes," came a faint answer from the hall. "If it's living and isn't an animal it's a vegetable--though way down in the lower forms it's next to impossible to tell one from the other. There isn't any rule that doesn't have an exception." "I should think the biggest difference would be that animals eat plants and plants eat--what do plants eat?" ended Dorothy lamely. "That is the biggest difference," assented Helen. "Plants are fed by water and mineral substances that come from the soil directly, while animals get the mineral stuff by way of the plants." "Father told us once about some plants that caught insects. They eat animals." "And there are animals that eat both vegetables and animals, you and I, for instance. So you can't draw any sharp lines." "When a plant gets out of the cell stage and has a 'root, stem and leaves' then you know it's a plant if you don't before," insisted Dorothy, determined to make her knowledge useful. "Did any of you notice the bean I've been sprouting in my room?" asked Helen. "I'll get it, I'll get it!" shouted Dicky. "Trust Dicky not to let anything escape his notice!" laughed his big sister. Dicky returned in a minute or two carrying very carefully a shallow earthenware dish from which some thick yellow-green tips were sprouting. "I soaked some peas and beans last week," explained Helen, "and when they were tender I planted them. You see they're poking up their heads now." [Illustration: Bean Plant] "They don't look like real leaves," commented Ethel Blue. "This first pair is really the two halves of the bean. They hold the food for the little plant. They're so fat and pudgy that they never do look like real leaves. In other plants where there isn't so much food they become quite like their later brothers." "Isn't it queer that whatever makes the plant grow knows enough to send the leaves up and the roots down," said Dorothy thoughtfully. "That's the way the life principle works," agreed Helen. "This other little plant is a pea and I want you to see if you notice any difference between it and the bean." She pulled up the wee growth very delicately and they all bent over it as it lay in her hand. "It hathn't got fat leaveth," cried Dicky. [Illustration: The Pea Plant] "Good for Dicky," exclaimed Helen. "He has beaten you girls. You see the food in the pea is packed so tight that the pea gets discouraged about trying to send up those first leaves and gives it up as a bad job. They stay underground and do their feeding from there." "A sort of cold storage arrangement," smiled Ethel Brown. "After these peas are a little taller you'd find if you pulled them up that the supply of food had all been used up. There will be nothing down there but a husk." "What happens when this bean plant uses up all its food?" "There's nothing left but a sort of skin that drops off. You can see how it works with the bean because that is done above the ground." "Won't it hurt those plants to pull them up this way?" "It will set them back, but I planted a good many so as to be able to pull them up at different ages and see how they looked." "You pulled that out so gently I don't believe it will be hurt much." "Probably it will take a day or two for it to catch up with its neighbors. It will have to settle its roots again, you see." "What are you doing this planting for?" asked Dorothy. "For the class at school. We get all the different kinds of seeds we can--the ones that are large enough to examine easily with only a magnifying glass like this one. Some we cut open and examine carefully inside to see how the new leaves are to be fed, and then we plant others and watch them grow." "I'd like to know why you never told me about that before?" demanded Ethel Brown. "I'm going to get all the grains and fruits I can right off and plant them. Is all that stuff in a horse chestnut leaf-food?" "The horse chestnut is a hungry one, isn't it?" "I made some bulbs blossom by putting them in a tall glass in a dark place and bringing them into the light when they had started to sprout," said Ethel Blue, "but I think this is more fun. I'm going to plant some, too." "Grandmother Emerson always has beautiful bulbs. She has plenty in her garden that she allows to stay there all winter, and they come up and are scrumptious very early in the Spring. Then she takes some of them into the house and keeps them in the dark, and they blossom all through the cold weather." "Mother likes bulbs, too," said Dorothy, "crocuses and hyacinths and Chinese lilies--but I never cared much about them. Somehow the bulb itself looks too fat. I don't care much for fat things or people." "Don't think of it as fat; it's the food supply." "Well, I think they're greedy things, and I'm not going ever to bother with them. I'll leave them to Mother, but I am really going to plant a garden this summer. I think it will be loads of fun." "We haven't much room for a garden here," said Helen, "but we always have some vegetables and a few flowers." "Why don't we have a fine one this summer, Helen?" demanded Ethel Brown. "You're learning a lot about the way plants grow, I should think you'd like to grow them." "I believe I should if you girls would help me. There never has been any member of the family who was interested, and I wasn't wild about it myself, and I just never got started." "The truth is," confessed Ethel Brown, "if we don't have a good garden Dorothy here will have something that will put ours entirely in the shade." The girls all laughed. They never had known Dorothy until the previous summer. When she came to live in Rosemont in September they had learned that she was extremely energetic and that she never abandoned any plan that she attempted. The Ethels knew, therefore, that if Dorothy was going to have a garden the next summer they'd better have a garden, too, or else they would see little of her. "If we both have gardens Dorothy will condescend to come and see ours once in a while and we can exchange ideas and experiences," continued Ethel Brown. "I'd love to have a garden," said Ethel Blue. "Do you suppose Roger would be willing to dig it up for us?" "Dig up what?" asked Roger, stamping into the house in time to hear his name. The girls told him of their new plan. "I'll help all of you if you'll plant one flower that I like; plant enough of it so that I can pick a lot any time I want to. The trouble with the little garden we've had is that there weren't enough flowers for more than the centrepiece in the dining-room. Whenever I wanted any I always had to go and give a squint at the dining room table and then do some calculation as to whether there could be a stalk or two left after Helen had cut enough for the next day." "And there generally weren't any!" sympathized Helen. "What flower is it you're so crazy over?" asked Ethel Blue. "Sweetpeas, my child. Never in all my life have I had enough sweetpeas." "I've had more than enough," groaned Ethel Brown. "One summer I stayed a fortnight with Grandmother Emerson and I picked the sweetpeas for her every morning. She was very particular about having them picked because they blossom better if they're picked down every day." "It must have taken you an awfully long time; she always has rows and rows of them," said Helen. "I worked a whole hour in the sun every single day! If we have acres of sweetpeas we'll all have to help Roger pick." "I'm willing to," said Ethel Blue. "I'm like Roger, I think they're darling; just like butterflies or something with wings." "We'll have to cast our professional eyes into the garden and decide on the best place for the sweetpeas," said Roger. "They have to be planted early, you know. If we plant them just anywhere they'll be sure to be in the way of something that grows shorter so it will be hidden." "Or grows taller and is a color that fights with them." "It would be hard to find a color that wasn't matched by one sweetpea or another. They seem to be of every combination under the sun." "It's queer, some of the combinations would be perfectly hideous in a dress but they look all right in Nature's dress." "We'll send for some seedsmen's catalogues and order a lot." "I suppose you don't care what else goes into the garden?" asked Helen. "Ladies, I'll do all the digging you want, and plant any old thing you ask me to, if you'll just let me have my sweetpeas," repeated Roger. "A bargain," cried all the girls. "I'll write for some seed catalogues this afternoon," said Helen. "It's so appropriate, when it's snowing like this!" "'Take time by the fetlock,' as one of the girls says in 'Little Women,'" laughed Roger. "If you'll cast your orbs out of the window you'll see that it has almost stopped. Come on out and make a snow man." Every one jumped at the idea, even Helen who laid aside her writing until the evening, and there was a great putting on of heavy coats and overshoes and mittens. CHAPTER II A SNOW MAN AND SEED CATALOGUES The snow was of just the right dampness to make snowballs, and a snow man, after all, is just a succession of snowballs, properly placed. Roger started the one to go at the base by rolling up a ball beside the house and then letting it roll down the bank toward the gate. "See it gather moss!" he cried. "It's just the opposite of a rolling stone, isn't it?" When it stopped it was of goodly size and it was standing in the middle of the little front lawn. "It couldn't have chosen a better location," commended Helen. "We need a statue in the front yard," said Ethel Brown. "This will give a truly artistic air to the whole place," agreed Ethel Blue. "What's the next move?" asked Dorothy, who had not had much experience in this kind of manufacture. "We start over here by the fence and roll another one, smaller than this, to serve as the body," explained Roger. "Come on here and help me; this snow is so heavy it needs an extra pusher already." Dorothy lent her muscles to the task of pushing on the snow man's "torso," as Ethel Blue, who knew something about drawing figures, called it. The Ethels, meanwhile, were making the arms out of small snowballs placed one against the next and slapped hard to make them stick. Helen was rolling a ball for the head and Dicky had disappeared behind the house to hunt for a cane. "Heigho!" Roger called after him. "I saw an old clay pipe stuck behind a beam in the woodshed the other day. See if it's still there and bring it along." Dicky nodded and raised a mittened paw to indicate that he understood his instructions. It required the united efforts of Helen and Roger to set the gentleman's head on his shoulders, and Helen ran in to the cellar to get some bits of coal to make his eyes and mouth. "He hasn't any expression. Let me try to model a nose for the poor lamb!" begged Ethel Blue. "Stick on this arm, Roger, while I sculpture these marble features." By dint of patting and punching and adding a long and narrow lump of snow, one side of the head looked enough different from the other to warrant calling it the face. To make the difference more marked Dorothy broke some straws from the covering of one of the rosebushes and created hair with them. "Now nobody could mistake this being his speaking countenance," decided Helen, sticking two pieces of coal where eyes should be and adding a third for the mouth. Dicky had found the pipe and she thrust it above his lips. "Merely two-lips, not ruby lips," commented Roger. "This is an original fellow; he's 'not like other girls.'" "This cane is going to hold up his right arm; I don't feel so certain about the left," remarked Ethel Brown anxiously. "Let it fall at his side. That's some natural, anyway. He's walking, you see, swinging one arm and with the other on the top of his cane." "He'll take cold if he doesn't have something on his head. I'm nervous about him," and Dorothy bent a worried look at their creation. "Hullo," cried a voice from beyond the gate. "He's bully. Just make him a cap out of this bandanna and he'll look like a Venetian gondolier." James Hancock and his sister, Margaret, the Glen Point members of the United Service Club, came through the gate, congratulated Ethel Blue on her birthday, and paid elaborate compliments to the sculptors of the Gondolier. "That red hanky on his massive brow gives the touch of color he needed," said Margaret. "We don't maintain that his features are 'faultily faultless,'" quoted Roger, "but we do insist that they're 'icily regular.'" "Thanks to the size of the nose Ethel Blue stuck on they're not 'splendidly null.'" "No, there's no 'nullness' about that nose," agreed James. "That's 'some' nose!" When they were all in the house and preparing for dinner Ethel Blue unwrapped the gift that Margaret had brought for her birthday. It was a shallow bowl of dull green pottery in which was growing a grove of thick, shiny leaves. The plants were three or four inches tall and seemed to be in the pink of condition. "This is for the top of your Christmas desk," Margaret explained. "It's perfectly beautiful," exclaimed not only Ethel Blue but all the other girls, while Roger peered over their shoulders to see what it was. "I planted it myself," said Margaret with considerable pride. "Each one is a little grapefruit tree." "Grapefruit? What we have for breakfast? It grows like this?" "Mother has some in a larger bowl and it is really lovely as a centrepiece on the dining room table." "Watch me save grapefruit seeds!" and Ethel Brown ran out of the room to leave an immediate request in the kitchen that no grapefruit seeds should be thrown away when the fruit was being prepared for the table. "When Mr. Morton and I were in Florida last winter," said Mrs. Morton, "they told us that it was not a great number of years ago that grapefruit was planted only because it was a handsome shrub on the lawn. The fruit never was eaten, but was thrown away after it fell from the tree." "Now nobody can get enough of it," smiled Helen. "Mother has a receipt for grapefruit marmalade that is better than the English orange marmalade that is made of both sweet and sour oranges," said Dorothy. "Sometimes the sour oranges are hard to find in the market, but grapefruit seems to have both flavors in itself." "Is it much work?" asked Margaret. "It isn't much work at any one time but it takes several days to get it done." "Why?" "First you have to cut up the fruit, peel and all, into tiny slivers. That's a rather long undertaking and it's hard unless you have a very, very sharp knife." "I've discovered that in preparing them for breakfast." "The fruit are of such different sizes that you have to weigh the result of your paring. To every pound of cut-up fruit add a pint of water and let it stand over night. In the morning pour off that water and fill the kettle again and let it boil until the toughest bit of skin is soft, and then let it stand over night more." "It seems to do an awful lot of resting," remarked Roger. "A sort of 'weary Willie,'" commented James. "When you're ready to go at it again, you weigh it once more and add four times as many pounds of sugar as you have fruit." "You must have to make it in a wash-boiler!" "Not quite as bad as that, but you'll be surprised to find how much three or four grapefruit will make. You boil this together until it is as thick as you like to have your marmalade." "I can recommend Aunt Louise's marmalade," said Ethel Brown. "It's the very best I ever tasted. She taught me to make these grapefruit chips," and she handed about a bonbon dish laden with delicate strips of sugared peel. "Let's have this receipt, too," begged Margaret, as Roger went to answer the telephone. "You can squeeze out the juice and pulp and add a quart of water to a cup of juice, sweeten it and make grapefruit-ade instead of lemonade for a variety. Then take the skins and cut out all the white inside part as well as you can, leaving just the rind." "The next step must be to snip the rind into these long, narrow shavings." "It is, and you put them in cold water and let them come to a boil and boil twenty minutes. Then drain off all the water and add cold water and do it again." "What's the idea of two boilings?" asked James. "I suppose it must be to take all the bitterness out of the skin at the same time that it is getting soft." "Does this have to stand over night?" "Yes, this sits and meditates all night. Then you put it on to boil again in a syrup made of one cup of water and four cups of sugar, and boil it until the bits are all saturated with the sweetness. If you want to eat them right off you roll them now in powdered sugar or confectioner's sugar, but if you aren't in a hurry you put them into a jar and keep the air out and roll them just before you want to serve them." "They certainly are bully good," remarked James, taking several more pieces. "That call was from Tom Watkins," announced Roger, returning from the telephone, and referring to a member of the United Service Club who, with his sister, Della, lived in New York. "O dear, they can't come!" prophesied Ethel Blue. "He says he has just been telephoning to the railroad and they say that all the New Jersey trains are delayed and so Mrs. Watkins thought he'd better not try to bring Della out. She sends her love to you, Ethel Blue, and her best wishes for your birthday and says she's got a present for you that is different from any plant you ever saw in a conservatory." "That's what Margaret's is," laughed Ethel. "Isn't it queer you two girls should give me growing things when we were talking about gardens this afternoon and deciding to have one this summer." "One!" repeated Dorothy. "Don't forget mine. There'll be two." "If Aunt Louise should find a lot and start to build there'd be another," suggested Ethel Brown. "O, let's go into the gardening business," cried Roger. "I've already offered to be the laboring man at the beck and call of these young women all for the small reward of having all the sweetpeas I want to pick." "What we're afraid of is that he won't want to pick them," laughed Ethel Brown. "We're thinking of binding him to do a certain amount of picking every day." "Anyway, the Morton-Smith families are going to have gardens and Helen is going to write for seed catalogues this very night before she seeks her downy couch--she has vowed she will." "Mother has always had a successful garden, she'll be able to give you advice," offered Margaret. "We'll ask it from every one we know, I rather imagine," and Dorothy beamed at the prospect of doing something that had been one of her great desires all her life. The little thicket of grapefruit trees served as the centrepiece of Ethel Blue's dinner table, and every one admired all over again its glossy leaves and sturdy stems. "When spring comes we'll set them out in the garden and see what happens," promised Ethel Blue. "We have grapefruit salad to-night. You must have sent a wireless over to the kitchen," Ethel Brown declared to Margaret. It was a delicious salad, the cubes of the grapefruit being mixed with cubes of apple and of celery, garnished with cherries and served on crisp yellow-green lettuce leaves with French dressing. Ethel Blue always liked to see her Aunt Marion make French dressing at the table, for her white hands moved swiftly and skilfully among the ingredients. Mary brought her a bowl that had been chilled on ice. Into it she poured four tablespoonfuls of olive oil, added a scant half teaspoonful of salt with a dash of red pepper which she stirred until the salt was dissolved. To that combination she added one tablespoonful either of lemon juice or vinegar a drop at a time and stirring constantly so that the oil might take up its sharper neighbor. Dorothy particularly approved her Aunt Marion's manner of putting her salads together. To-night, for instance, she did not have the plates brought in from the kitchen with the salad already upon them. "That always reminds me of a church fair," she declared. She was willing to give herself the trouble of preparing the salad for her family and guests with her own hands. From a bowl of lettuce she selected the choicest leaves for the plate before her; upon these she placed the fruit and celery mixture, dotted the top with a cherry and poured the dressing over all. It was fascinating to watch her, and Margaret wished that her mother served salad that way. The Club was indeed incomplete without the Watkinses, but the members nevertheless were sufficiently amused by several of the "Does"--things to do--that one or another suggested. First they did shadow drawings. The dining table proved to be the most convenient spot for that. They all sat around under the strong electric light. Each had a block of rather heavy paper with a rough surface, and each was given a camel's hair brush, a bottle of ink, some water and a small saucer. From a vase of flowers and leaves and ferns which Mrs. Morton contributed to the game each selected what he wanted to draw. Then, holding his leaf so that the light threw a sharp shadow upon his pad, he quickly painted the shadow with the ink, thinning it with water upon the saucer so that the finished painting showed several shades of gray. "The beauty of this stunt is that a fellow who can't draw at all can turn out almost as good a masterpiece as Ethel Blue here, who has the makings of a real artist," and James gazed at his production with every evidence of satisfaction. As it happened none of them except Ethel Blue could draw at all well, so that the next game had especial difficulties. "All there is to it is to draw something and let us guess what it is," said Ethel Blue. "You haven't given all the rules," corrected Roger. "Ethel Blue makes two dots on a piece of paper--or a short line and a curve--anything she feels like making. Then we copy them and draw something that will include those two marks and she sits up and 'ha-has' and guesses what it is." "I promise not to laugh," said Ethel Blue. "Don't make any such rash promise," urged Helen. "You might do yourself an injury trying not to when you see mine." It was fortunate for Ethel Blue that she was released from the promise, for her guesses went wide of the mark. Ethel Brown made something that she guessed to be a hen, Roger called it a book, Dicky maintained firmly that it was a portrait of himself. The rest gave it up, and they all needed a long argument by the artist to believe that she had meant to draw a pair of candlesticks. "Somebody think of a game where Ethel Brown can do herself justice," cried James, but no one seemed to have any inspiration, so they all went to the fire, where they cracked nuts and told stories. "If you'll write those orders for the seed catalogues I'll post them to-night," James suggested to Helen. "Oh, will you? Margaret and I will write them together." "What's the rush?" demanded Roger. "This is only January." "I know just how the girls feel," sympathized James. "When I make up my mind to do a thing I want to begin right off, and the first step of this new scheme is to get the catalogues hereinbefore mentioned." "We can plan out our back yards any time, I should think," said Dorothy. "Father says that somebody--was it Bacon, Margaret?--says that a man's nature runs always either to herbs or to weeds. Let's start ours running to herbs in the first month of the year and perhaps by the time the herbs appear we'll catch up with them." CHAPTER III DOROTHY TELLS HER SECRET "How queer it is that when you're interested in something you keep seeing and hearing things connected with it!" exclaimed Ethel Blue about a week after her birthday, when Della Watkins came out from town to bring her her belated birthday gift. The present proved to be a slender hillock covered with a silky green growth exquisite in texture and color. "What is it? What is it?" cried Ethel Blue. "We mentioned plants and gardens on my birthday and that very evening Margaret brought me this grapefruit jungle and now you've brought me this. Do tell me exactly what it is." "A cone, child. That's all. A Norway spruce cone. When it is dry its scales are open. I filled them with grass seed and put the cone in a small tumbler so that the lower end might be damp all the time. The dampness makes the scales close and starts the seed to sprouting. This has been growing a few days and the cone is almost hidden." "It's one of the prettiest plants--would you call it a plant or a greenhouse?--I ever saw. Does it have to be a Norway spruce cone?" "O, no. Only they have very regular scales that hold the seed well. I brought you out two more of them and some grass seed and canary seed so you could try it for yourself." "You're a perfect duck," and Ethel gave her friend a hug. "Now let me show you what one of the girls at school gave Ethel Brown." She indicated a strange-looking brown object hanging before the window. "What in the world is it? It looks--yes, it looks like a sweet potato." "That's what it is--a sweet potato with one end cut off and a cage of tape to hold it. You see it's sprouting already, and they say that the vines hang down from it and it looks like a little green hanging basket." "What's the object of cutting off the end?" "Anna--that's Ethel Brown's friend--said that she scooped hers out just a little bit and put a few drops of water inside so that the sun shouldn't dry it too much." "I should think it would grow better in a dark place. Don't you know how Irish potatoes send out those white shoots when they're in the cellar?" "She said she started hers in the cellar and then brought them into the light." "Just like bulbs." "Exactly. Aunt Louise is having great luck with her bulbs now. She had them in the cellar and now she is bringing them out a pot at a time, so she has something new coming forward every few days." "Dorothy doesn't care much for bulbs, but I think it's pretty good fun. You can make them blossom just about when you please by keeping them in the dark or bringing them into the light. I'm going to ask Aunt Louise to give me some of hers when they're finished flowering. She says you can plant them out of doors and next year they'll bloom in the garden." "Mother has some this winter, too. I'll ask her for them after she's through forcing them." "I like them in the garden, too--tulips and hyacinths and daffodils and narcissus and, jonquils. They come so early and give you a feeling that spring really has arrived." "You look as if spring had really arrived in the house here. If there wasn't a little bit of that snow man left in front I shouldn't know it had snowed last week. How in the world did you get all these shrubs to blossom now? They don't seem to realize that it's only January." "That's another thing that's happened since my birthday. Margaret told us about bringing branches of the spring shrubs into the house and making them come out in water, so we've been trying it. She sent over those yellow bells, the Forsythia, and Roger brought in the pussy willows from the brook on the way to Mr. Emerson's." "This thorny red affair is the Japan quince, but I don't recognize these others." "That's because you're a city girl! You'll laugh when I tell you what they are." "They don't look like flowering shrubs to me." "They aren't. They're flowering trees; fruit trees!" "O-o! That really is a peach blossom, then!" "The deep pink is peach, and the delicate pink is apple and the white is plum." "They're perfectly dear. Tell me how you coaxed them out. Surely you didn't just keep them in water in this room?" "We put them in the sunniest window we had, not too near the glass, because it wouldn't do for them to run any chance of getting chilled. They stayed there as long as the sun did, and then we moved them to another warm spot and we were very careful about them at night." "How often do you change the water?" "Every two or three days; and once in a while we spray them to keep the upper part fresh--and there you are. It's _fun_ to watch them come out. Don't want to take some switches back to town with you?" Della did. "They make me think of a scheme that my Aunt Rose is putting into operation. She went round the world year before last," she said, "and she saw in Japan lots of plants growing in earthenware vases hanging against the wall or in a long bamboo cut so that small water bottles might be slipped in. She has some of the very prettiest wall decorations now--a queer looking greeny-brown pottery vase has two or three sprigs of English ivy. Another with orange tints has nasturtiums and another tradescantia." "Are they growing in water?" "The ivy and the tradescantia are, but the nasturtiums and a perfectly darling morning glory have earth. She's growing bulbs in them, too, only she doesn't use plain water or earth, just bulb fibre." "What's that?" "Why, bulbs are such fat creatures that they don't need the outside food they would get from earth; all they want is plenty of water. This fibre stuff holds enough water to keep them damp all the time, and it isn't messy in the house like dirt." "What are you girls talking about?" asked Dorothy, who came in with Ethel Brown at this moment. Both of them were interested in the addition that Della had made to their knowledge of flowers and gardening. "Every day I feel myself drawn into more and more gardening," exclaimed Dorothy. "I've set up a notebook already." "In January!" laughed Della. "January seems to be the time to do your thinking and planning; that's what the people who know tell me." "It seems to be the time for some action," retorted Della, waving her hand at the blossoming branches about the room. "Aren't they wonderful? I always knew you could bring them out quickly in the house after the buds were started out of doors, but these fellows didn't seem to be started at all--and look at them!" "Mother says they've done so well because we've been careful to keep them evenly warm," said Ethel Brown. "Dorothy's got the finest piece of news to tell you. If she doesn't tell you pretty soon I shall come out with it myself!" "O, let her tell her own secret!" remonstrated Blue. "What is it?" You know that sloping piece of ground about a quarter of a mile beyond the Clarks' on the road to Mr. Emerson's?" "You don't mean the field with the brook where Roger got the pussy willows?" "This side of it. There's a lovely view across the meadows on the other side of the road, and the land runs back to some rocks and big trees." "Certainly I know it," assented Ethel Blue. "There's a hillock on it that's the place I've chosen for a house when I grow up and build one." "Well, you can't have it because I've got there first!" "What do you mean? Has Aunt Louise--?" "She has." "How grand! How _grand_! You'll be farther away from us than you are now but it's a dear duck of a spot--" "And it's right on the way to Grandfather Emerson's," added Ethel Brown. "Mother signed the papers this morning and she's going to begin to build as soon as the weather will allow." "With peach trees in blossom now that ought not to be far off," laughed Della, waving her hand again at the blossoms that pleased her so much. "How large a house is she going to build?" asked Ethel Blue. "Not very big. Large enough for her and me and a guest or two and of course Elisabeth and Miss Merriam," referring to a Belgian baby who had been brought to the United Service Club from war-stricken Belgium, and to her caretaker, a charming young woman from the School of Mothercraft. "Will it be made of concrete?" "Yes, and Mother says we may all help a lot in making the plans and in deciding on the decoration and everything." "Isn't she the darling! It will be the next best thing to building a house yourself!" "There will be a garage behind the house." "A garage! Is Aunt Louise going to set up a car?" "Just a small one that she can drive herself. Back of the garage there's plenty of space for a garden and she says she'll turn that over to me. I can do anything I want with it as long as I'll be sure to have enough vegetables for the table and lots of flowers for the house." "O, my; O, my; what fun we'll have," ejaculated Della, who knew that Dorothy could have no pleasure that she would not share equally with the rest of the Club. "I came over now to see if you people didn't want to walk over there and see it." "This minute?" "This minute." "Of course we do--if Della doesn't have to take the train back yet?" "Not for a long time. I'd take a later one anyway; I couldn't wait until the Saturday Club meeting to see it." "How did you know I'd suggest a walk there for the Saturday Club meeting?" "Could you help it?" retorted Della, laughing. They timed themselves so that they might know just how far away from them Dorothy was going to be and they found that it was just about half way to Grandfather Emerson's. As somebody from the Mortons' went there every day, and as the distance was, in reality, not long, they were reassured as to the Smiths being quite out in the country as the change had seemed to them at first. "You won't be able to live in the house this summer, will you?" asked Ethel Blue. "Not until late in the summer or perhaps even later than that. Mother says she isn't in a hurry because she wants the work to be done well." "Then you won't plant the garden this year?" "Indeed I shall. I'm going to plant the new garden and the garden where we are now." "Roger will strike on doing all the digging." "He'll have to have a helper on the new garden, but I'll plant his sweetpeas for him just the same. At the new place I'm going to have a large garden." "Up here on the hill?" The girls were climbing up the ascent that rose sharply from the road. "The house will perch on top of this little hill. Back of it, you see, on top of the ridge, it's quite flat and the garden will be there. I was talking about it with Mr. Emerson this morning--" "Oho, you've called Grandfather into consultation already!" "He's going to be our nearest neighbor on that side. He said that a ridge like this was one of the best places for planting because it has several exposures to the sun and you can find a spot to suit the fancy of about every plant there is." "Your garden will be cut off from the house by the garage. Shall you have another nearer the road?" "Next summer there will have to be planting of trees and shrubs and vines around the house but this year I shall attend to the one up here in the field." "Brrrr! It looks bleak enough now," shivered Ethel Blue. "Let's go up in those woods and see what's there." "Has Aunt Louise bought them?" "No, but she wants to. They don't belong to the same man who owned this piece of land. They belong to the Clarks. She's going to see about it right off, because it looks so attractive and rocky and woodsy." "You'd have the brook, too." "I hope she'll be able to get it. Of course just this piece is awfully pretty, and this is the only place for a house, but the meadow with the brook and the rocks and the woods at the back would be too lovely for words. Why, you'd feel as if you had an estate." The girls laughed at Dorothy's enthusiasm over the small number of acres that were included even in the combined lots of land, but they agreed with her that the additional land offered a variety that was worth working hard to obtain. They made their way up the slope and among the jumble of rocks that looked as if giants had been tossing them about in sport. Small trees grew from between them as they lay heaped in disorder and taller growths stretched skyward from an occasional open space. The brook began in a spring that bubbled clear and cold, from under a slab of rock. Round about it all was covered with moss, still green, though frozen stiff by the snowstorm's chilly blasts. Shrivelled ferns bending over its mouth promised summer beauties. "What a lovely spot!" cried Ethel Blue. "This is where fairies and wood nymphs live when that drift melts. Don't you know this must be a great gathering place for birds? Can't you see them now dipping their beaks into the water and cocking their heads up at the sky afterwards!" and she quoted:-- "Dip, birds, dip Where the ferns lean over, And their crinkled edges drip, Haunt and hover." "Here's the best place yet!" called Dorothy, who had pushed on and was now out of sight. "Where are you?" "Here. See if you can find me," came a muffled answer. "Where do you suppose she went to?" asked Ethel Brown, as they all three straightened themselves, yet saw no sign of Dorothy. "I hope she hasn't fallen down a precipice and been killed!" said Ethel Blue, whose imagination sometimes ran away with her. "More likely she has twisted her ankle," practical Ethel Brown. "She wouldn't sound as gay as that if anything had happened to her," Della reminded them. The cries that kept reaching them were unquestionably cheerful but where they came from was a problem that they did not seem able to solve. It was only when Dorothy poked out her head from behind a rock almost in front of them that they saw the entrance of what looked like a real cave. "It's the best imitation of a cave I ever did see!" the explorer exclaimed. "These rocks have tumbled into just the right position to make the very best house! Come in." Her guests were eager to accept her invitation. There was space enough for all of them and two or three more might easily be accommodated within, while a bit of smooth grass outside the entrance almost added another room, "if you aren't particular about a roof," as Ethel Brown said. "Do you suppose Roger has never found this!" wondered Dorothy. "See, there's room enough for a fireplace with a chimney. You could cook here. You could sleep here. You could _live_ here!" The others laughed at her enthusiasm, but they themselves were just as enthusiastic. The possibilities of spending whole days here in the shade and cool of the trees and rocks and of imagining that they were in the highlands of Scotland left them almost gasping. "Don't you remember when Fitz-James first sees Ellen in the 'Lady of the Lake'?" asked Ethel Blue. "He was separated from his men and found himself in a rocky glen overlooking a lake. The rocks were bigger than these but we can pretend they were just the same," and she recited a few lines from a poem whose story they all knew and loved. "But not a setting beam could glow Within the dark ravines below, Where twined the path in shadow hid, Round many a rocky pyramid." "I remember; he looked at the view a long time and then he blew his horn again to see if he could make any of his men hear him, and Ellen came gliding around a point of land in a skiff. She thought it was her father calling her." "And the stranger went home to their lodge and fell in love with her--O, it's awfully romantic. I must read it again," and Dorothy gazed at the rocks around her as if she were really in Scotland. "Has anybody a knife?" asked Della's clear voice, bringing them all sharply back to America and Rosemont. "My aunt--the one who has the hanging flowerpots I was telling you about--isn't a bit well and I thought I'd make her a little fernery that she could look at as she lies in bed." "But the ferns are all dried up." "'Greenery' is a better name. Here's a scrap of partridge berry with a red berry still clinging to it, and here's a bit of moss as green as it was in summer, and here--yes, it's alive, it really is!" and she held up in triumph a tiny fern that had been so sheltered under the edge of a boulder that it had kept fresh and happy. There was nothing more to reward their search, for they all hunted with Della, but she was not discouraged. "I only want a handful of growing things," she explained. "I put these in a finger bowl, and sprinkle a few seeds of grass or canary seed on the moss and dash some water on it from the tips of my fingers. Another finger bowl upside down makes the cover. The sick person can see what is going on inside right through the glass without having to raise her head." "How often do you water it?" "Only once or twice a week, because the moisture collects on the upper glass of the little greenhouse and falls down again on the plants and keeps them, wet." "We'll keep our eyes open every time we come here," promised Dorothy. "There's no reason why you couldn't add a little root of this or that any time you want to." [Illustration: Partridge Berry] "I know Aunty will be delighted with it," cried Della, much pleased. "She likes all plants, but especially things that are a little bit different. That's why she spends so much time selecting her wall vases--so that they shall be unlike other people's." "Fitz-James's woods," as they already called the bit of forest that Dorothy hoped to have possession of, extended back from the road and spread until it joined Grandfather Emerson's woods on one side and what was called by the Rosemonters "the West Woods" on the other. The girls walked home by a path that took them into Rosemont not far from the station where Della was to take the train. "Until you notice what there really is in the woods in winter you think there isn't anything worth looking at," said Ethel Blue, walking along with her eyes in the tree crowns. "The shapes of the different trees are as distinct now as they are in summer," declared Ethel Brown. "You'd know that one was an oak, and the one next to it a beech, wouldn't you?" "I don't know whether I would or not," confessed Dorothy honestly, "but I can almost always tell a tree by its bark." "I can tell a chestnut by its bark nowadays," asserted Ethel Blue, "because it hasn't any!" "What on earth do you mean?" inquired city-bred Della. "Something or other has killed all the chestnuts in this part of the world in the last two or three years. Don't you see all these dead trees standing with bare trunks?" "Poor old things! Is it going to last?" "It spread up the Hudson and east and west in New York and Massachusetts, and south into Pennsylvania." "Roger was telling Grandfather a few days ago that a farmer was telling him that he thought the trouble--the pest or the blight or whatever it was--had been stopped." "I remember now seeing a lot of dead trees somewhere when one of Father's parishioners took us motoring in the autumn. I didn't know the chestnut crop was threatened." "Chestnuts weren't any more expensive this year. They must have imported them from far-off states." There were still pools of water in the wood path, left by the melting snow, and the grass that they touched seemed a trifle greener than that beside the narrow road. Once in a while a bit of vivid green betrayed a plant that had found shelter under an overhanging stone. The leaves were for the most part dry enough again to rustle under their feet. Evergreens stood out sharply dark against the leafless trees. "What are the trees that still have a few leaves left clinging to them?" asked Della. "Oaks. Do you know why the leaves stay on?" "Is it a story?" "Yes, a pleasant story. Once the Great Evil Spirit threatened to destroy the whole world. The trees heard the threat and the oak tree begged him not to do anything so wicked. He insisted but at last he agreed not to do it until the last leaf had fallen in the autumn. All the trees meant to hold On to their leaves so as to ward off the awful disaster, but one after the other they let them go--all except the oak. The oak never yet has let fall every one of its leaves and so the Evil Spirit never has had a chance to put his threat into execution." "That's a lesson in success, isn't it? Stick to whatever it is you want to do and you're sure to succeed." "Watch me make my garden succeed," cried Dorothy. "If 'sticking' will make it a success I'm a stick!" CHAPTER IV GARDENING ON PAPER When Saturday came and the United Service Club tramped over Dorothy's new domain, including the domain that she hoped to have but was not yet sure of, every member agreed that the prospect was one that gave satisfaction to the Club as well as the possibility of pleasure and comfort to Mrs. Smith and Dorothy. The knoll they hailed as the exact spot where a house should go; the ridge behind it as precisely suited to the needs of a garden. As to the region of the meadow and the brook and the rocks and the trees they all hoped most earnestly that Mrs. Smith would be able to buy it, for they foresaw that it would provide much amusement for all of them during the coming summer and many to follow. Strangely enough Roger had never found the cave, and he looked on it with yearning. "Why in the world didn't I know of that three or four years ago!" he exclaimed. "I should have lived out here all summer!" "That's what we'd like to do," replied the Ethels earnestly. "We'll let you come whenever you want to." Roger gave a sniff, but the girls knew from his longing gaze that he was quite as eager as they to fit it up for a day camp even if he was nearly eighteen and going to college next autumn. When the exploring tour was over they gathered in their usual meeting place--Dorothy's attic--and discussed the gardens which had taken so firm a hold on the girls' imaginations. "There'll be a small garden in our back yard as usual," said Roger in a tone that admitted of no dispute. "And a small one in Dorothy's present back yard and a LARGE one on Miss Smith's farm," added Tom, who had confirmed with his own eyes the glowing tales that Della had brought home to him. "I suppose we may all have a chance at all of these institutions?" demanded James. "Your mother may have something to say about your attentions to your own garden," suggested Helen pointedly. "I won't slight it, but I've really got to have a finger in this pie if all of you are going to work at it!" "Well, you shall. Calm yourself," and Roger patted him with a soothing hand. "You may do all the digging I promised the girls I'd do." A howl of laughter at James's expense made the attic ring. James appeared quite undisturbed. "I'm ready to do my share," he insisted placidly. "Why don't we make plans of the gardens now?" "Methodical old James always has a good idea," commended Tom. "Is there any brown paper around these precincts, Dorothy?" "Must it be brown?" "Any color, but big sheets." "I see. There is plenty," and she spread it on the table where James had done so much pasting when they were making boxes in which to pack their presents for the war orphans. "Now, then, Roger, the first thing for us to do is to see--" "With our mind's eye, Horatio?" "--how these gardens are going to look. Take your pencil in hand and draw us a sketch of your backyard as it is now, old man." "That's easy," commented Roger. "Here are the kitchen steps; and here is the drying green, and back of that is the vegetable garden and around it flower beds and more over here next the fence." "It's rather messy looking as it is," commented Ethel Brown. "We never have changed it from the way the previous tenant laid it out." "The drying green isn't half large enough for the washing for our big family," added Helen appraisingly. "Mary is always lamenting that she can hang out only a few lines-ful at a time." "Why don't you give her this space behind the green and limit your flower beds to the fence line?" asked Tom, looking over Roger's shoulder as he drew in the present arrangement with some attention to the comparative sizes. "That would mean cutting out some of the present beds." "It would, but you'll have a share in Dorothy's new garden in case Mrs. Morton needs more flowers for the house; and the arrangement I suggest makes the yard look much more shipshape." "If we sod down these beds here what will Roger do for his sweetpeas? They ought to have the sun on both sides; the fence line wouldn't be the best place for them." "Sweetpeas ought to be planted on chicken wire supported by stakes and running from east to west," said Margaret wisely, "but under the circumstances, I don't see why you couldn't fence in the vegetable garden with sweetpeas. That would give you two east and west lines of them and two north and south." "And there would be space for all the blossoms that Roger would want to pick on a summer's day," laughed Della. "I've always wanted to have a garden of all pink flowers," announced Dorothy. "My room in the new house is going to be pink and I'd like to keep pink powers in it all the time." "I've always wanted to do that, too. Let's try one here," urged Ethel Brown, nodding earnestly at Ethel Blue. "I don't see why we couldn't have a pink bed and a blue bed and a yellow bed," returned Ethel Blue whose inner eye saw the plants already well grown and blossoming. "A wild flower bed is what I'd like," contributed Helen. "We mustn't forget to leave a space for Dicky," suggested Roger. "I want the garden I had latht year," insisted a decisive voice that preceded the tramp of determined feet over the attic stairs. "Where was it, son? I've forgotten." "In a corner of your vegetable garden. Don't you remember my raditheth were ripe before yourth were? Mother gave me a prithe for the firtht vegetableth out of the garden." "So she did. You beat me to it. Well, you may have the same corner again." "We ought to have some tall plants, hollyhocks or something like that, to cover the back fence," said Ethel Brown. "What do you say if we divide the border along the fence into four parts and have a wild garden and pink and yellow and blue beds? Then we can transplant any plants we have now that ought to go in some other color bed, and we can have the tall plants at the back of the right colors to match the bed in front of them?" "There can be pink hollyhocks at the back of the pink bed and we already have pinks and bleeding heart and a pink peony. We've got a good start at a pink bed already," beamed Ethel Brown. "We can put golden glow or that tall yellow snapdragon at the back of the yellow bed and tall larkspurs behind the blue flowers." "The Miss Clarks have a pretty border of dwarf ageratum--that bunchy, fuzzy blue flower. Let's have that for the border of our blue bed." "I remember it; it's as pretty as pretty. They have a dwarf marigold that we could use for the yellow border." "Or dwarf yellow nasturtiums." "Or yellow pansies." "We had a yellow stock last summer that was pretty and blossomed forever; nothing seemed to stop it but the 'chill blasts of winter.'" "Even the short stocks are too tall for a really flat border that would match the others. We must have some 'ten week stocks' in the yellow border, though." "Whatever we plant for the summer yellow border we must have the yellow spring bulbs right behind it--jonquils and daffodils and yellow tulips and crocuses." "They're all together now. All we'll have to do will be to select the spot for our yellow bed." "That's settled then. Mark it on this plan." Roger held it out to Ethel Brown, who found the right place and indicated the probable length of the yellow bed upon it. "We'll have the wild garden on one side of the yellow bed and the blue on the other and the pink next the blue," decreed Ethel Blue. "We haven't decided on the pink border," Dorothy reminded them. "There's a dwarf pink candytuft that couldn't be beaten for the purpose," said James decisively. "Mother and I planted some last year to see what it was like and it proved to be exactly what you want here." "I know what I'd like to have for the wild border--either wild ginger or hepatica," announced Helen after some thought. "I don't know either of them," confessed Tom. "You will after you've tramped the Rosemont woods with the U.S.C. all this spring," promised Ethel Brown. "They have leaves that aren't unlike in shape--" "The ginger is heart-shaped," interposed Ethel Blue, "and the hepatica is supposed to be liver-shaped." "You have to know some physiology to recognize them," said James gravely. "There's where a doctor's son has the advantage," and he patted his chest. "Their leaves seem much too juicy to be evergreen, but the hepatica does stay green all winter." [Illustration: Wild Ginger] "The ginger would make the better edging," Helen decided, "because the leaves lie closer to the ground." "What are the blossoms?" "The ginger has such a wee flower hiding under the leaves that it doesn't count, but the hepatica has a beautiful little blue or purple flower at the top of a hairy scape." "A hairy what?" laughed Roger. "A scape is a stem that grows up right from the or root-stock and carries only a flower--not any leaves," defined Helen. "That's a new one on me. I always thought a stem was a stem, whatever it carried," said Roger. [Illustration: Hepatica] "And a scape was a 'grace' or a 'goat' according to its activities," concluded Tom. "The hepatica would make a border that you wouldn't have to renew all the time," contributed Dorothy, who had been thinking so deeply that she had not heard a word of this interchange, and looked up, wondering why every one was laughing. "Dorothy keeps her eye on the ball," complimented James. "Have we decided on the background flowers for the wild bed?" "Joe-Pye-Weed is tall enough," offered James. "It's way up over my head." "It wouldn't cover the fence much; the blossom is handsome but the foliage is scanty." "There's a feathery meadow-rue that is tall. The leaves are delicate." "I know it; it has a fine white blossom and it grows in damp places. That will be just right. Aren't you going to have trouble with these wild plants that like different kinds of ground?" "Perhaps we are," Helen admitted. "Our garden is 'middling' dry, but we can keep the wet lovers moist by watering them more generously than the rest." "How about the watering systems of all these gardens, anyway? You have town water here and at Dorothy's, but how about the new place?" "The town water runs out as far as Mr. Emerson's, luckily for us, and Mother says she'll have the connection made as soon as the frost is out of the ground so the builders may have all they want for their work and I can have all I need for the garden there." "If you get that next field with the brook and you want to plant anything there you'll have to dig some ditches for drainage." "I think I'll keep up on the ridge that's drained by nature." "That's settled, then. We can't do much planning about the new garden until we go out in a body and make our decisions on the spot," said Margaret. "We'll have to put in vegetables and flowers where they'd rather grow." "That's what we're trying to do here, only it's on a small scale," Roger reminded her. "Our whole garden is about a twentieth of the new one." "I shouldn't wonder if we had to have some expert help with that," guessed James, who had gardened enough at Glen Point not to be ashamed to confess ignorance now and then. "Mr. Emerson has promised to talk it all over with me," said Dorothy. "Let's see what there is at Dorothy's present abode, then," said Roger gayly, and he took another sheet of brown paper and began to place on it the position of the house and the existing borders. "Do I understand, madam, that you're going to have a pink border here?" "I am," replied his cousin firmly, "both here and at the new place." "Life will take on a rosy hue for these young people if they can make it," commented Della. "Pink flowers, a pink room--is there anything else pink?" "The name. Mother and I have decided on 'Sweetbrier Lodge.' Don't you think it's pretty?" "Dandy," approved Roger concisely, as he continued to draw. "Do you want to change any of the beds that were here last summer?" he asked. "Mother said she liked their positions very well. This long, narrow one in front of the house is to be the pink one. I've got pink tulip bulbs in the ground now and there are some pink flowering shrubs--weigelia and flowering almond--already there against the lattice of the veranda. I'm going to work out a list of plants that will keep a pink bed blossoming all summer and we can use it in three places," and she nodded dreamily to her cousins. "We'll do that, but I think it would be fun if each one of us tried out a new plant of some kind. Then we can find out which are most suitable for our needs next year. We can report on them to the Club when they come into bloom. It will save a lot of trouble if we tell what we've found out about what some plant likes in the way of soil and position and water and whether it is best to cut it back or to let it bloom all it wants to, and so on." "That's a good idea. I hope Secretary Ethel Blue is taking notes of all these suggestions," remarked Helen, who was the president of the Club. Ethel Blue said she was, and Roger complimented her faithfulness in terms of extravagant absurdity. "Your present lot of land has the best looking fencing in Rosemont, to my way of thinking," approved Tom. "What is it? I hardly remember myself," said Dorothy thoughtfully. "Why, across the front there's a privet hedge, clipped low enough for your pink garden to be seen over it; and separating you from the Clarks' is a row of tall, thick hydrangea bushes that are beauties as long as there are any leaves on them; and at the back there is osage orange to shut out that old dump; and on the other side is a row of small blue spruces." "That's quite a showing of hedges all in one yard." exclaimed Ethel Blue admiringly. "And I never noticed them at all!" "At the new place Mother wants to try a barberry hedge. It doesn't grow regularly, but each bush is handsome in itself because the branches droop gracefully, and the leaves are a good green and the clusters of red berries are striking." "The leaves turn red in the autumn and the whole effect is stunning," contributed Della. "I saw one once in New England. They aren't usual about here, and I should think it would be a beauty." "You can let it grow as tall as you like," said James. "Your house is going to be above it on the knoll and look right over it, so you don't need a low hedge or even a clipped one." "At the side and anywhere else where she thinks there ought to be a real fence she's going to put honey locust." They all laughed. "That spiny affair _will_ be discouraging to visitors!" Helen exclaimed. "Why don't you try hedges of gooseberries and currants and raspberries and blackberries around your garden?" "That would be killing two birds with one stone, wouldn't it!" "You'll have a real problem in landscape gardening over there," said Margaret. "The architect of the house will help on that. That is, he and Mother will decide exactly where the house is to be placed and how the driveway is to run." "There ought to be some shrubs climbing up the knoll," advised Ethel Brown. "They'll look well below the house and they'll keep the bank from washing. I noticed this afternoon that the rains had been rather hard on it." "There are a lot of lovely shrubs you can put in just as soon as you're sure the workmen won't tramp them all down," cried Ethel Blue eagerly. "That's one thing I do know about because I went with Aunt Marion last year when she ordered some new bushes for our front yard." "Recite your lesson, kid," commanded Roger briefly. "There is the weigelia that Dorothy has in front of this house; and forsythia--we forced its yellow blossoms last week, you know; and the flowering almond--that has whitey-pinky-buttony blossoms." They laughed at Ethel's description, but they listened attentively while she described the spiky white blossoms of deutzia and the winding white bands of the spiraea--bridal wreath. "I can see that bank with those white shrubs all in blossom, leaning toward the road and beckoning you in," Ethel ended enthusiastically. "I seem to see them myself," remarked Tom, "and Dorothy can be sure that they won't beckon in vain." "You'll all be as welcome as daylight," cried Dorothy. "I hate to say anything that sounds like putting a damper on this outburst of imagination that Ethel Blue has just treated us to, but I'd like to inquire of Miss Smith whether she has any gardening tools," said Roger, bringing them all to the ground with a bump. "Miss Smith hasn't one," returned Dorothy, laughing. "You forget that we only moved in here last September and there hasn't been need for any that we couldn't borrow of you." [Illustration: Gardening Tools] "You're perfectly welcome to them," answered Roger, "but if we're all going to do the gardening act there'll be a scarcity if we don't add to the number." "What do we need?" "A rake and a hoe and a claw and a trowel and a spade and a heavy line with some pegs to do marking with." "We've found that it's a comfort to your back to have another claw mounted on the end of a handle as long as a hoe," contributed Margaret. "Two claws," Dorothy amended her list, isn't many." "And a lot of dibbles." "Dibbles!" "Short flat sticks whittled to a point. You use them when you're changing little plants from the to the hot bed or the hot bed to the garden." "Mother and I ought to have one set of tools here and one set at Sweetbrier Lodge," decided Dorothy. "We keep ours in the shed. I'm going to whitewash the corner where they belong and make it look as fine as a fiddle before the time comes to use them." "We have a shed here where we can keep them but at Sweetbrier there isn't anything," and Dorothy's mouth dropped anxiously. "We can build you a tool house," Tom was offering when James interrupted him. "If we can get a piano box there's your toolhouse all made," he suggested. "Cover it with tar paper so the rain won't come in, and hang the front on hinges with a hasp and staple and padlock, and what better would you want?" "Nothing," answered Ethel Brown, seriously. Ethel Blue noted it down in her book and Roger promised to visit the local piano man and see what he could find. "We haven't finished deciding how we shall plant Dorothy's yard behind this house," Margaret reminded them. "We shan't attempt a vegetable garden here," Dorothy said. "We'll start one at the other place so that the soil will be in good condition next year. We'll have a man to do the heavy work of the two places, he can bring over every morning whatever vegetables are ready for the day's use." "You want more flowers in this yard, then?" "You'll laugh at what I want!" "Don't you forget what you promithed me," piped up Dicky. "That's what I was going to tell them now. I've promised Dicky to plant a lot of sunflowers for his hens. He says Roger never has had space to plant enough for him." "True enough. Give him a big bed of them so he can have all the seeds he wants." "I'd like to have a wide strip across the back of the whole place, right in front of the osage orange hedge. They'll cover the lower part that's rather scraggly--then everywhere else I want nasturtiums, climbing and dwarf and every color under the sun." "That's a good choice for your yard because it's awfully stony and nasturtiums don't mind a little thing like that." "Then I want gourds over the trellis at the back door." "Gourds!" "I saw them so much in the South that I want to try them. There's one shape that makes a splendid dipper when it's dried and you cut a hole in it; and there's another kind just the size of a hen's egg that I want for nest eggs for Dickey's hens; and there's the loofa full of fibre that you can use for a bath sponge; and there's a pear-shaped one striped green and yellow that Mother likes for a darning ball; and there's a sweet smelling one that is as fragrant as possible in your handkerchief case. There are some as big as buckets and some like base ball bats, but I don't care for those." "What a collection," applauded Ethel Brown. "Beside that my idea of Japanese morning glories and a hop vine for our kitchen regions has no value at all," smiled Helen. "I'm going to have hops wherever the vines can find a place to climb at Sweetbrier," Dorothy determined. "I love a hop vine, and it grows on forever." "James and I seem to be in the same condition. If we don't start home we'll go on talking forever," Margaret complained humorously. "There's to be hot chocolate for us down stairs at half past four," said Dorothy, jumping up and looking at a clock that was ticking industriously on a shelf. "Let's go down and get it, and we'll ask Mother to sing the funny old song of 'The Four Seasons' for us." "Why is it funny?" asked Ethel Blue. "It's a very old English song with queer spelling." "Something like mine?" demanded Della. Ethel Blue kissed her. "Never mind; Shakspere spelled his name in several different ways," she said encouragingly, "Anyway, we can't tell how this is spelled when Aunt Louise sings it." As they sat about the fire in the twilight drinking their chocolate and eating sandwiches made of nuts ground fine, mixed with mayonnaise and put on a crisp lettuce leaf between slices of whole wheat bread, Mrs. Smith sang the old English song to them. "Springe is ycomen in, Dappled lark singe; Snow melteth, Runnell pelteth, Smelleth winde of newe buddinge. "Summer is ycomen in, Loude singe cucku; Groweth seede, Bloweth meade, And springeth the weede newe. "Autumne is ycomen in, Ceres filleth horne; Reaper swinketh, Farmer drinketh, Creaketh waine with newe corn. "Winter is ycomen in, With stormy sadde cheere; In the paddocke, Whistle ruddock, Brighte sparke in the dead yeare." "That's a good stanza to end with," said Ethel Blue, as she bade her aunt "Good-bye." "We've been talking about gardens and plants and flowers all the afternoon, and it would have seemed queer to put on a heavy coat to go home in if you hadn't said 'Winter is ycomen in.'" CHAPTER V A DEFECT IN THE TITLE In spite of their having made such an early start in talking about gardens the members of the United Service Club did not weary of the idea or cease to plan for what they were going to do. The only drawback that they found in gardening as a Club activity was that the gardens were for themselves and their families and they did not see exactly how there was any "service" in them. "I'll trust you youngsters to do some good work for somebody in connection with them," asserted Grandfather Emerson one day when Roger had been talking over with him his pet plan for remodelling the old Emerson farmhouse into a place suitable for the summer shelter of poor women and children from the city who needed country air and relief from hunger and anxiety. "We aren't rushing anything now," Roger had explained, "because we boys are all going to graduate this June and we have our examinations to think about. They must come first with us. But later on we'll be ready for work of some sort and we haven't anything on the carpet except our gardens." "There are many good works to be done with the help of a garden," replied Mr. Emerson. "Ask your grandmother to tell you how she has sent flowers into New York for the poor for many, many summers. There are people right here in Rosemont who haven't enough ground to raise any vegetables and they are glad to have fresh corn and Brussels sprouts sent to them. If you really do undertake this farmhouse scheme there'll have to be a large vegetable garden planted near the house to supply it, and you can add a few flower beds. The old place will look better flower-dressed than empty, and perhaps some of the women and children will like to work in the garden." Roger went home comforted, for he was very loyal to the Club and its work and he did not want to become so involved with other matters that he could not give himself to the purpose for which the Club was organized--helping others. As he passed the Miss Clarks he stopped to give their furnace its nightly shaking, for he was the accredited furnace man for them and his Aunt Louise as well as for his mother. He added the money that he earned to the treasury of the Club so that there might always be enough there to do a kind act whenever there should be a chance. As he labored with the shaker and the noise of his struggles was sent upward through the registers a voice called to him down the cellar stairs. "Ro-ger; Roger!" "Yes, ma'am," replied Roger, wishing the old ladies would let him alone until he had finished his work. "Come up here, please, when you've done." "Very well," he agreed, and went on with his racket. When he went upstairs he found that the cause of his summons was the arrival of a young man who was apparently about the age of Edward Watkins, the doctor brother of Tom and Della. "My nephew is a law student," said Miss Clark as she introduced the two young people, "and I want him to know all of our neighbors." "My name is Stanley Clark," said the newcomer, shaking hands cordially. "I'm going to be here for a long time so I hope I'll see you often." Roger liked him at once and thought his manner particularly pleasant in view of the fact that he was several years older. Roger was so accustomed to the companionship of Edward Watkins, who frequently joined the Club in their festivities and who often came to Rosemont to call on Miss Merriam, that the difference did not seem to him a cause of embarrassment. He was unusually easy for a boy of his age because he had always been accustomed to take his sailor father's place at home in the entertainment of his mother's guests. Young Clark, on his side, found his new acquaintance a boy worth talking to, and they got on well. He was studying at a law school in the city, it seemed, and commuted every day. "It's a long ride," he agreed when Roger suggested it, "but when I get home I have the good country air to breathe and I'd rather have that than town amusements just now when I'm working hard." Roger spoke of Edward Watkins and Stanley was interested in the possibility of meeting him. Evidently his aunts had told him all about the Belgian baby and Miss Merriam, for he said Elisabeth would be the nearest approach to a soldier from a Belgian battlefield that he had seen. Roger left with the feeling that his new acquaintance would be a desirable addition to the neighborhood group and he was so pleased that he stopped in at his Aunt Louise's not only to shake the furnace but to tell her about Stanley Clark. [Illustration: The Hot Bed] During the next month they all came to know him well and they liked his cheerfulness and his interest in what they were doing and planning. On Saturdays he helped Roger build a hot bed in the sunniest spot against the side of the kitchen ell. They found that the frost had not stiffened the ground after they managed to dig down a foot, so that the excavation was not as hard as they had expected. They dug a hole the size of two window sashes and four feet deep, lining the sides with some old bricks that they found in the cellar. At first they filled the entire bed with fresh stable manure and straw. After it had stayed under the glass two days it was quite hot and they beat it down a foot and put on six inches of soil made one-half of compost and one-half of leaf mould that they found in a sheltered corner of the West Woods. "Grandfather didn't believe we could manage to get good soil at this season even if we did succeed in digging the hole, but when I make up my mind to do a thing I like to succeed," said Roger triumphantly when they had fitted the sashes on to planks that sloped at the sides so that rain would run off the glass, and called the girls out to admire their result. "What are we going to put in here first?" asked Ethel Brown, who liked to get at the practical side of matters at once. "I'd like to have some violets," said Ethel Blue. "Could I have a corner for them? I've had some plants promised me from the Glen Point greenhouse man. Margaret is going to bring them over as soon as I'm ready for them." "I want to see if I can beat Dicky with early vegetables," declared Roger. "I'm going to start early parsley and cabbage and lettuce, cauliflower and egg plants, radishes and peas and corn in shallow boxes--flats Grandfather says they're called--in my room and the kitchen where it's warm and sunny, and when they've sprouted three leaves I'll set them out here and plant some more in the flats." "Won't transplanting them twice set them back?" "If you take up enough earth around them they ought not to know that they've taken a journey." "I've done a lot of transplanting of wild plants from the woods," said Stanley, "and I found that if I was careful to do that they didn't even wilt." "Why can't we start some of the flower seeds here and have early blossoms?" "You can. I don't see why we can't keep it going all the time and have a constant supply of flowers and vegetables earlier than we should if we trusted to Mother Nature to do the work unaided." "Then in the autumn we can stow away here some of the plants we want to save, geraniums and begonias, and plants that are pretty indoors, and take them into the house when the indoor ones become shabby." "Evidently right in the heart of summer is the only time this article won't be in use," decided Stanley, laughing at their eagerness. "Have you got anything to cover it with when the spring sunshine grows too hot?" "There is an old hemp rug and some straw matting in the attic--won't they do?" "Perfectly. Lay them over the glass so that the delicate little plants won't get burned. You can raise the sashes, too." "If we don't forget to close them before the sun sets and the night chill comes on, I suppose," smiled Ethel Blue. "Mr. Emerson says that seeds under glass do better if they're covered with newspaper until they start." It was about the middle of March when Mrs. Smith went in to call on her neighbors, the Miss Clarks, one evening. They were at home and after a talk on the ever-absorbing theme of the war Mrs. Smith said, "I really came in here on business. I hope you've decided to sell me the meadow lot next to my knoll. If you've made up your minds hadn't I better tell my lawyer to make out the papers at once?" "Sister and I made up our minds some time ago, dear Mrs. Smith, and we wrote to Brother William about it before he came to stay with us, and he was willing, and Stanley, here, who is the only other heir of the estate that we know about, has no objection." "That gives me the greatest pleasure. I'll tell my lawyer, then, to have the title looked up right away and make out the deed--though I feel as if I should apologize for looking up the title of land that has been in your family as long as Mr. Emerson's has been in his." "You needn't feel at all apologetic," broke in Stanley. "It's never safe to buy property without having a clear title, and we aren't sure that we are in a position to give you a clear title." "That's why we haven't spoken to you about it before," said the elder Miss Clark; "we were waiting to try to make it all straight before we said anything about it one way or the other." "Not give me a clear title!" cried Mrs. Smith. "Do you mean that I won't be able to buy it? Why, I don't know what Dorothy will do if we can't get that bit with the brook; she has set her heart on it." "We want you to have it not only for Dorothy's sake but for our own. It isn't a good building lot--it's too damp--and we're lucky to have an offer for it." "Can you tell me just what the trouble is? It seems as if it ought to be straight since all of you heirs agree to the sale." "The difficulty is," said Stanley, "that we aren't sure that we are all the heirs. We thought we were, but Uncle William made some inquiries on his way here, and he learned enough to disquiet him." "Our father, John Clark, had a sister Judith," explained the younger Miss Clark. "They lived here on the Clark estate which had belonged to the family for many generations. Then Judith married a man named Leonard--Peter Leonard--and went to Nebraska at a time when Nebraska was harder to reach than California is now. That was long before the Civil War and during those frontier days Aunt Judith and Uncle Peter evidently were tossed about to the limit of their endurance. Her letters came less and less often and they always told of some new grief--the death of a child or the loss of some piece of property. Finally the letters ceased altogether. I don't understand why her family didn't hold her more closely, but they lost sight of her entirely." "Probably it was more her fault than theirs," replied Mrs. Smith softly, recalling that there had been a time when her own pride had forbade her letting her people know that she was in dire distress. "It doesn't make much difference to-day whose fault it was," declared Stanley Clark cheerfully; "the part of the story that interests us is that the family thought that all Great-aunt Judith's children were dead. Here is where Uncle William got his surprise. When he was coming on from Arkansas he stopped over for a day at the town where Aunt Judith had posted her last letter to Grandfather, about sixty years ago. There he learned from the records that she was dead and all her children were dead--_except one_." "Except one!" repeated Mrs. Smith. "Born after she ceased writing home?" "Exactly. Now this daughter--Emily was her name--left the town after her parents died and there is no way of finding out where she went. One or two of the old people remember that the Leonard girl left, but nothing more." "She may be living now." "Certainly she may; and she may have married and had a dozen children. You see, until we can find out something about this Emily we can't give a clear title to the land." Mrs. Smith nodded her understanding. "It's lucky we've never been willing to sell any of the old estate," said Mr. William Clark, who had entered and been listening to the story. "If we had we should, quite ignorantly, have given a defective title." "Isn't it possible, after making as long and thorough a search as you can, to take the case into court and have the judge declare the title you give to be valid, under the circumstances?" "That is done; but you can see that such a decision would be granted only after long research on our part. It would delay your purchase considerably." "However, it seems to me the thing to do," decided Mrs. Smith, and she and Stanley at once entered upon a discussion of the ways and means by which the hunt for Emily Leonard and her heirs was to be accomplished. It included the employment of detectives for the spring months, and then, if they had not met with success, a journey by Stanley during the weeks of his summer vacation. Dorothy and Ethel were bitterly disappointed at the result of Mrs. Smith's attempt to purchase the coveted bit of land. "I suppose it wouldn't have any value for any one else on earth," cried Dorothy, "but I want it." "I don't think I ever saw a spot that suited me so well for a summer play place," agreed Ethel Blue, and Helen and Roger and all the rest of the Club members were of the same opinion. "The Clarks will be putting the price up if they should find out that we wanted it so much," warned Roger. "I don't believe they would," smiled Mrs. Smith. "They said they thought themselves lucky to have a customer for it, because it isn't good for building ground." "We'll hope that Stanley will unearth the history of his great-aunt," said Roger seriously. "And find that she died a spinster," smiled his Aunt Louise. "The fewer heirs there are to deal the simpler it will be." CHAPTER VI WILD FLOWERS FOR HELEN'S GARDEN Roger had a fair crop of lettuce in one of his flats by the middle of March and transplanted the tiny, vivid green leaves to the hotbed without doing them any harm. The celery and tomato seeds that he had planted during the first week of the month were showing their heads bravely and the cabbage and cauliflower seedlings had gone to keep the lettuce company in the hotbed. On every warm day he opened the sashes and let the air circulate among the young plants. "Wordsworth says 'It is my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes,' and I suppose that's true of vegetables, too," laughed Roger. The girls, meanwhile, had been planting the seeds of Canterbury bells and foxgloves in flats. They did not put in many of them because they learned that they would not blossom until the second year. The flats they made from boxes that had held tomato cans. Roger sawed through the sides and they used the cover for the bottom of the second flat. The dahlias they provided with pots, joking at the exclusiveness of this gorgeous flower which likes to have a separate house for each of its seeds. These were to be transferred to the garden about the middle of May together with the roots of last year's dahlias which they were going to sprout in a box of sand for about a month before allowing them to renew their acquaintance with the flower bed. By the middle of April they had planted a variety of seeds and were watching the growth or awaiting the germination of gay cosmos, shy four o'clocks, brilliant marigolds, varied petunias and stocks, smoke-blue ageratums, old-fashioned pinks and sweet williams. Each was planted according to the instructions of the seed catalogues, and the young horticulturists also read and followed the advice of the pamphlets on "Annual Flowering Plants" and "The Home Vegetable Garden" sent out by the Department of Agriculture at Washington to any one who asks for them. [Illustration: A Flat] They were prudent about planting directly in the garden seeds which did not require forcing in the house, for they did not want them to be nipped, but they put them in the ground just as early as any of the seedsmen recommended, though they always saved a part of their supply so that they might have enough for a second sowing if a frost should come. Certain flowers which they wished to have blossom for a long time they sowed at intervals. Candytuft, for instance, they sowed first in April and they planned to make a second sowing in May and a third late in July so that they might see the pretty white border blossoms late in the autumn. Mignonette was a plant of which Mr. Emerson was as fond as Roger was of sweetpeas and the girls decided to give him a surprise by having such a succession of blooms that they might invite him to a picking bee as late as the end of October. Nasturtiums also, they planted with a liberal hand in nooks and crannies where the soil was so poor that they feared other plants would turn up their noses, and pansies, whose demure little faces were favorites with Mrs. Morton, they experimented with in various parts of the gardens and in the hotbed. The gardens at the Mortons' and Smiths' were long established so that there was not any special inducement to change the arrangement of the beds, except as the young people had planned way back in January for the enlargement of the drying green. The new garden, however, offered every opportunity. Each bed was laid out with especial reference to the crop that was to be put into it and the land was naturally so varied that there was the kind of soil and the right exposure for plants that required much moisture and for those that preferred a sandy soil, for the sun lovers and the shade lovers. The newly aroused interest in plants extended to the care of the house plants which heretofore had been the sole concern of Mrs. Emerson and Mrs. Morton. Now the girls begged the privilege of trimming off the dead leaves from the ivies and geraniums and of washing away with oil of lemon and a stiff brush the scale that sometimes came on the palms. They even learned to kill the little soft white creature called aphis by putting under the plant a pan of hot coals with tobacco thrown on them. "It certainly has a sufficiently horrid smell," exclaimed Ethel Brown. "I don't wonder the beasties curl up and die; I'd like to myself." "They say aphis doesn't come on a plant with healthy sap," Ethel Blue contributed to this talk, "so the thing to do is to make these plants so healthy that the animals drop off starved." "This new development is going to be a great comfort to me if it keeps on," Mrs. Emerson confessed to her daughter humorously. "I shall encourage the girls to use my plants for instruction whenever they want to." "You may laugh at their sudden affection," returned Mrs. Morton seriously, "but I've noticed that everything the U.S.C. sets its heart on doing gets done, and I've no doubt whatever that they'll have what Roger calls 'some' garden this next summer." "Roger has had long consultations with his grandfather about fertilizers and if he's interested in the beginnings of a garden and not merely in the results I think we can rely on him." "They have all been absorbed in the subject for three months and now 'Lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come.'" Roger maintained that his Aunt Louise's house ought to be begun at the time that he planted his sweetpeas. "If I can get into the ground enough to plant, surely the cellar diggers ought to be able to do the same," he insisted. March was not over when he succeeded in preparing a trench a foot deep all around the spot which was to be his vegetable garden except for a space about three feet wide which he left for an entrance. In the bottom he placed three inches of manure and over that two inches of good soil. In this he planted the seeds half an inch apart in two rows and covered them with soil to the depth of three inches, stamping it down hard. As the vines grew to the top of the trench he kept them warm with the rest of the earth that he had taken out, until the opening was entirely filled. The builder was not of Roger's mind about the cellar digging, but he really did begin operations in April. Every day the Mortons and Smiths, singly or in squads, visited the site of Sweetbrier Lodge, as Mrs. Smith and Dorothy had decided to call the house. Dorothy had started a notebook in which to keep account of the progress of the new estate, but after the first entry--"Broke ground to-day"--matters seemed to advance so slowly that she had to fill in with memoranda concerning the growth of the garden. Even before the house was started its position and that of the garage had been staked so that the garden might not encroach on them. Then the garden had been laid out with a great deal of care by the united efforts of the Club and Mr. Emerson and his farm superintendent. Often the Ethels and Dorothy extended their walk to the next field and to the woods and rocks at the back. The Clarks had learned nothing more about their Cousin Emily, although they had a man searching records and talking with the older people of a number of towns in Nebraska. He reported that he was of the opinion that either the child had died when young or that she had moved to a considerable distance from the town of her birth or that she had been adopted and had taken the name of her foster parents. At any rate consultation of records of marriages and deaths in several counties had revealed to him no Emily Leonard. The Clarks were quite as depressed by this outcome of the search as was Mrs. Smith, but they had instructed the detective to continue his investigation. Meanwhile they begged Dorothy and her cousins to enjoy the meadow and woods as much as they liked. The warm moist days of April tempted the girls to frequent searches for wild flowers. They found the lot a very gold mine of delight. There was so much variety of soil and of sunshine and of shadow that plants of many different tastes flourished where in the meadow across the road only a few kinds seemed to live. It was with a hearty shout they hailed the first violets. "Here they are, here they are!" cried Ethel Blue. "Aunt Marion said she was sure she saw some near the brook. She quoted some poetry about it-- "'Blue ran the flash across; Violets were born!'" "That's pretty; what's the rest of it?" asked Ethel Brown, on her knees taking up some of the plants with her trowel and placing them in her basket so carefully that there was plenty of earth surrounding each one to serve as a nest when it should be put into Helen's wild flower bed. "It's about something good happening when everything seems very bad," explained Ethel Blue. "Browning wrote it." "Such a starved bank of moss Till, that May morn, Blue ran the flash across: Violets were born! "Sky--what a scowl of cloud Till, near and far, Ray on ray split the shroud: Splendid, a star! "World--how it walled about Life with disgrace Till God's own smile came out: That was thy face!" "It's always so, isn't it!" approved Dorothy. "And the more we think about the silver lining to every cloud the more likely it is to show itself." "What's this delicate white stuff? And these tiny bluey eyes?" asked Ethel Blue, who was again stooping over to examine the plants that enjoyed the moist positions near the stream. "The eyes are houstonia--Quaker ladies. We must have a clump of them. Saxifrage, Helen said the other was. She called my attention the other day to some they had at school to analyze. It has the same sort of stem that the hepatica has." [Illustration: Yellow Adder's Tongue] "I remember--a scape--only this isn't so downy." "They're pretty, aren't they? We must be sure to get a good sized patch; you can't see them well enough when there is only a plant or two." "Helen wants a regular village of every kind that she transplants. She says she'd rather have a good many of a few kinds than a single plant of ever so many kinds." "It will be prettier. What do you suppose this yellow bell-shaped flower is?" "It ought to be a lily, hanging its head like that." "It is a lily," corroborated Ethel Brown, "but it's called 'dog-tooth violet' though it isn't a violet at all." "What a queer mistake. Hasn't it any other name?" "Adder's-tongue. That's more suitable, isn't it?" "Yes, except that I hate to have a lovely flower called by a snake's name!" "Not all snakes are venomous; and, anyway, we ought to remember that every animal has some means of protecting himself and the snakes do it through their poison fangs." "Or through their squeezing powers, like that big constrictor we saw at the Zoo." "I suppose it is fair for them to have a defence," admitted Ethel Blue, "but I don't like them, just the same, and I wish this graceful flower had some other name." "It has." "O, _that_! 'Dog-tooth' is just about as ugly as 'adder's tongue'! The botanists were in bad humor when they christened the poor little thing!" "Do you remember what Bryant says about 'The Yellow Violet'?" asked Ethel Brown, who was always committing verses to memory. "Tell us," begged Ethel Blue, who was expending special care on digging up this contribution to the garden as if to make amends for the unkindness of the scientific world, and Ethel Brown repeated the poem beginning "When beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the blue-bird's warble know, The yellow violet's modest bell Peeps from last year's leaves below." Dorothy went into ecstasies over the discovery of two roots of white violets, but there seemed to be no others, though they all sought diligently for the fragrant blossoms among the leaves. A cry from Ethel Blue brought the others to a drier part of the field at a distance from the brook. There in a patch of soil that was almost sandy was a great patch of violets of palest hue, with deep orange eyes. They were larger than any of the other violets and their leaves were entirely different. "What funny leaves," cried Dorothy. "They look as if some one had crumpled up a real violet leaf and cut it from the edge to the stem into a fine fringe." "Turn it upside down and press it against the ground. Don't you think it looks like a bird's claw?" "So it does! This must be a 'bird-foot violet,'" "It is, and there's more meaning in the name than in the one the yellow bell suffers from. Do you suppose there are any violets up in the woods?" "They seem to fit in everywhere; I shouldn't be a bit surprised if there were some there." Sure enough, there were, smaller and darker in color than the flowers down by the brook and hiding more shyly under their shorter-stemmed leaves. "Helen is going to have some trouble to make her garden fit the tastes of all these different flowers," said Ethel Brown thoughtfully. "I don't see how she's going to do it." "Naturally it's sort of half way ground," replied Ethel Blue. "She can enrich the part that is to hold the ones that like rich food and put sand where these bird foot fellows are to go, and plant the wet-lovers at the end where the hydrant is so that there'll be a temptation to give them a sprinkle every time the hose is screwed on." [Illustration: Blue Flag] "The ground is always damp around the hydrant; I guess she'll manage to please her new tenants." "If only Mother can buy this piece of land," said Dorothy, "I'm going to plant forget-me-nots and cow lilies and arum lilies right in the stream. There are flags and pickerel weed and cardinals here already. It will make a beautiful flower bed all the length of the field." "I hope and hope every day that it will come out right," sighed Ethel Blue. "Of course the Miss Clarks are lovely about it, but you can't do things as if it were really yours." Almost at the same instant both the Ethels gave a cry as each discovered a plant she had been looking for. "Mine is wild ginger, I'm almost sure," exclaimed Ethel Brown. "Come and see, Dorothy." "Has it a thick, leathery leaf that lies down almost flat?" asked Dorothy, running to see for herself. "Yes, and a blossom you hardly notice. It's hidden under the leaves and it's only yellowish-green. You have to look hard for it." "That must be wild ginger," Dorothy decided. "What's yours, Ethel Blue?" "I know mine is hepatica. See the 'hairy scape' Helen talked about? And see what a lovely, lovely color the blossom is? Violet with a hint of pink?" "That would be the best of all for a border. The leaves stay green all winter and the blossoms come early in the spring and encourage you to think that after a while all the flowers are going to awaken." "It's a shame to take all this out of Dorothy's lot." "It may never be mine," sighed Dorothy. "Still, perhaps we ought not to take too many roots; the Miss Clarks may not want all the flowers taken out of their woods." "We'll take some from here and some from Grandfather's woods," decided Ethel Brown. "There are a few in the West Woods, too." So they dug up but a comparatively small number of the hepaticas, nor did they take many of the columbines nodding from a cleft in the piled-up rocks. "I know that when we have our wild garden fully planted I'm not going to want to pick flowers just for the sake of picking them the way I used to," confessed Ethel Blue. "Now I know something about them they seem so alive to me, sort of like people--I'm sure they won't like to be taken travelling and forced to make a new home for themselves." "I know how you feel," responded Dorothy slowly. "I feel as if those columbines were birds that had perched on those rocks just for a minute and were going to fly away, and I didn't want to disturb them before they flitted." They all stood gazing at the delicate, tossing blossoms whose spurred tubes swung in every gentlest breeze. "It has a bird's name, too," added Dorothy as if there had been no silence; "_aquilegia_--the eagle flower." "Why eagle? The eagle is a strenuous old fowl," commented Ethel Brown. "The name doesn't seem appropriate." "It's because of the spurs--they suggest an eagle's talons." "That's too far-fetched to suit me," confessed Ethel Brown. "It is called 'columbine' because the spurs look a little like doves around a drinking fountain, and the Latin word for dove is '_columba_," said Dorothy. "It's queer the way they name flowers after animals--" said Ethel Blue. "Or parts of animals," laughed her cousin. "Saxifrage isn't; Helen told me the name meant 'rock-breaker,' because some kinds grow in the clefts of rocks the way the columbines do." "I wish we could find a trillium," said Ethel Blue. "The _tri_ in that name means that everything about it is in threes." "What is a trillium?" asked Ethel Brown. "Roger brought in a handful the other day. 'Wake-robin' he called it." "O, I remember them. There was a bare stalk with three leaves and the flower was under the leaves." "There were three petals to the corolla and three sepals to the calyx. He had purple ones and white ones." "Here's a white one this very minute," said Dorothy, pouncing upon a plant eight or ten inches in height whose leaves looked eager and strong. "See," she said as they all leaned over to examine it; "the blossom has two sets of leaves. The outer set is usually green or some color not so gay as to attract insects or birds that might destroy the flower when it is in bud. These outer leaves are called, all together, the calyx, and each one of them is called a sepal." "The green thing on the back of a rose is the calyx and each of its leaflets is called a sepal," said Ethel Brown by way of fixing the definition firmly in her mind. "The pretty part of the flower is the corolla which means 'little crown,' and each of its parts is called a petal." "How did you learn all that?" demanded Ethel Brown admiringly. "Your grandmother told me the other day." "You've got a good memory. Helen has told me a lot of botanical terms, but I forget them," "I try hard to remember everything I hear any one say about flowers or vegetables or planting now. You never can tell when it may be useful," and Dorothy nodded wisely. "Shall we take up this wake-robin?" asked Ethel Blue. "Let's not," pleaded Ethel Brown. "We shall find others somewhere and there's only one here." [Illustration: Wind Flower] They left it standing, but when they came upon a growth of wind-flowers there were so many of them that they did not hesitate to dig them freely. "I wonder why they're called 'wind-flowers'?" queried Ethel Brown, whose curiosity on the subject of names had been aroused. "I know that answer," replied Ethel Blue unexpectedly. "That is, nobody knows the answer exactly; I know that much." The other girls laughed. "What is the answer as far as anybody knows it?" demanded Dorothy. "The scientific name is 'anemone.' It comes from the Greek word meaning 'wind.'" "That seems to be a perfectly good answer. Probably it was given because they dance around so prettily in the wind," guessed Dorothy. "Helen's botany says that it was christened that either because it grew in windy places or because it blossomed at the windy season." "Dorothy's explanation suits me best," Ethel Brown decided. "I shall stick to that." "I think it's prettiest myself," agreed Dorothy. "She's so much in earnest she doesn't realize that she's deciding against famous botanists," giggled Ethel Brown. "It _is_ prettier--a lot prettier," insisted Ethel Blue. "I'm glad I've a cousin who can beat scientists!" "What a glorious lot of finds!" cried Ethel Brown. "Just think of our getting all these in one afternoon!" "I don't believe we could except in a place like this where any plant can have his taste suited with meadow or brookside or woods or rocks." "And sunshine or shadow." They were in a gay mood as they gathered up their baskets and trowels and gently laid pieces of newspaper over the uprooted plants. "It isn't hot to-day but we won't run any risk of their getting a headache from the sun," declared Dorothy. "These woodsy ones that aren't accustomed to bright sunshine may be sensitive to it," assented Ethel Blue. "We must remember to tell Helen in just what sort of spot we found each one so she can make its corner in the garden bed as nearly like it as possible." "I'm going to march in and quote Shakespeare to her," laughed Ethel Brown. "I'm going to say 'I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlip and the nodding violet grows,' and then I'll describe the 'bank' so she can copy it." "If she doesn't she may have to repeat Bryant's 'Death of the Flowers':-- 'The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago.'" CHAPTER VII COLOR SCHEMES "Look out, Della; don't pick that! _Don't_ pick that, it's poison ivy!" cried Ethel Brown as all the Club members were walking on the road towards Grandfather Emerson's. A vine with handsome glossy leaves reached an inviting cluster toward passers-by. "Poison ivy!" repeated Della, springing back. "How do you know it is? I thought it was woodbine--Virginia creeper." "Virginia creeper has as many fingers as your hand; this ivy has only three leaflets. See, I-V-Y," and Ethel Blue took a small stick and tapped a leaflet for each letter. "I must tell Grandfather this is here," said Helen. "He tries to keep this road clear of it even if he finds it growing on land not his own. It's too dangerous to be so close to the sidewalk." "It's a shame it behaves so badly when it's so handsome." "It's not handsome if 'handsome is as handsome does' is true. But this is stunning when the leaves turn scarlet." "It's a mighty good plan to admire it from a distance," decided Tom, who had been looking at it carefully. "Della and I being 'city fellers,' we're ignorant about it. I'll remember not to touch the three-leaved I-V-Y, from now on." The Club was intent on finishing their flower garden plans that afternoon. They had gathered together all the seedsmen's catalogues that had been sent them and they had also accumulated a pile of garden magazines. They knew, however, that Mr. Emerson had some that they did not have, and they also wanted his help, so they had telephoned over to find out whether he was to be at home and whether he would help them with the laying out of their color beds. "Nothing I should like better," he had answered cordially so now they were on the way to put him to the test. "We already have some of our color plants in our gardens left over from last year," Helen explained, "and some of the others that we knew we'd want we've started in the hotbed, and we've sowed a few more in the open beds, but we want to make out a full list." "Just what is your idea," asked Mr. Emerson, while Grandmother Emerson saw that the dining table around which they were sitting had on it a plentiful supply of whole wheat bread sandwiches, the filling being dates and nuts chopped together. Helen explained their wish to have beds all of one color. "We girls are so crazy over pink that we're going to try a pink bed at both of Dorothy's gardens as well as in ours," she laughed. "You'd like a list of plants that will keep on blooming all summer so that you can always run out and get a bunch of pink blossoms, I suppose." "That's exactly what we want," and they took their pencils to note down any suggestions that Mr. Emerson made. "We've decided on pink candytuft for the border and single pink hollyhocks for the background with foxgloves right in front of them to cover up the stems at the bottom where they haven't many leaves and a medium height phlox in front of that for the same reason." "You should have pink morning glories and there's a rambler rose, a pink one, that you ought to have in the southeast corner on your back fence," suggested Mr. Emerson. "Stretch a strand or two of wire above the top and let the vine run along it. It blooms in June." "Pink rambler," they all wrote. "What's its name?" "Dorothy--" "Smith?" "Perkins." James went through a pantomime that registered severe disappointment. "Suppose we begin at the beginning," suggested Mr. Emerson. "I believe we can make out a list that will keep your pink bed gay from May till frost." "That's what we want." "You had some pink tulips last spring." "We planted them in the autumn so that they'd come out early this spring. By good luck they're just where we've decided to have a pink bed." "There's your first flower, then. They're near the front of the bed, I hope. The low plants ought to be in front, of course, so they won't be hidden." "They're in front. So are the hyacinths." "Are you sure they're all pink?" "It's a great piece of good fortune--Mother selected only pink bulbs and a few yellow ones to put back into the ground and gave the other colors to Grandmother." "That helps you at the very start-off. There are two kinds of pinks that ought to be set near the front rank because they don't grow very tall--the moss pink and the old-fashioned 'grass pink.' They are charming little fellows and keep up a tremendous blossoming all summer long." "'Grass pink,'" repeated Ethel, Brown, "isn't that the same as 'spice pink'?" "That's what your grandmother calls it. She says she has seen people going by on the road sniff to see what that delicious fragrance was. I suppose these small ones must be the original pinks that the seedsmen have burbanked into the big double ones." "'Burbanked'?" "That's a new verb made out of the name of Luther Burbank, the man who has raised such marvelous flowers in California and has turned the cactus into a food for cattle instead of a prickly nuisance." "I've heard of him," said Margaret. "'Burbanked' means 'changed into something superior,' I suppose." "Something like that. Did you tell me you had a peony?" There's a good, tall tree peony that we've had moved to the new bed." "At the back?" "Yes, indeed; it's high enough to look over almost everything else we are likely to have. It blossoms early." "To be a companion to the tulips and hyacinths." "Have you started any peony seeds?" "The Reine Hortense. Grandmother advised that. They're well up now." "I'd plant a few seeds in your bed, too. If you can get a good stand of perennials--flowers that come up year after year of their own accord--it saves a lot of trouble." "Those pinks are perennials, aren't they? They come up year after year in Grandmother's garden." "Yes, they are, and so is the columbine. You ought to put that in." "But it isn't pink. We got some in the woods the other day. It is red," objected Dorothy. "The columbine has been 'burbanked.' There's a pink one among the cultivated kinds. They're larger than the wild ones and very lovely." "Mother has some. Hers are called the 'Rose Queen,'" said Margaret. "There are yellow and blue ones, too." "Your grandmother can give you some pink Canterbury bells that will blossom this year. They're biennials, you know." "Does that mean they blossom every two years?" "Not exactly. It means that the ones you planted in your flats will only make wood and leaves this year and won't put out any flowers until next year. That's all these pink ones of your grandmother's did last season; this summer they're ready to go into your bed and be useful." "Our seedlings are blue, anyway," Ethel Blue reminded the others. "They must be set in the blue bed." "How about sweet williams?" asked Mr. Emerson. "Don't I remember some in your yard?" "Mother planted some last year," answered Roger, "but they didn't blossom." "They will this year. They're perennials, but it takes them one season to make up their minds to set to work. There's an annual that you might sow now that will be blossoming in a few weeks. It won't last over, though." "Annuals die down at the end of the first season. I'm getting these terms straightened in my so-called mind," laughed Dorothy. "You said you had a bleeding heart--" "A fine old perennial," exclaimed Ethel Brown, airing her new information. "--and pink candy-tuft for the border and foxgloves for the back; are those old plants or seedlings?" "Both." "Then you're ready for anything! How about snapdragons?" "I thought snapdragons were just common weeds," commented James. "They've been improved, too, and now they are large and very handsome and of various heights. If you have room enough you can have a lovely bed of tall ones at the back, with the half dwarf kind before it and the dwarf in front of all. It gives a sloping mass of bloom that is lovely, and if you nip off the top blossoms when the buds appear you can make them branch sidewise and become thick." "We certainly haven't space for that bank arrangement in our garden," decided Roger, "but it will be worth trying in Dorothy's new garden," and he put down a "D" beside the note he had made. "The snapdragon sows itself so you're likely to have it return of its own accord another year, so you must be sure to place it just where you'd like to have it always," warned Mr. Emerson. "The petunia sows itself, too," Margaret contributed to the general stock of knowledge. "You can get pretty, pale, pink petunias now, and they blossom at a great rate all summer." "I know a plant we ought to try," offered James. "It's the plant they make Persian Insect Powder out of." "The Persian daisy," guessed Mr. Emerson. "It would be fun to try that." "Wouldn't it be easier to buy the insect powder?" asked practical Ethel Brown. "Very much," laughed her grandfather, "but this is good fun because it doesn't always blossom 'true,' and you never know whether you'll get a pink or a deep rose color. Now, let me see," continued Mr. Emerson thoughtfully, "you've arranged for your hollyhocks and your phlox--those will be blooming by the latter part of July, and I suppose you've put in several sowings of sweetpeas?" They all laughed, for Roger's demand for sweetpeas had resulted in a huge amount of seeds being sown in all three of the gardens. "Where are we now?" continued Mr. Emerson. "Now there ought to be something that will come into its glory about the first of August," answered Helen. "What do you say to poppies?" "Are there pink poppies?" "O, beauties! Big bears, and little bears, and middle-sized bears; single and double, and every one of them a joy to look upon!" "Put down poppies two or three times," laughed Helen in answer to her grandfather's enthusiasm. "And while we're on the letter 'P' in the seed catalogue," added Mr. Emerson, "order a few packages of single portulaca. There are delicate shades of pink now, and it's a useful little plant to grow at the feet of tall ones that have no low-growing foliage and leave the ground bare." "It would make a good border for us at some time." "You might try it at Dorothy's large garden. There'll be space there to have many different kinds of borders." "We'll have to keep our eyes open for a pink lady's slipper over in the damp part of the Clarks' field," said Roger. "O, I speak for it for my wild garden," cried Helen. "You ought to find one about the end of July, and as that is a long way off you can put off the decision as to where to place it when you transplant it," observed their grandfather dryly. "Mother finds verbenas and 'ten week stocks' useful for cutting," said Margaret. "They're easy to grow and they last a long time and there are always blossoms on them for the house." "Pink?" asked Ethel Blue, her pencil poised until she was assured. "A pretty shade of pink, both of them, and they're low growing, so you can put them forward in the beds after you take out the bulbs that blossomed early." "How are we going to know just when to plant all these things so they'll come out when we want them to?" asked Della, whose city life had limited her gardening experience to a few summers at Chautauqua where they went so late in the season that their flower beds had been planted for them and were already blooming when they arrived. "Study your catalogues, my child," James instructed her. "But they don't always tell," objected Della, who had been looking over several. "That's because the seedsmen sell to people all over the country--people living in all sorts of climates and with all sorts of soils. The best way is to ask the seedsman where you buy your seeds to indicate on the package or in a letter what the sowing time should be for our part of the world." "Then we'll bother Grandfather all we can," threatened Ethel Brown seriously. "He's given us this list in the order of their blossoming--" "More or less," interposed Mr. Emerson. "Some of them over-lap, of course. It's roughly accurate, though." "You can't stick them in a week apart and have them blossom a week apart?" asked Della. "Not exactly. It takes some of them longer to germinate and make ready to bloom than it does others. But of course it's true in a general way that the first to be planted are the first to bloom." "We haven't put in the late ones yet," Ethel Blue reminded Mr. Emerson. "Asters, to begin with. I don't see how there'll be enough room in your small bed to make much of a show with asters. I should put some in, of course, in May, but there's a big opportunity at the new garden to have a splendid exhibition of them. Some asters now are almost as large and as handsome as chrysanthemums--astermums, they call them--and the pink ones are especially lovely." "Put a big 'D' against 'asters,'" advised Roger. "That will mean that there must be a large number put into Dorothy's new garden." "The aster will begin to blossom in August and will continue until light frost and the chrysanthemums will begin a trifle later and will last a little longer unless there is a killing frost." "Can we get blossoms on chrysanthemums the first, year?" asked Margaret, who had not found that true in her experience in her mother's garden. "There are some new kinds that will blossom the first year, the seedsmen promise. I'd like to have you try some of them." "Mother has two or three pink ones--well established plants--that she's going to let us move to the pink bed," said Helen. "The chrysanthemums will end your procession," said Mr. Emerson, "but you mustn't forget to put in some mallow. They are easy to grow and blossom liberally toward the end of the season." "Can we make candy marshmallows out of it?" "You can, but it would be like the Persian insect powder--it would be easier to buy it. But it has a handsome pink flower and you must surely have it on your list." "I remember when Mother used to have the greatest trouble getting cosmos to blossom," said Margaret. "The frost almost always caught it. Now there is a kind that comes before the frost." "Cosmos is a delight at the end of the season," remarked Mr. Emerson. "Almost all the autumn plants are stocky and sturdy, but cosmos is as graceful as a summer plant and as delicate as a spring blossom. You can wind up your floral year with asters and mallow and chrysanthemums and cosmos all blooming at once." "Now for the blue beds," said Tom, excusing himself for looking at his watch on the plea that he and Della had to go back to New York by a comparatively early train. "If you're in a hurry I'll just give you a few suggestions," said Mr. Emerson. "Really blue flowers are not numerous, I suppose you have noticed." "We've decided on ageratum for the border and larkspur and monkshood for the back," said Ethel Brown. "There are blue crocuses and hyacinths and 'baby's breath' for your earliest blossoms, and blue columbines as well as pink and yellow ones! and blue morning glories for your 'climber,' and blue bachelors' buttons and Canterbury bells, and mourning bride, and pretty blue lobelia for low growing plants and blue lupine for a taller growth. If you are willing to depart from real blue into violet you can have heliotrope and violets and asters and pansies and primroses and iris." "The wild flag is fairly blue," insisted Roger, who was familiar with the plants that edged the brook on his grandfather's farm. "It is until you compare it with another moisture lover--forget-me-not." "If Dorothy buys the Clarks' field she can start a colony of flags and forget-me-nots in the stream," suggested James. "Can you remember cineraria? There's a blue variety of that, and one of salpiglossis, which is an exquisite flower in spite of its name." "One of the sweetpea packages is marked 'blue,'" said Roger, "I wonder if it will be a real blue?" "Some of them are pretty near it. Now this isn't a bad list for a rather difficult color," Mr. Emerson went on, looking over Ethel Blue's paper, "but you can easily see that there isn't the variety of the pink list and that the true blues are scarce." "We're going to try it, anyway," returned Helen. "Perhaps we shall run across some others. Now I wrote down for the yellows, yellow crocuses first of all and yellow tulips." "There are many yellow spring flowers and late summer brings goldenrod, so it seems as if the extremes liked the color," said Margaret observantly. "The intermediate season does, too," returned Mr. Emerson. "Daffodils and jonquils are yellow and early enough to suit the most impatient," remarked James. "Who wrote this," asked Mr. Emerson, from whom Ethel Brown inherited her love of poetry: "I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high on vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze." "Wordsworth," cried Ethel Brown. "Wordsworth," exclaimed Tom Watkins in the same breath. "That must mean that daffies grow wild in England," remarked Dorothy. "They do, and we can have something of the same effect here if we plant them through a lawn. The bulbs must be put in like other bulbs, in the autumn. Crocuses may be treated in the same way. Then in the spring they come gleaming through the sod and fill everybody with Wordsworth's delight." "Here's another competition between Helen's wild garden and the color bed; which shall take the buttercups and cowslips?" "Let the wild bed have them," urged Grandfather. "There will be plenty of others for the yellow bed." "We want yellow honeysuckle climbing on the high wire," declared Roger. "Assisted by yellow jessamine?" asked Margaret. "And canary bird vine," contributed Ethel Blue. "And golden glow to cover the fence," added Ethel Brown. "The California poppy is a gorgeous blossom for an edge," said Ethel Blue, "and there are other kinds of poppies that are yellow." "Don't forget the yellow columbines," Dorothy reminded them, "and the yellow snapdragons." "There's a yellow cockscomb as well as a red." "And a yellow verbena." "Being a doctor's son I happen to remember that calendula, which takes the pain out of a cut finger most amazingly, has a yellow flower." "Don't forget stocks and marigolds." "And black-eyed-Susans--rudbeckia--grow very large when they're cultivated." "That ought to go in the wild garden," said Helen. "We'll let you have it," responded Roger generously, "We can put the African daisy in the yellow bed instead." "Calliopsis or coreopsis is one of the yellow plants that the Department of Agriculture Bulletin mentions," said Dorothy. "It tells you just how to plant it and we put in the seeds early on that account." "Gaillardia always reminds me of it a bit--the lemon color," said Ethel Brown. "Only that's stiffer. If you want really, truly prim things try zinnias--old maids." [Illustration: Rudbeckia--Black-eyed Susan] "Zinnias come in a great variety of colors now," reported Mr. Emerson. "A big bowl of zinnias is a handsome sight." "We needn't put any sunflowers into the yellow bed," Dorothy reminded them, "because almost my whole back yard is going to be full of them." "And you needn't plant any special yellow nasturtiums because Mother loves them and she has planted enough to give us flowers for the house, and flowers and leaves for salads and sandwiches, and seeds for pickle to use with mutton instead of capers." "There's one flower you must be sure to have plenty of even if you don't make these colored beds complete," urged Mr. Emerson; "that's the 'chalk-lover,' gypsophila." "What is it?" "The delicate, white blossom that your grandmother always puts among cut flowers. It is feathery and softens and harmonizes the hues of all the rest. 'So warm with light his blended colors flow,' in a bouquet when there's gypsophila in it." "But what a name!" ejaculated Roger. CHAPTER VIII CAVE LIFE The dogwood was in blossom when the girls first established themselves in the cave in the Fitz-James woods. Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Smith thought it was rather too cool, but the girls invited them to come and have afternoon cocoa with them and proved to their satisfaction that the rocks were so sheltered by their position and by the trees that towered above them that it would take a sturdy wind to make them really uncomfortable. Their first duty had been to clean out the cave. "We can pretend that no one ever has lived here since the days when everybody lived in caves," said Ethel Blue, who was always pretending something unusual. "We must be the first people to discover it." "I dare say we are," replied Dorothy. "Uhuh," murmured Ethel Brown, a sound which meant a negative reply. "Here's an old tin can, so we aren't the very first." "It may have been brought here by a wolf," suggested Ethel Blue. "Perhaps it was a werwolf," suggested Dorothy. "What's that?" "A man turned by magic into a wolf but keeping his human feelings. The more I think of it the more I'm sure that it was a werwolf that brought the can here, because, having human feelings, he would know about cans and what they had in them, and being a wolf he would carry it to his lair or den or whatever they call it, to devour it." "Really, Dorothy, you make me uncomfortable!" exclaimed Ethel Blue. "That may be one down there in the field now," continued Dorothy, enjoying her make-believe. The Ethels turned and gazed, each with an armful of trash that she had brought out of the cave. There was, in truth, a figure down in the field beside the brook, and he was leaning over and thrusting a stick into the ground and examining it closely when he drew it out. "That can't be a werwolf," remonstrated Ethel Brown. "That's a man." "Perhaps in the twentieth century wolves turn into men instead of men turning into wolves," suggested Dorothy. "This may be a wolf with a man's shape but keeping the feelings of a wolf, instead of the other way around." "Don't, Dorothy!" remonstrated Ethel Blue again. "He does look like a horrid sort of man, doesn't he?" They all looked at him and wondered what he could be doing in the Miss Clarks' field, but he did not come any nearer to them so they did not have a chance to find out whether he really was as horrid looking as Ethel Blue imagined. It was not a short task to make the cave as clean as the girls wanted it to be. The owner of the tin can had been an untidy person or else his occupation of Fitz-James's rocks had been so long ago that Nature had accumulated a great deal of rubbish. Whichever explanation was correct, there were many armfuls to be removed and then the interior of the cave had to be subjected to a thorough sweeping before the girls' ideas of tidiness were satisfied. They had to carry all the rubbish away to some distance, for it would not do to leave it near the cave to be an eyesore during the happy days that they meant to spend there. It was all done and Roger, who happened along, had made a bonfire for them and consumed all the undesirable stuff, before the two mothers appeared for the promised cocoa and the visit of inspection. The girls at once set about the task of converting them to a belief in the sheltered position of the cave and then they turned their attention to the preparation of the feast. They had brought an alcohol stove that consisted of a small tripod which held a tin of solid alcohol and supported a saucepan. When packing up time came the tripod and the can fitted into the saucepan and the handles folded about it compactly. "We did think at first of having an old stove top that Roger saw thrown away at Grandfather's," Ethel Brown explained. "We could build two brick sides to hold it up and have the stone for a back and leave the front open and run a piece of stove pipe up through that crack in the rocks." Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Smith, who were sitting on a convenient bit of rock just outside the cave, peered in as the description progressed. "Then we could burn wood underneath and regulate the draft by making a sort of blower with some piece of old sheet iron." The mothers made no comment as Ethel Brown seemed not to have finished her account. "Then we thought that perhaps you'd let us have that old oil stove up in the attic. We could set it on this flat rock on this side of the cave." "We thought there might be some danger about that because it isn't very, _very_ large in here, so we finally decided on this alcohol stove. It's safe and it doesn't take up any room and this solid alcohol doesn't slop around and set your dress afire or your table cloth, and we can really cook a good many things on it and the rest we can cook in our own little kitchen and bring over here. If we cover them well they'll still be warm when they get here." "That's a wise decision," assented Mrs. Morton, nodding toward her sister-in-law. "I should be afraid that the stove top arrangement might be like the oil stove--the fuel might fall about and set fire to your frocks." "And it would take up much more space in the cave," suggested Mrs. Smith. "Here's a contribution to your equipment," and she brought out a box of paper plates and cups, and another of paper napkins. "These are fine!" cried Ethel Blue. "They'll save washing." "Here's our idea for furnishing. Do you want to hear it?" asked Dorothy. "Of course we do." "Do you see that flat oblong space there at the back? We're going to fit a box in there. We'll turn it on its side, put hinges and a padlock on the cover to make it into a door, and fix up shelves." "I see," nodded her mother and aunt. "That will be your store cupboard." "And our sideboard and our linen closet, all in one. We're going to make it when we go home this afternoon because we know now what the measurements are and we've got just the right box down in the cellar." "Where do you get the water?" "Roger is cleaning out the spring now and making the basin under it a little larger, so we shall always have fresh spring water." "That's good. I was going to warn you always to boil any water from the brook." "We'll remember." The water for the cocoa was now bubbling in the saucepan. Ethel Blue took four spoonfuls of prepared cocoa, wet it with one spoonful of water and rubbed it smooth. Then she stirred it into a pint of the boiling water and when this had boiled up once she added a pint of milk. When the mixture boiled she took it off at once and served it in the paper cups that her aunt had brought. To go with it Ethel Brown had prepared almond biscuit. They were made by first blanching two ounces of almonds by pouring boiling water on them and then slipping off their brown overcoats. After they had been ground twice over in the meat chopper they were mixed with four tablespoonfuls of flour and one tablespoonful of sugar and moistened with a tablespoonful of milk. When they were thoroughly mixed and rolled thin they were cut into small rounds and baked in a quick oven for ten or fifteen minutes. "These are delicious, my dear," Mrs. Smith said, smiling at her nieces, and the Ethels were greatly pleased at their Aunt Louise's praise. They sat about on the rocks and enjoyed their meal heartily. The birds were busy over their heads, the leaves were beginning to come thickly in the tree crowns and the chipmunks scampered busily about, seeming to be not at all frightened by the coming of these new visitors to their haunts. Dorothy tried to coax one to eat out of her hand. He was curious to try the food that she held out to him and his courage brought him almost within reach of her fingers before it failed and sent him scampering back to his hole, the stripes on his back looking like ribbons as he leaped to safety. Within a month the cave was in excellent working order. The box proved to be a success just as the girls had planned it. They kept there such stores as they did not care to carry back and forth--sugar, salt and pepper, cocoa, crackers--and a supply of eggs, cream-cheese and cookies and milk always fresh. Sometimes when the family thermos bottle was not in use they brought the milk in that and at other times they brought it in an ordinary bottle and let it stand in the hollow below the spring. Glass fruit jars with screw tops preserved all that was entrusted to them free from injury by any marauding animals who might be tempted by the smell to break open the cupboard. These jars the girls placed on the top shelf; on the next they ranged their paper "linen"--which they used for napkins and then as fuel to start the bonfire in which they destroyed all the rubbish left over from their meal. This fire was always small, was made in one spot which Roger had prepared by encircling it with stones, and was invariably put out with a saucepanful of water from the brook. "It never pays to leave a fire without a good dousing," he always insisted. "The rascally thing may be playing 'possum and blaze out later when there is no one here to attend to it." A piece of board which could be moved about at will was used as a table when the weather was such as to make eating inside of the cave desirable. One end was placed on top of the cupboard and the other on a narrow ledge of stone that projected as if made for the purpose. One or two large stones and a box or two served as seats, but there was not room inside for all the members of the Club. When there was a general meeting some had to sit outside. They added to their cooking utensils a few flat saucepans in which water would boil quickly and they made many experiments in cooking vegetables. Beans they gave up trying to cook after several experiments, because they took so long--from one to three hours--for both the dried and the fresh kinds, that the girls felt that they could not afford so much alcohol. They eliminated turnips, too, after they had prodded a frequent fork into some obstinate roots for about three quarters of an hour. Beets were nearly as discouraging, but not quite, when they were young and tender, and the same was true of cabbage. "It's only the infants that we can use in this affair," declared Dorothy after she had replenished the saucepan from another in which she had been heating water for the purpose, over a second alcohol stove that her mother had lent them. Spinach, onions and parsnips were done in half an hour and potatoes in twenty-five minutes. They finally gave up trying to cook vegetables whole over this stove, for they concluded that not only was it necessary to have extremely young vegetables but the size of the cooking utensils must of necessity be too small to have the proceedings a success. They learned one way, however, of getting ahead of the tiny saucepan and the small stove. That was by cutting the corn from the cob and by peeling the potatoes and slicing them very thin before they dropped them into boiling water. Then they were manageable. "Miss Dawson, the domestic science teacher, says that the water you cook any starchy foods in must always be boiling like mad," Ethel Blue explained to her aunt one day when she came out to see how matters were going. "If it isn't the starch is mushy. That's why you mustn't be impatient to put on rice and potatoes and cereals until the water is just bouncing." "Almost all vegetables have some starch," explained Mrs. Morton. "Water _really_ boiling is your greatest friend. When you girls are old enough to drink tea you must remember that boiling water for tea is something more than putting on water in a saucepan or taking it out of a kettle on the stove." "Isn't boiling water boiling water?" asked Roger, who was listening. "There's boiling water _and_ boiling water," smiled his mother. "Water for tea should be freshly drawn so that there are bubbles of air in it and it should be put over the fire at once. When you are waiting for it to boil you should scald your teapot so that its coldness may not chill the hot water when you come to the actual making of the tea." "Do I seem to remember a rule about using one teaspoonful of tea for each person and one for the pot?" asked Tom. "That is the rule for the cheaper grades of tea, but the better grades are so strong that half a teaspoonful for each drinker is enough." "Then it's just as cheap to get tea at a dollar a pound as the fifty cent quality." "Exactly; and the taste is far better. Well, you have your teapot warm and your tea in it waiting, and the minute the water boils vigorously you pour it on the tea." "What would happen if you let it boil a while?" "If you should taste water freshly boiled and water that has been boiling for ten minutes you'd notice a decided difference. One has a lively taste and the other is flat. These qualities are given to the pot of tea of course." "That's all news to me," declared James. "I'm glad to know it." "I used to think 'tea and toast' was the easiest thing in the world to prepare until Dorothy taught me how to make toast when she was fixing invalid dishes for Grandfather after he was hurt in the fire at Chautauqua," said Ethel Brown. "She opened my eyes," and she nodded affectionately at her cousin. "There's one thing we must learn to make or we won't be true campers," insisted Tom. "What is it? I'm game to make it or eat it," responded Roger instantly. "Spider cakes." "Spiders! Ugh!" ejaculated Della daintily. "Hush; a spider is a frying pan," Ethel Brown instructed her. "Tell us how you do them, Tom," she begged. "You use the kind of flour that is called 'prepared flour.' It rises without any fuss." The Ethels laughed at this description, but they recognized the value in camp of a flour that doesn't make any fuss. "Mix a pint of the flour with half a pint of milk. Let your spider get hot and then grease it with butter or cotton seed oil." "Why not lard." "Lard will do the deed, of course, but butter or a vegetable fat always seems to me cleaner," pronounced Tom wisely. "Won't you listen to Thomas!" cried Roger. "How do you happen to know so much?" he inquired amazedly. "I went camping for a whole month once and I watched the cook a lot and since then I've gathered ideas about the use of fat in cooking. As little frying as possible for me, thank you, and no lard in mine!" They smiled at his earnestness, but they all felt the same way, for the girls were learning to approve of delicacy in cooking the more they cooked. "Go ahead with your spider cake," urged Margaret, who was writing down the receipt as Tom gave it. "When your buttered spider is ready you pour in half the mixture you have ready. Spread it smooth over the whole pan, put on a cover that you've heated, and let the cake cook four minutes. Turn it over and let the other side cook for four minutes. You ought to have seen our camp cook turn over his cakes; he tossed them into the air and he gave the pan such a twist with his wrist that the cake came down all turned over and ready to let the good work go on." "What did he do with the other half of his batter?" asked Ethel Brown, determined to know exactly what happened at every stage of proceedings. "When he had taken out the first cake and given it to us he put in the remainder and cooked it while we were attacking the first installment." "Was it good?" "You bet!" "I don't know whether we can do it with this tiny fire, but let's try--what do you say?" murmured Ethel Brown to Ethel Blue. "We ought to have trophies of our bow and spear," Roger suggested when he was helping with the furnishing arrangements. "There aren't any," replied Ethel Brown briefly, "but Dicky has a glass bowl full of tadpoles; we can have those." So the tadpoles came to live in the cave, carried out into the light whenever some one came and remembered to do it, and as some one came almost every day, and as all the U.S.C. members were considerate of the needs and feelings of animals as well as of people, the tiny creatures did not suffer from their change of habitation. Dicky had taken the frogs' eggs from the edge of a pool on his grandfather's farm. They looked like black dots at first. Then they wriggled out of the jelly and took their place in the world as tadpoles. It was an unfailing delight to all the young people, to look at them through a magnifying glass. They had apparently a round head with side gills through which they breathed, and a long tail. After a time tiny legs appeared under what might pass as the chin. Then the body grew longer and another pair of legs made their appearance. Finally the tail was absorbed and the tadpole's transformation into a frog was complete. All this did not take place for many months, however, but through the summer the Club watched the little wrigglers carefully and thought that they could see a difference from week to week. CHAPTER IX "NOTHING BUT LEAVES" When the leaves were well out on the trees Helen held an Observation Class one afternoon, in front of the cave. "How many members of this handsome and intelligent Club know what leaves are for?" she inquired. "As representing in a high degree both the qualities you mention, Madam President," returned Tom, with a bow, "I take upon myself the duty of replying that perhaps you and Roger do because you've studied botany, and maybe Margaret and James do because they've had a garden, and it's possible that the Ethels and Dorothy do inasmuch as they've had the great benefit of your acquaintance, but that Della and I don't know the very first thing about leaves except that spinach and lettuce are good to eat." "Take a good, full breath after that long sentence," advised James. "Go ahead, Helen. I don't know much about leaves except to recognize them when I see them." "Do you know what they're for?" demanded Helen, once again. "I can guess," answered Margaret. "Doesn't the plant breathe and eat through them?" "It does exactly that. It takes up food from water and from the soil by its roots and it gets food and water from the air by its leaves." "Sort of a slender diet," remarked Roger, who was blessed with a hearty appetite. "The leaves give it a lot of food. I was reading in a book on botany the other day that the elm tree in Cambridge, Massachusetts, under which Washington reviewed his army during the Revolution was calculated to have about seven million leaves and that they gave it a surface of about five acres. That's quite a surface to eat with!" "Some mouth!" commented Roger. "If each one of you will pick a leaf you'll have in your hand an illustration of what I say," suggested Helen. [Illustration: Lily of the Valley Leaf] They all provided themselves with leaves, picking them from the plants and shrubs and trees around them, except Ethel Blue, who already had a lily of the valley leaf with some flowers pinned to her blouse. "When a leaf has everything that belongs to it it has a little stalk of its own that is called a _petiole_; and at the foot of the petiole it has two tiny leaflets called _stipules_, and it has what we usually speak of as 'the leaf' which is really the _blade_." They all noted these parts either on their own leaves or their neighbors', for some of their specimens came from plants that had transformed their parts. "What is the blade of your leaf made of?" Helen asked Ethel Brown. "Green stuff with a sort of framework inside," answered Ethel, scrutinizing the specimen in her hand. "What are the characteristics of the framework?" "It has big bones and little ones," cried Della. "Good for Delila! The big bones are called ribs and the fine ones are called veins. Now, will you please all hold up your leaves so we can all see each other's. What is the difference in the veining between Ethel Brown's oak leaf and Ethel Blue's lily of the valley leaf?" [Illustration: Ethel Brown's Oak Leaf] After an instant's inspection Ethel Blue said, "The ribs and veins on my leaf all run the same way, and in the oak leaf they run every which way." "Right," approved Helen again. "The lily of the valley leaf is parallel-veined and the oak leaf is net-veined. Can each one of you decide what your own leaf is?" "I have a blade of grass; it's parallel veined," Roger determined. All the others had net veined specimens, but they remembered that iris and flag and corn and bear-grass--yucca--all were parallel. "Yours are nearly all netted because there are more net-veined leaves than the other kind," Helen told them. "Now, there are two kinds of parallel veining and two kinds of net veining," she went on. "All the parallel veins that you've spoken of are like Ethel Blue's lily of the valley leaf--the ribs run from the stem to the tip--but there's another kind of parallel veining that you see in the pickerel weed that's growing down there in the brook; in that the veins run parallel from a strong midrib to the edge of the leaf." James made a rush down to the brook and came back with a leaf of the pickerel weed and they handed it about and compared it with the lily of the valley leaf. "Look at Ethel Brown's oak leaf," Helen continued. "Do you see it has a big midrib and the other veins run out from it 'every which way' as Ethel Blue said, making a net? Doesn't it remind you of a feather?" They all agreed that it did, and they passed around Margaret's hat which had a quill stuck in the band, and compared it with the oak leaf. "That kind of veining is called pinnate veining from a Latin word that means 'feather,'" explained Helen. "The other kind of net veining is that of the maple leaf." Tom and Dorothy both had maple leaves and they held them up for general observation. "How is it different from the oak veining?" quizzed Helen. "The maple is a little like the palm of your hand with the fingers running out," offered Ethel Brown. "That's it exactly. There are several big ribs starting at the same place instead of one midrib. Then the netting connects all these spreading ribs. That is called _palmate_ veining because it's like the palm of your hand." "Or the web foot of a duck," suggested Dorothy. [Illustration: Tom and Dorothy both had Maple Leaves] "I should think all the leaves that have a feather-shaped framework would be long and all the palm-shaped ones would be fat," guessed Della. "They are, and they have been given names descriptive of their shape. The narrowest kind, with the same width all the way, is called '_linear_.'" "Because it's a line--more or less," cried James. "The next wider, has a point and is called '_lance-shaped_.' The '_oblong_' is like the linear, the same size up and down, but it's much wider than the linear. The '_elliptical_' is what the oblong would be if its ends were prettily tapered off. The apple tree has a leaf whose ellipse is so wide that it is called '_oval_.' Can you guess what '_ovate_' is?" "'Egg-shaped'?" inquired Tom. "That's it; larger at one end than the other, while a leaf that is almost round, is called '_rotund_.'" "Named after Della," observed Della's brother in a subdued voice that nevertheless caught his sister's ear and caused an oak twig to fly in his direction. "There's a lance-shaped leaf that is sharp at the base instead of the point; that's named '_ob-lanceolate_'; and there's one called '_spatulate_' that looks like the spatula that druggists mix things with." [Illustration: Linear Lance-shaped Oblong Elliptical Ovate] "That ought to be rounded at the point and narrow at the base," said the doctor's son. "It is. The lower leaves of the common field daisy are examples. How do you think the botanists have named the shape that is like an egg upside down?" "'_Ob-ovate_', if it's like the other _ob_," guessed Dorothy. "The leaflets that make up the horse-chestnut leaf are '_wedge-shaped_' at the base," Helen reminded them. "Then there are some leaves that have nothing remarkable about their tips but have bases that draw your attention. One is '_heart-shaped_'--like the linden leaf or the morning-glory. Another is '_kidney-shaped_'. That one is wider than it is long." [Illustration: Shield-shaped Oblancolate Spatulate Rotund Crenate Edge] [Illustration: Heart-shaped Kidney-shaped] "The hepatica is kidney-shaped," remarked James. "The '_ear-shaped_' base isn't very common in this part of the world, but there's a magnolia of that form. The '_arrow-shaped_' base you can find in the arrow-weed in the brook. The shape like the old-time weapon, the '_halberd_' is seen in the common sorrel." "That nice, acid-tasting leaf?" "Yes, that's the one. What does the nasturtium leaf remind you of?" "Dicky always says that when the Jack-in-the-Pulpit stops preaching he jumps on the back of a frog and takes a nasturtium leaf for a shield and hops forth to look for adventures," said Roger, to whom Dicky confided many of his ideas when they were working together in the garden. [Illustration: Arrow-shaped Ear-shaped Halberd-shaped] "Dicky is just right," laughed Helen. "That is a '_shield-shaped_' leaf." "Do the tips of the leaves have names?" "Yes. They are all descriptive--'_pointed_,' '_acute_,' '_obtuse_,' '_truncate_,' '_notched_,' and so on," answered Helen. "Did you notice a minute ago that I spoke of the 'leaflet' of a horse-chestnut leaf? What's the difference between a 'leaflet' and a 'leaf'?" "To judge by what you said, a leaflet must be a part of a leaf. One of the five fingers of the horse-chestnut leaf is a leaflet," Della reasoned out in answer. [Illustration: Obtuse Truncated Notched] "Can you think of any other leaves that have leaflets?" "A locust?" "A rose?" [Illustration: Pinnate Pinnate, tendrils Locust Leaf Sweet Pea Leaf] "A sweetpea?" The latter answer-question came from Roger and produced a laugh. "All those are right. The leaves that are made up of leaflets are called '_compound_' leaves, and the ones that aren't compound are '_simple_.'" "Most leaves are simple," decided Ethel Brown. "There are more simple than compound," agreed Helen. "As you recall them do you see any resemblance between the shape of the horse-chestnut leaf and the shape of the rose leaf and anything else we've been talking about this afternoon?" "Helen is just naturally headed for the teaching profession!" exclaimed James in an undertone. Helen flushed. "I do seem to be asking about a million questions, don't I?" she responded good naturedly. "The rose leaf is feather-shaped and the horse-chestnut is palm-shaped," Ethel Blue thought aloud, frowning delicately as she spoke. "They're like those different kinds of veining." "That's it exactly," commended her cousin. "Those leaves are '_pinnately compound_' and '_palmately compound_' according as their leaflets are arranged like a feather or like the palm of your hand. When you begin to notice the edges of leaves you see that there is about every degree of cutting between the margin that is quite smooth and the margin that is so deeply cut that it is almost a compound leaf. It is never a real compound leaf, though, unless the leaflets are truly separate and all belong on one common stalk." "My lily of the valley leaf has a perfectly smooth edge," said Ethel Blue. "That is called '_entire_.' This elm leaf of mine has a '_serrate_' edge with the teeth pointing forward like the teeth of a saw. When they point outward like the spines of a holly leaf they are '_dentate_-'toothed. The border of a nasturtium leaf is '_crenate_' or scalloped. Most honeysuckles have a '_wavy_' margin. When there are sharp, deep notches such as there are on the upper leaves of the field daisy, the edge is called '_cut_.'" "This oak leaf is 'cut,' then." "When the cuts are as deep as those the leaf is '_cleft_.' When they go about half way to the midrib, as in the hepatica, it is '_lobed_' and when they almost reach the midrib as they do in the poppy it is '_parted_.'" [Illustration: Dentate Wavy] "Which makes me think our ways must part if James and I are to get home in time for dinner," said Margaret. "There's our werwolf down in the field again," exclaimed Dorothy, peering through the bushes toward the meadow where a man was stooping and standing, examining what he took up from the ground. "Let's go through the field and see what he's doing," exclaimed Roger. "He's been here so many times he must have some purpose." But when they passed him he was merely looking at a flower through a small magnifying glass. He said "Good-afternoon" to them, and they saw as they looked back, that he kept on with his bending and rising and examination. "He's like us, students of botany," laughed Ethel Blue. "We ought to have asked him to Helen's class this afternoon." "I don't like his looks," Dorothy decided. "He makes me uncomfortable. I wish he wouldn't come here." Roger turned back to take another look and shook his head thoughtfully. "Me neither," he remarked concisely, and then added as if to take the thoughts of the girls off the subject, "Here's a wild strawberry plant for your indoor strawberry bed, Ethel Brown," and launched into the recitation of an anonymous poem he had recently found. "The moon is up, the moon is up! The larks begin to fly, And, like a drowsy buttercup, Dark Phoebus skims the sky, The elephant with cheerful voice, Sings blithely on the spray; The bats and beetles all rejoice, Then let me, too, be gay." CHAPTER X THE U.S.C. AND THE COMMUNITY Roger's interest in gardening had extended far beyond fertilizers and sweetpeas. It was not long after the discussion in which the Mortons' garden had been planned on paper that he happened to mention to the master of the high school, Mr. Wheeler, what the Club was intending to do. Mr. Wheeler had learned to value the enthusiasm and persistency of the U.S.C. members and it did not take him long to decide that he wanted their assistance in putting through a piece of work that would be both pleasant and profitable for the whole community. "It seems queer that here in Rosemont where we are on the very edge of the country there should be any people who do not have gardens," he said to Roger. "There are, though," responded Roger. "I was walking down by the station the other day where those shanties are that the mill hands live in and I noticed that not one of them had space for more than a plant or two and they seemed to be so discouraged at the prospect that even the plant or two wasn't there." "Yet all the children that live in those houses go to our public schools. Now my idea is that we should have a community garden, planted and taken care of by the school children." "Bully!" exclaimed Roger enthusiastically. "Where are you going to get your land?" "That's the question. It ought to be somewhere near the graded school, and there isn't any ploughed land about there. The only vacant land there is is that cheerful spot that used to be the dump." "Isn't that horrible! One corner of it is right behind the house where my aunt Louise lives. Fortunately there's a thick hedge that shuts it off." "Still it's there, and I imagine she'd be glad enough to have it made into a pleasant sight instead of an eyesore." "You mean that the dump might be made into the garden?" "If we can get people like Mrs. Smith who are personally affected by it, and others who have the benefit of the community at heart to contribute toward clearing off the ground and having it fertilized I believe that would be the right place." "You can count on Aunt Louise, I know. She'd be glad to help. Anybody would. Why it would turn that terrible looking spot into almost a park!" "The children would prepare the gardens once the soil was put into something like fair condition, but the first work on that lot is too heavy even for the larger boys." "They could pick up the rubbish on top." "Yes, they could do that, and the town carts could carry it away and burn it. The town would give us the street sweepings all spring and summer and some of the people who have stables would contribute fertilizer. Once that was turned under with the spade and topped off by some commercial fertilizer with a dash of lime to sweeten matters, the children could do the rest." "What is your idea about having the children taught? Will the regular teachers do it?" "All the children have some nature study, and simple gardening can be run into that, our superintendent tells me. Then I know something about gardening and I'll gladly give some time to the outdoor work." "I'd like to help, too," said Roger unassumingly, "if you think I know enough." "If you're going to have a share in planting and working three gardens I don't see why you can't keep sufficiently ahead of the children to be able to show them what to do. We'd be glad to have your help," and Mr. Wheeler shook hands cordially with his new assistant. Roger was not the only member of his family interested in the new plan. His Grandfather was public-spirited and at a meeting of citizens called for the purpose of proposing the new community venture he offered money, fertilizer, seeds, and the services of a man for two days to help in the first clearing up. Others followed his example, one citizen giving a liberal sum of money toward the establishment of an incinerator which should replace in part the duties of the dump, and another heading a subscription list for the purchase of a fence which should keep out stray animals and boys whose interests might be awakened at the time the vegetables ripened rather than during the days of preparation and backache. Mrs. Smith answered her nephew's expectations by adding to the fund. The town contributed the lot, and supported the new work generously in more than one way. When it came to the carrying out of details Mr. Wheeler made further demands upon the Club. He asked the boys to give some of their Saturday time to spreading the news of the proposed garden among the people who might contribute and also the people who might want to have their children benefit by taking the new "course of study." Although James and Tom did not live in Rosemont they were glad to help and for several Saturdays the Club tramps were utilized as a means of spreading the good news through the outskirts of the town. The girls were placed among the workers when the day came to register the names of the children who wanted to undertake the plots. There were so many of them that there was plenty to do for both the Ethels and for Dorothy and Helen, who assisted Mr. Wheeler. The registration was based on the catalogue plan. For each child there was a card, and on it the girls wrote his name and address, his grade in school and a number corresponding to the number of one of the plots into which the big field was divided. It did not take him long to understand that on the day when the garden was to open he was to hunt up his plot and that after that he and his partner were to be responsible for everything that happened to it. Two boys or two girls were assigned to each plot but more children applied than there were plots to distribute. The Ethels were disturbed about this at first for it seemed a shame that any one who wanted to make a garden should not have the opportunity. Helen reminded them, however, that there might be some who would find their interest grow faint when the days grew hot and long and the weeds seemed to wax tall at a faster rate than did the desirable plants. "When some of these youngsters fall by the wayside we can supply their places from the waiting list," she said. "There won't be so many fall by the wayside if there is a waiting list," prophesied her Aunt Louise who had come over to the edge of the ground to see how popular the new scheme proved to be. "It's human nature to want to stick if you think that some one else is waiting to take your place." The beds were sixteen feet long and five feet wide and a path ran all around. This permitted every part of the bed to be reached by hand, and did away with the necessity of stepping on it. It was decreed that all the plots were to be edged with flowers, but the workers might decide for themselves what they should be. The planters of the first ten per cent. of the beds that showed seedlings were rewarded by being allowed the privilege of planting the vines and tall blossoming plants that were to cover the inside of the fence. Most of the plots were given over to vegetables, even those cared for by small children, for the addition of a few extras to the family table was more to be desired than the bringing home of a bunch of flowers, but even the most provident children had the pleasure of picking the white candytuft or blue ageratum, or red and yellow dwarf nasturtiums that formed the borders. Once a week each plot received a visit from some one qualified to instruct the young farmer and the condition of the plot was indicated on his card. Here, too, and on the duplicate card which was filed in the schoolhouse, the child's attendance record was kept, and also the amount of seed he used and the extent of the crop he harvested. In this way the cost of each of the little patches was figured quite closely. As it turned out, some of the children who were not blessed with many brothers and sisters, sold a good many dimes' worth of vegetables in the course of the summer. "This surely is a happy sight!" exclaimed Mr. Emerson to his wife as he passed one day and stopped to watch the children at work, some, just arrived, getting their tools from the toolhouse in one corner of the lot, others already hard at work, some hoeing, some on their knees weeding, all as contented as they were busy. "Come in, come in," urged Mr. Wheeler, who noticed them looking over the fence. "Come in and see how your grandson's pupils are progressing." The Emersons were eager to accept the invitation. "Here is the plan we've used in laying out the beds," explained Mr. Wheeler, showing them a copy of a Bulletin issued by the Department of Agriculture. "Roger and I studied over it a long time and we came to the conclusion that we couldn't better this. This one is all vegetables, you see, and that has been chosen by most of the youngsters. Some of the girls, though, wanted more flowers, so they have followed this one." [Illustration: Plan of a vegetable Plan of a combined school garden vegetable and flower school garden] "This vegetable arrangement is the one I've followed at home," said Roger, "only mine is larger. Dicky's garden is just this size." "Would there be any objection to my offering a small prize?" asked Mr. Emerson. "None at all." "Then I'd like to give some packages of seeds--as many as you think would be suitable--to the partners who make the most progress in the first month." "And I'd like to give a bundle of flower seeds to the border that is in the most flourishing condition by the first of August," added Mrs. Emerson. "And the United Service Club would like to give some seeds for the earliest crop of vegetables harvested from any plot," promised Roger, taking upon himself the responsibility of the offer which he was sure the other members would confirm. Mr. Wheeler thanked them all and assured them that notice of the prizes would be given at once so that the competition might add to the present enthusiasm. "Though it would be hard to do that," he concluded, smiling with satisfaction. "No fair planting corn in the kitchen and transplanting it the way I'm doing at home," decreed Roger, enlarging his stipulations concerning the Club offer. "I understand; the crop must be raised here from start to finish," replied Mr. Wheeler. The interest of the children in the garden and of their parents and the promoters in general in the improvement that they had made in the old town dump was so great that the Ethels were inspired with an idea that would accomplish even more desirable changes. The suggestion was given at one of the Saturday meetings of the Club. "You know how horrid the grounds around the railroad station are," Ethel Blue reminded them. "There's some grass," objected Roger. "A tiny patch, and right across the road there are ugly weeds. I think that if we put it up to the people of Rosemont right now they'd be willing to do something about making the town prettier by planting in a lot of conspicuous places." "Where besides the railroad station?" inquired Helen. "Can you ask? Think of the Town Hall! There isn't a shrub within a half mile." "And the steps of the high school," added Ethel Brown. "You go over them every day for ten months, so you're so accustomed to them that you don't see that they're as ugly as ugly. They ought to have bushes planted at each side to bank them from sight." "I dare say you're right," confessed Helen, while Roger nodded assent and murmured something about Japan ivy. "Some sort of vine at all the corners would be splendid," insisted Ethel Brown. "Ethel Blue and Dorothy and I planted Virginia Creeper and Japan ivy and clematis wherever we could against the graded school building; didn't we tell you? The principal said we might; he took the responsibility and we provided the plants and did the planting." "He said he wished we could have some rhododendrons and mountain laurel for the north side of the building, and some evergreen azalea bushes, but he didn't know where we'd get them, because he had asked the committee for them once and they had said that they were spending all their money on the inside of the children's heads and that the outside of the building would have to look after itself." "That's just the spirit the city fathers have been showing about the park. They've actually got that started, though," said Roger gratefully. "They're doing hardly any work on it; I went by there yesterday," reported Dorothy. "It's all laid out, and I suppose they've planted grass seed for there are places that look as if they might be lawns in the dim future." "Too bad they couldn't afford to sod them," remarked James, wisely. "If they'd set out clumps of shrubs at the corners and perhaps put a carpet of pansies under them it would help," declared Ethel Blue, who had consulted with the Glen Point nurseryman one afternoon when the Club went there to see Margaret and James. "Why don't we make a roar about it?" demanded Roger. "Ethel Blue had the right idea when she said that now was the time to take advantage of the citizens' interest. If we could in some way call their attention to the high school and the Town Hall and the railroad station and the park." "And tell them that the planting at the graded school as far as it goes, was done by three little girls," suggested Tom, grinning at the disgusted faces with which the Ethels and Dorothy heard themselves called "little girls"; "that ought to put them to shame." "Isn't the easiest way to call their attention to it to have a piece in the paper?" asked Ethel Brown. "You've hit the right idea," approved James. "If your editor is like the Glen Point editor he'll be glad of a new crusade to undertake." "Particularly if it's backed by your grandfather," added Della shrewdly. The result of this conference of the Club was that they laid the whole matter before Mr. Emerson and found that it was no trouble at all to enlist his interest. "If you're interested right off why won't other people be?" asked Ethel Brown when it was clear that her grandfather would lend his weight to anything they undertook. "I believe they will be, and I think you have the right idea about making a beginning. Go to Mr. Montgomery, the editor of the Rosemont _Star_, and say that I sent you to lay before him the needs of this community in the way of added beauty. Tell him to 'play it up' so that the Board of Trade will get the notion through their heads that people will be attracted to live here if they see lovely grounds about them. He'll think of other appeals. Go to see him." The U.S.C. never let grass grow under its feet. The Ethels and Dorothy, Roger and Helen went to the office of the _Star_ that very afternoon. "You seem to be a delegation," said the editor, receiving them with a smile. "We represent our families, who are citizens of Rosemont," answered Roger, "and who want your help, and we also represent the United Service Club which is ready to help you help them." "I know you!" responded Mr. Montgomery genially. "Your club is well named. You've already done several useful things for Rosemont people and institutions. What is it now?" Roger told him to the last detail, even quoting Tom's remark about the "three little girls," and adding some suggestions about town prizes for front door yards which the Ethels had poured into his ears as they came up the stairs. While he was talking the editor made some notes on a pad lying on his desk. The Ethels were afraid that that meant that he was not paying much attention, and they glanced at each other with growing disappointment. When Roger stopped, however, Mr. Montgomery nodded gravely. "I shall be very glad indeed to lend the weight of the _Star_ toward the carrying out of your proposition," he remarked, seeming not to notice the bounce of delight that the younger girls could not resist. "What would you think of a series of editorials, each striking a different note?" and he read from his pad;--Survey of Rosemont; Effect of Appearance of Railroad Station, Town Hall, etc., on Strangers; Value of Beauty as a Reinforcement to Good Roads and Good Schools. "That is, as an extra attraction for drawing new residents," he explained. "We have good roads and good schools, but I can conceive of people who might say that they would have to be a lot better than they are before they'd live in a town where the citizens had no more idea of the fitness of things than to have a dump heap almost in the heart of the town and to let the Town Hall look like a jail." The listening party nodded their agreement with the force of this argument. "'What Three Little Girls Have Done,'" read Mr. Montgomery. "I'll invite any one who is interested to take a look at the graded schoolhouse and see how much better it looks as a result of what has been accomplished there. I know, because I live right opposite it, and I'm much obliged to you young ladies." He bowed so affably in the direction of the Ethels and Dorothy, and "young ladies" sounded so pleasantly in their ears that they were disposed to forgive him for the "little girls" of his title. "I have several other topics here," he went on, "some appealing to our citizens' love of beauty and some to their notions of commercial values. If we keep this thing up every day for a week and meanwhile work up sentiment, I shouldn't wonder if we had some one calling a public meeting at the end of the week. If no one else does I'll do it myself," he added amusedly. "What can we do?" asked Ethel Brown, who always went straight to the practical side. "Stir up sentiment. You stirred your grandfather; stir all your neighbors; talk to all your schoolmates and get them to talk at home about the things you tell them. I'll send a reporter to write up a little 'story' about the U.S.C. with a twist on the end that the grown-ups ought not to leave a matter like this for youngsters to handle, no matter how well they would do it." "But we'd like to handle it," stammered Ethel Blue. "You'll have a chance; you needn't be afraid of that. The willing horse may always pull to the full extent of his strength. But the citizens of Rosemont ought not to let a public matter like this be financed by a few kids," and Mr. Montgomery tossed his notebook on his desk with a force that hinted that he had had previous encounters with an obstinate element in his chosen abiding place. The scheme that he had outlined was followed out to the letter, with additions made as they occurred to the ingenious minds of the editor or of his clever young reporters who took an immense delight in running under the guise of news items, bits of reminder, gentle gibes at slowness, bland comments on ignorance of the commercial value of beauty, mild jokes at letting children do men's work. It was all so good-natured that no one took offence, and at the same time no one who read the _Star_ had the opportunity to forget that seed had been sown. It germinated even more promptly than Mr. Montgomery had prophesied. He knew that Mr. Emerson stood ready to call a mass meeting at any moment that he should tell him that the time was ripe, but both he and Mr. Emerson thought that the call might be more effective if it came from a person who really had been converted by the articles in the paper. This person came to the front but five days after the appearance of the first editorial in the surprising person of the alderman who had been foremost in opposing the laying out of the park. "You may think me a weathercock," he said rather sheepishly to Mr. Montgomery, "but when I make up my mind that a thing is desirable I put my whole strength into putting it through. When I finally gave my vote for the park I was really converted to the park project and I tell you I've been just frothing because the other aldermen have been so slow about putting it in order. I haven't been able to get them to appropriate half enough for it." Mr. Montgomery smothered a smile, and listened, unruffled, to his caller's proposal. "My idea now," he went on, "is to call a mass meeting in the Town Hall some day next week, the sooner the better. I'll be the chairman or Mr. Emerson or you, I don't care who it is. We'll put before the people all the points you've taken up in your articles. We'll get people who understand the different topics to talk about them--some fellow on the commercial side and some one else on the beauty side and so on; and we'll have the Glen Point nurseryman--" "We ought to have one over here," interposed Mr. Montgomery." "We will if this goes through. There's a new occupation opened here at once by this scheme! We'll have him give us a rough estimate of how much it would cost to make the most prominent spots in Rosemont look decent instead of like a deserted ranch," exclaimed the alderman, becoming increasingly enthusiastic. "I don't know that I'd call Rosemont that," objected the editor. "People don't like to have their towns abused too much; but if you can work up sentiment to have those public places fixed up and then you can get to work on some sort of plan for prizes for the prettiest front yards and the best grown vines over doors and-so on, and raise some competitive feeling I believe we'll have no more trouble than we did about the school gardens. It just takes some one to start the ball rolling, and you're the person to do it," and tactful Mr. Montgomery laid an approving hand on the shoulder of the pleased alderman. If it had all been cut and dried it could not have worked out better. The meeting was packed with citizens who proved to be so full of enthusiasm that they did not stand in need of conversion. They moved, seconded and passed resolution after resolution urging the aldermen to vote funds for improvements and they mentioned spots in need of improvement and means of improving them that U.S.C. never would have had the courage to suggest. "We certainly are indebted to you young people for a big move toward benefiting Rosemont," said Mr. Montgomery to the Club as he passed the settee where they were all seated together. "It's going to be one of the beauty spots of New Jersey before this summer is over!" "And the Ethels are the authors of the ideal" murmured Tom Watkins, applauding silently, as the girls blushed. CHAPTER XI THE FLOWER FESTIVAL The Idea of having a town flower-costume party was the Ethels', too. It came to them when contributions were beginning to flag, just as they discovered that the grounds around the fire engine house were a disgrace to a self-respecting community, as their emphatic friend, the alderman, described them. "People are always willing to pay for fun," Ethel Brown said, "and this ought to appeal to them because the money that is made by the party will go back to them by being spent for the town." Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Emerson and Mrs. Smith thought the plan was possible, and they offered to enlist the interest of the various clubs and societies to which they belonged. The schools were closed now so that there was no opportunity of advertising the entertainment through the school children, but all the clergymen co-operated heartily in every way in their power and Mr. Montgomery gave the plan plenty of free advertising, not only in the advertising columns but through the means of reading notices which his reporters prepared with as much interest and skill as they had shown in working up public opinion on the general improvement scheme. "It must be in the school house hall so everybody will go," declared Helen. "Why not use the hall and the grounds, too?" inquired Ethel Blue. "If it's a fine evening there are various things that would be prettier to have out of doors than indoors." "The refreshments, for instance," explained Ethel Brown. "Every one would rather eat his ice cream and cake at a table on the lawn in front of the schoolhouse than inside where it may be stuffy if it happens to be a warm night." "Lanterns on the trees and candles on each table would make light enough," decided Ethel Blue. "There could be a Punch and Judy show in a tent at the side of the schoolhouse," suggested Dorothy. "What is there flowery about a Punch and Judy show?" asked Roger scornfully. "Nothing at all," returned Dorothy meekly, "but for some reason or other people always like a Punch and Judy show." "Where are we going to get a tent?" "A tent would be awfully warm," Ethel Brown decided. "Why couldn't we have it in the corner where there is a fence on two sides? We could lace boughs back and forth between the palings and make the fence higher, and on the other two sides borrow or buy some wide chicken wire from the hardware store and make that eye-proof with branches." "And string an electric light wire over them. I begin to get enthusiastic," cried Roger. "We could amuse, say, a hundred people at a time at ten cents apiece, in the side-show corner and keep them away from the other more crowded regions." "Exactly," agreed Dorothy; "and if you can think of any other side show that the people will like better than Punch and Judy, why, put it in instead." "We might have finger shadows--rabbits' and dogs' heads and so on; George Foster does them splendidly, and then have some one recite and some one else do a monologue in costume." "Aren't we going to have that sort of thing inside?" "I suppose so, but if your idea is to give more space inside, considering that all Rosemont is expected to come to this festivity, we might as well have a performance in two rings, so to speak." "Especially as some of the people might be a little shy about coming inside," suggested Dorothy. "Why not forget Punch and Judy and have the same performance exactly in both places?" demanded Roger, quite excited with his idea. "The Club gives a flower dance, for instance, in the hall; then they go into the yard and give it there in the ten cent enclosure while number two of the program is on the platform inside. When number two is done inside it is put on outside, and so right through the whole performance." "That's not bad except that the outside people are paying ten cents to see the show and the inside people aren't paying anything." "Well, then, why not have the tables where you sell things--if you are going to have any?"-- "We are," Helen responded to the question in her brother's voice. "--have your tables on the lawn, and have everybody pay to see the performance--ten cents to go inside or ten cents to see the same thing in the enclosure?" "That's the best yet," decided Ethel Brown. "That will go through well if only it is pleasant weather." "I feel in my bones it will be," and Ethel Blue laughed hopefully. The appointed day was fair and not too warm. The whole U.S.C. which went on duty at the school house early in the day, pronounced the behavior of the weather to be exactly what it ought to be. The boys gave their attention to the arrangement of the screen of boughs in the corner of the school lot, and the girls, with Mrs. Emerson, Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Smith, decorated the hall. Flowers were to be sold everywhere, both indoors and out, so there were various tables about the room and they all had contributed vases of different sorts to hold the blossoms. "I must say, I don't think these look pretty a bit," confessed Dorothy, gazing with her head on one side at a large bowl of flowers of all colors that she had placed in the middle of one of the tables. Her mother looked at it and smiled. "Don't try to show off your whole stock at once," she advised. "Have a few arranged in the way that shows them to the best advantage and let Ethel Blue draw a poster stating that there are plenty more behind the scenes. Have your supply at the back or under the table in large jars and bowls and replenish your vases as soon as you sell their contents." The Ethels and Dorothy thought this was a sensible way of doing things and said so, and Ethel Blue at once set about the preparation of three posters drawn on brown wrapping paper and showing a girl holding a flower and saying "We have plenty more like this. Ask for them." They proved to be very pretty and were put up in the hall and the outside enclosure and on the lawn. "There are certain kinds of flowers that should always be kept low," explained Mrs. Smith as they all sorted over the cut flowers that had been contributed. "Flowers that grow directly from the ground like crocuses or jonquils or daffodils or narcissus--the spring bulbs--should be set into flat bowls through netting that will hold them upright. There are bowls sold for this purpose." "Don't they call them 'pansy bowls'?" "I have heard them called that. Some of them have a pierced china top; others have a silver netting. You can make a top for a bowl of any size by cutting chicken wire to suit your needs." "I should think a low-growing plant like ageratum would be pretty in a vase of that sort." "It would, and pansies, of course, and anemones--windflowers--held upright by very fine netting and nodding in every current of air as if they were still in the woods." "I think I'll make a covering for a glass bowl we have at home," declared Ethel Brown, who was diligently snipping ends of stems as she listened. "A glass bowl doesn't seem to me suitable," answered her aunt. "Can you guess why?" Ethel Brown shook her head with a murmured "No." It was Della who offered an explanation. "The stems aren't pretty enough to look at," she suggested. "When you use a glass bowl or vase the stems you see through it ought to be graceful." "I think so," responded Mrs. Smith. "That's why we always take pleasure in a tall slender glass vase holding a single rose with a long stem still bearing a few leaves. We get the effect that it gives us out of doors." "That's what we like to see," agreed Mrs. Morton. "Narcissus springing from a low bowl is an application of the same idea. So are these few sprays of clematis waving from a vase made to hang on the wall. They aren't crowded; they fall easily; they look happy." "And in a room you would select a vase that would harmonize with the coloring," added Margaret, who was mixing sweetpeas in loose bunches with feathery gypsophila. "When we were in Japan Dorothy and I learned something about the Japanese notions of flower arrangement," continued Mrs. Smith. "They usually use one very beautiful dominating blossom. If others are added they are not competing for first place but they act as helpers to add to the beauty of the main attraction." "We've learned some of the Japanese ways," said Mrs. Emerson. "I remember when people always made a bouquet perfectly round and of as many kinds of flowers as they could put into it." "People don't make 'bouquets' now; they gather a 'bunch of flowers,' or they give you a single bloom," smiled her daughter. "But isn't it true that we get as much pleasure out of a single superb chrysanthemum or rose as we do out of a great mass of them?" "There are times when I like masses," admitted Mrs. Emerson. "I like flowers of many kinds if the colors are harmoniously arranged, and I like a mantelpiece banked with the kind of flowers that give you pleasure when you see them in masses in the garden or the greenhouse." "If the vases they are in don't show," warned Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Emerson agreed to that. "The choice of vases is almost as important as the choice of flowers," she added. "If the stems are beautiful they ought to show and you must have a transparent vase, as you said about the rose. If the stems are not especially worthy of admiration the better choice is an opaque vase of china or pottery." "Or silver or copper?" questioned Margaret. "Metals and blossoms never seem to me to go well together," confessed Mrs. Emerson. "I have seen a copper cup with a bunch of violets loosely arranged so that they hung over the edge and the copper glinted through the blossoms and leaves and the effect was lovely; but flowers to be put into metal must be chosen with that in mind and arranged with especial care." "Metal _jardinières_ don't seem suitable to me, either," confessed Mrs. Emerson. "There are so many beautiful potteries now that it is possible to something harmonious for every flowerpot." "You don't object to a silver centrepiece on the dining table, do you?" "That's the only place where it doesn't seem out of place," smiled Mrs. Emerson. "There are so many other pieces of silver on the table that it is merely one of the articles of table equipment and therefore is not conspicuous. Not a standing vase, mind you!" she continued. "I don't know anything more irritating than to have to dodge about the centrepiece to see your opposite neighbor. It's a terrible bar to conversation." They all had experienced the same discomfort, and they all laughed at the remembrance. "A low bowl arranged flat is the rule for centrepieces," repeated Mrs. Emerson seriously. "Mother always says that gay flowers are the city person's greatest help in brightening up a dark room," said Della as she laid aside all the calliopsis from the flowers she was sorting. "I'm going to take a bunch of this home to her to-night." "I always have yellow or white or pink flowers in the dark corner of our sitting room," said Mrs. Smith. "The blue ones or the deep red ones or the ferns may have the sunny spots." "Father insists on yellow blossoms of some kind in the library," added Mrs. Emerson. "He says they are as good as another electric light to brighten the shadowy side where the bookcases are." "I remember seeing a gay array of window boxes at Stratford-on-Avon, once upon a time," contributed Mrs. Morton. "It was a sunshiny day when I saw them, but they were well calculated to enliven the very grayest weather that England can produce. I was told that the house belonged to Marie Corelli, the novelist." "What plants did she have?" asked Dorothy. "Blue lobelia and scarlet geraniums and some frisky little yellow bloom; I couldn't see exactly what it was." "Red and yellow and blue," repeated Ethel Brown. "Was it pretty?" "Very. Plenty of each color and all the boxes alike all over the front of the house." "We shouldn't need such vividness under our brilliant American skies," commented Mrs. Smith. "Plenty of green with flowers of one color makes a window box in the best of taste, to my way of thinking." "And that color one that is becoming to the house, so to speak," smiled Helen. "I saw a yellow house the other day that had yellow flowers in the window boxes. They were almost extinguished by their background." "I saw a white one in Glen Point with white daisies, and the effect was the same," added Margaret. "The poor little flowers were lost. There are ivies and some small evergreen shrubs that the greenhouse-men raise especially for winter window boxes now. I've been talking a lot with the nurseryman at Glen Point and he showed me some the other day that he warranted to keep fresh-looking all through the cold weather unless there were blizzards." "We must remember those at Sweetbrier Lodge," Mrs. Smith said to Dorothy. "Why don't you give a talk on arranging flowers as part of the program this evening?" Margaret asked Mrs. Smith. "Do, Aunt Louise. You really ought to," urged Helen, and the Ethels added their voices. "Give a short talk and illustrate it by the examples the girls have been arranging," Mrs. Morton added, and when Mrs. Emerson said that she thought the little lecture would have real value as well as interest Mrs. Smith yielded. "Say what you and Grandmother have been telling us and you won't need to add another thing," cried Helen. "I think it will be the very best number on the program." "I don't believe it will compete with the side show in the yard," laughed Mrs. Smith, "but I'm quite willing to do it if you think it will give any one pleasure." "But you'll be part of the side show in the yard," and they explained the latest plan of running the program. When the flowers had all been arranged to their satisfaction the girls went into the yard where they found the tables and chairs placed for the serving of the refreshments. The furniture had been supplied by the local confectioner who was to furnish the ice cream and give the management a percentage of what was received. The cake was all supplied by the ladies of the town and the money obtained from its sale was clear profit. The girls covered the bleakness of the plain tables by placing a centrepiece of radiating ferns flat on the wood. On that stood a small vase, each one having flowers of but one color, and each one having a different color. Under the trees among the refreshment tables, but not in their way, were the sales tables. On one, cut flowers were to be sold; on another, potted plants, and a special corner was devoted to wild plants from the woods. A seedsman had given them a liberal supply of seeds to sell on commission, agreeing to take back all that were not sold and to contribute one per cent. more than he usually gave to his sales people, "for the good of the cause." Every one in the whole town who raised vegetables had contributed to the Housewives' Table, and as the names of the donors were attached the table had all the attraction of an exhibit at a county fair and was surrounded all the time by so many men that the women who bought the vegetables for home use had to be asked to come back later to get them, so that the discussion of their merits among their growers might continue with the specimens before them. "That's a hint for another year," murmured Ethel Blue to Ethel Brown. "We can have a make-believe county fair and charge admission, and give medals--" "Of pasteboard." "Exactly. I'm glad we thought to have a table of the school garden products; all the parents will be enormously interested. It will bring them here, and they won't be likely to go away without: spending nickel or a dime on ice cream." A great part of the attractiveness of the grounds was due to the contribution of a dealer in garden furniture. In return for being allowed to put up advertisements of his stock in suitable places where they would not be too conspicuous, he furnished several artistic settees, an arbor or two and a small pergola, which the Glen Point greenhouseman decorated in return for a like use of his advertising matter. Still another table, under the care of Mrs. Montgomery, the wife of the editor, showed books on flowers and gardens and landscape gardening and took subscriptions for several of the garden and home magazines. Last of all a fancy table was covered with dolls and paper dolls dressed like the participants in the floral procession that was soon to form and pass around the lawn; lamp shades in the form of huge flowers; hats, flower-trimmed; and half a hundred other small articles including many for ten, fifteen and twenty-five cents to attract the children. At five o'clock the Flower Festival was opened and afternoon tea was served to the early comers. All the members of the United Service Club and the other boys and girls of the town who helped them wore flower costumes. It was while the Ethels were serving Mrs. Smith and the Miss Clarks that the latter called their attention to a man who sat at a table not far away. "That man is your rival," they announced, smiling, to Mrs. Smith. "My rival! How is that?" inquired Mrs. Smith. "He wants to buy the field." They all exclaimed and looked again at the man who sat quietly eating his ice cream as if he had no such dreadful intentions. The Ethels, however, recognized him as he pushed back a lock of hair that fell over his forehead. "Why, that's our werwolf!" they exclaimed after taking a good look at him, and they explained how they had seen him several times in the field, always digging a stick into the ground and examining what it brought up. "He says he's a botanist, and he finds so much to interest him in the field that he wants to buy it so that he may feel free to work there," said Miss Clark the younger. "That's funny," commented Ethel Blue. "He almost never looks at any flowers or plants. He just pokes his stick in and that's all." "He offered us a considerable sum for the property but we told him that you had an option on it, Mrs. Smith, and we explained that we couldn't give title anyway." "Did his interest seem to fail?" "He asked us a great many questions and we told him all about our aunt and the missing cousin. I thought you might be interested to know that some one else besides yourself sees some good in the land." "It's so queer," said the other Miss Clark. "That land has never had an offer made for it and here we have two within a few weeks of each other." "And we can't take advantage of either of them!" The Ethels noticed later on that the man was joined by a girl about their own age. They looked at her carefully so that they would recognize her again if they saw her, and they also noticed that the werwolf, as he talked to her, so often pushed back from his forehead the lock of hair that fell over it that it had become a habit. The full effect of the flower costumes was seen after the lanterns were lighted, when some of the young married women attended to the tables while their youngers marched around the lawn that all might see the costumes and be attracted to the entertainment in the hall and behind the screen in the open. Roger led the procession, impersonating "Spring." "That's a new one to me," ejaculated the editor of the _Star_ in surprise. "I always thought 'Spring' was of the feminine gender." "Not this year," returned Roger merrily as he passed by. He was dressed like a tree trunk in a long brown cambric robe that fitted him closely and gave him at the foot only the absolute space that he needed for walking. He carried real apple twigs almost entirely stripped of their leaves and laden with blossoms made of white and pink paper. The effect was of a generously flowering apple tree and every one recognized it. Behind Roger came several of the spring blossoms--the Ethels first, representing the yellow crocus and the violet. Ethel Brown wore a white dress covered with yellow gauze sewn with yellow crocuses. A ring of crocuses hung from its edge and a crocus turned upside down made a fascinating cap. All the flowers were made of tissue paper. Ethel Blue's dress was fashioned in the same way, her violet gauze being covered with violets and her cap a tiny lace affair with a violet border. In her case she was able to use many real violets and to carry a basket of the fresh flowers. The contents was made up of small bunches of buttonhole size and she stepped from the procession at almost every table to sell a bunch to some gentleman sitting there. A scout kept the basket always full. Sturdy James made a fine appearance in the spring division in the costume of a red and yellow tulip. He wore long green stockings and a striped tulip on each leg constituted his breeches. Another, with the points of the petals turning upwards, made his jacket, and yet another, a small one, upside down, served as a cap. James had been rather averse to appearing in this costume because Margaret had told him he looked bulbous and he had taken it seriously, but he was so applauded that he came to the conclusion that it was worth while to be a bulb if you could be a good one. Helen led the group of summer flowers. As "Summer" she wore bunches of all the flowers in the garden, arranged harmoniously as in one of the old-fashioned bouquets her grandmother had spoken of in the morning. It had been a problem to keep all these blossoms fresh for it would not be possible for her to wear artificial flowers. The Ethels had found a solution, however, when they brought home one day from the drug store several dozen tiny glass bottles. Around the neck of each they fastened a bit of wire and bent it into a hook which fitted into an eye sewed on to the old but pretty white frock which Helen was sacrificing to the good cause. After she had put on the dress each one of these bottles was fitted with its flowers which had been picked some time before and revived in warm water and salt so that they would not wilt. "These bottles make me think of a story our French teacher told us once," Helen laughed as she stood carefully to be made into a bouquet. "There was a real Cyrano de Bergerac who lived in the 17th century. He told a tale supposed to be about his own adventures in which he said that once he fastened about himself a number of phials filled with dew. The heat of the sun attracted them as it does the clouds and raised him high in the air. When he found that he was not going to alight on the moon as he had thought, he broke some of the phials and descended to earth again." "What a ridiculous story," laughed Ethel Blue, kneeling at Helen's feet with a heap of flowers beside her on the floor. "The rest of it is quite as foolish. When he landed on the earth again he found that the sun was still shining, although according to his calculation it ought to be midnight; and he also did not recognize the place he dropped upon in spite of the fact that he had apparently gone straight up and fallen straight down. Strange people surrounded him and he had difficulty in making himself understood. After a time he was taken before an official from whom he learned that on account of the rotation of the earth under him while he was in the air, although he had risen when but two leagues from Paris he had descended in Canada." The younger girls laughed delightedly at this absurd tale, as they worked at their task. Bits of trailing vine fell from glass to glass so that none of the holders showed, but a delicate tinkling sounded from them like the water of a brook. "This gown of yours is certainly successful," decided Margaret, surveying the result of the Ethels' work, "but I dare say it isn't comfortable, so you'd better have another one that you can slip into behind the scenes after you've made the rounds in this." Helen took the advice and after the procession had passed by, she put on a pretty flowered muslin with pink ribbons. Dorothy walked immediately behind Helen. She was dressed like a garden lily, her petals wired so that they turned out and up at the tips. She wore yellow stockings and slippers as a reminder of the anthers or pollen boxes on the ends of the stamens of the lilies. Dicky's costume created as much sensation as Roger's. He was a Jack-in-the-Pulpit. A suit of green striped in two shades fitted him tightly, and over his head he carried his pulpit, a wire frame covered with the same material of which his clothes were made. The shape was exact and he looked so grave as he peered forth from his shelter that his appearance was saluted with hearty hand clapping. Several of the young people of the town followed in the Summer division. One of them was a fleur-de-lis, wearing a skirt of green leaf blades and a bodice representing the purple petals of the blossom. George Foster was monkshood, a cambric robe--a "domino"--serving to give the blue color note, and a very correct imitation of the flower's helmet answering the purpose of a head-dress. Gregory Patton was Grass, and achieved one of the successful costumes of the line with a robe that rippled to the ground, green cambric its base, completely covered with grass blades. "That boy ought to have a companion dressed like a haycock," laughed Mr. Emerson as Gregory passed him. Margaret led the Autumn division, her dress copied from a chestnut tree and burr. Her kirtle was of the long, slender leaves overlapping each other. The bodice was in the tones of dull yellow found in the velvety inside of the opened burr and of the deep brown of the chestnut itself. This, too, was approved by the onlookers. Behind her walked Della, a combination of purple asters and golden rod, the rosettes of the former seeming a rich and solid material from which the heads of goldenrod hung in a delicate fringe. A "long-haired Chrysanthemum" was among the autumn flowers, his tissue paper petals slightly wired to make them stand out, and a stalk of Joe-Pye-Weed strode along with his dull pink corymb proudly elevated above the throng. All alone as a representative of Winter was Tom Watkins, decorated superbly as a Christmas Tree. Boughs of Norway spruce were bound upon his arms and legs and covered his body. Shining balls hung from the twigs, tinsel glistened as he passed under the lantern light, and strings of popcorn reached from his head to his feet. There was no question of his popularity among the children. Every small boy who saw him asked if he had a present for him. The flower procession served to draw the people into the hall and the screened corner. They cheerfully yielded up a dime apiece at the entrance to each place, and when the "show" was over they were re-replaced by another relay of new arrivals, so that the program was gone through twice in the hall and twice in the open in the course of the evening. A march of all the flowers opened the program. This was not difficult, for all the boys and girls were accustomed to such drills at school, but the effect in costumes under the electric light was very striking. Roger, still dressed as an apple tree, recited Bryant's "Planting of the Apple Tree." Dicky delivered a brief sermon from his pulpit. George Foster ordered the lights out and went behind a screen on which he made shadow finger animals to the delight of every child present. Mrs. Smith gave her little talk on the arrangement of flowers, illustrating it by the examples around the room which were later carried out to the open when she repeated her "turn" in the enclosure. The cartoonist of the _Star_ gave a chalk talk on "Famous Men of the Day," reciting an amusing biography of each and sketching his portrait, framed in a rose, a daisy, mountain laurel, a larkspur or whatever occurred to the artist as he talked. There was music, for Mr. Schuler, who formerly had taught music in the Rosemont schools and who was now with his wife at Rose House, where the United Service Club was taking care of several poor women and children, had drilled some of his former pupils in flower choruses. One of these, by children of Dicky's age, was especially liked. Every one was pleased and the financial result was so satisfactory that Rosemont soon began to blossom like the flower from which it was named. "Team work certainly does pay," commented Roger enthusiastically when the Club met again to talk over the great day. And every one of them agreed that it did. CHAPTER XII ENOUGH TO GIVE AWAY At the very beginning of his holidays Stanley Clark had gone to Nebraska to replace the detective who had been vainly trying to find some trace of his father's cousin, Emily Leonard. The young man was eager to have the matter straightened out, both because it was impossible to sell any of the family land unless it were, and because he wanted to please Mrs. Smith and Dorothy, and because his orderly mind was disturbed at there being a legal tangle in his family. Perhaps he put into his search more clearness of vision than the detective, or perhaps he came to it at a time when he could take advantage of what his predecessor had done;--whatever the reason, he did find a clue and it seemed a strange coincidence that it was only a few days after the Miss Clarks had received the second offer for their field that a letter came to them from their nephew, saying that he had not only discovered the town to which Emily's daughter had gone and the name of the family into which she had been adopted, but had learned the fact that the family had later on removed to the neighborhood of Pittsburg. "At least, this brings the search somewhat nearer home," Stanley wrote, "but it also complicates it, for 'the neighborhood of Pittsburg' is very vague, and it covers a large amount of country. However, I am going to start to-night for Pittsburg to see what I can do there. I've grown so accustomed to playing hide-and-seek with Cousin Emily and I'm so pleased with my success so far that I'm hopeful that I may pick up the trail in western Pennsylvania." The Clarks and the Smiths all shared Stanley's hopefulness, for it did indeed seem wonderful that he should have found the missing evidence after so many weeks of failure by the professional detective, and, if he had traced one step, why not the next? The success of the gardens planted by the U.S.C. had been remarkable. The plants had grown as if they wanted to please, and when blossoming time came, they bloomed with all their might. "Do you remember the talk you and I had about Rose House just before the Fresh Air women and children came out?" asked Ethel Blue of her cousin. Ethel Brown nodded, and Ethel Blue explained the conversation to Dorothy. "We thought Roger's scheme was pretty hard for us youngsters to carry out and we felt a little uncertain about it, but we made up our minds that people are almost always successful when they _want_ like everything to do something and _make up their minds_ that they are going to put it through and _learn how_ to put it through." "We've proved it again with the gardens," responded Ethel Brown. "We wanted to have pretty gardens and we made up our minds that we could if we tried and then we learned all we could about them from people and books." "Just see what Roger knows now about fertilizers!" exclaimed Dorothy in a tone of admiration. "Fertilizers aren't a bit interesting until you think of them as plant food and realize that plants like different kinds of food and try to find out what they are. Roger has studied it out and we've all had the benefit of his knowledge." "Which reminds me that if we want any flowers at all next week we'd better put on some nitrate of soda this afternoon or this dry weather will ruin them." "Queer how that goes right to the blossoms and doesn't seem to make the whole plant grow." "I did a deadly deed to one of my calceolarias," confessed Ethel Blue. "I forgot you mustn't use it after the buds form and I sprinkled away all over the plant just as I had been doing." "Did you kill the buds?" "It discouraged them. I ought to have put some crystals on the ground a little way off and let them take it in in the air." "It doesn't seem as though it were strong enough to do either good or harm, does it? One tablespoonful in two gallons of water!" "Grandfather says he wouldn't ask for plants to blossom better than ours are doing." Ethel Brown repeated the compliment with just pride. "It's partly because we've loved to work with them and loved them," insisted Ethel Blue. "Everything you love answers back. If you hate your work it's just like hating people; if you don't like a girl she doesn't like you and you feel uncomfortable outside and inside; if you don't like your work it doesn't go well." "What do you know about hating?" demanded Dorothy, giving Ethel Blue a hug. Ethel flushed. "I know a lot about it," she insisted. "Some days I just despise arithmetic and on those days I never can do anything right; but when I try to see some sense in it I get along better." They all laughed, for Ethel Blue's struggles with mathematics were calculated to arouse sympathy even in a hardened breast. "It's all true," agreed Helen, who had been listening quietly to what the younger girls were saying, "and I believe we ought to show people more than we do that we like them. I don't see why we're so scared to let a person know that we think she's done something well, or to sympathize with her when she's having a hard time." "O," exclaimed Dorothy shrinkingly, "it's so embarrassing to tell a person you're sorry." "You don't have to tell her in words," insisted Helen. "You can make her realize that you understand what she is going through and that you'd like to help her." "How can you do it without talking?" asked Ethel Brown, the practical. "When I was younger," answered Helen thoughtfully, "I used to be rather afraid of a person who was in trouble. I thought she might think I was intruding if I spoke of it. But Mother told me one day that a person who was suffering didn't want to be treated as if she were in disgrace and not to be spoken to, and I've always tried to remember it. Now, when I know about it or guess it I make a point of being just as nice as I know how to her. Sometimes we don't talk about the trouble at all; sometimes it comes out naturally after a while. But even if the subject isn't mentioned she knows that there is at least one person who is interested in her and her affairs." "I begin to see why you're so popular at school," remarked Margaret, who had known for a long time other reasons for Helen's popularity. Helen threw a leaf at her friend and asked the Ethels to make some lemonade. They had brought the juice in a bottle and chilled water in a thermos bottle, so that the preparation was not hard. There were cold cheese straws to eat with it. The Ethels had made them in their small kitchen at home by rubbing two tablespoonfuls of butter into four tablespoonfuls of flour, adding two tablespoonfuls of grated cheese, seasoning with a pinch of cayenne, another of salt and another of mace, rolling out to a thickness of a quarter of an inch, cutting into strips about four inches long and half an inch wide and baking in a hot oven. "'Which I wish to remark and my language is plain,'" Helen quoted, "that in spite of Dicky's picking all the blossoms we have so many flowers now that we ought to do--give them away. "Ethel Blue and I have been taking some regularly every week to the old ladies at the Home," returned Ethel Brown. "I was wondering if there were enough to send some to the hospital at Glen Point," suggested Margaret. "The Glen Point people are pretty good about sending flowers, but the hospital is an old story with them and sometimes they don't remember when they might." "I should think we might send some there and some to the Orphanage," said Dorothy, from whose large garden the greater part of the supply would have to come. "Have the orphans any gardens to work in?" "They have beds like your school garden here in Rosemont, but they have to give the vegetables to the house and I suppose it isn't much fun to raise vegetables and then have them taken away from you." "They eat them themselves." "But they don't know Willy's tomato from Johnny's. If Willy and Johnny were allowed to sell their crops they'd be willing to pay out of the profit for the seed they use and they'd take a lot of interest in it. The housekeeper would buy all they'd raise, and they'd feel that their gardens were self-supporting. Now they feel that the seed is given to them out of charity, and that it's a stingy sort of charity after all because they are forced to pay for the seed by giving up their vegetables whether they want to or not." "Do they enjoy working the gardens?" "I should say not! James and I said the other day that they were the most forlorn looking gardeners we ever laid our eyes on." "Don't they grow any flowers at all?" "Just a few in a border around the edge of their vegetable gardens and some in front of the main building where they'll be seen from the street." The girls looked at each other and wrinkled their noses. "Let's send some there every week and have the children understand that young people raised them and thought it was fun to do it." "And can't you ask to have the flowers put in the dining-room and the room where the children are in the evening and not in the reception room where only guests will see them?" "I will," promised Margaret. "James and I have a scheme to try to have the children work their gardens on the same plan that the children do here," she went on. "We're going to get Father to put it before the Board of Management, if we can." "I do hope he will. The kiddies here are so wild over their gardens that it's proof to any one that it's a good plan." "Oo-hoo," came Roger's call across the field. "Oo-hoo. Come up," went back the answer. "What are you girls talking about?" inquired the young man, arranging himself comfortably with his back against a rock and accepting a paper tumbler of lemonade and some cheese straws. Helen explained their plan for disposing of the extra flowers from their gardens. "It's Service Club work; we ought to have started it earlier," she ended. "The Ethels did begin it some time ago; I caught them at it," he accused, shaking his finger at his sister and cousin. "I told the girls we had been taking flowers to the Old Ladies' Home," confessed Ethel Brown. "O, you have! I didn't know that! I did find out that you were supplying the Atwoods down by the bridge with sweetpeas." "There have been such oodles," protested Ethel Blue. "Of course. It was the right thing to do." "How did you know about it, anyway? Weren't you taking flowers there yourself?" "No, ma'am." "What were you doing?" "I know; I saw him digging there one day." "O, keep still, Dorothy," Roger remonstrated. "You might as well tell us about it." "It isn't anything. I did look in one day to ask if they'd like some sweetpeas, but I found the Ethels were ahead of me. The old lady has a fine snowball bush and a beauty syringa in front of the house. When I spoke about them she said she had always wanted to have a bed of white flowers around the two bushes, so I offered to make one for her. That's all." "Good for Roger!" cried Margaret. "Tell us what you put into it. We've had pink and blue and yellow beds this year; we can add white next year." "Just common things," replied Roger. "It was rather late so I planted seeds that would hurry up; sweet alyssum for a border, of course, and white verbenas and balsam, and petunias, and candytuft and, phlox and stocks and portulaca and poppies. Do you remember, I asked you, Dorothy, if you minded my taking up that aster that showed a white bud? That went to Mrs. Atwood. The seeds are all coming up pretty well now and the old lady is as pleased as Punch." "I should think she might be! Can the old gentleman cultivate them or is his rheumatism too bad?" "I put in an hour there every once in a while," Roger admitted reluctantly. "It's nothing to be ashamed of!" laughed Helen encouragingly. "What I want to know is how we are to send our flowers in to New York to the Flower and Fruit Guild. Della said she'd look it up and let us know." "She did. I saw Tom yesterday and he gave me these slips and asked me to tell you girls about them and I forgot it." Roger bobbed his head by way of asking forgiveness, which was granted by a similar gesture. "It seems that the National Plant, Flower and Fruit Guild will distribute anything you send to it at 70 Fifth Avenue; or you can select some institution you're interested in and send your stuff directly to it, and if you use one of these Guild pasters the express companies will carry the parcel free." "Good for the express companies!" exclaimed Ethel Brown. "Here's one of the pasters," and Roger handed one of them to Margaret while the others crowded about to read it. APPROVED LABEL NATIONAL PLANT, FLOWER AND FRUIT GUILD, 70 Fifth Avenue, New York City. Express Companies Adams American Great Northern National United States Wells Fargo Western WILL DELIVER FREE Within a distance of one hundred (100) miles from stations on their lines to any charitable institution or organization within the delivery limits of adjacent cities. If an exchange of baskets is made they will be returned without charge. Conditions This property is carried at owner's risk of loss or damage. No box or basket shall exceed twenty (20) pounds in weight. All jellies to be carefully packed and boxed. All potted plants to be set in boxes. For _Chapel of Comforter_, _10 Horatio Street_, _New York City_. From _United Service Club_, _Rosemont, New Jersey_. KINDLY DELIVER PROMPTLY. "Where it says 'For,'" explained Roger, "you fill in, say, 'Chapel of the Comforter, 10 Horatio Street' or 'St. Agnes' Day Nursery, 7 Charles Street,' and you write 'United Service Club, Rosemont, N.J.,' after 'From.'" "It says 'Approved Label' at the top," Ethel Brown observed questioningly. "That's so people won't send flowers to their friends and claim free carriage from the express companies on the ground that it's for charity," Roger went on. "Then you fill out this postcard and put it into every bundle you send. Sender Will Please Fill Out One of These Cards as far as "Received by" and Enclose in Every Shipment. National Plant, Flower and Fruit Guild. National Office: 70 Fifth Avenue, N.Y.C. Sender Town Sends to-day (Date) Plants Flowers (Bunches) Fruit or Vegetables Quarts or Bushels Jelly, Preserved Fruit or Grape Juice (estimated @ 1/2 pint as a glass) Glasses. Nature Material To (Institution) Rec'd by Address Condition Date "That tells the people at the Day Nursery, for instance, just what you packed and assures them that the parcel hasn't been tampered with; they acknowledge the receipt at the foot of the card,--here, do you see?--and send it to the 'New York City Branch, National Plant, Flower and Fruit Guild, 70 Fifth Ave., New York City.' That enables the Guild to see that the express company is reporting correctly the number of bundles it has carried." "They've worked out the best way after long experience, Tom says, and they find this is excellent. They recommend it to far-off towns that send to them for help about starting a guild." "Let's send our flowers to Mr. Watkins's chapel," suggested Ethel Blue. "Della told me the people hardly ever see a flower, it's so far to any of the parks where there are any." "Our women at Rose House were pathetic over the flowers when they first came," said Helen. "Don't you remember the Bulgarian? She was a country girl and she cried when she first went into the garden." "I'm glad we planted a flower garden there as well as a vegetable garden." "It has been as much comfort to the women as ours have been to us." "I think they would like to send in some flowers from their garden beds to the chapel," suggested Ethel Blue. "I was talking with Mrs. Paterno the other day and she said they all felt that they wanted all their friends to have a little piece of their splendid summer. This will be a way for them to help." "Mr. Watkins's assistant would see that the bunches were given to their friends if they marked them for special people," said Ethel Brown. "Let's get it started as soon as we can," said Helen. "You're secretary, Ethel Blue; write to-day to the Guild for some pasters and postcards and tell them we are going to send to Mr. Watkins's chapel; and Ethel Brown, you seem to get on pretty well with Bulgarian and Italian and a few of the other tongues that they speak at Rose House--suppose you try to make the women understand what we are going to do. Tell them we'll let them know on what day we're going to send the parcel in, so that they can cut their flowers the night before and freshen them in salt and water before they travel." "Funny salt should be a freshener," murmured Dorothy, as the Ethels murmured their understanding of the duties their president assigned to them. CHAPTER XIII IN BUSINESS It was quite clear to the Clarks that the "botanist" had not given up his hope of buying the field, in spite of the owners' insistence that not only was its title defective but that the option had been promised to Mrs. Smith. He roamed up and down the road almost every day, going into the field, as the girls could see from their elevation in Fitz-James's woods, and stopping at the Clarks' on his return if he saw any of the family on the veranda, to inquire what news had come from their nephew. "I generally admire persistency," remarked Mr. Clark one day to Mrs. Smith and Dorothy, and the Ethels, "but in this case it irritates me. When you tell a man that you can't sell to him and that you wouldn't if you could it seems as if he might take the hint and go away." "I don't like him," and Mrs. Smith gave a shrug of distaste. "He doesn't look you squarely in the face." "I hate that trick he has of brushing his hair out of his eyes. It makes me nervous," confessed the younger Miss Clark. "I can't see why a botanist doesn't occasionally look at a plant," observed Dorothy. "We've watched him day after day and we've almost never seen him do a thing except push his stick into the ground and examine it afterwards." "Do you remember that girl who was with him at the Flower Festival?" inquired Ethel Brown. "I saw her with him again this afternoon at the field. When he pushed his cane down something seemed to stick to it when it came up and he wiped it off with his hand and gave it to her." "Could you see what it was like?" "It looked like dirt to me." "What did she do with it?" "She took it and began to turn it around in her hand, rubbing it with her fingers the way Dorothy does when she's making her clay things." Mr. Clark brought down his foot with a thump upon the porch. "I'll bet you five million dollars I know what he's up to!" he exclaimed. "What?" "What?" "What?" rang out from every person on the porch. "I'll go right over there this minute and find out for myself." "Find out what?" "Do tell us." "What do you think it is?" Mr. Clark paused on the steps as he was about to set off. "Clay," he answered briefly. "There are capital clays in different parts of New Jersey. Don't you remember there are potteries that make beautiful things at Trenton? I shouldn't wonder a bit if that field has pretty good clay and this man wants to buy it and start a pottery there." "Next to my house!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith disgustedly. "Don't be afraid; if we're ever able to sell the field you're the person who will get it," promised the old gentleman's sisters in chorus. "We don't want a pottery on the street any more than you do," they added, and expressed a wish that their brother might be able to convince the persistent would-be purchaser of the utter hopelessness of his wishes. "What do you hear from Stanley?" Mrs. Smith asked. "He's still quite at sea in Pittsburg--if one may use such an expression about a place as far from the ocean as that!" laughed Miss Clark. "He thinks he'll go fast if ever he gets a start, but he hasn't found any trace of the people yet. He's going to search the records not only in Allegheny County but in Washington and Westmoreland and Fayette Counties and the others around Pittsburg, if it's necessary. He surely is persistent." "Isn't it lucky he is? And don't you hope he'll find some clue before his holidays end? That detective didn't seem to make any progress at all!" Mr. Clark came back more than ever convinced that he had guessed the cause of the "botanist's" perseverance. "Unless my eyes and fingers deceive me greatly this is clay and pretty smooth clay," he reported to the waiting group, and Dorothy, who knew something about clay because she had been taught to model, said she thought so, too. "We know his reason for wanting the land, then," declared Mr. Clark; "now if we could learn why he can't seem to take it in that he's not going to get it, no matter what happens, we might be able to make him take his afternoon walks in some other direction." "Who is he? And where is he staying?" inquired Mrs. Smith. "He calls himself Hapgood and he's staying at the Motor Inn." "Is the little girl his daughter?" "I'll ask him if he ever comes here again," and Mr. Clark looked as if he almost wished he would appear, so that he might gratify his curiosity. The Motor Inn was a house of no great size on the main road to Jersey City. A young woman, named Foster, lived in it with her mother and brother. The latter, George, was a high school friend of Helen and Roger. Miss Foster taught dancing in the winter and, being an enterprising young woman, had persuaded her mother to open the old house for a tea room for the motorists who sped by in great numbers on every fair day, and who had no opportunity to get a cup of tea and a sandwich any nearer than Glen Point in one direction and Athens Creek in the other. "Here are we sitting down and doing nothing to attract the money out of their pockets and they are hunting for a place to spend it!" she had exclaimed. The house was arranged like the Emerson farmhouse, with a wide hall dividing it, two rooms on each side. Miss Foster began by putting out a rustic sign which her brother made for her. MOTOR INN TEA and SANDWICHES LUNCHEON DINNER it read. The entrance was attractive with well-kept grass and pretty flowers. Miss Foster took a survey of it from the road and thought she would like to go inside herself if she happened to be passing. They decided to keep the room just in front of the kitchen for the family, but the room across the hall they fitted with small tables of which they had enough around the house. The back room they reserved for a rest room for the ladies, and provided it with a couch and a dressing table always kept fully, equipped with brushes, pins and hairpins. "If we build up a real business we can set tables here in the hall," Miss Foster suggested. "Why not on the veranda at the side?" her mother asked. "That's better still. We might put a few out there to indicate that people can have their tea there if they want to, and then let them take their choice in fair weather." The Inn had been a success from the very first day when a car stopped and delivered a load of people who ate their simple but well-cooked luncheon hungrily and liked it so well that they ordered dinner for the following Sunday and promised to send other parties. "What I like best about your food, if you'll allow me to say so," the host of the machine-load said to Miss Foster, "is that your sandwiches are delicate and at the same time there are more than two bites to them. They are full-grown sandwiches, man's size." "My brother calls them 'lady sandwiches' though," laughed Miss Foster. "He says any sandwich with the crust cut off is unworthy a man's attention." "Tell him for me that he's mistaken. No crust on mine, but a whole slice of bread to make up for the loss," and he paid his bill enthusiastically and packed away into his thermos box a goodly pile of the much-to-be-enjoyed sandwiches. People for every meal of the day began to appear at the Motor Inn, for it was surprising how many parties made a before-breakfast start to avoid the heat of the day on a long trip, and turned up at the Inn about eight or nine o'clock demanding coffee and an omelette. Then one or two Rosemont people came to ask if friends of theirs might be accommodated with rooms and board for a week or two, and in this way the old house by the road grew rapidly to be more like the inn its sign called it than the tea room it was intended to be. Servants were added, another veranda was built on, and it looked as if Miss Foster would not teach dancing when winter came again but would have to devote herself to the management of the village hotel which the town had always needed. It was while the members of the U.S.C. were eating ices and cakes there late one afternoon when they had walked to the station with the departing Watkinses that the Ethels had one of the ideas that so often struck them at almost the same moment. It came as they watched a motor party go off, supplying themselves with a box of small cakes for the children after trying to buy from Miss Foster the jar of wild iris that stood in state on the table in the hall. It was not fresh enough to travel they had decided when their hostess had offered to give it to them and they all had examined the purple heads that showed themselves to be past their prime when they were brought out into the light from the semi-darkness of the hall. "Couldn't we--?" murmured Ethel Blue with uplifted eye-brows, glancing at Ethel Brown. "Let's ask her if we may?" replied Ethel Brown, and without any more discussion than this they laid before Miss Foster the plan that had popped into their minds ready made. Ethel Brown was the spokeswoman. "Would you mind if we had a flower counter here in your hall?" she asked. "We need to make some money for our women at Rose House." "A flower counter? Upon my word, children, you take my breath away!" responded Miss Foster. "We'd try not to give you any trouble," said Ethel Blue. "One of us would stay here every day to look after it and we'd pay rent for the use of the space." "Upon my word!" exclaimed Miss Foster again. "You must let me think a minute." She was a rapid thinker and her decision was quickly made. "We'll try it for a week," she said. "Perhaps we'll find that there isn't enough demand for the flowers to make it worth while, though people often want to buy any flowers they see here, as those people you saw did." "If you'll tell us just what space we can have we'll try not to bother you," promised Ethel Blue again, and Miss Foster smiled at her eagerness. "We want it to be a regular business, so will you please tell us how much rent we ought to pay?" asked Ethel Brown. Miss Foster smiled again, but she was trying to carry on a regular business herself and she knew how she would feel if people did not take her seriously. "We'll call it five per cent of what you sell," she said. "I don't think I could make it less," and she smiled again. "That's five cents on every dollar's worth," calculated Ethel Brown seriously. "That isn't enough unless you expect us to sell a great many dollars' worth." "We'll call it that for this trial week, anyway," decided Miss Foster. "If the test goes well we can make another arrangement. If you have a pretty table it will be an attraction to my hall and perhaps I shall want to pay you for coming," she added good naturedly. She pointed out to them the exact spot on which they might place their flowers and agreed to let them arrange the flowers daily for her rooms and tables and to pay them for it. "I have no flowers for cutting this summer," she said, "and I've been bothered getting some every day. It has taken George's time when he should have been doing other things." "We'll do it for the rent," offered Ethel Blue. "No, I've been buying flowers outside and using my own time in arranging them. It's only fair that I should pay you as I would have paid some one long ago if I could have found the right person. I stick to the percentage arrangement for the rent." On the way home the girls realized with some discomfiture that without consulting Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Smith they had made an arrangement that would keep them away from home a good deal and put them in a rather exposed position. "What do you suppose Mother and Aunt Louise will say?" asked Ethel Brown doubtfully. "I think they'll let us do it. They know we need the money for Rose House just awfully, and they like Miss Foster and her mother--I've heard Aunt Marion say they were so brave about undertaking the Inn." Her voice quavered off into uncertainty, for she realized as she spoke that what a young woman of Miss Foster's age did in connection with her mother was a different matter from a business venture entered into alone by girls of fourteen. The fact that the business venture was to be carried on under the eye of Mrs. Foster and her daughter, ladies whom Mrs. Morton knew well and respected and admired, was the turning point in her decision to allow the girls to conduct the affair which had entered their minds so suddenly. She and Mrs. Smith went to the Inn and assisted in the arrangement of the first assortment of flowers and plants, saw to it that there was a space on the back porch where they could be handled without the water or vases being in the way of the workers in the Inn, suggested that an additional sign reading PLANTS and CUT FLOWERS be hung below the sign outside and that a card FOR THE BENEFIT OF ROSE HOUSE be placed over the table inside, and then went away and left the girls to manage affairs themselves. It was while Ethel Blue was drawing the poster to hang over the table that the "botanist" walked into the hall and strolled over to investigate the addition to the furnishings. He asked a question or two in a voice they did not like. They noticed that the young girl with him called him "Uncle Dan" and that he called her "Mary." The girls had arranged their flowers according to Mrs. Smith's and Mrs. Emerson's ideas, not crowding them but showing each to its best advantage and selecting for each a vase that suited its form and coloring. Their supplies were kept out of sight in order not to mar the effect. The tables of the tea rooms were decorated with pink on this opening day, both because they thought that some of the guests might see some connection between pink and the purpose of the sale, helping _Rose House_--and for the practical reason that they had more pink blossoms than any other color, thanks to their love of that gay hue. It was noon before any people outside of the resident guests of the Inn stopped at the house. Then a party of people evidently from a distance, for they were covered with dust, ordered luncheon. While the women were arranging their hair in the dressing room the men came over to the flower table and asked countless questions. "Here, Gerald," one called to another, "these young women have just begun this business to-day and they haven't had a customer yet. I'm going to be the first; you can be the second." "Nothing of the sort; I'll be the first myself," and "Gerald" tossed half a dollar on to the table with an order for "Sweetpeas, all pink, please." Ethel Blue, flushed with excitement over this first sale, set about filling a box with the fresh butterfly blossoms, while Ethel Brown attended to the man who had begun the conversation. He wanted "A bunch of bachelor's buttons for a young lady with blue eyes." An older man who came to see what the younger ones were doing bought buttonholes for all the men and directed that a handful of flowers of different kinds be placed beside each plate on the large table on the shady porch where they were to have their meal. When the women appeared they were equally interested, and inquired all about Rose House. One of them directed that enough ferns for the renewal of a centerpiece should be ready for her to take away when they left and the other bought one of the hanging baskets which Roger had arranged as a sample of what they could supply if called upon. "Roger will be tickled to pieces that his idea caught on at once," Ethel Brown murmured to Ethel Blue as they sorted and packed their orders, not very deftly, but swiftly enough for the posies to add to the enjoyment of the people at the table and for the parcels to be ready for them when the motor came to the door. "We'll tell all our friends about you," the guests promised as they left. These were the only patrons until afternoon brought in several parties for tea. Almost every one of them was sufficiently drawn by the "Rose House" placard to make inquiries, and several of them bought flowers and potted plants. The same was true of the dinner arrivals. When the girls examined their receipts for the day they found they had taken in over seven dollars, had booked several orders and already had learned a good deal about what people liked and what they could carry conveniently in their machines. "We shan't need to have so many cut flowers here," they decided after the day's experience. "It's better to leave them on the plants and then if we run short to telephone to the house and have Dicky bring over an extra supply." "These potted plants are all right here, though. We can leave them on the back porch at night, Miss Foster says, and bring them in to the table in the morning." "We must get Roger to fill some more hanging baskets and ox muzzles and make some ivy balls; those are going to take." The plan worked out extremely well, its only drawback being that the girls had to give more time to the table at the Inn than they liked. They were "spelled" however, by other members of the Club, and finally, as a result of a trip when they all went away for a few days, they engaged a schoolmate of the Ethels who had helped them occasionally, to give her whole time to the work at the Inn. Financially the scheme worked out very well. When it came time to pay the rent for the first week the Ethels decided that they were accepting charity if they only paid Miss Foster five per cent. of their gross earnings, so they doubled it. "I am buying the cut flowers at the same price that the girls are selling them to other customers, and I am glad to pay for their arrangement for it releases me to attend to matters that need me more," she had explained. "Even if it should be a few cents on the wrong side of my account, I am glad to contribute something to Rose House. And the motoring season is comparatively short, too." Every once in a while they received an idea from some one who asked for something they did not have. One housekeeper wanted fresh herbs and the Ethels telephoned directions for the picking of the herb bed that Roger had planted for their own kitchen use. "We need the herbs ourselves, Miss Ethel," came back a protest from Mary. "I don't want to refuse to fill any order I get, Mary," Ethel Brown insisted. "Next year we'll plant a huge bed, enough for a dozen kitchens." This unexpected order resulted in the making of another poster giving the information that fresh kitchen herbs might be had on order and would be delivered by parcel post to any address. Several of their customers demanded ferns for their houses indoors or for their porches or wild gardens. This order was not welcome for it meant that some one had to go to the woods to get them as none had been planted in the gardens as yet. Still, in accordance with their decision never to refuse to fill an order unless it was absolutely impossible, the girls went themselves or sent one of the boys on a search for what they needed. One steady customer was an invalid who lived in Athens Creek and who could drive only a few miles once or twice a week. She happened in to the Inn one day and ever after she made the house her goal. Her especial delight was meadow flowers, and she placed a standing order to have an armful of meadow blossoms ready for her every Thursday. This necessitated a visit to the meadows opposite Grandfather Emerson's house every Wednesday afternoon so that the flowers should have recovered from their first shock by the next morning. "This takes me back to the days when I used to follow the flowers through the whole summer," the invalid cried delightedly. "Ah, Joe-Pye-Weed has arrived," she exclaimed joyfully over the handsome blossom. When the Ethels and Dorothy received their first order for the decoration of a house for an afternoon reception they were somewhat overcome. "Can we do it?" they asked each other. They concluded they could. One went to the house two days beforehand to examine the rooms and to see what vases and bowls they should have at their disposal. Then they looked over the gardens very carefully to see what blossoms would be cut on the appointed day, and then they made a plan with pencil and paper. Mr. Emerson lent his car on the morning of the appointed day and Roger went with them to unload the flowers and plants. They had kept the flowers of different colors together, a matter easy to do when cutting from their beds of special hues, and this arrangement made easy the work of decorating different rooms in different colors. The porch was made cool with ferns and hanging vines; the hall, which seemed dark to eyes blinded by the glare outside, was brightened with yellow posies; the dining room had delicate blue lobelia mingled with gypsophila springing from low, almost unseen dishes all over the table where the tea and coffee were poured, and hanging in festoons from the smaller table on which stood the bowl of grape juice lemonade, made very sour and very sweet and enlivened with charged water. The girls profited by this combination, for the various amounts used in it were being "tried out" during the morning and with every new trial refreshing glasses were handed about for criticism by the workers. In the drawing room where the hostess stood to receive, superb pink poppies reared their heads from tall vases, pink snapdragons bobbed on the mantel piece and a bank of pink candytuft lay on the top of the piano. A lovely vine waved from a wall vase of exquisite design and vines trailed around the wide door as naturally as if they grew there instead of springing from bottles of water concealed behind tall jars of pink hollyhocks. "It is perfectly charming, my dears, and I can't tell you how obliged I am," said their hostess as she pressed a bill into Ethel Brown's hand. "I know that every woman who will be here will want you the next time she entertains, and I shall tell everybody you did it." She was as good as her word and the attempt resulted in several other orders. The girls tried to make each house different from any that they had decorated before, and they thought that they owed the success that brought them many compliments to the fact that they planned it all out beforehand and left nothing to be done in a haphazard way. Meanwhile Rose House benefited greatly by the welcome weekly additions from the flower sale to its slender funds. "I'm not sure it isn't roses ye are yerselves, yer that sweet to look at!" exclaimed Moya, the cook at Rose House, one day when the girls were there. And they admitted themselves that if happiness made them sweet to look at it must be true. CHAPTER XIV UNCLE DAN'S RESEARCHES "Uncle Dan," whose last name was Hapgood, did not cease his calls upon the Clarks. Sometimes he brought with him his niece, whose name, they learned, was Mary Smith. "Another Smith!" ejaculated Dorothy who had lived long enough in the world to find out the apparent truth of the legend, that originally all the inhabitants of the earth were named Smith and so continued until some of them misbehaved and were given other names by way of punishment. No one liked Mr. Hapgood better as time went on. "I believe he is a twentieth century werwolf, as Dorothy said," Ethel Brown insisted. "He's a wolf turned into a man but keeping the feelings of a wolf." The girls found little to commend in the manners of his niece and nothing to attract. By degrees the "botanist's" repeated questioning put him in command of all the information the Clarks had themselves about the clue that Stanley was hunting down. He seemed especially interested when he learned that the search had been transferred to the vicinity of Pittsburg. "My sister, Mary's mother, lived near Pittsburg," he told them when he heard it; "I know that part of the country pretty well." For several days he was not seen either by the Clarks or by the girls who went to the Motor Inn to attend to the flowers, and Mrs. Foster told the Ethels that Mary had been left in her care while her uncle went away on a business trip. At the end of a week he appeared again at the Clarks', bringing the young girl with him. He received the usual courteous but unenthusiastic reception with which they always met this man who had forced himself upon them so many times. Now his eyes were sparkling and more nervously than ever he kept pushing back the lock of hair that hung over his forehead. "Well, I've been away," he began. The Clarks said that they had heard so. "I been to western Pennsylvania." His hearers expressed a lukewarm interest. "I went to hunt up the records of Fayette County concerning the grandparents of Mary here." "I hope you were successful," remarked the elder Miss Clark politely. "Yes, ma'am, I was," shouted Hapgood in reply, thumping his hand on the arm of his chair with a vigor that startled his hosts. "Yes, sir, I was, sir; perfectly successful; _en_-tirely successful." Mr. Clark murmured something about the gratification the success must be to Mr. Hapgood and awaited the next outburst. It came without delay. "Do you want to know what I found out?" "Certainly, if you care to tell us." "Well, I found out that Mary here is the granddaughter of your cousin, Emily Leonard, you been huntin' for." "Mary!" exclaimed the elder Miss Clark startled, her slender hands fluttering agitatedly as the man's heavy voice forced itself upon her ears and the meaning of what he said entered her mind. "This child!" ejaculated the younger sister, Miss Eliza, doubtfully, adjusting her glasses and leaning over to take a closer look at the proposed addition to the family. "Hm!" This comment came from Mr. Clark. A dull flush crept over Hapgood's face. "You don't seem very cordial," he remarked. "O," the elder Miss Clark, Miss Maria, began apologetically, but she was interrupted by her brother. "You have the proofs, I suppose." Hapgood could not restrain a glare of dislike, but he drew a bundle of papers from his pocket. "I knew you'd ask for 'em." "Naturally," answered the calm voice of Mr. Clark. "So I copied these from the records and swore to 'em before a notary." "You copied them yourself?" "Yes, sir, with my own hand," and the man held up that member as if to call it as a witness to his truth. "I should have preferred to have had the copying done by a typist accredited by the county clerk," said Mr. Clark coolly. Hapgood flushed angrily. "If you don't believe me--" he began, but Mr. Clark held up a warning finger. "It's always wise to follow the custom in such cases," he observed. Hapgood, finding himself in the wrong, leaned over Mr. Clark's shoulder and pointed eagerly to the notary's signature. "Henry Holden--that's the notary--that's him," he repeated several times insistently. Mr. Clark nodded and read the papers slowly aloud so that his sisters might hear their contents. They recited the marriage at Uniontown, the county seat of Fayette County, Pennsylvania, on the fifteenth day of December, 1860, of Emily Leonard to Edward Smith. "There you are," insisted Hapgood loudly. "That's her; that's the grandmother of Mary here." "You're sure of that?" "Here's the record of the birth of Jabez, son of Edward and Emily (Leonard) Smith two years later, and the record of his marriage to my sister and the record of the birth of Mary. After I got the marriage of this Emily straightened out the rest was easy. We had it right in the family." The two sisters gazed at each other aghast. The man was so assertive and coarse, and the child was so far from gentle that it seemed impossible that she could be of their own blood. Still, they remembered that surroundings have greater influence than inheritance, so they held their peace, though Miss Maria stretched out her hand to Mary. Mary stared at it but made no move to take it. "Your records look as if they might be correct," said Mr. Clark, an admission greeted by Hapgood with a pleased smile and a complacent rub of the hands; "but," went on the old gentleman, "I see nothing here that would prove that this Emily Leonard was our cousin." "But your nephew, Stanley, wrote you that he had found that your Emily had removed to the neighborhood of Pittsburg." "That's true," acknowledged the elder man, bending his head, "but Emily Leonard isn't an unusual name." "O, she's the one all right," insisted Hapgood bluffly. "Further, your record doesn't state the names of this Emily Leonard's parents." Hapgood tossed back the unruly lock of hair. "I ought to have gone back one step farther," he conceded. "I might have known you'd ask that." "Naturally." "I'll send to the county clerk and get that straightened out." "It might be well," advised Mr. Clark mildly. "One other point prevents my acceptance of these documents as proof that your niece belongs to our family. Neither the investigator whom we had working on the case nor my nephew have ever told us the date of birth of our Emily Leonard. We can, of course, obtain that, if it is not already in my nephew's possession, but without it we can't be sure that our cousin was of marriageable age on December fifteenth, 1860." It was Mr. Clark's turn to rub his hands together complacently as Hapgood looked more and more discomfited. "In fact, my dear sir," Mr. Clark continued, "you have proved nothing except that some Emily Leonard married a man named Smith on the date named." He tapped the papers gently with a thin forefinger and returned them to their owner, who began to bluster. "I might have known you'd put up a kick," he exclaimed. "I live, when I'm at home, in Arkansas," replied Mr. Clark softly, "and Arkansas is so near Missouri that I have come to belong to the brotherhood who 'have to be shown.'" Hapgood greeted this sally with the beginning of a snarl, but evidently thought it the part of discretion to remain friendly with the people he wanted to persuade. "I seem to have done this business badly," he said, "but I'll send back for the rest of the evidence and you'll have to admit that Mary's the girl you need to complete your family tree." "Come here, dear," Miss Clark called to Mary in her quiet voice. "Are your father and mother alive?" "Father is," she thought the child answered, but her reply was interrupted by Hapgood's loud voice, saying, "She's an orphan, poor kid. Pretty tough just to have an old bachelor uncle to look after yer, ain't it?" The younger Miss Clark stepped to the window to pull down the shade while the couple were still within the yard and she saw the man give the girl a shake and the child rub her arm as if the touch had been too rough for comfort. "Poor little creature! I can't say I feel any affection for her, but she must have a hard time with that man!" The interview left Mr. Clark in a disturbed state in spite of the calmness he had assumed in talking with Hapgood. He walked restlessly up and down the room and at last announced that he was going to the telegraph office. "I might as well wire Stanley to send us right off the date of Emily Leonard's birth, and, just as soon as he finds it, the name of the man she married." "If she did marry," interposed Miss Maria. "Some of our family don't marry," and she humorously indicated the occupants of the room by a wave of her knitting needles. At that instant the doorbell rang, and the maid brought in a telegram. "It's from Stanley," murmured Mr. Clark. "What a strange co-incidence," exclaimed the elder Miss Clark. "What does he say, Brother?" eagerly inquired the younger Miss Clark. "'Emily married a man named Smith,'" Mr. Clark read slowly. "Is that all he says?" "Every word." "Dear boy! I suppose he thought we'd like to know as soon as he found out!" and Miss Eliza's thoughts flashed away to the nephew she loved, forgetting the seriousness of the message he had sent. "The information seems to have come at an appropriate time," commented Mr. Clark grimly. "It must be true, then," sighed Miss Maria; "that Mary belongs to us." "We don't know at all if Hapgood's Emily is our Emily, even if they did both marry Smiths," insisted Mr. Clark stoutly, his obstinacy reviving. "I shall send a wire to Stanley at once asking for the dates of Emily's birth and marriage. He must have them both by this time; why on earth doesn't he send full information and not such a measly telegram as this!" and the old gentleman put on his hat and took his cane and stamped off in a rage to the Western Union office. The sisters left behind gazed at each other forlornly. "She certainly is an unprepossessing child," murmured Miss Maria, "but don't you think, under the circumstances, that we ought to ask her to pay us a visit?" Miss Clark the elder contemplated her knitting for a noticeable interval before she answered. "I don't see any 'ought' about it," she replied at last, "but I think it would be kind to do so." Meanwhile Mr. Clark, stepping into the telegraph office, met Mr. Hapgood coming out. That worthy looked somewhat startled at the encounter, but pulled himself together and said cheerfully "Just been sending off a wire about our matter." When the operator read Mr. Clark's telegram a few minutes later he said to himself wonderingly, "Emily Leonard sure is the popular lady!" Mr. Clark was not at all pleased with his sister's proposal that they invite Mary Smith to make them a visit. "It will look to Hapgood as if we thought his story true," he objected, when they suggested the plan the next morning. "I don't believe it is true, even if our Emily did marry a Smith, according to Stanley." "I don't believe it is, either," answered Miss Maria dreamily. "A great many people marry Smiths." "They have to; how are they to do anything else?" inquired the old gentleman testily. "There is such a lot of them you can't escape them. We're talking about your name, ladies," he continued as Dorothy and her mother came in, and then he related the story of Hapgood's visit and the possibility that Mary might prove to belong to them. "Do you think he honestly believes that she's the missing heir?" Mrs. Smith asked. The ladies looked uncertain but there was no doubt in their brother's mind. "Not for a moment of time do I think he does," he shouted. "But what would be his object? Why should he try to thrust the child into a perfectly strange family?" The elder Miss Clark ventured a guess. "He may want to provide for her future if she's really an orphan, as he says." "I don't believe she is an orphan. Before her precious uncle drowned her reply with one of his roars I distinctly heard her say that her father was alive," retorted the exasperated Mr. Clark. "The child would be truly fortunate to have all of you dear people to look after her," Mrs. Smith smiled, "but if her welfare isn't his reason, what is?" "I believe it has something to do with that piece of land," conjectured Mr. Clark. "He never said a word about it to-night. That's a bad sign. He wants that land and he's made up his mind to have it and this has something to do with it." "How could it have?" inquired Mrs. Smith. "This is all I can think of. Before we can sell that land or any of our land we must have the consent of all the living heirs or else the title isn't good, as you very well know. Now Emily Leonard and her descendants are the only heirs missing. This man says that the child, Mary, is Emily Leonard's grandchild and that Emily and her son, the child's father, are dead. That would mean that if we wanted to sell that land we'd be obliged to have the signatures of my sisters and my nephew, Stanley, and myself, and also of the guardian of this child. Of course Hapgood will say he's the child's guardian. Do you suppose, Mrs. Smith, that he's going to sign any deed that gives you that land? Not much! He'll say it's for the child's best interests that the land be not sold now, because it contains valuable clay or whatever it is he thinks he has found there. Then he'll offer to buy the land himself and he'll be willing enough to sign the deed then." "But _we_ might not be," interposed Miss Maria. "I should say not," returned her brother emphatically, "but he'd probably make a lot of trouble for us and be constantly appealing to us on the ground that we ought to sell the land for the child's good--or he might even say for Stanley's good or our good, the brazen, persistent animal." "Brother," remonstrated Miss Maria. "You forget that you may be speaking of the uncle of our little cousin." "Little cousin nothing!" retorted Mr. Clark fiercely. "It's all very nice for the Mortons to find that that charming girl who takes care of the Belgian baby is a relative. This is a very different proposition! However, I suppose you girls--" meaning by this term the two ladies of more than seventy--"won't be happy unless you have the youngster here, so you might as well send for her, but you'd better have the length of her visit distinctly understood." "We might say a week," suggested Miss Eliza hesitatingly. "Say a week, and say it emphatically," approved her brother, and trotted off to his study, leaving the ladies to compose, with Mrs. Smith's help, a note that would not be so cordial that Brother would forbid its being sent, but that would nevertheless give a hint of their kindly feeling to the forlorn child, so roughly cared for by her strange uncle. Mary Smith went to them, and made a visit that could not be called a success in any way. She was painfully conscious of the difference between her clothes and the Ethels' and Dorothy's and Della's, though why theirs seemed more desirable she could not tell, since her own were far more elaborate. The other girls wore middy blouses constantly, even the older girls, Helen and Margaret, while her dresses were of silk or some other delicate material and adorned with many ruffles and much lace. She was conscious, too, of a difference between her manners and theirs, and she could not understand why, in her heart, she liked theirs better, since they were so gentle as to seem to have no spirit at all, according to her views. She was always uncomfortable when she was with them and her efforts to be at ease caused her shyness to go to the other extreme and made her manners rough and impertinent. Mrs. Smith found her crying one day when she came upon her suddenly in the hammock on the Clarks' veranda. "Can I help?" she asked softly, leaning over the small figure whose every movement indicated protest. "No, you can't," came back the fierce retort. "You're one of 'em. You don't know." "Don't know what?" "How I feel. Nobody likes me. Miss Clark just told me to go out of her room." "Why were you in her room?" "Why, shouldn't I go into her room? When I woke up this morning I made up my mind I'd do my best to be nice all day long. They're so old I don't know what to talk to 'em about, but I made up my mind I'd stick around 'em even if I didn't know what to say. Right after breakfast they always go upstairs--I think it's to be rid of me--and they don't come down for an hour, and then they bring down their knitting and their embroidery and they sit around all day long except when that Belgian baby that lives at your house comes in--then they get up and try to play with her." Mrs. Smith smiled, remembering the efforts of the two old ladies to play with "Ayleesabet." Mary noticed the smile. "They do look fools, don't they?" she cried eagerly. "I think they look very dear and sweet when they are playing with Ayleesabet. I was not smiling _at_ them but because I sympathized with their enjoyment of the baby." "Well, I made up my mind they needn't think they had to stay upstairs because I wasn't nice; I'd go upstairs and be nice. So I went upstairs to Miss Maria's room and walked in." "Walked right in? Without knocking?" "I walked right in. She was sitting in front of that low table she has with the looking glass and all the bottles and boxes on it. Her hair was down her back--what there was of it--and she was doing up her switch." Mrs. Smith was so aghast at this intrusion and at the injured tone in which it was told that she had no farther inclination to smile. "I said, 'I thought I'd come up and sit with you a while,' and she said, 'Leave the room at once, Mary,' just like that. She was as mad as she could be." "Do you blame her?" "Why should she be mad, when I went up there to be nice to her? She's an old cat!" "Dear child, come and sit on this settee with me and let's talk it over." Mrs. Smith put her arm over the shaking shoulders of the angry girl and drew her toward her. After an instant's stiffening against it Mary admitted to herself that it was pleasant; she didn't wonder Dorothy was sweet if her mother did this often. "Now we're comfortable," said Mrs. Smith. "Tell me, dear, aren't there some thoughts in your mind that you don't like to tell to any one? thoughts that seem to belong just to you yourself? Perhaps they're about God; perhaps they're about people you love, perhaps they're about your own feelings--but they seem too private and sacred for you to tell any one. They're your own, ownest thoughts." Mary nodded. "Do you remember your mother?" Mary nodded again. "Sometimes when you recall how she took you in her arms and cuddled you when you were hurt, and how you loved her and she loved you I know you think thoughts that you couldn't express to any one else." Mary gave a sniff that hinted of tears. "Everybody has an inner life that is like a church. You know you wouldn't think of running into a church and making a noise and disturbing the worshippers. It's just so with people's minds; you can't rush in and talk about certain things to any one--the things that he considers too sacred to talk about." "How are you going to tell?" Mrs. Smith drew a long breath. How was she to make this poor, untutored child understand. "You have to tell by your feelings," she answered slowly. "Some people are more reserved than others. I believe you are reserved." "Me?" asked Mary wonderingly. "It wouldn't surprise me if there were a great many things that you might have talked about with your mother, if she had lived, but that you find it hard to talk about with your uncle." Mary nodded. "He's fierce," she commented briefly. "If he should begin to talk to you about some of the tender memories that you have of your mother, for instance, it might be hard for you to answer him. You'd be apt to think that he was coming into your own private church." "I see that," the girl answered; "but," returning to the beginning of the conversation, "I didn't want to talk secrets with Miss Maria; I just wanted to be nice." "Just in the same way that people have thoughts of their very own that you mustn't intrude on, so there are reserves in their habits that you mustn't intrude on. Every one has a right to freedom from intrusion. I insist on it for myself; my daughter never enters my bedroom without knocking. I pay her the same respect; I always tap at her door and wait for her answer before I enter." "Would you be mad if she went into your room without knocking?" "I should be sorry that she was so inconsiderate of my feelings. She might, perhaps, interrupt me at my toilet. I should not like that." "Is that what I did to Miss Maria?" "Yes, dear, it was. You don't know Miss Maria well, and yet you opened the door of her private room and went in without being invited." "I'm sorry," she said briefly. "I'm sure you are, now you understand why it wasn't kind." "I wish she knew I meant to be nice." "Would you like to have me tell her? I think she'll understand there are some things you haven't learned for you haven't a mother to teach you." "Uncle Dan says maybe I'll have to live with the old ladies all the time, so they might as well know I wasn't trying to be mean," she whispered resignedly. "I'll tell Miss Maria, then, and perhaps you and she will be better friends from now on because she'll know you want to please her. And now, I came over to tell you that the U.S.C. is going into New York to-day to see something of the Botanical Garden and the Arboretum. I'm going with them and they'd be glad to have you go, too." "They won't be very glad, but I'd like to go," responded the girl, her face lighted with the nearest approach to affection Mrs. Smith ever had seen upon it. CHAPTER XV FUR AND FOSSILS When the Club gathered at the station to go into town Mary was arrayed in a light blue satin dress as unsuitable for her age as it was for the time of day and the way of traveling. The other girls were dressed in blue or tan linen suits, neat and plain. Secretly Mary thought their frocks were not to be named in the same breath with hers, but once when she had said something about the simplicity of her dress to Ethel Blue, Ethel had replied that Helen had learned from her dressmaking teacher that dresses should be suited to the wearer's age and occupation, and that she thought her linen blouses and skirts were entirely suitable for a girl of fourteen who was a gardener when she wasn't in school. This afternoon Dorothy had offered her a pongee dust coat when she stopped at the Smiths' on her way to the cars. "Aren't you afraid you'll get that pretty silk all cindery?" she asked. Mary realized that Dorothy thought her not appropriately dressed for traveling, but she tossed her head and said, "O, I like to wear something good looking when I go into New York." One of the purposes of the expedition was to see at the Museum of Natural History some of the fossil leaves and plants about which the Mortons had heard from Lieutenant and Captain Morton who had found several of them themselves in the course of their travels. At the Museum they gathered around the stones and examined them with the greatest interest. There were some shells, apparently as perfect as when they were turned into stone, and others represented only by the moulds they had left when they crumbled away. There were ferns, the delicate fronds showing the veining that strengthened the leaflets when they danced in the breeze of some prehistoric morning. "It's wonderful!" exclaimed the Ethels, and Mary asked, "What happened to it?" "I thought some one would ask that," replied Mrs. Smith, "so I brought these verses by Mary Branch to read to you while we stood around one of these ancient rocks." THE PETRIFIED FERN "In a valley, centuries ago Grew a little fern-leaf, green and slender, Veining delicate and fibers tender; Waving when the wind crept down so low. Rushes tall and moss and grass grew round it, Playful sunbeams darted in and found it, Drops of dew stole in by night and crowned it, But no foot of man e'er trod that way; Earth was young and keeping holiday. "Monster fishes swam the silent main; Stately forests waved their giant branches, Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain; Nature revelled in grand mysteries, But the little fern was not of these, Did not number with the hills and trees; Only grew and waved its wild sweet way, No one came to note it day by day. "Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood, Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean; Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood Crushed the little fern in soft, moist clay,-- Covered it and hid it safe away. O, the long, long centuries since that day! O, the changes! O, life's bitter cost, Since that useless little fern was lost! "Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful man Searching Nature's secrets, far and deep; From a fissure in a rocky steep He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran Fairy pencilings, a quaint design, Veinings, leafage, fibers clear and fine, And the fern's life lay in every line! So, I think, God hides some souls away, Sweetly to surprise us, the last day." From the Museum the party went to the Bronx where they first took a long walk through the Zoo. How Mary wished that she did not have on a pale blue silk dress and high heeled shoes as she dragged her tired feet over the gravel paths and stood watching Gunda, the elephant, "weaving" back and forth on his chain, and the tigers and leopards keeping up their restless pacing up and down their cages, and the monkeys, chattering hideously and snatching through the bars at any shining object worn by their visitors! It was only because she stepped back nimbly that she did not lose a locket that attracted the attention of an ugly imitation of a human being. The herds of large animals pleased them all. "How kind it is of the keepers to give these creatures companions and the same sort of place to live in that they are accustomed to," commented Ethel Brown. "Did you know that this is one of the largest herds of buffalo in the United States?" asked Tom, who, with Della, had joined them at the Museum. "Father says that when he was young there used to be plenty of buffalo on the western plains. The horse-car drivers used to wear coats of buffalo skin and every new England farmer had a buffalo robe. It was the cheapest fur in use. Then the railroads went over the plains and there was such a destruction of the big beasts that they were practically exterminated. They are carefully preserved now." "The prairie dogs always amuse me," said Mrs. Smith. "Look at that fellow! Every other one is eating his dinner as fast as he can but this one is digging with his front paws and kicking the earth away with his hind paws with amazing industry." "He must be a convict at hard labor," guessed Roger. "Or the Mayor of the Prairie Dog Town setting an example to his constituents," laughed James. The polar bear was suffering from the heat and nothing but the tip of his nose and his eyes were to be seen above the water of his tank where he floated luxuriously in company with two cakes of ice. The wolves and the foxes had dens among rocks and the wild goats stood daintily on pinnacles to see what was going on at a distance. No one cared much for the reptiles, but the high flying cage for birds kept them beside it for a long time. Across the road they entered the grounds of the Arboretum and passed along a narrow path beside a noisy brook under heavy trees, until they came to a grove of tall hemlocks. With upturned heads they admired these giants of the forest and then passed on to view other trees from many climes and countries. "Here's the Lumholtz pine that father wrote me about from Mexico," cried Ethel Blue, whose father, Captain Morton, had been with General Funston at Vera Cruz. "See, the needles hang down like a spray, just as he said. You know the wood has a peculiar resonance and the Mexicans make musical instruments of it." "It's a graceful pine," approved Ethel Brown. "What a lot of pines there are." "We are so accustomed about here to white pines that the other kinds seem strange, but in the South there are several kinds," contributed Dorothy. "The needles of the long leaf pine are a foot long and much coarser than these white pine needles. Don't you remember, I made some baskets out of them?" The Ethels did remember. "Their green is yellower. The tree is full of resin and it makes the finest kind of kindling." "Is that what the negroes call 'light wood'?" asked Della. "Yes, that's light wood. In the fields that haven't been cultivated for a long time there spring up what they call in the South 'old field pines' or 'loblolly pines.' They have coarse yellow green needles, too, but they aren't as long as the others. There are three needles in the bunch." "Don't all the pines have three needles in the bunch?" asked Margaret. "Look at this white pine," she said, pulling down a bunch off a tree they were passing. "It has five; and the 'Table Mountain pine' has only two." "Observant little Dorothy!" exclaimed Roger. "O, I know more than that," laughed Dorothy. "Look hard at this white pine needle; do you see, it has three sides, two of them white and one green? The loblolly needle has only two sides, though the under is so curved that it looks like two; and the 'Table Mountain' has two sides." "What's the use of remembering all that?" demanded Mary sullenly. Dorothy, who had been dimpling amusedly as she delivered her lecture, flushed deeply. "I don't know," she admitted. "We like to hear about it because we've been gardening all summer and anything about trees or plants interests us," explained Tom politely, though the way in which Mary spoke seemed like an attack on Dorothy. "I've always found that everything I ever learned was useful at some time or other," James maintained decidedly. "You never can tell when this information that Dorothy has given us may be just what we need for some purpose or other." "It served Dorothy's purpose just now when she interested us for a few minutes telling about the different kinds," insisted Ethel Blue, but Mary walked on before them with a toss of her head that meant "It doesn't interest me." Dorothy looked at her mother, uncertain whether to take it as a joke or to feel hurt. Mrs. Smith smiled and shook her head almost imperceptibly and Dorothy understood that it was kindest to say nothing more. They chatted on as they walked through the Botanical Gardens and exclaimed over the wonders of the hothouses and examined the collections of the Museum, but the edge had gone from the afternoon and they were not sorry to find themselves on the train for Rosemont. Mary sat with Mrs. Smith. "I really was interested in what Dorothy told about the pines," she whispered as the train rumbled on; "I was mad because I didn't know anything that would interest them, too." "I dare say you know a great many things that would interest them," replied Mrs. Smith. "Some day you must tell me about the most interesting thing you ever saw in all your life and we'll see if it won't interest them." "That was in a coal mine," replied Mary promptly. "It was the footstep of a man thousands and thousands of years old. It made you wonder what men looked like and how they lived so long ago." "You must tell us all about it, some time. It will make a good addition to what we learned to-day about the fossils." When the Mortons reached home they found Mr. Emerson waiting for them at their house. "I've a proposal to make to these children, with your permission, Marion," he said to his daughter. "Say on, sir," urged Roger. "Mr. Clark is getting very nervous about this man Hapgood. The man is beginning to act as if he, as the guardian of the child, had a real claim on the Clark estate, and he becomes more and more irritating every day. They haven't heard from Stanley for several days. He hasn't answered either a letter or a telegram that his uncle sent him and the old ladies are working themselves into a great state of anxiety over him. I tell them that he has been moving about all the time and that probably neither the letter nor the wire reached him, but Clark vows that Hapgood has intercepted them and his sisters are sure the boy is ill or has been murdered." "Poor creatures," smiled Mrs. Morton sympathetically. "Is there anything you can do about it?" "I told Clark a few minutes ago that I'd go out to western Pennsylvania and hunt up the boy and help him run down whatever clues he has. Clark was delighted at the offer--said he didn't like to go himself and leave his sisters with this man roaming around the place half the time." "It was kind of you. I've no doubt Stanley is working it all out well, but, boy-like, he doesn't realize that the people at home want to have him report to them every day." "My proposal is, Marion, that you lend me these children, Helen and the Ethels and Roger, for a few days' trip." "Wow, wow!" rose a shout of joy. "Or, better still, that you come, too, and bring Dicky." Mrs. Morton was not a sailor's wife for nothing. "I'll do it," she said promptly. "When do you want us to start?" "Can you be ready for an early morning train from New York?" "We can!" was the instant reply of every person in the room. CHAPTER XVI FAIRYLAND All day long the train pulled its length across across the state of Pennsylvania, climbing mountains and bridging streams and piercing tunnels. All day long Mr. Emerson's party was on the alert, dashing from one side to the other of the car to see some beautiful vista or to look down on a brook brawling a hundred feet below the trestle that supported them or waving their hands to groups of children staring open-mouthed at the passing train. "Pennsylvania is a beautiful state," decided Ethel Brown as they penetrated the splendid hills of the Allegheny range. "Nature made it one of the most lovely states of the Union," returned her grandfather. "Man has played havoc with it in spots. Some of the villages among the coal mines are hideous from the waste that has been thrown out for years upon a pile never taken away, always increasing. No grass grows on it, no children play on it, the hens won't scratch on it. The houses of the miners turn one face to this ugliness and it is only because they turn toward the mountains on another side that the people are preserved from the death of the spirit that comes to those who look forever on the unlovely." "Is there any early history about here?" asked Helen, whose interest was unfailing in the story of her country. "The French and Indian Wars were fought in part through this land," answered Mr. Emerson. "You remember the chief struggle for the continent lay between the English and the French. There were many reasons why the Indians sided with the French in Canada, and the result of the friendship was that; the natives were supplied with arms by the Europeans and the struggle was prolonged for about seventy-five years." "Wasn't the attack on Deerfield during the French and Indian War?" asked Ethel Blue. "Yes, and there were many other such attacks." "The French insisted that all the country west of the Alleghenies belonged to them and they disputed the English possession at every point. When Washington was only twenty-one years old he was sent to beg the French not to interfere with the English, but he had a hard journey with no fortunate results. It was on this journey that he picked out a good position for a fort and started to build it. It was where Pittsburg now stands." "That was a good position for a fort, where the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers join to make the Ohio," commended Roger. "It was such a good position that the French drove off the English workmen and finished the work themselves. They called it Fort Duquesne and it became one of a string of sixty French forts extending from Quebec to New Orleans." "Some builders!" commended Roger. "Fort Duquesne was so valuable that the English sent one of their generals, Braddock, to capture it. Washington went with him on his staff, to show him the way." "It must have been a long trip from the coast through all this hilly country." "It was. They had to build roads and they were many weeks on the way." "It was a different matter from the twentieth century transportation of soldiers by train and motor trucks and stages," reminded Mrs. Morton. "When the British were very near Fort Duquesne," continued Mr. Emerson, "the French sent out a small band, mainly Indians, to meet them. The English general didn't understand Indian fighting and kept his men massed in the road where they were shot down in great numbers and he lost his own life. There's a town named after him, on the site of the battle." "Here it is," and Helen pointed it out on the map in the railway folder. "It's about ten miles from Pittsburg." "Washington took command after the death of Braddock, and this was his first real military experience. However, his heart was in the taking of Fort Duquesne and when General Forbes was sent out to make another attempt at capturing it Washington commanded one of the regiments of Virginia troops." "Isn't there any poetry about it?" demanded Ethel Brown, who knew her grandfather's habit of collecting historical ballads. "Certainly there is. There are some verses on 'Fort Duquesne' by Florus Plimpton written for the hundredth anniversary of the capture." "Did they have a great old fight to take the fort?" asked Roger. "No fight at all. Here's what Plimpton says:-- "So said: and each to sleep addressed his wearied limbs and mind, And all was hushed i' the forest, save the sobbing of the wind, And the tramp, tramp, tramp of the sentinel, who started oft in fright At the shadows wrought 'mid the giant trees by the fitful camp-fire light. "Good Lord! what sudden glare is that that reddens all the sky, As though hell's legions rode the air and tossed their torches high! Up, men! the alarm drum beats to arms! and the solid ground seems riven By the shock of warring thunderbolts in the lurid depth of heaven! "O, there was clattering of steel and mustering in array, And shouts and wild huzzas of men, impatient of delay, As came the scouts swift-footed in--'They fly! the foe! they fly! They've fired the powder magazine and blown it to the sky.' "All the English had to do was to walk in, put out the fire, repair the fort and re-name it." "What did they call it?" "After the great statesman--Fort Pitt." "That's where 'Pittsburg' got its name, then! I never thought about its being in honor of Pitt!" exclaimed Helen. "It is 'Pitt's City,'" rejoined her grandfather. "And this street," he added somewhat later when they were speeding in a motor bus to a hotel near the park, "this street is Forbes Street, named after the British general. Somewhere there is a Bouquet Street, to commemorate another hero of the war." "I saw 'Duquesne Way' marked on the map," announced Ethel Blue. On the following morning they awakened to find themselves opposite a large and beautiful park with a mass of handsome buildings rising impressively at the entrance. "It is Schenley Park and the buildings house the Carnegie Institute. We'll go over them by and bye." "It's a library," guessed Dicky, who was not too young to have the steelmaker's name associated with libraries in his youthful mind. "It is a library and a fine one. There's also a Music Hall and an art museum and a natural history museum. You'll see more fossil ferns there, and the skeleton of a diplodocus--" "A dip-what?" demanded Roger. "Diplodocus, with the accent on the _plod_; one of the hugest animals that ever walked the earth. They found the bones of this monster almost complete in Colorado and wired them together so you can get an idea of what really 'big game' was like in the early geological days." "How long is he?" "If all the ten members of the U.S.C. were to take hold of hands and stretch along his length there would be space for four or five more to join the string." "Where's my hat?" demanded Roger. "I want to go over and make that fellow's acquaintance instanter." "When you go, notice the wall paintings," said his mother. "They show the manufacture and uses of steel and they are considered among the finest things of their kind in America. Alexander, the artist, did them. You've seen some of his work at the Metropolitan Museum in New York." "Pittsburg has the good sense to have a city organist," Mr. Emerson continued. "Every Sunday afternoon he plays on the great organ in the auditorium and the audience drifts in from the park and drifts out to walk farther, and in all several thousand people hear some good music in the course of the afternoon." "There seem to be some separate buildings behind the Institute." "The Technical Schools, and beyond them is the Margaret Morrison School where girls may learn crafts and domestic science and so on." "It's too bad it isn't a clear day," sighed Ethel Blue, as she rose from the table. "This is a bright day, Miss," volunteered the waiter who handed her her unnecessary sunshade. "You call this clear?" Mrs. Morton asked him. "Yes, madam, this is a bright day for Pittsburg." When they set forth they shook their heads over the townsman's idea of a clear day, for the sky was overcast and clouds of dense black smoke rolled together from the two sides of the city and met over their heads. "It's from the steel mills," Mr. Emerson explained as he advised Ethel Brown to wipe off a smudge of soot that had settled on her cheek and warned his daughter that if she wanted to preserve the whiteness of her gloves she had better replace them by colored ones until she returned to a cleaner place. They were to take the afternoon train up the Monongahela River to the town from which Stanley Clark had sent his wire telling his uncle that "Emily Leonard married a man named Smith," but there were several hours to devote to sightseeing before train time, and the party went over Schenley Park with thoroughness, investigated several of the "inclines" which carried passengers from the river level to the top of the heights above, motored among the handsome residences and ended, on the way to the station, with a flying visit to the old blockhouse which is all that is left of Port Pitt. "So this is really a blockhouse," Helen said slowly as she looked at the little two story building with its heavy beams. "There are the musket holes," Ethel Brown pointed out. "This is really where soldiers fought before the Revolution!" "It really is," her mother assured her. "It is in the care of one of the historical societies now; that's why it is in such good condition." Roger had secured the tickets and had telephoned to the hotel at Brownsville for rooms so they took their places in the train with no misgivings as to possible discomfort at night. Their excitement was beginning to rise, however, for two reasons. In the first place they had been quite as disturbed as Dorothy and her mother over the difficulties attending the purchase of the field and the Fitz-James Woods, and the later developments in connection with the man, Hapgood. Now that they were approaching the place where they knew Stanley Clark was working out the clue they began to feel the thrill that comes over explorers on the eve of discovery. The other reason for excitement lay in the fact that Mr. Emerson had promised them some wonderful sights before they reached their destination. He had not told them what they were, although he had mentioned something about fairyland that had started an abundant flow of questions from Dicky. Naturally they were all alert to find out what novelty their eyes were to see. "I saw one novelty this afternoon," said Roger. "When I stepped into that little stationery shop to get a newspaper I noticed in the rear a queer tin thing with what looked like cotton wool sticking against its back wall. I asked the woman who sold the papers what it was." "Trust Roger for not letting anything pass him," smiled Ethel Brown. "That's why I'm such a cyclopedia of accurate information, ma'am," Roger retorted. "She said it was a stove." "With cotton wool for fuel?" laughed Ethel Blue. "It seems they use natural gas here for heating as well as cooking, and the woolly stuff was asbestos. The gas is turned on at the foot of the back wall and the asbestos becomes heated and gives off warmth but doesn't burn." "I stayed in Pittsburg once in a boarding house where the rooms were heated with natural gas," said Mr. Emerson. "It made a sufficient heat, but you had to be careful not to turn the burner low just before all the methodical Pittsburgers cooked dinner, for if you made it too low the flame might go out when the pressure was light." "Did the opposite happen at night?" "It did. In the short time I was there the newspapers noted several cases of fires caused by people leaving their stoves turned up high at night and the flames bursting into the room and setting fire to some inflammable thing near at hand when the pressure grew strong after the good Pittsburgers went to bed." "It certainly is useful," commended Mrs. Morton. "A turn of the key and that's all." "No coal to be shovelled--think of it!" exclaimed Roger, who took care of several furnaces in winter. "No ashes to be sifted and carried away! The thought causes me to burst into song," and he chanted ridicuously:-- "Given a tight tin stove, asbestos fluff, A match of wood, an iron key, and, puff, Thou, Natural Gas, wilt warm the Arctic wastes, And Arctic wastes are Paradise enough." As the train drew out of the city the young people's expectations of fairyland were not fulfilled. "I don't see anything but dirt and horridness, Grandfather," complained Ethel Brown. Mr. Emerson looked out of the window thoughtfully for a moment. "True," he answered, "it's not yet dark enough for the magic to work." "No wonder everything is sooty and grimy with those chimneys all around us throwing out tons and tons of soft coal smoke to settle over everything. Don't they ever stop?" "They're at it twenty-four hours a day," returned her grandfather. "But night will take all the ugliness into its arms and hide it; the sordidness and griminess will disappear and fairyland will come forth for a playground. The ugly smoke will turn into a thing of beauty. The queer point of it all is," he continued, shaking his head sadly, "fairyland is there all the time and always beautiful, only you can't see it." Dicky's eyes opened wide and he gazed out of the window intent on peering into this mysterious invisible playground. "Lots of things are like that," agreed Roger. "Don't you remember how those snowflakes we looked at under the magnifying glass on Ethel Blue's birthday burst into magnificent crystals? You wouldn't think a handful of earth--just plain dirt--was pretty, would you? But it is. Look at it through a microscope and see what happens." "But, Grandfather, if the beauty is there right now why can't we see it?" insisted Ethel Brown. Mr. Emerson stared out of the window for a moment. "That was a pretty necklace of beads you strung for Ayleesabet." "We all thought they were beauty beads." "And that was a lovely string of pearls that Mrs. Schermerhorn wore at the reception for which you girls decorated her house." There could be no disagreement from that opinion. "Since Ayleesabet is provided with such beauties we shan't have to fret about getting her anything else when she goes to her coming-out party, shall we?" "What are you saying, Grandfather!" exclaimed Helen. "Of course Ayleesabet's little string of beads can't be compared with a pearl necklace!" "There you are!" retorted Mr. Emerson; "Helen has explained it. This fairyland we are going to see can't be compared with the glory of the sun any more than Ayleesabet's beads can be compared with Mrs. Schermerhorn's pearls. We don't even see the fairyland when the sun is shining but when the sun has set the other beauties become clear." "O-o-o!" shouted Dicky, whose nose had been glued to the window in an effort to prove his grandfather's statement; "look at that funny umbrella!" Everybody jumped to one window or another, and they saw in the gathering darkness a sudden blast of flame and white hot particles shooting into the air and spreading out like an umbrella of vast size. "Look at it!" exclaimed the two Ethels, in a breath; "isn't that beautiful! What makes it?" "The grimy steel mills of the daytime make the fairyland of night," announced Mr. Emerson. Across the river they noticed suddenly that the smoke pouring from a chimney had turned blood red with tongues of vivid flame shooting through it like pulsing veins. There was no longer any black smoke. It had changed to heavy masses of living fire of shifting shades. Great ingots of steel sent the observers a white hot greeting or glowed more coolly as the train shot by them. Huge piles of smoking slag that had gleamed dully behind the mills now were veined with vivid red, looking like miniature volcanoes streaked with lava. It was sometimes too beautiful for words to describe it suitably, and sometimes too terrible for an exclamation to do it justice. It created an excitement that was wearying, and when the train pulled into Brownsville it was a tired party that found its way to the hotel. As the children went off to bed Mr. Emerson called out "To-morrow all will be grime and dirt again; fairyland has gone." "Never mind, Grandfather," cried Ethel Brown, "we won't forget that it is there just the same if only we could see it." "And we'll think a little about the splendiferousness of the sun, too," called Helen from the elevator. "I never thought much about it before." CHAPTER XVII THE MISSING HEIRESS Mr. Emerson's investigations proved that Stanley Clark had left Brownsville several days previously and had gone to Millsboro, farther up the Monongahela. He had left that as his forwarding address, the hotel clerk said. This information necessitated a new move at once, so the next morning, bright and early, Mr. Emerson led his party to the river where they boarded a little steamer scarcely larger than a motor boat. They were soon puffing away at a fair rate of speed against the sluggish current. The factories and huge steel plants had disappeared and the banks looked green and country-like as mile after mile slipped by. Suddenly Roger, who was sitting by the steersman's wheel, exclaimed, "Why, look! there's a waterfall in front of us." So, indeed, there was, a wide fall stretching from shore to shore, but Roger, eyeing it suspiciously, added in an aggrieved tone, "But it's a dam. Must be a dam. Look how straight it is." "How on earth," called Ethel Blue, "are we going to get over it?" "Jump up it the way Grandpa told me the salmon fishes do," volunteered Dicky. Everybody laughed, but Mr. Emerson declared that was just about what they were going to do. The boat headed in for one end of the dam and her passengers soon found themselves floating in a granite room, with huge wooden doors closed behind them. The water began to boil around them, and as it poured into the lock from unseen channels the boat rose slowly. In a little while the Ethels cried that they could see over the tops of the walls, and in a few minutes more another pair of big gates opened in front of them and they glided into another chamber and out into the river again, this time above the "falls." "I feel as if I had been through the Panama Canal," declared Ethel Blue. "That's just the way its huge locks work," said Mrs. Morton. "The next time your Uncle Roger has a furlough I hope it will be long enough for us to go down there and see it." "I wonder," asked Roger, "if there are many more dams like this on the Monongahela." "There's one about every ten miles," volunteered the steersman. "Until the government put them in only small boats could go up the river. Now good sized ones can go all the way to Wheeling, West Virginia. If you want to, you can go by boat all the way from Wheeling to the Gulf of Mexico." "The Gulf of Mexico," echoed the two Ethels. Then they added, also together, "So you can!" and Ethel Brown said, "The Indians used to go from the upper end of Lake Chautauqua to the Gulf in their canoes? When they got to Fort Duquesne it was easy paddling." "What is that high wharf with a building on it overhanging the river?" asked Helen. "That's a coal tipple," said her grandfather. "Do you see on shore some low-lying houses and sheds? They are the various machinery plants and offices of the coal mine and that double row of small houses a quarter of a mile farther up is where the employés live." As the boat continued up the river it passed many such tipples. They were now in the soft coal country, the steersman said, and in due time they arrived at Millsboro, a little town about ten miles above Brownsville. Here Mr. Emerson made immediate inquiries about Stanley Clark, and found that he had gone on, leaving "Uniontown, Fayette County," as his forwarding address. "That's the county seat where Hapgood says he copied his records," said Mr. Emerson. "I hope we shall catch young Clark there and get that matter straightened out." As there was no train to Uniontown until the afternoon, Mr. Emerson engaged a motor car to take them to a large mine whose tipple they had passed on the way up. The Superintendent was a friend of the driver of the car and he willingly agreed to show them through. Before entering the mine he pointed out to them samples of coal which he had collected. Some had fern leaves plainly visible upon their surfaces and others showed leaves of trees and shrubs. "Fairy pencilings, a quaint design, Veinings, leafage, fibers clear and fine," quoted Ethel Blue softly, as she looked at them. Mrs. Morton stopped before a huge block of coal weighing several tons and said to her son, "Here's a lump for your furnace, Roger." "Phew," said Roger. "Think of a furnace large enough to fit that lump! Do you get many of them?" he asked of the Superintendent. "We keep that," said the Superintendent, "because it's the largest single lump of coal ever brought out of this mine. Of course, we could get them if we tried to, but it's easier to handle it in smaller pieces." "What'th in that little houthe over there?" asked Dicky. "Theems to me I thee something whithing round." "That's the fan that blows fresh air into the mine so that the miners can breathe, and drives out the poisonous and dangerous gases." "What would happen if the fan stopped running?" asked Ethel Brown. "Many things might happen," said the Superintendent gravely. "Men might suffocate for lack of air, or an explosion might follow from the collection of the dreaded 'fire damp' ignited by some miner's lamp." "Fire damp?" repeated Mrs. Morton. "That is really natural gas, isn't it?" "Yes, they're both 'marsh gas' caused by the decay of the huge ferns and plants of the carboniferous age. Some of them hardened into coal and others rotted when they were buried, and the gas was caught in huge pockets. It is gas from these great pockets that people use for heating and cooking all about here and even up into Canada." Ethel Brown had been listening and the words "some of them hardened into coal" caught her ear. She went close to her grandfather's side. "Tell me," she said, "exactly what is coal and how did it get here?" "What _I_ want to know," retorted Mr. Emerson, "is what brand of curiosity you have in your cranium, and how did it get there? Answer me that." Ethel Brown laughed. "Let's have a lecture," she urged, "and," handing her grandfather a small lump of coal, "here's your text." Mr. Emerson turned the bit of coal over and over. "When I look at this little piece of black stone," he said, "I seem to see dense forests filled with luxuriant foliage and shrubbery and mammoth trees under which move sluggish streams draining the swampy ground. The air is damp and heavy and warm." "What about the animals?" "There are few animals. Most of them are water creatures, though there are a few that can live on land and in the water, too, and in the latter part of the coal-making period enormous reptiles crawled over the wet floor of the forest. Life is easy in all this leafy splendor and so is death, but no eye of man is there to look upon it, no birds brighten the dense green of the trees, and the ferns and shrubs have no flowers as we know them. The air is heavy with carbon." "Where was the coal?" "The coal wasn't made yet. You know how the soil of the West Woods at home is deep with decayed leaves? Just imagine what soil would be if it were made by the decay of these huge trees and ferns! It became yards and yards deep and silt and water pressed it down and crushed from it almost all the elements except the carbon, and it was transformed into a mineral, and that mineral is coal." "Coal? Our coal?" "Our coal. See the point of a fern leaf on this bit?" and he held out the piece of coal he had been holding. "That fern grew millions of years ago." "Isn't it delicate and pretty!" exclaimed Ethel Blue, as it reached her in passing from hand to hand, "and also not as clean as it once was!" she added ruefully, looking at her fingers. By way of preparation for their descent into the mine each member of the party was given a cap on which was fastened a small open wick oil lamp. They did not light them, however, until they had all been carried a hundred feet down into the earth in a huge elevator. Here they needed the illumination of the tiny lamps whose flicker made dancing shadows on the walls. Following the Superintendent their first visit was to the stable. "What is a stable doing down here?" wondered Ethel Brown. "Mules pull the small cars into which the miners toss the coal as they cut it out. These fellows probably will never see the light of day again," and their leader stroked the nose of the animal nearest him which seemed startled at his touch. "He's almost blind, you see," the Superintendent explained. "His eyes have adjusted themselves to the darkness and even these feeble lights dazzle him." The girls felt the tears very near their eyelids as they thought of the fate of these poor beasts, doomed never to see the sun again or to feel the grass under their feet. "I once knew a mule who was so fond of music that he used to poke his head into the window near which his master's daughter was playing on the piano," said the Superintendent, who noticed their agitation and wanted to amuse them. "We might get up band concerts for these fellows." "Poor old things, I believe they would like it!" exclaimed Helen. "This is a regular underground village," commented Mrs. Morton, as they walked for a long distance through narrow passages until they found themselves at the heading of a drift where the men were working. "Is there any gas here?" asked the Superintendent, and when the miners said "Yes," he lifted his hand light, which was encased in wire gauze, and thrust it upwards toward the roof and gave a grunt as it flickered near the top. There it was, the dreaded fire-damp, in a layer above their heads. One touch of an open flame and there would be a terrible explosion, yet the miners were working undisturbed just beneath it with unprotected lamps on their caps. The visitors felt suddenly like recruits under fire--they were far from enjoying the situation but they did not want to seem alarmed. No one made any protest, but neither did any one protest when the Superintendent led the way to a section of the mine where there was no gas that they might see a sight which he assured them was without doubt wonderful. They were glad that they had been assured that there was no fire-damp here, for their leader lifted his lamp close to the roof. Ethel Blue made the beginning of an exclamation as she saw his arm rising, but she smothered her cry for her good sense told her that this experienced man would not endanger the lives of himself or his guests. The coal had been taken out very cleanly, and above them they saw not coal but shale. "What is shale?" inquired Helen. "Hardened clay," replied the Superintendent. "There were no men until long after the carboniferous period when coal was formed, but just in this spot it must have happened that the soil that had gathered above the deposits of coal was very light for some reason or other. Above the coal there was only a thin layer of soft clay. One day a hunter tramped this way and left his autograph behind." He held his lamp steadily upward, and there in the roof were the unmistakable prints of the soles of a man's feet, walking. "It surely does look mightily as if your explanation was correct," exclaimed Mr. Emerson, as he gazed at the three prints, in line and spaced as a walker's would be. Their guide said that there had been six, but the other three had fallen after being exposed to the air. "I wish it hadn't been such a muddy day," sighed Ethel Blue. "The mud squeezed around so that his toe marks were filled right up." "It certainly was a muddy day," agreed Roger, "but I'm glad it was. If he had been walking on rocks we never should have known that he had passed this way a million or so years ago." They were all so filled with interest that they were almost unwilling to go on in the afternoon, although Mr. Emerson promised them other sights around Uniontown, quite different from any they had seen yet. It was late in the afternoon when they ferried across the river in a boat running on a chain, and took the train for the seat of Fayette County. As the daylight waned they found themselves travelling through a country lighted by a glare that seemed to spread through the atmosphere and to be reflected back from the clouds and sky. "What is it?" Dicky almost whimpered, as he snuggled closer to his mother. "Ask Grandfather," returned Mrs. Morton. "It's the glare from the coke ovens," answered Mr. Emerson. "Do you see those long rows of bee-hives? Those are ovens in which soft coal is being burned so that a certain ingredient called bitumen may be driven off from it. What is left after that is done is a substance that looks somewhat like a dry, sponge if that were gray and hard. It burns with a very hot flame and is invaluable in the smelting of iron and the making of steel." "That's why they make so much here," guessed Ethel Brown, who had been counting the ovens and was well up in the hundreds with plenty more in sight. "Here is where they make most of the iron and steel in the United States and they have to have coke for it." "And you notice how conveniently the coal beds lie to the iron mines? Nature followed an efficiency program, didn't she?" laughed Roger. "They turn out about twenty million tons of coke a year just around here," Helen read from her guidebook, "and it is one of the two greatest coke burning regions of the world!" "Where's the other?" "In the neighborhood of Durham, England." "It is a wonderful sight!" exclaimed Ethel Blue. "I never knew fire could be so wonderful and so different!" Mr. Emerson's search for Stanley Clark seemed to be a stern chase and consequently a long one. Here again the hotel clerk told him that Mr. Clark had gone on, this time to Washington, the seat of Washington County. He was fairly sure that he was still there because he had received a letter from him just the day before asking that something he had left behind should be sent him to that point, which was done. As soon as the Record Office was open in the morning Mr. Emerson and Roger went there. "We might as well check up on Hapgood's investigations," said Mr. Emerson. "They may be all right, and he may be honestly mistaken in thinking that his Emily is the Clarks' Emily; or he may have faked some of his records. It won't take us long to find out. Mr. Clark let me take his copy of Hapgood's papers." It was not a long matter to prove that Hapgood's copy of the records was correct. Emily Leonard had married Edward Smith; their son, Jabez, had married a Hapgood and Mary was their child. Where Hapgood's copy had been deficient was in his failing to record that this Emily Leonard was the daughter of George and Sabina Leonard, whereas the Clarks' Emily was the daughter of Peter and Judith Leonard. "There's Hapgood's whole story knocked silly," remarked Mr. Emerson complacently. "But it leaves us just where we were about the person the Clarks' Emily married." "Stanley wouldn't have telegraphed that she married a Smith if he hadn't been sure. He sent that wire from Millsboro, you know. He must have found something in that vicinity." "I'm going to try to get him on the telephone to-night, and then we can join him in Washington tomorrow if he'll condescend to stay in one spot for a few hours and not keep us chasing over the country after him." "That's Jabez Smith over there now," the clerk, who had been interested in their search, informed them. "Jabez Smith!" repeated Roger, his jaw dropped. "Jabez Smith!" repeated Mr. Emerson. "Why, he's dead!" "Jabez Smith? The Hapgood woman's husband? Father of Mary Smith? He isn't dead. He's alive and drunk almost every day." He indicated a man leaning against the wall of the corridor and Mr. Emerson and Roger approached him. "Don't you know the Miss Clarks said they thought that Mary said her father was alive but her uncle interrupted her loudly and said she was 'an orphan, poor kid'?" Roger reminded his grandfather. "She's half an orphan; her mother really is dead, the clerk says." Jabez Smith acknowledged his identity and received news of his brother-in-law and his daughter with no signs of pleasure. "What scheming is Hapgood up to now?" he muttered crossly. "Do you remember what your grandfather and grandmother Leonards' names were," asked Mr. Emerson. The man looked at him dully, as if he wondered what trick there might be in the inquiry, but evidently he came to the conclusion that his new acquaintance was testing his memory, so he pulled himself together and after some mental searching answered, "George Leonard; Sabina Leonard." His hearers were satisfied, and left him still supporting the Court House wall with his person instead of his taxes. Stanley, the long pursued, was caught on the wire, and hailed their coming with delight. He said that he thought he had all the information he needed and that he had been planning to go home the next day, so they were just in time. "That's delightful; he can go with us," exclaimed Ethel Brown, and Helen and Roger looked especially pleased. The few hours that passed before they met in Washington were filled with guesses as to whether Stanley had built up the family tree of his cousin Emily so firmly that it could not be shaken. "We proved this morning that Hapgood's story was a mixture of truth and lies," Mr. Emerson said, "but we haven't anything to replace it. Our evidence is all negative." "Stanley seems sure," Roger reminded him. When Stanley met them at the station in Washington he seemed both sure and happy. He shook hands with them all. "It is perfectly great to have you people here," he said to Helen. "Have you caught Emily?" she replied, dimpling with excitement. "I have Emily traced backwards and forwards. Let's go into the writing room of the hotel and you shall see right off how she stands." They gathered around the large table and listened to the account of the young lawyer's adventures. He had had a lead that took him to Millsboro soon after he reached western Pennsylvania, but he missed the trail there and spent some time in hunting in surrounding towns before he came on the record in the Uniontown courthouse. "I certainly thought I had caught her then," he confessed. "I thought so until I compared the ages of the two Emilies. I found that our Emily would have been only ten years old at the time the Uniontown Emily married Edward Smith." "Mr. Clark wired you to find out just that point." "Did he? I never received the despatch. Hadn't I told him the date of our Emily's birth? "He has a crow to pick with you over that." "Too bad. Well, I moseyed around some more, and the trail led me back to Millsboro again, where I ought to have found the solution in the first place if I had been more persevering. I came across an old woman in Millsboro who had been Emily Leonard's bridesmaid when she married Julian Smith. That sent me off to the county seat and there I found it all set down in black and white;--Emily Leonard, adopted daughter of Asa Wentworth and daughter of Peter and Judith (Clark) Leonard. There was everything I wanted." "You knew she had been adopted by a Wentworth?" "I found that out before I left Nebraska." "What was the date of the marriage?" "1868. She was eighteen. Two years later her only child, a son, Leonard, was born, and she died--" "Her son Leonard! Leonard Smith!" exclaimed Mrs. Morton suddenly. "Do you suppose--" she hesitated, looking at her father. He raised his eyebrows doubtfully, then turning to Stanley he inquired: "You didn't find out what became of this Leonard Smith, did you?" "I didn't find any record of his marriage, but I met several men who used to know him. They said he became quite a distinguished musician, and that he married a Philadelphia woman." "Did they know her name?" asked Mrs. Morton, leaning forward eagerly. "One of them said he thought it was Martin. Smith never came back here to live after he set forth to make his fortune, so they were a little hazy about his marriage and they didn't know whether he was still alive." "The name wasn't Morton, was it?" The girls looked curiously at their mother, for she was crimson with excitement. Stanley could take them no farther, however. "Father," Mrs. Morton said to Mr. Emerson, as the young people chattered over Stanley's discoveries, "I think I'd better send a telegram to Louise and ask her what her husband's parents' names were. Wouldn't it be too strange if he should be the son of the lost Emily?" Mr. Emerson hurried to the telegraph office and sent an immediate wire to "Mrs. Leonard Smith, Rosemont, N.J. Wire names of your husband's parents," it read. The answer came back before morning;--"Julian and Emily Leonard Smith." "Now why in the wide world didn't she remember that when we've done nothing but talk about Emily Leonard for weeks!" cried Mrs. Smith's sister-in-law impatiently. "I dare say she never gave them a thought; Leonard Smith's mother died when he was born, Stanley says. How about the father, Stanley?" "Julian Smith? He died years ago. I saw his death record this morning." "Then I don't see but you've traced the missing heir right to your own next door neighbor, Stanley." "It looks to me as if that was just what had happened," laughed the young lawyer. "Isn't that jolly! It's Dorothy whose guardian's signature is lacking to make the deed of the field valid when we sell it to her mother!" "It's Dorothy who is a part owner of Fitz-James's woods already!" cried the Ethels. Another telegram went to Rosemont at once. This one was addressed to "Miss Dorothy Smith." It said, "Stanley welcomes you into family. Congratulations from all on your good fortune," and it was signed "The Travellers." THE END 
21703	----	SILVER LAKE, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. THE HUNTERS. It was on a cold winter morning long ago, that Robin Gore, a bold hunter of the backwoods of America, entered his parlour and sat him down to breakfast. Robin's parlour was also his dining-room, and his drawing-room, besides being his bedroom and his kitchen. In fact, it was the only room in his wooden hut, except a small apartment, opening off it, which was a workshop and lumber-room. Robin's family consisted of himself, and his wife, and his son Roy, who was twelve years of age--and his daughter Nelly, who was eight, or thereabout. In addition to these, his household comprised a nephew, Walter and an Irishman, Larry O'Dowd. The former was tall, strong, fearless, and twenty. The latter was stout, short, powerful, and forty. The personal history of Robin Gore, to the point at which we take it up, runs briefly thus:-- He had been born in a backwood's settlement, had grown up and married in the little hamlet in which he had been born, and hunted around it contentedly until he was forty years of age. But, as population increased, he became restive. He disliked restraint; resolved to take his wife and family into the wilderness and, after getting his nephew and an Irish adventurer to agree to accompany him, carried his resolution into effect. He travelled several hundreds of miles into the woods--beyond the most remote settlement--built three wooden huts, surrounded them with a tall stockade, set up a flagstaff in the centre thereof, and styled the whole affair, "Fort Enterprise." "I'm sorry to bring you to such a lonesome spot, Molly, my dear," said Robin, as he sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, on the afternoon of the day on which he arrived at the scene of his future home; "it'll be rayther tryin' at first, but you'll soon get used to it, and we won't be bothered hereaway wi' all the new-fangled notions o' settlement folk. We'll dwell in the free wilderness, where there are no tyrannical laws to hamper a man, an' no nonsensical customs to fix the fashion of his coat an' leggins. Besides, you'll have Roy an' Nelly an' Walter an' Larry to keep you company, lass, not to mention our neighbours to look in upon now and again." "Very true, Robin," replied the wife, "I have no doubt it will be quite cheery and homelike in course of time." She looked out upon the broad bosom of the lake which lay before the site of their forest home, and sighed. It was evident that Mrs Gore had a strong partiality for the laws and customs which her husband abhorred. The "neighbours" to whom Robin referred lived in a leather tent twenty miles distant from the Fort. They were an Indian, named "The Black Swan," his wife, named "The White Swan," and a half-caste trapper, whose proper name was unknown to all save himself. His cognomen in the wilderness was "Slugs," a name which originated in his frequent use of clipped pieces of lead instead of shot in the loading of his gun. But to return to the point from which we started:-- It was on a cold winter morning that Robin Gore entered his parlour and sat him down to breakfast. It was not only cold--very cold; colder than ever was experienced in our favoured British isles--but it was also very dark. Robin had risen before daybreak in order to visit his traps, and shoot some game as early in the day as possible. The larder chanced to be nearly empty that day, a fact which was all the more to be regretted that it was New Year's day, and, as Robin remarked, "that day didn't occur more than once in the year." This statement Larry O'Dowd disputed, affirming that it occurred "at laste twice ivery year--wance at the beginnin' an' wance at the end of it!" "Come along, lad," said Robin, trimming the candle as his nephew Walter entered, "we'll ha' to make the most of our time to-day, for we dine at sharp five p.m., an' our dinner--leastwise the most of it--is at this moment alive an' kickin', if it's not sleepin', in the forest, and has got to be found and shot yet. Hallo! boy, where are _you_ bound for?" "For the woods, father, with you and Walter," replied his son Roy, sitting down and coolly helping himself to a portion of bear's meat, with which the hunter was regaling himself. "Nonsense, boy," said Robin, somewhat gruffly. "You'll not be able to keep up with us," added Walter, "for we've little time before us, an' a long way to go." "If I break down I can turn back," retorted Roy. "Very good; please yourself;" said Robin in a tone of indifference, although his glance seemed to indicate that he was not sorry to see his boy determined to attempt an expedition which he knew from experience would be very trying to a lad of his years. Breakfast over, the three hunters clothed themselves in habiliments suitable to the climate--leathern coats and trousers which were impervious to the wind; cloth leggings to keep the snow from the trousers; leather mocassins, or shoes with three pairs of blanket socks inside of them; fur-caps with ear-pieces; leather mittens with an apartment for the fingers and a separate chamber for the thumb, powder-horns, shot-pouches, guns, and snow-shoes. These latter were light wooden frames, netted across with deerskin threads, about five feet long and upwards of a foot wide. The shoes were of this enormous size, in order that they might support the wearers on the surface of the snow, which was, on an average, four feet deep in the woods. They were clumsy to look at, but not so difficult to walk in as one might suppose. In silence the three hunters entered the dark woods in front of Fort Enterprise. Robin went first and beat the track, Walter followed in his footsteps, Roy brought up the rear. The father sank about six inches at every step, but the snow which fell upon his snow-shoes was so fine and dry, owing to the intense frost, that it fell through the net-work of the shoes like dust. Walter and Roy, treading in the footsteps, had less labour in walking, but Walter, being almost as strong as his uncle, took his turn at beating the track every two hours. Through the woods they went, over mound and hollow, across frozen swamp and plain, through brush and break, until near noon, when they halted for rest and refreshment. While Walter cut firewood, Robin and Roy cleared away the snow, using their snow-shoes as shovels, and prepared their meal. It was simple; a few mouthfuls of dried meat and a tin can of hot tea--the backwoodsman's greatest luxury, next to his pipe. It was short, too. Half an hour sufficed to prepare and consume it. "Let's see, now, what we have got," said Robin, counting the game before resuming the march. "More than enough," said Walter, lighting his pipe for a hurried whiff, "ten brace of white grouse, four rabbits, six red foxes and a black one, and two wolves. We can't eat all that." "Surely we won't eat the foxes and wolves!" cried Roy, laughing. "Not till we're starvin'," replied his father. "Come, let's go on--are ye tired, lad?" "Fresh as Walter," said the boy, proudly. "Well, we won't try you too much. We'll just take a sweep round by the Wolf's Glen, an' look at the traps there--after which make for home and have our New Year's dinner. Go ahead, Walter, and beat the track; it is your turn this time." Without speaking, Walter slipped his feet into the lines of his snow-shoes, extinguished his pipe, and led the way once more through the pathless forest. CHAPTER TWO. THE STARVED INDIAN. In the depths of the same forest, and not far from the locality to which we have introduced our reader, a Red Indian was dragging his limbs wearily along over the untrodden snow. The attenuated frame of this son of the soil, his hollow cheeks and glaring eye-balls, his belt drawn with extreme tightness round his waist, to repress the gnawings of hunger, as well as his enfeebled gait, proved that he was approaching the last stage of starvation. For many weeks Wapaw had been travelling in the woods, guided on his way by the stars, and by those slight and delicate signs of the wilderness-- such as the difference of thickness in the bark on the north, from that on the south side of a tree--which are perceptible only to the keen eye of an Indian, or a white man whose life has been spent in the wilderness. But Wapaw was a very different man, when he quitted his tribe, from what he was at the time we introduce him to our reader. Strong, wiry, upright, and lithe as a panther, he left his wigwam and his wife, and turned his face towards the rising sun; but the season was a severe one, and game was scarce; from the very beginning of his journey he had found it difficult to supply himself with a sufficiency of food. Towards the middle of it he was on short allowance, and much reduced in strength; and now near its termination, he was, as we have said, almost in the last stage of starvation. Fort Enterprise was Wapaw's goal. He had never been there before, but from the description of the place and its locality, given by those of his kindred who had visited Robin Gore, he was able to direct his march with unerring certainty towards it. Of course, as he drew near to it he could not ascertain his exact distance--whether he was a day or several days' journey off--but from the tracks of Robin's snow-shoes, which he crossed more than once, he guessed that he was nearing the Fort, and pushed on with renewed hope and energy. Robin, however, was an active hunter. He often made long and rapid marches from his lonely dwelling--sometimes staying away a week or two at a time even in winter; so that Wapaw thought himself nearer Fort Enterprise than he really was, when he first discovered the bold hunter's tracks. When, at length, he did arrive at less than a day's journey from the Fort, he was not aware of its close proximity, and, having tasted nothing whatever for two days, he felt the approach of that terrible state of exhaustion which precedes death. It was a somewhat stormy day when the poor Indian's strength finally broke down. Hitherto he had pushed forward with some degree of hope, but on the morning of this day a broken branch caught his snow-shoe and tripped him. At any other time the fall would have been a trifle, but in his weak condition it acted like the last straw which breaks the camel's back. Wapaw rose with difficulty, and brushing the snow from his eyes, looked earnestly at his snow-shoes, well knowing that if they had been broken in the fall his power of advancing would have been taken away and his fate sealed, for he had neither strength nor energy left to repair them. They were uninjured, however; so he once more attempted to stagger on. A slight rising ground lay before him. To ascend this was a labour so great that he almost sank in the midst of it. He reached the top, however, and gazed eagerly before him. He had gazed thus at the top of every rising ground that he had reached during the last two days, in the hope of seeing some sign of the Fort. A deep sigh escaped him as he rested his hands on the muzzle of his gun, and his grave countenance was overspread with a look of profound melancholy. For the first time in his life, the once stout and active Wapaw had reached the point of giving way to despair. A wide open plain stretched out before him. The cold wind was howling wildly across it, driving the keen snow-drift before it in whirling clouds. Even a strong man might have shrunk from exposing himself on such a plain and to such a blast on that bitter arctic day. Wapaw felt that, in his case, to cross it would be certain death; so, with the calm philosophy of a Red Indian, he made up his mind to lay him down and die! His manner of preparing for his end was somewhat singular. Turning aside into the woods, he set about making an encampment with as much vigour as he could summon up. Clearing away the snow from the roots of a large spreading pine-tree, he strewed branches on the ground, and thus made a rude couch. On this he spread his blanket. Then he cut some firewood with the axe that hung at his side, and soon kindled, by means of flint, steel, and tinder, a good fire. Seating himself before the warm blaze, the exhausted man rested awhile, with his legs drawn together and his head resting on his knees. He sat so long thus that he nearly fell asleep. Presently he roused himself, and proceeded to make a close examination of his wallet and firebag--the latter being a beautifully ornamented pouch, which Indians and fur-traders wear at their belts, for the purpose of containing the materials for producing fire, besides pipes and tobacco. Poor Wapaw had already searched his wallet and firebag twice, without finding a crumb of food or a morsel of tobacco. He knew well that they were empty, yet he turned them inside out, and examined the seams and corners with as much earnestness as if he really expected to find relief from his sufferings there. There was no expression of pain on the red man's face--only a look of profound melancholy. He laid aside the firebag after a little while, and then quietly drew his knife, and cut a piece of leather from the skirt of his hunting coat. The leather had been dried and smoked, and contained no substance whatever that could sustain life. Wapaw was aware of this--nevertheless he singed a portion of it until it was reduced almost to ashes, and mingling a little snow with this, ate it greedily. Then, raising his eyes to the sky with a long earnest gaze, he sat immovable, until the sinking fire and the increasing cold recalled his wandering faculties. There was a wild, glassy look about the Indian's eyes now, which probably resulted from exhaustion. He seemed to struggle several times to rouse himself before he succeeded; shuddering with intense cold, he crept to the little pile of firewood, and placed several billets on the fire, which speedily blazed up again, and the dying man cowered over it, regardless of the smoke which ever and anon wreathed round his drooping head. In a few minutes Wapaw started up as if new energy had been infused into him. He placed his gun, axe, firebag, and powder-horn by themselves on the ground; then he wrapped himself in his blanket and lay slowly down beside them with his feet towards the fire. For a few minutes he lay on his back, gazing earnestly upwards, while his lips moved slowly, but no sound issued from them. Then he turned wearily on his side, and, covering his head with the blanket and turning his face towards the ground, he resigned himself to death. But God had ordained that, at that time, the red man should not die. About the time when he lay down, our hunters emerged upon the plain which had caused the Indian to despair. "It's of no use goin' farther," observed Robin, as he and his companions stood at the edge of the forest and looked across the plain; "the wind blows too hard, and the drift is keen; besides there ain't much to be got hereaway, even in seasons of plenty." "Father! is that smoke risin' over the bluff yonder?" asked Roy, pointing with his finger as he spoke. "No doubt of it, lad." "Indians, may be," said Walter. Robin shook his head. "Don't think so," said he, "for the redskins don't often come to see me at this time o' the year. But we'll go see; an' look to your primin', lads--if it's a war-party we'll ha' to fight, mayhap, if we don't run." The three hunters crossed the plain in the teeth of the howling drift, and cautiously approached the bluff referred to by Roy, and from behind which the smoke ascended. "It's a camp fire," whispered Robin, as he glanced back at his companions, "but I see no one there. They must have just left the place." There was a shade of anxiety in the hunter's voice as he spoke, for he thought of Fort Enterprise, its defenceless condition, and the possibility of the Indians having gone thither. "They can't have gone to the Fort," said Walter, "else we should have seen their tracks on the way hither." "Come," said Robin, stepping forward quickly, "we can see their tracks now, anyhow, and follow them up, and if they lead to the Fort." The hunter did not finish his sentence, for at that moment he caught sight of the recumbent form of Wapaw in the camp. "Hist! A redskin alone, and asleep! Well, I never did 'xpect to see that." "Mayhap, he's a decoy-duck," suggested Walter. "Better look sharp out." Robin and Roy heeded not the caution. They at once went forward, and the father lifted the blanket from the Indian's head. "Dead!" exclaimed Roy, in a solemn tone. "Not yet, lad! but I do b'lieve the poor critter's a'most gone wi' starvation. Come, bestir you, boys--rouse up the fire, and boil the kettle." Walter and Roy did not require a second bidding. The kettle was ere long singing on a blazing fire. The Indian's limbs were chafed and warmed; a can of hot tea was administered, and Wapaw soon revived sufficiently to look up and thank his deliverers. "Now, as good luck has it, I chanced to leave my hand-sled at the Wolf's Glen. Go, fetch it, Roy," said Robin. The lad set off at once, and, as the glen was not far distant, soon returned with a flat wooden sledge, six feet long by eighteen inches broad, on which trappers are wont to pack their game in winter. On this sledge Wapaw was firmly tied, and dragged by the hunters to Fort Enterprise. "Hast got a deer, father?" cried little Nelly, as she bounded in advance of her mother to meet the returning party. "No, Nelly--'tis dearer game than that." "What? a redskin!" exclaimed Dame Gore in surprise; "is he dead?" "No, nor likely to die," said Robin, "he's in a starvin' state though, an'll be none the worse of a bit of our New Year's dinner. Here is game enough for one meal an' more; come, lass, get it ready as fast as may be." So saying the bold hunter passed through the Fort gate, dragging the red man behind him. CHAPTER THREE. PREPARATIONS FOR A FEAST. "Why so grave, Robin?" inquired Mrs Gore, when her husband returned to the parlour after seeing Wapaw laid in a warm corner of the kitchen, and committed to the care of Larry O'Dowd. "Molly, my dear, it's of no use concealin' things from you, 'cause when bad luck falls we must just face it. This Injun--Wapaw, he calls himself--tells me he has com'd here a-purpose, as fast as he could, to say that his tribe have resolved to attack me, burn the Fort, kill all the men, and carry you off into slavery." "God help me! can this be true?" "True enough, I don't doubt, 'cause Wapaw has the face of an honest man, and I believe in faces. He says some of the worst men of his tribe are in power just now; that they want the contents of my store without paying for them; that he tried to get them to give up the notion, but failed. On seeing that they were bent on it, he said he was going off to hunt, and came straight here to warn me. He says they talked of starting for the Fort two days after he did, and that he pushed on as fast as he could travel, so it's not likely they'll be here for two or three days yet. I'll get ready for them, hows'ever, and when the reptiles do come they'll meet with a warm reception, I warrant them; meanwhile, do you go and get dinner ready. We won't let such varmints interfere with our New Year's feast." While Robin's wife went to her larder, his children were in the kitchen tending the Indian with earnest solicitude, and Larry was preparing a little soup for him. "Do you like rabbit soup?" asked Nelly, kneeling beside the pallet of pine branches on which Wapaw lay. The Indian smiled, and said something in his native tongue. "Sure he don't onderstan' ye," exclaimed Larry, as he bustled in an energetic way amongst his pots and pans. "Let me try him with Cree," said Roy, kneeling beside his sister, "I know a little--a _very_ little Cree." Roy tried his "very little Cree," but without success. "It's o' no use," he said, "father must talk to him, for _he_ knows every language on earth, I believe." Roy's idea of the number of languages "on earth" was very limited. "Och! don't bother him, see, here is a lingo that every wan onderstan's," cried Larry, carrying a can of hot soup towards Wapaw. "Oh, let me! _do_ let me!" cried Nelly, jumping up and seizing the can. "Be all manes," said Larry, resigning it. The child once more knelt by the side of the Indian and held the can to him, while he conveyed the soup to his lips with a trembling, unsteady hand. The eyes of the poor man glittered as he gazed eagerly at the food, which he ate with the avidity of a half-famished wolf. His nurses looked on with great satisfaction, and when Wapaw glanced up from time to time in their faces, he was advised to continue his meal with nods and smiles of goodwill. Great preparations were made for the dinner of that New Year's Day. Those who "dwell at home at ease" have no idea of the peculiar feelings with which the world's wanderers hail the season of Christmas and New Year. Surrounded as they usually are by strange scenes, and ignorant as they are of what friends at home are doing or thinking, they lay hold of this season as being one point at least in the circle of the year in which they can unite with the home circle, and, at the _same time_, commemorate with them the birth of the blessed Saviour of mankind, and think with them of absent friends. Much, therefore, as the "happy" season is made of in the "old country," it is made more of, if possible, in the colonies; especially on the outskirts of the world, where the adventurous and daring have pitched their tents. Of course Robin Gore and his household did not think of the "old country," for they were descendants of settlers; but they had imbibed the spirit of the old country from their forefathers, and thought of those well-remembered friends whom they had left behind them in the settlements. Notwithstanding the delay caused by the conveying of Wapaw to the Fort, the hunters had walked so fast that there was still some time to spare before dinner should be ready. Roy resolved to devote this time to a ramble in the woods with his sister Nelly. Accordingly the two put on their snow-shoes, and, merely saying to their mother that they were going to take a run in the woods, set forth. Now, it must be known that Mrs Gore had looked forward to New Year's Day dinner with great interest and much anxiety. There was a general feeling of hilarity and excitement among the male members of the self-exiled family that extended itself to the good woman, and induced her to resolve that the entire household should have what Walter styled a "rare blow-out!" During the whole morning she had been busy with the preparation of the various dishes, among which were a tart made of cloudberry jam, a salt goose, and a lump of bear's ham, besides the rabbits and ptarmigan which had been shot that day. "That's the way to do it, Molly," cried Robin, as he opened the door and peeped in upon his wife during the height and heat of her culinary labours; "keep the pot bilin', my dear, and don't spare the butter this day. It only comes once a year, you know." "Twice," muttered Larry in a low voice, as he stirred the contents of a large pot which hung over the fire. "And see that you look after Wapaw," continued Robin. "Don't give him too much at first, it'll hurt him." "No fear of that," replied Larry, "he's got so much a'ready that he couldn't howld another morsel av he was to try." "Well, well, take care of him, anyhow," said Robin, with a laugh; "meanwhile I'll go see after the defences o' the Fort, and make all snug." By dint of unwearied perseverance the dinner was cooked, and then it occurred to Robin to ask where the children were, but no one could tell, so the hunter remarked quietly that they would "doubtless make their appearance in a short while." Gradually the dinner reached that interesting point which is usually styled "ready to dish." Whereupon Robin again asked where the children were. Still no one could tell, so he said he would go out and hail them. Loudly and long did the hunter call, but no one answered; then he made a rapid search in and about the Fort, but they were not to be found. Moreover, a snow-storm had begun to set in, and the drift rendered it difficult to distinguish tracks in the snow. At last the day's labours were brought to a close. Dinner was served, and smoked invitingly on the table. The party only awaited the return of Robin with the children. In a few minutes Robin entered hastily. "Molly," said he, in a tone of anxiety, "the foolish things have gone into the woods, I think. Come, lads, we must hunt them down. It's snowin' hard, so we've no time to lose." Walter and Larry at once put on their capotes, fur-caps, and snow-shoes, and sallied forth, leaving Mrs Gore seated alone, and in a state of deep anxiety, by the side of her untasted New Year's Day dinner. CHAPTER FOUR. LOST IN THE SNOW. When Roy and Nelly set out for a ramble, they had at first no intention of going beyond their usual haunts in the woods around the Fort; but Roy had been inspirited by his successful march that day with his father and Walter, and felt inclined to show Nelly some new scenes to which they had not, up to that time, dared to penetrate together. The snow-storm, already referred to, had commenced gradually. When the children set forth on their ramble only a few flakes were falling, but they had not been away half an hour when snow fell so thickly that they could not see distinctly more than a few yards ahead of them. There was no wind, however, so they continued to advance, rather pleased than otherwise with the state of things. "Oh, I _do_ like to see falling snow," cried Nelly, with a burst of animation. "So do I," said Roy, looking back at his sister with a bright smile, "and I like it best when it comes down thick and heavy, in big flakes, on a _very_ calm day, don't you?" "Yes, oh it's so nice," responded Nelly sympathetically. They paused for minutes to shake some of the snow from their garments, and beat their hands together, for their fingers were cold, and to laugh boisterously, for their hearts were merry. Then they resumed their march, Roy beating the track manfully and Nelly following in his footsteps. In passing beneath a tall fir-tree Roy chanced to touch a twig. The result was literally overwhelming, for in a moment he was almost buried in snow, to the unutterable delight of his sister, who stood screaming with laughter as the unfortunate boy struggled to disentomb himself. In those northern wilds, where snow falls frequently and in great abundance, masses are constantly accumulating on the branches of trees, particularly on the pines, on the broad flat branches of which these masses attain to considerable size. A slight touch is generally sufficient to bring these down, but, being soft, they never do any injury worth mentioning. When Roy had fairly emerged from the snow he joined his sister in the laugh, but suddenly he stopped, and his face became very grave. "What's the matter?" asked Nelly, with an anxious look. "My snow-shoe's broken," said Roy. There was greater cause for anxiety on account of this accident than the reader is perhaps aware of. It may be easily understood that in a country where the snow averages four feet in depth, no one can walk half-a-mile without snow-shoes without being thoroughly exhausted; on the other hand, a man can walk thirty or forty miles a day by means of snow-shoes. "Can't you mend it?" asked Nelly. Roy, who had been carefully examining the damaged shoe, shook his head. "I've nothing here to do it with; besides, it's an awful smash. I must just try to scramble home the best way I can. Come, it's not very far, we'll only be a bit late for dinner." The snow-shoe having been bandaged, after a fashion, with a pocket-handkerchief, the little wanderers began to retrace their steps; but this was now a matter of extreme difficulty, owing to the quantity of snow which had fallen and almost obliterated the tracks. The broken shoe, also, was constantly giving way, so that ere long the children became bewildered as well as anxious, and soon lost the track of their outward march altogether. To make matters worse, the wind began to blow clouds of snow-drift into their faces, compelling them to seek the denser parts of the forest for shelter. They wandered on, however, in the belief that they were drawing nearer home every step, and Roy, whose heart was stout and brave, cheered up his sister's spirit so much that she began to feel quite confident their troubles would soon be over. Presently all their hopes were dashed to the ground by their suddenly emerging upon an open space, close to the very spot where the snow-mass had fallen on Roy's head. After the first feeling of alarm and disappointment had subsided, Roy plucked up heart and encouraged Nelly by pointing out to her that they had at all events recovered their old track, which they would be very careful not to lose sight of again. Poor Nelly whimpered a little, partly from cold and hunger as well as from disappointment, as she listened to her brother's words; then she dried her eyes and said she was ready to begin again. So they set off once more. But the difficulty of discerning the track, if great at first, was greater now, because the falling and drifting snow had well-nigh covered it up completely. In a very few minutes Roy stopped, and, confessing that he had lost it again, proposed to return once more to their starting point to try to recover it. Nelly agreed, for she was by this time too much fatigued and alarmed to have any will of her own, and was quite ready to do whatever she was told without question. After wandering about for nearly an hour in this state of uncertainty, Roy at last stopped, and, putting his arm round his sister's waist, said that he had lost himself altogether! Poor Nelly, whose heart had been gradually sinking, fairly broke down; she hid her face in her brother's bosom, and wept. "Come now, don't do that, dear Nell," said Roy, tenderly, "I'll tell you what we shall do--we'll camp in the snow! We have often done it close to the house, you know, for fun, so we'll do it now in earnest." "But it's so dark and cold," sobbed Nelly, looking round with a shudder into the dark recesses of the forest, which were by that time enshrouded by the gathering shades of night; "and I'm _so_ hungry too! Oh me! what _shall_ we do?" "Now _don't_ get so despairing," urged Roy, whose courage rose in proportion as his sister's sank; "it's not such an awful business after all, for father is sure to scour the woods in search of us, an' if we only get a comfortable encampment made, an' a roarin' fire kindled, why, we'll sit beside it an' tell stories till they find us. They'll be sure to see the fire, you know, so come--let's to work." Roy said this so cheerfully that the child felt a little comforted, dried her eyes, and said she would "help to make the camp." This matter of making an encampment in the snow, although laborious work, was by no means a novelty to these children of the backwoods. They had often been taught how to do it by Cousin Walter and Larry O'Dowd, and had made "playing at camps" their chief amusement in fine winter days. When, therefore, they found themselves compelled to "camp-out" from necessity, neither of them was at a loss how to proceed. Roy drew a circle in the snow, about three yards in diameter, at the foot of a large tree, and then both set to work to dig a hole in this space, using their snow-shoes as shovels. It took an hour's hard work to reach the ground, and when they did so the piled-up snow all round raised the walls of this hole to the height of about six feet. "Now for bedding," cried Roy, scrambling over the walls of their camp and going into the woods in search of a young pine-tree, while Nelly sat down on the ground to rest after her toil. It was a dark night, and the woods were so profoundly obscured, that Roy had to grope about for some time before he found a suitable tree. Cutting it down with the axe which always hung at his girdle, he returned to camp with it on his shoulder, and cut off the small soft branches, which Nelly spread over the ground to the depth of nearly half a foot. This "pine-brush," as it is called, formed a soft elastic couch. The fire was the next business. Again Roy went into the bush and gathered a large bundle of dry branches. "Now, Nelly, do you break a lot of the small twigs," said Roy, "and I'll strike a light." He pulled his firebag from his belt as he spoke, and drew from it flint, steel, and tinder. No one ever travels in the wilds of which we write without such means of procuring fire. Roy followed the example of his elder companions in carrying a firebag, although he did not, like them, carry tobacco and pipe in it. Soon the bright sparks that flew from the flint caught on the tinder. This was placed in a handful of dry grass, and whirled rapidly round until it was fanned into a flame. Nelly had prepared another handful of dry grass with small twigs above it. The light was applied, the fire leaped up, more sticks were piled on, and at last the fire roared upward, sending bright showers of sparks into the branches overhead, lighting the white walls of the camp with a glow that caused them to sparkle as with millions of gems, and filling the hearts of the children with a sensation of comfort and gladness, while they stood before the blaze and warmed themselves, rubbing their hands and laughing with glee. No one, save those who have experienced it, can form any conception of the cheering effect of a fire in the heart of a dark wood at night. Roy and Nelly quite forgot their lost condition for a short time, in the enjoyment of the comforting heat and the bright gladsome blaze. The brother cut firewood until he was rendered almost breathless, the sister heaped on the wood until the fire roared and leaped high above their heads. Strange though it may appear to some, the snow did not melt. The weather was too cold for that; only a little of that which was nearest the fire melted--the snow walls remained hard frozen all round. Roy soon sat down to rest, as close to the fire as he could without getting scorched; then Nelly seated herself by his side and nestled her head in his breast. There they sat, telling stories and gazing at the fire, and waiting for "father to come." Meanwhile Robin and his comrade ranged the forest far and near in desperate anxiety. But it was a wide and wild country. The children had wandered far away; a high ridge of land hid their fire from view. Moreover, Robin, knowing the children's usual haunts, had chanced to go off in the wrong direction. When night set in the hunters returned to Fort Enterprise to procure ammunition and provisions, in order to commence a more thorough and prolonged search. Poor Mrs Gore still sat beside the cold and untasted feast, and there the hunters left her, while they once more plunged into the pathless wilderness to search for the lost ones on that luckless New Year's Day. CHAPTER FIVE. CARRIED OFF. While Robin Gore and his companions were anxiously searching the woods around Fort Enterprise for the lost children, a war-party of savages was making its way swiftly towards the Fort. A chief of the Indians, named Hawk, who was a shrewd as well as a bad man, had suspected Wapaw's intentions in quitting the camp of his people alone and in such unnecessary haste. This man had great influence over his fellows, and easily prevailed on them to set off on their murderous expedition against the Fort of the "pale-faces" without delay. Being well supplied with food, they travelled faster than their starving comrade, and almost overtook him. They finally encamped within a short distance of the Fort the day after Wapaw's arrival, and prepared to assault it early next morning. "If the wicked skunk has got there before us," said Hawk to his fellows, as they prepared to set out before daybreak, "the pale-faces will be ready for us, and we may as well go back to our wigwams at once; but if that badger's whelp has been slow of foot, we shall hang the scalps of the pale-faces at our belts, and eat their food this day." The polite titles above used by Hawk were meant to refer to Wapaw. Indians are not naturally loquacious. No reply was made to Hawk's remark, except that one man with a blackened face, and a streak of red ochre down the bridge of his nose, said, "Ho!" and another with an equally black face, and three red streaks on each of his cheeks, said, "Hum!" as the war-party put on their snowshoes and prepared to start. They had not gone far when Hawk came to a sudden pause, and stood transfixed and motionless like a dark statue. His comrades also stopped abruptly and crouched. No question was asked, but Hawk pointed to a spark of fire, which every Indian in the band had observed the instant their leader had paused. Silently they crept forward, with guns cocked and arrows fitted to the bowstrings, until they all stood round an encampment where the fire was still smouldering, and in the centre of which lay a little boy and girl, fast asleep and shuddering with cold. Poor Roy and Nelly had told each other stories until their eyes would not remain open; then they fell asleep, despite their efforts to keep awake, and, as the fire sank low, they began to shiver with the cold. Lucky was it for them that the Indians discovered them, else they had certainly been frozen to death that night. Hawk roused them with little ceremony. Roy, by an impulse which would appear to be natural to those who dwell in wild countries, whether young or old, seized his axe, which lay beside him, as he leaped up. Hawk grinned, and took the axe from him at once, and the poor boy, seeing that he was surrounded by dark warriors, offered no resistance, but sought to comfort Nelly, who was clinging to him and trembling with terror. Immediately the savages sat down in the encampment, and began an earnest discussion, which the children watched with great eagerness. They evidently did not agree, for much gesticulation and great vehemence characterised their debate. Some pointed towards the Fort, and touched their tomahawks, while others pointed to the woods in the direction whence they had come, and shook their heads. Not a few drew their scalping knives partially from their sheaths, and, pointing to the children, showed clearly that they wished to cut their career short without delay, but several of the more sedate members of the party evidently objected to this. Finally, Hawk turned to Roy, and said something to him in the Indian tongue. Roy did not understand, and attempted to say so as well as he could by signs, and the use of the few words of the Cree language which his father had taught him. In the course of his speech (if we may use that term), he chanced to mention Wapaw's name. "Ho! ho! ho!" said one and another of the Indians, while Hawk grinned horribly. A variety of questions were now put to poor Roy, who, not understanding, of course could not answer them. Hawk, however, repeated Wapaw's name, and pointed towards the Fort with a look of inquiry, to which Roy replied by nodding his head and repeating "Wapaw" once or twice, also pointing to the Fort; for he began to suspect these must be Wapaw's comrades, who had come to search for him. He therefore volunteered a little additional information by means of signs; rubbed his stomach, looked dreadfully rueful, rolled himself as if in agony on the ground, and then, getting up, pretended to eat and look happy! By all of which he meant to show how that Wapaw had been on the borders of starvation, but had been happily saved therefrom. Indians in council might teach a useful lesson to our members of parliament, for they witnessed this rather laughable species of pantomime with profound gravity and silence. When Roy concluded, they nodded their heads, and said, "Ho! ho!" which, no doubt, was equivalent to "Hear hear!" After a little more discussion they rose to depart, and made signs to the children to get up and follow. Roy then pointed out the broken state of his snow-shoe, but this difficulty was overcome by Hawk, who threw it away, and made him put on his sister's snow-shoes. A stout young warrior was ordered to take Nelly on his back, which he did without delay, and the whole party left the encampment, headed by their chief. The children submitted cheerfully at first, under the impression that the Indians meant to convey them to the Fort. Great, however, was their horror when they were taken through the woods by a way which they knew to be quite in the opposite direction. When Roy saw this he stopped and looked back, but an Indian behind him gave him a poke with the butt of his gun, which there was no resisting. For a moment the lad thought of trying to break away, run home, and tell his father of Nelly's fate; but a second thought convinced him that this course was utterly impracticable. As for Nelly, she was too far from her brother in the procession to hold converse with him; and, as she knew not what to do, say, think, she was reduced to the miserable consolation of bedewing with her tears the shoulders of the young warrior who carried her. The storm which had commenced the day before still continued, so that, in the course of a few hours, traces of the track of the war-party were almost obliterated, and the chance of their being followed by Robin and his friends was rendered less and less likely as time ran on. All that day they travelled without halt, and when they stopped at night to encamp, Roy was nearly dead from exhaustion. "My poor Nell," said he, drawing his sobbing sister close to him, as they sat near the camp fire, after having eaten the small quantity of dried venison that was thrown to them by their captors, "don't despair; father will be sure to hunt us down, if it's in the power of man to do it." "I don't despair," sobbed Nelly; "but oh! what will darling mother do when she finds that we're lost, and I'm so afraid they'll kill us." "No fear o' that, Nell; it's not worth their while. Remember, too, what mother often told us--that--that--what is it she used to read so often out of the Bible? I forget." "I think it was, `Call upon Me in the time of trouble, and I will deliver thee.' I've been thinkin' of that, Roy, already." "That's right, Nell; now, come, cheer up! Have you had enough to eat?" "Yes," said Nelly, with a loud yawn, which she did not attempt to check. Roy echoed it, as a matter of course, (who ever did see anyone yawn without following suit?) and then the two lay down together, spread over themselves an old blanket which one of the Indians had given them, and fell asleep at once. Day succeeded day, night followed night, and weeks came and went, yet the Indians continued their journey through the snow-clad wilderness. Roy's snow-shoes had been picked up and repaired by one of the savages, and Nelly was made to walk a good deal on her own snowshoes; but it is justice to the Indians to say that they slackened their pace a little for the sake of the children, and when Nelly showed symptoms of being fatigued, the stout young warrior who originally carried her took her on his shoulders. At length the encampment of the tribe was reached, and Nelly was handed over to Hawk's wife to be her slave. Soon after that, the tents were struck, and the whole tribe went deeper into the northern wilds. Several gales arose and passed away, completely covering their footprints, so that no tracks were left behind them. CHAPTER SIX. THE CAMP, THE ATTACK, AND THE ESCAPE. It were vain to attempt a description of the varied condition of mind into which the brother and sister fell when they found themselves actually reduced to a state of slavery in an Indian camp, and separated from their parents, as they firmly believed, for ever. Nelly wept her eyes almost out of their sockets at first. Then she fell into a sort of apathetic state, in which, for several days, she went about her duties almost mechanically, feeling as if it were all a horrible dream, out of which she would soon awake, and find herself at home with her "darling mother" beside her. This passed, however, and she had another fit of heart-breaking sorrow, from which she found relief by recalling some of the passages in God's Word, which her mother had taught her to repeat by heart; especially that verse in which it is said, "that Jesus is a friend who sticketh closer than a brother." And this came to the poor child's mind with peculiar power, because her own brother Roy was so kind, and took such pains to comfort her, and to enter into all her girlish feelings and sympathies, that she could scarcely imagine it possible for anyone to stick closer to her in all her distress than he did. As for Roy, he was not given to the melting mood. His nature was bold and manly. Whatever he felt, he kept it to himself, and he forgot more than half his own sorrow in his brotherly efforts to assuage that of Nelly. Both of them were active and willing to oblige, so that they did not allow their grief to interfere with their work, a circumstance which induced their captors to treat them with forbearance, and even kindness. Nelly sobbed and worked; gradually, the sobbing decreased, and the work was carried on with vigour, so that she soon became quite expert at skinning rabbits, boiling meat, embroidering mocassins, smoking deerskins, chopping firewood into small pieces, and many other details of Indian household economy; while Roy went out with the hunters, and became a very Nimrod, insomuch that he soon excelled all the lads of his own age, and many of those who were older, in the use of the bow, the snow-shoes, the spear, the axe, and the gun. But all this, and what they did and said in the Indian camp during that winter, and what was said and done to them, we do not mean to write about, having matter of deeper interest to tell. Winter passed away, and spring came. But little do those who dwell in England know of the enchantment of returning spring in the frozen wilderness of North America. The long, long winter, seems as though it would _never_ pass away. The intense frost seals up all the sweet odours of the woods for so many months, that the nostrils become powerfully sensitive, and, as it were, yearn for something to smell. The skin gets so used to frost, that a balmy breeze is thought of as a thing of the past, or well-nigh forgotten. Spring in those regions comes suddenly. It came on our wanderers with a gush. One night the temperature rose high above the freezing point; next day all the sights and sounds of Nature's great awakening were in full play. The air fanned their cheeks like a summer breeze; the strange unwonted sound of tinkling and dropping water was heard; scents, as of green things, were met and inhaled greedily. As the thirsty Bedouin drinks from the well in the oasis, so did Roy and Nelly drink in the delicious influences of melting nature. And they thought of those words which say, that the wilderness shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. The rejoicing had commenced, the blossoming would soon follow. But warlike and wicked men were even then preparing to desecrate the beautiful land. A war-party of enemies had come down upon the tribe, with whom they dwelt. Scouts had brought in the news. All was commotion and excitement in the camp. Goods and chattels were being packed up. The women and children were to be sent off with these, under an escort, to a place of greater security, while the Braves armed for the fight. In the middle of all the confusion, Roy took Nelly aside, and, with a look of mystery, said-- "Nell, dear, I'm goin' to run away. Stay, now, don't stare so like an owl, but hold your sweet tongue until I have explained what I mean to do. You and I have picked up a good deal of useful knowledge of one sort or another since we came here, and I'm inclined to think we are quite fit to take to the woods and work our way back to Fort Enterprise." "But isn't it an _awful_ long way?" said Nelly. "It is, but we have an _awful_ long time to travel; haven't we all our lives before us? If our lives are long, we'll manage it; if they are short, why, we won't want to manage it, so we need not bother our heads about that?" "But the way home," suggested Nelly, "do you know it?" "Of course I know it; that is to say, I know, from that ugly thief Hawk, that it lies somewhere or other to the south-west o' this place, some hundreds of miles off; how many hundreds does not much matter, for we have got the whole of the spring, summer, and fall before us." "But what if we don't get home in the fall?" "Then we shall spend the winter in the woods, that's all." Nelly laughed, in spite of her anxieties, at the confident tone in which her brother spoke; and, being quite unable to argue the matter farther, she said that she was ready to do whatever Roy pleased, having perfect confidence in his wisdom. "That's right, Nell; now, you get ready to start at a moment's notice. When the Injuns attack the camp, we'll give 'em the slip. Put all you want to take with you on a toboggan, [see note 1] and meet me at the crooked tree when the camp moves." That night the camp was struck, and the women and children departed, under a strong escort. Almost at the same time the enemy came down on their prey, but they met men prepared for them. In the dark, Nelly crept to the crooked tree, dragging the toboggan after her. She was met by Roy, who took the sledge-line and her hand and led her into the dark forest, while the savages were fighting and yelling like fiends in the camp. There let us leave them to fight it out. Enough for us to know that their warfare prevented any pursuit of the young fugitives. Weeks passed, and Roy and Nelly wandered on; all fear of pursuit soon left them. Ducks, geese, and other waterfowl, came in myriads with the spring. Roy had brought with him his gun (the one he was wont to use in hunting), and bow and quiver. They fed on the fat of the land. Summer advanced, and game became less plentiful; still, there was more than sufficient to supply them with abundance of food. Autumn approached; the wild fowl that had passed northward in spring, began to return southward, and again the wants of the young wanderers were superabundantly supplied. The pole-star was Roy's guide. At night he laid his course by it; and by the sun during the day, making constant allowance, of course, for the sun's rate of travelling through the sky, and taking advantage of all prominent landmarks on the way. Time sped on; many weary miles were travelled, but no sign of Fort Enterprise was to be seen. Day after day, week after week, month after month they wandered, and still found themselves in the heart of an unknown wilderness. Occasionally they observed signs of Indians, and carefully kept out of sight at such times, as you may easily believe. At last there came a day when hard frost set in. It was the first touch of another winter. Roy and Nelly did not betray their feelings to each other, but their hearts sank as they thought of what lay before them. The frost was short-lived, however; towards noon the air became delightfully warm, and their spirits revived. On reaching the summit of an eminence, up which they had toiled for several hours, they beheld a small lake, in which the silvery clouds were clearly reflected. The day was calm; the sun unusually brilliant; the autumnal foliage most gorgeous in colour. It was like a scene in fairy-land! "Splendid!" exclaimed Roy, sitting down beside his sister on the trunk of a fallen tree. "Oh! _how_ beautiful," cried Nelly. "It's so like silver," said Roy. "Silver Lake," murmured Nelly. Roy seemed to think the name appropriate, for he echoed the words, "Yes, Silver Lake." And there brother and sister sat, for a long time, on the fallen tree, in silent admiration of the scene. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. A small Indian sledge, dragged on the snow, either by hand or by dog with loops at the sides for lashing the loading of the sledge upon it. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE ENCAMPMENT ON SILVER LAKE. When Roy and Nelly sat down to gaze in admiration on Silver Lake, they little thought how long a period they should have to spend on its shores. The lake was a small sheet of water not more than half a mile broad, embosomed among low hills, which, though not grand, were picturesque in outline, and wooded to their tops. It occupied the summit of an elevated region or height-of-land--a water-shed, in fact--and Roy afterwards discovered that water flowed from both the north-east and south-west sides of the table-land, in the midst of which it lay. These fountain-heads, separated by little more than half a mile from each other, were the sources of streams, which, flowing in opposite directions through hundreds of miles of wild, beautiful, and uncultivated wilderness, found their way, on the one hand, into Hudson's Bay, on the other hand, into the Atlantic through the great rivers and lakes of Canada. The waters of the lake were strikingly clear and pellucid. When the young wanderer first came upon the scene, not a zephyr stirred the leaves of the forest; the blue sky was studded with towering masses of white clouds which glowed in sunshine, and these reflected in the glassy water--as if far, far down in its unfathomable depths--produced that silvery effect which prompted Nelly to utter the name which we have adopted. Small though the Silver Lake was, it boasted two islets, which like twin babes lay side by side on their mother's fair breast, their reflected images stretching down into that breast as if striving to reach and grasp its heart! "Couldn't we stay here a short time?" asked Nelly, breaking the silence in a tone that indicated anxiety, hope, and enthusiasm, "only for a very _little_ time," she added, coaxingly. Roy looked grave and sagacious. Boys, as well as men, like to be leant upon and trusted by the fair sex--at least in things masculine--and Nelly had such boundless faith in her brother's capacity to protect her and guide her through the forest, that she unwittingly inspired him with an exuberant amount of courage and self-reliance. The lad was bold and fearless enough by nature. His sister's confidence in him had the effect of inducing him to think himself fit for anything! He affected, therefore, at times, a look of grave sagacity, befitting, as he thought, so important and responsible a character. "I've just been thinking," said he-- "Oh! don't _think_, but say yes!" interrupted Nelly. "Well, I'm going to say yes, but I meant to give you my reasons for sayin' so. In the first place, my powder and shot is gettin' low. You see I did not bring away very much from the Injun camp, and we've been using it for so many months now that it won't last much longer, so I think it would not be a bad plan to stop here awhile and fish and shoot and feed up--for you need rest, Nelly--and then start fresh with a well-loaded sledge. I'll save some powder by using the bow we made the other day." "But you forget it's broken." "So it is--never mind, we can make another--there's a tree that will make a first-rater down in the hollow, d'ye see it, Nell?" "Where--oh yes--just by the grassy place where the rock juts out into the water with the sun shining on it? what a _nice_ place to build a hut!" "Just so," said Roy, smiling at the girl's enthusiasm, "that's the spot, and that's the very thought that jumped bang into my brain as you spoke. By the way, does a thought jump _into_ a man's brain or _out_ of it, I wonder?" "Out of it, of course," cried Nelly, with a laugh. "I'm not so sure of that, Nell. I send it rather slowly out through my mouth, but I think it jumps _into_ my brain. I wonder how it gets in; whether by the eyes, or ears, or mouth--perhaps it goes up the nose." "What stuff you do talk!" cried Nelly. "D'ye think so," said Roy with a grin, "well, that bein' the case, let's go and fix our camp, for the sun is not given to sitting up all night in these parts, so we must work while it shines." With hurried steps and eager looks, (for Roy, despite his affected coolness, was as enthusiastic about the new plan as his sister,) they descended to the margin of Silver Lake, and began to make their encampment on the sunny spot before referred to. It turned out to be most suitable for their purpose, having a gentle slope towards the margin of the lake, which was fringed with a beach of pure white pebbles, and being well sheltered in the rear by umbrageous trees. The point of rocks close at hand formed a natural jetty, which, Roy observed, would be useful as a landing-place when he got his raft under way; the turf was soft, a matter of some importance, as it was to form their couch at night, and a small stream trickled down from one of the numerous springs which welled up at the foot of the nearest hill. Solitary and remote from the usual haunts of men as this lake was, there was no feeling of solitude about it at the time we write of. The entire region was alive with wild fowl of many kinds. Wild geese trumpeted their advent as they came from the far north, _en route_ for the far south, and settled on the bosom of Silver Lake to take a night's lodging there. Ducks, from the same region, and bound for the same goal--though with less stately and regular flight--flew hither and thither with whistling wings, ever and anon going swash into the water as a tempting patch of reeds invited them to feed, or a whim of fancy induced them to rest. Wild swans occasionally sailed in all their majesty on its waters, while plover of every length of limb and bill, and every species of plaintive cry, waded round its margin, or swept in clouds over the neighbouring swamps. Sometimes deer would trot out of the woods and slake their thirst on its shore, and the frequent rings that broke its smooth surface told of life in the watery depths below. The whole air was filled with gushing sounds of wild melody, as though bird and beast were uniting in a hymn of praise to the beneficent Creator who had provided the means of, and given the capacity for, so much enjoyment. Having decided on a suitable spot for their temporary resting-place, Roy's first care was to construct a hut. This was neither a work of time nor difficulty. In a couple of hours it was finished. He commenced the work by felling about a dozen young fir-trees not much thicker than a man's wrist, from which he chopped the branches, thus leaving them bare poles about nine feet long. While he was thus employed, his sister cleared the spot on which their dwelling was to stand, and, having an eye to the picturesque, so arranged that the opening of the hut should command an uninterrupted view of the lake. On going into the "bush" to the place where Roy was at work, she found him cutting down his sixth tree, and the ground was strewn with the flat branches of those already cut. "Come along, Nelly--how hot I am--carry these branches into camp, lass, an' go ahead, for I've got supper to kill yet." Nelly made no direct reply, but muttered to herself something that sounded very like, "Oh, what fun!" as she filled her tiny arms with pine branches, and, hugging them to her heaving breast, staggered to the camp. When she had carried all the branches, Roy had cut all the poles, so he proceeded to set them up. Tying three poles together at the top, and using the pliant roots of a tree for the purpose, he set them up in the form of a tripod. Against these three all the other poles were piled, crossing each other at the top, and spreading out at the base so as to enclose a circle of about six feet in diameter. Being numerous, the poles were pretty close together, thus affording good support to the branches which were afterwards piled on them. Pine branches are flat, spreading, and thick, so that when laid above each other to a depth of several inches they form a very good shelter from dew and light rain. The hut was entirely covered with such branches, which were kept in their places by other poles leaning upon and pressing them down. The floor of the hut was also covered with pine "brush." "Now for supper, Nelly," said Roy, seizing his bow, when the hut was completed, and splicing its broken part with a strip of deerskin cut from the lines of the sledge. "Get a goose, Roy, and pick out a nice fat one," cried Nelly, laughing, "I'll have the fire ready when you come back." "I'll try," said Roy, and he did try, but tried in vain. Although a good shot, he was not sufficiently expert with the bow to shoot wild fowl on the wing, so he returned to the hut empty-handed. "We must make a new bow, Nell," said he, sitting down by the fire, "I can do nothin' wi' this, and it won't do to use the gun for anythin' but deer. Meanwhile let's have the remains of our dinner for supper. Come, cheer up, old 'ooman; we shall feast on the fat of the land to-morrow!" The stars were shining in the sky, and winking at their reflections down in the depths of Silver Lake, and the lake itself lay, as black as ink, under the shadow of the hills, when the brother and sister spread their blanket above them that night, and sank, almost immediately, into profound slumber. CHAPTER EIGHT. HUNTING, AND OTHER MATTERS, ON SILVER LAKE. Sunrise is a gladsome event almost at all times; we say "almost," because there are times when sunrise is _not_ particularly gladsome. In the arctic regions of Norway, for instance, we have seen it rise only twenty minutes after it set, and the rising and setting were so much mingled, that no very strong feelings of any kind were awakened. Moreover, we were somewhat depressed at the time, in consequence of having failed to reach those latitudes where the sun does not set at all for several weeks in summer, but shines night and day. To the sick, sunrise brings little comfort; too often it is watched for with weariness, and beheld, at last, with a feeling of depression at the thought that another day of pain has begun. But to the healthy, and especially to the young, sunrise is undoubtedly, on most occasions, a gladsome event. At least Nelly Gore thought so when she awoke and beheld, from the floor of the hut where she lay, a flood of yellow glory gushing through a valley, turning Silver Lake into gold, tipping the trees with fire, and blazing full in Roy's face, which was at that moment turned up to the sky with the mouth open, and the nose snoring. "Oh, _how_ beautiful!" screamed Nelly, in the exuberance of her delight. "Hallo! murder! come on, ye black varmints," shouted Roy, as he sprang up and seized the axe which lay at his side. "Oh, it's only _you_, what a yell you do give, Nelly! why, one would think you were a born Injun; what is't all about, lass? Ye-a-ow! how sleepy I am--too late to have another nap, I suppose, eh?" "Oh yes, lazy thing! get up and come out quick!" cried the other, as she sprang up and ran out of the hut to enjoy the full blaze of the sunshine, and the fresh morning air. That morning Nelly could do little but ramble about in a wild sort of fashion, trying to imagine that she was queen of the world around her! She sobered down, however, towards noon, and went diligently about the work which Roy had given her to do. She had the internal arrangements of the hut to complete and improve, some pairs of mocassins to mend, and several arrows to feather, besides other matters. Meanwhile Roy went out to hunt. Determined not to use his fast-diminishing ammunition, except on large game, and anxious to become more expert with the bow, he set to work the first thing that day, and made a new bow. Armed with this and a dozen arrows, he sallied forth. Some of his arrows were pointed with ivory, some with iron, and some had no points at all, but blunt heavy heads instead. These latter were, and still are, used by Indians in shooting game that is tame and easily killed. Grouse of various kinds, for instance, if hit with full force from a short range by a blunt-headed arrow, will be effectually stunned, especially if hit on the head. At first Roy walked along the shores of the lake, but was not very successful, because the ducks and geese were hid among reeds, and rose suddenly with a distracting _whirr_, usually flying off over the water. To have let fly at these would have cost him an arrow every shot, so, after losing one, he wisely restrained himself. After a time, he turned into the woods, resolving to try his fortune where his arrows were not so likely to be lost. He had not gone far, when a tree-grouse sprang into the air and settled on a neighbouring pine. Roy became excited, for he was anxious not to return to the hut empty-handed a second time. He fitted a sharp-headed arrow to the string, and advanced towards the bird cautiously. His anxiety to make little noise was so great, that he tripped over a root and fell with a hideous crash into the middle of a dead bush, the branches of which snapped like a discharge of little crackers. Poor Roy got up disgusted, but on looking up found that the grouse was still sitting there, filled apparently with more curiosity than alarm. Seeing this he advanced to within a few yards of the bird, and, substituting a blunt arrow for the sharp one, discharged it with vigour. It hit the grouse on the left eye, and brought it to the ground like a stone. "Good, that's `number one,'" muttered the lad as he fastened the bird to his belt; "hope `number two' is not far off." "Number two" was nearer than he imagined, for four other birds of the same kind rose a few yards ahead of him, with all the noise and flurry that is characteristic of the species. They settled on a tree not far off, and looked about them. "Sit there, my fine fellows, till I come up," muttered Roy. (The lad had a habit of speaking to himself while out hunting.) They obeyed the order, and sat until he was close to them. Again was the blunt arrow fitted to the string; once more it sped true to its mark, and "number two" fell fluttering to the ground. Now, the grouse of North America is sometimes a very stupid creature. It literally sits still to be shot, if the hunter is only careful to fire first at the lowest bird of the group. If he were to fire at the topmost one, its fluttering down amongst the others would start them off. Roy was aware of this fact, and had aimed at the bird that sat lowest on the tree. Another arrow was discharged, and "number three" lay sprawling on the ground. The blunt arrows being exhausted, he now tried a sharp one, but missed. The birds stretched their necks, turned their heads on one side, and looked at the lad, as though to say, "It won't do,--try again!" Another shaft was more successful. It pierced the heart of "number four," and brought it down like a lump of lead. "Number five" seemed a little perplexed by this time, and made a motion as though it were about to fly off, but an arrow caught it in the throat, and cut short its intentions and its career. Thus did Roy bag, or rather belt, five birds consecutively. [See note one.] Our hero was not one of those civilised sportsmen who slaughter as much game as they can. He merely wanted to provide food for a day or two. He therefore turned his steps homeward--if we may be allowed the expression--being anxious to assist his sister in making the hut comfortable. As he walked along, his active mind ran riot in many eccentric channels. Those who take any interest in the study of mind, know that it is not only the mind of a romantic boy that does this, but that the mind of man generally is, when left to itself, the veriest acrobat, the most unaccountable harlequin, that ever leaped across the stage of fancy. Roy's mind was now in the clouds, now on the earth. Anon it was away in the far-off wilderness, or scampering through the settlements, and presently it was deep down in Silver Lake playing with the fish. Roy himself muttered a word or so, now and then, as he walked along, which gave indication of the whereabouts of his mind at the time. "Capital fun," said he, "only it won't do to stay too long. Poor mother, how she'll be wearin' for us! Hallo! ducks, you're noisy coons, wonder why you get up with such a bang. Bang! that reminds me of the gun. No more banging of you, old chap, if my hand keeps in so well with the bow. Eh! duck, what's wrong?" This latter question was addressed to a small duck which seemed in an anxious state of mind, to judge from its motions. Presently a head, as if of a fish, broke the surface of the lake, and the duck disappeared! "Oh the villain," exclaimed Roy, "a fish has bolted him!" After this the lad walked on in silence, looking at the ground, and evidently pondering deeply. "Nelly," said he, entering the hut and throwing the grouse at her feet, "here is dinner, supper, and breakfast for you, and please get the first ready as fast as you can, for I'm famishing." "Oh, how nice! how did you get them?" "I'll tell you presently, but my head's full of a notion about catching ducks just now." "Catching ducks, Roy, what is the notion?" "Never mind, Nelly, I han't scratched it out o' my brain yet, but I'll tell 'ee after dinner, and we'll try the plan to-morrow mornin'." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. The author has himself, in the backwoods, taken four birds in succession off a tree in this fashion with a fowling-piece. CHAPTER NINE. FISHING EXTRAORDINARY. Early on the following morning, Roy and Nelly rose to try the new style of duck-hunting which the former had devised. "I wonder if it will do," said the little girl, as she tripped along by her brother's side in the direction of a marshy bay, which had been selected as the scene of their experiments. "How clever of you to invent such a funny plan!" "Well, I didn't exactly invent it, lass. The fact is, that I remembered father havin' told me he had read it in a book before he left the settlements. I _wish_ we had some books. Pity that we've got no books." "So it is," assented Nell, with a touch of sadness in her tone. Both Roy and his sister were good readers, having been taught by their mother out of the Bible--the only book that Robin Gore had brought with him from the settlements. Robin could read, but he did not care much for reading--neither did Walter nor Larry O'Dowd. Indeed the latter could not read at all. Mrs Gore had wanted to take a few books with her into the wilderness, but her husband said he thought the Bible was enough for her; so the library at Fort Enterprise was select and small! One good resulted from this--the Bible was read, by all who could read, a great deal more than would have been the case had there been other books at hand. But the young people longed earnestly for books containing fairy tales, such as was told to them by their mother; and wild adventures, such as Walter could relate or invent by the hour. It might have been observed that Roy carried on his shoulder a remarkable object--something like a clumsy basket made of reeds, and about twice the size of a man's head. This had been made by Nelly the night before. The use to which it was to be put was soon shown by Roy. Having reached the spot where the experiment was to be tried, and having observed that there were many ducks, large and small, floating about among the reeds, he got Nelly to hold the basket, if we may so call it, as high as she could raise it. There was a hole in the bottom of it. Through this Roy thrust his head, so that the machine rested on his shoulders, his head being inside and completely concealed. "Now, Nelly, what think you of my helmet?" "Oh! it is splendid!" cried the girl, laughing in a subdued voice. "It's so awfully absurd looking, but can you see? for I don't see a bit of your face." "See? ay, as well as need be. There's lots of small holes which I can peep through in all directions. But come, I'll try it. Keep close, Nell, and don't laugh too loud, for ducks ain't used to laughing, d'ye see, and may be frightened by it." So saying Roy crept on his hands and knees to the edge of the lake, being concealed by bushes, until he got into the water. Here a few steps took him into the reeds which clustered so thickly at that spot, and grew so tall that he was soon hidden from sight altogether. He had not taken off much of his dress, which, we may remark in passing, was of the simplest at all times--consisting of a pair of trousers, a striped cotton shirt, and a grey cloth capote with a hood to it. His capote and cap were left in charge of his sister. As for the shirt and trousers, they could be easily dried again. Nelly watched the place where her brother had disappeared with breathless interest. As he did not reappear as quickly as she had expected, she became greatly alarmed. In a few minutes more she would certainly have rushed into the lake to the rescue, regardless of consequences and of ducks, had not Roy's strange head-dress come suddenly into view at the outward verge of the reeds. The lad had waded in up to his neck, and was now slowly--almost imperceptibly--approaching a group of ducks that were disporting themselves gaily in the water. "They'll never let him near them," thought Nelly. She was wrong, for at that moment an extremely fat and pert young duck observed the bundle of reeds, and swam straight up to it, animated, no doubt, by that reckless curiosity which is peculiar to young creatures. Had its mother known what was inside of the bundle, she would no doubt have remonstrated with her head-strong child, but, old and sagacious though that mother was, she was completely deceived. She was not even astonished when her duckling suddenly disappeared beneath the water, thinking, no doubt, that it had dived. Soon the bundle of reeds drew near to the mother, and she, too, disappeared suddenly below the water. Whatever her astonishment was at feeling her legs seized from below, she had not time to express it before her voice was choked. Nelly observed these disappearances with intense amazement, and delight stamped every lineament of her little visage. When the bundle moved towards the father of the duck-family, that gentleman became agitated and suspicious. Probably males are less trusting than females, in all conditions of animal life. At all events he sheered off. The bundle waxed impatient and made a rush at him. The drake, missing his wife and child, quacked the alarm. The bundle made another rush, and suddenly disappeared with a tremendous splash, in the midst of which a leg and an arm appeared! Away went the whole brood of ducks with immense splutter, and Nelly gave a wild scream of terror, supposing--and she was right--that her brother had fallen into a hole, and that he would be drowned. In the latter supposition, however, she was mistaken, for Roy swam ashore in a few moments with a duck in each hand! "O Roy! ain't you cold?" inquired Nelly, as she helped him to squeeze the water out of his garments. "Y-y-ye-es," said Roy, trembling in every limb, while his teeth rattled like small castanets, "I'm very c-c-c-cold, but I'm in luck, for I've g-g-g-got to-night's s-s-s-supper, anyhow." This was true, but as he could not hope to procure many more suppers in the same fashion at that season of the year, he and his sister went off without delay to try the fishing. They had brought a fishing-line and a few hooks, among other small things, from the Indian camp. This line was now got out, overhauled, and baited with a bit of the young duck's breast. From the end of the point of rocks, which had been named the Wharf, the line was cast, for there the lake was deep. "Take the end of the line, Nell; I want you to catch the first fish." "How d'ye know we shall catch--oh! oh--ooh!" The fish in Silver Lake had never seen a bait or felt a hook in their lives before that day. They actually fought for the prize. A big bully--as is usually the case in other spheres of life--gained it, and found he had "caught a Tartar." He nearly pulled Nelly into the lake, but Roy sprang to the rescue, and before the child's shout of surprise had ceased to echo among the cliffs, a beautiful silvery fish, about a foot and a half long, lay tumbling on the strand. "Hurray!" cried Roy. "Try again." They did try again, and again, and over again, until they had caught two dozen and a half of those peculiar "white-fish" which swarm in most of the lakes of North America. Then they stopped, being somewhat exhausted, and having more than enough for present use. Before sitting down to supper that night, they preserved their fish in the simple but effective manner which is practised among the fur-traders in cold weather, and which they had learned while with the Indians. Each fish was split open and cleaned out, and then hung up by the tail to dry. "What a jolly time we shall have of it!" said Roy, with his mouth full, as he sat beside Nelly and toasted his toes that night at supper. "Yes," said Nelly--"if--if we were only a _little_ nearer home." This reply made them both silent and sad for a time. "Never mind," resumed Roy, cheerily, as he began another white-fish-- having already finished one fish and the duckling--"cheer up, Nell, we'll stay here long enough to get up a stock o' dried meat, and then set off again. I only wish it would come frost, to make our fish keep." Roy's wish was gratified sooner than he expected, and much more fully than he desired. CHAPTER TEN. CHANGES, SLIDING, FISHING, ETCETERA. That night King Frost spread his wings over the land with unwonted suddenness and rigour, insomuch that a sheet of ice, full an inch thick, sealed up the waters of Silver Lake. Roy and Nelly had feasted heartily, and had piled wood on the fire so high that the hut was comparatively warm, and they slept soundly till morning: but, about sunrise, the fire having died out, they both awoke shivering with cold. Being _very_ sleepy, they tried for some time to drop off again in spite of the cold. Failing in this, Roy at last jumped up with vigour and said he would light the fire, but he had scarcely issued from the hut, when a shout brought Nelly in alarm and haste to his side. If Silver Lake was worthy of its name before, it was infinitely more worthy of it now. The sun had just over-topped the opposite ridge, and was streaming over a very world of silver. The frozen lake was like a sheet of the purest glass, which reflected the silvery clouds and white rolling mists of morning as perfectly in their form as the realities that floated in the blue sky. Every tree, every twig, seemed made of silver, being encased in hoar-frost, and as these moved very gently in the calm air--for there was no breeze--millions of crystalline points caught the sun's rays and scattered them around with dazzling lustre. Nature seemed robed in cloth of diamonds; but the comparison is feeble, for what diamonds, cut by man, can equal those countless crystal gems that are fashioned by the hand of God to decorate, for an hour or two, the spotless robe of a winter morning? Had Roy been a man and Nelly a woman, the two would probably have cast around a lingering glance of admiration, and then gone quietly about their avocations; but, being children, they made up their minds, on the spot, to enjoy the state of things to the utmost. They ran down to the lake and tried the ice. Finding that it was strong enough to bear them, they advanced cautiously out upon its glassy surface; then they tried to slide, but did not succeed well, owing to their soft mocassins being ill adapted for sliding. Then they picked up stones, and tried how far they could make them skim out on the lake. "How I wish we could slide!" exclaimed Nelly, pausing in the midst of her amusement. Roy also paused, and appeared to meditate for a minute. "So you shall," said he quickly. "Come and let us breakfast, and I'll make you a pair of sliders." "Sliders! what are they?" "You shall see; get breakfast ready, a man's fit for nothing without grub." While breakfast was preparing, Roy began to fashion wooden soles for his sister's feet and his own. These he fixed on by means of strips of deerskin, which were sunk into grooves in the under part of the soles to prevent them from chafing. Rough and ready they were, nevertheless they fitted well and tightly to their feet; but it was found that the want of a joint at the instep rendered it difficult to walk with these soles on, and impossible to run. Roy's ingenuity, however, soon overcame this difficulty. He cut the soles through just under the instep, and then, boring two holes in each part, lashed them firmly together with deerskin, thus producing a joint or hinge. Eager to try this new invention, he fastened on his own "sliders" first, and, running down to the lake, made a rush at the ice and sent himself off with all his force. Never was boy more taken by surprise; he went skimming over the surface like a stone from a sling. The other side of the lake seemed to be the only termination of his journey. "What if it should not be bearing in the middle!" His delight was evinced by a cheer. It was echoed, with the addition of a laugh by Nell, who stood in rapt admiration on the shore. Roy began well, with his legs far apart and his arms in the air; then he turned round and advanced the wrong way, then he staggered--tried to recover himself; failed, shouted, cheered again, and fell flat on his back, and performed the remainder of the journey in that position! It was a magnificent slide, and was repeated and continued, with every possible and conceivable modification, for full two hours, at the end of which time Nelly said she couldn't take another slide to save her life, and Roy felt as if every bone in his body were going out of joint. "This is all very well," said Roy, as they went up to the hut together, "but it won't do much in the way of getting us a supply of meat or fish." "That's true," assented Nelly. "Well, then," continued Roy, "we'll rest a bit, and then set to work. It's quite plain that we can have no more wading after ducks, but the fish won't object to feed in cold weather, so we'll try them again after having had a bit to eat." In pursuance of this plan the two went to the wharf, after having refreshed themselves, and set to work with the fishing-line. Nelly baited the hook, and Roy cut a hole in the ice with his axe. Having put in the hook, and let it down to the bottom, they stood at the edge of the hole--expectant! "Frost seems to spoil their appetite," said Roy, in a tone of disappointment, after about five minutes had elapsed. A fish seemed to have been listening, for before Nelly could reply, there came a violent tug at the line. Roy returned a still more violent tug, and, instead of hauling it up hand over hand, ran swiftly along the ice, drawing the line after him, until the fish came out of the hole with a flop and a severe splutter. It was above four pounds weight, and they afterwards found that the deeper the water into which the line was cast the larger were the fish procured. White-fish were the kind they caught most of, but there were a species of trout, much resembling a salmon in colour and flavour, of which they caught a good many above ten and even fifteen pounds weight. All these fish, except those reserved for immediate use, they cleaned and hung up in the manner already described. Thus they occupied themselves for several days, and as the work was hard, they did not wander much from their hut, but ate their meals with appetite, and slept at nights soundly. One night, just as they were about to lay down to rest, Roy went out to fetch an armful of firewood. He returned with a look of satisfaction on his face. "Look here, Nell, what call ye that?" pointing to a few specks of white on his breast and arms. "Snow!" exclaimed Nelly. "Ay--snow! it's come at last, and I am glad of it, for we have far more than enough o' grub now, and it's time we were off from this. You see, lass, we can't expect to find much game on a journey in winter, so we must carry all we can with us. Our backs won't take so much as the sled, but the sled can't go loaded till there's snow on the ground, so the moment there is enough of it we'll set off. Before starting, hows'ever, I must go off and try for a deer, for men can't walk well on fish alone; and when I'm away you can be getting the snow-shoes repaired, and the sled-lashings overhauled. We will set about all that to-morrow." "But isn't to-morrow Sabbath?" said Nelly. "So 'tis! I forgot; well, we can put it off till Monday." It may be well here to remark that Mrs Gore, being a sincere Christian, had a great reverence for the Sabbath-day, and had imbued her children with some of her own spirit in regard to it. During the troubles and anxieties of the period when the children were lost in the snow and captured by the Indians, they had lost count of the days of the week. Roy was not much troubled about this, but his sister's tender conscience caused her much uneasiness; and when they afterwards ran away from the Indians, and could do as they pleased, they agreed together to fix a Sabbath-day for themselves, beginning with the particular day on which it first occurred to them that they had not kept a Sabbath "for a long, long time." "We can't find out the right day now, you know," observed Nelly, in an apologetic tone. "Of course not," said Roy; "besides, it don't matter, because you remember how it is in the Ten Commandments: `Six days shalt thou labour and do all thy work, but the _seventh_ day is the Sabbath.' We will keep _to-day_, then; work _six_ days, and then keep the _seventh_ day." We have elsewhere observed that Roy was a bit of a philosopher. Having reasoned the matter out thus philosophically, the children held to their resolve; they travelled six days, and observed every seventh day as the Sabbath. The particular Sabbath-day about which we are writing turned out to be a memorable one, as we shall see. Roy and Nelly lay down that night, side by side, as was their wont, with their separate blankets wrapped around them, and their feet pointing towards the fire. Of course they never undressed at night on this journey, but washed their underclothing as they found time and opportunity. Soon they were sound asleep, and their gentle breathing was the only sound that broke the stillness of the night. But snow was falling silently in thick heavy flakes, and it soon lay deep on the bosom of Silver Lake. Towards morning the wind arose, and snow-drift began to whirl round the hut, and block up its low doorway. Still the brother and sister slumbered peacefully, undisturbed by the gathering storm. CHAPTER ELEVEN. A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER--RABBITS AND BEARS APPEAR. "Hi! Hallo! I say, Nelly, what's all this?" There was good cause for the tone of surprise in which Roy uttered these words when he awoke, for the fireplace and the lower half of his own, as well as his sister's, blanket were covered with at least half a foot of snow. It had found its way in at the hole in the roof of the hut, and the wind had blown a great deal through the crevices of the doorway, so that a snow-wreath more than a foot high lay close to Nelly's elbow. This was bad enough, but what made it worse was that a perfect hurricane was blowing outside. Fortunately the hut was sheltered by the woods, and by a high cliff on the windward side; but this cliff, although it broke the force of the gale, occasioned an eddy which sent fearful gusts and thick clouds of snow ever and anon full against the doorway. "O Roy! what shall we do?" said Nelly, in an anxious tone. "Don't know," said Roy, jumping up and tightening his belt; "you never can know what's got to be done till you've took an observation o' what's goin' on, as daddy used to say. Hallo! hold on. I say, if it goes on like this it'll blow the hut down. Come, Nelly, don't whimper; it's only a puff, after all, an' if it did capsize us, it wouldn't be the first time we had a tumble in the snow. Seems to me that we're goin' to have a stormy Sabbath, though. Rouse up, lass, and while you're clearin' off the snow, I'll go get a bundle o' sticks, and light the fire." Roy stooped to pass under the low doorway, or, rather, hole of the hut, and bending his head to the blast passed out; while Nelly, whose heart was cheered by her brother's confident tone more than by his words, set about shovelling away the snow-drift with great activity. Presently Roy returned, staggering under a heavy load of firewood. "Ho! Nell," he cried, flinging down the wood with a clatter, "just you come an' see Silver Lake. Such a sight it is you never saw; but come slick off--never mind your belt; just roll your blanket round you, over head and ears--there," said he, assisting to fasten the rough garment, and seizing his sister's hand, "hold on tight by me." "Oh, _what_ a storm!" gasped the little girl, as she staggered out and came within the full force of the gale. It was indeed a storm, such as would have appalled the hearts of youngsters less accustomed to the woods than were our hero and heroine. But Roy and Nelly had been born and bred in the midst of stormy backwoods' elements, and were not easily alarmed, chiefly because they had become accustomed to estimate correctly the extent of most of the dangers that menaced them from time to time. A gale of the fiercest kind was blowing. In its passage it bent the trees until they groaned and creaked again; it tore off the smaller twigs and whisked them up into the air; it lifted the snow in masses out of the open spots in the woods, and hurled them in cloud-like volumes everywhere; and it roared and shrieked through the valleys and round the mountain tops as if a thousand evil spirits were let loose upon the scene. Silver Lake was still silvery in its aspect, for the white drift was flying across it like the waves of a raging sea; but here, being exposed, the turmoil was so tremendous that there was no distinguishing between earth, lake, and sky. "Confusion, worse confounded" reigned every where, or rather, appeared to reign; for, in point of fact, _there is no confusion whatever_ in the works and ways of God. Common sense, if unfallen, would tell us that. The Word reveals it, and science of late years has added its testimony thereto. Roy and Nelly very naturally came to the conclusion that things were in a very disordered state indeed on that Sabbath morning, so they returned to their hut, to spend the day as best they might. Their first care was to kindle the fire and prepare breakfast. While Nelly was engaged in this, Roy went out and cut several small trees, with which he propped the hut all round to prevent it from being blown down. But it was discovered, first, that the fire would hardly kindle, and, second, that when it was kindled it filled the whole place with smoke. By dint of perseverance, however, breakfast was cooked and devoured, after which the fire was allowed to go out, as the smoke had almost blinded them. "Never mind, Nell, cheer up," said Roy, on concluding breakfast; "we'll rig up a tent to keep the snow off us." The snow, be it understood, had been falling into the fire, and, more or less, upon themselves, through the hole in the roof; so they made a tent inside the hut, by erecting two posts with a ridge-pole at a height of three feet from the ground, over which they spread one of their blankets. Under this tent they reclined with the other blankets spread over them, and chatted comfortably during the greater part of that day. Of course their talk was chiefly of home, and of the mother who had been the sun and the joy of their existence up to that sad day when they were lost in the snow, and naturally they conversed of the Bible, and the hymns which their mother had made the chief objects of their contemplation on the Sabbaths they had spent at Fort Enterprise. Monday was as bad as Sunday in regard to weather, but Tuesday dawned bright and calm, so that our wanderers were enabled to resume their avocations. The snow-shoes were put in order, the sled was overhauled and mended, and more fish were caught and hung up to dry. In the evening Roy loaded his gun with ball, put on his snow-shoes, and sallied forth alone to search for deer. He carried with him several small pieces of line wherewith to make rabbit snares; for, the moment the snow fell, innumerable tracks revealed the fact that there were thousands of rabbits in that region. Nelly, meanwhile, busied herself in putting the hut in order, and in repairing the mocassins which would be required for the journey home. Lest any reader should wonder where our heroine found materials for all the mending and repairing referred to, we may remark that the Indians in the wilderness were, and still are, supplied with needles, beads, cloth, powder and shot, guns, axes, etcetera, etcetera, by the adventurous fur-traders, who penetrate deep and far into the wilderness of North America; and when Nelly and Roy ran away from their captors they took care to carry with them an ample supply of such things as they might require in their flight. About half a mile from the hut Roy set several snares. He had often helped his father in such work, and knew exactly how to do it. Selecting a rabbit-track at a spot where it passed between two bushes, he set his snare so that it presented a loop in the centre of the path. This loop was fastened to the bough of a tree bent downwards, and so arranged that it held fast to a root in the ground; when a rabbit should endeavour to leap or force through it, he would necessarily pull away the fastening that held it down, and the bough would spring up and lift the hapless creature by the neck off the ground. Having set half-a-dozen such snares, Roy continued his march in search of deer-tracks. He was unsuccessful, but to his surprise he came suddenly on the huge track of a bear! Being early in the season this particular bruin had not yet settled himself into his winter quarters, so Roy determined to make a trap for him. He had not much hope of catching him, but resolved to try, and not to tell Nelly of his discovery until he should see the result. Against the face of a cliff he raised several huge stones so as to form a sort of box, or cave, or hole, the front of which was open, the sides being the stones referred to, and the back the cliff. Then he felled a tree as thick as his waist, which stood close by, and so managed that it fell near to his trap. By great exertions, and with the aid of a wooden lever prepared on the spot, he rolled this tree--when denuded of its branches--close to the mouth of the trap. Next he cut three small pieces of stick in such a form that they made a trigger--something like the figure 4--on which the tree might rest. On the top of this trigger he raised the tree-stem, and on the end of the trigger, which projected into the trap, he stuck a piece of dried fish, so that when the bear should creep under the stem and touch the bait, it would disarrange the trigger, set it off, and the heavy stem would fall on bruin's back. As he knew, however, that bears were very strong, he cut several other thick stems, and piled them on the first to give it additional weight. All being ready, and the evening far advanced, he returned to the hut to supper. CHAPTER TWELVE. ROY'S DREAM. "Nelly, ye-a-a-ow!" exclaimed Roy, yawning as he awoke on the following morning from a dream, in which bears figured largely; "what a night I've had of it, to be sure--fightin' like a mad buffalo with--" Here Roy paused abruptly. "Well, what were you fighting with?" asked Nell, with a smile that ended in a yawn. "I won't tell you just now, lass, as it might spoil your appetite for breakfast. Set about getting that ready as fast as you can, for I want to be off as soon as possible to visit my snares." "I guess we shall have rabbits for dinner to-day." "What are you going to do with the sled?" inquired Nelly, observing that her brother was overhauling the lashings and drag-rope. "Well, I set a lot o' snares, an' there's no sayin' how many rabbits may have got into 'em. Besides, if the rabbits in them parts are tender-hearted, a lot o' their relations may have died o' grief, so I shall take the sled to fetch 'em all home!" After breakfast Roy loaded his gun with ball, and putting on his snow-shoes, sallied forth with an admonition to his sister to "have a roarin' fire ready to cook a rare feast!" Nelly laughingly replied, that she would, and so they parted. The first part of Roy's journey that day led him through a thickly-wooded part of the country. He went along with the quick, yet cautious and noiseless, step of a hunter accustomed to the woods from infancy. His thoughts were busy within him, and far away from the scene in which he moved; yet, such is the force of habit, he never for a moment ceased to cast quick, inquiring glances on each side as he went along. Nothing escaped his observation. "Oh, if I could only get a deer this day," thought he, "how scrumptious it would be!" What he meant by "scrumptious" is best known to himself, but at that moment a large deer suddenly--perhaps scrumptiously!--appeared on the brow of a ridge not fifty yards in advance of him. They had been both walking towards each other all that forenoon. Roy, having no powers of scent beyond human powers, did not know the fact, and as the wind was blowing from the deer to the hunter, the former--gifted though he was with scenting powers--was also ignorant of the approaching meeting. One instant the startled deer stood in bewildered surprise. One instant Roy paused in mute amazement. The next instant the deer wheeled round, while Roy's gun leaped to his shoulder. There was a loud report, followed by reverberating echoes among the hills, and the deer lay dead on the snow. The young hunter could not repress a shout of joy, for he not only had secured a noble stag, but he had now a sufficiency of food to enable him to resume his homeward journey. His first impulse was to run back to the hut with the deer's tongue and a few choice bits, to tell Nelly of his good fortune; but, on second thoughts, he resolved to complete the business on which he had started. Leaving the deer where it fell he went on, and found that the snares had been very successful. Some, indeed, had been broken by the strength of the boughs to which they had been fastened, and others remained as he had set them; but above two-thirds of them had each a rabbit hung up by the neck, so that the sled was pretty well loaded when all the snares had been visited. He had by this time approached the spot where the bear-trap was set, and naturally began to grow a little anxious, for, although his chance of success was very slight, his good fortune that morning had made him more sanguine than usual. There is a proverb which asserts that "it never rains but it pours." It would seem to be a common experience of mankind that pieces of good fortune, as well as misfortunes, come not singly. Whether the proverb be true or no, this experience was realised by Roy on that day, for he actually did find a bear in his trap! Moreover it was alive, and, apparently, had only just been caught, for it struggled to free itself with a degree of ferocity that was terrible to witness. It was an ordinary black bear of considerable size and immense strength. Heavy and thick though the trees were that lay on its back and crushed it to the earth, it caused them to shake, leap, and quiver as though they had been endowed with life. Roy was greatly alarmed, for he perceived that at each successive struggle the brute was ridding itself of the superincumbent load, while fierce growls and short gasps indicated at once the wrath and the agony by which it was convulsed. Roy had neglected to reload his piece after shooting the deer--a most un-hunter-like error, which was the result of excitement. Thinking that he had not time to load, he acted now on the first suggestion of his bold spirit. Resting his gun against a tree, he drew the small axe that hung at his belt and attacked the bear. The first blow was well delivered, and sank deep into bruin's skull; but that skull was thick, and the brain was not reached. A roar and a furious struggle caused Roy to deliver his second blow with less effect, but this partial failure caused his pugnacity to rise, and he immediately rained down blows on the head and neck of the bear so fast and furious that the snow was speedily covered with blood. In proportion as Roy strove to end the conflict by vigorous and quick blows, the bear tried to get free by furious efforts. He shook the tree-stem that held him down so violently that one of the other trees that rested on it fell off, and thus the load was lightened. Roy observed this, and made a desperate effort to split the bear's skull. In his haste he misdirected the blow, which fell not on the head but on the neck, in which the iron head of the axe was instantly buried--a main artery was severed, and a fountain of blood sprang forth. This was fortunate, for the bear's strength was quickly exhausted, and, in less than two minutes after, it sank dead upon the snow. Roy sat down to rest and wipe the blood from his hands and garments, and then, cutting off the claws of the animal as a trophy, he left it there for a time. Having now far more than it was possible for him to drag to the hut, he resolved to proceed thither with the rabbits, and bring Nelly back to help him to drag home the deer. "Well done, Roy," cried Nelly, clapping her hands, when her brother approached with the sled-load of rabbits, "but you are covered with blood. Have you cut yourself?" She became nervously anxious, for she well knew that a bad cut on a journey costs many a man his life, as it not only disables from continuing the journey but from hunting for provisions. "All right, Nell, but I've killed a deer--and--and--something else! Come, lass, get on your snow-shoes and follow me. We'll drag home the deer, and then see what is to be done with the--" "Oh, _what_ is it? do tell!" cried Nell, eagerly. "Well, then, it's a bear!" "Nonsense!--tell me true, now." "That's the truth, Nell, as you shall see, and here are the claws. Look sharp, now, and let's off." Away went these two through the snow, until they came to where the deer had been left. It was hard work to get it lashed on the sled, and much harder work to drag it over the snow, but by dint of perseverance and resolution they got it home. They were so fatigued, however, that it was impossible to think of doing the same with the bear. This was a perplexing state of things, for Roy had observed a wolf-track when out, and feared that nothing but the bones would be left in the morning. "What _is_ to be done?" said Nelly, with that pretty air of utter helplessness which she was wont to assume when she felt that her brother was the proper person to decide. Roy pondered a few moments, and then said abruptly, "Camp-out, Nelly." "Camp-out?" "Ay, beside the bear--keep it company all night with a big fire to scare away the wolves. We'll put everything into the hut, block up the door, and kindle a huge fire outside that will burn nearly all night. So now, let's go about it at once." Although Nelly did not much relish the idea of leaving their comfortable hut, and going out to encamp in the snow beside the carcase of a dead bear, she was so accustomed to regard her brother's plans as perfect, and to obey him promptly, that she at once began to assist in the necessary preparations. Having secured everything safely in the hut, and kindled a fire near it, which was large enough to have roasted an ox, they set off for the bear-trap, and reached it in time to scare away a large wolf which was just going to begin his supper on bruin. An encampment was then made in the usual way, close to the bear-trap, a fire as large as could be conveniently made was kindled, and the brother and sister wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay comfortably down beside it to spend the night there. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. "SHOOSKIN'." Next day Roy and Nelly rose with the sun, and spent the forenoon in skinning and cutting up the bear, for they intended to dry part of the meat, and use it on their journey. The afternoon was spent in dragging the various parts to the hut. In the evening Roy proposed that they should go and have a shoosk. Nelly agreed, so they sallied forth to a neighbouring slope with their sledge. Shoosking, good reader, is a game which is played not only by children but by men and women; it is also played in various parts of the world, such as Canada and Russia, and goes by various names; but we shall adopt the name used by _our_ hero and heroine, namely "shoosking." It is very simple, but uncommonly violent, and consists in hauling a sledge to the top of a snow-hill or slope, getting upon it, and sliding down to the bottom. Of course, the extent of violence depends on the steepness of the slope, the interruptions that occur in it, and the nature of the ground at the bottom. We once shoosked with an Indian down a wood-cutter's track, on the side of a steep hill, which had a sharp turn in it, with a pile of firewood at the turn, and a hole in the snow at the bottom, in which were a number of old empty casks. Our great difficulties in this place were to take the turn without grazing the firewood, and to stop our sledges before reaching the hole. We each had separate sledges. For some time we got on famously, but at last _we_ ran into the pile of firewood, and tore all the buttons off our coat, and the Indian went down into the hole with a hideous crash among the empty casks; yet, strange to say, neither of us came by any serious damage! "There's a splendid slope," said Roy, as they walked briskly along the shores of Silver Lake, dragging the sledge after them, "just beyond the big cliff, but I'm afraid it's too much for _you_." "Oh, _I_ can go if you can," said Nell, promptly. "You've a good opinion of yourself. I guess I could make you sing small if I were to try." "Then don't try," said Nelly, with a laugh. "See," continued Roy, "there's the slope; you see it is very steep; we'd go down it like a streak of greased lightnin'; but I don't like to try it." "Why not? It seems easy enough to me. I'm sure we have gone down as steep places before at home." "Ay, lass, but not with a round-backed drift like that at the bottom. It has got such a curve that I think it would make us fly right up into the air." Nelly admitted that it looked dangerous, but suggested that they might make a trial. "Well, so we will, but I'll go down by myself first," said Roy, arranging the sledge at the summit of a slope, which was full fifty feet high. "Now, then, pick up the bits tenderly, Nell, if I'm knocked to pieces; here goes, hurrah!" Roy had seated himself on the sledge, with his feet resting on the head of it, and holding on to the side-lines with both hands firmly. He pushed off as he cheered, and the next moment was flying down the hill at railway speed, with a cloud of snow-drift rolling like steam behind him. He reached the foot, and the impetus sent him up and over the snow-drift or wave, and far out upon the surface of the lake. It is true he made one or two violent swerves in this wild descent, owing to inequalities in the hill, but by a touch of his hands in the snow on either side, he guided the sledge, as with a rudder, and reached the foot in safety. "May I venture, Roy?" inquired Nell, eagerly, as the lad came panting up the hill. "Venture! Of course. I rose off the top o' the drift only a little bit, hardly felt the crack at all; come, get you on in front, and I'll sit at yer back an' steer." Nelly needed no second bidding. She sat down and seized the side-lines of the sledge, with a look of what we may call wild expectation; Roy sat down behind her. "Now, lass, steady, and away we go!" At the last word they shot from the hill-top like an arrow from a bow. The cloud of snow behind them rolled thicker, for the sledge was more heavily laden than before. Owing to the same cause it plunged into the hollow at the foot of the hill with greater violence, and shot up the slope of the snow-drift and over its crest with such force that it sprung horizontally forward for a few feet in the air, and came to the ground with a crash that extracted a loud gasp from Roy, and a sharp squeak from Nelly. It was found to be so delightful, however, that they tried it again and again, each time becoming more expert, and therefore more confident. Excessive confidence, however, frequently engenders carelessness. Roy soon became reckless; Nelly waxed fearless. The result was that the former steered somewhat wildly, and finally upset. Their last "shoosk" that evening was undertaken just as the sun's latest rays were shooting between the hills on the opposite side of Silver Lake, and casting a crimson glow on the hut and the surrounding scenery. Roy had fixed a snow-shoe on the outer ridge of the snow-drift, to mark the distance of their last leap from its crest, and had given the sledge an extra push on the way down to increase its impetus. This extra push disconcerted him in steering; he reached the hollow in a side-long fashion, shot up the slope of the drift waveringly, and left its crest with a swing that not only turned the sledge right round, but also upside down. Of course they were both thrown off, and all three fell into the snow in a condition of dire confusion. Fortunately, no damage was done beyond the shock and the fright, but this accident was sufficient to calm their spirits, and incline them to go home to supper. "Well, it's great fun, no doubt, but we must turn our minds to more earnest work, for our journey lies before us," said Roy, with the gravity of an Iroquois warrior, as he sat beside the fire that night discussing a bear-steak with his sister. "We have more than enough of fish and meat, you see; a day or two will do to turn our deer and bear into dried meat; the snow-shoes are mended, the sledge is in good order, as to-night's work has proved, and all that we've got to do is to start fresh with true bearin's and--hey! for home!" "I wish I was there," said Nelly, laying down a marrow-bone with a sigh. "Wishin' ain't enough, Nell." "I know that, an' I'm ready to work," said Nelly, resuming the bone with a resolute air. "When shall we set out?" "When we are ready, lass. We shall begin to dry the meat to-morrow, an' as soon as it's fixed--off we'll start. I only hope the cold weather will last, for if it came warm it would go hard with your little feet, Nell. But let's turn in now. Hard work requires a good sleep, an' it may be that we've harder work than we think before us." CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE JOURNEY HOME RESUMED AND INTERRUPTED. Three days more and our young friends bade farewell to Silver Lake. Short though their stay had been, it had proved very pleasant, for it was full of energetic labour and active preparation, besides a great deal of amusement, so that quite a home feeling had been aroused in their minds, and their regret at leaving was considerable. But after the first few miles of their journey had been accomplished, the feeling of sadness with which they set out wore away, and hopeful anticipations of being home again in a few weeks rendered them cheerful, and enabled them to proceed with vigour. The weather at starting was fine, too, so that the night encampments in the snow were comparatively agreeable, and the progress made during the first few days was satisfactory. After this, however, the good fortune of our adventurers seemed to desert them. First of all one of Nelly's snow-shoes broke down. This necessitated a halt of half a day, in order to have it repaired. Then one of Roy's snow-shoes gave way, which caused another halt. After this a heavy snow-storm set in, rendering the walking very difficult, as they sank, snow-shoes and all, nearly to the knees at each step. A storm of wind which arose about the same time, effectually stopped their farther advance, and obliged them to take to the shelter of a dense part of the woods and encamp. During three days and three nights the hurricane raged, and the snow was blown up in the air and whirled about like the foam of the roaring sea; but our wanderers did not feel its effects much, for they had chosen a very sheltered spot at the foot of a large pine, which grew in a hollow, where a cliff on one side and a bluff of wood on the other rendered the blast powerless. Its fierce howling could be heard, however, if not felt; and as the brother and sister lay at the bottom of their hole in the snow, with their toes to the comfortable fire, they chatted much more cheerily than might have been expected in the midst of such a scene, and gazed upward from time to time with comparative indifference at the dark clouds and snow-drifts that were rushing madly overhead. On the fourth day the gale subsided almost as quickly as it had arisen, and Roy announced that it was his intention to start. In a few minutes everything was packed up and ready. "I say, Nell," said Roy, just as they were about to leave the camp, "don't the sled look smaller than it used to?" "So it does, Roy; but I suppose it's because we have eaten so much during the last three days." Roy shook his head, and looked carefully round the hole they were about to quit. "Don't know, lass; it seems to me as if somethin' was a-wantin'. Did ye pack your own bundle very tight?" "Yes; I think I did it tighter than usual, but I'm not very sure." "Hum--that's it, no doubt--we've packed the sled tighter, and eaten it down. Well, let's off now." So saying, Roy threw the lines of the sledge over his shoulder and led the way, followed by his sister, whose only burden was a light blanket, fastened as a bundle to her shoulders, and a small tin can, which hung at her belt. The country through which they passed that day was almost destitute of wood, being a series of undulating plains, with clumps of willows and stunted trees scattered over it like islets in the sea. The land lay in a succession of ridges, or steppes, which descended from the elevated region they were leaving, and many parts of these ridges terminated abruptly in sheer precipices from forty to sixty feet high. The sun shone with dazzling brilliancy, insomuch that the travellers' eyes became slightly affected by snow-blindness. This temporary blindness is very common in these regions, and ranges from the point of slight dazzlement to that of total blindness; fortunately it is curable by the removal of the cause--the bright light of the sun on pure snow. Esquimaux use "goggles" or spectacles made of wood, with a narrow slit in them as a preventive of snow-blindness. At first neither Roy nor Nelly felt much inconvenience, but towards evening they could not see as distinctly as usual. One consequence of this was, that they approached a precipice without seeing it. The snow on its crest was so like to the plain of snow extending far below, that it might have deceived one whose eyesight was not in any degree impaired. The first intimation they had of their danger was the giving way of the snow that projected over the edge of the precipice. Roy fell over headlong, dragging the sledge with him. Nelly, who was a few feet behind him, stood on the extreme edge of the precipice, with the points of her snow-shoes projecting over it. Roy uttered a cry as he fell, and his sister stopped short. A shock of terror blanched her cheek and caused her heart to stand still. She could not move or cry for a few seconds, then she uttered a loud shriek and shrank backwards. There chanced to be a stout bush or tree growing on the face of the cliff, not ten feet below the spot where the snow-wreath had broken off. Roy caught at this convulsively, and held on. Fortunately the line on his shoulder broke, and the sledge fell into the abyss below. Had this not happened, it is probable that he would have been dragged from his hold of the bush. As it was, he maintained his hold, and hung for a few seconds suspended in the air. Nelly's shriek revived him from the gush of deadly terror that seized him when he fell. He grasped the boughs above him, and was quickly in a position of comparative security among the branches of the bush. "All right, Nell," he gasped, on hearing her repeat her cry of despair. "I'm holdin' on quite safe. Keep back from the edge, lass--there's no fear o' me." "Are you sure, Roy?" cried Nelly, trembling very much, as she stretched forward to try to catch sight of her brother. "Ay, quite sure; but I can't get up, for there's six feet o' smooth rock above me, an' nothin' to climb up by." "Oh! what _shall_ I do!" cried Nelly. "Don't get flurried--that's the main thing, lass. Let me think--ay, that's it--you've got your belt?" "Yes." "Well, take it off and drop the end over to me; but lie down on your breast, and be careful." Nelly obeyed, and in a few seconds the end of the worsted belt that usually encircled her waist was dangling almost within reach of her brother. This belt was above five feet long. Roy wore one of similar material and length. He untied it, and then sought to lay hold of the other. With some difficulty, and much risk of falling, he succeeded, and fastened his own belt to it firmly. "Now, Nell, haul up a little bit--hold! enough." "What am I to do now?" asked Nell, piteously; "I cannot pull you up, you know." "Of course not; but take your snow-shoe and dig down to the rocks-- you'll find somethin', I dare say, to tie the belts to. Cheer up, lass, and go at it." Thus encouraged, the active little girl soon cleared away the snow until she reached the ground, where she found several roots of shrubs that seemed quite strong enough for her purpose. To one of these she tied the end of her belt, and Roy, being an athletic lad, hauled himself up, hand over hand, until he gained a place of safety. "But the sledge is gone," cried Nelly, pausing suddenly in the midst of her congratulations. "Ay, and the grub," said Roy, with a blank look. This was indeed too true, and on examination it was found that things were even worse than had been anticipated, for the sledge had fallen on a ledge, half way down the precipice, that was absolutely inaccessible either from above or below. An hour was spent in ascertaining this, beyond all doubt, and then Roy determined to return at once to their last encampment to gather the scraps they had thrown away or left behind as useless. That night they went supperless to rest. Next morning, they set out with heavy hearts for the encampment of the previous day. On reaching it, and searching carefully, they found that one of the bundles of dry meat had been forgotten. This accounted for the lightness of the sledge, and, at the same time, revived their drooping spirits. "What is to be done now?" inquired Nelly. "Return to Silver Lake," said Roy, promptly. "We must go back, fish and hunt again until we have another supply o' grub, and then begin our journey once more." Sadly and slowly they retraced their steps. Do what he would Roy could not cheer up his sister's spirits. She felt that her back was turned towards her father's house--her mother's home--and every step took her farther from it. It was a lovely evening, about sunset, when they reached Silver Lake, and found the hut as they had left it, and enough of old scraps of provisions to afford a sufficient meal. That night they ate their supper in a more cheerful frame of mind. Next day they breakfasted almost with a feeling of heartiness, and when they went out to resume their fishing, and to set snares and make traps, the old feeling of hopefulness returned. Ere long, hope became again so strong in their ardent young hearts, that they laughed and talked and sported as they had done during the period of their first residence there. At first they were so anxious to make up the lost quantity of food that they did little else but fish, hunt, and dry their provisions when obtained; but after a few days they had procured such an ample supply that they took to shoosking again--having succeeded in making a new sledge. But a thaw came suddenly and spoiled all their fish. A wolf carried off the greater part of their dried meat one day while they were absent from the hut. After this the frost set in with extreme violence, game became more scarce, and fish did not take the bait so readily, so that, although they procured more than enough for present consumption, they were slow in accumulating a travelling store; and thus it came to pass that November found Roy and Nelly still toiling wearily, yet hopefully, on the shores of Silver Lake. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. THE MASSACRE. We must return now to Robin Gore and his wife, who, on the morning on which we re-introduce them to the reader, were standing in the trading store of Fort Enterprise, conversing earnestly with Black, the Indian, who has been already mentioned at the beginning of our tale. The wife of the latter--the White Swan--was busily engaged in counting over the pack of furs that lay open on the counter, absorbed, apparently, in an abstruse calculation as to how many yards of cloth and strings of beads they would purchase. "Well, I'm glad that's fixed, anyhow," said Robin to his wife, as he turned to the Indian with a satisfied air, and addressed him in his native tongue, "it's a bargain, then, that you an' Slugs go with me on this expedition, is't so?" "The Black Swan is ready," replied the Indian, quietly, "and he thinks that Slugs will go too--but the white hunter is self-willed; he has a mouth--ask himself." "Ay, ye don't like to answer for him," said Robin, with a smile; "assuredly Slugs has his own notions, and holds to 'em; but I'll ask him. He is to be here this night, with a deer, I hope, for there are many mouths to fill." Black Swan, who was a tall, taciturn, and powerful Indian, here glanced at his wife, who was, like most Indian women, a humble-looking and not very pretty or clean creature. Turning again to Robin, he said, in a low, soft voice-- "The White Swan is not strong, and she is not used to be alone." "I understand you," said Robin; "she shall come to the Fort, and be looked after. You won't object to take her in, Molly, when we're away?" "Object, Robin," said Molly, with a smile, which was accompanied by a sigh, "I'll only be too glad to have her company." "Well, then, that's settled; and now, Black Swan, I may as well tell you what coorse I mean to follow out in this sarch for my child'n. You know already that four white men--strangers--have come to the Fort, an' are now smokin' their pipes in the hall, but you don't know that one on 'em is my own brother Jefferson; Jeff, I've bin used to call him. Jeff's bin a harem-scarem feller all his life--active and able enough, an' good natur'd too, but he never could stick to nothin', an' so he's bin wanderin' about the world till grey hairs have begun to show on him, without gettin' a home or a wife. The last thing he tried was stokin' a steamboat on the Mississippi; but the boat blew up, pitched a lot o' the passengers into the water, an' the rest o' them into the next world. Jeff was always in luck with his life; he's lost everythin' over an' over again but that. He was one o' the lot as was blowed into the water, so, when he come up he swamed ashore, an' come straight away here to visit me, bringin' three o' the blowed-up passengers with him. The three are somethin' like himself; good for nothin'; an' I'd rather have their room than their company at most times. Hows'ever, just at this time I'm very glad they've come, for I'll leave them in charge o' the Fort, and set off to look for the child'n in two days from this. I'll take Walter and Larry wi' me, for brother Jeff is able enough to manage the trade if redskins come; he can fight too, if need be. The Gore family could always do that, so ye needn't be afraid, Molly." "I'll not be afraid, Robin, but I'll be anxious about ye." "That's nat'ral, lass, but it can't be helped. Well, then," continued Robin, "the five of us will start for the Black Hills. I've bin told by a redskin who comed here last week that he an' his tribe had had a scrimmage with Hawk an' the reptiles that follow him. He says that there was a white boy an' a white girl with Hawk's party, an' from his account of 'em I'm sartin sure it's my Roy and Nelly. God help 'em! `but,' says he, `they made their escape durin' the attack, an' we followed our enemies so far that we didn't think it worth while to return to look for 'em, so I'm convinced they made for the Black Hills, nigh which Hawk was attacked, an' if we follow 'em up there we may find 'em alive yet, mayhap.'" Poor Robin's voice became deeper and less animated as he spoke, and the last word was uttered with hesitation and in a whisper. "O Robin, Robin!" exclaimed Mrs Gore, throwing her arms suddenly round her husband's neck, and hiding her sobbing face in his breast, "d'ye think they can _still_ be alive?" "Come, Molly," said Robin, commanding his feelings with a great effort, "han't ye often read to me that wi' God all things is possible?" The poor woman thanked God in her heart, for up to that day Robin had never once quoted Scripture in his efforts to comfort her. "Was Wapaw with Hawk when they were attacked?" inquired the Black Swan. "Wapaw is dead," said a deep voice, as the huge form of a western hunter darkened the little doorway, and the next moment Slugs strode into the store, and quietly seated himself on the counter. "Dead!" exclaimed Robin, as he shook the hunter's proffered hand. "Ay, dead! Have ye no word of welcome for a chum after a month's absence?" said Slugs, holding out his horny hand to the Black Swan, who gravely grasped and shook it. "You redskins are a queer lot," said Slugs, with a grin, "yer as stiff as a rifle ramrod to look at, but there's warm and good stuff in 'ee for all that." "But what about Wapaw?" inquired Mrs Gore, anxiously; "surely he's not dead." "If he's not dead he's not livin', for I saw Hawk himself, not four weeks ago, shoot him and follow him up with his tomahawk, and then heard their shout as they killed him. Where did he say he was goin' when he left you?" "He said he would go down to the settlements to see the missionaries, an' that he thought o' lookin' in on the fur-traders that set up a fort last year, fifty miles to the south'ard o' this." "Ay, just so," said Slugs; "I was puzzled to know what he was doin' thereaway, and that explains it. He's dead now, an' so are the fur-traders he went to see. I'll tell ye all about it if you'll give me baccy enough to fill my pipe. I ran out o't three days agone, an' ha' bin smokin' tea-leaves an' bark, an' all sorts o' trash. Thank 'ee; that's a scent more sweet nor roses." As he said this the stout hunter cut up the piece of tobacco which Robin at once handed to him, and rolled it with great zest between his palms. When the pipe was filled and properly lighted, he leaned his back against an unopened bale of goods that lay on the counter, and drawing several whiffs, began his narrative. "You must know that I made tracks for the noo fur-tradin' post when I left you, Black Swan, about a month ago. I hadn't much of a object; it was mainly cooriosity as took me there. I got there all right, an' was sittin' in the hall chattin' wi' the head man--Macdonell they called him--about the trade and the Injuns. Macdonell's two little child'n was playin' about, a boy an' a girl, as lively as kittens, an' his wife--a good-lookin' young 'ooman--was lookin' arter 'em, when the door opens, and in stalks a long-legged Injun. It was Wapaw. Down he sat in front o' the fireplace, an' after some palaver an' a pipe--for your Injuns'll never tell all they've got to say at once--he tells Macdonell that there was a dark plot hatchin' agin' him--that Hawk, a big rascal of his own tribe, had worked upon a lot o' reptiles like hisself, an' they had made up their minds to come an' massacre everybody at the Fort, and carry off the goods. "At first Macdonell didn't seem to believe the Injun, but when I told him I knowed him, an' that he was a trustworthy man, he was much troubled, an' in doubt what to do. Now, it's quite clear to me that Hawk must have somehow found out or suspected that Wapaw was goin' to 'peach on him, an' that he had followed his trail close up; for in less than an hour arter Wapaw arrived, an' while we was yet sittin' smokin' by the fire, there was a most tremendous yell outside. I know'd it for the war-whoop o' the redskins, so I jumped up an' cocked my rifle. The others jumped up too, like lightnin'; an' Mrs Macdonell she got hold o' her girlie in her arms an' was runnin' across the hall to her own room, when the door was knocked off its hinges, and fell flat on the floor. Before it had well-nigh fallen I got sight o' somethin', an' let drive. The yell that follered told me I had spoilt somebody's aim. A volley was poured on us next moment, an' a redskin jumped in, but Wapaw's tomahawk sent him out again with a split skull. Before they could reload--for the stupid fools had all fired together--I had the door up, and a heavy table shoved agin it. Then I turned round, to load agin; while I was doin' this, I observed poor Macdonell on his knees beside his wife, so I went to them an' found that the wife an' girl were stone dead--both shot through the heart with the same ball. "As soon as Macdonell saw this he rose up quietly, but with a look on his face sich as I never see in a man 'xcept when he means to stick at nothin'. He got hold of his double-barrelled gun, an' stuck a scalpin' knife an' an axe in his belt. "`Git on my back, Tommy,' says he to his little boy, who was cryin' in a corner. "Tommy got up at once, an' jumped on his dad's back. All this time the redskins were yellin' round the house like fiends, an' batterin' the door, so that it was clear it couldn't stand long. "`Friends,' said he turnin' to me an' Wapaw, an' a poor terrified chap that was the only one o' his men as chanced to be in the house at the time, `friends, it's every man for himself now; I'll cut my way though them, or--'. He stopped short, an' took hold o' his axe in one hand, an' his gun in the other. `Are ye ready?' says he. We threw forward our rifles an' cocked 'em; Macdonell--he was a big, strong man--suddenly upset the table; the savages dashed in the door with sich force that three or four o' 'em fell sprawlin' on the floor. We jumped over these before they could rise, and fired a volley, which sent three or four o' the reptiles behind on their backs. We got into the bush without a scratch, an' used our legs well, I can tell 'ee. They fired a volley after us, which missed us all except poor Tommy. A bullet entered his brain, an' killed him dead. For some time his father would not drop him, though I told him he was quite dead; but his weight kept him from runnin' fast, an' we heard the redskins gainin' on us, so at last Macdonell put the boy down tenderly under a bush. Me and Wapaw stopped to fire an' keep the reptiles back, but they fired on us, and Wapaw fell. I tried to lift him, but he struggled out o' my arms. Poor fellow! he was a brave man; and I've no doubt did it a-purpose, knowin' that I couldn't run fast enough with him. Just then I saw Hawk come jumpin' and yellin' at us, followed by two or three dozen redskins, all flourishin' their tomahawks. Macdonell and me turned to die fightin' alongside o' our red comrade, but Wapaw suddenly sprang up, uttered a shout of defiance, an' dashed into the bush. The Injuns were after him in a moment, and before we could get near them a yell of triumph told us that it was too late, so we turned and bolted in different directions. "I soon left them behind me, but I hung about the place for a day or two to see if Macdonell should turn up, or any of his men. I even went back to the Fort after the reptiles had left it. They had burned it down, an' I saw parts o' the limbs o' the poor wife and child lyin' among the half-burned goods that they weren't able to carry away with them." CHAPTER SIXTEEN. VENGEANCE. The terrible tale which was related by Slugs had the effect of changing Robin Gore's plans. He resolved to pursue the murderers, and inflict summary punishment on them before setting off on the contemplated search for his lost children, and he was all the more induced to do this that there was some hope he might be able to obtain a clue to their whereabouts from some of the prisoners whom he hoped to seize. It might be thought by some a rash step for him to take--the pursuit of a band of about fifty savages with a party of six men. But backwood hunters were bold fellows in those days, and Indians were by no means noted for reckless courage. Six stout, resolute, and well-armed men were, in Robin's opinion, quite a match for fifty redskins! He could not muster more than six, because it was absolutely necessary to leave at least three men to guard Fort Enterprise. Robin therefore resolved to leave his brother Jeff to look after it, with two of the strangers; and Jeff accepted the charge with pleasure, saying he "would defend the place agin a hundred red reptiles." The third stranger--a man named Stiff--he resolved to take with him. The war-party, when mustered, consisted of Robin Gore, his nephew Walter, Larry O'Dowd, the Black Swan, Slugs the hunter, and Stiff the stranger. Armed to the teeth, these six put on their snow-shoes the following morning, and set forth on their journey in silence. Now this change of plans was--all unknown to Robin--the means of leading him towards, instead of away from, his lost little ones. For Roy and Nelly had travelled so far during their long wanderings from the Black Hills--the place where they escaped from the Indians--that they were at that time many long miles away from them in another direction. In fact, if Robin had carried out his original plan of search, he would have been increasing the distance between himself and his children every step he took! Not knowing this, however, and being under the impression that each day's march lessened his chance of ultimately finding his lost ones, he walked along, mile after mile, and day after day, in stern silence. On the third day out, towards evening, the party descried a thin line of blue smoke rising above the tree-tops. They had reached an elevated and somewhat hilly region, so that the ground favoured their approach by stealth, nevertheless, fearing to lose their prey, they resolved to wait till dark, and take their enemies, if such they should turn out to be, by surprise. Soon after sunset Robin gave the word to advance. Each man of the party laid aside his blanket, and left his provisions, etcetera, in the encampment, taking with him his arms only. "I need not say that there must be no speaking, and that we must tread lightly. You're up to redskin ways as well as me, except mayhap our friend Stiff here." Stiff who was a tall Yankee, protested that he could "chaw up his tongue, and go as slick as a feline mouser." On nearing the fire, they made a _detour_ to examine the tracks that led to it, and found from their number and other signs that it was indeed Hawk's party. Robin advanced alone to reconnoitre. On returning, he said-- "It's just the reptiles; there's forty of 'em if there's one, an' they've got a white man bound with 'em; no doubt from what you said of him, Slugs, it's Macdonell; but I don't see Wapaw. I fear me that his days are over. Now, then, lads, here's our plan: we'll attack them from six different points at once. We'll all give the war-whoop at the same moment, takin' the word from Walter there, who's got a loud pipe of his own, then when the varmints start to their feet--for I don't like the notion o' firin' at men off their guard--Walter, Larry, an' Stiff will fire. Black Swan, Slugs, an' I will reserve our fire while you reload; the reptiles will scatter, of course, an' we'll give 'em a volley an' a united yell as they cut stick, that'll keep 'em from waitin' for more." The plan thus hastily sketched was at once carried out. Advancing stealthily to their several stations, the six men, as it were, surrounded the savages, who, not dreaming of pursuit, had neglected to place sentinels round the camp. When Walter's loud "halloo!" rang in their ears, the whole band sprang to their feet, and seized their arms, but three shots laid three of them dead on the ground. As they fled right and left the reserve fired, and shot three others, among whom was Hawk himself. Black Swan had picked him out, and shot him through the head. Before they were quite out of shot, the three who had first fired had reloaded and fired again with some effect, for blood was afterwards observed on the snow. Slugs now made a rush into the camp to unbind Macdonell, but to his horror he discovered that a knife was plunged up to the handle in his breast, and that he was almost dead. Hawk had evidently committed this cowardly deed on the first alarm, for the knife was known to be his. Macdonell tried hard to speak, but all that he was able to say was, "Wapaw, wounded, escaped--follow." Then his head fell back, and he died. From the few words thus uttered, however, the pursuers concluded that Wapaw was not dead, but wounded, and that he had escaped. "If that be so," said Walter, "then they must have been on Wapaw's tracks, an' if we search we shall find 'em, an' may follow 'em up." "True," said Slugs, "and the sooner we're away from this the better, for the reptiles may return, and find us not so strong a band as they think." Acting on this advice, the whole party set off at once. Wapaw's track was soon discovered, being, of course, a solitary one, and in advance of his enemies, who were in pursuit. Following the track with untiring vigour, the party found that it led them out of the lower country into a region high up amongst the hills. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE PURSUIT. "Wapaw must have worked hard, for we should have overhauled him by this time," said Walter to his uncle on the evening of the next day, as they plodded steadily along through the snow. "I would give up the pursuit," said Robin, somewhat gloomily, "for it's losin' time that might be better spent on another search; but it won't do to leave the crittur, for if he's badly wounded he may die for want o' help." "Guess he can't be very bad, else he'd niver travel so fast," observed Stiff, who, now that the chief murderer was punished, did not care much to go in search of the wounded Indian. "When a man thinks a band o' yellin' redskins are follerin' up his trail," said Slugs, "he's pretty sure to travel fast, wounded or not wounded--leastways if he's able. But I don't think we'll have to go much farther now, for I've noticed that his stride ain't so long as it was, and that's a sartin sure sign that he's failin'; I only hope he won't go under before we find him." "Niver a fear o' that," said Larry O'Dowd, with a grin. "I've seed him as far gone as any one iver I comed across, wi' starvation; but the way that fellow walked into the grub when he got the chance was wonderful to behold! I thought he'd ait me out o' the house entirely; and he put so much flesh on his bones in a week or two that he was able to go about his business, though he warn't no fatter when he began to ait than a consumptive darnin' needle. True for ye--it's naither walkin', starvin', nor cowld, as'll kill Wapaw." "What does the Black Swan think?" inquired Robin. "We shall see Wapaw when the sun is low to-morrow," replied the Indian. "Mayhap we shall," quoth Robin, "but it behooves us to get the steam up for to-morrow: so, comrades, as there's a good clump o' timber here away, we'll camp." Robin threw down his bundle as he spoke, and his example was at once followed by the others, each of whom set to work vigorously to assist in preparing the encampment. They had all the requisite implements for this purpose, having returned, after the attack on the Indians, for the things they had left behind them. "It's a pity that we shall have to keep watch to-night," said Walter; "one of us will have to do it, I fancy; for though I don't believe these murderin' redskins have pluck to attack us, it would not do to trust to that." Slugs, to whom this remark was addressed, lowered the axe with which he was about to fell a neighbouring tree for firewood. "That's true," said he, looking round him in all directions; "hold on, comrades, yonder's a mound with a bare top, we'd better camp there. Makin' a big blaze on sitch a place'll show the red reptiles we don't care a gun-flint for them, and they'll not dare to come near, so we won't have to watch." "Arrah! an' a purty spot it'll be for the blackyirds to shoot us all aisy as we're sottin' at supper," exclaimed Larry O'Dowd. "Doubtless there's a hollow on it," rejoined Slugs, "for the top is flat." "Humph! maybe," growled Larry, who still seemed to object; but, as the rest of the party were willing to adopt the suggestion, he said no more, and they all went to the top of the little mound, which commanded a clear view of the surrounding country. As Slugs had surmised, there was a slight hollow on the summit of the mound, which effectually screened the party from any one who might wish to fire at them from below; and as there was no other mound in the immediate neighbourhood, they felt quite secure. Huge logs were cut and carried to the top of the mound, the snow was cleared out of the hole, pine branches were spread over it, the fire was kindled, the kettle put on and filled with snow, and soon Larry O'Dowd was involved in the heat, steam, smoke, and activities of preparing supper, while his comrades spread out their blankets and lay down to smoke with their arms ready beside them. The fire roared up into the wintry sky, causing the mound to resemble the cone or crater of a volcano, which could be seen for miles round. Ever and anon, while supper was being eaten, the Black Swan or Slugs would rise, and going stealthily to the edge of the mound would peep cautiously over, to make sure that none of their enemies were approaching. Immediately after supper, they all lay down to sleep, but, for a time, each motionless form that lay rolled tightly in its blanket like an Egyptian mummy, sent a series of little puffs from its head. At last the stars came out, and the pipes dropped from each sleeper's lips. Then the moon rose--a circumstance which rendered their position still more secure--and the fire sank low. But Slugs was too cautious a hunter to trust entirely to the alleged cowardice of the savages. He knew well that many, indeed most of the redskins, bad as well as good, had quite enough of mere brute courage to make them dare and risk a good deal for the sake of scalping a white hunter, so he rose once or twice during the night to replenish the fire and take a look round; and as often as he rose for these purposes, so often did he observe the glittering eye of the Black Swan glaring round the encampment, although its owner never once moved from his recumbent posture. Thus the night was spent. The first glimmer of daylight found the whole party up and equipped for the journey. They did not breakfast before setting out, as they preferred to take their morning meal later in the day. Few words were spoken. At that early hour, and in the sleepy condition which usually results from a _very_ early start, men are seldom inclined to talk. Only one or two monosyllables were uttered as each man rolled up his blanket with his share of the provisions in it, and fastened on his snow-shoes. A few minutes later Robin led the way down the slope, and the whole party marched off in single file, and re-entered the woods. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. INTERESTING THOUGH PUZZLING DISCOVERIES. About eight o'clock they halted for breakfast, which Larry O'Dowd prepared with his accustomed celerity, and assisted to consume with his wonted voracity. "There's nothin' like aitin' when yer hungry," observed Larry, with his mouth full. "'Xcept drinking when you're dry," said Stiff, ironically. "Now I don't agree with ye," retorted Larry; "I used to think so wance, before I left the owld country--my blissin' rest on it. I used to think there was nothin' like drink, an' sure I was right, for there niver _was_ anythin' like it for turnin' a poor man into a baste; but when I comed into the woods here I couldn't get drink for love or money, an' sure I found, after a while, I didn't need it, and got on better widout it, an' enjoyed me life more for want of it. Musha! it's little I care for drink now; but, och! I've a mortal love for aitin'!" It needed not Larry's assurance to convince his hearers of the fact, for he consumed nearly twice as much dried meat as any of his comrades. "Well, if ye don't drink gin-sling or cocktail," said Stiff, "you're mighty hard on the tea." "True for ye, Stiff, it was the fav'rite tipple o' me owld mother, an' I'm fond of it on that score, not to mention other raisins of a private natur'." "Couldn't ye make these reasons public?" said Walter. "Unpossible!" said Larry, with much gravity, as he helped himself to another can of tea. "Come, time's up," said Robin abruptly, as he rose to put on his snow-shoes. Larry swallowed the tea at a draught, the others rose promptly, and in a few minutes more they were again on the march. Towards noon they issued out of the woods upon a wide undulating country, which extended, as far as the eye could see, to faint blue mountains in the distance. This region was varied in character and extremely beautiful. The undulations of the land resembled in some places the waves of the sea. In other places there were clumps of trees like islets. Elsewhere there were hollows in which lakelets and ponds evidently existed, but the deep snow covered all these with a uniform carpet. In some parts the ground was irregular and broken by miniature hills, where there were numerous abrupt and high precipices. The party were approaching one of the latter in the afternoon, when Robin suddenly paused and pointed to a projecting ledge on the face of one of the cliffs. "What would ye say yonder objic' was?" he inquired of Slugs. The hunter shaded his eyes with his hand, and remained silent for a few seconds. "It _looks_ like a sled," said he, dropping his hand, "but how it got thar' would puzzle even a redskin to tell, for there's no track up to that ledge." "It _is_ a sled," said Black Swan, curtly. "An' how came it there?" asked Robin. "It fell from the top," replied the Indian. "Right, lad, yer right!" said Slugs, who had taken another long look at the object in question; "I see somethin' like a broken tree near the top o' the precipice. I hope Wapaw hain't gone an' tumbled over that cliff." This supposition was received in silence and with grave looks, for all felt that the thing was not impossible, but the Indian shook his head. "Come, Black Swan," said Walter, "you don't agree with us--what think ye?" "Wapaw had no sled with him," replied the Indian. "Right again!" cried Slugs; "I do believe my sense is forsakin' me; an Injun baby might have thought of that, for his tracks are plain enough. Hows'ever, let's go see, for it's o' no use standin' here guessin'." The party at once advanced to the foot of the precipice, and for nearly an hour they did their utmost to ascend to the ledge, on which the sledge lay, but their efforts were in vain. The rock was everywhere too steep and smooth to afford foot-hold. "It won't do," said Larry, wiping the perspiration from his brow; "av we had wings we might, but we hain't got 'em, so it's o' no manner o' use tryin'." "We shall try from the top now," said Robin. "If anybody _has_ tumbled over, the poor crittur may be alive yet, for all we know." They found their efforts to descend from the top of the precipice equally fruitless and much more dangerous, and although they spent a long time in the attempt, and taxed their wits to the utmost, they were ultimately compelled to leave the place and continue their journey without attaining their object. One discovery was made, however. It was ascertained by the old marks in the snow at the edge of the precipice that, whatever members of the party who owned the sledge had tumbled over, at least two of them had escaped, for their track--faint and scarcely discernible--was traced for some distance. It was found, also, that Wapaw's track joined this old one. The wounded Indian had fallen upon it not far from the precipice, and, supposing, no doubt, that it would lead him to some encampment, he had followed it up. Robin and his men also followed it--increasing their speed as much as possible. Night began to descend again, but Wapaw was not overtaken, despite the Black Swan's prophecy. This, however, was not so much owing to the miscalculation of the Indian, as to the fact that a great deal of time had been lost in their futile endeavour to reach the sledge that had fallen over the precipice. About sunset they came to a place where the track turned suddenly at a right angle and entered the bushes. "Ha! the first travellers must have camped here, and Wapaw has followed their example," said Robin, as he pushed aside the bushes. "Just so, here's the place, but the ashes are cold, so I fear we are not so near our Injun friend as we could wish." "Well, it can't be helped," cried Stiff, throwing down his bundle; "we've had plenty o' walkin' for one day, so I vote for supper right off." "I second the motion," said Walter, seizing his axe, "seein' that the camp is ready made to hand. Now, Larry, get your pot ready." "Sure it's stuffed full a'ready--an' I only wish I was in the same state," said the Irishman, as he pressed the snow tightly into a tin kettle, and hung it over the fire, which Slugs had just kindled. The supper scene of the previous night was, in most of its details, enacted over again; but it was resolved that each of the party should keep watch for an hour, as, if the Indians had followed, there was a possibility of their having gained on them during the delay at the precipice. Before the watch was set, however, and while all the party were enjoying their pipes after supper, the Black Swan suddenly exclaimed, "Ho!" and pointed with his finger to something which peeped out of the snow at Larry's elbow, that volatile individual having uncovered it during some of his eccentric movements. "It's only an owld mocassin," said Larry, plucking the object from the snow as he spoke; "some Injun lad has throw'd it away for useless." "Hand it here," said Robin, re-lighting his pipe, which had gone out. Larry tossed the mocassin to his leader, who eyed it carelessly for a moment. Suddenly he started, and, turning the mocassin over, examined it with close and earnest attention. Then he smiled, as if at his passing anxiety, and dropped it on the ground. "It reminded me," said he to Walter, "of my Nelly, for it has something of the same shape that she was fond of, an' for a moment I was foolish enough to think it might ha' belonged to the dear child, but--. Come, Larry, have 'ee got any more tea there?" "Is it tay ye want? faix, then, it's little more nor laves that's remainin'," said Larry, draining the last drops into a pannikin; "well, there's about half a mug-full, afther all; it's wonderful what can be got out o' it sometimes by squaazin' the pot." "Hand it over, that's enough," said Robin, "thank 'ee, lad--here's luck." He drained the pannikin as though it had been a glass of rum, and, smacking his lips, proceeded leisurely to refill his pipe. "Are ye sure it's _not_ one of Nelly's old mocassins?" asked Walter, as he eyed the little shoe earnestly. "Sure enough, nephy, I would know her mother's make among ten thousand, an' although that one is oncommon like it in some respec's, it ain't one o' _hers_." "But Nelly might have made it herself," suggested Walter, "and that would account for its bein' like her mother's in the make." Robin shook his head. "Not likely," said he. "The child didn't use to make mocassins. I'm not sure if she could do it at all; besides she was last heard of miles and miles away from here in another direction. No, no, Walter lad, we mustn't let foolish fancies bother us. However, the sight o' this has fixed me to push on to-morrow as hard as I can lay my legs to it, for if Wapaw's alive we can't fail to come up wi' him afore sundown; and I'm keen to turn about an' go after my children. I'll push on by myself if ye don't care to keep up wi me." This latter remark was made to Stiff, whose countenance indicated that he had no desire to undertake a harder day's march than usual. The effect of the remark was to stir up all the Yankee's pride. "I'll tell 'ee what it is, _Mister_ Gore," said he, tartly; "you may think yourself an oncommon hard walker, but Obadiah Stiff is not the man to cave in to any white man alive. I don't care to go trampin' over the country day after day, like the Wandering Jew, after a redskin, as, I'll go bound, ain't no better than the rest o' his kind; but if ye want to see which of our legs is the best pair o' compasses, I'll walk with ye from here to hereafter, I guess, or anywhar else ye choose; if I don't, then my name ain't Stiff." "It would be well av it worn't Stiff, for ye've no reason to be proud o't," observed Larry O'Dowd, with a grin; "don't spake so loud, man, but shut up yer potatie trap and go to roost. Ye'll need it all if ye wouldn't like to fall behind to-morrow. There now, don't reply; ye've no call to make me yer father confessor, and apologise for boastin'; good night, an' go to slape!" The rest of the party, who had lain down, laughed at this sally, and Stiff, on consideration, thought it best to laugh too. In a few minutes every one in the encampment was sound asleep, with the exception of Robin Gore, who took the first hour of watching, and who sat beside the sinking fire like a Indian in earnest meditation, with his eyes resting dreamily on the worn-out mocassin. CHAPTER NINETEEN. SHORT ALLOWANCE, AND A SURPRISE. Once again we return to Silver Lake; but here we do not find affairs as we left them. True, Roy and Nelly are still there, the hut is as snug as it used to be, and the scenery as beautiful, but provisions have begun to fail, and an expression of real anxiety clouds the usually cheerful countenance of Roy, while reflected anxiety sits on the sweet little face of Nell. The winter is far advanced, and the prospect of resuming the journey home is farther off than ever. One morning Roy entered the hut with a slow step and a sad countenance. "Nell," said he, throwing down a small fish which he had just caught, "things look very bad now; seems to me that we'll starve here. Since we broke the long line I've only caught little things like _that_; there's no rabbits in the snares--I looked at every one this mornin'--and, as for deer, they seem to have said good-bye for the winter. I thought of goin' out with the gun this forenoon, but I think it a'nt o' no use, for I was out all yesterday without seeing a feather or a hoof-print." The tone in which Roy said this, and the manner in which he flung himself down on the ground beside the fire, alarmed his sister greatly, so that she scarcely knew what to say. "Don't know what's to be done at all," continued Roy somewhat peevishly. This was so unlike himself that the little girl felt a strong tendency to burst into tears, but she restrained herself. After a short silence, she said somewhat timidly-- "Don't you think we might try to pray?" "What's the use," said Roy quickly; "I'm sure I've prayed often and often, and so have you, but nothin's come of it." It was quite evident that Roy was in a state of rebellion. This was the first time Nelly had suggested _united_ prayer to her brother; she did it timidly, and the rebuff caused her to shrink within herself. Roy's quick eye observed the shrinking; he repented instantly, and, drawing Nelly to him, laid her head on his breast. "Forgive me, Nell, I shouldn't have said it; for, after all, we've had everything given to us here that we have needed up to this time. Come, I _will_ pray with you." They both got upon their knees at once, but, strive as he might, not a word would cross Roy's lips for several minutes. Nelly raised her head and looked at him. "God help us!" he ejaculated. "For Jesus' sake," murmured Nelly. They both said "Amen" to these words, and these were all their prayers. Roy's rebellion of heart was gone now, but his feelings were not yet calmed. He leaped up, and, raising his sister, kissed her almost violently. "Now, lass, we _have_ prayed, and I _do_ believe that God will answer us; so I'll take my gun and snow-shoes, an' off to the woods to look for a deer. See that you have a roarin' fire ready to roast him three hours hence." Nelly smiled through her tears and said she would, while Roy slipped his feet through the lines of his snow-shoes, threw his powder-horn and bullet-pouch over his shoulder, seized his gun, and sallied forth with a light step. When he was gone, Nelly began actively to prepare for the fulfilment of her promise. She took up the axe which Roy had left behind him, and went into the forest behind the hut to cut firewood. She was very expert at this laborious work. Her blows were indeed light, for her little arms, although strong for their size, were not strong for such labour; but she knew exactly where to hit and how to hit. Every stroke fell on the right spot, with the axe at the right angle, so that a chip or two flew off every time. She panted a good deal, and grew uncommonly warm, but she liked the work; her face glowed and her eyes sparkled, and it was evident that she was not exhausted by it. In little more than an hour she had cut enough of dry wood to make a fire that would have roasted an entire sheep. Then she carried it to the hut, after which she sat down to rest a little. While resting, she gathered carefully together all the scraps of food in the hut, and found that there was still enough for two good meals; so she ate a small piece of dried fish, and began to wish that Roy would return. Suddenly she was startled by a loud fluttering noise close to the hut, and went out to see what it could be. It might be supposed that a little girl in such solitary and unprotected circumstances would have felt alarmed, and thought of wolves or bears; but Nelly was too well accustomed to the dangers and risks of the backwoods to be much troubled with mere fancies. She was well aware that wolves and bears, as a rule, shun the presence of human beings, and the noise which she had heard was not of a very alarming character. The first sight that greeted her was a large bird of the grouse species, sitting on a tree not three yards from the hut. She almost felt that by springing forward she could seize it with her hands, and her first impulse was to throw the axe at it; but, checking herself, she went noiselessly back into the hut, and quickly reissued with the bow and a couple of arrows. Fitting an arrow to the string, she whispered to herself, "Oh, how I _do_ hope I won't miss it!" and took a careful aim. Anxiety, however, made her hand unsteady, for, the next moment, the arrow was quivering in the stem of the tree at least three inches below the bird. A look of deep disappointment was mingled with an expression of determination as she pursed her little mouth and fitted the second arrow to the string. This time she did not take so careful an aim, but let fly at once, and her shaft entered the bird's throat and brought it to the ground. With a cry of delight she sprang upon her prize, and bore it in triumph into the hut, where she speedily plucked it. Then she split it open, and went down to the lake and washed it quite clean and spread it out flat. Her next proceeding was to cut a short stick, about two feet in length, which she pointed at both ends, making one point thinner than the other. This thin point she thrust through the bird, and stuck it up before the fire to roast, placing a small dish, made of birch bark, below it to catch the dripping. "I hope he won't come back till it's ready," she muttered, as the skin of the bird began to brown and frizzle, while a delicious odour began to fill the hut. Just as the thought was uttered, a footstep was heard outside, the covering of the doorway was raised, a tall figure stooped to enter, and the next instant a gaunt and half-naked savage stood before her. Nelly uttered a faint cry of terror, but she was so paralysed that she could make no effort to escape, even had escape been possible. The appearance of the Indian was indeed calculated to strike terror to a stouter heart than that of poor Nelly; for besides being partially clad in torn garments, his eyes were sunken and bloodshot, and his whole person was more or less smeared with blood. As the poor child gazed at this apparition in horror, the Indian said, "Ho!" by way of salutation, and stepping forward, took her hand gently and shook it after the manner of the white man. A gleam of intelligence and surprise at once removed the look of fear from Nelly's face. "Wapaw!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "Ho!" replied the Indian, with a nod and a smile, as he laid aside his gun and snowshoes, and squatted himself down before the fire. There was not much to be gathered from "ho!" but the nod and smile proved to Nelly that the intruder was indeed none other than her old friend Wapaw. Her alarm being now removed, she perceived that the poor Indian was suffering both from fatigue and wounds--perhaps from hunger too; but this latter idea was discarded when she observed that several birds, similar to the one she had just killed, hung at the Indian's belt. She rose up quickly, therefore, and, running down to the lake, soon returned with a can of clear water, with which she purposed bathing Wapaw's wounds. Wapaw seized the can, however, and emptied the contents down his throat, so she was constrained to go for a second supply. Having washed the wounds, which were chiefly on the head and appeared to her to be very severe, although, in reality, they were not so, she set the roasted bird before him and desired him to eat. Of course she had put a great many questions to Wapaw while thus occupied. Her residence with the Indians had enabled her to speak and understand the Indian tongue a little, and, although she had some difficulty in understanding much of what Wapaw said in reply, she comprehended enough to let her know that a number of white men had been killed by the savages, and that Wapaw was fleeing for his life. On first hearing this a deadly paleness overspread her face, for she imagined that the white people killed must be her own kindred; but Wapaw quickly relieved her mind on this point. After this he devoted himself entirely to the roasted bird, and Nelly related to him, as well as she could, the particulars of her own and Roy's escape from the Indians. CHAPTER TWENTY. MORE SURPRISING DISCOVERIES. While they were thus occupied, a cry was heard to ring through the forest. The Indian laid his hand on his gun, raised his head, which he turned to one side in a listening attitude, and sat as still as a dark statue. The only motion that could be detected in the man was a slight action in his distended nostrils as he breathed gently. This attitude was but momentary, however, for the cry was repeated ("Hi! Nelly, hi!") in clear silvery tones, and Wapaw smiled as he recognised Roy's voice, and quietly resumed his former occupation. Nelly bounded up at once, and ran out to receive her brother, and tell him of the arrival of their old friend. She slipped on her snow-shoes, and went off in the direction of the cry. On rounding the foot of a cliff she discovered Roy, standing as if he had been petrified, with his eyes glaring at the snow with a mingled look of surprise and alarm. Nelly's step roused him. "Ho! Nell," he cried, giving vent to a deep sigh of relief, "I'm thankful to see you--but look here. What snow-shoe made _this_ track? I came on it just this moment, and it pulled me up slick, I can tell ye." Nelly at once removed Roy's alarm, and increased his surprise by telling him of the new arrival, who, she said, was friendly, but she did not tell him that he was an old friend. "But come, now, what have you got for dinner, Roy?" said Nelly, with an arch smile, "for oh! I'm _so_ hungry." Roy's countenance fell, and he looked like a convicted culprit. "Nell, I haven't got nothin' at all." "_What_ a pity! We must just go supperless to bed, I suppose." "Come, lass, I see by the twinkle in your eye that you've got grub somehow or other. Has the redskin brought some 'at with him?" "Yes, he has brought a little; but the best fun is that I shot a bird myself, and had it all ready beautifully cooked for your supper, when Wap--" "Well, what d'ye mean by Wap?" inquired Roy, as Nelly stopped short. "Nothing. I only meant to say that the Indian arrived suddenly, and ate it all up." "The villain! Well, I'll pay him off by eatin' up some o' _his_ grub. Did he say what his name was, or where he came from?" inquired Roy. "Never mind, you can ask him yourself," said Nelly, as they drew near to the hut; "he seems to me to have been badly wounded by his enemies." They stooped and entered the hut as Nelly spoke. The Indian looked up at her brother, and, uttering his wonted "Ho!" held out his hand. "Good luck to ye!" cried Roy, grasping it and shaking it with a feeling of hearty hospitality. "It's good to see yer face, though it _is_ a strange un; but--hallo!--I say--yer face ain't so strange, after all!-- what! Why, you're not Wap--Wap--Wapaw!" The Indian displayed all his teeth, which were very numerous and remarkably white, and nodded his head gently. "Well now, that beats everything!" cried Roy, seizing the Indian's hand again and shaking it violently; then, turning to Nelly, he said, "Come, Nell, stir yer stumps and pluck two o' them birds. I'll split 'em, an' wash 'em, an' roast 'em, an' we'll all eat 'em--Wapaw'll be ready for more before it's ready for him. Jump, now, and see if we don't have a feast to-night, if we should starve to-morrow. But I say, Wapaw, don't ye think the redskins may be after you yet?" The first part of this speech was uttered in wild glee, but the last sentence was spoken more earnestly, as the thought occurred to him that Wapaw might have been closely pursued, for Nelly had told him of the Indian having been wounded by enemies and obliged to fly. Wapaw shook his head, and made his young friend understand as well as he could that there was little chance of that, as he had travelled with the utmost speed in order to distance his pursuers, and induce them to give up the chase. "Well, it may be as you say, friend," observed Roy, as he sat down before the fire and pulled off his hunting mocassins and socks, which he replaced by lighter foot-gear more suited to the hut; "but I don't much like the notion o' givin' them a chance to come up and cut all our throats at once. It's not likely, however, that they'll be here to-night, considerin' the pace you say you came at, so we'll make our minds easy, but with your leave we'll cut our sticks to-morrow, an' make tracks for Fort Enterprise. We han't got much in the way o' grub to start wi', it is true, but we have enough at least for two days' eatin', and for the rest, we have our guns, and you to be our guide." This plan was agreed to by Wapaw, who thereupon advised that they should all lie down to sleep without delay. Roy, who was fatigued with his day's exertions, agreed, and in less than half an hour the three were sound asleep. Next morning they arose with the sun, much refreshed; and while Wapaw and Nelly collected together and packed on their new sledge the few things that they possessed, Roy went for the last time to cast his line in Silver Lake. He was more fortunate than usual, and returned in an hour with four fine fish of about six pounds' weight each. With this acceptable, though small, addition to their slender stock of provisions, they left the hut about noon, and commenced their journey, making a considerable _detour_ in order to avoid meeting with any of the Indians who might chance to have continued the pursuit of Wapaw. That same evening, towards sunset, a party of hunters marched out of the woods, and stood upon the shores of Silver Lake, the tracks about which they began to examine with particular interest. There were six of the party, five of them being white hunters, and one an Indian. We need scarcely add that they were our friend Robin and his companions. "I tell 'ee what it is," cried Robin, in an excited tone, "that's my Nelly's fut; I'd know the prints o't among a thousand, an' it's quite plain Roy is with her, an' that Wapaw has come on 'em, for their tracks are clear." "Sure it looks like it," observed Larry O'Dowd, scratching his head as if in perplexity, "but the tracks is so mixed up, it ain't aisy to foller 'em." "See, here's a well-beaten track goin' into the wood!" cried Walter, who had, like his companions, been searching among the bushes. Every one followed Walter, who led the way towards the hut, which was finally discovered with a thin, scarcely perceptible line of smoke still issuing from the chimney. They all stopped at once, and held back to allow Robin to advance alone. The poor man went forward with a beating heart, and stopped abruptly at the entrance, where he stood for a few seconds as if he were unable to go in. At length he raised the curtain and looked in; then he entered quickly. "Gone, Walter, they're gone!" he cried; "come in, lad, and see. Here's evidence o' my dear children everywhere. It's plain, too, that they have left only a few hours agone." "True for ye, the fire's hot," said Larry, lighting his pipe from the embers in testimony of the truth of his assertion. "They can't be far off," said Slugs, who was examining every relic of the absent ones with the most minute care. "The less time we lose in follerin' of 'em the better--what think ye, lad?" The Black Swan nodded his approval of the sentiment. "What! without sleep or supper?" cried Stiff, whose enthusiasm in the chase had long ago evaporated. "Ay," said Robin sternly, "_I_ start _now_. Let those stop here who will." To do Stiff justice, his objections were never pressed home, so he comforted himself with a quid of tobacco, and accompanied Robin and his men with dogged resolution when they left the hut. Plunging once more into the forest, they followed up the track all night, as they had already followed it up all day. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. A GLADSOME MEETING. Some hours before dawn Robin Gore came to an abrupt pause, and looking over his shoulder, held up his hand to command silence. Then he pointed to a small mound, on the top of which a faint glow of light was seen falling on the boughs of the shrubs, with which it was crowned. The moon had just set, but there was sufficient light left to render surrounding objects pretty distinct. "That's them," said Robin to Walter, in a low whisper, as the latter came close to his side; "no doubt they're sound asleep, an' I'm puzzled how to wake 'em up without givin' 'em a fright." "Musha! it's a fright that Wapaw will give _us_, av we start him suddenly, for he's murtherin' quick wi' his rifle," whispered Larry. "We'd better hide and then give a howl," suggested Stiff, "an', after they're sot up, bring 'em down with a familiar hail." The deliberations of the party were out short and rendered unnecessary, however, by Wapaw himself. That sharp-eared red man had been startled by the breaking of a branch which Larry O'Dowd chanced to set his foot on, and, before Robin had observed their fire, he had roused Roy and Nelly and hurried with them to the summit of a rocky eminence, from which stronghold they now anxiously watched the proceedings of the hunters. The spot to which they had fled for refuge was almost impregnable, and might have been held for hours by a couple of resolute men against a host of savages. Robin, after a little further consultation, resolved to send the Black Swan in advance to reconnoitre. This he did, contrary to his wonted custom of taking the lead in everything, because of an unaccountable feeling of dread lest he should not find his children there. Black Swan at once stepped cautiously forward with his rifle, ready cocked, in the hollow of his left arm, and his finger on the trigger-guard. Step by step he moved towards the encampment without making the slightest noise, and with so little motion that he might easily have been mistaken for a dark shadow. Raising his head over the edge of the encampment he gazed earnestly into it, then he advanced another pace or two, finally he stepped into it, and, standing erect, looked around him. With a wave of his hand he summoned his comrades to advance. Robin Gore's heart beat hard as he approached, followed by the others. Meanwhile they were closely watched by Roy and Wapaw. When the Black Swan's head appeared, Roy exclaimed in a whisper, "An Injun--d'ye know him, Wapaw?" "He is one of our tribe, I think," replied the Indian, in the same low voice, "but I know him not; the light of the fire is not strong." "If he's one o' your tribe," said Roy, "it's all up with us, for they won't be long o' findin' us here. Keep close to me, Nell. I'll stick by you, lass, don't fear." Wapaw's brows lowered when he saw the Black Swan step into the encampment, and make the signal to his comrades to advance. He raised his rifle, and took deliberate aim at his heart. "Roy," he whispered, "get an arrow ready, aim at the next man that steps into the light and let fly; I'll not fire till after you, for the smoke would blind you." Roy obeyed with a trembling hand. Notwithstanding the rough life he had led in those wild woods of the West, he had never yet been called on to lift his hand against a human being, and the thought of taking life in this deliberate and almost murderous way caused him to shudder; still he felt that their case was desperate, and he nerved himself to the deed. Another moment, and Robin stood beside the Black Swan. Roy tried to raise his bow, but his heart failed him. Wapaw glanced at him, and said sternly-- "Shoot first." At that moment Obadiah Stiff stepped into the encampment, and, stirring the embers of the fire with a piece of stick, caused a bright flame and showers of sparks to shoot upwards. This revealed the fact that some of the party were white men, so Wapaw lowered his rifle. A single glance of his practised eye told him who they were. Laying his hand suddenly and heavily on Roy's shoulder he pressed him down. "Come, let us go," he said quickly; "I must see these men alone, and you must keep close--you _must not look_." He said the latter words with emphasis; but in order to make sure that they should not have a chance of looking, he led his young companions to a point whence the encampment could not be seen, and left them there with strict injunctions not to quit the spot until he should return. In a few seconds Wapaw stepped into the circle of light where Robin and his party were all assembled, and so rapid and noiseless had his movement been, that he was in the midst of them almost before they were aware of his approach. "Wapaw!" exclaimed Walter in surprise, "why, you seem to have dropped from the clouds." "Sure it's a ghost ye must be," cried Larry. The Indian took no notice of these remarks, but turned to Robin, who, with a look of deep anxiety, said-- "Have 'ee seed the childer, Wapaw?" "They are safe," answered the Indian. "Thank God for that!" cried Robin, while a sigh of relief burst from him: "I believe ye, Wapaw, yer a true man an' wouldn't tell me a lie, would ye?" The tone in which the hunter said this implied that the statement was scarcely a true index to his feelings, and that he would be glad to hear Wapaw assure him that he was indeed telling the truth. But this Indian was a man of truthfulness, and did not deem it necessary to repeat his assertion. He said, however, that he would go and fetch the children, and immediately quitted the camp. Soon after he returned with Roy and Nelly; he had not told them, however, who the strangers were. When Roy first caught sight of his father he gave a shout of surprise, and stood still as if he were bewildered. Nelly uttered a wild scream, and rushed forward with outstretched arms. Robin met her more than half way, and the next moment folded his long-lost little one to his bosom. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. AT SILVER LAKE ONCE MORE. It were needless to detail all that was said and done during the remainder of that night, or, rather, morning, for day began to break soon after the happy meeting narrated in the last chapter. It would require more space than we can afford to tell of all that was said and done; how Robin embraced his children over and over again in the strength of his love, and thanked God in the fervour of his gratitude; how Roy and Nelly were eager to relate all that had befallen them since they were carried away into captivity, in a much shorter time than such a long story could by any possibility be told; how Walter rendered the telling of it much more difficult by frequent interruptions with eager questions, which induced divergencies from which the tale-tellers forgot to return to the points where the interruptions occurred; how Larry O'Dowd complicated matters by sometimes volunteering anecdotes of his own, illustrative of points similar to those which were being related; how Slugs always cut these anecdotes short with a facetious poke in the ribs, which caused Larry to howl; how Stiff rendered confusion worse confounded by trying to cook some breakfast, and by upsetting the whole affair into the fire; and how the children themselves broke in on their own discourse continually with sudden and enthusiastic questions as to the health of their mother and the welfare of the live stock at Fort Enterprise. All this cannot be described, therefore we leave it to the vivid imagination of the reader. "Now, comrades," said Robin, after the sun had risen, after breakfast had been and eaten, after every incident had been related at least twice over, and after every conceivable question had been asked four or five times--"now, comrades, it remains for us to fix what we'll do." "To the Fort," said Larry O'Dowd abruptly. "Ay--home!" cried Walter. "Oh yes--home--home!" exclaimed Roy and Nelly in the same breath. "Ditto," observed Obadiah Stiff. Slugs and the Black Swan, being men of few words, said nothing, but nodded approval. "Well, it's quite plain that we're all of one mind," resumed Robin; "nevertheless, there are one or two points to which I ax yer attention. In the first place, it's now near the end of November. Fort Enterprise, in a straight line, is more nor three weeks' march from hereaway. Our provisions is low. When I left the Fort provisions was low there too, an' if my brother Jeff ha'nt had more nor his usual luck in huntin' they'll be lower yet before long. Now, I think it would be better to go back to Silver Lake for a week or so, hunt an' fish there till we've got a good supply, make noo sleds, load 'em chock full, an' then--ho! for home. What say ye to that, comrades?" As every one assented readily to this plan, they proceeded at once to carry it into execution. At first, indeed, Nelly looked a little disappointed, saying that she wanted to get to her darling mother without delay; but, on Walter pointing out to her that it would only delay matters a week or so, and that it would enable the whole party to rest and recruit, and give Wapaw time to recover thoroughly from his wounds, she became reconciled, and put on her snow-shoes to return to Silver Lake with some degree of cheerfulness; and when, in the course of that day's walk, she began to tell her father of all the beauties and wonders of Silver Lake, she was not only reconciled but delighted to return. "O father!" said she, as they walked briskly through the forest, "you've no notion what a beautiful place Silver Lake is. It's so clear, and so--so--oh! I don't know how to tell you; so like the fairy places Walter used to tell us of, with clear water and high cliffs, and the clouds shining up at the clouds shining down, and two suns--one below and another above. And then the hut! we made it all ourselves." "What! made the trees and all?" said Robin, with a smile. "No, of course not the trees; but we _cut_ the trees and piled 'em up, and spread the brush-wood, and--and--then the fish! we caught _such_ big ones." "How big, Nelly?" "Oh, ever so big!" "How big may that be?" "Well, some were so long," (measuring off the size on her arm,) "an' some near as long as my leg--an' they were good to eat too--no good! you've no notion; but you'll see and taste 'em too. Then there's the shooskin'! Did you ever shoosk, father?" "No, lass--leastways I don't remember, if I did." "But you know what it is?" "To be sure, Nelly; ha'nt I seed ye do it often on the slopes at Fort Enterprise?" "Well, the shooskin' here is far, _far_ better. The first time Roy did it, he said it nearly banged all his bones to pieces--yes, he said he felt as if his backbone was shoved up into his brain; and I sometimes thought it would squeeze all my ribs together. Oh, it is _so_ nice! You shall try it, father." Robin laughed heartily at this, and remarked that he would be very glad to try it, though he had no particular desire to have his ribs squeezed together, or his backbone shoved up into his brain! Then Nelly went on with great animation and volubility to tell of the trapping of the bear, and the snaring of rabbits, and the catching of fish, and of Roy's peculiar method of wading into the lake for ducks, and many other things. Roy, meanwhile, entertained Walter and Larry O'Dowd with a somewhat similar account of their doings during the months of their residence in that wild region; and thus the journey was beguiled, so that the time seemed to pass on swallows' wings. Towards evening the party approached the spot where Silver Lake had first burst upon the enraptured gaze of the wandering pair. As they drew near, Roy and Nelly hurried on in advance, and, mounting the fallen tree on which they had formerly rested, waved to the others to come on, and shouted for glee. And well might they shout, for the evening happened to be brighter and calmer, if possible, than the one on which they first saw the lake. The rolling clouds were whiter, too, and the waters looked more silvery than ever. The exclamations of delight, and the looks of admiration with which the glorious scene was greeted by the hunters when they came up, gratified the hearts of Roy and Nelly very much. "Oh, _how_ I wish mother was here to see it!" cried Nelly. "Ain't _that_ a place for a king to live in, daddy?" said Roy, enthusiastically. "So 'tis, lad, so 'tis--leastwise it's a goodish spot for a hunter. How say you, Slugs?" Slugs smiled grimly, and nodded his head. "Would the red man like to pitch his wigwam there?" said Robin, addressing the Black Swan. "He has pitched his wigwam here before," replied the Black Swan softly. "When he first took the White Swan home to be his mate, he came to hunt here." "Och! is it the honeymoon ye spint here?" broke in Larry. "Faix, it's a purty spot for courtin', and no mistake. Is that a beehive over there?" he added, pointing across the lake. "Why that's our hut--our _palace_," cried Nell, with gleeful look. "Then the sooner we get down to it, and have supper, the better," observed Walter, "for we'll have to work hard to-morrow." "Come along, then," cried Robin, "an' go you ahead, Roy; beat the track, and show us the way." Roy accepted the position of honour. Nelly followed him, and the whole band marched off in single file along the shores of Silver Lake. They soon reached the hut, and here again Nelly found many interesting points to dilate upon. She poured her words into willing and sympathetic ears, so that she monopolised nearly all the talk during the time that Larry O'Dowd was preparing supper. When that meal was being eaten the conversation became more general. Plans were discussed as to the intended procedure on the morrow, and various courses of action fixed. After that, as a matter of course, the pipes came out, and while these were being smoked, only the talkative members of the party kept up the conversation at intervals. Roy and Nelly having exhausted all they had to say, began to feel desperately sleepy, and the latter, having laid her head on her father's knee, fell sound asleep in that position. Soon the pipes were smoked out, the fire was replenished, the blankets unrolled; and in a very brief period of time the whole party was in a state of happy unconsciousness, with the exception of poor Wapaw, whose wounds made him rather restless, and the Black Swan, whose duty it was to take the first watch; for it was, deemed right to set a watch, lest by any chance the Indians should have followed the hunters' tracks, though this was not probable. Next morning Robin aroused the sleepers somewhat abruptly by shooting a grey hen with his rifle from the tent door. "There's breakfast for you and me, Nelly, at any rate," remarked the hunter, as he went down to the lake to secure his bird. "An' won't there be the bones and feathers for the rest of us?" observed Larry, yawning, "so we won't starve this day, anyhow." In a few minutes every man was actively engaged in work of some sort or other. Robin and Walter prepared fishing-lines from some pieces of buckskin parchment; Black Swan and Slugs went out to cut wood for making sledges; Stiff repaired the snow-shoes of the party, or rather assisted Nelly in this operation; and Larry attended to the preparation of breakfast. Wapaw was the only one who lay still, it being thought better to make him rest, and get strong for the approaching journey. During the course of the day the lines were tried, and a good number of fish caught. Slugs also went off in search of deer, and returned in the evening with a large stag on his broad shoulders. This raised the spirits of the party greatly, and they feasted that night, with much rejoicing, on venison, marrowbones, and broiled fish! Thus they spent their time for several days. One party went regularly every morning to fish in the ice-holes; another party roamed the woods, and returned with grouse, or rabbits, and sometimes with deer; while some remained, part of the day at least, in the hut, mending snow-shoes and moccasins, and making other preparations. In the midst of all this busy labour, the shoosking was not forgotten. One day Robin said to his little daughter, at breakfast, that as they had got nearly enough of provisions for the journey they would take a holiday and go and have a shoosk. The proposal was hailed with delight, and the whole party went off with the new sledges, and spent the forenoon in sliding and tumbling down the hills like very children. At last everything was ready for a start. The provisions were tightly fastened on the sledges, which were to be drawn by each of the men in turn. Snow-shoes were put on, guns and bows looked to and shouldered, and on a bright, frosty December morning the hunters left the hut, struck into the woods, and set out for Fort Enterprise. At the top of the slope, beside the fallen tree, they stopped with one consent and gazed back; and there Nelly took her last sad look at Silver Lake, and sorrowfully said her last farewell. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. THE HAPPIEST MEETING OF ALL. The snow was driving through the forests and over the plains of the North American wilderness; the wind was shrieking among the tree-tops, and whirling the drift in great clouds high up into the frosty air; and the sun was setting in a glow of fiery red, when, on the last day of the year, Robin Gore and his followers came to an abrupt halt, and, with one consent, admitted that "the thing was impossible." "We can't do it, boys," said Robin, resting his rifle against a tree; "so it's o' no use to try. The Fort is good ten miles off, an' the children are dead beat--" "No they ain't," interrupted Roy, whose tone and aspect, however, proved that his father's statement was true; "at least _I'm_ not beat yet--I'm game for two or three hours more." "Well, lad, p'raps ye are, but Nelly ain't; so we'll camp here, an' take 'em by surprise in the morning early." Nelly, who had been carried on the backs of those who had broadest shoulders during the last dozen miles, smiled faintly when spoken to, and said she was "ve-y s'eepy!" So they set to work in the usual style, and were soon comfortably seated in their snowy encampment. Next morning before dawn Robin awoke them. "Ho!" he cried, "get up, lads, look alive! A happy New Year to 'ee all, young an' old, red an' white. Kiss me, Nell, dear--a shake o' yer paw, Roy. An' it's a good New Year's day, too, in more ways than one, praise the Almighty for that." The whole party was astir immediately, and that feeling of kindly brotherhood which usually pervades the hearts of men on the first day of a new year, induced them to shake hands heartily all round. "You'll eat your New Year's dinner at home, after all," said Walter to Nelly. "Sure, an' it's a happy 'ooman yer mother'll be this good day," said Larry, as he stirred up the embers of the fire, and blew them into a flame. The kettle was boiled, and a good breakfast eaten, because, although it is usually the custom for hunters to start on their day's journey, and accomplish a good many miles of it before breakfast, they had consideration for Roy and Nelly, both of whom were still suffering a little from the fatigue of the previous day. They hoped to be at Fort Enterprise in about four hours, and were anxious to arrive fresh. The sun was rising when they reached the top of a ridge, whence they could obtain a distant view of the Fort. "Here we are _at home_, Nelly," said Robin, stooping down to kiss his child on the forehead. "Darling, _darling_ mother!" was all that poor Nelly could say, as she tried in vain to see the Fort though the tears which sprang to her eyes. "Don't you see it, Nell?" said Roy, passing his arm round his sister's waist. "No, I don't," cried Nelly, brushing the tears away; "oh, _do_ let us go on!" Robin patted her on the had, and at once resumed the march. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ That morning Mrs Gore rose from her bed about the saddest woman in the land. Her mind flew back to the last New Year's day, when her children were lost to her, as she feared, for ever. The very fact that people are usually more jocose, and hearty, and happy, on the first day of the year, was sufficient to make her more sorrowful than usual; so she got up and sighed, and then, not being a woman of great self-restraint, she wept. In a few minutes she dried her eyes, and took up her Bible, and, as she read its blessed pages, she felt comfort--such as the world can neither give nor take away--gradually stealing over her soul. When she met her kinsman and his friends at breakfast she was comparatively cheerful, and returned their hearty salutation with some show of a reciprocal spirit. "Jeff," said Mrs Gore, with a slight sigh, "it's a year, this day, since my two darlings were lost in the snow." "D'ye say so?" observed Jeff, as he sat down to his morning meal, and commenced eating with much voracity. Jeff was not an unkind man, but he was very stupid. He said nothing more for some time, but, after consuming nearly a pound of venison steak, he observed suddenly-- "Wall, I guess it wor a bad business that--worn't it, missus?" "It was," responded Mrs Gore; and, feeling that she had no hope of meeting with sympathy from Jeff, she relapsed into silence. After a time, she said-- "But we must get up a feast, Jeff. It won't do to let New Year's day pass without a good dinner." "That's true as gosp'l," said Jeff. "Feed up is my motto, always. It don't much matter wot turns up, if ye don't feed up yer fit for nothin'; but, contrairy-wise, if ye do feed up, why yer ready for anythin' or nothin', as the case may be." Having given vent to this sentiment, Jeff finished his meal with a prolonged draught of tea. "Wall, now," said he, filling his pipe, "we've got enough o' deer's meat an' other things to make a pretty fair feast, missus, but my comrades and we will go an' try to git somethin' fresh for dinner. If we git nothin' else we'll git a appetite and that's worth a good long march any day; so, lads, if--" Jeff's speech was interrupted here by a sudden and tremendous outburst of barking on the part of the dogs of the establishment. He sprang up and hastened to the door, followed by his companions and Mrs Gore. "Injuns, mayhap; see to your guns, boys, we can niver be sure o' the reptiles." "They're friendly," observed one of Jeff's friends, as they stood at the Fort gate; "enemies never come on in that straightforward fashion." "Not so sure o' that," said Jeff. "I've seen redskins do somethin' o' that kind when they meant mischief; but, if my eyes ain't telling lies, I'd say there were white men there." "Ay, an' young folk, too," remarked one of the others. "Young folk!" exclaimed Mrs Gore, as she shaded her eyes from the sun with her hand, and gazed earnestly at the band which was approaching. Suddenly one of them ran a little in advance of the rest, and waved a handkerchief. The figure was a small one. A faint cheer was heard in the distance. It was followed, or rather accompanied, by a loud, manly, and well-known shout. Mrs Gore grew pale, and would have fallen to the ground had not Jeff caught and supported her. "Why, I _do_ declare it's Robin--an'--eh! if there beant the children wi' 'im!" The advancing party broke into a run as he spoke, another loud cheer burst forth, and in a few seconds Nelly was locked once more in her dear mother's arms. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. CONCLUSION. It is not necessary to say that there was joy--powerful, inexpressible-- within the wooden walls of Fort Enterprise on that New Year's morning, and a New Year's hymn of praise welled up continually from the glad mother's heart, finding expression sometimes in her voice, but oftener in her eyes, as she gazed upon the faces of her dear ones, the lost and found. The flag at Fort Enterprise, which had not flaunted its red field from the flagstaff since the sad day--that day twelve months exactly--when the children were lost, once more waved gaily in the frosty air, and glowed in the beams of the wintry sun. The sound of joyful revelry, which had not been heard within the walls of the Fort for a long, long year, once again burst forth with such energy that one might have been led to suppose its being pent up so long had intensified its power. The huge fireplace roared, and blazed, and crackled, with a log so massive that no other Yule log in the known world could have held a candle to it; and in, on, and around that fire were pots, pans, and goblets innumerable, all of which hissed, and spluttered, and steamed at Larry O'Dowd, as if with glee at the sight of his honest face once again presiding over his own peculiar domain. And the parlour of Fort Enterprise--that parlour which we have mentioned as being Robin's dining-room and drawing-room, besides being his bedroom and his kitchen--was converted into a leafy bower by means of pine branches and festooned evergreens, and laid out for a feast the like of which had not been seen there for many a day, and which was transcendently more magnificent than that memorable New Year's day dinner which had been cooked, but not eaten, just three hundred and sixty-five days before. In short, everything in and about Fort Enterprise bore evidence that its inmates meant to rejoice and make merry on that first day of a new year, as it was meet they should do under such favourable circumstances. Jeff Gore had shot a deer not many days before, and one of its fat haunches was to be the great dish of the feast; but Robin said that it was not enough: so, after the first congratulations were over, he and Walter, and Slugs, and Black Swan, set off into the forest, and ere long returned with several brace of grouse, and a few rabbits. Roy, with a very sly look, had asked leave to go and have a walk on snow-shoes in the woods with Nelly before dinner, but his father threatened to lock him up in the cellar, so he consented to remain at home for that day and assist his mother. "Now, Nelly, you and Roy will come help me to prepare the feast," said Mrs Gore, whose eyes were swollen with joyful weeping till they looked like a couple of inflamed oysters; "not that there's much to do, for, now that Larry is come back, we'll leave everything to him except the pl-plum--poo--poo--ding--oh! _my_ darling!" Here Mrs Gore broke down for the fifteenth time, and, catching Nelly to her bosom, hugged her. "Darling mother!" sighed Nelly. "Och! but it's a sight good for sore eyes, anyhow," exclaimed Larry, looking up from his occupation among the steaming pots and pans. Wapaw, who was the only other member of the party who chose to remain in the house during the forenoon of that day, sat smoking his pipe in the chimney corner, and regarded the whole scene with that look of stoical solemnity which is peculiar to North American Indians. "Come, I say, this'll never do, mother," cried Roy, going to the flour-barrel which stood in a corner. "If we're to help you wi' that 'ere poodin', let's have at it at once." Thus admonished, Mrs Gore and her recovered progeny set to work and fabricated a plum-pudding, which was nearly as hard, almost as heavy as, and much larger than a sixty-four pound cannon ball. It would have killed with indigestion half a regiment of artillery, but it could not affect the hardened frames of these men of the backwoods! In course of time the board was spread, the viands smoked upon it, and the united party set to work. Mrs Gore sat at the head of the table, with Nelly on one side and Roy on the other. Robin sat at the foot, supported by the White Swan on his right, and Wapaw on his left. Ranged between these were Walter, Slugs, the Black Swan, Jeff Gore, Obadiah Stiff, the two other strangers who came with Jeff, and Larry O'Dowd--for Larry acted the part of cook only, and did not pretend to "wait." After he had placed the viands on the table, he sat down with the rest. These backwoodsmen ignored waiters. They passed their plates from hand to hand, and when anything was wanted by any one he rose to fetch it himself. After the plates were cleared away, the tea-kettle was put on the table. In some parts of the backwoods spirits are (fortunately) so difficult to procure, that hunters and trappers live for many months without tasting a drop, and get into the habit of doing entirely without intoxicating drink of any kind. Robin had no spirits except animal spirits, but he had plenty of tea. When it was poured out into huge cups, which might have been styled small slop-basins, and sweetened and passed round, Robin applied his knuckles to the table to command silence. "Friends," said he, "I niver wos much o' a speechifier, but I could always manage to blurt out my meanin' somehow. Wot I've got to say to you this day is, I'm thankful to the Almighty for givin' me back my childer, an' I'm right glad to see ye all under my roof this Noo Year's day, and so's the wife, _I_ know--ain't ye, Molly, my dear?" To this appeal Mrs G replied with a hysterical ye-es, and an application of her apron to the inflamed oysters. Robin continued-- "Well, I'm sorry there ain't nothin' stronger in the fort to give 'ee than tea, but for my part I find it strong enough to keep up my spirits, an' yer all heartily welcome to swig buckets-full o' that. There is an old fiddle in the store. If any o' ye can scrape a tune, we'll have a dance. If not, why we'll sing and be jolly." This speech was followed up by another from Obadiah Stiff, who, with a countenance of the deepest solemnity, requested permission to make a few brief observations. "Friends," said he, turning the quid of tobacco which usually graced his right cheek into his left, "it's not every day a man's got a chance o'-- o' wot I was a-goin' to obsarve is, that men who are so much indebted to their much-respected host as--as (Nelly happened to sneeze at this point, and distracted Stiff's attention) as--yes, I guess we ha'nt often got the chance to chase the redskins, and--and--. In short, without makin' an onnecessairy phrase about it--I'm happy to say that _I_ can play the fiddle, so here's luck." Mr Stiff sat down abruptly and drained his cup at a draught. "Pr'aps," said Larry, with a twinkle in his eye, "Mister Stiff would favour the company wi' a song before we commence to cut capers." "Hear, hear!" from Walter. "Hurrah!" from Roy. Mr Stiff cleared his throat and began at once. The tune was so dolorous, and the voice so unmusical, that in any other circumstances it would have been intolerable, but there were lines in it touching upon "good fellowship," which partially redeemed it, and in the last verse there was reference made to "home," and "absent friends," which rendered it a complete success, insomuch that it was concluded amid rapturous cheering, so true is it, as Walter observed, that, "one touch of nature covers a multitude of sins!" "Let's drink to absent friends an' owld Ireland," cried Larry, filling his cup and pushing the kettle round. This was drunk with enthusiasm and was followed by a succession of toasts and songs, which were drunk and sung not at the table, but round the fire, to which the party withdrew in order to enjoy their pipes more thoroughly. Then followed a number of anecdotes of stories--some true, some doubtful, and some fabricated--which were listened to with deep interest, not only by Roy and Nelly, but by the whole party, including the Indians, who listened intently, with faces like owls, although they did not understand a word that was said. Many of these stories were so touching that poor Mrs Gore's eyes became more inflamed and more oyster-like than ever. Nelly, too, became sympathetic, and her eyes were similarly affected. When the evening was pretty well advanced, the violin was sent for and tuned, and Stiff turned out to be a very fair player of Scotch reels; so the party laid aside their pipes, cleared the floor, and began to dance. It was rough but hearty dancing. Each dancer composed his own steps on the spur of the moment, but executed them with a degree of precision and violence that would have caused civilised dancing masters to blush with shame and envy. Mrs Gore and Nelly danced too, weeping the while with joy, and so did the White Swan, but her performances were peculiar. She danced with a slowness of manner and a rigidity of person that are utterly indescribable. She looked as if all her joints had become inflexible, except those of her knees, and her arms hung straight down at her sides, while she pendulated about the floor and gazed at the rafters in deep solemnity. How they did keep it up, to be sure! Men of the backwoods find it no easy matter to fatigue their muscles or exhaust their spirits, so they danced all night, and a considerable portion of next morning too. Long before they gave in, however, the females were obliged to retire. They lay down on their rude couches without taking the trouble to undress, and in a few moments after were sound asleep--Nelly locked in her mother's arms, with their two cheeks touching, their dishevelled hair mingling, and a few tears welling from their inflamed eyes, and mixing as they flowed slowly down their united noses. Sleeping thus, the mother dreamed of home, and Nelly dreamed of Silver Lake. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Reader, our tale is told. We have not space to tell of what befell Robin Gore and his family in after life, but we may remark, in conclusion, that although Robin stoutly refused to go back to civilisation, in the course of a few years civilisation considerately advanced to him, and the wild region, which was once a dense forest around Fort Enterprise, finally became (to Mrs Gore's inexpressible joy) a flourishing settlement, in which were heard the sounds of human industry, and the tinkle of the Sabbath bell. 
32249	----	THE PRINCESS AND JOE POTTER [Illustration: JOE FINDING THE PRINCESS. (_See page 22._)] THE PRINCESS AND JOE POTTER BY JAMES OTIS AUTHOR OF "JENNY WREN'S BOARDING-HOUSE," "TEDDY AND CARROTS," ETC. Illustrated by VIOLET OAKLEY [Illustration] BOSTON ESTES AND LAURIAT PUBLISHERS _Copyright, 1898_ BY ESTES AND LAURIAT Colonial Press: Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. Boston, U. S. A. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. A RUINED MERCHANT 11 II. THE PRINCESS 26 III. AN ADVERTISEMENT 41 IV. JOE'S FLIGHT 60 V. IN THE CITY 73 VI. DAN, THE DETECTIVE 86 VII. AUNT DORCAS 98 VIII. A HUNGRY DETECTIVE 115 IX. A FUGITIVE 127 X. THE JOURNEY 141 XI. A BRIBE 157 XII. A STRUGGLE IN THE NIGHT 171 XIII. A CONFESSION 188 XIV. A RAY OF LIGHT 201 XV. AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL 219 XVI. THE REWARD 234 ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE JOE FINDING THE PRINCESS _Frontispiece_ "HE BEGAN TO FEED THE LITTLE MAID" 51 "DAN POINTED TO AN ADVERTISEMENT" 57 "'MAY WE COME IN AN' STAY A LITTLE WHILE?'" 81 "JOE POINTED TO A TINY COTTAGE" 101 "SHE HAD A PLATE HEAPED HIGH WITH COOKIES" 108 "'WELL, BLESS THE BOY, HE DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO PLANT POTATOES!'" 143 "THE PRINCESS SUFFERED AUNT DORCAS TO KISS HER" 167 "A DARK FORM LEAPED THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW" 185 JOE AND DAN DISAGREE 207 "COME ON QUICK, PLUMS! DAN'S SET THE BARN A-FIRE!'" 215 "JOE, BELIEVING HIMSELF ALONE, BEGAN TO SOB AS IF HIS HEART WERE BREAKING" 225 "THEN AUNT DORCAS AND HER FAMILY WERE READY FOR THE RIDE" 241 "'MCGOWAN'S RESTAURANT AIN'T IN IT ALONGSIDE OF WHAT WE STRUCK UP AT THE PRINCESS'S HOUSE'" 245 TAILPIECE 249 THE PRINCESS AND JOE POTTER. CHAPTER I. A RUINED MERCHANT. "Hello, Joe Potter! What you doin' up in this part of the town?" The boy thus addressed halted suddenly, looked around with what was very like an expression of fear on his face, and then, recognising the speaker, replied, in a tone of relief: "Oh, it's you, is it, Plums?" "Of course it's me. Who else did you think it was? Say, what you doin' 'round here? Who's tendin' for you now?" "Nobody." "It don't seem as though this was the time of day when you could afford to shut up shop." "But that's what I have done." "Got some 'portant business up here at the _de_pot, eh?" Joe shook his head mournfully, stepped back a few paces that he might lean against the building, and looked about him with a languid air, much as if there was no longer anything pleasing for him in life. Plums, or to give him his full name, George H. Plummer, gazed at his friend in mild surprise. Any other boy of Joe Potter's acquaintance would have been astonished at the great change which had come over him; but Plums was not given to excesses of any kind, save in the way of eating. That which would have excited an ordinary lad only served to arouse Plums in a mild degree, and perhaps it was this natural apathy which served to give Master Plummer such an accumulation of flesh. He was what might be called a very fat boy, and was never known to move with sufficient energy to reduce his weight. Sim Jepson stated that Plums sold newspapers in the vicinity of the Grand Central Station because he lived only a couple of blocks away, and therefore had sufficient time to walk to his place of business during the forenoon. "How he ever earns enough to pay for fillin' hisself up is more'n I can make out," Master Jepson had said, with an air of perplexity. "By the time he's sold ten papers, he's ate the profits off of twenty, an' acts like he was hungrier than when he begun." As Plums waited for, rather than solicited, customers, he gazed in an indolent fashion at the dejected-looking friend, who might have served, as he stood leaning against the building on this particular June day, as a statue of misery. Joe Potter was as thin as his friend was stout, and, ordinarily, as active as Plums was indolent. His listless bearing now served to arouse Master Plummer's curiosity as nothing else could have done. "Business been good down your way?" he finally asked. "It's mighty bad. I got stuck on a bunch of bananas, and lost thirty-two cents last week. Then oranges went down till you couldn't hardly see 'em, an' I bought a box when they was worth two dollars. It seems like as if every _I_talian in the city, what ain't blackin' boots, has started a fruit-stand, an' it's jest knocked the eye out of business." "I shouldn't think you could afford to lay 'round up here if it is as bad as all that." "It don't make any difference where I am now, 'cause I've busted; Plums, I've busted. Failed up yesterday, an' have got jest sixteen cents to my name." "Busted!" Master Plummer exclaimed. "Why, you told me you had more'n seven dollars when you started that fruit-stand down on West Street." "Seven dollars an' eighty-three cents was the figger, Plums, an' here's what's left of it." Joe took from his pocket a handful of pennies, counting them slowly to assure himself he had made no mistake in the sum total. Master Plummer was so overwhelmed by the sad tidings, that two intending purchasers passed him by after waiting several seconds to be served, and Joe reminded him of his inattention to business by saying, sharply: "Look here, Plums, you mustn't shut down on business jest 'cause I've busted. Why don't you sell papers when you get the chance?" "I didn't see anybody what wanted one. I'm jest knocked silly, Joe, about your hard luck. How did it happen?" "That's what I can't seem to make out. I kept on sellin' stuff, an' of course had to buy more; but every night the money was smaller an' smaller, till I didn't have much of any left." "I felt kind of 'fraid you was swellin' too big, Joe. When a feller agrees to give five dollars a month rent, an' hires a clerk for a dollar a week, same's you did, he's takin' a pretty good contract on his shoulders. Did you pay Sim Jepson his wages all right?" "Yes, I kept square with him, and I guess that's where most of my money went. Sim owns the stand now." "He owns it? Why, he was your clerk." "Don't you s'pose I know that? But he was gettin' a dollar a week clean money, an' it counted up in time. If things had been the other way, most likely I'd own the place to-day." Master Plummer was silent for an instant, and then a smile as of satisfaction overspread his fat face. "I'll tell you how to do it, Joe: hire out to Sim, an' after a spell you'll get the stand back ag'in." "That won't work; I tried it. You see, when it come yesterday, I owed him a dollar for wages, an' thirty cents I'd borrowed. There wasn't more'n ninety cents' worth of stuff in the stand, an' Sim said he'd got to be paid right sharp. Of course I couldn't raise money when I'd jest the same's failed, an' told him so. He offered to square things if I'd give him the business; an' what else could I do? I left there without a cent to my name; but earned a quarter last night, an' here's what's left of it." The ruined merchant mournfully jingled the coins in his hand, while he gazed dreamily at the railway structure overhead, and Master Plummer regarded him sympathetically. "What you goin' to do now?" the fat boy asked, after a long pause. "That's jest what I don't know, Plums. If I had the money, I reckon I'd take up shinin' for a spell, even if the _I_talians are knockin' the life out of business." "Why don't you sell papers, same's you used to?" "Well, you see when I went into the fruit-stand I sold out my rights 'round the City Hall, to Dan Fernald, an' it wouldn't be the square thing for me to jump in down there ag'in." "There's plenty of chances up-town." "I don't know about that. S'posen I started right here, then I'd be rubbin' against you; an' it's pretty much the same everywhere. I tell you, Plums, there's too many folks in this city. I ain't so certain but I shall go for a sailor; they say there's money in that business." "S'posen there was barrels in it, how could you get any out?" and in his astonishment that Joe should have considered such a plan even for a moment, Master Plummer very nearly grew excited. "You ain't big enough to shin up the masts, an' take in sails, an' all that sort of work, same's sailors have to do." "I'd grow to it, of course. I don't expect I could go down to the docks an' get a chance right off as a first-class hand on masts an' sails; but I shouldn't go on a vessel, you know, Plums. I'm countin' on a steamboat, where there ain't any shinnin' round to be done. Them fellers that run on the Sound steamers have snaps, that's what they have. You know my stand was on West Street, where I saw them all, and the money they spend! It don't seem like as if half a dollar was any account to 'em." "But what could you do on a steamboat?" "I don't know yet; but I'll snoop 'round before the summer's over, an' find out. Where you livin' now?" "Well, say, Joe, you can talk 'bout steamboat snaps; but this house of mine lays over 'em all. I s'pose I've got about the swellest layout in this city, an' don't have to give up a cent for it, either. First off McDaniels counted on chargin' me rent, an' after I'd been there a couple of days he said it didn't seem right to take money, 'cause the place wasn't fit for a dog. I'll tell you what it is, if McDaniels keeps his dogs in any better shanty than that, they must be livin' on the fat of the land." "Who's McDaniels?" "He's the blacksmith what owns the shanty where I live. You see, it was like this: I allers sold him a paper every afternoon, an' when it rained, or business was dull, I loafed 'round there, an' that's how I found the place." "Do you live in the blacksmith's shop?" "Well I should say I didn't! Right behind it is a shed he built, to keep a wagon in, but I guess he ain't got any now, leastways he don't flash one up. There was a lot of old iron an' the like of that thrown in at one end, an' when I saw it, I says to myself, says I, 'That's a mighty good shanty for some feller what don't want to give up all the money he makes for a place to sleep in,' and I began to figger how it could be fixed. It took me as much as two days before I could see into it, an' then I had it all in my mind; so I tackled McDaniels about hirin' it. He was willin', so long's I 'greed to be careful about fire, an'--well, if you're out of business now there's nothin' to keep you from comin' down to-night an' seein' it." "I'm not only out of business, but I'm out of a home, Plums. You see, when I sold the fruit-stand of course I hadn't any right to count on sleepin' there, an'--" "Didn't Sim Jepson offer you the chance?" "He seemed to think it wasn't big enough for two." "He didn't have any sich swell notions when you first started there, an' he wanted a place to sleep." "Yes, I remember all about that; but it's no use twittin' a feller. He was willin' enough to bunk in with me, but if he don't want to turn about an' give me the same show, it ain't any of my business." "Of course you can come to my place, an' stay jest as long as you want to, Joe, an' I'll be glad to have you; but if you're countin' on workin' down-town it won't be very handy." "I ain't certain but I'll try my luck hangin' 'round the _de_pot here waitin' for a chance to carry baggage. I've done them kind of jobs before, an' they didn't turn out so terrible bad. You see, with only sixteen cents, a feller can't spread hisself very much on goin' into business." "You might buy papers, an' sell 'em here. It ain't a very great show for trade, but you won't have to work very hard, an' there's a good deal in that." "Yes, Plums, there is, for a feller like you, what don't want to stir 'round much; but I'm ready to hustle, an' it wouldn't suit me nohow. You don't earn more'n fifteen or twenty cents a day." "Not a great deal more," Master Plummer replied, in a tone of content, and a probable customer approaching just at that moment, he succeeded in making sufficient exertion to offer his wares for sale. "That's jest about the way of it!" he exclaimed, as the gentleman passed into the building without giving heed to the paper held invitingly towards him. "There's no use to hustle 'round here, 'cause it don't pay. If they want to buy papers they buy 'em, an' if they don't, you can't give 'em away. There's one good thing about doin' business here, though, an' that is, the other fellers won't try to drive you out. It's mighty tough on you, droppin' all that money. If I'd had most eight dollars you can bet I wouldn't take the chances of losin' it. I'd sooner spend the whole pile buyin' swell dinners down on the Avenue." "Yes, it's tough," Joe replied, musingly; "but I'd a good deal rather get rid of the money tryin' to make more, than spend it fillin' myself up with hash. When do you knock off work?" "Oh, somewhere 'bout dark, 'less I've sold out before. Say, I know of a place where you can get the biggest bowl of stew in this city, for five cents,--'most all meat. Of course there'll be a bone now an' then,--you expect that; but it's rich! We'll go there to-night, eh?" "I ain't so certain whether a feller with only sixteen cents ought'er spend five of it fer stuff to eat," Joe replied, reflectively; "but if I make a few nickels 'tween now an' night, perhaps we'll take a whirl at it." "A feller's bound to eat, whether he makes anything or not. So long's you've got that much money you might as well enjoy yourself. Now I say it's best not to go hungry, else you can't do so much work, 'an then--" "I'll see you later," Joe interrupted, not caring just at the moment to listen to his friend's ideas on the subject of food, for it was well known among Master Plummer's acquaintances that his highest idea of happiness consisted in ministering to his stomach. The fat boy gazed after the ruined merchant until the latter was lost to view amid the throng of pedestrians, and then in a dreamy, indolent fashion he turned his attention once more to the business of selling newspapers to such of the passers-by as requested him to do so, murmuring mournfully from time to time: "Seven dollars an' eighty-three cents, an' a feller can buy custard pies two inches thick for a dime apiece!" Having assured himself of a lodging-place, and decided as to what business he should pursue, Joe Potter wasted no more time, but set about earning his livelihood in as cheery a fashion as if the depression in the fruit market had brought him great gains instead of dire failure. Before the night had come he was richer by forty cents, through having carried to their several destinations, a satchel for a gentleman, a basket containing a kitten for a lady, and a message for one of the employees at the station. "Business is boomin' right along. At this rate I guess I can afford to stand one of Plums's bowls of stew," he said to himself, in a tone of satisfaction, and was about to seek other employment when his name was called from a shop on the opposite side of the street. Turning quickly, he saw a boy with whom he had had slight acquaintance while in the fruit business, who stood in the door of the shop, and said, as Joe crossed the street: "I'm workin' here now. It's a good deal more tony than down on West Street. You ought'er move your stand up this way somewhere." "I haven't got any to move," Joe replied, and then explained why he was no longer connected with the business. The young clerk did not appear particularly surprised by the information. "I thought that's 'bout the way it would turn out, when I heard you hired Sim to help you. He's got the business, an' you've got the shake." "Sim was square with me," Joe replied, stoutly. "Well, I'm glad you think so, for you're the only one he ever acted square with, an' it wouldn't astonish me a bit to know he'd done you up." Joe was a boy who would not willingly listen to evil words against one he called a friend, and was about to begin a wordy war in Sim's behalf, when his friend's employer put an end to the conversation by demanding that the clerk "get in and attend to business." "I won't believe Sim ever did a thing crooked to me," Joe said, recrossing the street and taking up his station where he could have a full view of those who came from the building. "He saved his money while I was losin' mine, an' that's all there is to it. It seems like as if everybody wanted to jump on him 'cause he had sense enough to do jest what he has done." This was not the first time Master Potter had heard such an accusation against his late clerk, and, while he would not believe Sim had been dishonest, the suggestion so troubled him that he had some difficulty in banishing the matter from his mind. As the passengers from the incoming train appeared, he had other affairs than Sim's possible dishonesty to think about, as he did his best to attract the attention of those whom he thought might prove to be patrons. In this manner, but yet without earning any more money, the remainder of the afternoon was passed, and when one by one the electric lights began to appear, telling that the day had come to a close, he decided it was time to seek out Master Plummer. Now the thought of that bowl of stew for five cents was particularly pleasing, and he had made up his mind to indulge in such a hearty meal, when a little tot of a girl, who could not have been more than three years old, came out from among the throng of pedestrians and stood looking up into Joe's face. "Well, say, but you are a dandy!" Master Potter exclaimed, in genuine admiration, as he surveyed the tiny figure, allowing his eyes to dwell almost lovingly upon the sweet, baby face. "You are a dandy, an' no mistake; but them as owns you must be crazy to let sich a mite of a thing snoop 'round here alone." The child came nearer, and Joe stooped down to look at her more closely, for she was the most dainty little maid he had ever seen. "I'd ask you to speak to me if I was any ways fit," he said, holding out a not over-cleanly hand. The little maid must have judged the boy by his face rather than his apparel, for hardly had he spoken when she came boldly towards him and laid her tiny hand on his cheek with a caressing movement that captivated Joe immediately. "Talk about daisies! Why, you're a corker! You look jest like a pink an' blue image I've seen in the shop windows. What's your name?" "Essie," the little lady replied, and added what may have been words; but might equally well be Greek so far as Joe was concerned. "What's that you say? I didn't jest catch on." Miss Essie cooed at him once more, and Joe winked and blinked, trying most earnestly to understand what she said; but all to no purpose. Then he stood erect, fearing lest the little maid's parents should appear and reprove him for having dared to speak to her; but the moments passed and no one came to claim the child. It was evident Essie had not been accustomed to neglect, for when Joe ceased speaking, she put a tiny little hand in his and told him in her childish dialect what may have been a very interesting story. Joe looked at the pink hand, and then at his own soiled palm. "I'd give a nickel if I was a little bit cleaner! It seems like it was wicked to hold her hand while mine is so dirty. She takes the shine off of anything I ever saw before. Say, Essie, where's your mamma?" "Mamma dorn," and the little lady clutched Joe's finger yet more tightly. "Well, say, do you s'pose this kid's lost?" and now Joe began to look alarmed. "Anybody what would lose their grip of a dandy little thing like her ought to be horsewhipped, an' I'd like to do it." Again he tried to get some information from the little maid, and again she replied readily; but Joe was no wiser than before. The night had come; those who passed this way or that on the sidewalk moved rapidly as if in haste to get home; but no one gave any heed to the ruined fruit merchant or the charming little child by his side. "Look here, baby," Joe said, after what seemed to him like a long time of waiting, and no one came to claim the child, "will you let me take you up in my arms, if I try not to muss your clothes? I'm 'fraid folks can't see sich a bit of a thing down there, an' I'll hold you high, so's your mother can find you easier." Miss Essie certainly understood something of what the fruit merchant said, for she held out her hands towards him as if to be taken, and he lifted her carefully, saying, as he did so: "It's pretty rough for a feller like me to handle a kid like her! It seems like I was holdin' some of that swell candy you see in the shop windows. It'll be a wonder if I don't daub her all up with my great, dirty hands. I never knew how big they was till she took hold of 'em." The little maid must have thought he was speaking for her especial benefit, for she made reply in language which apparently gave her the most intense satisfaction, but failed to enlighten Master Potter, and during perhaps five minutes the two stood on the sidewalk near the curbstone, jostled rudely now and then by the homeward-bound throng, but seeing no one who laid claim to the baby. "This won't do at all," Joe said. "It ain't right for you to stay out in the night, and I don't know what's to be done, unless you could stand it for a spell in Plums's shanty. Say, I wonder if that wouldn't go down? Will you be willin' to hang 'round with us till mornin', if I buy a slat of good things? When it comes daylight I can find your folks without much trouble, 'cause of course they'll be right here huntin', don't you see? Is it a go?" From what the little maid said, Joe concluded it was a "go," and, since she made no protest when he walked swiftly down towards where he knew his fat and hungry friend would be waiting for him, believed he had chosen such a course as met with her approval. CHAPTER II. THE PRINCESS. It was no easy task for Joe Potter to carry his burden, light though it was, amid the throng of pedestrians, without being pushed rudely here or there by those who were so intent upon their own business or pleasure as to give but little heed to the boy and the child. Had he been alone, he could readily have forced a passage, but fearing lest the little maid might be injured by rough contact with one or the other, he proceeded so cautiously as to make but slight headway, until, forsaking the sidewalk, he betook himself to the street. There was a fear in his mind lest Master Plummer, grown weary with long waiting, had gone home, and this would have been a serious matter, because Joe had no idea as to the whereabouts of his friend's lodgings. Once out of the throng, he pressed on at a swift pace until he was nearly overturned by a boy coming from the opposite direction, whom he had failed to see in the shadows. "What's the matter with you, chump? Can't you see where you're goin'?" he cried, angrily, and the tightening of the little maid's arm around his neck told that she was frightened. "How much of this street do you own? Why don't you mind your--Hello, Joe Potter, is that you?" and the ruined merchant recognised the voice as that of his friend with whom he had spoken a short time before in front of the fruit store. "'Course it's me. You ought'er look out how you run 'round here, when folks has got babies in their arms." "I didn't see you, Joe, an' that's a fact. Where'd you get the kid?" "She's lost, I reckon, an' I'm takin' her home for to-night," Joe replied, and, without waiting to make further explanation, hastened on, leaving his friend, the clerk, staring after him in open-mouthed astonishment. "Don't you be afraid, little one," Joe said, as Essie clung yet more tightly to him. "They sha'n't hurt you, an' if there's any more funny business of runnin' into us tried, I'll break the feller's jaw what does it." The child seemed reassured by the sound of his voice, and at once began to tell him something which was evidently interesting to herself. "If I could understand what you say, things would be all right," Joe said, with a laugh, and then, as he emerged from the shadows cast by the overhead railway structure, he came face to face with Master Plummer. "Well, I'd begun to think you never was comin'," that young gentleman began, but ceased speaking very suddenly, as he observed the burden in Joe's arms. "What you got there?" "Can't you see for yourself?" and Joe lowered the little maid gently to the sidewalk, that Master Plummer might have a full view of his treasure. "Well, I'll be blowed! Where'd you get it?" "She's lost, 'cordin' to my way of thinkin', an' I've been tryin' to find her folks, but it's no use huntin' 'round in the night, an' I'll tell you what it is, Plums, we've got to take care of her till mornin'." "Take care of her! What's creepin' on you, Joe Potter? How do you think we're goin' to look after a kid like that?" "I don't know why we can't," Joe replied, sharply. "It'll be pretty tough if a couple of fellers ain't able to tend out on a mite of a thing such as her. Say, Plums, don't she look like somethin' you see in the store windows?" "She's fine as silk, there's no gettin' over that," and Master Plummer would have touched one pink-and-white cheek but that his friend prevented him. "Now don't go to hurtin' her! She's in hard luck enough as it is, without your mussin' her all up." "Who's a-hurtin' of her? I was jest goin' to put one finger on her cheek." "There's no need of doin' so much as that. It might frighten the little thing, and besides, she's too fine to be handled by you and me, Plums. She's a reg'lar little princess, that's what she is," and Joe raised the child quickly, as if to remove the temptation from Master Plummer's path. "What's her name?" the fat boy asked, as he gazed admiringly at the child. "I can't seem to make out, she talks so queer," and as if to illustrate his meaning, Joe's princess began to chatter, while she clasped both tiny arms around her self-elected guardian's neck. "Well, say, I'd give up what I made this afternoon jest for the sake of havin' her hug me like that! Ain't she a daisy?" "It would be mighty hard to find anything finer in this town." "That's a fact; but say, Joe, it's no kind of use, your talkin' 'bout our takin' care of her, 'cause it can't be done." "I'd like to know why?" "Jest run your eye over her, an' then look at us! Why, she's been kept rolled up in silk all the time, an' you talk 'bout takin' her down to the blacksmith's shop!" There was little need for Master Plummer to make further explanation. Joe had so thoroughly lost himself in admiration of the treasure he had found that, until this moment, he had not realised how poor was the home to which he proposed to carry her. Now he looked about him in perplexity, and the princess, impatient because of the delay and her guardian's silence, began to protest most vehemently. "See here, Plums, we've _got_ to take her down to your place, an' that's all there is to it! There ain't any chance of findin' her folks to-night, so what else can we do?" "It's goin' to be mighty tough on her," Master Plummer replied, with a shake of the head, and Joe put an end to further discussion by starting off at a rapid pace down the street, regardless of the fact that he was in ignorance of the whereabouts of his friend's lodging-place. The princess, satisfied now that they were moving, cooed and chattered in Joe's ear, much to his delight, and Master Plummer was forced to follow or allow himself to be left behind. "There's no use in rushin' as if we hadn't another minute to live," he cried, when, by dint of rapid running, he overtook his friend. "I don't like to race 'round when we can jest as well go slow." "It would be a good deal better if you walked fast once in awhile, 'cause then you wouldn't be so fat." "S'pose I'd rather be fat than as lean as some fellers I know?" "Then it would be all right to creep along the street same's we're doin' now. Say, how far off is your shanty?" "Down here a bit; but you don't count on goin' right there, do you?" "Why not? Where else should we go?" "Seems to me it would be better to get that stew first, an' then we sha'n't have to come out again to-night." "Look here, Plums," and Joe spoke sharply, "do you think I'm goin' to take the princess into a place where they sell five-cent stews?" "She's got to go somewhere, if she wants anything to eat." "We'll bring her supper to your shanty. I won't carry this little thing into a saloon for a crowd of toughs to look at." Master Plummer sighed. He had been anticipating a feast of stew from the moment Joe left him to engage in his new vocation, and it was a grievous disappointment that the pleasure should be so long delayed. "We'll go down to your place an' try an' fix things up; then you can leave us there--" "But you want somethin' to eat as well as I do." "I guess I can get along without anything, for a spell. It's the princess I'm thinkin' about; she's got to have somethin' fine, you know. Stew'd never do for her." "How's custard pie? I know where they've got some that's great,--two inches thick, with the crust standin' up 'round the edge so the inside won't fall out while you're eatin' it." "Perhaps the princess might like the custard; but I ain't so sure about the crust. It seems to me she's been fed mostly on candy, an' sich stuff as that. Anyhow, you take my money an' buy whatever you think she'd like. Got any candles down to your place?" "I did have one last week; but the rats ate most of it, an' I don't s'pose it would burn very well now." "Take this nickel, an' buy some in that grocery store." "Why don't you come, too?" "I don't believe the princess would like to go into sich a place, an' besides, folks might want to take hold of her. I ain't goin' to have any Dutch groceryman slobberin' over her." Master Plummer took the nickel and crossed the street in his ordinarily slow fashion, while Joe and the princess held a long and animated conversation, to the evident satisfaction of the little maid and the mystification of the boy. Owing to his being thus engaged, Joe did not grow impatient because of Master Plummer's long absence, as he might have done under other circumstances, and said to his princess when the newsdealer rejoined them: "Now, little one, we're goin' to Plums's home, an' you must try not to feel bad 'cause it ain't very swell. It's bound to be better'n stayin' out in the street all night, for I've tried that game a good many times, an' there's nothin' funny 'bout it." The little maid, perched on Joe's arm something after the fashion of a bird, chirped and twittered a reply, and Plums, who had fallen in the rear that he might secretly touch the arm which was around Joe's neck, said, reflectively: "I s'pose we'll have a high old time between now and mornin', 'cause that kid, sweet as she's lookin' jest now, ain't goin' to be quiet in a place like mine. It's fellers like you an' me, Joe, who've knocked 'round the city a good many times when we didn't have the price of a lodgin' in our pockets, what can 'preciate a home where the wind an' rain can't get in." "You're talkin' straight enough, Plums, an' I 'gree to all you say; but this 'ere princess ain't like the general run of kids,--that you could see if you was blind. She's a reg'lar swell, an' you can bet there won't be any kick 'cause we ain't stoppin' at the Walledoff. Couldn't you get a little more of a move on? At this rate we sha'n't have supper much before mornin'." Master Plummer was willing to comply with this request, and did indeed appear to be making strenuous efforts to walk at a more rapid pace; but having patterned after a snail so many years, it seemed impossible for him to overcome what had become a habit. Not once during the short journey did the princess make any protest against the plan her temporary guardian had suggested. She was very comfortable, and although Joe's arms ached from long holding the light burden, she knew it not,--perhaps it would have made no difference had she been aware of the fact. Finally, and after what had seemed a very long journey to the princess's guardian, the little party arrived in front of the blacksmith's shop, and Master Plummer conducted his guests through a narrow alley to the rear of the building, where was a small, shed-like structure, the end of which was open, save for a pile of boxes and boards directly in front of it. "This is the place," Master Plummer said, with an air of proprietorship; "an' seein's you've got the kid in your arms, I'd better light a candle so's you can see the way, 'cause there's a lot of stuff out here at this end. I've been countin' on clearin' it up some day, but can't seem to find the time. Besides, it wouldn't make any difference to us,--it's only 'cause we've got the princess to lodge with us that I'd like to see it a little cleaner. Say, Joe, what _is_ a princess, anyhow?" "Why, it's a--you see, it's--it's a--well, look at her, can't you see? That's what it is. _She's_ a princess. Now don't be all night lightin' one candle." It did really appear as if Plums was even slower than usual, and so awkward that two matches were consumed before the wick was ignited. "You see I don't often swell out in so much style as to have candles, an' it takes me quite a spell to get one goin'," he said, in an apologetic tone. "She's all right now, though. Jest come 'round the end of that box, an' look out for this pile of iron, 'cause you might trip. There _would_ be a mess if your princess was dumped down on this stuff." "You get on with the candle, an' I'll see to the rest of the business," Joe said, impatiently, for by this time his arms ached severely. Master Plummer obeyed, and a moment later Joe and the princess were surveying the home, which occupied six square feet or more in one corner of the shed, was walled in by barrels and boxes, and furnished with a pile of straw and a disreputable-looking gray blanket. "I've slept here some mighty cold nights, an' I know jest how good the place is," the proprietor said, proudly. "She's tight as a brick, an' there can't so much as a sniff of wind get in. Then look here!" He raised the lid of a small box, thereby displaying two tin tomato cans in which were fragments of biscuits, a broken cup half full of sugar, two wooden plates, a knife, a fork, and a spoon. "When trade is dull, I buy stuff at the grocery store, an' bring it in here. Why, Joe, things will keep jest as well in that box as they would in one of your tony 'frigerators, an' I ain't sure but it's better. I have had ice in there two or three days, though I don't know as it 'mounted to anything 'cept to wet everything." Joe gave little heed to his friend's cupboard. He was looking around for some spot where the princess could sit down without danger of soiling her garments, but failed to find that for which he sought. "See here, Plums, you'll have to spread some papers over that blanket; it'll never do to put this little thing down where everything is so dirty." "I don't see what there is 'round here that's dirty. It seems like she couldn't come to much harm on the straw. It's only been here two weeks." "Put the papers down, an' we'll talk 'bout it afterwards. It seems as though my arms would break." Master Plummer obeyed, but with an ill grace, for this fault-finding without reason was not agreeable. There was no lack of newspapers in the house, and in as short a time as Plums could compass it the straw was covered. It was with a long breath of relief that Joe sat his charming burden down, and then were the boys treated to an exhibition of the princess's temper. Cleanly though the couch was, she had no idea of sitting bolt upright when there were two subjects at hand to obey her wishes. She positively refused to be seated, but held out her hands as if for Joe to take her in his arms once more, and when the boy attempted to explain that it was necessary she remain there a few moments, the little maiden made protest at the full strength of her lungs. "I guess I'll have to take her up again," Joe said, with a long-drawn sigh, "an' I don't know as she's to be blamed for not wantin' to stay there." "Well, I'd never believed anything so pretty could screech so loud!" Master Plummer exclaimed, in a tone of wonderment. "She yells jest 'bout the same's old Mis' Carter's kids do, an' there's nothin' swell about them." Joe made no reply. He was too deeply engaged in trying to hush the princess to give any heed to his friend's remark, and fully five minutes passed before the imperious little maid was reduced to silence. Then she nestled down in his arms with such apparent content, and looked so charming, that he was her willing slave, without one disagreeable thought concerning her temper. "If my face was washed, I'd kiss her this minute," he said, half to himself, and immediately Master Plummer looked jealous. "If you can do that, I reckon I can." "Well, there won't either of us try it yet awhile, so s'posin' you go after your supper, an' bring something for the princess when you come back. Don't be gone any longer'n you can help, will you, Plums, 'cause she must be gettin' hungry by this time." "I'll take the cans an' get the stew in them, else I'd be gone quite a spell if I waited to eat my share. Will I buy custard pie for her?" "Yes, an' anything else you think she'd like. Don't get cheap stuff, 'cause she ain't used to it." Then Joe emptied the contents of his pocket in Master Plummer's hands, and the latter asked, in surprise: "Are you goin' to spend the whole of this?" "It don't seem as though you'd have to, an' besides, we ought to leave a little something for breakfast. Do the best you can, Plums." With an air of responsibility, the proprietor of the establishment walked slowly out, and Joe was left alone with his baby. Swaying his body to and fro to delude her with the idea of being rocked, Master Potter did his best to please the princess, and evidently succeeded, for in a very short time after Plums had departed, the sleep-elves soothed her eyelids with their poppy wands until she crossed over into dreamland. Now Joe would have laid the tiny maid on the straw to give relief to his arms, but each time he attempted anything of the kind she moved uneasily, as if on the point of awakening, and he was forced to abandon the effort. "I must be a chump if I can't hold a bit of a thing like her till she's through sleepin'," he said to himself, "an' I ought'er be mighty glad to have such a chance." It was monotonous work, this playing the nurse while seated on the ground with no support to his back; but never for a moment, not even when his arms ached the hardest, did Joe Potter regret having taken upon himself such a charge. He had given little heed as to how the princess's parents might be found, because he believed that would prove an exceedingly simple task. He had only to go to the railroad station in the morning, and there deliver the child to her mother, who, as a matter of course, would be in waiting. There was never a thought in his mind that, by bringing her to this home of Master Plummer's, he had in fact secreted her from those who must at that moment be making eager search. He had done what seemed to him fitting under all the circumstances, and felt well satisfied that no one could have cared for the child in a better fashion, save in the matter of lodgings, which last left much to be desired. After a time, Joe succeeded in so far changing his position that it was possible to gain the use of one hand, and immediately this had been done, he set about carefully covering the princess's garments with a newspaper, lest he himself should soil the fabrics. Then there was nothing to do save wait the leisurely movements of Plums, and it seemed as if fully an hour passed before that young gentleman finally made his appearance. "If I haven't got all you fellers can eat, then I'm mistaken," Master Plummer announced, in an exceedingly loud tone as he entered the building; and Joe whispered, hoarsely: "What are you makin' sich a row for? If you ain't careful, you'll wake the princess." "Well, I'll be blowed, if she ain't gone to sleep jest like any of Mis' Carter's kids would do!" Plums said, in a tone of surprise, when he was where a view could be had of the sleeping child. "Of course she has. You don't s'pose swells sleep different from other folks, do you?" "I don't know, 'cause I never had a chance to see one close to, before. Say, here's the stuff." Plums was literally laden with small packages, and, in addition, had the two tomato cans nearly filled with what he declared was "great stew." "I tell you there's no flies on that stuff, an' here's the pie," he added, as he took a parcel wrapped in brown paper from under his arm. "I'm 'fraid it's got mashed a little, but I couldn't carry it any other way. Takin' the stew an' that, with what other things I've got, it'll be funny if your princess can't fill herself up in great shape." Then, from one pocket and another, Master Plummer drew out two small cakes frosted with white and sprinkled with red sugar, three inches or more of Bologna sausage, a cruller, a small bag of peanuts, an apple, and two sticks of candy which looked much the worse for wear, because of having been placed in his pocket without a covering. "Now if that ain't rich enough for any feller's blood, I'd like to know what you'd call it? Three or four princesses like your'n ought'er get through with a layout same's this, an' thank their lucky stars for havin' the chance." CHAPTER III. AN ADVERTISEMENT. Having placed the packages on the straw near about his friend, in what he believed to be a most tempting display, Master Plummer seemed to consider that his duties as host had been performed properly, and gave himself wholly up to the pleasures of eating. With one of the tomato cans between his knees, he gave undivided attention to the savoury stew, until, the first pangs of hunger having been appeased, he noted, as if in surprise, that Joe was not joining in the feast. "Why ain't you eatin' somethin'?" he asked, speaking indistinctly because of the fullness of his mouth. "I don't see how it can be done while the princess is asleep." "Put her down on the blanket, where she belongs. You don't count on holdin' her all night, I hope?" "It looks like I'd have to. Jest the minute I stir she begins to fuss 'round, an'--" "Well, let her fuss. Old Mis' Carter says kids wouldn't be healthy if they didn't kick up a row every once in awhile." "I guess she won't be sick any to speak of, if we keep her quiet till mornin'. The trouble is, Plums, there's bound to be an awful row jest as soon as she wakes up an' finds out where she is. I s'pose she's been tended like she was a piece of glass, an' the shanty must look pretty hard to her. You can tell by the way she acts that the princess has always had a reg'lar snap, an' I wouldn't be s'prised if this was the meanest place she was ever in." "She'll be lucky never to get in a worse one," Master Plummer replied, emphatically; and added, after having filled his mouth once more, "There's no reason why you can't eat your share of the stew an' hold her at the same time." "I'm 'fraid I might spill some of it on her dress." "Look here, Joe Potter," and now Plums spoke sharply, "you'll be all wore up before mornin', carryin' on at this rate. It wouldn't hurt that kid a bit if she had every drop of stew we've got, on her clothes, an' she's playin' in big luck to be with us instead of walkin' 'round the streets. Take your share of the stuff while it's goin', for of course you haven't had anything to eat since noon." "I had a pretty fair breakfast." "An' nothin' since then?" Master Plummer cried, in astonishment. "Well, I wasn't hungry,--that is, not very. You see, when a feller closes up business, the same's I've done, he don't think much 'bout eatin'." "Well, think about it now, an' _do_ it, too!" Having thus spoken, and in his sternest tones, Plums placed the second can of stew where his friend could reach it conveniently, and waited until Joe had so changed his position that it was possible for him to partake of the food. No better proof of Master Plummer's interest in his friend could have been given than when he thus voluntarily ceased eating to serve him. The boys had not attempted to remove either the princess's hat or cloak, and she appeared anything rather than comfortable as she lay wrapped in newspapers, with her head pillowed on Joe's arm; but yet her slumbers were not disturbed when Master Potter, his appetite aroused by the odour of the stew, proceeded to make a hearty meal. "I s'pose we ought'er wake her up, so's she'll get somethin' to eat," Joe said, thoughtfully, and Plums replied, very decidedly: "Don't you do anything of the kind. So long's a kid's quiet you'd better leave 'em alone, 'cause it ain't safe to stir 'em up 'less you want a reg'lar row." "Of course that wouldn't do; but say, Plums, if she keeps on sleepin' like this, it won't have been a terrible hard job to take care of her." "Not 'less you count on holdin' her all night." Joe was already cramped from sitting so long in one position, and as if his friend's remark had reminded him of the fact, he made another effort to relieve himself of the burden, this time being successful. The princess moved uneasily when she was first laid upon the bed of straw, and the boys literally held their breath in suspense, fearing she would awaken; but, after a few moments, the child lay quietly, and Plums said, in a tone of satisfaction: "I know a good bit about kids, I do, 'cause old Mis' Carter had sich a raft of 'em, an' I lived with her 'most a year. The right way is to chuck 'em 'round jest as you want to, an' they'll stand it; but once you begin to fuss with 'em, there's no end of a row." "The princess ain't anything like Mis' Carter's youngsters." "No, I don't know as she is; but I guess the same kind of handlin' will fetch her 'round all right in the long run. Can't you eat some peanuts?" "I've had enough, an', besides, we must leave somethin' to give the princess, 'cause she'll be hungry in the mornin'." "Yes, I s'pose we must. It always makes me feel bad to stop when there's good things in the house," and Master Plummer told his friend of the "great time" he had had on a certain rainy day, when it would have been useless to attend to business, and the larder was well filled. "I kept right on eatin', from mornin' till it was time to go to bed; didn't rush, you know, but stuck at it." "Didn't it make you sick?" "Well, I did have a pretty bad ache before mornin'; but jest as likely as not that would have come whether I'd eat anything or not. Mis' Carter says if I don't stop bein' so hungry all the time I'll fill up a glutton's grave, but how can a feller keep from wantin' something to eat?" "I don't s'pose it's anybody's business, Plums, what you do, so long as you pay the bills; but it does seem to me that it would be better if you'd get on more of a hustle when you're at work, an' stop thinkin' so much about vittles. I can't see how you earn money enough to keep this thing up." "Seems like I've got some push to me if I do it, don't it?" Master Plummer replied, complacently, and there the conversation came to an end. Plums, having ministered to his appetite, stretched himself at full length on the ground, and it seemed to Joe as if he had but just assumed that position when his heavy breathing told that he had fallen asleep. Now and then from the street beyond could be heard the rumbling of a carriage, sounding unusually loud owing to the stillness of the night. At intervals the hum of voices told that belated seekers after pleasure were returning home, and, in fact, everything reminded the ruined fruit merchant that the time for rest was at hand. Joe's eyelids were heavy with sleep, yet he resisted the impulse to close them, because it seemed necessary he should watch over the princess. The candle, having burned down to the neck of the bottle in which it had been placed, spluttered and fretted because its life was so nearly at an end, and Joe replaced it with a fresh one. With his back against the box which served as cupboard, he sat watching the little maid with a strong determination not to indulge in sleep, and even as he repeated for the twentieth time that it was necessary he remain awake, his eyes closed in slumber. It was yet dark, and the second candle nearly consumed, when the princess suddenly opened her big, brown eyes, and during a single instant looked about her in silent astonishment. Then, as the only way by which she could express her displeasure with her surroundings, the child opened her tiny mouth to its fullest extent, and from the little pink throat came as shrill a scream as was ever uttered by one of "old Mis' Carter's kids." Joe Potter was on his feet instantly, and during the first few seconds after being thus rudely awakened was at a loss to understand exactly where he was, or what had aroused him. The princess introduced herself to his attention very quickly, however, for she was a maid who had ever received, and was ever ready to demand, attention. Joe had her in his arms as soon as might be, but just at this moment it was her mother she wanted, and the friendship previously displayed for her new guardian was forgotten. In other words, the princess screamed passionately; Joe walked to and fro with her in his arms, whispering soothing words which did not soothe; and through all the uproar Master Plummer slumbered as sweetly as an infant. "I know what you want, you poor little thing; but how am I goin' to get it for you to-night? Why won't you try to make the best of it till mornin', an' then we'll be sure to find your folks? Here, eat some of these peanuts; they must be awful good, 'cordin' to the way Plums pitched into 'em last night." The princess had no appetite for peanuts just then, and, as the readiest way of giving her guardian such information, she struck the outstretched hand with her tiny fist, sending the nuts flying in every direction. Joe was considerably surprised that such a dainty-looking little maiden could display so much temper, but did not relax his efforts to please. One of the sugared cakes had escaped Master Plummer's cyclonic appetite, and with this the amateur nurse tried to tempt the screaming child into silence. The cake shared the fate of the peanuts, and the princess gave every evidence in her power of a positive refusal to be soothed. Joe had tossed her in the air, fondled her in his arms, paced to and fro as if walking for a wager, but all without avail, and now it seemed necessary he should have assistance. Master Plummer's rest had not been disturbed by the noise, but he rose to a sitting posture very suddenly when Joe kicked him almost roughly. "Wha--wha--what's the matter?" he asked, blinking in the light of the candle, which was directly in front of his eyes. "I should think you might know by this time! Can't you hear the princess?" "I thought there'd be a row if she waked up," Master Plummer replied, in a matter-of-fact tone, and then he laid himself down again, evidently intending to continue the interrupted nap. "See here, Plums, you can't do that!" Joe cried, sharply. "I mustn't be left alone with this poor little thing. It ain't certain but she'll die, she's so frightened." "Don't fret yourself. She'll come out of it after a spell; all Mis' Carter's kids used to." "But she isn't like them, I tell you! They could stand 'most anything, an' she's been raised different." "She cries jest the same's they did." "Look here, George Plummer, get up on your feet an' help me! This thing is growin' dangerous!" Plums had no fear the princess would injure herself by crying; but his friend spoke so sternly that he decided it was wisest to obey the command, and a very sleepy-looking boy he was, as he stood yawning and rubbing his eyes, with an expression of discontent amounting almost to peevishness upon his face. "There ain't anything either you or I can do. Youngsters have to yell jest about so much,--it makes 'em healthy,--an' she'll quiet down after a spell. Why don't you give her somethin' to eat?" "I tried that, but she wouldn't take a single crumb. The trouble is, we haven't got what she wants. Now, if there was some milk in the house--" "But there ain't, so what's the use thinkin' of that?" "It must be near mornin', an' if there is a bakeshop anywhere 'round, you could get some." "Do you want a feller to turn out in the night an' travel 'round the streets lookin' for milk?" Plums asked, indignantly. "It is better to do that than have a dear little baby like this die." "But there's no danger anything of that kind will happen. I've seen lots of worse scrapes than this, but they always ended up all right." "Look here, Plums, will you go out an' get some milk?" "What's the use--" "_Will_ you go an' get the milk?" Just for an instant Master Plummer stood irresolute, as if questioning the necessity for such severe exertion, and then a single glance at his friend's face decided the matter. In silence, but with a decided show of temper, the fat boy picked up one of the tomato-cans, jammed his battered hat down over his head, and stalked out of the shanty. During this brief conversation the princess's outcries had neither ceased nor diminished in volume, and when Plums had thus unwillingly departed, it was as if she redoubled her efforts. Unfortunately, Joe had had no experience with "old Mis' Carter's kids," and when the child's face took on a purplish hue, he was thoroughly alarmed, believing her to be dying. "Don't, baby dear, don't! You'll kill yourself if you act this way! I'm doin' the best I know how; but the trouble is, I can't tell what you want!" Entreaties were as useless as any of his other efforts to soothe, yet he alternately begged her to be silent, and paced to and fro with her in his arms, until, when it seemed to him that at least one whole night must have passed since she awakened, the princess tired of her exertions. Then it was a tear-stained, grief-swollen face that he looked into, and the childish sobs which escaped her lips gave him deeper pain than had her most energetic outcries. Believing her to be suffering severely, the big tears of sympathy rolled down Joe's face as he told her again and again of all he would do towards finding her mother when the day had come. The princess was lying quietly in Joe's arms when Master Plummer finally returned, bringing the can of milk, and yawning as if he had been asleep during the entire journey and had but just awakened. "Now you can see that it was jest as I said!" he exclaimed. "When youngsters start in yellin', they've got to do about so much of it, an' there's no use tryin' to stop 'em. Here I've walked all over this city huntin' for milk when I might jest as well have been sleepin'." "It won't do you any harm, Plums, an' I honestly think the princess is hungry." "She can't be very bad off, with Bologna, an' cakes, an' peanuts 'round. I'll bet she won't touch this." Joe broke into the milk such fragments of cracker as remained in the cupboard-box, after which, and first wiping the spoon carefully on his coat sleeve, he began to feed the little maid. [Illustration: "HE BEGAN TO FEED THE LITTLE MAID."] To Master Plummer's disappointment, she ate almost greedily, and Joe said, in a tone of triumph: "You may know a good deal 'bout Mis' Carter's babies, but you're way off when it comes to one of this kind." "I don't know whether I am or not," and Plums laid himself down once more, falling asleep, or pretending to, almost immediately thereafter. Having eaten with evident relish the food which had cost Plums so much labour, the princess's ill-temper vanished entirely, and she twittered and chirped to Joe until he forgot his former fears and anxieties in the love which sprang up in his heart for the tiny maid who was dependent upon him for a shelter. The day was close at hand when the amateur nurse and his charge journeyed into dreamland for the second time, and although Joe had gained but little rest during the night, his slumbers were not so profound but that a hum of shrill voices near the building awakened him very shortly afterward. The one fear in his mind was that the princess would be disturbed, and he stepped quickly outside the shanty to learn the cause of the noise. "Here he is! Here he is now! We was in big luck to come 'round this way!" one of a party of boys said, excitedly, and Joe recognised in these early visitors three friends and business acquaintances, all of whom were looking very serious, and evidently labouring under great excitement. "What's brought you fellers up to this part of the town so early?" Joe asked, in surprise, and Dan Fernald, who had under his arm a bundle of morning papers, said, in a mournful tone: "We've come after you." "What for? I'm goin' to hang 'round here a spell till I can get enough money ahead to go into business ag'in. Did you fellers think I'd be so mean as to sell papers 'round City Hall after I'd sold out to Dan?" "It ain't anything like that, Joe Potter," Master Fernald replied, so gravely that the princess's guardian could not fail of being alarmed. "What's floatin' over you fellers?" he asked, sharply. "Ain't been gettin' into trouble, have you?" "We're all right; but there's somethin' mighty wrong 'bout you, Joe. Say, did you do anything crooked when you sold that stand to Sim Jepson?" "Crooked? Why, how could I? He'd been workin' for me at a dollar a week, an' when I hadn't any more money, he took the stand for what I owed him. If you call it crooked to sell out a business for a dollar an' twenty cents, when it cost pretty nigh eight times as much, you're off your base." "Then what _have_ you been doin'?" Tim Morgan asked. By this time Joe began to understand that something serious had caused this early visit, and he began to grow alarmed, without knowing why it should disturb him. "I don't want you to make any noise 'round here, 'cause Plums an' me have got a kid what we picked up in the street last night, an' she's asleep. It won't do to wake her 'less you want to hear the tallest kind of screechin'. But I've got to know what's givin' you fellers the chills; so out with it, but be as quiet as you can." Dan Fernald looked at his comrades as if hoping one of them would act as spokesman; but since both remained silent, he began by saying: "See here, Joe, you know we're your friends, an' are willin' to do all we can to help you out of a scrape?" "Yes," Master Potter replied, growing yet more alarmed because of Dan's solemn manner. "If you'd come right to us in the first place, we'd helped you, no matter how much money was wanted." "Look here, Dan, don't give me a stiff like this!" Joe cried, imploringly. "If anything's wrong, out with it, 'stead of mumblin' 'bout helpin' me. I've allers managed to help myself, and you fellers, too, a good many times, so I don't know why you should stand 'round lookin' like as if somethin' was chewin' you." "If we wasn't your friends, Joe, you might give us a bluff like that, an' even if we didn't take it, we'd make out as though we did. See here," and unfolding a newspaper, Dan pointed to an advertisement, as he added, "I saw this almost 'fore I got out of the _Herald_ office, an' didn't stop for anything but jest to pick up Tim an' Jerry before I come to find you." Joe looked at each of his friends in turn before taking the proffered paper, and then, after considerable difficulty because of the necessity of spelling out each word in turn, he read the following: JOSEPH POTTER. Information wanted of a newsboy or fruit vendor answering to the name of Joseph Potter. He was last seen in front of the Grand Central Station at about seven o'clock on the evening of yesterday (Tuesday), holding in his arms a child three years old. A liberal reward will be paid for information as to the present whereabouts of the boy. Address Cushman & Morton, Attorneys at Law, 47-1/2 Pine Street, New York. Immediately below this was an advertisement signed with the same names, requesting information concerning a little girl who had strayed from the Grand Central Station and was last seen in the company of a newsboy; but this Joe did not read. The fact that he was advertised for, as if he had been a fugitive from justice, terrified him. He could not so much as speak; but looked alternately at the printed sheet and his companions, until Dan said, sternly: "Now, Joe, you can tell us 'bout this thing or not, jest as you have a mind. What we've come for is to help you get clear, an' we're bound to do it." "Get clear of what?" Joe repeated, in bewilderment. "You know better'n we do, an' I ain't askin' questions if you think it ought'er be kept secret from us." "But I haven't been doin' anything that wasn't square," Joe replied, with a trembling voice. "Then what's a couple of lawyers advertisin' you for?" Tim Morgan asked, shrilly. "Do you s'pose sich folks want'er catch a feller what sells papers, jest to look at him?" [Illustration: "DAN POINTED TO AN ADVERTISEMENT."] "See here, Tim, you know me, an' you know I never did a mean thing to anybody in my life." "Then what they advertisin' yer for?" "Say, fellers, I wouldn't try to make out--" "Now, Joe, this ain't any time for you to stuff us," Dan Fernald said, impatiently. "If you hadn't done anything crooked, your name wouldn't be right there in them big letters. You've allers been willin' to do us a good turn, an' we're goin' to pay you back. You've _got_ to skip! An' you've got to skip bloomin' quick!" CHAPTER IV. JOE'S FLIGHT. It was literally impossible for Joe Potter to make any reply to Dan Fernald's positive statement that he must run away in order to escape punishment. As a matter of course he knew he had done nothing of a criminal nature, and yet the advertisement, which seemed to stand out more conspicuously than any other item in the paper, could not be construed either by himself or his companions to mean anything else. The fact that it was signed by attorneys seemed to Joe and his friends positive proof that a crime had been committed; otherwise why would representatives of the law have appeared in the matter? Dan Fernald, as Joe's oldest and nearest friend, took it upon himself to act as master of ceremonies in the affair, and, understanding that his comrade was so overwhelmed by the impending danger as to be absolutely incapable of intelligent movement, led him towards the shanty, as he said, gravely: "Never mind what it is you've done, Joe, us fellers are goin' to see you through, an' it won't do to hang 'round here very long, if you plan on givin' the perlice the slip. I reckon they'll be hot after you before nine o'clock, an' by that time I'm countin' on havin' you hid. Got anything here you want to take with you?" Joe shook his head; but Master Fernald seemed to consider it necessary they should enter the building, and his two comrades followed close in the rear. Once inside the shanty, the visitors, as a matter of course, saw the princess sleeping on the straw, and, despite the fact that her garments were not as cleanly as on the day previous, making a most charming picture. "Well, I'll be blowed! Where'd you get that?" Joe had been so bewildered by the terrible knowledge that the officers of the law were probably on his trail, as to have forgotten for the moment that the princess was in his charge, and he stood for an instant staring at her vacantly before making any reply, which odd behaviour served to strengthen the belief in the minds of his friends that he was guilty of some serious crime. "Oh, that's the princess. She lost her folks somewhere near the _de_pot last night, an' I was countin' on findin' 'em for her this mornin'. Plums an' me had to take her in, else she'd been layin' 'round the streets." Dan looked at him sharply, while Tim and Jerry raised themselves on tiptoe to gaze at the sleeping child. "Well, what you goin' to do with her now?" Dan asked, after waiting in vain for his friend to speak. "I don't know," Joe replied, sadly, and added, in a more hopeful tone, "If you fellers would look after the little thing, she might--" "We'll have all we can do keepin' you out of jail, without bein' bothered by a kid taggin' everywhere we go. You don't seem to understand, Joe, that it's goin' to take mighty sharp work, an' most likely every feller that ever knew you will be watched by the perlice from this time out." "But I can't leave her here alone," Master Potter wailed. "Why not take her down where Plums used to live? Mis' Carter's got a reg'lar raft of kids, an' ought'er know how to take care of another." "It would jest 'bout break the little thing's heart to put her in with that Carter gang, an' I can't do it. I'd sooner the perlice nabbed me." "Now you're talkin' through your hat. Of course you don't want to go up to Sing Sing for two or three years, an' that's what's bound to happen if them lawyers get hold of you. What's Plums snorin' away for, when things are all mixed up so bad?" Dan asked, impatiently, and without further delay he proceeded to arouse Master Plummer to a knowledge of the terrible danger that threatened Joe, by shaking him furiously. "What do you want now,--more milk?" the fat boy asked, without opening his eyes, and Dan pulled him suddenly to his feet. "Wake up, an' see what we want! Here's the perlice after Joe, red-hot, an' we've got to get him out'er town." "After Joe?" Master Plummer repeated, stupidly. "What's he been doin'?" "We don't know, an' he won't tell us." "I haven't been doin' a thing, Plums, as true as I live; but there it all is in the paper," Master Potter replied, in a tearful voice. "Of course there's no gettin' away from that." Not until Plums had spelled out for himself the ominous advertisement was it possible for those who would rescue Joe Potter from the impending doom to do anything towards his escape, and, once having mastered the printed lines, the fat boy gazed at his grief-stricken friend in mingled astonishment and reproach. "Of course the perlice are goin' to know you slept here last night, an' jest as likely as not I'll be pulled for takin' you in." "Course you will!" Jerry Hayes cried, shrilly. "You're in a pretty tight box, Plums." Joe protested vehemently that he was innocent of any intentional wrong-doing; but with that unexplainable advertisement before him, Plums received the statement with much the same incredulity as had the others. "Where you goin' to take him?" he asked of Dan; and the latter replied: "I don't know; but we've got to get him out of town by the shortest cut, an' I reckon that'll be Thirty-fourth Street Ferry. How much money you fellers got?" Master Plummer took from his pocket that which remained of the amount given him by Joe the night previous, and, after counting it twice, replied: "Here's sixteen cents what belongs to Joe, an' I've got twenty of my own." "Us fellers have anteed up a dollar an' a quarter towards seein' you through, an' here it is," Master Fernald said, as he gave Plums a handful of small coins. Joe did not so much as glance at the money, and Dan said, impatiently: "Now, don't hang 'round here any longer, you two, 'cause it's mighty near sunrise." "But what about the kid?" Plums asked, as if until that moment he had entirely forgotten the sleeping child. "I reckon she'll have to take her chances," Dan replied, carelessly. "Some one will look out for her, of course,--turn her over to McDaniels, the blacksmith." This suggestion aroused Joe very suddenly, and he glanced at each of his companions in turn, as if to read the thoughts of all, after which he said, sharply: "You fellers can believe me or not, but I haven't done anything to set the perlice after me. I can't say as I blame you for thinkin' it ain't so, 'cause there's that advertisement; but it's a fact all the same, an' I'm goin' to let the cops take me." "What?" Tim Morgan screamed. "You're goin' to jail?" "What else can I do?" "Run away, of course, the same's we're fixin' it." "In the first place, we haven't got money enough to go very far, an' then, ag'in, I won't leave the princess knockin' 'round the streets." "You'd have to if you went to jail." "I could take her with me for a spell, anyhow." Joe appeared so thoroughly determined to give himself up to the officers of the law that his comrades were seriously alarmed. Although there was but little question in their minds that he was guilty of some crime, not one of them was willing he should yield to the order of arrest which they believed had already been issued. Plums looked at Dan imploringly, and the latter said, as he laid hold of Joe's arm: "Now see here, old man, we ain't goin' to stand by with our hands in our pockets while you go to jail, 'cause there's no need of it. The perlice won't be 'round for two or three hours, an' it's pretty hard lines if we can't get you out of town before they come." "I won't leave the princess," Joe replied, doggedly. "Then take her with you. Of course there's a good deal of risk in it, seein's how the advertisement said you had her; but it's a blamed sight better'n givin' right up same's any chump would do." "I counted on findin' her folks this mornin'." "The way things have turned out, you can't; an' what's the odds if you wait two or three days? I'll see that you have money enough to keep you goin' for a spell, anyhow, 'cause all the fellers what know you an' Plums will chip in to help." "Am I goin', too?" Master Plummer asked, in surprise. "I can't see any other way out of it. When the perlice find where Joe slept last night, they're bound to pull you in. It don't look to me as if it was goin' to be sich a terrible hard thing to go off in the country for a spell, now the weather's warm, an' if it wasn't for the kid here, I'd say you'd have a great time." At this moment the princess awakened, and, fortunately, in an amiable mood. She raised her hands towards Joe as if asking to be taken in his arms, and, instantly the mute request was complied with, the ruined merchant's courage failed him. Burying his face in her dress, regardless of the possible injury to be done the delicate fabric, the poor boy gave way to tears, and the little maid must have understood that he was suffering, for she patted him on the ear, or ruffled his hair gently with her hands, all of which served but to make his grief more intense. "Now's the time to get him right away," Dan said, in a low tone to Master Plummer. "We've fooled 'round here too long already, and if he kicks ag'in goin', why, we've got to lug him, that's all. I won't see Joe Potter put in jail if it can be helped." "What do you s'pose he's been doin'?" Plums asked, in a terrified whisper. "Blamed if I know; but it must be somethin' pretty tough, else they wouldn't spend money advertisin' for him." "I don't b'lieve he'd kill anybody." "Neither do I; but it must be somethin' 'bout as bad as that. While he's takin' on so we can get him off without much trouble. We'd better walk to the ferry, 'cause there might be somebody on the horse-car what would know him." "If I've got to leave the town, I don't want to hang 'round Long Island, 'cause there ain't so much chance of gettin' further away," Plums objected, and Dan began to show signs of ill temper at being thus thwarted in his efforts to do a favour. "You'll be blamed lucky if you get anywhere, except to jail." "But what's the difference if we go over to Jersey? It ain't much further to the Weehawken Ferry than it is Thirty-fourth Street way." "All right, go there, then,--anywhere, so's you get a move on." Master Plummer took the precaution to gather up such provisions as remained in the cupboard, and, after one long look around at the home he might be leaving for ever, shook Joe gently. "Come on, old man; this thing's got to be done, an' the sooner we start the better. There's no show for you to give yourself up 'less I'm with you, 'cordin' to what Dan says, an' you can bet I ain't countin' on goin' to jail so long as it can be helped." Joe rose to his feet obediently, still holding the princess tightly in his arms, and Dan ordered Jerry to precede them into the street, in order to make certain the officers of the law were not in the vicinity. "If you whistle once, we'll know nobody's there, an' twice means that we're surrounded." Jerry, looking as important as the occasion demanded, set about doing the scouting for the party, and an instant later a shrill call rang out on the morning air, telling that the coast was clear. Dan and Plums ranged themselves either side of Joe; Tim marched in advance, wary as an Indian hunter; and in this order the little party gained the street, the princess in high glee because of the numbers who were escorting her. Joe neither spoke nor looked back. His heart was as heavy as though the shadow of a real crime hung over him, and, had he been going directly to prison, could not have appeared more despondent. On the other hand, Dan Fernald was enjoying himself hugely. Aiding a desperate criminal to escape from the clutches of the law was to him a most exciting adventure. He had always believed he possessed remarkable detective ability, and this was the first time an opportunity of establishing such fact had presented itself. "If I don't get you two fellers out of this scrape, then I'm willin' to lay right down," he said, as Tim and Jerry led the way towards the west side of the city at a rapid pace. "I've kept myself posted on the detective business pretty sharp, 'cause I've made up my mind to go into it before long, an' by the time we finish this job I guess the perlice will find out what I'm made of. I ain't so sure but I shall join the force after you're straightened out." "They wouldn't take on a feller of your size," Master Plummer said, with something very like a sneer; which was not seemly, in view of the fact that Dan was at this moment giving him the full benefit of his wonderful ability, simply through friendship. "It don't make any difference about a feller's size; it's the head what counts. Before long you'll find out whether I've got one or not." Joe gave no heed to his friend's words. His grief was so great that probably he knew nothing whatever regarding that morning journey, save that the princess, when not laughing and chattering at him, was eating, with evident relish, the sugar-besprinkled cake which Plums had slipped into her chubby hand. The boy did not realise that he might be doing a grievous wrong against the parents of the princess by thus taking her from the city. He knew she would be cared for to the best of his ability, and it seemed as if those who loved her must realise the same. Of course he understood that she was to be restored to her father and mother as soon as it should be possible, but he failed to take into consideration the suffering which might be theirs because of her disappearance. Therefore it was that, in all this wretched business, at the end of which he could see nothing but the open door of a prison, the only bright thing to him, amid the clouds of despair, was the companionship of the princess. After the first slight sorrow at being forced to leave his home, Plums began to enjoy this flight, and discussed with Dan the possible enjoyment of a detective's life until the party arrived within a block of the ferry-slip. It was yet so early in the morning that but few were on the street; but Dan had no intention of allowing the boy whom he was saving to enter the slip like an ordinary citizen. Ordering a halt near the entrance of an alleyway which led between two stables, he said, with the air of a general: "Tim, you scout along down towards the ferry-slip, an' see if anybody's there on the watch. We'll stay here so's we can sneak up through this alley if you should whistle twice. Jerry, you're to walk back about half a block, so's to make certain the perlice don't creep up on us from behind." "But there ain't a dozen people in sight, an' we can see that there's no cop 'round!" Master Plummer exclaimed. "What's to hinder our goin' right on board the boat?" "Look here, Plums, if you know more 'bout this kind of business than I do, take hold an' run the thing. We'll see how far you'll get before the whole crowd is nabbed." "I don't know anything about it, of course; but I can see there's nobody between us an' the ferry-slip that would likely make trouble." "If we depended on you, we wouldn't have got so far as we have," Master Fernald replied, disdainfully. "Jest likely as not, there's a dozen cops hid close 'round here, an' I ain't goin' to be fool enough to walk right into their arms." Plums was silenced by this exhibition of superior wisdom, and Joe indifferent to whatever steps might be taken for his own safety; therefore Dan was not interfered with in his management of the affair. The scouts set about their work, and not until fully ten minutes had passed did the amateur detective give the word for the fugitives to advance. "I reckon it's all straight enough now, an' we'll go on board the boat; but there's no tellin' what might have happened if I hadn't 'tended to the work in the right way." Then Master Fernald walked a few paces in advance of his friends, moving stealthily, as if knowing danger menaced them on every hand, and casting furtive glances up and down the street until, had any one observed his movements, suspicions must have been aroused as to the innocence of his purpose. Jerry paid for the ferry tickets out of his own funds, for it was the purpose of these rescuers to remain in the company of the fugitives until they should have escaped from the State. Once on the boat, Joe wanted to remain in the ladies' cabin, because of the princess; but Dan would not countenance any such rash proceeding. He insisted that they must take up their stations in what was, for the time being, the bow of the boat, where they could prevent possible pursuers from "sneakin' up on 'em." The princess made no objection to this breezy position, otherwise the boy who was being rescued by Master Fernald would have flatly refused to obey orders; and thus the fugitives and their friends remained where every passenger on board must of necessity have seen them. Dan gave his friends what he considered good advice during the passage, and when the boat was nearing the slip on the Jersey side, summed up his instructions with a statement which electrified them all. "You fellers are to hang 'round Weehawken till 'long towards dark, when Plums must come down to the ferry-slip. I'm goin' back to New York to fix up my business, so's I can stay with you till the worst of the trouble is over." "Are you countin' on runnin' away with us?" Master Plummer asked, in surprise. "That's jest the size of it. You fellers don't seem to know scarcely anything at all about takin' care of yourselves, an' if I don't 'tend to business you'll both be in jail before to-morrow mornin'. I'm goin' to size up things 'round perlice headquarters to-day, an' then come over to look after you. Jest as soon's the boat touches the slip, you two take a sneak, find some place where you can hide till night, an' then watch out for me." Five minutes later, the fugitives stepped on Jersey soil, and Master Fernald's scouts were deployed to guard against an attack from the enemy until the two boys were lost to view in the distance. Then the amateur detective said, in a tone of grim determination, "Now, fellers, we'll go back, an' size up the cops in New York." CHAPTER V. IN THE CITY. When Dan Fernald and his two assistants returned to their usual place of business in the city, they found Joe Potter's mercantile friends in a state of high excitement. It seemed as if the eyes of each boy who was acquainted with Joe had been attracted to that particular advertisement, and business among a certain portion of the youthful merchants in the vicinity of City Hall Square was almost entirely suspended because of the startling information that "the lawyers were after Joe Potter." It was only natural for each fellow to speculate as to the reason why the unfortunate fruit merchant should be "wanted," and many and wild were the theories advanced. Some of the boys even went so far as to suggest that Joe had robbed a bank, and, in order to make such a proposition plausible, insinuated that he had failed in the fruit business simply for the purpose of deceiving the public as to the true state of his finances. Little Billy Dooner ventured the opinion that "perhaps Joe had killed a _I_talian," but no one gave weight to the possible explanation, for Master Potter enjoyed the reputation of being as peaceable a boy as could be found in the city. When each one of those more particularly interested had in turn given his theory regarding the mystery, without throwing any positive light on the subject, the conversation was always brought to a close with something like the following words: "At any rate, he's gone a mighty long ways crooked, else the lawyers wouldn't spend money advertisin' for him." The arrival of Dan Fernald and his assistants only served to heighten the mystery, for these young gentlemen positively refused to make any statement either for or against the missing boy, and the natural result was that they were credited with knowing very much more regarding the affair than really was the case. Dan immediately assumed such an air as he believed befitted detectives, and hinted more than once that Joe's friends "would be s'prised before the day was ended." Not until noon was there any change in the situation of affairs, and then a bootblack who worked in the vicinity of the Grand Central Station came down to City Hall Square with information that Plums was no longer attending to business. "If he wasn't so bloomin' slow, I'd say he'd run away with Joe Potter," the informant added; "but as it is, he couldn't get out of the town in much less than a week, even if he humped hisself the best he knew how." Under ordinary circumstances, Plums might have disappeared without causing a ripple of excitement among his business acquaintances, but since Joe Potter was missing also, it began to look as if the two might be together. At three o'clock in the afternoon Sim Jepson startled the community of newsboys by announcing that he had been closely questioned by a man in citizen's clothing, who "looked for all the world like a cop got up in disguise," concerning Joe's habits, and Master Jepson added, on his own responsibility: "They're after him hot, an' no mistake. He'll be mighty smart if he can keep out of sight when they've gone reg'larly to work huntin' him up." This information disturbed Dan Fernald not a little. Although quite positive he was a match for any detective or policeman in the city, Dan would have preferred to work on a case where there appeared to be less danger. This affair of Joe's was growing more serious each moment, and he who meddled with it might come to grief, but yet never for a moment did Master Fernald think of abandoning his friend. "I'll do jest as I told him I would, no matter what kind of a scrape I get into," he said, confidentially, to Tim and Jerry. "You fellers must hang 'round here so's to find out all that's goin' on, an' be sure to let me know if any more men come here searchin' for Joe." "But you ain't goin' to stay in Weehawken?" "Well, I guess not." "Then how shall we know where to find you?" "Look here, Jerry Hayes, if you ain't smart enough to find us three when you know we're somewhere in Jersey, it ain't any kind of use for you to try to be a detective, 'cause you'll never make one. You must come over to Weehawken, an' get on our trail; then the rest of it will be easy enough." "I'd like to know how we're goin' to do that?" "If I've got to explain every little thing, I might jest as well run this case all by myself. Findin' a man when you don't know where he is, is the first thing a detective has to learn, an' you'd better put in a good part of your time studyin' it up. Now I'm goin' to see how much money I can raise, an' 'long 'bout five o'clock you can count on my sneakin' out of town." While his friends were thus speculating, and working in what they believed to be his behalf, Joe was spending a most wretched day. Immediately after landing from the ferry-boat, he, carrying the princess and followed by Plums, walked directly away from the river, believing that by such a course he would the sooner arrive at the open country. Now that he was really running away, his fears increased momentarily. While in the city, it had seemed to him as if he could summon up sufficient courage to surrender himself to those people, who most likely wanted to commit him to prison; but having once begun the flight, all his courage vanished,--he no longer even so much as dreamed of facing the trouble. The princess, well content with this morning stroll and the cake Joe had given her, appeared willing to continue such form of amusement indefinitely. She laughed and crowed until the young guardian trembled lest she should attract undue attention to him, and when, ceasing this, the little maid poured some wondrous tale in his ear, his heart smote him, for he believed she was urging to be taken home. "I'll find your mother, baby darling, the very first thing after I get out of this scrape; but there couldn't any one blame me for runnin' away when the perlice are after me." Plums was more discontented than alarmed during this journey. There was altogether too much walking in it to please him, and Joe pushed ahead so rapidly that he nearly lost his breath trying to keep pace with him. "If you go on this way much longer I'll have to give the thing up," he said, in despair, when they were a mile or more from the ferry-slip. "But you surely ought to walk as fast as I can when I am carrying the princess." "Perhaps I ought'er, but I can't. I'm pretty near knocked out of time already. Why not slack up a little now, we're so far from the city?" "I don't dare to, Plums. We haven't gone any distance yet, an' jest as likely as not the perlice here have had orders to stop us. Do the best you can a spell longer, an' perhaps we can find a place to hide in till you get rested." Master Plummer made no reply; but his companion could readily see that he was suffering severely from such unusual exertions. His fat face was of a deep crimson hue; tiny streams of perspiration ran down his cheeks, and he breathed like one affected with the asthma. There was little need for Master Plummer to explain that a halt would soon be necessary, for this Joe understood after but one glance at the unhappy-looking boy. The princess's guardian had hoped they might gain the forest, where it would be possible to hide, or at the least find a small thicket of trees or bushes; but as yet there were dwellings on every hand, and each instant the sun was sending down more fervent rays. At the expiration of an additional ten minutes Plums gave up the struggle by saying, despondently: "It's no use, Joe, I couldn't keep on my feet half an hour longer, to save the lives of all hands. S'posin' you leave me here, an' go on by yourself? That will be better than for both of us to be arrested." "I'm not sich a chump as to do anything of that kind, old man. You got into this trouble through tryin' to help me, an' I'll stay right side of you till it's over." "But it ain't safe to hang 'round here." "I know it; yet what else can we do? We're bound to take the chances, an' I'm goin' to stop at one of these houses." Master Plummer appeared thoroughly alarmed, yet he made no protest against the proposed plan. At that moment imprisonment had less horrors for him than such severe exertions. Joe's greatest fear was that, while asking for shelter, he would be forced to explain why he was taking the princess with him for a long tramp, when the day was so warm; and, dangerous though such a course might be, he was resolved to tell only the truth. "If I can't get through without lyin', I'll go to jail, an' take my medicine like a man," he said to himself, and once this resolve had been made he stopped in front of the nearest dwelling. His timid knock at the door was answered by a motherly-looking German woman, who appeared surprised at seeing the visitors. "If we'll pay whatever you think is right, may we come in an' stay a little while?" Joe asked, falteringly. "It's awful hot, an' the princess must be tired." "Kannst du kein deutch sprechen?" Joe looked at her in bewilderment, and Plums said in a whisper: "She talks a good deal the way the princess does. I guess the kid must know what she says." "We want to come in for a little while, an' are willin' to pay you for it," Joe repeated, and the old lady shook her head doubtfully as she leaned over and kissed the princess squarely on the mouth. "Ich kann nicht Englisch sprechen." As she spoke, the good woman gave Joe a smile which went far towards reassuring him, and he in turn shook his head. "I guess we'll have to give it up," Plums said, mournfully. "It's too bad, for she must be a real good kind of an old woman, or she wouldn't have kissed the princess." Joe hesitated an instant, and had half turned to go when the old lady stretched out her hands towards the child, who immediately displayed a very decided desire to forsake the boy who had ministered to her wants so devotedly during the past twelve or fifteen hours. "Komme herein aus der hitze." This was said with a gesture which could not be misunderstood, as the old lady took the princess in her arms; and Joe followed without hesitation, Master Plummer saying, meanwhile: "If she can't talk United States, an' that seems to be about the size of it, there ain't any chance she can tell where we are. It's mighty lucky we struck her, 'cordin' to my way of thinkin'." Joe was of the same opinion, when the old lady ushered them into a cleanly but scantily furnished room, so darkened as to make it seem cool by comparison with the scorching rays of the sun on the pavements, and then gave her undivided attention to the baby. She took off the child's hat and cloak, and, carrying her into an adjoining room, bathed her face and hands, much to the delight of the princess. "I'd 'a' washed her up this mornin' if I hadn't been 'fraid she'd get mad about it," Joe said, regretting most sincerely that he had not attended to the little maiden's toilet in a proper manner. "What's the good? Old Mis' Carter says dirt makes children healthy, an' if that's straight I should say your princess needs a couple of quarts to put her in trim." [Illustration: "'MAY WE COME IN AN' STAY A LITTLE WHILE?'"] "She ain't like Mis' Carter's kids, so what's the use to keep throwin' them up all the time. Say, Plums, look at the old woman now! Why didn't I think of cuddlin' the princess in that style?" Their hostess, having made the little maid more presentable, gathered the child to her breast, as she rocked to and fro in a capacious armchair, singing a lullaby, which speedily closed the two brown eyes in slumber. "I shouldn't feel very bad if the old woman served me in the same way," Master Plummer said, with a long-drawn sigh, as he straightened himself up in the wooden chair. "I'd rather lay right down on the floor an' go to sleep than do anything else I know of." "But you mustn't, Plums, you mustn't," Joe whispered, nervously. "If you should do anything like that she'd think we was more'n half fools, both of us." "Seid ihr kinder hungrich?" The old lady spoke so abruptly that the boys started as if in alarm, both looking at her with such a puzzled expression on their faces that she must have known they failed to understand the question. "Perhaps she thinks we can't pay our way," Plums whispered. "You might let her know we've got money, even if you can't do anything better." Joe acted upon the suggestion at once by taking several coins from his pocket, holding them towards the old lady. She shook her head and smiled cheerily. Then, laying the princess on a chintz-covered couch without disturbing the child's slumbers, she left the room. Again was Master Potter surprised by the apparently careless, yet deft manner in which she handled the child, and he said, in a tone of admiration to his friend: "Don't it jest knock your eye out to see the way she fools with the princess, an' yet the little thing seems to like it? If I'd done half as much as that she'd be screechin' blue murder by this time." "Women know how to take care of kids better'n boys do, though I ain't any slouch at it, 'cause I've tried it so many times down to Mis' Carter's." "I notice you couldn't stop her from cryin' last night." "I didn't try, did I? Perhaps if you hadn't sent me racin' all over the city for milk I might'er done somethin'." This conversation was interrupted by the German lady, who returned, bringing two plates, one of which was heaped high with seed-cakes, and the other filled with generous slices of boiled ham. If a boy's mouth ever did water, Plums was in that peculiar condition just at that moment. Alarmed by the news which Dan Fernald brought, he had, for perhaps the first time in his life, forgotten to eat breakfast, and nothing could have been more welcome in his eyes than this plentiful supply of food. "Better pay her for it," he whispered to Joe, "an' then she'll be likely to bring on more. I could eat all she's got there, an' not half try." Joe did as his companion wished; but the old lady positively refused to take the money until the boy urged her in dumb show, when, with the air of one who complies with a request against her will, she took from Master Potter's outstretched hand a dime. Plums had not waited for this business to be finished before he began the attack, and when Joe turned he saw that his comrade had assumed a position of supreme content, with three seed-cakes in one hand, and a large slice of ham in the other. "You're awfully good to us, an' I wish you'd taken more money," Joe said, as he helped himself to a small portion of the food, knowing, even as he spoke, that his words would not be understood. The old lady smiled, and went out of the room again, returning almost immediately with a glass of water and more ham, much to Master Plummer's satisfaction. "I guess we're fixed jest about as well as we could be, an' it'll pay us to hang on here till Dan comes over. This beats walkin' 'round the streets." "Perhaps she wouldn't like it if we stayed a great while," Joe suggested. "Well, s'posin' she shouldn't? So long's she can't talk United States there's no chance of her turnin' us out, or tellin' where we are." "Would you stay here when you thought she didn't want us?" "I'd stay in most any place where we was strikin' it as rich as we are jest now," and then Master Plummer ceased speaking, in order that he might give more attention to this unexpected meal. CHAPTER VI. DAN, THE DETECTIVE. It was sunset, and Master Plummer stood at the ferry-slip in Weehawken, awaiting the coming of Dan, the detective. Much against his will had the fat boy left the home of the German lady to set out on this long tramp. He understood that it would not be safe for Joe to come out of hiding, and, because of the arrangements made by Dan in the morning, it was absolutely necessary some one should meet the amateur detective at the ferry-slip. Hence it was that Master Plummer was loitering around just outside the gate, keeping a close watch upon all who came from the boat, and on the alert for anything bearing the resemblance of a blue coat with brass buttons. Dan Fernald, believing that a detective who knew his business would not make a single movement without a certain attendant mystery, had decided it was not safe for him to leave New York in the daytime, and therefore Plums's time of waiting was exceedingly long. Not until eight o'clock did Dan appear; and then, instead of answering his friend's hail, he marched gravely out through the gate, crossed the street, and, during several seconds, stood peering first to the right and then the left, while from the opposite side Plums looked at him in bewilderment. Master Plummer had spoken to his friend, but received no reply; had followed a certain distance without being apparently recognised, and stopped in bewilderment when Dan indulged in these curious antics. Finally the fat boy grew impatient, and, crossing the street, asked, sharply: "What's the matter with you, anyhow, Dan?" Master Fernald glanced at his friend only sufficiently long to wink in a most mysterious fashion, and then, turning quickly around, marched gravely up the street without speaking. Plums watched in anxiety until, seeing his friend dart into a doorway, it suddenly dawned upon him that Dan was desirous of avoiding a too public interview. Then Plums hastened after him, muttering to himself: "That feller thinks he's awful smart, scrimpin' an' scrapin' 'round here as if there was a dozen perlicemen right on his track. If he'd go on about his business nobody'd notice him; but when he's kitin' 'round in this fashion folks are bound to wonder what's the matter." On arriving at the doorway, he looked in, but without seeing any one, because of the gloom. Thinking he had made a mistake, Plums would have hurried on, but for a hoarse whisper which came from out the darkness. "Come in here, quick! Don't stand there where everybody'll tumble to who you are." Plums obeyed immediately, as was his custom when any one spoke harshly, and Dan seized him by the arm. "Keep quiet, now, whatever you do, 'cause I wouldn't be s'prised if more'n a dozen cops followed me over on the boat." "I didn't see any," Plums replied, in astonishment. "That's 'cause you didn't keep your eye peeled. Of course they wouldn't try to get on my track while they was dressed in uniform. I saw one I felt certain about; he was disguised like a truckman, an' drivin' a team, but he couldn't fool me." "Do they know where Joe an' I are?" "I don't think so; but jest as soon as I left the town they was bound to have their eyes open mighty wide, 'cause I guess it must be known up to perlice headquarters that I'm in on this case. Where's Joe?" Master Plummer told the amateur detective of the very pleasant refuge they had found, and concluded by saying: "First off we couldn't talk with the old woman at all; but at dinner-time a kid about half as big as me, what calls her 'grandmarm,' come home, an' he knew how to talk United States. Little as he was, he could chin in the old woman's lingo as fast as she. That fixed things for us. Joe said he was out lookin' for work, which is the dead truth when you come to that, an' made a trade for us to stay there a couple of days. I was 'fraid they'd ask about the princess, but it seems like they didn't. They thought she belonged to us straight enough, so it's been all plain sailin'." "I didn't get over here any too soon, if you fellers have gone to stoppin' at a house." "But why shouldn't we, when we found one like that where they'll take us in mighty cheap? An' say, that old woman is the boss cook!" "An' she'll get in jail, too, if you keep on this way. Here's you an' Joe advertised for by the lawyers, an' yet are sich chumps as to settle right down where the detectives will get on to you the very first thing." "I ain't been advertised for." "Well, that's where you make a mistake, Master Smartie. Perhaps you haven't seen the evenin' papers." "What's in them?" Plums cried, in a tone of alarm. "Pretty much the same as what you saw in the _Herald_ this mornin', only that they're offerin' to pay for any news of Joe Potter an' a feller what's called 'Plums.'" "Do you mean that, Dan? Are they really advertisin' for me?" Master Plummer asked, in a tone of terror. "That's what they're doin', an' the way the cops are chasin' 'round town huntin' up bootblacks an' newsboys is a caution. Three different ones asked Jerry Hayes if he knew you or Joe; but you can bet they didn't find out very much. Jerry's sharp enough to keep his mouth shut." "But what do they want me for? What have I done?" "I reckon it's 'cause Joe slept at your house. Now the only safe thing is for us to strike off into the country as quick as we know how. We've got to walk all night before we so much as think of stoppin'." "But what about the princess? We can't make that little thing travel from post to pillar." "If Joe Potter hadn't been a fool he'd left her in town. It jest makes my blood boil when I think of his havin' a kid taggin' 'round after him, an' every detective in New York on his track!" "I don't believe he'd be willin' to leave the princess, not even if he knew he was goin' to be 'rested the next minute." "He's got to, or I'll throw up the job of tryin' to save him. Now we'll go up to this Dutch woman's house that you've been talkin' 'bout, an' snake him out. All I hope is we'll get away in time." Master Plummer turned to walk out of the hallway in obedience to this command, when Dan, clutching him by the arm, brought the boy to a sudden standstill. "What kind of a way is that to go out when the streets are full of detectives huntin' after you?" "How else can I go?" Plums asked, in surprise. "I'll show you. Watch out on what I do, an' act the very same way. I'll go on one side of the street, an' you on the other, so's folks sha'n't know we're together." Master Plummer was puzzled to understand why it might work them mischief if the public knew they were acquainted with each other; but Dan was so peremptory in his commands that the boy did not venture to ask a question. Then Master Fernald went out from the hallway, in what he evidently believed was the most approved detective fashion of walking, and, as Plums confidentially told Joe later, "he acted like he was a jumpin'-jack, with some one pullin' the string mighty hard." The two went slowly up the street, one on either side, and such of the citizens of Weehawken who saw them were mystified by their singular method of proceeding. Dan quieted down somewhat after half an hour had passed, for no slight amount of labour was required to continue the supposed detective manner of walking, and, before arriving at the house where Joe had taken refuge, he behaved very nearly like other and more sensible boys. "No, I won't go in," he said, decidedly, when Plums proposed that he call upon the old lady. "You don't catch me showin' myself 'round this place any more'n I can help, 'cause there's no tellin' when the perlice will be here askin' questions, an' I'm goin' to steer clear of trouble." "Shall I tell Joe to come out?" Plums asked, timidly, for Dan's superior wisdom awed him. "Of course, else how can I see him? Don't let that kid tag on behind, for it's mighty dangerous to be on the street with her. That advertisement about you had in it that you was last seen with a little girl." Master Plummer entered the dwelling, and Dan paced to and fro on the sidewalk, with a consequential air, until Joe appeared. "Why don't you come in?" the latter asked. "Mrs. Weber--that's the name of the lady who owns the house--is mighty nice, even if you can't talk to her." "I ain't so foolish as to show myself in such places, an' you ought'er let your head be cut off before takin' all these chances." "But we couldn't keep the princess out-of-doors from mornin' till night, an'--" "That's what's makin' all the trouble, Joe Potter. If you hadn't brought the kid along we'd get through this scrape in good style." "But I couldn't have left her in Plums's shanty alone." "It was a fool business pickin' her up in the first place, 'cause if you never'd done it, them lawyers couldn't say you had a kid with you. That's the very best way they have to let folks know who you are. Anyhow, you've got to give her the dead shake now, if you want me to keep hold of this case." "Then I'll have to get along the best I can without you, for I won't run away from a poor little baby, who counts on my findin' her folks." Joe spoke so decidedly that the amateur detective understood he could not easily be turned from his purpose, and Master Fernald was astonished. He had supposed that his threat to "drop the case" would have reduced the unfortunate merchant to submission, and it seemed little less than madness for Joe and Plums to continue the flight without the guiding hand of one so wise as himself. "Of course, if you don't want me, that settles it," he said, sulkily. "I ain't throwin' my time away when folks had rather I wasn't 'round; but you'll get into a heap of trouble without somebody what knows the ropes, to steer you." "I would like to have you with us, Dan; but I won't leave that poor little princess when she needs me so much." "But how you goin' to fix it nights? We've got to sleep outdoors mostly all the time, an' she'd soon get wore up with that kind of knockin' 'round." "Why must we sleep outdoors?" Dan explained that the search for the supposed criminal was to be prosecuted with such vigour that even Master Plummer was included in the advertisements, which piece of news both alarmed and mystified Joe. "What are they after him for? Does anybody claim he's been goin' crooked?" "I s'pose it's 'cause he let you sleep in his shanty. You see, Joe, the lawyers are bound to nab you if the thing can be done, an' you've got to give up sleepin' in houses. It might work once or twice; but you'd be sure to run across somebody what had read the papers, an' then you'd find yourself an' the princess in jail mighty quick. The evenin' papers said a large reward would be paid, an' perhaps, by mornin', they'll raise the price to as much as ten dollars." It can well be understood how disturbed in mind Joe was at learning that his enemies were so eager to capture him; but yet he had no intention of abandoning the princess, until Plums made a suggestion which seemed like an exceedingly happy one. "Why not pay old Mis' Weber somethin' to take care of her for two or three days?" he asked. "The little thing would get along a good deal better with a woman, an' we can sneak back here once in awhile to make certain she's all right. I don't believe them lawyers will spend very much more money huntin' for us, 'cause we ain't worth it, no matter what we've done." "That's the very best snap you could fix up!" Dan cried, approvingly. "I'd been thinkin' of somethin' like that myself; but didn't have time to tell you about it. I've got more'n two dollars that I borrowed to help you fellers through with this scrape, an' that ought'er be a good deal more'n enough to keep her till we can earn more." Joe understood that it would be to the princess's advantage if he left her with the kind old German lady, and at once decided in favour of the plan. Never for a moment did he fancy they might be as safe in this house as anywhere else, but firmly believed a continuation of the flight was absolutely necessary, as Dan had announced. "I'll see what Mis' Weber says about it, an' if she's willin', we'll go right away." "Don't stay in there all night chinnin', 'cause it's mighty dangerous for us to be hangin' 'round here," Dan called after him as he entered the dwelling, and Joe hastened the matter as much as possible. The princess was in bed sleeping quietly, and looking, as Plums expressed it, "fit to eat." Mrs. Weber's grandson was ready to act as interpreter, and in a few moments Joe had made the proposition. The good woman asked no questions concerning the parents of the child it was proposed she should keep, and her silence on this point may have been due to the fact that, even with her grandson's aid, it was difficult to understand all the boys said. She was willing to take the princess for a week, but not longer, and decided that one dollar would repay her for the labour. "Tell your grandmother we'll make the trade," Joe said, quickly, delighted because the sum named was so much less than he expected. "I'll be back here in two days at the longest, an' she's to take the very best care of the little thing." "Granny would be kind even to a mouse," Master Weber replied, with an air of pride, and Joe added, promptly: "I ought'er know as much by this time, an' if I didn't, the princess wouldn't be left with her. That poor little swell hasn't got anybody to look out for her but me, till we find her folks, an' I ain't takin' chances of her comin' to harm. Here's the dollar, an' you tell your granny I'll be back by the day after to-morrer if all the cops in New York are close after me." The little German boy looked up in perplexity, for he failed to understand the greater portion of what Joe had said, and the latter was in too great a hurry to heed the fact. A shrill whistle from the outside told that detective Dan was growing impatient, and Joe started towards the door, after seeing the old lady take the money; but halted an instant later. "Is there something more you want granny to do?" the German boy asked, and Joe was at a loss for a reply. "I was thinkin', perhaps,--if, course, it wouldn't make any difference to your granny,--say, I'm goin' to sneak in an' kiss the princess!" The boy nodded carelessly, but Joe made no effort to carry his threat into execution. Again the amateur detective whistled, and Master Potter stepped towards the bedroom door, but halted before gaining it. "Perhaps her folks wouldn't want a duffer like me doin' anything of that kind," he muttered, and straightway walked out of the house as rapidly as his legs would carry him, much as if he feared to remain longer lest the temptation should be too great to resist. "It begun to look as if you was goin' to stay all night," Dan said, petulantly, when Joe appeared. "There's more'n a hundred people walked past here, an' I'll bet some of 'em was huntin' for us; we've got to get out of this place mighty lively, if you don't want to be chucked into jail." Plums looked so thoroughly terrified that Joe at once understood the amateur detective had been frightening him by picturing improbable dangers, and said, almost sharply: "There's no use makin' this thing any worse than it really is." "That can't be done, Joe Potter. You're in an awful scrape, an' don't seem to know it." "I wish I'd stood right up like a man till I'd found the princess's folks, an' then gone to jail, if the lawyers are so set on puttin' me there." "What's comin' over you now?" "I'm thinkin' of that poor little swell we've brought out here." "She's a good deal better off than if you let her tag along behind." "That may be; but I ought'er found her folks instead of runnin' away." "Now, see here, Joe Potter, you're makin' a fool of yourself, an' all about a kid what's goin' to have a soft snap while she stays here. Of course if you want to be put into jail for two or three years, I won't say another word, an' you can rush right straight back to the city." "Don't stand here talkin'!" Plums cried, in an agony of apprehension. "We've got to leave, else nobody knows what may happen!" Dan seized Joe by the arm, literally forcing him onward, and the two who were ignorant of having committed any crime continued the flight from the officers of the law. CHAPTER VII. AUNT DORCAS. When the three had set out from Mrs. Weber's home, the amateur detective announced that no halt would be made until sunrise. Joe, whose thoughts were with the princess, gave little heed to this statement, if, indeed, he understood it, and Master Plummer had been so terrified by Dan's positive assertion regarding the possibility of an immediate arrest that he had failed to realise the labour which would be required in thus prolonging the flight. Before an hour passed, however, even the detective himself began to think he might have made a rash statement, and Plums, unaccustomed to such violent exercise, was well-nigh exhausted. By this time Joe had come to understand what might be the result if Dan's advice was followed implicitly, and this, together with the knowledge that each moment he was increasing the distance between himself and the princess, served to make him reckless. "Look here, Dan Fernald," he said, coming to a second halt. "Let's talk over this thing before we go any further." "Perhaps you think we can afford to loaf 'round here," the amateur detective said, sternly. "If you fellers want to keep your noses out of jail, you'd best hump yourselves till daylight, an', even then, we won't be far enough away." "We're jest as far now as I'm goin'," and there was that in Joe's voice which told his companion that he would not be persuaded into changing his mind. "What?" Dan screamed. "That's all there is to it. I'll stop here, an' you fellers can keep on if you like." "But, Joe, if there was woods somewhere near I wouldn't say a word. How can you hide where there's so many houses close 'round?" "I don't count on hidin', 'cause I can't afford it. Even if them lawyers get hold of me to-morrer mornin', I'm goin' to stop here." "Right here in the road?" Plums asked, with less anxiety than he would have shown an hour before, when he was not so tired. "Well, I don't mean to say I'll camp down in the road. But you fellers listen to me. If the detectives are out after us, an' I s'pose, of course, they are, we sha'n't be any safer twenty miles away than in this very spot. We've got to stop sometime, an' it may as well be now. I promised to go back to see the princess in two days, an' I'll keep my word." "But where'll you stay all that time?" Dan asked, as if believing this was a question which could not be satisfactorily answered. "I don't know yet; but I'm thinkin' of goin' up to that house," and Joe pointed to a tiny cottage, which in the gloom could be but dimly seen amid a clump of trees. "There's a light in the window, so of course the folks are awake. I'll ask 'em if they haven't got work enough about the place sich as I could do to pay my board over one day, an' if they say no, I'll try at the next house." "You might as well go right into jail as do a thing like that," Dan said, angrily. "I ain't so sure but it would have been a good deal better if I had, for by this time the princess would be with her folks, where she belongs." "It seems to me you're terribly stuck on that kid." "Well, what if I am!" and Joe spoke so sharply that Master Fernald did not think it wise to make any reply. During fully a moment the three stood silently in the road looking at each other, and then Joe asked of Master Plummer: "Will you come with me?" The possibility of resting his tired limbs in a regular bed appealed strongly to the fat boy, and, understanding that he was about to agree to Joe's proposition, Dan said, gloomily: "This is what a feller gets for tryin' to help you two out of a scrape. I've kept the detectives away so far, an' now you're goin' to give me the dead shake." "There's no reason why you couldn't stay with us--" "You won't catch me in a house for another month, anyhow." [Illustration: "JOE POINTED TO A TINY COTTAGE."] The argument which followed this announcement was not long, but spirited. Joe explained that it was his intention to remain in that vicinity, and within forty-eight hours to return to Weehawken, according to the promise he had made Mrs. Weber. Dan continued to insist that it was in the highest degree dangerous to loiter there, and professed to believe himself deeply injured, because, after having "taken up the case" in such an energetic fashion, he was probably in danger of arrest through having aided these two supposed criminals. Master Plummer had but little to say; the thought of walking all night was nearly as painful as that of being imprisoned, and he was willing to throw all the responsibility of a decision upon his friend. Before ten minutes had passed, the matter was settled,--not satisfactorily to all concerned, but as nearly so as could have been expected. Joe and Plums were to call at the cottage with the hope of finding temporary employment, and the amateur detective was to conceal himself in the vicinity as best he might, until he should be able to learn something definite regarding the purpose of the lawyers who had advertised. When Joe, followed by Master Plummer, turned from the highway into the lane which led to the cottage, the amateur detective scrambled over the fence on the opposite side of the road, and scurried through the field as if believing he was hotly pursued. Not until they had arrived nearly at the house did Master Plummer make any remark, and then he said, with a long-drawn sigh: "Dan Fernald makes too much work out of his detective business to suit me. I couldn't walk all night if it was to save me life." "I don't believe there's any reason why we should, Plums. Because Dan thinks the cops have followed us over to Weehawken doesn't make it so, an' if we can't hide here, we can't anywhere, 'cordin' to my way of thinkin'. Besides, it wouldn't be fair to go off so far that we can't get back to the princess." Then Joe advanced to the side door, and knocked gently, Plums whispering, hoarsely, meanwhile: "Be ready to skip, if you hear a dog. I've been told that folks out this way keep reg'lar bloodhounds to scare away tramps." "I ain't 'fraid of dogs as much as I am that the man who lives here will run us off the place the first minute he sees our faces," Joe replied, and at that instant the door was opened. Holding a lamp high above her head, and peering out into the gloom as if suffering from some defect of vision, stood a little woman, not very much taller than Joe, whose wrinkled face told she had passed what is termed the "middle age" of life. Joe's surprise at seeing this tiny lady, when he had expected to be confronted by a man, prevented him from speaking at once, and the small woman asked, with mild curiosity: "Whose children are you?" This was a question Joe was not prepared to answer, and he stammered and stuttered before being able to say: "I don't know as we're anybody's, ma'am. You see we ain't got any place to stop in for a day or two, an' thought perhaps a farmer lived here what would have work we could do to pay for our board." "Are you hungry, child?" the small woman asked, quickly, and, as it seemed to Joe, anxiously. "Not very much now, 'cause we've had a good supper; but we will be in the mornin', you know." And Master Plummer interrupted, as he pinched his companion's arm to reduce him to silence: "We've been walkin' a good while since then, an' it seems like I was most starved." "You poor child! Come right into the house, an' it'll be strange if I can't find something to eat; though, to tell the truth, I didn't have real good luck with this week's batch of bread; but if custard pie--" "_If_ custard pie!" Master Plummer cried, ecstatically. "Why, I'd be fixed great if I could have some!" He was following the small woman as he spoke, and, after closing and barring the outer door, the hostess ushered them into such a kitchen as they had never seen before. A spacious room, in which it seemed as if a hundred persons might have found ample elbow-room, with a yellow, painted floor, on which not a grain of dirt could be seen, and with numerous odd, stiff-looking chairs ranged around the sides at regular intervals. At one end an enormous fireplace, in front of which was a cook-stove actually glittering with polish, and on the mantel behind it an array of shining tins. As seen from the road, in the gloom, the cottage had not appeared even as large as this kitchen, and because of such fact the boys were more surprised than they otherwise would have been. Once in the room, where everything was so cleanly that, as Master Plummer afterwards expressed it, "it come near givin' him a pain," the boys stood awkwardly near the door, uncertain as to what might be expected of them. "You can sit right here while I get you something to eat," and the hostess placed two chairs in front of a small table in one corner of the room. Master Plummer advanced eagerly, thinking only of the pleasure which was about to be his, when the small lady exclaimed, as if in alarm: "Mercy on us, child! You're tracking dust all over the floor. Go right back into the entry, and wipe your feet." Plums failed to see that he had soiled the floor to any extent, but both he and Joe obeyed the command instantly, and while they were engaged in what seemed to them useless labour, the small woman wiped carefully, with a damp cloth, the dusty imprints of their shoes from the floor. "I never had any experience in my own family with boys," the odd-looking little woman said, half to herself, "and perhaps that's why I don't understand 'em any better; but I never could make out why they should be so reckless with dirt." "I didn't think my shoes were so dusty when I come in, else I'd taken them off," Joe said, apologetically. "You see, ma'am, we never saw a floor as clean as this one." This compliment was evidently pleasing, for the small woman looked up kindly at her guests, and said, in a friendly tone: "Don't call me 'ma'am,' child. I've been 'aunt Dorcas' to all the children in this neighbourhood ever since I can remember, and anything else doesn't sound natural." "Do you want us to call you 'aunt Dorcas'?" Joe asked, in surprise, and Plums winked gravely at his companion. "Of course I do. Now, if your feet are clean, sit down, and I'll get the pie." The boys tiptoed their way to the table, as if by such method they would be less liable to soil the floor, and aunt Dorcas, taking the lamp with her, disappeared through a door which evidently led to the cellar, leaving them in the darkness. "Say, ain't this the greatest snap you ever struck?" Plums whispered. "I'll bet aunt Dorcas is a dandy, an' if Dan Fernald knew what he's missin', he'd jest about kick hisself black an' blue." Master Plummer was still better satisfied with the situation when their hostess returned with a large custard pie, which she placed on the table, and immediately afterwards disappeared within the cellar-way again. "She's gone for more stuff!" Plums said, in a tone of delight. "If there ain't too much work to be done 'round this place, I'd like to stay here a year." [Illustration: "SHE HAD A PLATE HEAPED HIGH WITH COOKIES."] When aunt Dorcas entered the kitchen again, she had a plate heaped high with cookies, on the top of which were three generous slices of cheese. This collection was placed by the side of the pie; the odd little woman brought plates, knives, and forks, and two napkins from the pantry, and, having arranged everything in proper order, said, as she stood facing the boys, with her head slightly inclined to one side, until to Joe she presented much the appearance of a sparrow: "If you can eat all there is here, I'll bring more, an' willingly. Afterwards, we will talk about what is to be done for the night." "I can eat an' talk, too, jest as well as not," Plums said, as he drew the pie towards him. Perhaps aunt Dorcas thought he intended to appropriate the whole to himself, for she hurriedly cut it into four pieces, one of which she placed on his plate. From Plums's manner of beginning the feast, there was good reason to believe he had told the truth when he said he was starving, and, as she watched him, an expression of deepest sympathy came over aunt Dorcas's face. "It's too bad I haven't some meat to give you, child, for you must be famishing." "I'd rather have this," Plums replied, speaking with difficulty, because of the fullness of his mouth, and it appeared to his hostess as if he had no sooner begun on a quarter of the pie than it disappeared. She gave the fat boy another section of the yellow dainty, watching him like one fascinated, as he devoured it. Then Plums began an onslaught on the cookies, after casting a wistful glance at the remaining quarter of the pie. Joe was ashamed because his companion ate so greedily, and kicked him, under the table, as a warning that he restrain his appetite; but Master Plummer failed to understand the signal, and ate all the more greedily, because he believed Joe thought it time to bring the feast to a close. "You mustn't think anything of his stuffin' hisself like this, ma'am,--I mean, aunt Dorcas," Joe said, apologetically. "Plums always was the biggest eater in New York, an' I guess he always will be." "What did you call him?" aunt Dorcas asked. "Plums was what I said. That ain't exactly his name, but it comes mighty near to it. George H. Plummer is what he calls hisself when he wants to be swell." "I think 'George' sounds much better than 'Plums,'" aunt Dorcas said, thoughtfully. "Perhaps it does; but it don't fit him half so well." Meanwhile, the subject of this conversation was industriously engaged devouring the cookies, and one would have said that he had no interest in anything else. Aunt Dorcas stood looking questioningly at Joe, and, thinking he understood that which was in her mind, he said: "My name is Joe Potter. I used to keep a fruit-stand down on West Street, in New York, till I busted up, an' then I found the princess, but--" Joe checked himself in time to preserve his secret. An instant later he wished he had explained to aunt Dorcas why he was there, because of the sympathy he read in her face. The little woman waited a few seconds for him to continue, but, since he remained silent, she asked, with mild curiosity: "Who is the princess?" "She's a swell little girl what's lost her folks, an' I'm takin' care of her for a spell. Say, ma'am,--I mean, aunt Dorcas,--is there any work Plums an' I can do to pay for a chance of stoppin' here over to-morrow?" "I suppose I might find enough, Joseph, for there's always plenty to be done around a place, no matter how small it is; but I'm not certain you'd be strong enough to spade up the garden, and clear the drain, even if you knew how. They say city boys are dreadful unhandy when it comes to outdoor work." "Jest you try us an' see!" Joe cried, with animation. "We ain't sich chumps but that we know how to do most anything, after we've studied over it a spell. Will you let us stay if we do work enough?" "I surely ought to be willing to do that much for my fellow creatures, Joseph, even though I get nothing in return; but I can't say it won't be a trial for me to have two boys around the house after I've lived alone so long. Martha, Mary, and I took care of this place, with the help of a man in summer, a good many years after our parents died, and I suppose we got fussy and old-maidish-like in our ways," aunt Dorcas said, growing reminiscent. "Martha went home to heaven seven years ago in September, and Mary followed her the next January. Since then I've been alone, and it stands to reason I'm more old-maidish than ever; but I hope I could keep two homeless boys twenty-four hours without fretting." Then aunt Dorcas crossed the room to the mantel, in order to light another lamp, and Plums whispered, hoarsely: "Say, Joe, what do you s'pose she put this clean towel here for? I've got custard on it, an' I'm afraid that'll make her mad." Joe unfolded his napkin inquisitively, and looked at it an instant before he understood for what purpose it must have been intended. Then, his cheeks reddening, he replied, in a low tone: "She must have counted on our bein' willin' to wash our faces, but didn't want to say so right out, so put the towels here to remind us, an' I'm as ashamed as I can be 'cause I didn't think of it before." The meal had come to an end, for the very good reason that there was nothing more on the table to be eaten. While aunt Dorcas was talking with Joe, Plums had slyly taken the last remaining section of pie, having previously devoured the cookies and cheese, and, with a long-drawn sigh of content, he replied to his friend's remark by saying: "I guess I couldn't eat any more if I'd washed my face a dozen times, so it don't make much difference." Joe arose from the table, and seated himself in one of the chairs which were ranged precisely against the wall, Master Plummer following his example. Aunt Dorcas, having lighted the second lamp, said: "I'll leave you boys here alone while I attend to making up a bed. You could sleep in the spare-room, I suppose; but my best sheets are there, and I don't just like to--Why, you didn't use the napkins!" Joe's face was of a deep crimson hue, as he replied: "If I'd seen any soap an' water I'd known what they meant; but it's been so long since I was in a reg'lar house that I've kind'er forgot how to behave." Aunt Dorcas turned away quickly, and when she had left the room Plums said, as he unbent from the awkward position he had at first assumed in the straight chair: "Dan Fernald ain't in this! He may be a mighty big detective, but he slips up when it comes to hustlin' for these kind of snaps!" "Aunt Dorcas is nice, ain't she?" "She's a corker!" "If the princess was only here we'd be jest about as snug as any two fellers that could be found in this world." "I'm going to give you the chamber over the kitchen; it is clean and comfortable, but, of course, not as nice as the spare-room," aunt Dorcas said, as she entered suddenly, causing Master Plummer to instantly assume a less negligent attitude. "Plums an' me ain't slept in a reg'lar bed for so long that a blanket spread out on the floor would seem mighty good to us," Joe replied, and the little woman held up both hands in astonishment. "Haven't slept in a bed! Well, I've heard of the heathen in our midst, but never believed I'd be brought in contact with them. How did you--But, there, I won't ask questions to-night, when I know you must be tired. We'll read a chapter, and then you can go to bed. I will wash the dishes afterwards." Reverentially the little woman took a well-worn Bible from the small table beneath one of the windows, and while the two boys who were fleeing from the officers of the law, as they believed, gazed at her in wonderment and surprise, but not understanding that which they heard, she read one of the psalms. Then kneeling, she prayed in simple language which reached their hearts, for the homeless ones within her gates. Joe's eyes were moist when she rose to her feet, and Plums whispered, in a voice choked with emotion: "She's a daisy, that's what's the matter with her!" CHAPTER VIII. A HUNGRY DETECTIVE. When aunt Dorcas had ushered the boys into the "room over the kitchen," and left them with a kindly "good night," they gazed around in such astonishment as can best be depicted by Master Plummer's emphatic remark shortly after the little woman went down-stairs. "I've always thought swells had a pretty soft snap when they went to bed; but I never counted on its bein' anything like this. Do you s'pose she means for us to get right into that bed, an' muss it all up?" Joe did not reply for several seconds, and then said, doubtfully: "It seems as if that's what she must have meant, else why did she tell about her best sheets bein' in the other room? I thought the old German woman's house was mighty nice; but it wasn't a marker 'longside of this. If the princess was only here!" "You can bet I don't bother my head 'bout no princesses when I've got a chance to crawl into that nest. I almost wish now I'd had sense enough to use one of them towels we had on the table, 'cause my hands look pretty dirty when you get 'em side of that sheet." "Well, see this, Plums! If you'll believe it, here's a pitcher full of water, an' soap, an' everything! Let's wash up now, will you?" Ordinarily, Master Plummer would have met this suggestion with a decided refusal; but, being surrounded as he was by so much luxury, it seemed necessary he should do something in the way of celebrating. It was not a very careful toilet which Plums made on this night, for he was in too great a hurry to get between the lavender-scented sheets to admit of spending much time on such needless work as washing his hands and face; but he was more cleanly, and perhaps felt in a better condition to enjoy the unusual luxury. "Say, Joe, it's a mighty big pity we've got to go to sleep." "Why?" "'Cause we ought'er keep awake jest to know how much swellin' we're doin'. I stopped at a Chatham Street lodgin'-house one night, when I was feelin' kind of rich, an' thought the bed there was great; but it wasn't a marker 'longside of this one. I shouldn't wonder if there were feathers in it." Joe was quite as well pleased with the surroundings as was his companion; but he said less on the subject because his mind was fully occupied with thoughts of the princess,--sad thoughts they were, for he was beginning to believe he had been wickedly selfish in taking her away from the place where her parents might have been found, simply to save himself from arrest. He fell asleep, however, quite as soon as did the boy on whose conscience there was no burden, and neither of the fugitives were conscious of anything more until aroused by a gentle tapping on the chamber door, to hear aunt Dorcas say: "It's five o'clock, children, and time all honest people were out of bed." "We're gettin' up now," Joe cried, and he was on his feet in an instant; but Master Plummer lazily turned himself in the rest-inviting bed, as he muttered: "I don't see how it makes a feller honest to get up in the night when he's out in the country where he hasn't got to go for the mornin' papers, an' I guess I'll stay here a spell longer." "You won't do anything of the kind," and Joe pulled the fat boy out of bed so quickly that he had no time for resistance. It was seldom Plums lost his temper; but now he was on the verge of doing so because of having been thus forcibly taken from the most comfortable resting-place he had ever known. "Now, don't get on your ear," Joe said, soothingly. "Aunt Dorcas has told us to get up, an' that settles it. We're bound to do jest as she says, 'cause all these things are hers. It won't pay to turn rusty, Plums, else we may find ourselves fired out before breakfast, an' I _would_ like to stay till to-morrow." "Don't you want to stop any longer than that?" and Master Plummer began hurriedly to dress himself. "'Course I'd like to; but you see I've got to go back to the old German lady's in the mornin'." "What good will that do? It ain't likely you can bring the princess here." "I know that as well as you do; but I promised to be there in two days, an' I'm goin', so we won't have any talk about it." Five minutes later, aunt Dorcas's guests were in the kitchen, where the little woman was preparing a most appetising breakfast, and he would have been a dull boy who did not understand that she must have been up at least two hours before arousing her visitors. "It ain't right for you to wait on us jest like we was reg'lar folks, an' we ain't used to it," Joe said, in a tone of mild reproof. "Anything would have been good enough for us to eat, without your gettin' up so early an' workin' hard to cook it." "Bless your heart, Joseph, I'm doing no more than if I was alone, except perhaps there may be more victuals on the table. My appetite isn't as hearty as it used to be; but I've got a pretty good idea how it is with growing boys." "You're mighty good to us, aunt Dorcas, an' I'll feel a heap better if you'll give me some work to do before breakfast." "I might have let you bring in the wood, if I'd thought; but I'm so accustomed to doing such things for myself that it never came into my mind. I wonder if you could split up a few kindlings? That is the most trying part of keeping house alone, for whenever I strike a piece of wood with an axe I never know whether it's going to break, or fly up and hit me in the face." "Of course we can do it. Where's the axe?" Aunt Dorcas led the way to the shed, where was her summer's store of wood, and before she returned to the kitchen Joe was causing the chips to fly in a way which made the little woman's heart glad. "It does me good to see you work, Joseph. I have always lived in mortal terror of an axe; but you seem to know how to use one." Joe earned his breakfast that morning fairly, and Plums appeared to think he had done his full share by sitting on the saw-horse, watching his comrade. Then came the summons to breakfast, and Master Plummer was eyeing greedily a particularly large roasted potato, which he intended to take from the plate, if an opportunity presented itself, when aunt Dorcas suddenly bent her head, and invoked a blessing on the food. Plums kicked Joe, under the table, to express his surprise at this, to him, singular proceeding, but, otherwise, behaved in a proper manner. The meal was prolonged because of the fat boy's hearty appetite, and, when it was finally brought to a close, Joe said, as he rose from the table: "Now, aunt Dorcas, if you'll show us something more to do I'll be glad, 'cause we've got to pay for what we've had, else it won't be a fair shake." "You boys may go out and look around the place until I do the dishes, and then we will see what I am to set you about." This was so nearly a request for them to leave the kitchen, that they lost no time in obeying, and when they were in the open air Master Plummer said, with an air of perplexity: "She's a mighty fine woman, an' all that kind of thing; but I'd like to know what she's hintin' at by leavin' them towels on the table; they was both there jest the same's last night, even though she must have known that we was washed up in great shape." "I noticed 'em, but don't believe there's anything out of the way about it. She's kind of funny, an' perhaps that's one of her queer spots." Aunt Dorcas's property was not extensive, as the boys learned after walking over it. There was an orchard either side of the lane which led from the highway, and, in the rear of the house, an acre of ground, which had been cultivated at some time in the past. The buildings consisted of the cottage itself, the wood-shed, a second shed which might once have been used as a carriage-house, and a small barn or stable. By the time they had concluded their investigations, aunt Dorcas joined them, and said, with an odd smile on her withered face: "It isn't much of a farm, as farms go nowadays, boys, but it's my home, and very dear to me. Mr. McArthur, one of the neighbours, cuts the grass in the orchards, and pays me a little something for it. I usually have a garden out here; but this year it was neglected, until now it seems too late for early vegetables." "It wouldn't take us long to chuck in a pile of seeds, if that's all you want," and one to have seen Master Plummer, at that moment, would have believed him the most energetic of boys. After aunt Dorcas explained that it would be necessary to spade up the ground, Plums's enthusiasm for gardening diminished; but Joe begged for the privilege of showing what he could do, and the little woman supplied them with such tools as she thought necessary. "If you want to know about anything, come right up to the house. It is baking-day with me, and I shall be busy in the kitchen until dinner-time." Then she left them, and Plums seated himself within the shadow of the barn, explaining, as he did so, that perhaps it would be better if he "kinder got the hang of the thing by seein' Joe work." Eager to repay aunt Dorcas for her kindness, Joe Potter laboured industriously, despite the blisters which soon appeared on his hands, for half an hour or more, and then the two boys were startled by a warning hiss, which apparently came from one end of the barn. "There must be snakes 'round here!" and Plums sprang to his feet, in alarm. "Jim Flannigan says they always hiss like that before they bite." "Take hold of this spade for a little while, an' they won't bite you. It seems to me I'm doin' all the work, an' I know you ate more'n your share of the supper an' breakfast." The hissing noise was heard again, and, as the two gazed in the direction from which it came, the head of Dan, the detective, appeared from behind the barn. "What are you doin' there, tryin' to frighten us?" Plums asked, indignantly. "Why didn't you come right up like a man? There's nobody 'round here but aunt Dorcas, an' she wouldn't hurt a fly." The amateur detective rose slowly to his feet, looking displeased. "You two are the most careless fellers I ever saw. Here's all the cops in New York City out on your trail, an' you hollerin' fit to scare a horse." "S'posin' we are?" and Master Plummer spoke boldly. "S'posin' the road was full of perlicemen, how could they see us while we're behind this barn?" "It don't make any difference whether they could or not. You've got to mind your eye, if you want to keep out of jail, an' yellin' to me ain't the way to do it. If the folks 'round here should know I was on this case, jest as likely as not some of 'em would send word to the city, an' then your game would be up." Plums had lost faith in Dan's detective ability, because of the fact that the latter had failed to take advantage of the opportunity to spend the night in aunt Dorcas's home, therefore he replied, boldly, to his friend's reproof: "We're jest as safe here as we could be anywhere, an' I tell you what it is, Dan, you ought'er seen the layout we had last night an' this mornin'! Why, we slept in a bed that would make the tears come into your eyes, it was so soft; an' talk 'bout spreads! You couldn't get a breakfast down to McGinnis's restaurant, no matter how much you paid, that would come up to what we had!" "Yes, you fellers are takin' all the chances, an' I'm pretty nigh starved to death. I haven't had so much as a smell of anything since yesterday noon." "You ought'er seen the custard pie aunt Dorcas put out before us last night; thick as that!" and Plums measured on his finger the length of three inches or more. "An' a crust that went to pieces in your mouth like ice-cream." "If I had a cold boiled potato I'd be mighty glad." "We had a slat of hot roasted ones with nice butter on 'em, this mornin'," Plums continued, as if it were his purpose to increase the detective's hunger. "I'd give a dime for a sandwich," Dan wailed, and Master Plummer described the fresh bread and sweet boiled ham with which aunt Dorcas had regaled them. "Say, what's the use of tellin' 'bout what you've had, when I've been fillin' up on wind? It only makes a feller feel worse. Why can't you sneak in an' get something for me?" Plums hesitated, as if willing to act upon his friend's suggestion, when Joe said, sharply: "Look here, Dan, I'm awful sorry if you're hungry; but Plums can't sneak into aunt Dorcas's house an' get anything without her knowin' it, not while I'm 'round. It seems kinder tough to ask her to put out more stuff, after all we've had; but since you're starvin', we'll do it, an' offer to pay for what you eat." "You mean to tell her I'm here?" "Of course. I wouldn't lie to her, not for any money." "Then I'll have to starve," Dan replied, angrily, "for I wouldn't let anybody know I was here while I'm tryin' to keep you fellers out of jail. But--" "Here comes aunt Dorcas now!" Plums exclaimed, as he turned towards the house, and, in a twinkling, the amateur detective was screened from view by the barn. "I thought you boys might be hungry, working so hard, and I brought out this plate of fresh doughnuts," the little woman said, as she placed on the grass a dish covered with a napkin. "Mr. McArthur always likes a bite of something when he is here, and it will do you good. How well you have gotten along! I wouldn't have thought you could have spaded up so much in such a short time." Joe, feeling guilty, because he was keeping from aunt Dorcas the fact that detective Dan was on the premises, was at a loss for a reply, but Plums said, promptly: "We'll be glad of 'em, aunt Dorcas, 'cause we're kinder tired jest now," and he would have begun to devour the doughnuts, but for a warning look from his comrade. "You must eat them while they are hot," aunt Dorcas said, gravely, and Joe promised to do so as soon as he had finished a certain amount of work. Then the little woman went back to her cooking, and she had hardly entered the dwelling before the amateur detective, with a hungry look in his eyes, came out, hurriedly, from his hiding-place. "Now you've got somethin' to eat without our lyin' about it, so pitch in before aunt Dorcas comes back." Dan did not need a second invitation, and an expression of deepest regret came over Plums's face, as he watched the cakes disappear with amazing rapidity. "I guess I can stand it, now, till night," the detective said, in a tone of relief, as the meal was brought to a close, because all the food had been eaten. "Are you countin' on stayin' 'round here?" Joe asked. "Of course I am. How else would you fellers get out of the scrape, if I didn't?" "Now, look here, Dan, there's no sense in anything like that. You ain't doin' any good, sneakin' 'round this house, 'cause, if the cops should come, how could you prevent their luggin' us off?" "There's a good many ways that I might pull you through," Master Fernald replied, with an air of mystery. "If you knew as much about this business as I do, you'd be mighty glad to have me stay, 'specially when it ain't costin' you a cent." "But I don't like to think of your bein' hungry, when it won't do the least little bit of good. Take my advice, an' go right back to the city." "If I should do that, it wouldn't be two hours before you'd be in jail." "We sha'n't go there any sooner if you leave us, an' it ain't jest square to aunt Dorcas." "You can't give me points on detective business, Joe Potter, an' I've told the fellers in town that I'll look out for you. That's what I'll do, whether you like it or not," and, after assuring himself, by stalking to and fro and gazing in every direction, that there were no enemies in the immediate vicinity, the amateur detective disappeared around the corner of the barn. "It's too bad for Dan to act the way he's doin'," Joe said, with a long-drawn sigh. "I'm 'fraid, if aunt Dorcas gets a sight of him, we'll have to clear out." "I don't s'pose it would do any good to ask her to let him bunk in with us, would it?" Plums said, hesitatingly. "It would need big nerve, an', even if she was willin', he'd scare the hair off her head talkin' 'bout lawyers an' detectives hoverin' 'round." Then Joe continued his interrupted work, and Plums assisted him by looking on, until the task was completed after which it became necessary to ask for further instructions. Although aunt Dorcas could not perform the labour herself, she knew how gardening should be done, and under her directions, given during such moments as she could safely leave the kitchen, the ground was prepared in a proper manner by the time dinner had been made ready. CHAPTER IX. A FUGITIVE. Plums enjoyed his dinner quite as much as if he had performed his full share of the gardening, and, when the meal was concluded, there came into his mind the thought that aunt Dorcas Milford's home was a most pleasant abiding-place. Even though he was, so to speak, in temporary exile, he was exceedingly well content, save for the disagreeable fact that Joe had stated positively he should go back to Weehawken on the following day. It seemed as if the thoughts of both the guests were running in the same channel, for Joe, after gazing a moment at aunt Dorcas's placid face, gave vent to a sigh of regret, and then looked out of the window, abstractedly. "I s'pose we'd better get that garden planted this afternoon, if you've got the seeds, aunt Dorcas, an' even then we sha'n't be payin' for what we've had," Joe said, after a long pause, while the three yet remained at the table. "Perhaps it will be as well to wait until to-morrow, and give the newly turned earth a chance to get warm," the little woman said. "It seems as though we ought to do it to-day, if it would be jest as well for the garden, 'cause we don't count on your keepin' us for ever; an' after we leave here to-morrow it wouldn't be right to come back." "I did think boys would be a dreadful nuisance around the house," aunt Dorcas began, as if speaking to herself, "but somehow I've felt real contented-like while you've been here, and it's a deal more cheerful with three at the table than to sit down alone." "It's the first time I was ever in a house like this," Joe added, in a low tone. "It's awful nice, an' fellers what have a reg'lar home must be mighty happy." "Where did you live in the city?" aunt Dorcas asked, after a pause. "I knocked 'round, mostly. Twice I've bunked with some other feller in a room what we hired,--of course it wasn't anything like the one up-stairs, but payin' so high for a bed was a little too rich for my blood." "But you had to sleep somewhere," aunt Dorcas suggested, her eyes opening wider, as she gained an insight into a phase of life which was novel to her. The interest she displayed invited Joe's confidence, and he told her of the life led by himself and his particular friends in a manner which interested the little woman deeply. It was not a story related for the purpose of exciting sympathy, but a plain recital of facts, around which was woven no romance to soften the hardships, and there were tears in aunt Dorcas's faded eyes when the boy concluded. "It seems wicked for me to be living alone in this house, when there are human beings close at hand who haven't a roof to shelter them," the little woman said, softly. "Why don't boys like you go out to the country to work, instead of staying in the city, where you can hardly keep soul and body together?" "We couldn't do even that, if we turned farmers," Master Plummer replied, quickly. "Nobody'd hire us." "Why not?" "I know of a feller what tried to get a job on a farm, an' he hung 'round the markets, askin' every man he met, but all of 'em told him city boys was no good,--that it would take too long to break 'em in." "But what's to prevent your getting a chance to work in a store, where you could earn enough to pay your board?" "I had a notion last year that I'd try that kind of work," Plums said, slowly, "an' looked about a good bit for a job; but the fellers what have got homes an' good clothes pick up them snaps, as I soon found out. It seems like when you get into the business of sellin' papers, or shinin', you can't do anything else." "Selling papers, or what?" aunt Dorcas asked, with a perplexed expression on her face. "Shinin'; that's blackin' boots, you know. Here's Joe, he scraped together seven dollars an' eighty-three cents, an' said to hisself that he'd be a howlin' swell, so what does he do but start a fruit-stand down on West Street, hire a clerk, an' go into the business in style. It didn't take him more'n two months to bust up, an' now he ain't got enough even to start in on sellin' papers, 'cause he spent it all on the princess." "Who is the princess?" aunt Dorcas asked, with animation. "She's a kid what he picked up on the street." "Oh!" and the little woman looked relieved. "I thought, last night, when he spoke of the princess, that it was a child he meant." "Why, didn't I tell you it was?" "You said she was a kid." "So she is, an' ain't that a child, or the next thing to it,--a girl?" "Joseph, what does he mean? Who _is_ the princess?" "She's a little girl, aunt Dorcas, who's lost her folks, an' I found her in the street. She hadn't anywhere to go, so I had to take care of her, 'cause a bit of a thing like her couldn't stay outdoors all night, same's a boy." "And, even though having just failed in business, you took upon yourself the care of a child?" "I couldn't do anything else, aunt Dorcas. There she was, an' somebody had to do it." "You're a dear, good boy," and, leaning across the table, aunt Dorcas patted one of Joe's hands, almost affectionately. "Where is the little creature now?" "We hired an old German woman down in Weehawken to take care of her for a week, an' paid a dollar. You see the fellers lent us some cash when we came away." "But what made you leave, Joseph, if you were convinced it would be impossible to earn any money in the country?" "You see, we had to, when--" Joe ceased speaking very suddenly. He could not bring himself to explain to aunt Dorcas exactly why they had left New York, fearing lest she would not believe him when he declared he was innocent of having committed any crime, and it seemed to him it would be worse than any ordinary lie to tell this kindly little woman that which was not strictly true. He hesitated, made several vain attempts at an explanation, and finally said, his cheeks reddening with shame: "I'd rather not tell you about that part of it, aunt Dorcas; but I didn't do anything that wasn't jest straight, though all of 'em believe I did." The little woman thought she understood something of the situation, and, once more caressing Joe's hand, said, kindly: "I don't believe a boy who would try to help a child when he was in want himself could do anything very wicked, Joseph. Sit right here while I do the dishes, for that will give me a chance to think." Then aunt Dorcas set about her household duties, while the boys remained at the table, Plums sitting in such a position that he could gaze through the window which overlooked the lane. After five minutes or more had passed, during which time the silence had been broken only by the rattling of dishes, aunt Dorcas asked, abruptly: "If you paid the child's board for a week, why do you feel that you must go there to-morrow?" "Because I promised Mis' Weber I'd come, an', besides, I want to make certain the princess is all right." Aunt Dorcas gave her undivided attention to the dishes once more, and Joe was looking straight before him, but without seeing anything, for his thoughts were of the advertisements which had made him a wanderer, when he became aware of the singular gestures in which Master Plummer was indulging. It was some time before Joe understood that his comrade wanted him to look out of the window, and when he did realise this fact sufficiently to do as Plums wished, he saw that which disturbed him not a little. Dan was making his way up the lane from the road in the same ridiculous fashion which he appeared to think necessary a detective should employ, and Joe was positive aunt Dorcas would be seriously alarmed, if she saw Master Fernald indulging in such antics. "Go out, Plums, an' make that bloomin' idjut keep away," he whispered to his comrade. "I won't have him dancin' 'round here in that style, an' if he does very much more of it I'll tell aunt Dorcas the whole story. I'd rather be arrested ten times over than have her scared 'most to death." It was evident this was not a mission which pleased Master Plummer, for he feared to incur the anger of one who professed to be so powerful, and he asked, tremulously: "S'posin' he says the same thing he did this forenoon?" "Tell him to go back to the city, or I'll make it my business to send a reg'lar detective here to fix things up." "If he gets mad, Joe, there's no knowin' what he might do." "He sha'n't stay 'round here, an' that settles it; tell him I said so, an' I mean it." Plums stole softly out of the kitchen, but aunt Dorcas was so intent on her thoughts that he might have made very much noise without attracting her attention. Looking through the window, Joe could see Plums as he performed his mission, and, judging from the gestures in which the amateur detective indulged, it was quite evident he was displeased at receiving such a command. After conversing together a short time, the two climbed over the fence, and disappeared in the orchard, going, as Joe believed, towards the barn. The threat had failed of immediate effect, and there came into Joe's mind the thought that it was necessary he go out to make it more emphatic, when aunt Dorcas, having finished the work in hand, seated herself by the boy's side as if for a chat. "Where is George?" she asked, and Joe looked about him in astonishment, not recognising the name for an instant. Then, finally understanding to whom she referred, he explained that Plums had gone out for a few moments, and proposed to summon him. "There is no need of that, for it is with you I want to talk. I've been thinking about that little child, Joseph, and wondering what you could do with her. You said the German woman had promised to keep her only a week." "Yes, aunt Dorcas, and I was in hopes by that time I could go back to New York." "What will you do to-morrow, after you have seen her?" "Jest hang 'round, I s'pose. I've got to go, 'cause I promised, an' then, ag'in, it ain't right to leave the princess alone so long. I don't know but what she's frettin'." "How old is she, Joseph?" "Not more'n six or seven years; but she can't talk." "Then she must be much younger than you think." "Well, perhaps she ain't more'n a year old; I don't know much about kids, anyhow." "It seems as if my duty was plain in this case," aunt Dorcas said, solemnly. "The little property I've got is enough to take care of me, with economy; but surely a child wouldn't be very much expense, an' if you'd do what you could towards helpin', I believe I'd say that she might be brought here. It's a great responsibility; but if a woman like me turns a deaf ear to such a story as you have told, it is almost a crime. There's that poor child without father, or mother, or home, and I have no right to fold my hands in idleness." Joe was about to explain that he hoped soon to find the princess's parents, for aunt Dorcas's words sounded much as if she believed the child to be an orphan; but, before he could speak, the little woman said, emphatically: "You shall bring her here, Joseph, and I rely upon you to help me take care of her." "Of course I'll promise that, aunt Dorcas, an' I'll do my best to find a job somewhere near here, so I can come over evenings." "But I'm depending on your staying here, Joseph." "Do you mean for me to live in this house till I can go back to New York?" and Joe looked bewildered. "Certainly; I shouldn't think of trying to take care of a child and do my housework at the same time, even though there isn't a great deal to be done. You see I'm not accustomed to children, an' wouldn't be as handy as some other people." "But, aunt Dorcas, you can't afford to have two big chumps like Plums an' me livin' on you." "We'll do all that lies in our power. If you and George are industrious, you can do considerable gardening, and the vegetables you raise will go a long ways towards our living." "You're awful good, aunt Dorcas,--you're the best woman I ever saw, an' I wouldn't think of hangin' 'round here if I couldn't do somethin' more'n run that little bit of a garden. Things will get straightened out, after a spell, an' then I can go back to town, where I'm certain of earnin' money." Again Joe was on the point of explaining that it was his duty to make search for the princess's parents at the earliest possible moment, but aunt Dorcas, fancying she understood the entire matter thoroughly, checked him by saying: "We won't talk any more about it now, Joseph. Wait until the experiment has been tried, and then we shall know better how to make our arrangements. You're going to Weehawken in the morning?" "That's what I counted on." "But how can you get the child out here? It is three or four miles, Joseph." "I'd walk twice that far, an' carry the princess all the way, for the sake of havin' her where I am." Aunt Dorcas was not satisfied with this arrangement; but she could think of nothing better just then, and appeared determined there should be no further discussion on the subject. "We'll go into the garden and finish the task there. I don't suppose it is anything more than one of Mr. McArthur's whims to let the upturned ground remain twenty-four hours before putting the seed in; and even if it is necessary, we can't afford to wait, because there won't be much chance for such work after the baby is here." While she was speaking, the little woman had been putting on her sunbonnet, and Joe was seriously alarmed. Unquestionably, detective Dan was in the vicinity of the garden, and, not expecting aunt Dorcas to come out, neither he nor Plums would be on the alert. Joe knew that if Dan was brought face to face with the little woman, without an opportunity of escape, he would boldly declare himself a detective, and this would be sufficient to cause her anxiety, if not alarm, for she could hardly be expected to know that he was a detective only in his own mind. "Let me go out and find Plums first," he said, hurriedly. "He ought'er know what we're talkin' about, so if we don't get through with the work to-night, he can finish it while I'm gone." Without waiting for her to reply, lest she should insist on going with him, Joe ran out-of-doors, and, as he had expected, found Dan Fernald and Plums behind the barn. "What did you come up here for, in the daytime, when anybody might have seen you? I thought it wasn't safe to be hangin' 'round here." "Well, it ain't; but you don't s'pose I'm goin' to starve to death, do you?" "Starve! Didn't you have somethin' to eat, this forenoon?" "How long do you think I can stand it on four doughnuts? Here are you fellers livin' high, an' I'm goin' 'round jest about ready to die." "Well, that ain't our fault. I don't want to have a row with you, Dan, 'cause I s'pose you think you're helpin' us out. But I tell you you ain't, an' carryin' on in this way only makes matters worse. Why can't you go back to town an' leave us alone?" "Why can't I? 'Cause I promised the fellers I'd see you through, an' I'm goin' to do it. Besides, by this time folks know I'm on the case, an' would arrest me 'bout as quick as they would you." "Do you count on three of us livin' on one poor little old woman like aunt Dorcas? Ain't you ashamed to hang 'round here when there's no need of it, tryin' to make us steal something for you to eat?" "There's no reason for your stealin'. I've been thinkin' over what Plums said 'bout that bed, an' the custard pie, an' I don't see why I shouldn't get my share. You could tell her I am your pardner, an' in hard luck." Now Joe was positively alarmed. If Master Fernald had made up his mind that he desired to become an inmate of aunt Dorcas's family, he would most likely do everything in his power to bring about such a result; and the happiness which had been Joe's because the little woman had decided to give the princess a temporary home, suddenly vanished. Rather than ask aunt Dorcas to support three boys, as well as a child, he would go his way alone, after telling her exactly the truth of the matter. "I'll loaf 'round here till 'long towards night, an' then I'll start up to the house through the lane," Dan said, believing Joe did not dare oppose him. "That'll give you a chance to tell her what hard luck I'm in; an' lay it on as thick as you know how, so's she'll be willin' to take me. Plum says this is about the softest snap he ever struck, an' I want my share of it." Joe remained silent while one might have counted ten, trying to restrain his anger, and then he said, quietly, but firmly: "Aunt Dorcas is too good a woman for us to beat in such a way as that, an' I promise, Dan Fernald, that if you show your head on the lane to-night, or try to come into the house, I'll first tell her the whole thing, an' then go straight to the city. I ain't givin' you any fairy story; I mean every word. There's no need of your starvin' 'round here, 'cause you can go back to town. The folks there don't think you're sich an awful big detective that they're goin' to keep their eyes on you all the time. I'll bet there ain't a single soul, except some of our crowd, that know you've ever talked with us 'bout this." Dan looked at his friend in mute astonishment. It seemed to him the height of ingratitude that Joe Potter should thus threaten, when he had made so many sacrifices to aid him in escaping from the officers of the law. More than all this was he hurt by the insinuation that his detective ability was not of a high order, and in a very short time his astonishment gave way to anger. "You can put on as many airs as you want to, Joe Potter, an' we'll see whether I'm a detective or not. I went 'round among the fellers borrowin' money, didn't make any account of my own time, an' walked 'way out here, jest to help you. Now I'm goin' to do as much the other way, an' we'll see what'll happen between now an' to-morrow night! You'll be in jail, that's where you'll be, an' Plums with you!" "Here comes aunt Dorcas," Master Plummer whispered, hoarsely, and instead of stalking away in a dignified fashion, as he had intended, the amateur detective ran hurriedly around the corner of the barn to screen himself from view of the little woman. "We're in an awful mess now," Plums whispered to Joe. "It's a good deal worse than it was before, 'cause Dan will do everything he's threatened, an' we can count on seein' as many as a dozen perlicemen here before to-morrer night." Joe did not dare reply, for, by this time, aunt Dorcas was so near that his words would have been overheard; but he appeared quite as disturbed as did Master Plummer. CHAPTER X. THE JOURNEY. Aunt Dorcas was so intent on the plans for the future which had just been formed, that she failed to observe the constraint which had been put upon the boys by her coming. There was in the little woman's mind only speculations concerning the proposed addition to her family, which she believed, owing to the fact that Joe had not had an opportunity of making the proper explanation, would be permanent, and in connection with this was the making of the garden. Therefore it was she set about directing the young workmen in her customary manner, determined that no more time should be spent on the task than was absolutely necessary. Aunt Dorcas had brought with her a small basket containing many tiny packages, each neatly tied and labelled, and she had her own opinion as to where the different kinds of seeds should be sown. "George, you make the hills for the potatoes, while Joseph and I plant the sweet corn." It was necessary for her to speak twice before Master Plummer realised she was addressing him, so unfamiliar did the name sound, and when he finally became aware of the fact, he asked, in a careless tone, as if planting potatoes were work with which he was thoroughly conversant: "How many hills do you want, aunt Dorcas, an' how big do they generally run out this way?" "Put in four rows, and there is no need of making them very large until after the plants are up." Then aunt Dorcas went with Joe to the opposite side of the garden, and, intent on having the corn planted after a certain peculiar fashion of her own, gave no heed to what Plums was doing, for ten minutes or more; but when she did observe that young gentleman's method of working, a cry of surprise and disapproval burst from her lips. "Whatever are you doing, George?" "Makin' these hills, of course," Plums replied, quietly, without ceasing his work of shovelling the soft earth up into huge mounds, each of which was twelve or fifteen times as large as it should have been. "Well, bless the boy, he don't even know how to plant potatoes!" and the little woman regarded the results of Master Plummer's labour in dismay. "Weren't you ever on a farm, George?" "I never was so far in the country as this before in my life," and Plums wiped the perspiration from his flushed face; for, strange as it may seem, he had, during these few moments, been working quite industriously. [Illustration: "'WELL, BLESS THE BOY, HE DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO PLANT POTATOES!'"] "You need a hoe instead of a shovel, and the hills should be made something like these," aunt Dorcas said, as she pointed to where Joe, thanks to her minute instructions, was performing his part of the task in almost a workmanlike manner. Plums would have grumbled when the little woman insisted on his demolishing the grotesque mounds which had cost him so much labour, but that he remembered how dependent he was upon aunt Dorcas for food and shelter, and held his peace. The remainder of the work done on this afternoon was performed under aunt Dorcas's personal supervision, for she soon came to understand that her assistants were absolutely ignorant of such tasks, and, if left to their own devices, even for a few moments at a time, would succeed only in making blunders. Thanks to her patience and Joe's willingness, however, the garden was planted before sunset, and Master Plummer did but a small share of the labour. After his exploit in building miniature mountains for potato-hills, he became discouraged, and aunt Dorcas soon realised that the task would progress more rapidly if he acted the part of spectator, instead of farmer. "There is considerably more work to be done; but we must put it off until morning, for it is time to get supper now. Can you boys build a fire better than you can plant a garden?" Joe ran on ahead, to show what he could do in that line, and Plums walked painfully by the side of aunt Dorcas towards the house. "Whatever makes you limp so, George?" the little woman asked, solicitously, and Master Plummer replied, with a long-drawn sigh: "I don't know, 'less it is I'm all tired out. You see I never did much farmin' before, an' it kind er strains me." "Do you think you've been doing any now?" and aunt Dorcas looked up at the fat boy, with an odd twinkle in her eye. "Ain't that what we've been doin'?" "It's what Joseph and I have been about; but you were lying down most of the time. George, can it be possible you are lazy?" "Some of the fellers say I am; but that's 'cause they don't know. It tires me all out to move 'round very much." "You look as if you never had any very active exercise; but there's one thing we have to be thankful for: there isn't an indolent bone in Joseph's body. If I had seen any symptoms of it, I don't believe I should have had the courage to make such a change in my way of living as we have decided upon." Plums quickened his pace; he understood, both from her words and her manner of speaking, that the little woman had no sympathy for "tired" people, and the thought came into his mind that it was possible he might not long remain an inmate of the cottage unless he proved he could be of some service. When they entered the kitchen Joe was building a fire in such a manner as met with aunt Dorcas's warmest approval, and the glance she bestowed upon him told Master Plummer, even more strongly than her words had done, that he must exert himself if he wished to enjoy what he had believed was a "soft snap." After supper, on this evening, aunt Dorcas took up her knitting, the boys seated themselves near the window, where they could see Dan, the detective, if he should be so bold as to come again after Joe's warning, and the three discussed the journey which the princess was to make on the following day. Aunt Dorcas thought it would be only right for Mrs. Weber to return five-sevenths of the money which had been paid her to take care of the child for one week; but the boys were doubtful whether the old lady would take the same view of the case. "I'll be willin' enough to let her keep it, so long's I can have the princess with me," Joe said, finally, and aunt Dorcas reproved him, gently. "Remember, Joseph, 'a penny saved is better than a penny earned,' and you should never be careless about money matters. If the German woman has boarded the child only two days, there is no reason why she should be paid for seven." "Except that we gave her the money at the start, and she may say there's no need to take princess away till the week is ended," Plums suggested, sagely, and aunt Dorcas brought the argument to a close by saying, severely: "If she insists on keeping the whole dollar, I shall never look upon her as an honest woman." On this evening aunt Dorcas read two chapters, instead of one, and her prayer was nearly twice as long as on the night previous. Then, as before, she accompanied the boys up-stairs, to make certain everything in the chamber was in proper order, although it was already scrupulously clean, and when, after having bidden them "good night," they heard her light footsteps as she descended the stairs, Joe said, with an air of perplexity: "I'm dead certain we don't do the right thing when she's prayin'." "I didn't make any noise," Plums replied, indignantly. "Course you didn't, else I'd thumped your head. I'd like to see the feller that would kick up a row, or even so much as laugh while aunt Dorcas was prayin'. What I mean is, that we ought'er do somethin', instead of settin' up there like a couple of chumps, an' she on her knees. Do you s'pose it would be right for us to kneel down when she does?" "I don't know. It couldn't do much harm, I s'pose, an' if you think it would please her any better, why, I'm willin' to stay on my knees half a day." "We'll try it to-morrer night, and see how she takes it. Say, I've found out what them towels are for. Aunt Dorcas had one side of her plate, an' she wiped her mouth on it." "Perhaps she didn't have a handkerchief." "Now, look here, Plums, you don't s'pose that a woman what's so slick an' clean as aunt Dorcas is would go 'round without a handkerchief, do you?" "It seems as though she must, if she used the towel; but that ain't botherin' me half so much jest now as Dan Fernald is. I reckon he's pretty near wild by this time, an' it would be a terrible thing if the perlice should come an' drag us out of this place, wouldn't it?" "I ain't afraid he'll kick up a row. That detective business is all in his eye. He don't 'mount to any more'n Sim Jepson does, when it comes to law matters." "But he might do something for all that." "If he does, it can't be helped. We'll know, whatever happens to us, that princess has got a good home." "Of course, there's somethin' in that; but, all the same, I'd rather know _I_ was goin' to stay in a good one," and Master Plummer crept between the lavender-scented sheets with an expression of most intense satisfaction upon his face. Day had but just dawned, when Joe Potter awakened after a long and restful sleep. "Come, turn out, Plums," he said, as he shook his friend roughly. "I'm goin' down-stairs to build a fire for aunt Dorcas before she gets up, an' you'd better come along. If we're goin' to eat her food an' sleep in her bed, it stands us in hand to try to pay our way." Master Plummer promised to get up in "two minutes" but the fire had been built, and breakfast was nearly ready, when he made his appearance. Aunt Dorcas had made no remark, when she came down-stairs and found Joe performing such of the household duties as he was familiar with; but he knew, by the expression on her face, that she was pleased, and this was sufficient reward for having left the rest-inviting bed at such an early hour. According to the arrangements made on the previous evening, Joe was to set out on his three-mile journey immediately after breakfast, and, as soon as the meal was brought to a close, aunt Dorcas made up a reasonably large parcel of seed-cakes and doughnuts, intended, as she explained, to serve as lunch for the travellers. "But I won't be hungry, aunt Dorcas, 'cause I'm about as full as I can be, now, an' the princess couldn't eat all you've got there if she tried for a week." "I dare say you won't be sorry for taking it," and Joe made no further protest. Aunt Dorcas actually kissed him, much to his embarrassment, as he left the house, and called after him, while he was yet in the lane: "Don't try to make the child walk too far, Joseph, and be careful not to carry her very long at a time. You've got plenty of food, even if you shouldn't get back until nightfall, and it's better to go slowly than overtax yourself." Perhaps never before in his life had Joe Potter been cautioned against undue exertion, and he fully appreciated the little woman's solicitousness. "If I was any kind of a feller, I'd turn to an' tell her the whole story, but I don't dare to, for fear she'd believe I'd done somethin' awful wicked, an' turn me out of the house. Of course it's got to come some day, but it'll be tough,--mighty tough." There was but little room for bitter thoughts in Joe's mind on this June morning when it seemed good to be alive, and before he had traversed half a mile he put far from him all forebodings, thinking only of what he would do to add to the comfort of aunt Dorcas, and the happiness of the princess. There was in his mind a well-defined idea that it was his duty to search for the child's parents, but he wholly failed to realise the mental anguish which must be theirs while in ignorance of the baby's whereabouts, and believed there was no especial reason why he should inconvenience himself to find them. "If she wasn't all right, it would be different," he said, arguing with himself. "After we get her into aunt Dorcas's home, she couldn't be fixed any better if she was living with the President, so of course her folks won't fuss so awfully much about her." He enjoyed this journey, because every step was bringing him nearer to the princess, whose devoted slave he was, and the tramp of three miles came to an end before he was conscious of having walked one-third of the distance. He had arrived within sight of Mrs. Weber's home, and was hoping to catch a glimpse of the princess's curly head in the window, when some one stepped deliberately in front of him, barring his passage. "Hello, Dan, ain't you gone back to the city yet?" he cried, in surprise, as he recognised the amateur detective. "I started last night, an' if I'd got there, you an' Plums would be in jail by this time; but I wasn't such a chump as to run right over without findin' out if things had been goin' wrong. You think I don't 'mount to anything as a detective, eh? Well, jest look at this, an' see what would have happened if I'd gone there same's you'd done!" As he ceased speaking Dan handed his friend a copy of an evening paper, folded in such a manner that a certain advertisement stood out prominently. Joe's face paled, as he read the following lines: One hundred dollars will be paid for information concerning the whereabouts of a fruit vendor known as Joseph Potter, and two newsboys, one of whom answers to the nickname of "Plums," and the other known as Dan Fernald. The above reward will be paid to any one who will secure for the undersigned an interview with either of the boys named. Address Cushman & Morton, Attorneys at Law, 47-1/2 Pine Street, New York. As before, he failed to see immediately below this an advertisement requesting information concerning a little girl who had strayed from the Grand Central Depot, and offering one thousand dollars reward for the same. "You see I got myself into a scrape tryin' to help you through and how's it turned out! You wouldn't so much as give me a bite to eat when I was starvin', even when you had plenty of it without costin' a cent. Now, if I'm caught, I've got to go to jail, jest the same's if I'd done whatever you did." "But I haven't done anything crooked, Dan. I can't so much as guess what these lawyers want me for." "Oh, you tell that to the marines! Fellers what get so swell they can't sell papers for a living, but splurge out into a fruit store, with a clerk, an' all them things, have to get money somehow. I don't say as you've robbed a bank, 'cause I don't see how you could get into one; but it must be something pretty nigh as bad, else who'd offer a hundred dollars jest to get hold of you? I ain't so certain but I shall snoop in that cash, an' take the chances of goin' to jail." "I don't s'pose it's any use for me to keep on tellin' you I've been straight ever since I started out sellin' papers," Joe said, sadly. "It's true all the same, though, an' you can't find a feller what'll say I ever did him out of one cent." "That's all in my eye, 'cause here's the advertisement what proves different. All I want to know is, how am _I_ goin' to get out of the scrape?" "I wish I could tell you." "If you did, I s'pose you'd say, 'Get over to the city, an' let them do what they want to with you; but don't hang 'round me,' same's you did yesterday." "Dan, I never believed the lawyers would know you had come away with us, 'cause it didn't seem reasonable, an' it's terrible to have you countin' on livin' with aunt Dorcas, when she is feedin' two of us already." "What's the reason _you_ couldn't step out an' let _me_ have the snap for a spell? _I_ ain't been stealin' money! _I_ wasn't advertised for, till I took up _your_ case! No, that don't suit you; but _I_ must be the one to starve, an' sneak 'round anywhere I can, while _you're_ bein' filled up with custard pie, an' sleepin' on a bed so soft that Plums thought it was feathers. You make me tired, you do!" "See here, Dan, I'm willing to do anything you say, now that you're really in the scrape with us. Go to aunt Dorcas an' tell her I couldn't come back. Perhaps she'll take you in my place." "Perhaps she will, an' perhaps she won't. I s'pose you've been coddlin' the old woman up so she thinks there's nobody in the world but Joe Potter; an' I wouldn't want to bet a great deal of money that you haven't been tellin' her I'm a chump, an' all that kind of stuff, so she wouldn't look at me if I should go there." "I never told her so much as your name--" "Where are you goin'?" Dan interrupted, suspiciously. "To get the princess; aunt Dorcas said I might bring her there." "So! You felt awful bad about lettin' your aunt Dorcas feed three when _I_ was 'round starvin', yet you can make it three by luggin' in your bloomin' princess." "Havin' a little baby in the house is different from a big boy like you, Dan. There's no use for us to stand here chinnin' about it. I'm ready to say I'm sorry for the way I talked to you yesterday, an' I'll 'gree never to go back to aunt Dorcas's. Now, what more can I do?" "But I want you to go back," Dan replied, angrily. "What for?" "I'm no chump, Joe Potter, an' I know what kind of a stew would be served up to me if I went there alone. I want you to go an' introduce me to the family." "It's a dead sure thing, Dan, we can't all live there. You know Plums won't work any more'n he has to, an' we're jest spongin' right off of a poor woman what ain't got enough for herself." "It ain't any worse for me than it is for you." Joe was in a pitiable frame of mind. Believing that Dan was being searched for by the attorneys simply because of what he had done in the affair, Joe considered the amateur detective had such a claim upon him as could not be resisted; yet, at the same time, he was determined not to add a fourth member to aunt Dorcas's family. "Dan, you go an' tell her all I said,--tell her the whole truth if you want to,--an' most likely she'll let you stay; but I can't ask her to open up a reg'lar 'sylum for us fellers. Course I'm bound to do anything you say, seein's you got into this trouble through me; but I won't 'gree to sponge a livin' off the best woman that ever lived, when there's three others doin' the same thing." "Look here, you've _got_ to go back with me." Joe was in deepest distress, and after a pause of several seconds he said, slowly: "If you lay right down on my goin' to her house with you, I'll do it; but I won't stay there a single minute. The princess can be left where she is till I get back." Now was the time when Dan Fernald could exert his authority with effect, and he said, sharply: "If you go back without the kid, the old woman'll lay it to me. Now this is what you've _got_ to do. Take your bloomin' princess, an' act jest the same as if you hadn't met me. I'll wait till your aunt Dorcas gets through fussin' over the kid, an' then I'll flash up. Tell her I'm one of your friends, an' we'll see how she takes it." "But I don't want to do that, Dan," Joe cried, in distress. "You must, or I'll have to go to jail, an' when it comes to anything like that, the whole boilin' of us are in it. Go ahead, an' get the kid." Joe was no longer able, because of his sorrow and perplexity, to contend against the amateur detective, and, without making any further reply, he walked slowly towards Mrs. Weber's home, his heart heavier even than on that morning when he first read the advertisement which seemingly branded him as a criminal. CHAPTER XI. A BRIBE. It appeared very much as if Dan suspected Joe of treachery even in this matter of reclaiming the princess, for he followed him to Mrs. Weber's home, and there stood within a few paces of the door, where he might overhear all that was said. Now that the amateur detective was thoroughly alarmed concerning his own safety, he had ceased his grotesquely mysterious movements, and behaved very much like an ordinary boy. Not until Joe had knocked twice at the door was his summons answered, and then the old German lady stood before him, with the princess in her arms. He had hoped the child would recognise him, but was not prepared for such a hearty greeting as he received. The princess, looking less dainty than when he first saw her, because of a coarse calico frock which the careful Mrs. Weber had put on, in the place of her more expensive garments, leaned forward in the old lady's arms, stretching out both tiny hands to Joe, as she twittered and chirped, after her own peculiar manner, what was evidently a greeting to the boy who had acted a guardian's part to the best of his ability. "She really knows me!" Joe cried, in an ecstasy of joy, forgetting for a moment his own sorrow, and, as the child nestled her face against his neck, he kissed the curly brown hair again and again. Mrs. Weber welcomed the princess's guardian in her own language, which was as unintelligible to Master Potter as the baby's cooing, and only served to arouse the amateur detective's suspicions. "What's that old woman sayin'?" Dan asked, sharply. "You don't want to try any funny games with me, 'cause I won't stand it." Joe did not hear the unkind words; his heart had been made so glad by the princess's joy at seeing him, that he would hardly have been conscious of the fact had the officers of the law come forward at that moment to make him a prisoner. Mrs. Weber, observing Dan for the first time, addressed him in a kindly tone, which only served to deepen the frown on the amateur detective's face. "I dunno what you're drivin' at, missis; but you won't pull wool over my eyes by jabberin' away in that lingo." It so chanced that Joe heard this remark, and, turning quickly towards the boy who, he believed, held him in his power, he said, sharply: "Now, don't make a bigger fool of yourself than you can help, Dan Fernald! Mrs. Weber can't talk our way, an' is only tryin' to treat you decent." "I'm keepin' my eyes open, all the same, cause I don't count on gettin' left the same as I was yesterday." Accepting the invitation given by gestures, Joe entered the house with the princess in his arms, and followed by the boy who considered himself his master. Now a serious difficulty presented itself. Mrs. Weber's grandson was not at home, and it would be necessary to dispense with the services of an interpreter. "I don't know how I'm going to fix it," Joe said, speaking half to himself, and Master Fernald believed he was addressed. "What is it you can't fix?" "I want to get back some of the money I paid Mrs. Weber; but how am I goin' to tell her I'll carry the princess away for good?" "She must know what you say, of course. Who ever heard of a woman what didn't understand how to talk?" "But she's a German, you know." "I can't help that. If you tell her right up an' down what you mean, she's bound to know it, 'less she's a dummy." There was little in the way of advice to be gained from the alleged detective, and Joe began a pantomime which he intended should convey the idea. He pointed to the princess's clothes, then out of the window; put on his hat, and, with the child in his arms, walked towards the door. Then he opened the parcel aunt Dorcas had given him, displaying the food, and pointed up the street in the direction from which he had just come. After a time, Mrs. Weber appeared to understand something of what he was trying to convey, and, with a volley of words which sounded very much like a protest, took the princess from him. The child screamed violently, clinging to Joe with all her little strength, and the boy was seriously disturbed; but the smile on Mrs. Weber's face told that she did not consider the outburst as anything very serious. "What's she goin' to do with the kid?" Dan asked, as the German woman disappeared in an adjoining room. "I s'pose she's gone to put on the princess's other clothes, 'cause it seemed like as if she understood what I'd been tellin' her." "It would be a precious good job if she didn't come back. That kid has got you into a heap of trouble, Joe Potter, an' it'll grow worse instead of better so long as you stick to her." Joe made no reply. It is doubtful if he heard the words, for the princess was crying so loudly he feared she might do herself an injury. Five minutes later, Mrs. Weber reëntered the room, bringing the princess clad in her own garments, and the little maid ran with outstretched arms to Joe, pressing her tear-stained face against his cheek in such a manner as went straight to his heart. After a prolonged caress, Joe said to Dan, as if answering the remark which the amateur detective had made a few moments previous: "No matter how much trouble she might get me into, I'd stick to this little thing as long as I lived, if she needed me." "Course you've got the right to be jest as big a fool as you like; it ain't any of my business, so long's I don't have to starve to death on her account. What about the money you was goin' to try to get from the old woman?" "I'll have to let that go, 'cause I can't make her understand what I mean. Will you carry the cakes?" Master Fernald seized the parcel with avidity, and straightway began devouring its contents. With the princess in his arms, Joe arose, put on his hat, and held out his hand in token of adieu. Mrs. Weber looked at him in surprise an instant, and then, after saying something in German, hastened out of the room, returning a moment later with several silver coins in her hand. Joe hesitated, and then took from the outstretched palm fifty cents, motioning that she keep the remainder. The old lady shook her head, energetically, and literally forced him to take all the coins, which amounted in value to ninety cents. "You've only kept a dime," he said, in protest, "an' it isn't enough to pay for takin' care of the princess two days." Mrs. Weber smiled, kindly, patted Joe on the head, kissed the princess affectionately, and by opening the door signified that she would not accept further payment for her services. "I'll come back some day an' square up for what you've done," Joe cried, as he stepped down on to the sidewalk, and then he remembered that if matters were arranged as seemed necessary, he would soon be in prison. "Anyway, I'll come back as soon as I can," he added to himself, and kissing the tiny hand which the princess had wilfully placed over his mouth, he set forward, resolutely, on the journey, followed by the boy who claimed the right to dictate as to his future movements. During half an hour Joe walked steadily on towards aunt Dorcas's peaceful home, listening to the princess's childish prattle, and banishing all forebodings from his mind with the thought that the baby trusted and loved him. Then Dan, who had been walking a few paces in the rear, came to his side, appearing a trifle more friendly than when they first met. "At this rate you'll get back in time for dinner." "It seems as though I ought to, but it's kind of hard work carryin' the princess. Aunt Dorcas gave me the cakes so's we wouldn't need to hurry on the road, an'--where are they?" "Do you mean that little bunch of cakes you gave me?" "Little bunch! Why, there was a stack of 'em!" "It don't make any difference how many there was, 'cause I ate the whole lot." Joe looked at the amateur detective as if about to make an angry reply; but checked himself, and Dan said, defiantly: "The time's gone by when you can put on airs with me, Joe Potter. I ain't goin' to starve to death when there's anything 'round I can eat." "No, you'd rather let a little baby like this one go hungry. I wouldn't have touched the cakes any sooner'n I'd cut my finger off, 'cause they was for her." "You make me tired with your bloomin' princess. She's stuffed jest about as full as she can hold, an' I'm the same as starved." Joe did not so much as look at the selfish boy, but walked more rapidly than before until fully one-half the distance from Mrs. Weber's to aunt Dorcas's had been traversed. Light though the burden was, his arms ached from long carrying the child, and it seemed absolutely necessary to come to a halt. The princess was more than willing to take advantage of the opportunity to search for flowers or wintergreen plums by the roadside, and Joe stretched himself out at full length on the cool grass, keeping jealous watch all the while over the happy little girl. Dan seated himself near by, having once more assumed an air of injured innocence, and Master Potter could not longer delay having an understanding with this boy, who was bent on claiming even more than his right. "So you're bound on goin' straight to aunt Dorcas's with me?" he said, after a brief pause. "It's got to be that, or jail." "I don't see why; there are other places 'round here besides hers." "Yes; but I ain't sure of gettin' into 'em for nothin'. When you strike a house where Plums is so contented, it must be a pretty soft snap." "It ain't certain you can get in there, an' it's dead sure you're drivin' the princess an' me away." "I ain't doin' anything of the kind. You're gettin' on your ear 'cause I want to be treated decent, that's the size of it." "You know very well we can't ask that poor little woman to take care of four, an' somebody must go, if you're comin'. Now, of course, I must take the princess with me, an' I don't want to leave the very minute I get there. Will you hang off a couple of days, an' give me a chance to find out how I can fix things?" "I'd starve to death in two days, an' you know it." "That's all foolishness; you've got plenty of money in your pocket that was borrowed from the fellers to help Plums an' me through." "I haven't so much that I can go sportin' 'round the country like a swell, have I?" "You've got enough to keep you from starvin' for a week." "All the same, I'm goin' to live with you an' Plums," Dan replied, doggedly, and Joe remained silent while one might have counted twenty, after which he said, with the air of a boy who has suddenly decided upon a course of action: "Mis' Weber gave me back ninety cents. Now I'll turn over seventy-five of it if you agree not to show up at aunt Dorcas's until three o'clock to-morrow afternoon." "What kind of a game are you tryin' to play on me now?" Master Fernald asked, suspiciously. "It ain't any game. I'm hirin' you to stay away, so I can stop there till that time, an' then I'll leave." "Yes, an' you're goin' to tell her a whole lot of stuff 'bout me, so's she won't let me stop there." "I'll promise never to speak your name except to tell her you come as far's this with us, an' was up behind the barn twice. Now with seventy-five cents you can live a good deal more swell somewhere else than at aunt Dorcas's, an' at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon you may do what you please." "How do I know you'll keep your promise?" "'Cause neither you nor anybody else can say I ever went back on my word, an' fix it any way you're a mind to, it's the best trade you can make. I'm certain she wouldn't take in four of us, an' the only show you've got is for me to leave." "But where'll I find a chance to buy something to eat?" "There are plenty of stores 'round here, an' you can get a lodging most anywhere, for twenty-five cents." "Hand over your money." "Do you 'gree not to show your nose 'round there till three o'clock to-morrow?" "Of course I do." Joe counted out the amount agreed upon, and said, warningly, as he gave it to Master Fernald: "I'm reckonin' on your keepin' your word, same's I will mine; but don't make the mistake of goin' back on me, Dan Fernald, for if you come to aunt Dorcas's before the time we've 'greed on, I'll make it hot. You know I can do it, so be square, or you'll get into worse trouble than if the detectives found you." "That's right; threaten a feller when you think you've got him in a hole!" "I ain't doin' half so much threatenin' as you did, an' besides, I'm payin' for the privilege when I give you pretty nigh all the money I've got, an' you with a pocket full." The amateur detective did not think it advisable to reply to this remark, and the two remained silent until Joe believed the time had come when the journey should be resumed. The princess was weary with running to and fro, and willingly allowed the boy to take her in his arms again. "The next time we stop it'll be at aunt Dorcas's," Joe said, as he set out, and then he halted suddenly, for Master Fernald was following close in the rear. "Where you goin'?" "With you, of course." "Didn't I buy you off till three o'clock to-morrow afternoon?" "Does that mean I can't so much as walk up the road when you're on it?" "It means you mustn't follow me to aunt Dorcas's house, an', after all that's been said and done, I shouldn't think you'd want to do anything of the kind." "I'll keep my promise, an' I'll do whatever else I please. You better not be too smart, 'cause I might back out of the trade." "It would be a sorry job for you," Joe said, threateningly, and, turning once more, he continued the journey without heed to Master Fernald's movements. [Illustration: "THE PRINCESS SUFFERED AUNT DORCAS TO KISS HER."] It was not yet eleven o'clock when Joe and the princess arrived at aunt Dorcas's home, and the little woman cried, in delight, as Master Potter led the child towards her: "What a sweet little darling! What a beautiful baby! Why, Joseph, I had no idea she was such a lovely child as this!" and the princess suffered aunt Dorcas to kiss her rapturously. "There's no flies on her, anyhow," Joe said, with an air of pride. It is doubtful if aunt Dorcas heard this last remark. She was as pleased with the princess as a child would have been with a doll, and behaved much after the same fashion. Joe and Plums listened with greatest satisfaction to her words of praise. The little maid and the little woman had apparently conceived a most violent admiration each for the other, and straightway it seemed as if the boys were entirely forgotten, for the two went into the house without so much as a backward glance. "'Cordin' to the looks of things, I guess they'll get along pretty well together," Plums said, in a tone of satisfaction. "I'm mighty glad you've come back, 'cause aunt Dorcas kept me humpin' myself ever since you left. Why, I've finished up the whole garden, an' it seems to me as if I'd done the work of four men. Did you get the money from the German woman?" "Yes; but it didn't do me any good;" and then Joe told in detail of the meeting with the amateur detective, and the bribe he had been forced to give. "It seems as though Dan must be pretty smart if they're advertisin' for him, too," Plums said, reflectively. "I can't make out what them lawyers are up to, offerin' a whole hundred dollars for either one of us, an' when it comes right down to dots, I don't s'pose we're actually worth twenty-five cents." "I can't understand it, either, and I expect aunt Dorcas will think I'm a terrible bad feller, when I tell her the story." "But you ain't goin' to do anything like that?" Plums cried, in alarm. "Yes, I am; I won't go away from here without tellin' her the truth, an' I've got to leave before three o'clock to-morrow afternoon." "Now, look here, Joe, this ain't right to let Dan Fernald drive you off. Where'll we find another place like this?" "I don't reckon we ever can; but it's got to be done. I'd be 'shamed enough to die if Dan should settle hisself down here, after we've brought the princess. That would make four of us for aunt Dorcas to feed, an' we know she has 'bout all she can do to pay her own bills. It seemed pretty tough when you an' I come; but I said to myself it was only for two or three weeks, an' we could patch it up somehow, after we got back to town." "But Dan's a fool!" Master Plummer cried, excitedly. "It's no dead sure thing aunt Dorcas will take him in same's she has us, even if you do go away." "But he thinks she will, so it 'mounts to the same thing." "Where are you goin'?" "I don't know," Joe replied, mournfully. "Perhaps it'll be better to go straight to town, an' let 'em arrest me. Aunt Dorcas will tell me what's best, an' I shall do as she says." "You ain't goin' to talk to her to-night?" "No, Plums, I'm countin' on holdin' out till to-morrow mornin', an' enjoyin' myself all I can, 'cause it ain't no ways likely I'll ever have the chance of stoppin' again in sich a place as this." Master Plummer was silent for a moment, and then a different aspect of the case presented itself to him. "Why, what's goin' to become of me?" he cried. "I don't believe aunt Dorcas'll keep me after you leave, an' what'll I do?" "If I let the lawyers get hold of me, that'll ease up on you, 'cause I'm the only one they'd want to arrest, an' you can go back to town." "Yes, perhaps I can; but I'll hate to, mightily. That shanty of mine won't seem half so nice, after we've lived here, an' I'll have to go to work sellin' papers!" Master Plummer was now so absorbed in the contemplation of his own unfortunate position as to be wholly unable to sympathise with his friend, and the two sat on the greensward just outside aunt Dorcas's door, in painful silence. CHAPTER XII. A STRUGGLE IN THE NIGHT. During the remainder of this day it appeared to Joe and Plums as if they were abandoned by the little woman who had hitherto treated them with so much attention. Immediately after Joe arrived with his charge, aunt Dorcas and the princess disappeared inside the house, and neither of them seemed to desire the companionship of the boys until, at an unusually late hour, they were summoned to dinner. To Plums's great disappointment, the noonday meal was a lunch, rather than a dinner, and aunt Dorcas apologised, by saying: "I was so interested in making the acquaintance of your princess, Joseph, that, for perhaps the first time in my life, I forgot my household duties, and it was half past eleven before I remembered we hadn't had dinner." "'Cordin' to the slat of stuff you've got here on the table, I should think you'd been at work all the forenoon," Joe said, approvingly, but there was the faintest suspicion of jealousy in his heart because the princess no longer demanded his attention. Aunt Dorcas had arrayed her in some plain garments which might once have belonged to herself or her sisters, and the little maid was so well content with this new friend that she had but curt greetings for the boy who considered himself her guardian. Perhaps aunt Dorcas understood from the expression on Joe's face something of that which was in his mind, when the princess chattered and cooed to the little woman, paying no attention to the others at the table, for she said, in a kindly tone: "It's to be expected, Joseph, that a baby like this one would take more readily to a woman than a boy." "Oh, I know that, aunt Dorcas," Joe replied, with a poor assumption of carelessness, "an' I'm awful glad you like her." "Indeed I do, Joseph. Even in the short time she has been here I have realised what a comfort it is to have a child around the house, and I believe God has been very good in sending you and her to me." Aunt Dorcas made no mention of being grateful because Plums was a member of the family, but that young gentleman gave no apparent heed to the omission, so intent was he upon the pleasure of eating. Joe had expected aunt Dorcas would question him closely concerning the journey, and want to know if the princess had eaten the cookies she sent. He feared he might not be able to answer her questions without revealing some of the disagreeable events of the morning; but, to his surprise, she never so much as referred to the subject. All her thoughts were centred upon the child; how she should amuse her; how provide her with new garments, and the little woman even went so far as to speculate upon the time when it would be necessary to send her to school. Joe did not enjoy the food as he would have done but for having met with Dan, the detective. A big lump came into his throat, with the thought that this might be the last dinner for him in the cottage, the last time he would see aunt Dorcas, and it was only with difficulty he could swallow. He had said he would give himself wholly up to the pleasure of being there during the remainder of this day, and not until morning came should aunt Dorcas hear his story; but before the dinner was eaten, he began to question whether it might not be wiser to make the explanations at once, and have done with them, so painful was the suspense. While the little woman washed the dishes, Joe was permitted to amuse the princess, but, as soon as aunt Dorcas was at leisure, she took the child in her arms, and said, preparatory to seating herself in the comfortable rocking-chair near the west window: "The princess and I are going to have our nooning now, and you boys had better go out-of-doors, where you can't disturb us with your noise." The lump in Joe's throat seemed to increase in size, but he forced it back bravely, as he asked: "Isn't there any work we can do, aunt Dorcas? There's no reason why we should hang 'round here with our hands in our pockets." "I'll venture to say George isn't eager to be doing anything, for I kept him busy this morning. It appears to me he isn't a great lover of hard work, and I am certain you need rest. A walk of six miles--and I dare say you carried the child a good deal more than half the distance--is as much as ought to be expected of a boy in one day." "But I'm not so awful tired, an' I guess Plums can hold out a spell longer, so if there's anything you'll be wantin' done for the next week or two, I wish you'd let me know it now." "I don't think of a thing, Joseph. Go into the orchard, and amuse yourself in almost any way except by throwing rocks at the birds, until the princess and I have had our nap." Joe could do no less than obey, and, once they were out of the house, he said to Plums: "Of course I'm a big fool to think any such things, but I can't help feelin' sorry because the princess had rather be with aunt Dorcas than me." "I'd say it was a mighty lucky thing if we were goin' to stay here; but, in case you stick to what you said about goin' away to-morrow, it will be kinder tough on both of 'em." "I wouldn't wonder if aunt Dorcas wanted us to go, after I tell her why I left the city. She's too good a woman to keep a feller 'round, if she thinks he's been doin' something wicked." "But you say you haven't." "An' it's the truth, Plums; but I can't make other folks believe it, not even you, on account of that advertisement. Everybody says I must have been up to something crooked, else the lawyers wouldn't try so hard to get hold of me." Plums could give no consolation. Although he had never known Joe to do anything which was not absolutely just and honest, he was convinced that some wrong had been committed, otherwise the advertisement would never have appeared. Joe lay down on the grass, under one of the apple-trees, and, despite the sorrow in his heart, the chirping of the birds, the soft murmur of the leaves as they were moved to and fro by the breeze, and the hum of insects, soon lulled him to sleep. The sun was far down in the west when he awakened, and, leaping to his feet, surprised that he had spent nearly the entire afternoon in slumber, he looked around for Master Plummer. That young gentleman was sitting with his back against the trunk of a tree, looking idly up at the fleecy clouds, while an expression of discontent overspread his face. "I guess I must have had a pretty long nap," Joe said, as if to make an apology for his indolence. "I don't believe I ever did a thing like that before. Hasn't aunt Dorcas called us yet?" "Not as I know," Master Plummer replied, curtly. "Then she an' the princess must be sleepin' as sound as I was. Of course you'd heard if she'd called?" "I haven't been here all the time." "Where have you been?" Master Plummer hesitated an instant, and then replied, speaking rapidly, as if to prevent Joe from interrupting him: "I saw Dan Fernald sneakin' 'round down by the road, an' went to see him. We've been talkin' this thing over, Joe, an' it don't seem to me as though there was any need for you to go off with the princess. You might walk 'round the country for a week without findin' so good a place as this. I'm sure aunt Dorcas had rather keep half a dozen boys than let that youngster go, now she's begun to like her." "I wish I'd known Dan Fernald had come here. It was in the agreement he should keep away, an' I'd 'a' pounded him if I'd caught him sneakin' 'round." "But, say, why can't you keep quiet, an' let him do as he's a mind to? Perhaps aunt Dorcas won't take him in, after all." "I ain't goin' to say a word against him; but I shall tell her the whole story to-morrow morning, an' then clear out." "Even if she wants you to stay?" "Yes; 'cause I'd be ashamed to own I was alive if I'd let her take care of such a crowd as ours." Plums showed plainly that he was displeased by the stand his friend had taken, and walked in silence down the lane to the road. "Any decent feller'd do the same's I'm countin' on." Joe said to himself, as he went slowly towards the cottage. "He wants to stay 'cause he gets plenty to eat an' no work to speak of, so he won't look at the thing the way he ought'er." Arriving near the rear door of the cottage, he saw aunt Dorcas and the princess playing on the grass with two dolls made of aprons, and the little woman appeared to be enjoying herself as hugely as did the little maid. "I declare, I'm almost ashamed of myself, Joseph, to be seen at such games; but I couldn't resist your princess's coaxing, and I believe I've really had a good time. We must find some more Christianlike name for her than princess. I think she calls herself Essie." "I thought so, too; but I couldn't make out what kind of a name that was. Did you call us after you got through with your nap, aunt Dorcas?" "Certainly I did, Joseph; but I suppose you were too far away to hear me." Joe explained how he had spent the afternoon, whereat the little woman laughed merrily, and invited him to play with them at keeping house. Not until fully half an hour after her usual time for preparing the evening meal, did aunt Dorcas cease her share in the childish sport, and then Joe had his princess all to himself until they were summoned to supper. Meanwhile, Master Plummer had returned from his walk, but without having concluded his fit of the sulks, and he apparently gave no heed to anything around him until he was called to partake of supper. On this night aunt Dorcas's prayer was one of thanksgiving rather than supplication; there was a cheery ring in her voice which the boys had never heard before, and Joe wondered at it, without once guessing that the coming of the princess had made the little woman more womanly and younger. When the boys were in their room, Joe, who had almost forgotten, since the moment he joined in the game of "keeping house," that, on the morrow, he was to leave this pleasant abiding-place, realised even more keenly than before how hard it would be to carry out the purpose he had formed; but yet he did not falter for a single moment. "I'll do it in the mornin', sure, an' I wish I'd told her to-night; then the hardest part would be over," he said to himself, as he crept into bed by the side of the yet indignantly silent Master Plummer. Owing to his long sleep during the afternoon, and also the unpleasant thoughts in his mind, Joe's eyes refused to close in slumber. He tossed to and fro on the rest-inviting bed, while Plums slept audibly, until it seemed to him as if the night must have passed and the morning was near at hand. This belief was strengthened when he heard a noise as if the kitchen window was being raised, and he leaped out of bed, vexed with himself because he had not gone down sooner to build the fire. It was yet dark in the room, and he turned to pull aside the curtain, when he found that it was already raised at full height. "It ain't mornin', that's certain," he said to himself. "I wonder what aunt Dorcas is doin'? Perhaps the princess is sick." He went to the door and listened. A certain faint rustling, as if some one was moving around in the room below, came to his ears; but it was so indistinct he questioned whether it might not be fancy. One, two, three minutes he stood silent and motionless, and then, not satisfied that everything was as it should be, crept softly down the stairs. On nearing the kitchen he became positive some one was moving around the room; but since no ray of light appeared from beneath the door when he stood at the foot of the stairs, the startling thought came into his mind that an evil-disposed person had effected an entrance. It seemed preposterous burglars should come to the cottage in the hope of finding anything of very great value, and yet Joe felt convinced there was an intruder in the house. Then it was that he believed he knew the person who was moving so stealthily in the adjoining room. "Dan has broken in here to steal something to eat," he said to himself. "He thinks neither Plums nor I would dare do anything to him, for fear he'd tell the detectives where we are, and knows aunt Dorcas couldn't make much of a row if she wanted to." Determined to punish the amateur detective soundly for his misdemeanour, Joe crept softly to the door until his hand was on the latch, and at that instant it was suddenly opened from the inside. Not anticipating any such movement as this, the boy, who had been partially leaning against the door, was precipitated into the room. Only with difficulty did he prevent himself from falling, and had but just recovered his balance when he was seized from behind by some one who had evidently intended to clutch him by the throat, but, failing, grasped his shirt-collar. Even now, Joe believed it was with Dan he had to deal, and wrenching himself free, which was not difficult, since the cloth tore in the hand of the intruder, he struck out right and left, with the hope of dealing an effective blow. Before many seconds had passed, however, he understood that he was battling with a man, and not a boy. Once he received a blow on the cheek which sent him staggering back several paces, and, when he would have renewed the battle, was met by a thrust in the face which almost dazed him. The intruder made no outcry, probably hoping the other inmates of the house might not be aroused, and Joe remained silent, lest aunt Dorcas should learn of the burglar's presence. After receiving a third blow, and not having been able to deliver one in return, Joe understood that the battle would speedily be brought to an end by his discomfiture, unless there was a change of tactics, and he closed with the man at once, seizing him around the waist in such a manner that the fellow could not do him much injury. The boy had but little hope he would come off victor in this unequal battle; but yet he clung to his adversary, striving to overthrow him, until, in their struggles, the two were at the open door through which Joe had entered. Leading from the kitchen by this way was a short hall, ending in three steps which led to the shed beyond, and Joe believed the time had come when he might gain an advantage. At that instant, the burglar was standing with his back towards the passageway, and putting all his strength into the effort, Joe flung his whole weight upon the enemy. The man, taken for the instant at a disadvantage, yielded a single step, and this was sufficient for his discomfiture. Joe forced him back, until the fellow toppled down the stairs, striking his head against the threshold of the shed door with sufficient force to render him unconscious. The crash which followed the burglar's fall literally shook the little cottage, and before Joe fully realised he had vanquished the foe, aunt Dorcas was calling him loudly by name. "It's all right; don't you come down, but send Plums here if you can," he shouted, in reply, and then stood irresolutely wondering what could be done. He had an ill-defined idea that the burglar should be made a prisoner; but how that might be accomplished was more than he could say at that moment. Aunt Dorcas had ceased to call for him, when he understood that it would be more prudent on his part to secure a light before taking any steps to fetter the burglar, and he stepped back into the kitchen for this purpose; but he had not yet found a match when the little woman entered, holding high above her head a lamp, as she had done on the night when Joe first saw her. "Goodness gracious, Joseph! What _is_ the matter? You're covered with blood! Have you met with an accident?" "Now don't get frightened, aunt Dorcas; I ain't hurt." "Why do you tell me that, Joseph, when I can see for myself? You must be bleeding to death!" "But I am not, I tell you. I jest got a clip on the nose, an' another one behind the ear; neither of 'em will do any harm. Now don't you get frightened; but I s'pose I've got to tell you what happened." "Of course you have, Joseph. You don't fancy I can remain silent with such goings on in my house, and not attempt to understand them. What have you been doing to yourself? Why don't you answer? Can't you see you are making me very nervous?" "I didn't want to tell you, aunt Dorcas, 'cause I was 'fraid you'd get scared; but there's a burglar out here in the shed. I knocked him silly by pitching him down-stairs, an' now I'm tryin' to think how we can keep him from gettin' away." "A burglar! Keep him from getting away? Why, Joseph Potter, we don't want any burglars 'round this house! For mercy's sake, if the poor, misguided creature will go, don't you try to stop him! Did you hurt him very much?" Joe was relieved in mind because aunt Dorcas, instead of being terrified at the information that a burglar was in the house, was only solicitous lest he might have been injured, and he replied, grimly: "I reckon I'm the one what got the worst of that little fuss. You needn't feel so very bad 'bout him, 'cause he's only bumped his head. But say, we mustn't let him go after what he's tried to do. I'll tie him, an' you call Plums to go for a perliceman." "Joseph, I never would consent to have a poor fellow arrested; but he shall be talked to severely, for injuring you as he has done. The idea of a grown-up man striking a child so hard as to bring blood!" However serious the situation, Joe could not have restrained his mirth. Aunt Dorcas's pity for the burglar, and fear lest he had been injured, was to him very comical, and he laughed heartily, until the little woman said, in a tone of reproof: "Joseph, that poor man may be dying, and by your hand, while you are making merry. Where is he?" Joe stifled his mirth as best he could, and, taking the lamp, and the tender-hearted little woman's hand, led the way towards the shed door, as he replied: "I'll show him to you, aunt Dorcas, an' then if you want to tie a rag 'round his throat, or put a plaster on his head, you can." But Joe did not make as thorough an exhibition of his burglar as he had anticipated. The man had regained consciousness, and all aunt Dorcas saw of the intruder was a dark form which ran past her into the kitchen, and from there leaped through the open window. Joe could not have stopped the burglar if he wished, so sudden and unexpected had been the fellow's movements; but he was deeply chagrined that his enemy should thus have escaped so readily. "He's gone, an' I ought'er be kicked for standin' here chinnin' with you, as if he'd wait till I got ready to tie him up!" "We should be thankful to him for going without making any more of a disturbance. I'm relieved to know he wasn't seriously hurt, and--How wicked I am to stand here talking about anything, when your wounds should be attended to! It's a mercy you haven't bled to death long before this." "There's no danger of anything of that kind, aunt Dorcas, and if you'll go right back to bed, I'll tend to myself in great shape. There's no need of your fussin' 'round." "You must believe me a perfect wretch if you think I could leave you in such a condition. But, Joseph, I would like to go back and dress myself properly." "There's no reason why you shouldn't leave me till mornin' jest as well as not, so go ahead, aunt Dorcas, an' do whatever you please." [Illustration: "A DARK FORM LEAPED THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW."] "Sit down here by the table, where you will have something on which to rest your head if you grow faint, and I'll be back in a moment." Aunt Dorcas closed the kitchen door, lest a draft of air should come upon the boy she believed so grievously wounded, and went to her own room, Joe saying to himself, meanwhile: "I'd been willin' for him to have pounded me into shoestrings, if it would save me from havin' to tell a woman as good as she is that I ran away from New York to keep out of jail." CHAPTER XIII. A CONFESSION. It seemed to Joe as if aunt Dorcas had but just left the room when she returned, ready for the work of binding up his wounds. "Do you feel any worse, Joseph?" she asked, laying her hand gently on his shoulder. "Not a bit of it," Master Potter replied, stoutly. "Do you think you can bear up until I have built a fire and heated some water?" "Now, look here, aunt Dorcas, I ain't hurt any to speak of, even though there is a good deal of blood on my face, an' as for bearin' up, why, it wouldn't do me a bit of harm if there wasn't anything done to my face. I'll build a fire, if it's warm water you're after," and, before the little woman could prevent him, he had set about the task. While waiting for the fire to burn, aunt Dorcas collected such articles as she believed would be needed, and Joe found it difficult to prevent a smile from appearing on his bruised face, as he watched the preparations. Several rolls of clean, white cloth, in sufficient quantity to have bandaged the heads of twenty boys, arnica, antiseptic washes, adhesive plaster, a sponge, cooling lotions, and, as Joe afterwards told Plums, "a whole apothecary's shop full of stuff," was placed on the table in a methodical fashion. "I guess while this water's bein' heated I'll wash some of the blood off my face, an' then you'll see that there ain't any need of worryin' much 'bout me," Joe said, with a laugh, as he turned towards the sink, and aunt Dorcas cried, excitedly: "Don't do it, Joseph! Don't you dare to do it; it might be as much as your life is worth to put cold water on that bruised flesh! It won't be many minutes before we shall have plenty of the proper temperature." "Of course I'll do jest as you say, aunt Dorcas; but I've been hurt worse'n this a good many times, an' never had any one to touch me up the same's you seem bound on doin'." "If you have been foolhardy in the past, it is no reason why you should run unnecessary risks now," the little woman said, severely, and Joe made no further attempt to dissuade her from her purpose. When the water was sufficiently warm, aunt Dorcas set about her self-appointed task, passing the moist sponge over Joe's face with an exceedingly light touch, as if afraid of causing him pain, and he said, with a stifled laugh: "You needn't be afraid of hurtin' me, aunt Dorcas. I can stand a good deal more'n that without yippin'. I'd been willin' to got it twice as bad, if we could have held on to that duffer." "You shouldn't harbour revengeful thoughts, Joseph. I am truly glad he made his escape." "If you treat burglars in that way, this place will be overrun with them before next winter." "Of course I don't like the idea of having strange men prowling around the house in the night; but there is nothing here for them to steal, and I am certain they couldn't be wicked enough to hurt a poor old woman like me. Instead of harbouring revengeful thoughts, we should endeavour to do good to those who would injure us, remembering the words spoken on the Mount, 'That ye resist not evil; but whosoever shall smite thee on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.'" "If a feller went 'round doin' anything like that, I reckon he'd soon be in worse shape than I am. Do you mean, aunt Dorcas, that I ought to have stood still an' let that burglar have fun with me?" "I can't think it was intended we should take the words literally; but they certainly were meant that we should be forgiving,--that we should love our enemies so heartily as to lead them from their evil ways. The man who beat you so cruelly will never be brought into a better life by harsh words. Now, I am going to put some arnica on these bruises; it will hurt, but you must try to bear the pain manfully." "Don't be afraid of me, aunt Dorcas. You couldn't do anything that would make me yip." The little woman treated Joe's wounds with such simple remedies as she had near at hand, and then proceeded to bandage his head, until but little more than his eyes and mouth could be seen, striving, meanwhile, to show him how much better the world would be for his having lived in it, if he would govern himself strictly by the Golden Rule. During all the while she was putting the many bandages in place, Joe was saying to himself that now was come the time when he should make that confession he had decided upon, and, although aunt Dorcas had said so much concerning the blessedness of forgiving those who have done us an injury, he did not believe she would so far carry her precepts into practice as to be willing to shelter one who appeared to be as great a criminal as himself. "I believe, Joseph, I have done all that is possible to-night," the little woman finally said, as she fastened in place the last bandage. "You are not to get up in the morning until after I have made certain you are in no danger of a fever. Now, go to your room, and if you think George may disturb you, I'll put him in the spare chamber." "Wait a minute, aunt Dorcas; I want to tell you something," and Joe laid his hand on the little woman's arm to prevent her from rising. "You never knew why Plums an' I left New York to come out here where there isn't a chance to earn a living." "I understood from something you said, Joseph, that there was a reason for your leaving home suddenly; but I can't believe, my boy, you have done anything wrong." "An' I haven't, aunt Dorcas; as true as I live, I haven't, though everybody, even Plums, thinks I've been cuttin' a terrible swath! Of course, when that advertisement come out, I had to run away, else they'd carried me to jail--" "To jail?" aunt Dorcas repeated, in horror. "What advertisement do you mean, Joseph?" "The one that was in the paper 'bout payin' anybody who'd tell where I was." "But who wanted to know where you were?" "The lawyers, of course,--the fellers that advertised." "Why did they want to find you?" aunt Dorcas asked, in perplexity. "That's what knocks me silly, 'cause I don't know a thing about it, any more'n you do." "Did you say the advertisement knocked you silly, Joseph?" and the little woman now looked thoroughly bewildered. "Course it did, an' it would have paralysed 'most anybody that didn't know what they'd been about." "Joseph, I'm afraid I don't understand you. It is a printed advertisement you are telling me about, isn't it?" "Of course. I saw the first one in the _Herald_, an'--" "I thought you said some one had dealt you a blow. Tell me what there was in the advertisement." Joe repeated the words almost verbatim, and then told aunt Dorcas all the details of the flight, up to the moment they arrived at her home. Regarding the threats made by the amateur detective he remained silent, because of the promise to Dan. "There must be some terrible mistake about it all, Joseph. If you haven't committed a crime, and I feel certain you couldn't have done such a thing, then it is some other boy these lawyers are hunting for." "There's no such good luck as that, aunt Dorcas. I don't believe there's another feller in town named Joseph Potter, who's been sellin' newspapers an' then went into the fruit business. You see, that's me to a dot, an' now Plums an' Dan are in the scrape because they helped me away. Just as likely as not Dan will come here to-morrow to ask you to take him in, too, an' I've made up my mind that the princess an' I have got to leave. We're goin' away about noon, aunt Dorcas, an' some time I'll be back to pay you for bein' so good to us." The little woman looked at Joe for an instant, as if not understanding what he had said, and repeated: "Going away?" "Yes, aunt Dorcas, we've got to. Even if you was willin' we should stay, after what I've told you, I wouldn't agree to hang 'round, livin' on you, while there are two other fellers doin' the same thing." Aunt Dorcas gazed at Joe steadily during several seconds, and then said, in a decided tone: "I don't understand what you have tried to tell me; but it is certain, Joseph Potter, that you sha'n't leave my house while you are wounded so seriously." "I ain't wounded, aunt Dorcas, an' I'm as well able to go this minute as I was when I came." "It doesn't make any difference whether you are or not. I sha'n't allow you to step your foot off of these premises until I know more about this affair. It is all a mistake from beginning to end; there can be no question of that, and I'll get at the bottom of it before we are very much older. Now go straight to bed, and mind what I told you about getting up in the morning." Aunt Dorcas pulled the bandages apart sufficiently to admit of her kissing Joe on the lips, and then, putting the lamp in his hand, she led him to the stairway. "You're an awful good woman, aunt Dorcas, an' some day I'll be able to do more than tell you so." "Good night, my boy. Put this matter entirely out of your mind and go to sleep." When Joe gained the chamber once more, it was as if a great weight had been lifted from his heart. The confession which caused him so much anxiety had been made, and, instead of reproaching him for having come to her home, aunt Dorcas was the same kindly, Christianlike woman as when he first saw her. Master Plummer, who had slept peacefully during all the adventures of the night, was disturbed by the light of the lamp, as it shone full in his face, and opening his eyes, he said, petulantly: "What are you doin'--" He ceased speaking suddenly, as he saw his friend's bandaged face, and cried, in something very like alarm, "Wha--wha--what's happened to you?" "There was a burglar in the house, an' I tackled him." This was sufficient to bring Master Plummer to a sitting posture at once, and he demanded to be told all the particulars. Joe began to comply with his friend's request, but was interrupted by the voice of aunt Dorcas from the room below. "George! Don't you allow Joseph to say a single word to-night. He must be kept perfectly quiet, or no one can say what may be the result of his terrible wounds. Go to sleep immediately, both of you, and to-morrow morning I'll do the talking, if Joseph isn't strong enough." "Go on, an' tell me all about it," Plums whispered. "She won't hear if we talk low." "I'll do jest exactly as aunt Dorcas told me, even if she said I was to stand on my head for half an hour. A feller who wouldn't mind what she tells him ain't fit to live," and Joe got into bed, refusing to so much as speak when Plums plied him with questions. Although he had made light of his wounds when talking to aunt Dorcas, they gave him no slight amount of pain, and this, together with his anxiety of mind, would seem to have been sufficient to keep his eyes open until morning; yet within a very short time he was sleeping as peacefully as if attorneys and burglars had never been known in this world. Not until aunt Dorcas tapped gently on the door next morning did either of the boys awaken, and then Joe would have leaped out of bed immediately after answering her summons, but for the words: "You're not to get up, Joseph, until I am positive you are out of danger." Joe laughed aloud, in the gladness of his heart; such solicitude for his welfare was something he had never known before, and it seemed very sweet to him. "Let me get up, aunt Dorcas, an' if I don't show you I'm all right, I'll come straight back to bed. There's no need of my layin' here, 'cause I'm sound as a nut." The little woman hesitated, but finally gave the desired permission, and when Joe was in the kitchen once more, she insisted on removing the bandages to examine the wounds before even so much as allowing Master Plummer to partake of the breakfast already prepared. To Joe and Plums, who were accustomed to such injuries, there appeared to be no reason why the bandages should be replaced, but aunt Dorcas, who could be as firm as she usually was gentle, when occasion required, insisted upon obedience, and once more Joe's face was enveloped in white cloth, until he presented a most comical appearance. Then aunt Dorcas brought the princess down-stairs, and the little maid, not recognising her young guardian, positively refused to speak to him, but nestled close by the little woman's side until Joe, by dint of much coaxing and bribing, persuaded her to accept him as a new, if not an old, acquaintance. When the meal was brought to an end, and before the breakfast dishes were cleared away, aunt Dorcas referred to the confession of the previous night, by saying: "I've been thinking over what you told me, Joseph, and verily believe I should have awakened you before daylight this morning to ask a few questions, if you had not been in such a serious condition. You have no objection to my speaking about the matter before George?" "Of course not, aunt Dorcas. He knows the whole thing as well as I do, except he believes I must have done something pretty tough." "You should never think evil of any person, George, no matter how much appearances are against him." "Well, if Joe didn't do anything, what are these lawyers offerin' to give a whole hundred dollars to catch one of us for?" "That is what I hope to find out. There is something in connection with the matter which you boys have failed to explain, that will make it all very simple. Have either of you a copy of that advertisement?" "No, aunt Dorcas, I wasn't achin' to lug such a thing as that 'round with me." "Does it still appear in the papers?" "It did yesterday mornin', 'cause Dan showed it to me, an' his name and Plums's were 'longside of mine." "Then George must go to Weehawken and buy one of those papers." Master Plummer looked up in dismay. A six-mile walk was to him such exercise as amounted almost to torture, and he said, petulantly: "What good will it do for you to read it in the paper, when we can tell you every word?" "Indeed, I don't know; but there must be something which you have failed to remember." "Truly, there isn't, aunt Dorcas. I said over the words jest as they was printed, 'cause I'd be sure to remember a thing like that," Joe replied. "I am set, when I make up my mind, as all old maids are," the little woman said, grimly, "and it seems to me absolutely necessary I should see that advertisement. Now, if George thinks he cannot walk to Weehawken, I must go myself." "Indeed you mustn't, aunt Dorcas," and Joe spoke in a tone of authority, such as he had never before used. "There's nothin' to prevent my walkin' a dozen miles, if anything is to be gained by it, an' I'll start this very minute." To such a proposition as this, aunt Dorcas positively refused to listen. She was certain Joe's wounds were of such serious nature that violent exercise might be fatal to him, and Master Plummer began to fear he would be forced to take that long walk when there was no real necessity for so doing, until a happy thought came to him, and he cried, animatedly: "There's no need for anybody to go to Weehawken, 'cause Dan Fernald must have that paper he showed to Joe, in his pocket now." "Where is he?" aunt Dorcas asked, quickly. "Loafin' 'round here somewhere," Plums replied. "He counted on comin' here this afternoon to ask if you'd let him stop a spell, so's the lawyers couldn't catch him. He would have come last night, but Joe hired him to keep away." Aunt Dorcas looked at Master Potter, inquiringly, and the latter said: "I promised Dan I wouldn't speak a word to you about what he was goin' to do; but you'll know it all when he comes." "_I_ didn't promise, so there's nothing to keep me from tellin'," Master Plummer cried, and, before his friend could prevent him, he had added, "Joe thought it was playin' too steep on you for Dan to come, when you had him, an' me, an' the princess, so he gave him seventy-five cents to keep away till three o'clock this afternoon. He counted on goin' off with the kid before then." Aunt Dorcas did not appear to fully understand this explanation; but her impatience to see the advertisement was so great that she evidently could not wait to ask further concerning the matter. "Can you find Dan Fernald now?" and she turned to Plums. "Well, I guess it wouldn't take very long, 'cause he's somewhere close 'round." "Go out this minute, George, and hunt for him." "He'll count on stoppin', once he gets in here," Plums said, warningly. "If the poor boy hasn't any home, and is hidin' here in the country for the same reason you are, I will give him a shelter so long as may be necessary." "But you see, aunt Dorcas, you can't afford to jam this house full of boys what have got into a scrape," Joe cried. "I'm willin' to go away, so's to give Dan the chance; but I won't hang 'round here when there's a whole crowd." "You will remain exactly where you are, Joseph Potter, until this matter is settled, so don't let me hear anything more of that kind. George, go directly and find your friend." The boys did not dare oppose aunt Dorcas when she spoke in such a tone, and although Plums was not inclined to do even so much as go in search of Dan, when he might be resting quietly in the house, he obeyed. CHAPTER XIV. A RAY OF LIGHT. The amateur detective was a boy who had but little faith in the honesty of his fellows, perhaps because he himself could not be trusted implicitly, and even though Joe Potter had solemnly promised he would say nothing in his disfavour, Dan entertained grave suspicions that the little woman was being prejudiced against him. Therefore it was he had been loitering near the cottage since early morning, in the hope of gaining speech with Plums, and, when that young gentleman finally appeared, Master Fernald came out from his hiding-place amid a clump of bushes. "What's up, now?" he cried, suspiciously. "You're to come right in, an' see aunt Dorcas," Plums replied, with no little show of excitement. "What's wrong? Has Joe been tellin' her not to take me in?" "Look here, Dan, I may not like his threatenin' to leave 'cause you was comin', an' perhaps I said a good many hard things against him, when I talked with you yesterday; but I won't let anybody accuse him of lyin'. When Joe promised not to tell aunt Dorcas anything 'bout you, he meant to keep his word, an' he'll do it. I told her he'd paid you seventy-five cents to stay away till this afternoon." "What did you do that for? Are you turnin' sneak, Plums? 'Cause if you are, I'll break your jaw!" "Perhaps you could do it; but I ain't so certain. Anyway, I told the story, 'cause Joe gave the advertisement business dead away last night, when he got thumped." "Did he have a row?" "He tackled a burglar, an' got the best of him, that's what Joe Potter did. A feller has got nerve what'll jump on to a man in the dark, an' don't you make any mistake." "Was there a real burglar in the house?" Dan asked, incredulously. "Course there was, an' Joe knocked him silly. The feller come in through the kitchen window, an'--" "I'd made up my mind that 'most everybody knew I was out here on your case," the amateur detective said, as if speaking to himself, and Plums asked, in surprise: "What's that got to do with it?" "Nothin'; only it shows that some folks don't know it, else the burglar never'd dared to show his nose 'round here." "'Cause he'd be afraid of you?" "He wouldn't run the risk of my gettin' on his trail," Master Fernald replied, with dignity, and Plums could not repress a smile, for he had already begun to question his friend's detective ability. Dan pretended not to see this evidence of incredulity, for it did not suit his purpose to have hard words with Plums now, when he was, as he believed, about to become his roommate. "See here, you've got to come right up to the house, 'cause aunt Dorcas wants to see that paper," Master Plummer cried, as if but just reminded of his mission. "What for?" "She wants to read the advertisement." "Oh, she does, eh? Well, if the old woman is willin' to promise that I can come here to live, I'll let her take the paper; that's the only way she'll get it." Plums looked at his friend, as if believing he had not heard him aright. "I mean what I say. I've got the chance now to have things my way, in spite of all Joe Potter may do. Go up an' tell her so; if she agrees, whistle, an' I'll be there before she can wink." "Come with me, an' tell her yourself; I won't carry a message like that to aunt Dorcas," Plums replied, indignantly. "All right; then she can go without the paper. It don't make any difference to me." "She won't go without it, 'cause one of us will walk over to Weehawken, an' perhaps that would be cheaper for her than to feed you." The amateur detective began to understand that he was not exactly in a position to drive a very hard bargain, although confident the possession of the paper would give him the home he desired. Therefore, instead of attempting to force Plums into acting the part of messenger, he said, in a tone of condescension: "If you're so perky 'bout it, I s'pose I can go with you, though I'd rather have the thing settled before I flash up." Without replying, Plums turned, and began to retrace his steps, regretting, now, that he had spoken harshly to Joe concerning this fellow who was displaying such a mean spirit. Master Fernald followed, with the air of one who is master of the situation, rehearsing in his mind what he should say when the little woman asked for the paper. The matter was not arranged exactly as he intended it should be. When they arrived at the cottage, Plums opened the door for him to enter, and Dan stepped inside with a jaunty air, unsuspicious of his companion's purpose. Aunt Dorcas greeted the newcomer kindly; but, before Joe could speak, Plums, standing with his back against the door, to prevent the alleged detective from making his escape, cried, in a loud tone: "Dan's got the paper, but says he won't give it up unless aunt Dorcas agrees that he shall live here till we get out of the scrape." "Did you say that, Dan Fernald?" Joe asked, mildly. And the amateur detective replied, with a great show of firmness: "That's what I told Plums; but I didn't mean to spring it on the old woman quite so sudden." "Do you really mean it?" "Course I do; I ain't such a fool as to let a chance like this go by me. I've got her where she can't help herself, now, an' we'll see who'll--" Dan did not conclude the threat, for, regardless of aunt Dorcas's presence, Joe leaped from the table, and seized the pretended detective by the throat, forcing him back against the wall. With a cry of fear, aunt Dorcas sprang to her feet, and would have gone to Dan's relief, but that Plums, moving more quickly than he had ever been known to move before, stepped directly in front of her, as he said, imploringly: "Now, don't mix into this row, 'cause it wouldn't be fair. I knew pretty well what Joe would do, after I'd told him how Dan was countin' on gettin' pay for his paper, an' if he hadn't gone for the duffer, I'd had to do it myself." "But I can't have any quarrelling in this house. Why, George, I'd rather never see a paper in my life than to have a right-down fight here!" "There won't be any fight, aunt Dorcas," Plums said, with a smile, "'cause Joe will chew him all up before he can wink." Brief as this conversation had been, before it came to an end there was no longer any employment for a peacemaker. Joe had shaken the amateur detective until he was glad to give up the worthless newspaper, and, before aunt Dorcas could step past Plums, Master Fernald was literally thrown out of the kitchen door. "I'll have every perliceman in New York City here before you're an hour older!" he screamed, shaking his fist in impotent wrath when he was at a safe distance. "Go ahead, an' do what you can, an' when it's all over I'll finish servin' you out for talkin' as you did to aunt Dorcas!" Joe replied, after which he closed the door and resumed his seat at the table, as if nothing unusual had occurred. "Now you can see the advertisement," Plums said, as he handed the paper to the little woman; but she hesitated about taking it. "It seems as if we had robbed that poor boy," she said, in distress. "I do wish, Joseph, that you hadn't been so hasty." "Now don't fret over the sneak, aunt Dorcas, 'cause he ain't worth it. Robbed him of nothin'! What was the paper good for to him? Yet he counted on makin' you do as he said for the sake of gettin' it." "Last night I wanted him to come here, an' thought Joe was kind er hard when he wouldn't 'gree to it; but I'll take all that back now. Dan Fernald's the meanest kind of a sneak," and Master Plummer, realising he was indulging in too much exercise by thus allowing himself to be angry, sank into a chair, as if exhausted. It is doubtful if aunt Dorcas would have taken the paper procured by such a questionable method, but for anxiety to read the advertisement which had made of Joe an exile. As a matter of fact, she did not take it until after considerable urging from both the boys, and, even then, only when Joe held it so near that it would have been necessary to close her eyes in order to prevent herself from seeing the printed lines. [Illustration: JOE AND DAN DISAGREE.] The princess, who had been frightened into silence by Joe's attack on Dan, crept into aunt Dorcas's lap, and, sitting directly opposite, the two boys watched the little woman's face intently as she read the fateful lines. It seemed to them as if she had kept her eyes fixed upon that particular portion of the paper fully fifteen minutes before a look of relief came over her face, and she asked, suddenly: "Did you tell me the princess's parents were dead?" "Oh, no; I said she'd lost 'em," Joe replied. "I understood you found her in the street." "An' that's true. I was up by the Grand Central _De_pot, lookin' for a job to carry baggage, when she came along, an' I waited there till pretty nigh dark without seem' anybody that belonged to her. We went to Plums's shanty, an' stayed all night. I was countin' on findin' her folks in the mornin', when Dan Fernald come up an' showed this advertisement. Then, of course, we had to skip, an' you know the rest, except that I'm goin' back as quick as ever I can, to hunt 'em up." "Did any one near the station know you had found a little girl?" aunt Dorcas asked, now looking really cheerful. "Nobody that I knew, except Plums," Joe replied; and added, an instant later, "Yes, there was. I'd forgot 'bout that feller who works in the fruit store pretty near the _de_pot. He saw me when I was luggin' her down to Plums's shanty, an' almost knocked us over." Aunt Dorcas looked straight up at the ceiling for as many as two minutes, and then said, abruptly, as if having decided upon some course of action: "George, I want you to go right over to Mr. McArthur's, and tell him that I must be carried to the ferry at once. Be sure you say 'at once' very emphatically, because I want him to understand that my business admits of no delay, otherwise he will be putting me off with all manner of excuses. Now go immediately; don't sit there looking at me," and aunt Dorcas spoke so sharply that both the boys were amazed. The little woman, putting the princess down from her lap, began to clear away the breakfast dishes, but stopped before the work was well begun, as she said: "Why do I spend my time on such trifling matters, when it is so necessary I get into the city at once? Haven't you gone yet, George?" "Say, aunt Dorcas, how do you s'pose I know where Mr. McArthur lives?" "You should know; he is our next-door neighbour; the first house on the right, just above here. Now don't loiter, George, for I am in a great hurry." Master Plummer, looking thoroughly bewildered, went out of the house almost rapidly, and aunt Dorcas said to Joe: "Of course I am depending upon you to take care of the princess, and when she goes to sleep this noon, perhaps you can put these soiled dishes into the sink. I haven't the time now, because I must change my clothes." "Are you goin' into the city, to try to help us out of the scrape?" "Of course I am, and it can be done. I knew there was some mistake about it all when you told me the story; but I haven't time to talk with you now, Joseph. You will find food enough in the pantry, in case I am not back by dinner-time, and see to it that the princess doesn't go hungry. I am depending upon your keeping things in proper order while I'm away." Before the astonished boy could ask any further questions, aunt Dorcas had actually run up the stairs, and the princess immediately raised a wail of sorrow at being separated from her particular friend, thereby forcing Joe to devote all his attention to her for the time being. Before aunt Dorcas had completed her preparations for the journey, Joe succeeded in inducing the little maid to walk out-of-doors with him, and they were but a short distance from the house, down the lane, when Plums returned with Mr. McArthur. The worthy farmer, alarmed by a peremptory message from a neighbour who had never before been known to give an order save in the form of the mildest request, had harnessed his horse with all possible despatch, and was looking seriously disturbed in mind when he drove up to where Joe was standing. "I reckon by your looks you're the boy what tackled the burglar last night? Well, you showed clean grit, an' no mistake. Can you tell me what the matter is with aunt Dorcas? This 'ere friend of yours seems to be all mixed up; don't appear to know much of anything." "She wants to go to the city, sir, an' to get there quick." "There must be some powerful reason behind it all for Dorcas Milford to send any sich message as this boy brought. I allow he mistook her meanin', so to speak, eh?" "I didn't mistook anything," Plums cried, indignantly. "She said to tell you she must be carried to the ferry at once, very emphatically, an' she didn't want you to be puttin' her off with any excuses." "Is that so, sonny?" the farmer asked of Joe. "I don't think she said it exactly that way, an' Plums wasn't told you shouldn't make any excuses; but aunt Dorcas wants to go in a hurry, I know that much." "Anybody dead, eh?" "No, sir." "The burglar didn't get away with anything, eh?" "No, sir." Before the farmer could ask any more questions, aunt Dorcas herself appeared on the scene. "I'm glad you came quickly, Mr. McArthur, because I'm in a great hurry," she said, nervously. "Don't stop to drive up to the house, but turn around right here." The farmer looked at her for a moment, and then, mildly urging the patient steed on, he drove in a circle as wide as the lane would permit, saying, meanwhile: "It seems to me, Dorcas Milford, I'd send some word by telegraph, rather than get into sich a pucker. I never knowed you to be so kinder flighty as you're appearin' now." "I shall be a good deal worse, Mr. McArthur, if you don't start very soon," aunt Dorcas replied, in a matter-of-fact tone, which alarmed her neighbour more than a threat from some other person would have done. "Take good care of the princess; don't get crumbs on the floor, an' be sure to eat all you need," aunt Dorcas cried, as the vehicle was whirled almost rapidly around the corner of the lane into the highway. And Plums shouted: "When'll you be back?" "I can't say; be good boys, an' I'll come as soon as ever it's possible." Then the little woman had disappeared from view, and Master Plummer, turning to his friend, asked, seriously: "Do you s'pose there's anything gone wrong with aunt Dorcas's head? It seems to me she don't act as if she was jest straight." "Now don't be foolish, Plums. If everybody in this world was as straight as she is, us boys would have a snap." "But she seems to think she can fix all this, else why did she rush off so?" "If anybody can straighten things out, she's the one, though I don't see how it's goin' to be done. Let's go into the house, an' do the work. I b'lieve I can wash the dishes without breakin' any of 'em." "What's the use to rush 'round like this? I'm all tired out goin' over to McArthur's, an' there's no knowin' what'll happen if I can't get a chance to rest." "Now, don't be so foolish, Plums. You haven't done enough to hurt a kitten, since we come here, an' all I'll ask of you is to take care of the princess while I'm fixin' up." With this understanding, Master Plummer agreed to his friend's proposal, and during the next half hour Joe laboured faithfully at the housework, while Plums amused the princess, when it was possible for him to do so without too great an exertion. Then it was that the child, who had been looking out of the window for a moment, clapped her tiny hands, and screamed, as she pointed towards the orchard, thereby causing Master Plummer to ascertain the cause of the sudden outburst. "There goes Dan Fernald!" he exclaimed. "Where?" "Sneakin' up through the orchard. It looks like he was goin' to the barn." "He's on some of his detective sprees, I s'pose. That feller can make an awful fool of hisself without tryin' very hard," and Joe would have gone back to his work but that Plums prevented him, by saying: "He ain't sneakin' 'round there for any good. It would be different if he thought we was in the garden. I wouldn't be 'fraid to bet he was where he could see aunt Dorcas, when she went away, an' is countin' on makin' it hot for us." [Illustration: "'COME ON QUICK, PLUMS! DAN'S SET THE BARN A-FIRE.'"] "It would be a sore job for him if he did. Look out for the princess, an' I'll snoop 'round to see what he's doin'." Joe went through the shed door, which led out of the garden, but could see no one. If the amateur detective had not gone inside the barn, he must be loitering at the further end, where he was screened from view of any one on either side the building. "If I go 'round there, he'll think it's because I'm 'fraid he'll make trouble for us, an' that's what would please him," Joe said to himself. Then, passing through the shed, he looked out of the door on the opposite side. No one could be seen from this point, and he returned to the garden just as Dan came out from around the corner of the barn, running at full speed towards a grove, situated a mile or more from the main road. "What have you been doin' 'round here?" Joe shouted, angrily, and the amateur detective halted long enough to say: "You think you're mighty smart, Joe Potter, but you'll find there are some folks that can give you points. What I've done to you this time ain't a marker 'longside of what it'll be when I try my hand again." Then Master Fernald resumed his flight, much to Joe's surprise, and halted not until he was within the friendly shelter of the trees. "Now, I wonder what he meant by all that talk? It seems like he was more of a fool this mornin' than I ever knew him to be before." At that moment Joe saw, or fancied he saw, a tiny curl of blue vapour rising from the corner of the barn, and, as he stood gazing in that direction, uncertain whether his eyes might not have deceived him, another puff of smoke, and yet another, arose slowly in the air, telling unmistakably of what Master Fernald had done. Joe darted into the house, and seized the water-pail, as he cried, excitedly: "Come on quick, Plums! Dan's set the barn a-fire! Get anything that you can carry water in, and hump yourself lively!" "But what'll I do with the princess?" Master Plummer asked, helplessly. "She'll have to take care of herself," Joe cried, as he ran at full speed towards the smoke, which was now rising in small clouds, giving token of flames which might soon reduce aunt Dorcas's little home to ashes. CHAPTER XV. AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL. It was really the princess who saved aunt Dorcas's home from destruction. Had she not seen Dan Fernald, as he made his way through the orchard, the barn would most likely have been in a blaze before Joe or Plums were aware of the fact. Thanks to her warning, Joe saw the smoke before the fire gathered headway, and when he arrived on the scene, the flames had but just fastened upon the side of the barn. Plums, aroused to something like activity by the knowledge of danger, followed Joe with remarkable promptness, and the amount of water thus brought by both was sufficient to extinguish what, a few moments later, would have been a conflagration. Not until he had pulled the charred sticks from beneath the end of the barn, and assured himself every spark had been drowned out, did Joe speak, and then it was to relieve his mind by making threats against the would-be incendiary. "It's all well enough for a woman like aunt Dorcas to tell about doin' good to them what tries to hurt you, for she couldn't so much as put up her hands. If you keep on forgivin' duffers like Dan Fernald, you're bound to be in such scrapes as this all the time. What he needed was a sound thumpin', when he begun talkin' so rough to aunt Dorcas; then he wouldn't dared to try a game of this kind. When I get hold of him again, I'll make up for lost time." "I'll bet he's somewhere 'round here, watchin' out, an' when he sees this game didn't work, he'll try somethin' else." "Not much he won't. I know pretty near where he is, an' I'm goin' to make him--" At this moment the voice of the princess could be heard in vehement protest against thus being left alone, and Joe was forced to defer his punishment of the amateur detective until a more convenient season. "Stay here, Plums, an' watch for Dan, while I go and get the princess. He went among them trees over there, so's to have a reserved seat while the house was burnin'; but he's got to come out some time." "Don't stay away too long, for I ain't certain as I'd dare to tackle him alone,--you see I'm too fat to be much of a fighter." A certain quaver in Plums's voice told that he was afraid to be alone even while Dan was a long distance away, and Joe thought it extremely comical that any one should fear the amateur detective. The princess did not object to taking a walk, fortunately for Master Plummer's peace of mind, and, in a short time, the three were patrolling the grounds, Joe carrying the little maid whenever she insisted upon such service. At noonday, a certain amount of food was brought out on the lawn in front of the house, and, even while the boys ate, they continued their self-imposed duty of guarding the premises. Then the princess wanted to sleep, and Joe sat by her side, while Plums kept watch from the windows, or walked rapidly around the buildings. So far as Dan was concerned, they might as well have amused themselves according to their own fancies, for he never showed himself after having sought refuge in the grove. When the excitement consequent upon the attempt to destroy aunt Dorcas's home had subsided in a measure, the boys began to speculate upon the reasons for the little woman's hurried departure, but could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion as to what it might be she hoped to accomplish. "Of course she could do a pile of beggin' off for a feller, 'cause anybody would have to listen to her; but when the lawyers are willin' to pay a hundred dollars for either one of us three, I don't believe she can do very much by talkin'," Joe said, reflectively, as he summed up the situation according to his belief. "I expect she'll be terribly disappointed when we see her again, 'cause she counts on straightenin' things out in a jiffy." "Do you s'pose Dan Fernald will hang 'round here till he gets a chance to do her some mischief?" "As soon as aunt Dorcas gets back I'm goin' to skirmish through them trees, an', if he's there, it won't take more'n three minutes to make him sick of this part of the country." The boys were yet discussing what should be done to Dan to prevent him from attempting to work more mischief, when a covered carriage, drawn by two horses, whose harness was resplendent with silver, and driven by a coachman in livery, turned from the highway into the lane leading to the cottage. "Hi, Joe!" Plums cried, excitedly. "See the swells what are comin' to visit aunt Dorcas!" "They want to ask the way somewhere, an' seein's we couldn't even tell 'em where the post-office is, I guess we'd better keep kind er shady. Now the princess is awake! We'll have to show ourselves, 'cause she's bound to make a noise," Joe added, as the little maid clambered upon his knee. "I'm goin'--Say, aunt Dorcas herself is in that funny rig!" "What are you givin' me?" and Joe leaned forward eagerly, in order to have a better view. "It's her, dead sure! There! Look at that! What do you think, now?" It was, indeed, as Master Plummer had said. Aunt Dorcas was getting out of the carriage, assisted by a gentleman who spoke to the driver in such a manner as one would expect from the owner of the equipage, and immediately behind the little woman could be seen a younger lady. "I wonder if aunt Dorcas thinks them swells would help two chumps like us out of our scrape!" Joe exclaimed. "If she does, her head ain't--" "Papa! Papa!" the princess screamed in delight, as she pounded on the window with her tiny fists, and instantly the gentleman left aunt Dorcas to alight from the vehicle as best she could, while he ran at full speed up the sharp ascent to the house. "I'll be blowed, if aunt Dorcas hasn't found the princess's folks!" Joe cried, as an expression of bewilderment came over his face. "That dude is comin' in, an' we'd best leave." Followed by Plums, Joe ran out of the kitchen door, just as the gentleman came through the main entrance of the cottage, and the boys heard a wild scream of delight from the princess. Master Potter threw himself, face downward, on the grass near the garden, and Plums seated himself by his comrade's side, asking again and again how it was aunt Dorcas had so readily found the princess's parents. "When we first come here, I didn't think she 'mounted to very much, 'cause she was so little an' kind er dried up. Then, when she struck out so heavy prayin', I begun to think there might be more to her than I'd counted on. But now,--why, Joe, little as she is, aunt Dorcas has done more'n all the cops in town put together. When we told her the princess had lost her folks, what does she do but go right out and hunt 'em up, an' don't look as though she'd turned a hair doin' it." Joe made no reply. "Didn't she hump herself, when we showed her that advertisement? She was jest like a terrier after a rat, an' bossed me 'round till, as true's you live, I run more'n half the way over to Mr. McArthur's. Then how she jumped on him when he begun to ask questions! If I only had somebody like aunt Dorcas to look out for me, I wouldn't have to work so hard." Joe remained silent; but Plums was so intent on singing aunt Dorcas's praises, that he failed to pay any especial attention to the fact that his comrade had not spoken since they knew the princess's parents had arrived. "Joseph! George!" "Here we are, aunt Dorcas," Plums replied. "Come into the house this very minute, both of you." "Come on, Joe; I s'pose we've got to go. The dude wants to thank us for lookin' after the princess." "You can go; I sha'n't," Joe said, with difficulty, as if he were choking, and Plums gazed at him in surprise. "Joseph! George! Where are you?" "Out here by the garden, aunt Dorcas. Joe won't come in." "Go on by yourself, an' leave me alone," Master Potter said, angrily, still keeping his face hidden from view. "It can't do any hurt to have one look at the dudes, an' seein's how there's nothin' else goin' on, I guess I'll take the show in." Then Master Plummer sauntered leisurely towards the cottage, and Joe, believing himself alone, began to sob as if his heart were breaking. He failed to hear aunt Dorcas as she came swiftly out through the shed door and kneeled by his side. Not until she spoke did he think there was a witness to his grief. [Illustration: "JOE, BELIEVING HIMSELF ALONE, BEGAN TO SOB AS IF HIS HEART WERE BREAKING."] "Josey, my poor boy, are you grieving because Essie's parents have found her at last?" Joe tried to speak, but could not, and the little woman continued: "You should rejoice because the sufferings of that poor father and mother are at an end. Try to imagine their distress when the dear child was missing, and they could not know whether she was alive or dead. Think of them, as they pictured her alone in the streets, wandering around until exhausted, or falling into the hands of wicked people who would abuse her. Fancy what their sufferings must have been as compared with yours, when you know that she will receive even better treatment than we could give her. It is wicked, Josey, my boy, to grieve so sorely, for a mother's heart has been lightened of all the terrible load which has been upon it for so many days." Then aunt Dorcas patted the small portion of cheek which was exposed to view between the bandages, and in many a loving way soothed the sorrowing boy, until he suddenly sat bolt upright, wiping both eyes with the sleeve of his coat, as he said, stoutly: "I'm a bloomin' idjut, aunt Dorcas, that's what I am, an' if you'd turn to an' kick me, I'd be served nearer right than by havin' you pity me." "You're very far removed from an idiot, Joseph, and I am glad to know your heart is still so tender that you can feel badly at the loss of a dear little child like Essie,--Esther is her name. Now, Josey dear, don't you want to know why those lawyers tried to find you?" "Have you been to see them, too?" Joe cried, in surprise. "Yes, indeed, dear. In the paper you took from Dan Fernald was another advertisement directly below the one referring to you, and it was concerning a little child who had been lost in the vicinity of the Grand Central Station. The same names were signed to it, and on seeing that, I believed I understood why so much money would be paid for information concerning you." "I s'pose it's all straight enough, aunt Dorcas; but I can't seem to make out what you mean." "Nothing can be plainer, my child. Little Essie was left in charge of a nurse at the station, and when the foolish woman missed the baby, instead of making immediate inquiries, she spent her time fainting. Not until nearly eight o'clock that evening did the poor mother learn of her terrible loss, and then detectives were sent out at once. The boy at the fruit store, on being questioned, as was every one else in that vicinity, described the baby he saw in your arms, and told the officers your name. You had disappeared, and the only thing left was to offer a reward for information as to your whereabouts." "Then they didn't think I'd done anything crooked?" "If by that you mean 'wrong,' they didn't. It was the only clew they had to the child; but on the following day it was learned you had been seen with George, and then his name appeared in the advertisement. After that, some of the newsboys from around City Hall Square brought word that Dan Fernald was with you, and a reward was also offered for knowledge of his whereabouts. You see, Josey dear, if Mr. Raymond--that is the name of Essie's father--could find either of you three boys, he was reasonably certain of getting news regarding his baby." "Then I ran away from nothing, did I?" "Yes, Josey dear, you did what many older persons than you have done, and what God's Book tells us the wicked do,--fled when no man was pursuing." "Well, I _have_ been a chump!" "Do you mean that you've been foolish?" "I s'pose that's what you'd call it. I'm a reg'lar jay from Jayville, an' yesterday mornin' I let that bloomin' imitation detective scare me!" "Those wiser than you might have misconstrued that advertisement, Joseph; but this shall teach you that there is nothing to fear when your conscience is clear. Meet trouble half-way, and it dwindles into mere vexation. Now, dear, I want you to come into the house with me and meet Mr. and Mrs. Raymond. They know how kind you have been to Essie, and wish to thank you." "Well, they can't thank me for takin' care of the princess, an' I only wish she'd never had a father and a mother, for then I could have kept her all the time." "Won't you come to please me, dear?" and aunt Dorcas laid her hand on the boy's arm affectionately. "When you put it that way, I'll have to go," and Joe rose slowly to his feet. "Of course you want to see Essie before she leaves?" "Are they goin' to take her right away?" "Certainly, Joseph. Do you fancy that poor mother could go away without her?" Joe made no reply, and, linking her arm in his, aunt Dorcas led him in through the shed, but before they had reached the cottage Plums came towards them at an unusually rapid rate of speed, crying, excitedly: "The dudes have gone, aunt Dorcas. They've gone, and that very same swell carriage is comin' here to-morrow mornin' to take me an' Joe an' you into the city to see the princess." "Gone?" aunt Dorcas exclaimed, in surprise. "Yes; I told 'em Joe was kind er grumpy 'cause princess was goin' away, an' the boss said perhaps it would be better if they took a sneak. He left a letter in the front room for you,--wrote it on a card he got out of his pocket." It was plain to be seen from the expression on aunt Dorcas's face that she was disappointed; but she repressed her own feelings to say to Joe: "Perhaps it is the best way, dear, for it would have caused you still more sorrow to say good-bye to Essie. Now you will have time to grow accustomed to the loss before you see her again." Plums was in such a state of delirious excitement, owing to the fact that he was to reënter New York like a "reg'lar swell," that it seemed impossible for him to behave in a proper fashion. He danced to and fro, as if active movement was his greatest delight, and insisted on bringing to aunt Dorcas the card which Mr. Raymond had left, even while she was making her way as rapidly as possible to the front room. The message to the little woman read as follows: MY DEAR MISS MILFORD: I understand that the lad who has been so kind to Essie does not wish to see her just at present; therefore, perhaps it is better we go at once, and without ceremony. Will you yet further oblige me by coming to my house to-morrow? The carriage shall be here about ten o'clock. Very sincerely yours, EDWARD RAYMOND. "There is no reason why we shouldn't go, dear?" aunt Dorcas asked Joe, after reading the message aloud. "There's Dan Fernald cuttin' across the orchard, down towards the road! Now's our time to catch him!" Plums shouted, before Joe could reply to aunt Dorcas's kindly words, and in another instant the two boys were in hot pursuit. Aunt Dorcas, believing they were trying to catch the amateur detective in order to punish him for what had been said during the morning, cried shrilly for them to come back; but her words were unheeded, because unheard. Master Fernald was not in condition for a race, owing to his having travelled to and fro a goodly portion of the day in search of revenge, and the chase was soon ended. In attempting to climb over the orchard fence into the road, he tripped, fell, and, before it was possible to rise again, Joe was on his back. "I'll have the law on you if you dare to strike me!" Dan cried, in accents of terror, and Joe replied, disdainfully: "Don't be afraid, you bloomin' duffer. I ain't goin' to hurt you now, 'cause I feel too good. I'm only countin' on showin' what kind of a detective you are, an' tellin' what'll happen if you hang 'round here an hour longer." "I'm goin' to New York an' have the perlice on your trail before dark to-night," Dan cried, speaking indistinctly because of Joe's grasp upon his throat. "I'm willin' you should do that jest as soon's you get ready. It won't bother me a little bit, 'cause aunt Dorcas told the story this mornin', an' the man what put the advertisement in the papers has been out here. Now, you listen to me, Dan Fernald, and perhaps after this you'll give over your funny detective business. All them lawyers wanted of me was to find out where the princess was, an' if, instead of runnin' away, I'd flashed myself up on Pine Street, there wouldn't have been any trouble. I ought'er black both your eyes for tryin' to set fire to aunt Dorcas's barn; but somehow I can't do it, 'cause she don't like to have fellers fight. Now you can get into New York an' fetch your perlice." Joe released his hold of Master Fernald; but the latter was so astonished by the information given, that he made no effort to rise. "Is all that true, or are you foolin' me?" he asked, after a time. "Say, the best thing you can do is to come up an' talk with aunt Dorcas. It would do you a heap of good, Dan, an', come to think of it, you've _got_ to go." Master Fernald was not as eager to visit the cottage now as he had been, for he understood that Joe was speaking the truth, and the prospect of meeting the little woman, after all he had said and attempted to do, was not pleasing. "Don't let up on him," Plums cried, vindictively. "He's to blame for this whole racket, an' ought'er be served out a good deal worse'n aunt Dorcas will serve him." Dan struggled manfully, but all to no purpose. His late friends were determined he should visit the woman he had intended to wrong, and half dragged, half carried him up the lane, until they were met by aunt Dorcas herself, who sternly asked why they were ill-treating a boy smaller than themselves. "It's Dan Fernald, aunt Dorcas," Plums said, as if in surprise that she should have interfered. "It's the same feller what wasn't goin' to show you the paper till you'd 'greed to board him the balance of the summer, an' in less than a half an hour after you went away he set the barn afire. We thought it would do him a heap of good to talk with you a spell." "Let him alone, children. If he doesn't wish to speak with me you must not try to force him. Suppose you two go into the garden a little while, and leave us alone?" This did not please Plums, for he had anticipated hearing the little woman read Master Fernald a lecture; but he could do no less than act upon the suggestion, and as the two went slowly towards the barn, Master Plummer said, regretfully: "It's too bad we couldn't hear what she had to say, after I told her about his settin' the barn afire." "Look here, Plums, you'd been disappointed if she'd let you listen. She ain't the kind of a woman that would rave, an' scold, an' tear 'round; but when she gets through with Dan Fernald, he'll feel a mighty sight worse than if she'd knocked his two eyes into one." CHAPTER XVI. THE REWARD. The conversation did not lag during the two hours or more the boys remained near about the garden, waiting for aunt Dorcas to summon them after the interview with the amateur detective should have come to an end. Now that there was no longer any mystery concerning the advertisement, it seemed strange they had not understood why the attorneys wished to see Joe. "We must be awful chumps, to let Dan Fernald frighten us as he did," Joe said, thoughtfully, after they had discussed the matter in all its different phases. "Why we didn't see that it was the princess they was after, beats me! Perhaps it might have come 'round to it if I'd been alone; but that imitation detective seemed to have it down so fine, that I didn't stop to think of anything but what he said." "Anyhow, he did us a good turn, 'cause if we hadn't skipped we'd never found out there was a woman like aunt Dorcas." "That's a fact, Plums, an', come to look at it that way, I ain't so certain but we ought'er let up on the duffer. Say, it'll be mighty tough to go back an' live in that shanty of your'n after bein' out here, won't it?" "Do you s'pose we've got to leave this place?" and Master Plummer looked alarmed. "Course we have. You don't count on spongin' a livin' out of a poor little woman like aunt Dorcas, I hope?" "I wouldn't reg'larly do her up for my board; but I was thinkin' perhaps she'd have work enough so's we could pay our way. You come pretty near squarin' things when you tackled the burglar." "I didn't do so much as a flea-bite. If aunt Dorcas had been alone an' heard the man sneakin' 'round, she'd been prayin' with him in less'n five minutes, an' he'd gone away a good deal more sore than he did." "I guess that's straight enough," Plums replied, with a sigh, for as it was thus proven that the little woman did not stand in need of their services, his heart grew sad. "She can take care of herself, you bet, an' come up bright an' smilin' every time. We've got to go back to-morrow, Plums, an' hustle for five-cent stews." "I don't want any more of it, after knowin' how aunt Dorcas can cook. Are you goin' into the paper business ag'in?" "I guess I'll have to, after I pick up enough cash to start in with. I'll tackle the _de_pot, for that job was pannin' out mighty well till I found the princess," Joe replied, and then he relapsed into silence, for the thought that the child was no longer dependent upon him brought more sorrow to his heart than had come to Plums because of being forced to go to work again. Then came the summons for which the boys had been waiting, and when they entered the house, expecting to find aunt Dorcas alone, a disagreeable surprise awaited them. The amateur detective was in the kitchen regaling himself with a quarter section of custard pie, while the little woman fluttered to and fro between the table and the pantry, as if bent on tempting his appetite to the utmost. "Dan will stay here till morning," she said, cheerily, as the boys entered, "and then we'll take him to the ferry in Mr. Raymond's carriage." "Are you goin' to keep him, after he set the barn afire?" Joe asked, in surprise, as he shook his fist at the amateur detective, while aunt Dorcas's back was turned. "He didn't really intend to do me an injury, and feels sorry because of harbouring such revengeful thoughts." At that instant, aunt Dorcas saw Master Plummer making threatening gestures, which were replied to vigorously by Dan, and she added, quickly: "I want you boys to be firm friends from this day. All three have made a mistake; but there will be no evil result from it unless through your own wilfulness. Joe, try, for my sake, to be good, and treat Dan as if there had been no hard feelings." Master Potter would have been better pleased if aunt Dorcas had asked of him something which could only be performed after great suffering and painful endurance; but with a slight show of hesitation he approached the amateur detective in what he intended should appear like a friendly manner, and said, stiffly: "I'll do what aunt Dorcas says, though it comes mighty hard after what you threatened yesterday, Dan. We're friends now; but I'll wipe the floor up with you, if you don't walk pretty near straight." The little woman was not particularly well pleased at this evidence of friendliness; but she professed to be satisfied, and the three boys glared at each other like so many pugnacious cats until the evening devotions were begun. Then aunt Dorcas read, with great fervour, the first chapter of the Sermon on the Mount, and afterwards prayed so earnestly for those "within her gates," that Joe resolved then and there to treat Dan as he had done before the princess was found,--at least, during such time as the amateur detective behaved himself in what he considered a proper manner. "Joseph and George are to sleep in the spare-room to-night, and Daniel will occupy the chamber over the kitchen," aunt Dorcas announced, when the devotions were brought to a close. "Did you take off the best sheets?" Master Potter asked. "Of course not, Joseph." "Why don't you do it? Plums an' me would be snug enough if there wasn't any clothes at all on the bed." "We will leave it as it is, dear. Perhaps I was wrong in not letting you occupy it before." "How could that be?" Joe asked, in astonishment. "I have allowed myself to be proud of the chamber, and the Book particularly warns us against pride. It is better that I accustom myself to seeing it used." When Joe and Plums were in the spare-room that night, neither daring to stretch out at full length lest he should soil the sheets more than was absolutely necessary, Master Potter whispered confidentially to his friend: "Aunt Dorcas is a mighty good woman, Plums; but, 'cordin' to my way of thinkin', she's makin' a pile of trouble for herself." "How?" "Some day a reg'lar duffer like Dan Fernald will come along, an' then she'll get taken in mighty bad." "Seems almost as if we ought'er stay here an' take care of her, don't it?" "There's no sense thinkin' anything like that, Plums. This is our last night in a first-class bed, an' from to-morrow mornin' we've got to hustle jest the same as if we'd never had it so rich." Then Joe fell asleep, to dream of the princess, and until aunt Dorcas awakened him, next morning, it was as if nothing had occurred to depose him from the position of guardian. There was work enough for all three of the guests in the Milford cottage after breakfast had been served. The little woman was preparing for her visit to the city as if she expected to be absent from home several days, instead of only a few hours, and the boys were called upon to assist in the household duties, although it is quite probable they were more of a hindrance than a help. Dan was doing his best at washing the kitchen floor, Joe was trimming the lamps, and Plums piling up wood in the shed, when the Raymond carriage rumbled up the lane, causing the utmost confusion and dismay among aunt Dorcas's assistants. Because of having been kept thus steadily employed, the time had passed wonderfully quick, and, until each in turn had looked at the clock, it was impossible to realise that the coachman had not arrived long in advance of the hour set. Even the little woman herself was unprepared for so early a coming of the carriage, and during the ensuing ten minutes the utmost confusion reigned. Then aunt Dorcas and her family were ready for the ride, and Plums said, with an air of content as he leaned against the wonderful cushions of the front seat: "We're a set of sporty dudes now, an' I only hope that feller won't drive very fast, 'cause we shouldn't have any too long to stay in this rig, even if he walked the horses every step of the way. Say, this is great, ain't it?" Dan made no remark during the ride; but it was evident he enjoyed himself quite as well as did any other member of the party, and when the carriage was on the New York side of the river, Master Fernald looked with undisguised envy at his companions, as he said to aunt Dorcas: "I s'pose I've got to get out now, eh?" "Yes, Daniel, for we are going directly to Mr. Raymond's home, and could not take you there. Come to see me some time, and remember what you have promised about being a good boy." "I'll keep as straight as I can," Master Fernald replied, and then he glanced at the boys, as if doubtful whether he ought to bid them good-bye. Perhaps Joe would have said no word in parting but for the gentle pressure of aunt Dorcas's hand on his. He understood from it what the little woman would have him do, and leaning forward, said, in a kindly tone: "We'll see you later, Dan. Plums an' I won't be swellin' much longer, but will be at work by this time to-morrow." Then Master Plummer did his part by adding: "We'll let up on the detective business, eh, Dan, an' settle down to reg'lar work as soon as this swellin' is over." The coachman gave rein to the horses, and Dan Fernald was soon left far in the rear. * * * * * On the afternoon of this same day, when the rush for evening papers had subsided and the merchants of Newspaper Row were resting from their labours, as they listened to Dan Fernald's story of his adventures, Plums suddenly appeared, looking remarkably well pleased with himself and the world in general. [Illustration: "THEN AUNT DORCAS AND HER FAMILY WERE READY FOR THE RIDE."] "Hello! We thought you was settin' round up-town with the rest of the dudes. Dan says you come down from the country in a swell turnout," Jerry Hayes cried, with something very like envy in his tones. "Dan couldn't laid it on any too thick, for we've been humpin' ourselves in great style," Master Plummer replied, with an air of satisfaction. "Did you really go into the dude's house?" "Yes, an' what's more, we eat dinner there! Say, boys, McGowan's restaurant ain't in it alongside of what we struck up at the princess's house. There was more stuff on the table than this crowd could have got away with,--an' talk 'bout silver dishes! I never had any such time before, an' I thought aunt Dorcas run a pretty fine place!" "Where's Joe Potter?" "Up there, actin' like he owned the town." "Do you mean that he's stoppin' with the dude all this time?" Jerry asked, incredulously. "Yes, an' that ain't the worst of it. He's likely to hang 'round the place quite a spell. Say, there was a thousand dollars reward to whoever found the princess, an' her father says Joe was to have it!" "What? A thousand dollars? Go off, Plums; you're dreamin'." "You'll find out whether I am or not, when you see Joe. Say, I s'pose you think he'll come 'round sellin' papers again, don't you? Well, he won't. He's goin' to work down on Wall Street, for the princess's father; an' him an' me are to live with aunt Dorcas from now out. He'll come into town every mornin', an' I'll hang 'round the place livin' high, with nothin' to do but tend to things." "What kind of a stiff are you puttin' up on us, Plums?" Tim Morgan asked, sternly. "It's all straight as a string. When we got up to the princess's house, she jest went wild at seein' Joe, an', if you'll believe it, she set on his knee more'n half the time I stayed there. Her father made us tell all we'd done from the minute Joe found the kid, an' then he said a thousand dollars was promised to the feller what would find her. Of course we didn't s'pose he'd pay the money after givin' us a ride in his team, an' settin' up the dinner; but he stuck to it like a little man. Aunt Dorcas is to take care of the wealth, an' seein's how she told him where we fellers was, he's to give her what the advertisement promised, an' that's a hundred dollars apiece for the three of us. When all this was fixed, the princess's father offered Joe a job, an' he's to have six dollars a week, with a raise every year if he minds his eye. They're out buyin' clothes now, an' I slipped down to see you fellers, 'cause we're goin' back to aunt Dorcas's house this evenin'." Master Plummer's friends were not disposed to believe what he told them, until the story had been repeated several times, and all the details had been given. Then it appeared as if there could be no doubt, and each boy vied with the other in his attentions to Plums, who was now a very desirable acquaintance, since it might possibly be in his power to invite them to that cottage of aunt Dorcas's, concerning which Dan Fernald had given such glowing accounts. [Illustration: "'McGOWAN'S RESTAURANT AIN'T IN IT ALONGSIDE OF WHAT WE STRUCK UP AT THE PRINCESS'S HOUSE.'"] Plums had promised to meet the little woman and Joe at the Weehawken ferry-slip at seven o'clock, and since at that hour there was no business to be done on Newspaper Row, his friends decided to accompany him to the rendezvous. To the delight of all the boys, aunt Dorcas and Joe arrived in Mr. Raymond's carriage, and instantly they appeared, the assembled throng set up such a shout of welcome as caused the little woman to grip Master Potter's hand nervously, as she cried: "Mercy on us, Joseph, what _is_ the matter?" Joe had caught a glimpse of Plums's following before the outcry was heard, and replied, with a laugh: "It's only a crowd of the fellers come to see us off. Most likely Plums has been tellin' 'em about the good luck that has come to me, an' they want to give us a send-off." "Do try to stop them from making such a noise, Joseph. What will the neighbours think of us?" "They'll believe you're a howlin' swell, aunt Dorcas, an' everybody will be wantin' to look at you." "Let us get out as quick as ever we can, or the policeman will accuse us of making a disturbance." It was necessary aunt Dorcas should remain where she was until the driver had opened the carriage door. By that time Plums's friends had gathered around the vehicle, gazing with open-mouthed astonishment at Joe, who was clad in a new suit of clothes, and looked quite like a little gentleman. Aunt Dorcas was actually trembling as she descended from the carriage, Joe assisting her in the same manner he had seen Mr. Raymond, and the cheers which greeted her did not tend to make the little woman any more comfortable in mind. The princess's father would have sent his carriage the entire distance but for the fact that aunt Dorcas preferred to arrive at her home in such a conveyance as could be hired in Weehawken. "It is more suitable," she had said. "While I enjoyed every inch of the ride this morning, I could not help feeling as if we were wearing altogether too fine feathers for working people." Plums's friends insisted on crossing the ferry with him, and during the passage aunt Dorcas was presented to each in turn, a proceeding which entirely allayed her fears lest they would create an "unseemly disturbance." "I know I should come to like every one of them," she whispered to Joe, "and before we go ashore you must invite them out to the cottage for a whole day." "They'd scare the neighbours, aunt Dorcas," Joe said, with a laugh, and the little woman replied, quite sharply: "Mr. McArthur is the only one who would hear the noise, and if I have not complained because his dogs howled around the cottage night after night these twenty years, I guess he can stand the strain one day." Joe repeated aunt Dorcas's invitation while the boat was entering the slip, and when the little woman went on shore, the cheers which came from twenty pairs of stout lungs drowned all other sounds. "Walk quickly, boys," she said, forced to speak very loud, because of the tumult. "Your friends mean well, I have no doubt; but they are making a perfect spectacle of us." It was not possible for the little woman to walk so rapidly but that she heard distinctly, when at some distance from the ferry-slip, Jerry Hayes's shrill voice, as he cried: "Now, fellers, give her three more, an' a tiger for the princess an' Joe Potter!" [Illustration] 
31521	----	[Illustration: Looking anxiously at the babe in her arms. _See page 42._] LITTLE FRIDA A TALE OF THE BLACK FOREST BY THE AUTHOR OF "LITTLE HAZEL, THE KING'S MESSENGER" "UNDER THE OLD OAKS; OR, WON BY LOVE" ETC. ETC. THOMAS NELSON AND SONS, LTD. LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK CONTENTS I. LOST IN THE WOODS 9 II. THE WOOD-CUTTER'S HUT 16 III. FRIDA'S FATHER 23 IV. THE PARSONAGE 29 V. THE WOODMEN'S PET 36 VI. ELSIE AND THE BROWN BIBLE 42 VII. IN DRINGENSTADT 46 VIII. THE VIOLIN-TEACHER AND THE CONCERT 54 IX. CHRISTMAS IN THE FOREST 68 X. HARCOURT MANOR 76 XI. IN THE RIVIERA 86 XII. IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS 95 XIII. IN THE SLUMS 104 XIV. THE OLD NURSE 115 XV. THE POWER OF CONSCIENCE 127 XVI. THE STORM 131 XVII. THE DISCOVERY 137 XVIII. OLD SCENES 151 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Looking anxiously at the babe in her arms _Frontispiece_ Ere the child consented to go to bed she opened the little "brown book" 17 "Come, Frida," she said, "let us play the last passage together" 66 LITTLE FRIDA. CHAPTER I. LOST IN THE WOODS. "When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up." "See, Hans, how dark it gets, and thy father not yet home! What keeps him, thinkest thou? Supper has been ready for a couple of hours, and who knows what he may meet with in the Forest if the black night fall!" and the speaker, a comely German peasant woman, crossed herself as she spoke. "I misdoubt me something is wrong. The saints preserve him!" The boy, who looked about ten years old, was gazing in the direction of a path which led through the Forest, but, in answer to this appeal, said, "Never fear, Mütterchen; father will be all right. He never loses his way, and he whistles so loud as he walks that I am sure he will frighten away all the bad--" But here his mother laid her hand on his mouth, saying, "Hush, Hans! never mention them in the twilight; 'tis not safe. Just run to the opening in the wood and look if ye see him coming; there is still light enough for that. It will not take you five minutes to do so. And then come back and tell me, for I must see to the pot now, and to the infant in the cradle." The night, an October one, was cold, and the wind was rising and sighing amongst the branches of the pine trees. Darker and darker gathered the shades, as mother and son stood again at the door of their hut after Hans had returned from his useless quest. No sign of his father had he seen, and boy though he was, he knew too much of the dangers that attend a wood-cutter's life in the Forest not to fear that some evil might have befallen his father; but he had a brave young heart, and tried to comfort his mother. "He'll be coming soon now, Mütterchen," he said; "and won't he laugh at us for being so frightened?" But the heart of the wife was too full of fear to receive comfort just then from her boy's words. "Nay, Hans," she said; "some evil has befallen him. He never tarries so late. Thy father is not one to turn aside to his mates' houses and gossip away his time as others do. It is always for home and children that he sets out when his work is done. No, Hans; I know the path to the place where he works, and I can follow it even in the dark. Stay here and watch by the cradle of the little Annchen, whilst I go and see if I can find thy father." "Nay, Mütterchen," entreated the boy; "thee must not go. And all alone too! Father would never have let you do so had he been here. O Mutter, stay here! Little Annchen will be waking and wanting you, and how could I quiet her? O Mütterchen, go not!" and he clung to her, trying to hold her back. Just as his mother, maddened with terror, was freeing herself from his grasp, the sound of a footstep struck her ear, and mother and child together exclaimed, "Ah, there he comes!" Sure enough through the wood a man's figure became visible, but he was evidently heavily laden. He carried, besides his axe and saw, two large bundles. What they were could not be distinguished in the darkness. With a cry of joyous welcome his wife sprang forward to meet her husband, and Hans ran eagerly to help him to carry his burden; but to their amazement he said, though in a kindly tone, "Elsie--Hans, keep off from me till I am in the house." The lamp was lighted, and a cheerful blaze from the stove, the door of which was open, illumined the little room into which the stalwart young wood-cutter, Wilhelm Hörstel, entered. Then, to the utter astonishment of his wife and son, he displayed his bundle. Throwing back a large shawl which completely covered the one he held in his arms, he revealed a sleeping child of some five or six years old, who grasped tightly in her hand a small book. In his right hand he held a violin and a small bag. Elsie gazed with surprise, not unmingled with fear. "What meaneth these things, Wilhelm?" she said; "and from whence comes the child? _Ach_, how wonderfully beautiful she is! Art sure she is a child of earth? or is this the doing of some of the spirits of the wood?" At these words Wilhelm laughed. "Nay, wife, nay," he replied, and his voice had a sad ring in it as he spoke. "This is no wood sprite, if such there be, but a little maiden of flesh and blood. Let me rest, I pray thee, and lay the little one on the bed; and whilst I take my supper I will tell thee the tale." And Elsie, wise woman as she was, did as she was asked, and made ready the simple meal, set it on the wooden bench which served as table, then drew her husband's chair nearer the stove, and restraining her curiosity, awaited his readiness to begin the tale. When food and heat had done their work, Wilhelm felt refreshed; and when Elsie had cleared the table, and producing her knitting had seated herself beside him, he began his story; whilst Hans, sitting on a low stool at his feet, gazed with wondering eyes now on the child sleeping on the bed, and then at his father's face. "Ay, wife," the wood-cutter began, speaking in the _Plattdeutsch_ used by the dwellers in the Forest, "'tis a wonderful story I have to tell. 'Twas a big bit of work I had to finish to-day, first cutting and then piling up the wood far in the Forest. I had worked hard, and was wearying to be home with you and the children; but the last pile had to be finished, and ere it was so the evening was darkening and the wind was rising. So when the last log was laid I collected my things, and putting on my blouse, set off at a quick pace for home. But remembering I had a message to leave at the hut of Johann Schmidt, telling him to meet me in the morning to fell a tree that had been marked for us by the forester, I went round that way, which thou knowest leads deeper into the Forest. Johann had just returned from his work, and after exchanging a few words I turned homewards. "The road I took was not my usual one, but though it led through a very dark part of the Forest, I thought it was a shorter way. As I got on I was surprised to see how dark it was. Glimpses of light, it is true, were visible, and the trees assumed strange shapes, and the Forest streams glistened here and there as the rising moon touched them with its beams. But the gathering clouds soon obscured the faint moonlight.--You will laugh, Hans, when I tell you that despite what I have so often said to you about not believing in the woodland spirits, that even your good Mütterchen believes in, my heart beat quicker as now one, now another of the gnarled trunks of the lower trees presented the appearance of some human form; but I would not let my fear master me, so only whistled the louder to keep up my courage, and pushed on my way. "The Forest grew darker and darker, and the wind began to make a wailing sound in the tree-tops. A sudden fear came over me that I had missed my way and was getting deeper into the Forest, and might not be able to regain my homeward path till the morning dawned, when once more for a few minutes the clouds parted and the moon shone out, feeble, no doubt--for she is but in her first quarter--and her beams fell right through an opening in the wood, and revealed the figure of a little child seated at the foot of a fir tree. Alone in the Forest at that time of night! My heart seemed to stand still, and I said to myself, 'Elsie is right after all. That can only be some spirit child, some woodland being.' "A whisper in a little voice full of fear roused me and made me approach the child. She looked up, ere she could see my face, and again repeated the words in German (though not like what we speak here, but more the language of the town, as I spoke it when I lived there as a boy), 'Father, father, I am glad you've come. I was feeling very frightened. It is so dark here--so dark!' As I came nearer she gave a little cry of disappointment, though not fear; and then I knew it was no woodland sprite, but a living child who sat there alone at that hour in the Forest. My heart went out to her, and kneeling down beside her I asked her who she was, and how she came to be there so late at night. She answered, in sweet childish accents, 'I am Frida Heinz, and fader and I were walking through this big, big Forest, and by-and-by are going to see England, where mother used to live long ago.' It was so pretty to hear her talk, though I had difficulty in making out the meaning of her words. 'But where then is your father?' I asked. I believe, wife, the language I spoke was as difficult for her to understand as the words she had spoken were to me, for she repeated them over as if wondering what they meant. Then trying to recall the way I had spoken when a boy, which I have never quite forgotten, I repeated my question. She understood, and answered in her sweet babyish accents, 'Fader come back soon, he told little Frida. He had lost the road, and he said I'se to wait here till he came back, and laid his violin and his bag 'side me, and told me to keep this little book, which he has taught me to read, 'cos he says mother loved it so. Then he went away; and I've waited--oh so long, and he's never come back, and I'se cold, so cold, and hungry, and I want my own fader. O kind man, take Frida to him. And he's ill, so ill too! Last night I heard the people in the place we slept in say he'd never live to go through the Forest; but he would go, 'cos he wanted to take me 'cross the sea.' Then the pretty little creature began to cry bitterly, and beg me again to take her to father. I told her I would wait a bit with her, and see if he came. For more than an hour I sat there beside her, trying to warm and comfort her; for I tell you, Elsie, she seemed to creep into my heart, and reminded me of our little one, who would have been about her size had she been alive, though she was but three years old when she died. "Well, time went on, and the night grew darker, and I knew how troubled you would be, and yet I knew not what to do. I left the child for a bit, and looked here and there in the Forest; but all was dark, and though I called long and loud no answer came. So I returned, took the child in my arms (for she is but a light weight), and with my tools thrown over my shoulder, and the violin and bag in my hand, I made my way home. The child cried awhile, saying she must wait for fader, then fell sound asleep in my arms. Now, wife, would it not be well to undress her, and give her some food ere she sleeps again, for she must be hungry?" CHAPTER II. THE WOOD-CUTTER'S HUT. "Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me; Bless Thy little lamb to-night." "Indeed you are right, Wilhelm," said his wife. "No doubt the poor little maid must be hungry, only I had not the heart to waken her.--See, Hans, there is some goat's milk in the corner yonder. Get it heated, whilst I cut a bit of this bread, coarse though it be. 'Tis all we have to give her; but such as it is, she is right welcome to it, poor little lamb." As she spoke she moved quietly to the bed where the child lay asleep. As she woke she uttered the cry, "Fader, dear fader!" then raised herself and looked around. Evidently the story of the day flashed upon her, and she turned eagerly to the wood-cutter, asking if "fader" had come yet. On being told that he had not, she said no more, but her eyes filled with tears. She took the bread and milk without resistance, though she looked at the black bread as if it were repugnant to her. Then she let herself be undressed by Elsie, directing her to open the bag, and taking from it a nightdress of fine calico, a brush and comb, also a large sponge, a couple of fine towels, a change of underclothing, two pairs of stockings, and one black dress, finer than the one she wore. [Illustration: Ere the child consented to go to bed she opened the little "brown book."] Ere the child consented to go to bed she opened the little "brown book," which was a German Bible, and read aloud, slowly but distinctly, the last verse of the Fourth Psalm: "Ich liege und schlafe ganz mit Frieden; denn allein Du, Herr, hilfst mir, dass ich sicher wohne" ("I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety"). Then she knelt down, and prayed in simple words her evening prayer, asking God to let father come home, and to bless the kind people who had given her a shelter, for Christ's sake. Elsie and Wilhelm looked at each other with amazement. Alas! there was no fear of God in that house. Elsie might cross herself when she spoke of spirits, but that was only as a superstitious sign that she had been told frightened them away. Of Christ and His power to protect and save they knew nothing. Roman Catholics by profession, they yet never darkened a church door, save perhaps when they took a child to be baptized; but they only thought of that ordinance as a protection to their child from the evil one. God's holy Word was to them a sealed book. True, all the wood-cutters were not like them, but still a spirit of ignorance and indifference as regarded religion reigned amongst them; and if now and then a priest sought their dwelling, his words (such as they were) fell on dull ears. Things seen and temporal engrossed all their thoughts. The daily work, the daily bread, and the nightly sleep--these filled their hearts and excluded God. So it was not to be wondered at that little Frida's reading and prayer were an astonishment to them. "What think you of that, Elsie?" said Wilhelm. "The child spoke as if she were addressing some one in the room." "Ay, ay," answered his wife. "It was gruesome to hear her. She made me look up to see if there was really any one there; and she wasn't speaking to our Lady either. Art sure she is a child of earth at all, Wilhelm?" "Ay, she's that; and the question is, wife, What shall we do with her? Suppose the father never turns up, shall we keep her, or give her over to them that have the charge of wanderers and such like?" Here Hans sprang forward. "Nay, father, nay! Do not send her away. She is so pretty, and looks like the picture of an angel. I saw one in the church where little Annchen was baptized. Oh, keep her, father!--Mutter, do not send the little maid back into the forest!" But Elsie's woman's heart had no thought of so doing. "No, no, my lad," she said. "Never fear; we'll keep the child till some one comes to take her away that has a right to her. Who knows but mayhap she'll bring a blessing on our house; for often I think we don't remember the Virgin and the saints as we ought. My mother did, I know;" and as she spoke great tears rolled down her cheeks. The child's prayer had touched a chord of memory, and recalled the days of her childhood, when she had lived with parents who at least reverenced the Lord, though they had not been taught to worship Him aright. Wilhelm sat for a few minutes lost in thought. He was pondering the question whether, supposing the child was left on his hands, he could support her by doing extra work. It would be difficult, he knew; but if Elsie were willing he'd try, for his kind heart recoiled from sending the little child who clung to him so confidingly adrift amongst strangers. No, he would not do so. After a while he turned to his wife, who had gone to the cradle where lay their six-weeks-old baby, and was rocking it, as the child had cried out in her sleep. "Elsie," he said, "I'll set off at break of day, and go amongst my mates, and find out if they have seen or heard aught of the missing gentleman.--Come, Hans," he said suddenly; "'tis time you were asleep." A few minutes later and Hans had tumbled into his low bed, and lay for a short time thinking about Frida, and wondering who she had been speaking to when she knelt down; but in the midst of his wondering he fell asleep. Wilhelm, wearied with his day's work, was not long in following his son's example, and was soon sound asleep; but no word of prayer rose from his heart and lips to the loving Father in heaven, who had guarded and kept him from the dangers of the day. Elsie was in no hurry to go to bed; her heart was full of many thoughts. The child's prayer and the words out of the little book had strangely moved her, and she was asking herself if there were indeed a God (as in her childhood she had been taught to believe), what had she ever done to please Him. Conscience said low, Nothing; but she tried to drown the thought, and busied herself in cleaning the few dishes and putting the little room to rights, then sat down for a few minutes beside the stove to think. Where could the father of the child be, she asked herself, and what would be his feelings on returning to the place where he had left her when he found she was no longer there? Could he have lost his way in the great Forest? That was by no means unlikely; she had often heard of such a thing as that happening. Then she wondered if there were any clue to the child's friends or the place she was going to in the bag; and rising, she took it up and opened it. Besides the articles we have already enumerated, she found a case full of needles, some reels of cotton, a small book of German hymns, and a double locket with chain attached to it. This Elsie succeeded in opening, and on the one side was the picture of a singularly beautiful, dark-eyed girl, on the verge of womanhood; and on the other a blue-eyed, fair-haired young man, a few years older than the lady. Under the pictures were engraved the words "Hilda" and "Friedrich." Elsie doubted not that these were the likenesses of Frida's father and mother, for the child bore a strong resemblance to both. She had the dark eyes of her mother and the golden hair of her father, if such was the relationship she bore to him. These pictures were the only clue to the child's parentage. No doubt she wore a necklace quite unlike anything that Elsie had ever seen before; but then, except in the shop windows, she had seen so few ornaments in her life that she knew not whether it was a common one or not. She put the locket carefully back in its place, shut the bag, and slipped across the room to take another glance at the sleeping child. Very beautiful she looked as she lay, the fair, golden hair curling over her head and falling round her neck. Her lips were slightly parted, and, as if conscious of Elsie's approach, she muttered the word "fader." Elsie patted her, and turned once more to the little cradle where lay her infant. The child was awake and crying, and the mother stooped and took her up, and sat down with her in her arms. A look of anxiety and sadness crossed the mother's face when she observed that although she flashed the little lamp in the baby's face her eyes never turned to the light. For some time the terrible fear had been rising in her head that her little Anna was blind. She had mentioned this to her husband, but he had laughed at her, and said babies of that age never took much notice of anything; but that was three weeks ago, and still, though the eyes looked bright, and the child was intelligent, the eyes never followed the light, nor looked up into the mother's face. The fear was now becoming certainty. Oh, if only she could make sure, see some doctors, and find out if nothing could be done for her darling! A blind child! How could they support her, how provide for the wants of one who could never help herself? Poor mother! her heart sank within her, for she knew nothing of the One who has said, "Cast all your cares upon me, for I care for you." Now as she gazed at the child she became more than ever convinced that that strange trial had fallen upon her. And to add to this new difficulty, how could she undertake the charge and keeping of this stranger so wonderfully brought to their door? Elsie, although no Christian, had a true, loving woman's heart beating within her, and putting from her the very idea of sending away the lost child, she said to herself, "The little that a child like that will take will not add much to the day's expense; and even if it did, Elsie Hörstel is not the woman to cast out the forlorn child." Oh, the pity of it that she did not know the words of Him who said, "Inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it unto me;" and again, "Whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me." But these words had never yet reached her ears, and as yet it was only the instincts of a true God-created heart that led her to compassionate and care for the child lost in the forest. Taking the babe in her arms, she slipped into bed and soon fell asleep. CHAPTER III. FRIDA'S FATHER. "And though we sorrow for the dead, Let not our grief be loud, That we may hear Thy loving voice Within the light-lined cloud." Early in the morning, ere wife or children were awake, and long before the October sun had arisen, Wilhelm Hörstel arose, and putting a hunch of black bread and goat-milk cheese into his pocket, he shouldered his axe and saw and went out into the Forest. The dawn was beginning to break, and there was light enough for the practised eye of the wood-cutter to distinguish the path which he wished to take through the Forest. Great stillness reigned around; even the twittering of the birds had hardly begun--they were for the most part awaiting the rising of the sun, though here and there an early bird might be heard chirping as it flew off, no doubt in search of food. Even the frogs in the Forest ponds had not yet resumed their croaking, and only the bubbling of a brooklet or the falling of a tiny cascade from the rocks (which abound in some parts of the Forest) was heard. The very silence which pervaded, calmed, and to a Christian mind would have raised the thoughts Godward. But it had no such influence on the heart, the kindly heart, of the young wood-cutter as he walked on, bent only on reaching the small hamlet or "Dorf" where stood the hut of the man with whom he sought to hold counsel as to how a search could be instituted in the Forest for the father of little Frida. As he reached the door, and just as the sun was rising above the hill-tops, and throwing here and there its golden beams through the autumn-tinted trees, he saw not one but several wood-cutters and charcoal-burners going into the house of his friend Johann Schmidt. Somewhat wondering he hastened his steps, and entered along with them, putting as he did so the question, "_Was gibt's?_" (What is the matter?) His friend, who came forward to greet him, answered the question by saying, "Come and help us, Wilhelm; a strange thing has happened here during the night. "Soon after Gretchen and I had fallen asleep, we were awakened by the noise of some heavy weight falling at the door; and on going to see what it was, there, to our amazement, lay a man, evidently in a faint. We got him into our hut, and after a while he became conscious, looked around him, and said 'Frida!' Gretchen tried to find out who it was he wished, but could only make out it was a child whom he had left in the Forest; but whether he was still delirious none could tell. He pressed his hand on his heart and said he was very ill, and again muttering the word, 'Frida, Armseliger Frida,' he again fainted away. "We did what we could for him, and he rallied a little; and then an hour ago, Gretchen stooping over him heard him say, 'Herr Jesu. Ob ich schon wandelte im finstern Thal fürchete ich kein Unglück: denn Du bist bei mir' ('Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me'); and giving one deep breath his spirit fled." As their mate said these words, exclamations of sorrow were heard around. "_Ach_, poor man!" said one. "Thinkest thou the child he spoke of can be in the Forest?" "And the words he said about fearing no evil, what did they mean?" said another. "Well," said one who looked like a chief man amongst them, "I believe he was _ein Ketzer_, and if that be so we had better send to Dringenstadt, where there is a _ketzer Pfarrer_ [heretic pastor], and get his advice. I heard the other day that a new one had come whom they called Herr Langen." Then as a momentary pause came, Wilhelm Hörstel stepped forward and told the tale of the child he had found in the Forest the night before, who called herself Frida. The men listened with amazement, but with one breath they all declared she must be the child of whom the dead man had spoken. "Ay," said Wilhelm, "and I am sure she is the child of a _Ketzer_ [heretic]; for what think ye a child like that did ere she went to bed? She prayed, and my wife says never a word said she to the Virgin, but spoke just straight to God." "_Ach_, poor _Mädchen_!" said another of the men; "does she think the Lord would listen to the prayer of a child like her? The blessed Virgin have pity on her;" and as he spoke he crossed himself. "If these things be so," said the chief man, by name Jacob Heine, "then it is plain one of us must go off to Dringenstadt, see the _Pfarrer_, and settle about the funeral." His proposal was at once agreed to, and as he was overseer of the wood-cutters, and could not leave his work, Johann Schmidt, in whose hut the man had died, was chosen as the best man to go; whilst Wilhelm should return to his home, and then take the child to see her dead father. "Yes, bring the _Mädchen_" (little maid), said all, "and let us see her also; seems as if she belongs to us all, found in the Forest as she was." There was no time to be lost, for the sun was already well up, and the men should have been at work long ago. So they dispersed, some going to their work deeper in the Forest, Wilhelm retracing his way home, and Johann taking the path which led through the wood to the little town of Dringenstadt. As Wilhelm approached his door, the little Frida darted to him, saying, "Have you found my fader? Oh, take me to him! Frida must go to her fader." Tears rose to the wood-cutter's eyes, as lifting the child in his arms he entered the hut, and leaving Frida there with Hans, he beckoned his wife to speak to him outside; and there he told her the story of the man who had died in Johann's cottage. "Ah, then," said Elsie, "the little Frida is indeed an orphan, poor lambie. How shall we tell her, Wilhelm? Her little heart will break. Ever since she woke she has prattled on about him; ay" (and the woman's voice lowered as she spoke), "and of a Father who she says lives in heaven and cares both for her earthly father and herself. And, Wilhelm, she's been reading aloud to Hans and me about the Virgin's Son of whom my mother used to speak." "Well, never mind about all that, wife, but let us tell the child; for I and my mates think she should be taken to see the body, and so make sure that the man was really her father." * * * * * "Fader dead!" said the child, as she sat on Wilhelm's knee and heard the sad story. "Dead! Shall Frida never see him again, nor walk with him, nor talk with him? Oh! dear, dear fader, why did you die and leave Frida all alone? I want you, I want you!" and the child burst into a flood of tears. They let her cry on, those kind-hearted people--nay, they wept with her; but after some minutes had passed, Wilhelm raised her head, and asked her if she would not like to see her father once more, though he could not speak to her now. "Yes, oh yes! take me to see him!" she exclaimed. "Oh, take me!" Then looking eagerly up she said, "Perhaps Jesus can make him live again, like he did Lazarus, you know. Can't he?" But alas! of the story of Lazarus being raised from the dead these two people knew nothing; and when they asked her what she meant, and she said her father had read to her about it out of her little brown book, they only shook their heads, and Wilhelm said, "I feared there was something wrong about that little book. How could any one be raised from the dead?" Frida's passionate exclamations of love and grief when she saw the dead body of the man who lay in Johann Schmidt's hut removed all doubt from the minds of those who heard her as to the relationship between them; and the manner in which the child turned from a crucifix which Gretchen brought forward to her, thinking it would comfort her, convinced them more firmly that the poor man had indeed been a heretic. No! father never prayed to that, nor would he let _her_ do so, she said--just to Jesus, dear Jesus in heaven; and though several of those who heard her words crossed themselves as she spoke, and prayed the Virgin to forgive, all were much taken with and deeply sorry for the orphan child; and when Wilhelm raised her in his arms to take her back to his hut and to the care of Elsie, more than one of the inhabitants of the Dorf brought some little gift from their small store to be taken with him to help in the maintenance of the little one so strangely brought among them. Ere they left the Dorf, Johann Schmidt had returned from executing his message to Dringenstadt. He had seen the _Pfarrer_, and he had promised to come along presently and arrange about the funeral. CHAPTER IV. THE PARSONAGE. "The Lord thy Shepherd is-- Dread not nor be dismayed-- To lead thee on through stormy paths, By ways His hand hath made." On the morning of the day that we have written of, the young Protestant pastor of Dringenstadt was seated in a room of the small house which went by the name of "Das Pfarrhaus." He was meditating more than studying just then. He felt his work there an uphill one. Almost all the people in that little town were Roman Catholics. His own flock was a little one indeed, and only that morning he had received a letter telling him that it had been settled that no regular ministry would be continued there, as funds were not forthcoming, and the need in one sense seemed small. He had come there only a few months before, knowing well that he might only be allowed to remain a short time; but now that the order for his removal elsewhere had come, he felt discouraged and sad. Was it right, he was asking himself, to withdraw the true gospel light from the people, and to leave the few, no doubt very few, who loved it to themselves? Karl Langen was a true Christian, longing to lead souls to Jesus, and was much perplexed by the order he had received. Suddenly a knock at the door roused him, and the woman who took charge of his house on entering told him that a man from the Forest wished to speak to him. Telling her to send him in at once, he awaited his entry. Johann Schmidt was shown into the room, and told his sorrowful tale in a quiet, manly way. The pastor was much moved, and repeated with amazement the words, "A child lost in the Black Forest, and the father dead, you say? Certainly I will come and see. But why, my friend, should you think the man was an Evangelisch?" Then Johann told of the words he had repeated, of the child's prayer and her little brown book. Suddenly a light seemed to dawn on the mind of the young pastor. "Oh!" he said, "I believe you are right. I think I have seen both the father and the child. Last Sunday there came into our church a gentleman and a lovely little girl, just such a one as you describe the child you speak of to be. I tried to speak to them after worship, but ere I could do so they had gone. And no one could tell me who they were or whither they had gone. I will now see the Bürgermeister about the funeral, and make arrangements regarding it. I think through some friends of mine I can get money sufficient to pay all expenses." Johann thanked him warmly, and hastened back to tell what had been agreed on, and then got off to his work. Late in the afternoon Pastor Langen took his way to the little hut in the Black Forest. The Forest by the road he took was not well known to him, and the solemn quiet which pervaded it struck him much and raised his thoughts to God. It was as if he had entered the sanctuary and heard the voice of the Lord speaking to him. It was, as a poet has expressed it, as if "Solemn and silent everywhere, The trees with folded hands stood there, Kneeling at their evening prayer." Only the slight murmuring of the breeze amongst the leaves, or the flutter of a bird's wing as it flew from branch to branch, broke the silence. All around him there was "A slumberous sound, a sound that brings The feeling of a dream, As when a bell no longer swings, Faint the hollow echo rings O'er meadow, lake, and stream." As he walked, he thought much of the child found in the Forest, and he wondered how he could help her or find out to whom she belonged. Oh, if only, he said to himself, he had been able to speak to the father the day he had seen him, and learned something of his history! Johann had told him that if no clue could be found to the child's relations, Wilhelm Hörstel had determined to bring her up; but Johann had added, "We will not, poor though we be, let the whole expense of her upbringing fall on the Hörstels. No; we will go share for share, and she shall be called the child of the wood-cutters." As he thought of these words, the young pastor prayed for the kind, large-hearted men, asking that the knowledge of the loving Christ might shine into their hearts and bring spiritual light into the darkness which surrounded them. The afternoon had merged into evening ere he entered the wood-cutters' Dorf. As he neared Johann's hut, Gretchen came to the door, and he greeted her with the words, "The Lord be with you, and bless you for your kindness to the poor man in the time of his need." "Come in, sir," she said, "and see the corpse. Oh, but he's been a fine-looking man, and he so young too. It was a sight to see his bit child crying beside him and begging him to say one word to her--just one word. Then she folded her hands, and looking up said, 'O kind Jesus, who made Lazarus come to life, make dear fader live again.' Oh, 'twas pitiful to see her! Who think you, sir, was the man she spoke of called Lazarus? When I asked her she said it was all written in her little brown book, which she would bring along and read to me some day, bless the little creature." The pastor said some words about the story being told by the Lord Jesus, and recorded in the Holy Scriptures. He did not offer her a Testament, as he knew if the priest heard (as it was likely he would) of his having been there, he would ask if they had been given a Bible, and so trouble would follow. But he rejoiced that the little child had it in her heart to read the words of life to the kind woman, and he breathed a prayer that her little brown Bible might prove a blessing to those poor wood-cutters. Pastor Langen at once recognized the features of the dead man as those of the stranger whom he had seen with the lovely child in the little church. He then made arrangements for the funeral the next day, and departed. * * * * * On the morrow a number of wood-cutters met at the house of Johann Schmidt to attend the funeral of the stranger gentleman. Wilhelm Hörstel, and his wife, Hans, and little Frida, were there also. The child was crying softly, as if she realized that even the corpse of her father was to be taken from her. Presently the young pastor entered, and the moment Frida saw him she started forward, saying in her child language, "O sir, I've seen you before, when fader and I heard you preach some days ago." All this was said in the pure German language, which the people hardly followed at all, but which was the same as the pastor himself spoke. He at once recognized the child, and sought to obtain from her some information regarding her father. She only said, as she had already done, that he was going to England to see some friends of her mother's. When questioned as to their name, she could not tell. All that she knew was that they were relations of her mother's. Yes, her father loved his Bible, and had given her such a nice little brown one which had belonged to her mother. Could she speak any English, the pastor asked. "Yes, I can," said Frida. "Mother taught me a number of words, and I can say 'Good-morning,' and 'How are you to-day?' Also mother taught me to say the Lord's Prayer in English. But I do not know much English, for father and mother always spoke German to each other." No more could be got from the child then, and the simple service was gone on with; and when the small procession set off for Dringenstadt, the kindly men took it by turns to carry the little maiden in their arms, as the walk through the forest was a long one for a child. In the churchyard of the quiet little German town they laid the mortal remains of Friedrich Heinz, to await the resurrection morning. Tears rose to the eyes of many onlookers as Frida threw herself, sobbing, on the grave of her father. Wilhelm and Elsie strove in vain to raise her, but when Pastor Langen drew near and whispered the words, "Look up, Frida; thy father is not here, he is with Jesus," a smile of joy played on the child's face, and rising she dried her tears, and putting her hand into that of Elsie she prepared to leave the "God's acre," and the little party set off for their home in the Black Forest. Darkness had fallen on all around ere they reached the Dorf, and strange figures that the trees and bushes assumed appeared to the superstitious mind of Elsie and some of the others as the embodiment of evil spirits, and they wished themselves safe under the shelter of their little huts. That night the little stranger child mingled her tears with her prayers, and to Elsie's amazement she heard her ask her Father in heaven to take greater care of her now than ever, because she had no longer a father on earth to do it. Little did the kneeling child imagine that that simple prayer was used by the Holy Spirit to touch the heart of the wood-cutter's wife. And from the lips of Elsie ere she fell asleep that night arose a cry to the Father in heaven for help. True, it was but "As an infant crying in the night, An infant crying for the light, And with no language but a cry." But still there was a felt need, and a recognition that there was One who could meet and satisfy it. At all events Elsie Hörstel clasped her blind babe to her heart that night, and fell asleep with a feeling of rest and peace to which she had long been a stranger. Ah! God had a purpose for the little child and her brown Bible in that little hut of which she as yet had no conception. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings He still perfects praise. CHAPTER V. THE WOODMEN'S PET. "Lord, make me like the gentle dew, That other hearts may prove, E'en through Thy feeblest messenger, Thy ministry of love." Pastor Langen, ere leaving Dringenstadt, visited the hut in the Black Forest where Frida had found a home. His congregation, with two or three exceptions, was a poor one, and his own means were small; yet he had contrived to collect a small sum for Frida's maintenance, which he had put into the hands of the Bürgermeister, who undertook to pay the interest of it quarterly to the Hörstels on behalf of the child. True, the sum was small, but it was sufficient to be a help; and a kind lady of the congregation, Fräulein Drechsler, said she would supply her from time to time with dress, and when she could have her now and then with herself, instruct her in the Protestant faith and the elements of education. Frida could already read, and had begun to write, taught by her father. Every effort was being made to discover if the child had any relations alive. The Bürgermeister had put advertisements in many papers, German and English, but as yet no answer had come, and many of the wood-cutters still held the opinion that the child was the offspring of some woodland spirit. But in spite of any such belief, Frida had a warm welcome in every hut in the Dorf, and a kindly word from every man and woman in it. The "woodland child" they called her, and as such cherished and protected her. Many a "bite and sup" she got from them. Many a warm pair of stockings, or a knitted petticoat done by skilful hands, did the inmates of the Dorf present to her. They did what they could, these poor people, for the orphan child, just out of the fullness of their kind hearts, little thinking of the blessing that through her was to descend on them. The day of Pastor Langen's visit to the hut, some time after her father's funeral, Frida was playing beside the door, and on seeing him coming up the path she rose from the spot where she was sitting and ran eagerly to meet him. But though unseen by her, he had been standing near for some time spell-bound by the music which, child though she was, she was bringing out of her father's violin, in the playing of which she was amusing herself. From a very early age her father, himself a skilled violinist, had taught her to handle the bow, and had early discovered the wonderful talent for music which she possessed. The day of which we write was the first one since her father's death that Frida had played on the violin, so neither Wilhelm nor Elsie was aware that she could do so at all. The pastor was approaching the cottage when the sound of music reached his ears, and having a good knowledge of that art himself, he stood still to listen. A few minutes convinced him that though the playing was that of a child, still the performer had the true soul of music, and only needed full instruction to develop into a musician of no ordinary talent. As he drew nearer his surprise was great to see that the player was none other than the beautiful child found in the Black Forest. Attracted by the sound of steps, Frida had turned round, and seeing her friend had, as we have written, bounded off to meet him. Hearing that Elsie had taken her babe and gone a message to the Dorf, he seated himself on a knoll with the child and began to talk to her. "How old are you?" he asked her. "Seven years and more," she replied; "because I remember my birthday was only a little while before Mütterchen (I always called her that) died, and that that day she took the locket she used to wear off her neck and gave it to me, telling me always to keep it." "And have you that locket still?" queried the pastor. "Yes; Elsie has it carefully put away. There is a picture of Mütterchen on the one side, and of my father on the other." "And did your mother ever speak to you of your relations either in Germany or England?" "Yes, she did sometimes. She spoke of grandmamma in England and grandpapa also, and she said they lived in a beautiful house; but she never told me their name, nor where their house was. Father, of course, knew, for he said he was going to take me there, and he used to speak of a brother of his whom he said he dearly loved." "But tell me," asked the pastor, "where did you live with your parents in Germany?" "Oh, in a number of different places, but never long at the same place. Father played at concerts just to make money, and we never remained long anywhere--we were always moving about." "And your parents were Protestants?" "I don't know what that means," said the child. "But they were often called 'Ketzers' by the people where he lodged. And they would not pray to the Virgin Mary, as many did, but taught me to pray to God in the name of Jesus Christ. And Mütterchen gave me a little 'brown Bible' for my very own, which she said her mother had given to her. Oh, I must show it to you, sir!" and, darting off, the child ran into the house, returning with the treasured book in her hand. The pastor examined it and read the inscription written on the fly-leaf--"To my dear Hilda, from her loving mother, on her eighteenth birthday." That was all, but he felt sure from the many underlined passages that the book had been well studied. He found that Frida could read quite easily, and that she had been instructed in Scripture truth. Ere he bade her farewell he asked her to promise him to read often from her little Bible to Wilhelm, Elsie, and Hans. "For who knows, little Frida, that the Lord may not have chosen you to be a child missionary to the wood-cutters, and to read to them out of His holy Word." Frida thought over these words, though she hardly took in their full meaning; but she loved her Bible, and wished that the people who were so kind to her loved it also. On his way home the pastor met Elsie with her babe in her arms, and told her of his farewell visit to Frida, and of his delight with the child's musical talent, and advised her to encourage her as much as possible to play on the violin. Elsie's face brightened as he spoke, for she and her husband, like many of the German peasants, dearly loved music. "O sir," she said, "have you heard her sing? It is just beautiful and wonderful to hear her; she beats the very birds themselves." Thanking her once more for her care of the orphan child, and commending her to God, the pastor went on his way, musing much on the future of the gifted child, and wondering what could be done as regarded her education. In the meantime Elsie went home, and entrusting her babe to the care of Frida, who loved the little helpless infant, she made ready for her husband's return from his work. Hans had gone that day to help his father in the wood, which he loved much to do, so Elsie and Frida were alone. "Mutter," said the child (for she had adopted Hans's way of addressing Elsie), "the pastor was here to-day, and he played to me--oh so beautifully--on my violin, it reminded me of father, and made me cry. O Mutter, I wish some one could teach me to play on it as father did. You see I was just beginning to learn a little how to do it, and I do love it so;" and as she spoke, the child joined her hands together and looked pleadingly at Elsie. "_Ach_, poor child," replied Elsie, "how canst thou be taught here?" And that night when Elsie repeated to Wilhelm Frida's desire for lessons on the violin, the worthy couple grieved that they could do nothing to gratify her wish. Day after day and week after week passed, and still no answer came to any of the advertisements about the child; and save for her own sake none of the dwellers in the wood wished it otherwise, for the "woodland child," as they called her, had won her way into every heart. CHAPTER VI. ELSIE AND THE BROWN BIBLE. "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path." Frida, as time went on, was growing hardy and strong in the bracing Forest air. Every kindness was lavished on her, and the child-spirit had asserted itself, and though often tears would fill her eyes as something or other reminded her vividly of the past, yet her merry laughter was often heard as she played with Hans in the woods. Yet through all her glee there was at times a seriousness of mind remarkable in one so young, also a power of observation as regarded others not often noticeable in one of her years. She had become warmly attached to the kind people amongst whom her lot was cast, and especially so to Elsie. Several times she had observed her looking anxiously at the babe in her arms, taking her to the light and endeavouring to attract her attention to the plaything which she held before her. Then when the babe, now some months old, showed no signs of observing it, Frida would see a great tear roll down Elsie's cheek, and once she heard her mutter the words, "Blind! my baby's blind!" Was it possible? Frida asked herself; for the child's eyes looked bright, and she felt sure she knew her, and had often stretched out her little arms to be taken up by her. "No," she repeated again, "she cannot be blind!" Poor little Frida knew not that it was her voice that the baby recognized. Often she had sung her to sleep when Elsie had left her in her charge. Already father and mother had noted with joy the power that music had over their blind babe. One day Frida summoned courage to say, "Mutter, dear Mutter, why are you sad when you look at little Anna? I often notice you cry when you do so." At that question the full heart of the mother overflowed. "O Frida, little Frida, the babe is blind! She will never see the light of day nor the face of her father and mother. Wilhelm knows it now: we took her to Dringenstadt last week, and the doctor examined her eyes and told us she _ist blind geboren_ [born blind]. O my poor babe, my poor babe!" Frida slipped her hand into that of the poor mother, and said gently, "O Mutter, Jesus can make the babe to see if we ask Him. He made so many blind people to see when He was on earth, and He can do so still. Let me read to you about it in my little brown book;" and the child brought her Bible and read of Jesus healing the two blind men, and also of the one in John ix. who said, "Whereas I was blind, now I see." Elsie listened eagerly, and said, "And it was Jesus the Virgin's Son who did that, do you say? Read me more about Him." And the child read on, how with one touch Jesus opened the eyes of the blind. She read also how they brought the young children to Jesus, and He took them into His arms and blessed them, and said to His disciples, "Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of heaven." "Oh," said Elsie, "if only that Jesus were here now, I'd walk miles and miles to take my Anna to Him; but, alas! He is not here now." Frida was a young child, and hardly knew how to answer the troubled mother; but her faith was a simple one, so she answered, "No, Jesus is not here now, but He is in heaven, and He answers us when we pray to Him. Father once read to me the words in Matthew's Gospel--see, here they are--'Ask, and it shall be given you.' Shall we ask Him now?" and kneeling down she prayed in child language, "O Lord Jesus, who dost hear and answer prayer, make little Anna to see as Thou didst the blind men when Thou wert on earth, and oh, comfort poor Elsie!" As she rose from her knees, Elsie threw her arms round her, saying, "O Frida, I do believe the God my mother believed in hath sent thee here to be a blessing to us!" Often after that day Frida would read out of her brown Bible to Elsie about Jesus, His life and His atoning death. And sometimes in the evening, when Hans would sit cutting out various kinds of toys, for which he had a great turn, and could easily dispose of them in the shops at Dringenstadt, she would read to him also; and he loved to hear the Old Testament stories of Moses and Jacob, Joseph, and Daniel in the lion's den; also of David, the sweet psalmist of Israel, who had once been a shepherd boy. They were all new to poor Hans, and from them he learned something of the love God has to His children; but it was ever of Jesus that Elsie loved to hear, and again and again she got the child to read to her the words, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." And erelong it was evident, though she would scarcely have acknowledged it, that she was seeking not only the rest but the "_Rest_-Giver." And we know that He who gave the invitation has pledged His word that whosoever cometh to Him He will in no wise cast out. All this while Wilhelm seemed to take no notice of the Bible readings. Once or twice, when he had returned from his work, he had found Frida reading to his wife and boy, and he had lingered for a minute or two at the door to catch some of the words; but he made no remark, and interrupted the reading by asking if supper were ready. But often later in the evening he would ask the child to bring out her violin and play to him, or to sing one of his favourite songs, after which she would sing a hymn of praise; but as yet it was the sweetness of the singer's voice and not the beauty of the words that he loved to listen to. But notwithstanding, by the power of the Holy Ghost, the Bible was doing its work--slowly, it may be, but surely; so true is it that God's word shall not return to Him void. CHAPTER VII. IN DRINGENSTADT. "Sing them over again to me, Wonderful words of love." Three years had passed. Summer had come round again. Fresh green leaves quivered on the trees of the Forest, though the pines still wore their dark clothing. The song of the birds was heard, and the little brooks murmured along their course with a joyful tinkling sound. In the Forest it was cool even at noontide, but in Dringenstadt the heat was oppressive, and in spite of the sun-blinds the glare of light even indoors was excessive. In a pleasant room, into which the sun only shone through a thick canopy of green leaves, sat a lady with an open book in her hand. It was an English one, and the dictionary by her side showed it was not in a language she was altogether familiar with. The book evidently recalled memories of the past. Every now and then she paused in her reading, and the look which came into her eyes told that her thoughts had wandered from the present surroundings to other places, and it might be other days. Sitting beside her, engaged in doing a sum of arithmetic, was a beautiful child of some ten years old, neatly though plainly dressed. The lady's eyes rested on her from time to time, as if something in her appearance, as well as the book she was reading, recalled other days and scenes. "Frida," she said, for the child was none other than our little friend found in the Forest, "have you no recollections of ever hearing your mother speak of the home of her childhood, or of her companions there?" "No, dear Miss Drechsler, I do not remember her ever speaking of any companions; but she told me about her mother and father, and that they lived in a beautiful house in England, somewhere in the country; and whenever she spoke of her mother she used to cry, and then she would kiss me, and wish she could show me to her, for she knew she would love me, and I am sure it was to her that my father was taking me when he died. See, here is my little brown Bible which her mother gave to her and she gave to me." Miss Drechsler took the Bible in her hand, and examined the writing, and noted the name "Hilda;" but neither of them seemed to recall any special person to her memory. "Strange," she said to herself; "and yet that child's face reminds me vividly of some one whom I saw when I was in England some years ago, when living as governess to the Hon. Evelyn Warden, and I always connect it with some fine music which I heard at that time." Then changing the subject, she said abruptly, "Frida dear, bring your violin and let me hear how far you are prepared for your master to-morrow." Miss Drechsler, true to her promise to the German pastor, had kept a look-out on the child known as "the wood-cutters' pet," who lived in the little hut in the Black Forest. From the time Pastor Langen had left, she had her often living with herself for days at a time at Dringenstadt, and was conducting her education; but as she often had to leave that town for months, Frida still had her home great part of the year with the Hörstels in the Forest. At the time we write of, Miss Drechsler had returned to her little German home, and Frida, who was once more living with her, was getting, at her expense, lessons in violin-playing. She bid fair to become an expert in the art which she dearly loved. She was much missed by the kind people in the Forest amongst whom she had lived so long. Just as, at Miss Drechsler's request, she had produced her violin and begun to play on it, a servant opened the door and said that a man from the Forest was desirous of seeing Fräulein Heinz. The girl at once put down her instrument and ran to the door, where she found her friend Wilhelm awaiting her. "Ah, Frida, canst come back with me to the Forest? There is sorrow there. In one house Johann Schmidt lies nigh to death, caused by an accident when felling a tree. He suffers much, and Gretchen is in sore trouble. And the Volkmans have lost their little boy. You remember him, Frida; he and our Hans used to play together. And our little Anna seems pining away, and Elsie and all of them are crying out for you to come back and comfort them with the words of your little book. Johann said this morning, when his wife proposed sending for the priest, 'No, Gretchen, no. I want no priest; but oh, I wish little Frida were here to read to me from her brown book about Jesus Christ our great High Priest, who takes away our sins, and is always praying for us.'" "Oh, I remember," interrupted Frida. "I read to him once about Jesus ever living 'to make intercession for us.' Yes, Wilhelm, I'll come with you. I know Miss Drechsler will say I should go, for she often tells me I really belong to the kind people in the Forest." And so saying, she ran off to tell her story to her friend. Miss Drechsler at once assented to her return to the Forest to give what help she could to the people there, adding that she herself would come up soon to visit them, and bring them any comforts necessary for them such as could not be easily got by them. Ere they parted she and Frida knelt together in prayer, and Miss Drechsler asked that God would use the child as His messenger to the poor, sorrowing, suffering ones in the Forest; after which she took Frida's Bible and put marks in at the different passages which she thought would be suitable to the different cases of the people that Wilhelm had spoken of. It was late in the afternoon ere Wilhelm and Frida reached the hut of Johann Schmidt, where he left the child for a while, whilst he went on to the Volkmans to tell them of Frida's return, and that she hoped to see them the next day. Gretchen met the girl with a cry of delight. "_Ach!_ there she comes, our own little Fräulein. What a pleasure it is to see thee again, our woodland pet! And see, here is my Johann laid up in bed, nearly killed by the falling of a tree." The sick man raised himself as he heard the child's voice saying as she entered, in reply to Gretchen's words, "Oh, I am sorry, so sorry! Why did you not tell me sooner?" And in another moment she was sitting beside Johann, speaking kind, comforting words to him. He stroked her hair fondly, and answered her questions as well as he could; but there was a far-away look in his eyes as if his thoughts were in some region distant from the one he was living in now. After a few minutes he asked eagerly,-- "Have you the little brown book with you now?" "Yes, I have," was the reply. "Shall I read to you now, Johann? for Wilhelm is to come for me soon." "Yes, read, read," he said; "for I am weary, so weary." Frida turned quickly to the eleventh chapter of Matthew, and read distinctly in the German, which he could understand, and which she could now speak also, the words, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." He stopped her there. "Read that again," he said. She complied, and then he turned to her, saying, "And Jesus, the Son of God, said that? Will He give it to me, thinkest thou?" "Yes," she said, "He will; for He has promised to do it, and He never breaks His word." "Well, if that be so, kneel down, pretty one, and ask Him to give it me, for I need it sorely." Frida knelt, and in a few simple words besought the Saviour to give His rest and peace to the suffering man. "Thanks, little Frida," he said as she rose. "I believe that prayer will be answered." And shutting his eyes he fell quietly asleep, and Frida slipped out of the room and joined Wilhelm in the Forest. "Is little Anna so very ill?" she queried as they walked. "I fear she is," was the answer the father gave, with tears in his eyes. "The mother thinks so also; though the child, bless her, is so good and patient we hardly know whether she suffers or not. She just lies still mostly on her bed now, and sings to herself little bits of hymns, or speaks about the land far away, which she says you told her about, and where she says she is going to see Jesus. Then her mother begins to cry; but she also speaks about that bright land. 'Deed it puzzles me to know where they have learned so much about it, unless it be from your little brown book. And the child has often asked where Frida is. 'I want to hear her sing again,' she says." "O Wilhelm, why did you not come for me when she said that?" "Well, you see, I had promised the pastor that I would let you visit Miss Drechsler as often as possible, and then you were getting on so nicely with your violin that we felt as if we had no right to call you back to us. But see, here we are, and there is Hans looking out for us." But Hans, instead of rushing to meet them as he usually did, ran back hastily to his mother, calling out, "Here they come, here they come!" "Oh, I am glad!" she said.--"Anna, dear Anna, you will hear Frida's voice again." The mother looked round with a smile, but moved not, for the dying child lay in her arms. A moment longer, and Frida was beside her, her arms round the blind child. "Annchen, dear Annchen, speak to me," she entreated--"just one word, to say you know me. It is Frida come home, and she will not leave you again, but will tell you stories out of the little brown book." A look of intelligence crossed the face of the blind child, and she said,-- "Dear Frida, tell Annchen 'bout Jesus, and sing." Frida, choking back her sobs, opened her Bible and read the story that little Anna loved, of Jesus taking the children in His arms and blessing them; then sang a hymn of the joys of heaven, where He is seen face to face, and where there is "no more pain, neither sorrow nor crying, neither is there any more death," and where His redeemed ones _see_ His face. The mother, almost blinded with tears, heard her child whisper, "'See His face;' then Annchen will see Him too, won't she, Frida?" "Yes, Annchen. There your eyes will be open, and you will be blind no more." As Frida said these words she heard one deep-drawn breath, one cry, "Fader, Mutter, Jesus!" and the little one was gone into that land where the first face she saw was that of her loving Saviour, whom "having not seen she loved," and the beauties of that land which had been afar off burst on her eyes, which were no longer blind. Poor father! poor mother! look up; your child sees now, and will await your coming to the golden gates. Heartfelt tears were shed on earth by that death-bed, but there was a song of great rejoicing in heaven over another ransomed soul entering heaven, and also over another sinner entering the kingdom of God on earth, as Wilhelm Hörstel bent his knee by the bed where his dead child lay, and in broken words asked the Saviour whom that child had gone to see face to face to receive him as a poor sinner, and make him all he ought to be. In after-years he would often say that it was the words little Frida, the woodland child, had read and sung to his blind darling that led him, as they had already led his wife, to the feet of Jesus. CHAPTER VIII. THE VIOLIN-TEACHER AND THE CONCERT. "There in an arched and lofty room She stands in fair white dress, Where grace and colour and sweet sound Combine and cluster all around, And rarest taste express." Three years had passed since all that was mortal of the blind child was laid to rest in the quiet God's acre near where the body of Frida's father lay. After the funeral of little Anna, Frida at her own request returned to the Forest with her friends, anxious to help and comfort Elsie, who she knew would sorely miss the blind child, who had been such a comfort and companion to her when both Wilhelm and Hans were busy at work in the woods; but after remaining with them for a few months, she again returned for a part of each year to Dringenstadt, and made rapid progress under Miss Drechsler's tuition with her education, and especially with her music. The third summer after little Anna's death, Frida was again spending some weeks in the Forest. It was early summer when she returned there. Birds and insects were busy in the Forest, and the wood-cutters were hard at work loading the carts with the piles of wood which the large-eyed, strong, patient-looking oxen conveyed to the town. Loud sounded the crack of the carters' whips as they urged on the slow-paced oxen. Often in those days Frida, accompanied by Elsie (who had now no little child to detain her at home), would take Wilhelm's and Hans's simple dinner with them to carry to them where they worked. One day Frida left Elsie talking to her husband and boy, and strolled a little way further into the Forest, gathering the flowers that grew at the foot of the trees, and admiring the soft, velvety moss that here and there covered the ground, when suddenly she was startled by the sounds of footsteps quite near her, and looking hastily round, saw to her amazement the figure of the young violinist from whom she had lately taken lessons. "Fräulein Heinz," he said, as he caught sight of the fair young girl as she stood, flowers in hand, "I rejoice to meet you, for I came in search of you. Pupils of mine in the town of Baden-Baden, many miles from here, where I often reside, are about to have an amateur concert, and they have asked me to bring any pupil with me whom I may think capable of assisting them. They are English milords, and are anxious to assist local musical talent; and I have thought of you, Fräulein, as a performer on the violin, and I went to-day to Miss Drechsler to ask her to give you leave to go." "And what did she say?" asked the child eagerly. "How could I go so far away?" And she stopped suddenly; but the glance she gave at her dress told the young violinist the direction of her thoughts. "Ah!" he said, "Fräulein Drechsler will settle all that. She wishes you to go, and says she will herself accompany you and also bring you back to your friends." "Oh! then," said Frida, "I would like very much to go; but I must ask Wilhelm and Elsie if they can spare me. But, Herr Müller, do you think I can play well enough?" The violinist smiled as he thought how little the girl before him realized the musical genius which she possessed, and which already, young as she was, made her a performer of no ordinary skill. "Ah yes, Fräulein," he said, "I think you will do. But you know, as the concert is not for a month yet, you can come to Dringenstadt and can have a few more lessons ere then." "Come with me, then, and let me introduce you to my friends;" and she led him up to the spot where Wilhelm, Elsie, and Hans stood. They looked surprised, but when they heard her request they could not refuse it. To have their little woodland child play at a concert seemed to them an honour of no small magnitude. Hans in his eagerness pressed to her side, saying, "O Frida, I am so glad, for you do play so beautifully." "As for that matter, so do you, Hans," she replied, for the boy had the musical talent so often found even in German peasants, and taught by Frida could really play with taste on the violin. "O Herr Müller," she said, turning to him, "I wish some day you could hear Hans play; I am sure you would like it. If only he could get lessons! I know he would excel in it." "Is that so?" said the violinist; "then we must get that good Fräulein Drechsler to have him down to Dringenstadt, and I will hear him play; and then if we find there is real talent, I might recommend him to the society for helping those who have a turn for music, but are not able to pay for instruction." Hans's eyes danced with delight at the idea, but in the meantime he knew his duty was to help his father as much as he could in his work as a wood-cutter. "But then some day," he thought, "who knows but I might be able to devote my time to music, and so it would all be brought about through the kindness of little Frida." Frida was a happy girl when a few days after the violinist's visit to the Forest she set out for Dringenstadt, to live for a month with Fräulein Drechsler, and with her go on to Baden-Baden. A few more lessons were got from Herr Müller, the selection of music she was to perform gone through again and again, and all was ready to start the next day. When Frida went to her room that evening, great was her amazement to see laid out on her bed a prettily-made plain black delaine morning dress, neatly finished off at neck and wrists with a pure white frill; and beside it a simple white muslin one for evening wear, with a white silk sash to match. These Miss Drechsler told her were a present from herself. Frida's young heart was filled with gratitude to the kind friend who was so thoughtful of her wants; and she wondered if a day would ever come when she would be able in any way to repay the kindnesses of the friends whom God had raised up for her. In the meantime Herr Müller had told the Stanfords, in whose house the concert was to be held, about the young girl violinist whose services he had secured. They were much interested in her, and were prepared to give a hearty welcome, not to her only, but to her friend Miss Drechsler, whom they had already met. Sir Richard Stanford, who was the head of an old family in the south of England, had with his wife come abroad for the health of their young and only daughter. Sir Richard and Lady Stanford were Christians, and interested themselves in the natives of the place where they were living, and themselves having highly-cultivated musical tastes, they took pleasure in helping on any of the poorer people there in whom they recognized the like talent. "Father," said his young daughter Adeline, as she lay one warm day on a couch under a shady tree in the garden of their lovely villa at Baden-Baden, "suppose we have a concert in our villa some evening; and let us try and find out some good amateur performers, and also engage two or three really good professionals to play, so that some of the poorer players who have not opportunities of hearing them may do so, and be benefited thereby." Anxious in any reasonable way to please their daughter, a girl not much older than Frida, Sir Richard and Lady Stanford agreed to carry out her suggestion; and calling their friend Herr Müller to their assistance, the private concert was arranged for, and our friend the child of the Black Forest invited to play at it. * * * * * The day fixed for the concert had come round, and Adeline Stanford, who was more than usually well, flitted here and there, making preparations for the evening. The concert-room had been beautifully decorated, and the supper-table tastefully arranged. Very pretty did Ada (as she was called) look. Her finely-cut features and graceful appearance all proclaimed her high birth, and the innate purity and unselfishness of her spirit were stamped on her face. Adeline Stanford was a truly Christian girl whose great desire was to make those around her happy. One thing she had often longed for was to have a companion of her own age to live with her and be as a sister to her. Her parents often tried to get such a one, but as yet difficulties had arisen which prevented their doing so. The very morning of the concert, Ada had said, "O mother, how pleasant it would be, when we are travelling about and seeing so many beautiful places, to have some young girl with us who would share our pleasure with us and help to cheer you and father when I have one of my bad days and am fit for nothing." Then she added with a smile, "Not that I would like it only for your sakes, but for my own as well. It would be nice to have a sister companion to share my lessons and duties with me, and bear with my grumbles when I am ill." Adeline's grumbles were so seldom heard that her parents could not help smiling at her words, though they acknowledged that her wish was a natural one; but then, where was the suitable girl to be found? "Ah! here we are at last," said Miss Drechsler, as she and Frida drove up to the door of the villa where the Stanfords lived. "How lovely it all is!" said Frida, who had been in ecstasies ever since she arrived in Baden. Everything was so new to her--not since her father's death had she been in a large town; and her admiration as they drove along the streets between the rows of beautiful trees was manifested by exclamations of delight. Once or twice something in the appearance of the shops struck her as familiar. "Surely," she said, "I have seen these before, but where I cannot tell. Ah! look at that large toy-shop. I know I have been there, and some one who was with me bought me a cart to play with. I think it must have been mamma, for I recollect that the purse she had in her hand was like one that I often got from her to play with. Oh, I am sure I have lived here before with father and mother!" As they neared the villa, the "woodland child" became more silent, and pressed closer to her friend's side. "Ah! here they come," exclaimed Adeline Stanford, as followed by her father and mother she ran downstairs to welcome the strangers. Miss Drechsler they had seen before, but the appearance of the girl from the Black Forest struck them much. They had expected to see a peasant child (for Herr Müller had told them nothing of her history nor spoken of her appearance), and when Frida had removed her hat and stood beside them in the drawing-room, they were astonished to see no country child, but a singularly beautiful, graceful girl, of refined appearance and lady-like manners. Her slight shyness soon vanished through Ada's unaffected pleasant ways, and erelong the two girls were talking to each other with all the frankness of youth, and long ere the hour for the concert came they were fast friends. [Illustration: "Come, Frida," she said, "let us play the last passage together." _See page 61._] Ada was herself a good pianist, and could play fairly well on the violin, and she found that Herr Müller had arranged that she and the girl from the Forest should perform together. "Come, Frida," she said, "let us play the last passage together; we must be sure we have it perfect." "Oh, how well you play!" she said when they had finished. "Has Herr Müller been your only teacher?" "Latterly he has," was the answer; "but when I was quite little I was well taught by my father." "Your father!" said Adeline; "does he play well? He cannot have had many advantages if he has to work in the woods all day." "Work in the woods! why, he never did that." Then she added, "Oh! I see you think Wilhelm Hörstel is my father; but that is not the case. My own dear father is dead, and Wilhelm found me left alone in the Black Forest." "Found in the Black Forest alone!" said Ada. Here was indeed a romance to take the fancy of an imaginative, impulsive girl like Adeline Stanford; and leaving Frida with her story unfinished, she darted off to her parents to tell them what she had heard. They also were much interested in her story, for they had been much astonished at the appearance of the girl from the Forest; and telling Ada that she had better go back to Frida, they turned to Miss Drechsler and asked her to tell them all she knew of the child's history. She did so, mentioning also her brown Bible and the way in which God was using its words amongst the wood-cutters in the Forest. * * * * * The concert was over, but Sir Richard, Lady Stanford, and Miss Drechsler lingered awhile (after the girls had gone to bed), talking over the events of the evening. "How beautifully your young friend played!" said Lady Stanford; "her musical talent is wonderful, but the girl herself is the greatest wonder of all. She cannot be the child of common people, she is so like a lady and so graceful. And, Miss Drechsler, can you tell us how she comes to be possessed of such a lovely mosaic necklace as she wore to-night? Perhaps it belongs to yourself, and you have lent it to her for the occasion." "No, indeed," was the answer; "it is not mine. It evidently belonged to the child's mother, and was on her neck the night she was found in the Forest." "Then," said Sir Richard, "it is just possible it may be the means of leading to the discovery of the girl's parentage, for the pattern is an uncommon one. She is a striking-looking child, and it is strange that her face haunts me with the idea that I have seen it somewhere before; but that is impossible, as the girl tells me she has never been in England, and I can never have met her here." "It is curious," said Miss Drechsler; "but I also have the feeling that I have seen some one whom she greatly resembles when I was in England living in Gloucestershire with the Wardens." "'Tis strange," said Lady Stanford, "that you should see a likeness to some one whom you have seen and yet cannot name, the more so that the face is not a common one." "She is certainly a remarkable child," continued Miss Drechsler, "and a really good one. She has a great love for her Bible, and I think tries to live up to its precepts." That evening Sir Richard and his wife talked together of the possibility of by-and-by taking Frida into their house as companion to Ada, specially whilst they were travelling about; and perhaps afterwards taking her with them to England and continuing her education there, so that if her relations were not found she might when old enough obtain a situation as governess, or in some way turn her musical talents to account. The day after the concert, Frida returned with Miss Drechsler to Dringenstadt, to remain a few days with her before returning to her Forest home. As they were leaving the Stanfords, and Frida had just sprung into the carriage which was to convey them to the station, a young man who had been present at the concert, and was a friend of the Stanfords, came forward and asked leave to shake hands with her, and congratulated her on her violin-playing. He was a good-looking young man of perhaps three-and-twenty years, with the easy manners of a well-born gentleman. After saying farewell, he turned into the house with the Stanfords, and began to talk about the "fair violinist," as he termed her. "Remarkably pretty girl," he said; "reminds me strongly of some one I have seen. Surely she cannot be (as I overheard a young lady say last night) just a wood-cutter's child." "No, she is not that," replied Sir Richard, and then he told the young man something of her history, asking him if he had observed the strange antique necklace which the girl wore. "No," he answered, "I did not. Could you describe it to me?" As Sir Richard did so a close observer must have seen a look of pained surprise cross the young man's face, and he visibly changed colour. "Curious," he said as he rose hastily. "It would be interesting to know how it came into her possession; perhaps it was stolen, who knows?" And so saying, he shook hands and departed. Reginald Gower was the only child of an old English family of fallen fortune. Rumour said he was of extravagant habits, but that he expected some day to inherit a fine property and large fortune from a distant relative. There were good traits in Reginald's character: he had a kind heart, and was a most loving son to his widowed mother, who doted on him; but a love of ease and a selfish regard to his own comfort marred his whole character, and above all things an increasing disregard of God and the Holy Scriptures was pervading more and more his whole life. As he walked away from Sir Richard's house, his thoughts were occupied with the story he had just heard of the child found in the Black Forest. He was quite aware of the fact that the girl's face forcibly reminded him of the picture of a beautiful girl that hung in the drawing-room of a manor-house near his own home in Gloucestershire. He knew that the owner of that face had been disinherited (though the only child of the house) on account of her marriage, which was contrary to the wishes of her parents, and that now they did not know whether she were dead or alive; though surely he had lately heard a report that, after years of bitter indignation at her, they had softened, and were desirous of finding out where she was, if still alive. And then what impressed him most was the curious coincidence (he called it) that round the neck of the girl in the picture was just such another mosaic necklace as the Stanfords had described the one to be which the young violinist wore. Was it possible, he asked himself, that she could be the child of the daughter of the manor of whom his mother had often told him? and if so, ought he to tell them of his suspicions--the more so that he had heard from his mother that the lady of the manor was failing in health, and longing, as she had long done, to see and forgive her child? If he were right in his surmises that this "woodland girl," as he had heard her called, was the daughter of the child of the manor, then even if the mother was dead, the young violinist would be received with open arms by both the grand-parents, and would (and here arose the difficulty in the young man's mind) inherit the estates and wealth which would have devolved on her mother, all of which, but for the existence of this woodland child, he, Reginald Gower, would have inherited as heir-at-law. "Well, there is no call on you to say anything about the matter, at all events at present," whispered the evil spirit in the young man's heart. "You may be mistaken. Why ruin your whole future prospects for a fancy? Likenesses are so deceptive; and as to the necklace, pooh! that is nonsense--there are hundreds of mosaic necklaces. Let the matter alone, and go your way. 'Eat, drink, and be merry.'" All very well; but why just then of all times in the world did the words of the Bible, taught him long ago by the mother he loved, come so vividly to his remembrance--"Do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with thy God;" and those words, heard more distinctly still, which his mother had taught him to call "the royal law of love"--"As ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them"? Good and bad spirits seemed fighting within him for the mastery; but alas, alas! the selfish spirit so common to humanity won the day, and Reginald Gower turned from the low, soft voice of the Holy Spirit pleading within him, and resolutely determined to be silent regarding his meeting with the child found in the Black Forest, and the strange circumstance of her likeness to the picture and her possession of the mosaic necklace. Once again the god of self, who has so many votaries in this world, had gained a great triumph, and the prince of this world got a more sure seat in the heart of the young man. But all unknown to him there was one "climbing for him the silver, shining stair that leads to God's great treasure-house," and claiming for her fatherless boy "the priceless boon of the new heart." Was such a prayer ever offered in vain or unanswered by Him who hath said, "If ye ask anything according to my will, I will do it. Ask, and ye shall receive"? CHAPTER IX. CHRISTMAS IN THE FOREST. "Christmas, happy Christmas, Sweet herald of good-will, With holy songs of glory, Brings holy gladness still." Summer had long passed, autumn tints had faded, and the fallen leaves lay thick in the Forest. For days a strong wind had blown, bending the high trees under its influence, and here and there rooting up the dark pines and laying them low. Through the night of which we are going to write, a heavy fall of snow had covered all around with a thick mantle of pure white. It weighed down the branches of the trees in the Forest, and rested on the piles of wood which lay ready cut to be carted off to be sold for fuel in the neighbouring towns. The roll of wheels, as the heavily-laden wagons passed, was heard no more. The song of the birds had ceased, though the print of their claws was to be seen on the snow. All was quiet. The silence of nature seemed to rest on the hearts of the dwellers in the Forest. In vain Elsie heaped on the wood; still the stove gave out little heat. She busied herself in the little room, but a weight seemed to be on her spirit, and she glanced from time to time uneasily at Frida, who sat listlessly knitting beside the stove. "Art ill, Frida?" she said at last. "All this morning hast thou sat there with that knitting on thy lap, and scarce worked a round at it. And your violin--why, Frida, you have not played on it for weeks, and even Hans notices it; and Wilhelm says to me no longer ago than this morning, 'Why, wife, what ails our woodland child? The spirit has all left her, and she looks white and tired-like.'" Frida, thus addressed, rose quickly from her seat, a blush, perchance of shame, colouring her cheeks. "O Mutter," she said, "I know I am lazy; but it is not because I am ill, only I keep thinking and wondering and--There! I know I'm wrong, only, Elsie dear, Mutter Elsie, I do want to know if any of my own people are alive, and where they live. I have felt like this ever since I was at Baden-Baden; and I have not heard from Adeline Stanford for such a long time, and I suppose, though she was so kind, she has forgotten me; and Miss Drechsler has left Dringenstadt for months; and, O Mutter, forgive me, and believe that I am not ungrateful for all that you and Wilhelm and the kind people in the Dorf have done for me. Only, only--" And the poor girl laid her head on Elsie's shoulder and cried long and bitterly. Elsie was much moved, she did so love the bright, fairy-like girl who had been the means of letting in the light of the gospel to her dark heart. "_Armes Kind_" (poor child), she said, soothing her as tenderly as she would have done her own blind Anna, had she been alive and in trouble, "I understand it all, dear." (And her kind woman heart had taken it all in.) "It is just like the little bird taken from its mother's nest, and put into a strange one, longing to be back amongst its like again, and content nowhere else. But, Frida, dost thou not remember that we read in the little brown book that our Lord hath said, 'Lo, I am with you alway'? Isn't that enough for you? No place can be very desolate, can it, if He be there?" In a moment after Elsie said these words, Frida raised her head and dried her eyes. Had she been forgetting, she asked herself, whose young servant she was? Was it right in a child of God to be discontented with her lot, and to forget the high privilege that God had given her in allowing her to read His Word to the poor people in the Forest? "I must throw off this discontented spirit," she said to herself; and turning to Elsie she told her how sorry she was for the way in which she had acted, adding, "But with God's help I will be better now." Frida was no perfect character, and, truth to tell, ever since her return from Baden-Baden, a sense of the incongruity of her circumstances had crept upon her. The tasteful surroundings, the cultured conversation, the musical evenings, the refinement of all around, had enchanted the young girl, and the humble lot and homely ways of her Forest friends had on her return to them stood out in striking contrast. And, alas! for the time being she refused to see in all these things the guiding hand of God. But after the day we have written of, things went better. The girl strove to conquer her discontent, and in God's strength she overcame, and her friends in the Forest had once more the pleasure of seeing her bright smile and hearing her sweet voice in song. Johann Schmidt had fallen asleep in Jesus with the words of Holy Scripture on his lips, blessing the "wood-cutters' pet," as he called her, for having, through the reading of God's Word, led him to Jesus. But though sickness had left the Forest, the severe cold and deep snow were very trying to the health of all the dwellers in it, and the winter nights were long and dreary. One day in December, Wilhelm Hörstel had business in Dringenstadt, and on his return home he gave Frida two letters which he had found lying at the post-office for her. They proved, to Frida's great delight, to be from her two friends Miss Drechsler and Adeline Stanford. Miss Drechsler's ran thus:-- "DEAR FRIDA,--I have been thinking very specially of you and your friends in the Forest, now that the cold winter days have come, and the snow, I doubt not, is lying thick on the trees and ground. Knowing how interested you are, dear, in all your kind friends there, I have thought how nice it would be for you, if Elsie and Wilhelm consent, to have a Christmas-tree for a few of your friends; and in order to carry this out, I enclose a money order to the amount of £2, and leave it to you and Elsie to spend it to the best of your power. "I am also going to write to Herr Steiger to send, addressed to you, ten pounds of tea, which I trust you to give from me to each of the householders--nine in number, I think--in the little Dorf, retaining one for your friends the Hörstels. Will you, dear Frida, be my almoner and do my business for me? I often think of and pray for you, and I know you do not forget me. I fear I will not be able to return to Dringenstadt till the month of May, as my sister is still very ill, and I feel I am of use to her.--Your affectionate friend. M. DRECHSLER." "Oh, isn't it good? isn't it charming?" said Frida, jumping about the room in her glee. "Mayn't we have the tree, Mutter? And will you not some day soon come with me to Dringenstadt and choose the things for it? Oh, I wish Hans were here, that I might tell him all about it! See, I have not yet opened Adeline's letter; it is so long since I heard from her. I wonder where they are living now. Oh, the letter is from Rome." Then in silence she read on. Elsie, who was watching her, saw that as she read on her cheeks coloured and her eyes sparkled with some joyful emotion. She rose suddenly, and going up to Elsie she said, "O Mutter, _was denken Sie?_ [what do you think?]. Sir Richard and Lady Stanford enclose a few lines saying they would like so much that I should, with your consent, spend some months with them at Cannes in the Riviera, as a companion to Adeline; and if you and Miss Drechsler agree to the plan, that I would accompany friends of theirs from Baden-Baden who propose to go to Cannes about the middle of January. And, Mutter," continued the girl, "they say all my expenses will be paid, and that I shall have Adeline's masters for music and languages, and be treated as if I were their daughter." Elsie looked up with tears in her eyes. "Well, Frida dear," she said, "it does seem a good thing for you, and right glad I am about it for your sake; but, oh, we will miss you sorely. But there! the dear Lord has told us in the book not to think only of ourselves, and I am sure that He is directing your way. Of course I'll speak to Wilhelm about it, for he has so much sense; but I don't believe he'll stand in your way." Frida, overcome with excitement, and almost bewildered with the prospect before her, had yet a heart full of sorrow at the thought of leaving the friends who had helped her in her time of need; and in broken words she told Elsie so, clinging to her as she spoke. Matters were soon arranged. Elsie and Wilhelm heartily agreed that Frida should accept Sir Richard and Lady Stanford's invitation. They only waited till an answer could be got from Miss Drechsler regarding the plan. And when that came, full of thankfulness for God's kindness in thus guiding her path, a letter of acceptance was at once dispatched to Cannes, and the child of the Forest only remained with her friends till the new year was a fortnight old. In the meantime, whilst snow lay thick around, Christmas-eve came on, and Frida and Elsie were busy preparing the tree. Of the true Christmas joy many in the Forest knew nothing, but in some hearts a glimmer at least of its true meaning was dawning, and a few of the wood-cutters loved to gather together and hear Frida read the story of the angelic hosts on the plain of Bethlehem singing of peace and good-will to men, because that night a Babe, who was Christ the Lord, was born in a manger. How much they understood of the full significance of the story we know not, but we _do_ know God's word never returns to Him void. The tree was ready at last. Elsie, Frida, and Hans had worked busily at it for days, Miss Drechsler's money had gone a long way, and now those who had prepared it thought there never had been such a beautiful tree. True, every child in the Forest had had on former occasions a tree of their own at Christmas time--none so poor but some small twig was lit up, though the lights might be few; but this one, ah, that was a different matter--no such tree as this had ever been seen in the Forest before. "Look, Hans," said Frida; "is not that doll like a little queen? And only see that little wooden cart and horse; won't that delight some of the children in the Dorf?--And, Mutter, we must hang up that warm hood for Frau Schenk, poor woman; and now here are the warm cuffs for the men, and a lovely pair for Wilhelm.--And, O Hans, we will not tell you what _you_ are to have; nor you either, Mutter. No, no, you will never guess. I bought them myself." And so, amid chattering and laughing, the tree got on and was finished; and all I am going to say about it is that for long years afterwards that particular Christmas-tree was remembered and spoken of, and in far other scenes--in crowded drawing-rooms filled with gaily-dressed children and grown-up people--Frida's eyes would fill as she thought of the joy that Christmas-tree had given to the dwellers in the Forest, both young and old. Ere that memorable night ended, Frida and Hans, who had prepared a surprise for every one, brought out their violins, and sang together in German a Christmas carol; and as the assembled party went quietly home through the snow-carpeted Forest, a holy influence seemed around them, as if the song of the angels echoed through the air, "Peace on earth, and goodwill to men." CHAPTER X. HARCOURT MANOR. "Shall not long-suffering in thee be wrought To mirror back His own? His _gentleness_ shall mellow every thought And look and tone." Three years and a half have passed since the Christmas-eve we have written of, and the golden light of a summer day was falling on the earth and touching the flowers in a lovely garden belonging to the old manor-house of Harcourt, in the county of Gloucester in England. In the lawn-tennis court, which was near the garden, preparations were making for a game. Young men in flannels and girls in light dresses were passing to and fro arranging the racquets and tightening the nets, some gathering the balls together and trying them ere the other players should arrive. It was a pleasant scene. Birds twittered out and in the ivy and rose covered walls of the old English manor-house, and the blithe laughter of the young people blended with the melodious singing of the choristers around. The company was assembling quickly, kind words were passing amongst friends, when there appeared on the scene an elderly lady of great elegance and beauty, to whom all turned with respectful greeting, and a hush came over all. Not that there was anything stern or severe in the lady's appearance to cause the hush, for a look of calmness and great sweetness was in her countenance, but through it there was also an appearance of sadness that touched every heart, and although it would not silence any true young joy, had certainly the effect of quieting anything boisterous or rude. The "gentle lady" of Harcourt Manor was the name Mrs. Willoughby had gone by for some years. It was pretty well known that a deep sorrow had fallen upon her whilst still in the prime of life; and those there were who said they could recall a time when, instead of that look of calm peace and chastened sorrow, there were visible on her face only haughty pride and fiery temper. It was hard to believe that that had ever been the case; but if so, it was but one of many instances in which God's declaration proved true, that though "no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous, nevertheless _afterward_ it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness." Mr. Willoughby, a man older by some years than his wife, was a man who had long been more feared than beloved; and the heavy trial, which had affected him no less than his wife, had apparently hardened instead of softening his whole nature, though a severe illness had greatly mitigated, it was thought, some of his sternness. The party of which we are writing was given in honour of the return from abroad of the heir of the manor, a distant relation of the Willoughbys, Mr. Reginald Gower, whom we have written of before. For five years he had been living abroad, and had returned only a month ago to the house of his widowed mother, the Hon. Mrs. Gower of Lilyfield, a small though pretty property adjoining Harcourt Manor. Just as Mrs. Willoughby entered the grounds, Reginald and his mother did so also, although by a different way, and a few minutes passed ere they met. The young man walked eagerly up to the hostess, a smile of real pleasure lighting up his handsome face at the sight of the lady he really loved, and who had from his boyish days been a kind friend to him. But as he greeted her, the look of sadness on her countenance struck him, and some secret thought sent a pang through him, and for the moment blanched his cheek. Was it possible, he asked himself, that he had it in his power, by the utterance of a few words, to dispel that look of deep sadness from the face of one of the dearest friends, next to his mother, whom he possessed? "Very glad to see you back again, Reginald," said Mrs. Willoughby. "But surely the southern skies have blanched rather than bronzed your cheeks. You were not wont to be so pale, Reggie. Ay, there you are more like your old self" (as a flush of colour spread over his face once more). "We hope you have come to stay awhile in your own country, for your dear mother has been worrying about your long absence.--Is it not so, Laura?" she said, addressing herself to Mrs. Gower, who now stood beside them. "Yes, indeed," was the reply; "I am thankful to have my boy home again. Lilyfield is a dull place without him." "Yes," said Mrs. Willoughby; "it is a dreary home that has no child in it." And as she spoke she turned her face away, that no one might see that her eyes were full of tears. But Reginald had caught sight of them, and turned away suddenly, saying, "Farewell for the present;" and raising his cap to the two ladies, he went off to join the players in the tennis-court, to all outward appearance one of the brightest and most light-hearted there. But he played badly that day, and exclamations from his friends were heard from time to time such as, "Why, Reginald, have you forgotten how to play tennis?" "Oh, look out, Gower; you are spoiling the game! It was a shame to miss that ball." Thus admonished, Reginald drew himself together, collected his thoughts, concentrated his attention on the game, and played well. But no sooner was the game over than once again there rose before his eyes the face and figure of the beautiful foundling of the Black Forest, with her strange story and her extraordinary likeness not only to the picture of the young girl in the drawing-room of the manor, but also to his gentle friend Mrs. Willoughby. Oh, if only he had never met the young violinist; if he could blot out the remembrance of her and be once more the light-hearted man he had been ere he heard her story from Sir Richard Stanford! He had been so sure of his sense of honour, his pure morality, his good principles, his high-toned soul ("True," he said to himself, "I never set up to be one of your righteous-overmuch sort of people, nor a saint like my noble mother and my friend Mrs. Willoughby") that he staggered as he thought of what he was now by the part he was acting. Dishonest, cruel, unjust--he, Reginald Gower; was it possible? Ah! his self-righteousness, his boasted uprightness, had both been put to the test and found wanting. "Well, Reggie, had you a pleasant time at the manor to-day?" said his mother to him as they sat together at their late dinner. "Oh, it was well enough," was the reply; but it was not spoken in his usual hearty tone, and his mother observed it, and also the unsatisfied look which crossed his face, and she wondered what had vexed him. A silence succeeded, broken at last by Reginald. "Mother," he said, "what is it that has deepened that look of sadness in Mrs. Willoughby's face since I last saw her? And tell me, is the story about their daughter being disinherited true? And is it certain that she is dead, and that no child (for I think it is said she married) survives her? If that were the case, and the child should turn up and be received, it would be awkward for me and my prospects, mother." "Reginald," Mrs. Gower replied, for she had heard his words with astonishment, "if I thought that there was the least chance that either Mrs. Willoughby's daughter or any child of hers were alive, I would rejoice with all my heart, and do all I could to bring about a reconciliation, even though it were to leave you, my loved son, a penniless beggar. And so I am sure would you." A flush of crimson rose to Reginald's brow at these words. Then his mother believed him to be all that he had thought himself, and little suspected what he really was. But then, supposing he divulged his secret, what about debts which he had contracted, and extravagant habits which he had formed? No! he would begin and save, retrench his expenses, and if possible get these debts paid off; and then he might see his way to speak of the girl in the Black Forest, if she was still to be found. So once more Reginald Gower silenced the voice of conscience with, "At a more convenient time," and abruptly changing the subject, began to speak of his foreign experiences, of the beauty of Italian skies, art, and scenery; and the conversation about Mrs. Willoughby's daughter passed from his mother's mind, and she became absorbed in her son's descriptions of the places he had visited. And as she looked at his handsome animated face, was it any wonder that with a mother's partiality she thought how favoured she was in the possession of such a child? Only--and here she sighed--ah, if only she were sure that this cherished son were a true follower of the Lord Jesus Christ, and that the Word of God, so precious to her own soul, were indeed a light to his feet and a lamp to his path! That evening another couple were seated also at their dinner-table, and a different conversation was being held. The master of Harcourt Manor sat at the foot of the table, opposite his gentle wife; but a troubled look was on his face, brought there very much by the thought that he noticed an extra shade both of weariness and sadness on the face of his wife. What could he do to dissipate it? he was asking himself. Anything, except speak the word which he was well aware would have the desired effect, and, were she still alive, restore to her mother's arms the child for whom she pined; but not yet was the strong self-will so broken down that those words could be spoken by him, not yet had he so felt the need of forgiveness for his own soul that he could forgive as he hoped to be forgiven. Did not his duty as a parent, and his duty towards other parents of his own rank in life, call upon him to make a strong stand, and visit with his righteous indignation such a sin as that of his only child and heiress marrying a man, however good, upright, and highly educated he might be, who yet was beneath her in station (although he denied that fact), and unable to keep her in the comfort and luxury to which she had been accustomed? "No, no, _noblesse oblige_;" and rather than forgive such a sin, he would blight his own life and break the heart of the wife he adored. Such was the state of mind in which the master of Harcourt Manor had remained since the sad night when his only child had gone off to be married at a neighbouring church to the young musician Heinz. But some months before Reginald Gower's return from abroad, during a severe illness which had brought him to the borderland, Mr. Willoughby was aroused to a dawning sense of his own sinfulness and need of pardon, which had, almost unconsciously to himself, a softening effect on his mind. His wife was the first to break the silence at the dinner-table. "Has not Reginald Gower grown more manly and older-looking since we saw him last?" she said, addressing her husband. A shade came over his face as he answered somewhat testily, "Oh, I think he looks well enough! Of course five years must have made him look older. But Reginald never was the favourite with me that he is with you, wife; a self-indulgent lad he always seems to me to be." "Well, but surely, husband" (once she always called him father, but that was years ago now), "he is a good son, and kind to his mother." "Well, well, I am glad to hear it. But surely we have some more interesting subject to discuss than Reginald Gower." Mrs. Willoughby sighed. Well she knew that many a time she had a conflict in her own heart to think well of the lad who was to succeed to the beautiful estates that by right belonged to their own child. Dinner over, she sought the quiet of her own boudoir, a room specially endeared to her by the many sweet memories of the hours that she and her loved daughter had spent together there. The day had been a trying one to Mrs. Willoughby. Not often nowadays had they parties at Harcourt Manor, and she was tired in mind and body, and glad to be a few minutes alone with her God. She sat for a few minutes lost in thought; then rising she opened a drawer, and took from it the case which contained the miniature of a beautiful girl, on which she gazed long and lovingly. The likeness was that of the daughter she had loved so dearly, and of whose very existence she was now in doubt. Oh to see or hear of her once more! Poor mother, how her heart yearned for her loved one! Only one could comfort her, and that was the God she had learned to love. She put down the picture and opened a little brown book, the very _fac-simile_ of the one which little Frida possessed, and which God had used and blessed in the Black Forest. Turning to the Hundred and third Psalm, she read the words, well underlined, "Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him." Then turning to the Gospel of Matthew, she read Christ's own blessed word of invitation and promise, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and _I_ will give you rest." Ah, how many weary, burdened souls have these words helped since they were spoken and then under the inspiration of the Holy Ghost written for the comfort of weary ones in all ages! Ere she closed the book, Mrs. Willoughby read the fourth verse of the Thirty-seventh Psalm: "Delight thyself in the Lord, and he shall give thee the desire of thine heart." Then kneeling down she poured out, as she so often did, the sorrows of her heart to her heavenly Father, and rose quieted in spirit. Ere she put away the little brown book she looked at it thoughtfully, recalling the day, not long before her daughter had left her, when they had together bought two Bibles exactly alike as regarded binding, but the one was in German, the other in English. The German Bible she had given to her daughter, who presented the English one to her mother. On the fly-leaf of the one she held in her hand were written the words, "To my much-loved mother, from Hilda." Ah, where was that daughter now? And if she still possessed the little brown German Bible, had she learned to love and prize its words as her mother had done her English Bible? Then carefully locking up her treasured book and portraits, she went downstairs, to wait in solitary grandeur for her husband's coming into the drawing-room. CHAPTER XI. IN THE RIVIERA. "My God, I thank Thee who hast made The earth so bright, So full of splendour and of joy, Beauty, and light; So many glorious things are here, Noble and right." More than four years had elapsed since Frida had left her home in the Black Forest. April sunshine was lighting up the grey olive woods and glistening on the dark-green glossy leaves of the orange-trees at Cannes, and playing on the deep-blue waters of the Mediterranean there. Some of these beams fell also round the heads of two young girls as they sat under the shade of a palm tree in a lovely garden there belonging to the Villa des Rosiers, where they were living. A lovely scene was before their eyes. In front of them, like gems in the deep-blue sea, were the isles of St. Marguerite and St. Honorat, and to the west were the beautiful Estrelle Mountains. Around them bloomed masses of lovely roses, and the little yellow and white noisettes climbed up the various tall trees in the garden, and flung their wealth of flowers in festoons down to the ground. The two girls gazed in silence for some minutes at the lovely scene. Then the youngest of the two, a dark-eyed, golden-haired girl, said, addressing her companion, "Is it not lovely, Adeline? The whole of nature seems to be rejoicing." "Yes, indeed," answered her companion. "And I am sure I owe much to the glorious sunshine, for, by God's blessing, it has been the means of restoring my health. I am quite well now, and the doctor says I may safely winter in England next season. Won't it be delightful, Frida, to be back in dear old England once more?" "Ah! you forget, Adeline, that I do not know the land of your birth, though I quite believe it was my mother's birthplace as well, and perhaps my own also. I do often long to see it, and fancy if I were once there I might meet with some of my own people. But then again, how could I, on a mere chance, make up my mind to leave my kind friends in the Forest entirely? It is long since I have heard of them. Do you know that I left my little Bible with them? I had taught Elsie and Hans to read it, and they promised to go on reading it aloud as I used to do to the wood-cutters on Sunday evenings. It is wonderful how God's Word has been blessed to souls in the Forest. And, Adeline, have I told you how kind your friend Herr Müller has been about Hans? He got him to go twice a week to Dringenstadt, and has been teaching him to play on the violin. He says he has real talent, and if only he had the means to obtain a good musical education, would become a really celebrated performer." "Yes, Frida," replied her friend; "I know more about all that than you do. Herr Müller has been most kind, and taken much trouble with Hans; but it is my own dear, kind father who pays him for so doing, and tells no one, for he says we should 'not let our left hand know what our right hand doeth.'" A silence succeeded, broken only by the noise of the small waves of the tideless Mediterranean at their feet. Then Frida spoke, a look of firm resolution on her face. "Adeline," she said, "your father and mother are the kindest of people, and God will reward them. This morning they told me that they mean to leave this place in a couple of weeks, and return by slow stages to England; and they asked me to accompany you there, and remain with you as your friend and companion as long as I liked. Oh, it was a kind offer, kindly put; but, Adeline, I have refused it." "Refused it, Frida! what do you mean?" said her friend, starting up. "You don't mean to say you are not coming home with us! Are you going back to live with those people in the little hut in the Forest, after all your education and your love of refined surroundings? Frida, it is not possible; it would be black ingratitude!" "O Adeline, hush! do not pain me by such words. Listen to me, dear, for one moment, and do not make it more difficult for me to do the right thing. Your parents have given their consent to my plan, and even said they think it is the right plan for me." "Well, let me hear," said Adeline, in a displeased tone, "what it is you propose to do. Is it your intention really to go back to the Forest and live there?" "Not exactly that, Adeline. I have thought it all over some time ago, and only waited till your parents spoke to me of going to England to tell them what I thought was my duty to do. And this is what has been settled. If you still wish it, as your parents do, I shall remain here till you leave, and accompany you back to Baden-Baden, where your parents tell me they intend going for a week or so. From there I propose returning to my friends in the Forest, not to live there any more, but for a few days' visit to see them who are so dear to me. After that I shall live with Miss Drechsler. Her sister is dead, and has left her a good deal of money, and she is now going to settle in Dringenstadt, and have a paid companion to reside with her. And, Adeline, that situation she has offered to me." "Well, Frida," interrupted her friend, "did not I wish you to be my companion? and would not my parents have given you any sum you required?" "O Adeline dear, hush, I pray of you, and let me finish my story. You _know_ that it is not a question of money; but you are so well, dear, that you do not really _need_ me. You have your parents and friends. Miss Drechsler is alone, and I can never forget all she has done for me. Then I am young, and cannot consent to remain in dependence even on such dear friends as you are. I intend giving lessons in violin-playing at Dringenstadt and its neighbourhood. Miss Drechsler writes she can secure me two or three pupils at once, and she is sure I will soon get more, as the new villas near Dringenstadt are now finished, and have been taken by families. And then, Adeline, living there I shall be near enough to the Forest to carry on the work which I believe God has called me to, in reading to these poor people the words of life. And at Miss Drechsler's I mean to live, as long as she requires me, _unless_ I am claimed by any of my own relations, which, as you know, is a most unlikely event. I believe I am right in the decision I have come to. So once again I pray of you, dear Adeline, not to dissuade me from my purpose. You know how much I love you all, and how grateful I am to you. Only think how ignorant I would have been had not your dear parents taken me and got me educated, as if I had been their own child. Oh, I can never, never forget all that you have done for me!" Adeline's warm heart was touched, and her good sense convinced her, in spite of her dislike to the plan, that her friend was right. "Well, Frida," she said, after a minute or two's silence, "if you feel it really to be your duty, I can say no more. Only you must promise me that you will come sometimes, say in the summer time, and visit us." Frida smiled. "That would be charming, Adeline; but we will not speak of that at present. Only say you really think I am right in the matter. I have not forgotten to ask God's guidance, and you know it is written in the Word of God which we both love so well, 'In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.' But come; we must go now and get ready, for we are to go to-day to the Cap d'Antibes." And in the delights of that lovely drive, and in strolling amongst the rocks honeycombed till they look almost like lacework, the two friends forgot the evils of the impending separation. In the meantime Frida was warmly remembered by her friends in the Forest, and their joy when they heard that she was once more coming to live near them was unbounded. "Ah," said Elsie, as she bent her head over a sweet little year-old girl whom she held on her lap, "now I shall be able to show her my little Gretchen, and she will, I know, sing to her some of the sweet hymns she used to sing to my little Annchen, and she will read to us again, Wilhelm, out of the little brown book which I have taken great care of for her." "Ay," put in Hans, "and Mütterchen, she will bring her violin, and she and I will play together some of the music you and father love; and she will, I know, be glad to hear that through Sir Richard Stanford and Herr Müller I am to become a pupil in the Conservatorium of Leipsic. I can hardly believe it is true." "Ay, my son, thou art a lucky one, and ye owe it all to Frida herself. Was it not she who told Sir Richard about your love of music, and got Herr Müller to promise to hear you play? Ah! under the good God we owe much to the 'woodland child.'" And so it fell out that after a few more happy weeks spent at Cannes and Grasse, Frida found herself once more an inmate of Miss Drechsler's pretty little house at Dringenstadt, and able every now and then to visit and help her friends in the Forest. "Ah, Mütterchen," she said as she threw herself into Elsie's arms, "here I am again your foundling child, come to live near you, and so glad to see you all once more.--And Hans, why, Hans, you look a man now; and oh, I am so pleased you are to go to Leipsic! You must bring down your violin now and then to Miss Drechsler's, and let us play together. I am sure you will be a great musician some day, Hans." The young man (for such he now was) looked much gratified at his friend's hopeful words, and said, "If I do turn that, I shall owe it all to you, Frida." But the girl interrupted his speech by saying, "Now, Mutter, let me see little Gretchen;" and next minute she was stooping over the bed where lay the sleeping child--the very bed whence the spirit of the blind child whom she had loved so dearly had taken its flight to the heavenly land. "What a darling she looks, Elsie! Oh, I am glad God has sent you this little treasure! She will cheer you when Hans has gone away and her father is all day in the Forest." "Yes," said Elsie, "she is indeed a gift from God; and you, Frida, must teach her, as you taught her parents and Anna, the 'way of life.' And O Frida, thou must go down to the Dorf, for all the people there are so eager to see thee once more. And now that thou hast grown a young lady, they all wonder if thou still beest like the woodland child, and wilt care about the like of them, or if perchance thou hast forgotten them." "Forgotten them! O Elsie, how could they think so? Could I ever forget how they and you gave of their little pittance to maintain the child found in the Black Forest, and how you all lavished kindness on her who had neither father nor mother to care for her? I must go at once and ask them what I have done that they should have thought so badly of me even for a minute. Don't you know, Mutter, that I have given up the going to England to live with Miss Drechsler at Dringenstadt, in order that I may often see my dear friends in the Forest; and that shall be my life-work, unless"--and here the girl looked sad--"any of my own friends find me out and claim me." "Hast had any clue to them, Frida?" asked Elsie. "Alas, no!" said the girl, "none whatever; and yet I have seen a great number of people during these few years. And I have always worn my necklace, which, being such a peculiar one, might have attracted attention and led to the discovery of my parentage; but except one Englishman, whom I met at the Stanfords', who said I reminded him of some one whom he had seen, there has been nothing to lead me to suppose that any one thought of me except as a friend of the Stanfords. But, Elsie, though I am not discontented, still at times there is the old yearning for my own people. But God knows best, and I am not going to waste my life in useless longings. I have got five pupils in Dringenstadt already, and several more applications, and next week I begin my life-work as a teacher of the violin.--Don't you envy me, Hans?" "That is what I do, Fräulein Frida," said Hans. Somehow as he looked at the fair young lady the old familiar name of Frida seemed too familiar to use. Frida turned quickly round on him as he uttered the word "Fräulein." "Why, Hans--for I will not call thee Herr--to whom did you speak? There is no Fräulein here--just your old sister playmate Frida; never let me hear you address me again by such a title. Art thou not my brother Hans, the son of my dear friends Elsie and Wilhelm?" and a merry laugh scattered Hans's new-born shyness. And to the end of their lives Frida and Hans remained as brother and sister, each rejoicing in the success of the other in life; and in after years they had many a laugh over the day that Hans began to think that he must call his sister friend, the companion of his childhood, his instructor in much that was good, by the stiff title of Fräulein Frida. Ere Frida left the hut that day, they all knelt together and thanked God for past mercies, and it was Elsie's voice that in faltering accents prayed that Frida might still be used in the Forest to lead many to the knowledge of Christ Jesus through the reading of the Word of God. CHAPTER XII. IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS. "There are lonely hearts to cherish While the days are going by, There are weary souls who perish While the days are going by. If a smile we can renew, As our journey we pursue, Oh, the good we all may do While the days are passing by!" The London season was at its height, but though the pure sunshine was glistening on mountain-top and green meadow, and beginning to tinge the corn-fields with a golden tint in country places, where peace and quietness seemed to reign, and leafy greenery called on every one who loved nature to come and enjoy it in its summer flush of beauty, yet the great city was still filled not only by those who could not leave its crowded streets, but by hundreds who lingered there in the mere pursuit of pleasure, for whom the beauties of nature had no charm. On one peculiarly fine day a group of people were gathered together in the drawing-room of a splendid mansion in one of the West End crescents. There was evidently going to be a riding party, for horses held by grooms stood at the door, and two at least of the ladies in the drawing-room wore riding habits. In conversation with one of these--a pretty fair-haired girl of some twenty years--stood Reginald Gower. "Will your sister ride to-day, do you know?" he was asking, in somewhat anxious tones. "Gertie? No, I think not; she has a particular engagement this morning. I don't exactly know what it is, but she will not be one of the party. So, Mr. Gower, you and Arthur Barton will have to put up with only the company of myself and Cousin Mary." Ere the young man could reply, the door opened, and a girl dressed in a dark summer serge and light straw hat entered. She carried a small leather bag in her hand, and was greeted with exclamations of dismay from more than one of the party. "Are you going slumming to-day, Gertie? What a shame! And the sun so bright, and yet a cool air--just the most delightful sort of day for a ride; and we are going to call on your favourite aunt Mary." "Give her my love then," replied Gertie, "and tell her I hope to ride over one of those days and see her. No, I cannot possibly go with you to-day, as I have an engagement elsewhere." "An engagement in the slums! Who ever heard of such a thing?" said her sister and cousin together. "I am sorry to disappoint you, Lily dear, and my cousin also; but I had promised two or three poor people to see them to-day before I knew anything of this riding party, and I am sure I am right not to disappoint them.--And, Mr. Gower, I know your mother at least would not think I was wrong." "That is true, Miss Warden. My mother thinks far more about giving pleasure to the poor than she does about the wishes of the rich. But could you not defer this slumming business till to-morrow, and give us the pleasure of your company to-day?" But she shook her head, and assuring them they would get on very well without her, she turned to leave the room, saying as she did so, "O Lily, do find out if it is true that Aunt Mary's old governess, Miss Drechsler, of whom we have all heard so much, is coming to visit her soon, and is bringing with her the young violinist who lives with her, and who people say was a child found in the Black Forest. I do so want to know all about her. We must try and get her to come here some evening, and ask Dr. Heinz, who plays so well upon the violin, to meet her; and you also, Mr. Gower, for I know you dearly love music." Had Lily not turned quickly away just then, she would have noticed the uneasy, startled look which crossed Reginald Gower's face at her words. Was this woodland child, he asked himself, to be always crossing his path? He had hoped he had heard the last of her long ago, and some years had elapsed since he had seen her. The circumstance of the likeness to the picture in Harcourt Manor, and the coincidence of the necklace, had _almost_ (but as he had not yet quite killed his conscience), not _altogether_, escaped his memory; and still, as at times he marked the increasing sadness on Mrs. Willoughby's countenance, he felt a sharp pang of remorse; and since he had known and begun to care for Gertie Warden, her devoted Christian life and clear, truthful spirit were making him more conscious than ever of his own selfishness and sin. True, he had no reason to suppose that she cared for him in any way except as the son of his mother, whom she dearly loved, but his vanity whispered that perhaps in time she might do so; and if that came to pass, and he found that his love was returned, _then_ he would tell her all, and consult with her as to what course he should follow. Lately, however, he had become uneasy at the many references which Lily Warden made to a Dr. Heinz, who seemed to be often about the house, and of whom both sisters spoke in high terms as a Christian man and pleasant friend. What if he should gain the affection of Gertie? Heinz! something in the name haunted him. Surely he had heard it before, and in connection with the young violinist. And now was it possible that that beautiful girl was really coming amongst them, and that his own mother might meet her any day? for she was often at the house, not only of the Wardens, but also of their aunt Mary, with whom the girl was coming to stay. No wonder that during the ride Lily Warden thought Mr. Gower strangely preoccupied and silent. She attributed it all to his disappointment at her sister's absence, and felt vexed that such should be the case, as well she knew that in the way he wished Gertie would never think of Reginald Gower; but she felt sorry for him, and tried to cheer him up. Through that long ride, with summer sunshine and summer beauties around him, Reginald saw only one face, and it was not that of Gertie Warden, but that of the young girl whom he had heard play on the violin at the house of the Stanfords at Baden-Baden. Oh, if he had only had courage then to write home and tell all that he had heard about her! And in vivid colours there rose before his mind all the disgrace that would attach to him when it became known that he knew of the girl's existence and kept silence. The reason of his so doing would be evident to many. And what, oh, what, he was asking himself, would his loved, high-souled mother think of her son? Surely the words of the Bible he heeded so little were true, "The way of transgressors is hard," and his sin was finding him out. As soon as the first greetings were over, and the party were seated at the lunch-table in Miss Warden's pretty cottage situated on the banks of the Thames, Lily said, "O Aunt Mary, is it true what Gertie has heard--that Miss Drechsler and a beautiful young violinist with a romantic story are coming to visit you? Gertie is so anxious to know all about her, for neither she nor any of us can believe that she can excel Dr. Heinz in violin-playing; and, indeed, you know how beautifully Gertie herself plays, and she often does so now with Dr. Heinz himself." "Yes, Lily dear, I am glad to say it is all true. I expect both Miss Drechsler and her young _protégé_ next week to visit me for a short time, after which they propose to go to the Stanfords at Stanford Hall, who take a great interest in the young violinist--in fact, I believe she lived for three or four years with them, and was educated along with their own daughter.--By the way, Mr. Gower, you must tell your mother that her old friend Miss Drechsler is coming to me, and I hope she will spend a day with me when she is here." "I am sure she will be delighted to do so, Miss Warden," replied the young man; but even as he spoke his cheek blanched as he thought of all that might come of his mother meeting the young violinist. Reginald rode back with his friends to their house, but could not be induced to enter again, not even to hear how Gertie had got on with her slumming. "Not to-day," he said; "I find I must go home. I don't doubt your sister has been well employed--more usefully than we mere pleasure-seekers have been," he added, in such a grave tone that Lily turned her head to look at him, as she stood on the door-steps, and inquire if he were quite well. "Quite so, thanks," he replied, in his usual gay tone; "only sometimes one does think there is a resemblance between the lives the butterflies live and ours. Confess it now," he said laughingly; but Lily was in no thoughtful mood just then, so her only reply was,-- "Speak for yourself, Mr. Gower. I have plenty of useful things to do, just as much so as making a guy of myself and going a-slumming, only I am often too lazy to do them," and with a friendly nod she followed her cousin into the house. Reginald rode slowly homeward, and, contrary to his usual custom, went to his own room to try to collect his thoughts and make out in what form he would deliver Miss Warden's message to his mother. It was very evident to him that the meshes into which his own sins had brought him were tightening around him. Turn which way he liked, there was no escape. At least only one that he could see, and that was, that if the secret came out, and the young violinist of the Black Forest were proved to be the grandchild of the Willoughbys, he should keep silence as to his ever having known anything of the matter. The more he thought of it, the more that seemed his wisest course; and even if it should come out that he had heard her play, that would tell nothing. Yet his conscience was ill at ease. Suppose he did so, what of his own self-respect? Could he ever regain it? Fortune would be lost, and all ease of mind gone for ever. Then again, if he told his story now, it would only be because he knew that in any case it would be disclosed, and shame would await him. How could he ever bear the reproaches of his kind friends the Willoughbys, and more than all, the deep grief such a disclosure would cause to his loved mother? In that hour Reginald Gower went through a conflict of mind which left a mark on his character for life. But, alas! once more evil won the day, and he resolved that not _yet_ would he tell all he knew; but some day _soon_ he might. But once again, as he rose to go downstairs, Bible words came into his mind: "_To-day_, while it is called to-day, harden not your hearts." O happy mother, to have so carefully stored the young heart with the precious words of God! Long they may be as the seed under ground, apparently forgotten and useless, yet surely one day they will spring up and bear fruit. True even in this application are the words of the poet,-- "The vase in which roses have once been distilled You may break, you may shiver the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will cling to it still." Well may we thank God for all mothers who carefully teach the words of Holy Scripture to their children. That day Reginald delivered Miss Warden's message to his mother, but did not mention the young girl who was to accompany her. "Oh, I will be delighted to see Miss Drechsler again," said his mother. "I liked her so much when she was governess at the Wardens'. We all did; indeed, she was more companion than governess, and indeed was younger than I was, and just about Mary Warden's own age. I remember well going one day with Mrs. Willoughby's daughter, Hilda, to a musical party at the Wardens', and how charmed Miss Drechsler was at the way Hilda played the violin, which was not such a common thing then as it is now." "The violin?" queried Reginald. "Did Miss Willoughby play on the violin?" "Oh yes! she was very musical, and that was one of the great attractions to her in the man she married. He, too, was a wonderful violinist--Herr Heinz they called him. He was, I believe, a much-respected man and of good family connections, but poor, and even taught music to gain a livelihood." "Heinz!" Reginald was repeating to himself. Then he had heard that name before first in connection with the child of the Black Forest; but he only said, "It is curious that I have lately heard that name from the young Wardens, who speak a great deal of a Dr. Heinz. He also is a good violinist. Can he be any relation, do you think, of the one you allude to?" "Possibly he may; but the name is not at all an uncommon German one. By the way, I heard a report (probably a false one) that Gertie Warden is engaged to be married to a Dr. Heinz--a very good man, they say. Have you heard anything of it?" "I never heard she was engaged, nor do I think it is likely; but I have heard both her and her sister speak of this Dr. Heinz, and I know it is only a Christian man that Gertie would marry." Having said so much, he quickly changed the subject and talked of something else. The mother's eye, however, was quick to notice the shade on his brow as he spoke, and she was confirmed in the opinion she had formed for some time that the very idea of Gertie Warden's engagement was a pain to him. As he rose to go out he turned to say, "Remember, mother, that I have given you Miss Warden's message." CHAPTER XIII. IN THE SLUMS. "In dens of guilt the baby played, Where sin and sin _alone_ was made The law which all around obeyed." The summer sunshine, of which we have written as glistening among the "leafy tide of greenery," and on the ripening corn-fields and gaily-painted flowers in the country, was penetrating also the close streets of one of the poorest parts of London, cheering some of the hearts of the weary toiling ones there, into whose lives little sunshine ever fell, and for a while, it may be, helping them to forget the misery of their lot, or to some recalling happier days when they dwelt not in a narrow, crowded street, but in a country village home, amidst grassy meadows and leafy trees, feeling, as they thought of these things, though they could not have put the feeling into words, what a poet gone to his rest says so beautifully,-- "That sorrow's crown of sorrow Is remembering happier things." But the very light that cheered revealed more clearly the misery, dirt, and poverty around. In one such street, where little pale-faced children, without the merriment and laughter of childhood, played in a languid, unchildlike way, sickness prevailed; for fever had broken out, and indoors suffering ones tossed on beds, if they could be so called, of sickness. At the door of a small room in one of the houses stood a girl of some ten or eleven years old, looking out anxiously as if in expectation of some one, turning every now and then to address a word to her mother, who lay in the small room on a bed in the corner. "He baint a-comin' yet," she said, "'cos I knows his step; but he'll be 'long soon--ye see if he don't! I knows as how he will, 'cos he's that kind; so don't ye fret, mother--the doctor 'ill be here in no time. There now! Susan Keats giv' me some tea for ye, and I'll get the water from her and bring you some prime and 'ot--ye see if I don't!" So saying, the child ran off and went into a room next door, and entering begged for some "'ot water." "Ye see," she said, addressing a woman poorly clad like herself, "she be a-frettin', mother is, for the doctor, for she's badly, is mother, to-day, and she thinks mayhap he'll do her good." When the child returned to her mother's room, she found Dr. Heinz (for it was he) sitting by her mother's side and speaking kindly to her. He turned round as the child entered. "Come along, Gussie," he said; "that's right--been getting mother some tea. You'll need to tend her well, for she's very poorly to-day." "Ay, ay," muttered the woman, "that's true, that's true. Be kind to Gussie, poor Gussie, when I am gone, doctor. The young lady--Miss Warden be her name--she said she'd look after her, she did." The doctor bent over the dying woman and said some comforting words, at which the woman's face brightened. "God bless ye," she said, "for promising that. Oh, but life's been weary, weary sin' I came 'ere--work, work, and that not always to be 'ad. But it's true, sir, what ye told me. He says even to the like o' me, 'Come unto me, and I will give you rest;' and He's done it, I think. Ye'll come again, sir, won't ye?" After a few moments of prayer with the poor woman, and giving her some medicine to allay her restlessness, Dr. Heinz left the room. From house to house in the fever-stricken street he went, ministering alike to body and soul, often feeling cast down and discouraged, overwhelmed at times by the vice and poverty of all around. The gospel had never reached these poor neglected ones. The very need of a Saviour was by the great majority of them unfelt. Love many of them had never experienced. The evil of sin they did not comprehend. Brought up from babyhood in the midst of iniquity, they were strangers to the very meaning of righteousness and virtue. No wonder that the heart of the doctor was oppressed as he went out and in amongst them. Yet he felt assured that by love they could be won to the God of love, and that only the simple gospel of Jesus Christ dying in their room and stead, told in the power of the Holy Ghost, could enlighten their dark souls and prove the true lever to raise them from their sin and misery. And so, whilst alleviating pain, he tried when possible to say a word from the book--God's revealed will, which alone "maketh wise unto salvation." More than once on the day we write of, as he went from house to house, the vision of a young girl whom he had often met going about doing good flitted before his eyes. Gertie Warden and Dr. Heinz had first met in one of those abodes of wretchedness, where she stood by a bed of sickness trying to comfort and help a dying woman. Only two years before that and Gertie was just ready to throw herself into the vortex of the gay society in which the other members of her family mingled; but ere she did so the voice of the Holy Ghost spake to her as to so many others, and showed her how true life was only to be found in Christ and lived in Him. Henceforth she lived no longer a life of mere worldliness, but a life spent in the service of Him who had loved her and given Himself for her; and then her greatest joy was found in visiting the poor, the afflicted, the tried--ay, and often the oppressed ones of earth. In her own family she found great opposition to her new mode of life; but the Lord raised up a kind helpful friend to her in the person of the gentle, sorely-tried Mrs. Willoughby of Harcourt Manor. To her Gertie confided all her difficulties as regarded her district visiting (or, as her sister called it, her slumming), and many a word of sympathy and wise counsel she got from her friend. One day she spoke of Dr. Heinz. "You cannot think how much the people love him," she said, "and trust him. 'Ah!' I heard a poor woman say the other day, 'if only all were like him, it's a better world it would be than it's now.' And do you know," she went on, "he is actually interesting my father and Aunt Mary in some of his poor patients. And he likes to come to our house sometimes in the evenings and play on the violin along with us; and he does play beautifully. I wish you knew him, dear Mrs. Willoughby, for I know you would like him. But, dear friend, are you not well?" For at the name of Heinz a deadly faintness had overcome Mrs. Willoughby. Was not that the name of her daughter's husband? and if he should prove to be in any way related to him, might he not be able to give some information regarding her loved one? But she composed herself, and in answer to Gertie's question she replied,-- "It is nothing, dear, only a passing weakness. I am all right now. Tell me something more of this Dr. Heinz and the Christian work he is engaged in. He must be a German, I fancy, from his name." "Yes, he is," replied Gertie; "he was speaking to me lately about his relations. He was born in Germany, and lived there till he was a boy of seven years old. Then his parents died, and he came to this country with an older brother who was a wonderful violinist, and he taught him to play; but many years ago this brother married and returned to Germany, leaving him here in the charge of some kind friends; and though at first he heard from him from time to time, he has ceased to write to him for some years, and he fears he is dead. He knows he had a child, for his last letter mentioned her, but he knows nothing more." Again that terrible pallor overcame Mrs. Willoughby, but this time she rose and said in an excited tone,-- "I must see this Dr. Heinz. Could you bring him to see me, Gertie, and soon? Say to him that I think, although I am not sure, that I knew a relation of his some years ago." "Oh yes, Mrs. Willoughby; I will gladly ask him to come and see you. Indeed, I was just going to ask if you would allow him to call--" Here the girl hesitated a moment, then said, "You see, it was only last night, but I am engaged to be married to Dr. Heinz, and do wish you to know and love him for my sake." Love one of the name of Heinz! Could she do so, the gentle lady was asking herself. What if he should prove to be the brother of the man who had caused her such bitter sorrow? But at that moment there rose to her remembrance the words of Scripture, said by Him who suffered from the hand of man as never man suffered, "Forgive, as ye would be forgiven," and who illustrated that forgiveness on the cross when He prayed for His deadly enemies, "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do." The momentary struggle was over. Mrs. Willoughby raised her head, and said in a calm, quiet tone,-- "God bless you, Gertie; and may your union be a very happy one. I should like to see Dr. Heinz." And so it came to pass that ere many days had elapsed, Dr. Heinz was ushered into Mrs. Willoughby's drawing-room in the London house which they had taken for the season. He was hardly seated before she said,-- "Yes, oh yes--there can be no mistake--you certainly are the brother of the man who married my daughter. Tell me, oh tell me," she added, "what you know of her and of him!" Dr. Heinz was strongly moved as he looked on the face of the agitated mother. "Alas!" he said, "I grieve to say I can tell you nothing. I have not heard for several years from my brother, and at times I fear he must be dead. My poor brother, how I loved him! for, Mrs. Willoughby, a gentler or more kind-hearted man never lived. You may be sure, however much your daughter was to blame in marrying any one against her parents' wishes, she found in my brother a truly loving, kind husband." "Thank God for that!" she replied. "But now tell me, was there a child? Gertie spoke as if you knew there was one." "Certainly there was. In the last letter I had from my brother, he spoke of the great comfort their little girl (who was the image of her mother) was to them--his little Frida he called her, and at that time she was three or four years old. Oh yes, there was a child. Would that I could give you more particulars! but I cannot; only I must mention that he said, 'I am far from strong, and my beloved wife is very delicate.'" "Ah," said the mother, "she was never robust; and who knows what a life of hardship she may have had to live! O Hilda, Hilda! Dr. Heinz, is there no means by which we may find out their whereabouts? I have lately had some advertisements put into various papers, praying them to let us know where they are; but no answer has come, and now I am losing all hope." "Would that I could comfort you!" he said; "but I also fear much that we have lost the clue to their whereabouts. I will not cease to do all I can to trace them; but, dear Mrs. Willoughby, we believe that there is One who knows all, whose eyes are everywhere, and we can trust them to Him. If I should in any way hear of our friends, you may be sure I shall not be long of communicating with you. In the meantime it has been a great pleasure to me to have made the acquaintance of one whom my dear Gertrude has often spoken to me of as her kindest of friends." Then Dr. Heinz told of the work in which he was engaged amongst the poor, sorrowful, and also too often sinful ones, in the East End of London. Before Dr. Heinz left, Mrs. Willoughby showed him the little brown English Bible which her daughter had given to her not long before her marriage, and told him about the German one, which looked exactly the same outwardly, which she had given to her daughter. "Strange," said Dr. Heinz, as he held the little brown book in his hand, "that in the last letter I ever received from my brother, he told me of the blessing which he had got through reading God's Word in a brown Bible belonging to his wife, adding that she also had obtained blessing through reading it." "Praise God!" said Mrs. Willoughby; "then my prayers have been answered, that Hilda, like her mother, might be brought to the knowledge of God. Now I know that if we meet no more on earth we shall meet one day in heaven.--I thank Thee, O my God!" It was with a heart full of emotion that Dr. Heinz found himself leaving Mrs. Willoughby's house. Oh, how he longed that he could hear tidings of his brother and his wife, and so be able to convey comfort to the heart of the sorrowful lady he had just left! As he was walking along, lost in thought, he came suddenly face to face with Reginald Gower, whom he had lately met several times at the Wardens', and to whom he suspected the news of his engagement to Gertrude Warden would bring no pleasure; but from the greeting which Reginald gave him he could not tell whether or not he knew of the circumstance. He accosted him with the words: "What are you doing, doctor, in this part of the town? I thought it was only in the narrow, dirty slums, and not in the fashionable part of the west of London, that you were to be found; and that it was only the sick and sorrowful, not the gay, merry inhabitants of Belgravia that you visited." "Do you think then," replied Dr. Heinz, "that the sick, sad, and sorrowful are only to be found in the narrow, dark streets of London? What if I were to tell you that although there is not poverty, there are sorrowful, sad, unsatisfied hearts to be found in as great numbers in these fashionable squares and terraces as in the places you speak of; and that the votaries of fashion, whom you style gay and merry, are too often the most wretched of mankind, and that beneath the robes of silk and satin of fashionable life there beats many a breaking heart? You see that splendid square I have just left. Well, in one of the handsomest houses there dwells one of the sweetest Christian ladies I have ever met. She has everything that wealth and the love of friends can give her, yet I believe she is slowly dying of a broken heart, longing to know if a dearly-loved daughter, who made a marriage which her parents did not approve of, years ago, is still alive; and no one can tell her whether she or any child of hers still survives. I know all the circumstances, and would give a great deal to be able to help her. He would be a man to be envied who could go to that sweet mother, Mrs. Willoughby, and say, I can tell you all about your daughter, or, if she is not alive, of her child. O Reginald Gower, never say that there are not sad hearts in the west part of London, though you may see only the smiling face and dry eyes. You remember the words of the gifted poetess,-- 'Go weep with those who weep, you say, Ye fools! I bid you pass them by, Go, weep with those whose hearts have bled What time their eyes were dry.' But I must go. Have you not a word of congratulation for me, Reginald?" "Why?" was the amazed reply; "and for what?" "Oh," said Dr. Heinz, somewhat taken aback, "do you not know that I am engaged to be married to Gertrude Warden?" "You are?" was the reply, with a look of amazement that Dr. Heinz could not fail to notice; "well, I rather think you are a lucky fellow. But"--and a look of deep sorrow crossed his face as he spoke--"I do believe you are worthy of her. Tell her I said so. And would you mind saying good-bye to her and her sister from me, as I may not be able to see them before starting for America, which I shall probably do in a week; and should you again see the Mrs. Willoughby you have been speaking of, and whom I know well, please tell her I could not get to say farewell to her, as my going off is a sudden idea. Good-bye, Dr. Heinz. May you and Miss Gertrude Warden be as happy as you both deserve to be;" and without another word he turned away. Dr. Heinz looked after him for a moment, then shook his head somewhat sadly, saying to himself, "There goes a fine fellow, if only he had learned of Him 'who pleased not himself.' Reginald is a spoiled character, by reason of self-pleasing. I must ask Gertrude how he comes to know Mrs. Willoughby, and why he is going off so suddenly to America, although I may have my suspicions as to the reason for his so doing." CHAPTER XIV. THE OLD NURSE. "It chanced, eternal God, that chance did guide." "How are you getting on with your packing, Frida?" said Miss Drechsler, as the girl, wearing a loose morning-dress, looked into the room where her friend was sitting. "Oh, very well," was the answer; "I have nearly finished. When did you say the man would come for the trunks?" "I expect him in about an hour. But see, here comes the post; look if there is one for me from Miss Warden. I thought I would get one to tell me if any of her friends would meet us at Dover." Frida ran off to meet the postman at the door, and returned in triumph, bearing two letters in her hand. "One for you, auntie" (she always now addressed Miss Drechsler by that name), "and one for myself. Mine is from Ada Stanford, and yours, I am sure, is the one you are expecting." A few minutes of silence was broken by Frida exclaiming,-- "O auntie, Ada has been very ill again, and is still very weak, and she asks, as a great favour, that I would come to visit them before going to the Wardens; and adds, 'If Miss Drechsler would accompany you, we would be so delighted; but in any case,' she writes to me, 'you would not lose your London visit, as my doctor wishes me to see a London physician as soon as I can be moved, specially as to settling whether or not I should go abroad again next winter. So in perhaps another month we may go to London, and then you can either remain with us or join your friend at Miss Warden's.'" "What do you think about it, auntie? Of course it is a great disappointment to me not to go with you; but do I not owe it to the Stanfords to go to them when I may be of use during Ada's convalescence?" Miss Drechsler looked, as she felt, disappointed, she had anticipated so much pleasure in having Frida with her in London; but after a few minutes' thought she said, "You are right, Frida: you must, I fear, go first to the Stanfords. We cannot forget all that they have done for you, and as they seem to be so anxious for you to go there, I think you must yield to their wishes; but I must go at once to Miss Warden, who is expecting me. You had better write at once and tell them we hope to be at Dover in four days. They live, as you know, not so far from there. I think that the train will take you to the station, not above a couple of miles from Stanford Hall, where I doubt not they will meet you; but I must write at once and let Miss Warden know that you cannot accompany me, and the reason why, though I hope that erelong, if convenient to her, you may join me there. Ah, Frida! 'man's heart deviseth his way: but God directeth his steps.'" And so it came to pass that Miss Drechsler arrived alone at Miss Warden's, whilst Frida went to Stanford Hall. When it became known in the Forest that the woodland child, as they still called her, was again about to leave them for some undefined time, there was great lamentation. "How then are we to get on without you?" they said. "_Ach!_ shall we have to do without the reading of the book again? True, Hans Hörstel reads it well enough; but what of that? He too has left us. _Ach!_ it is plain no one cares for the poor wood-cutters and charcoal-burners who live in the Forest, and some grand English gentleman will be getting our woodland child for a wife, and she will return to us no more." But Frida only laughed at these lamentations. "Why, what nonsense you speak!" she said. "It is only for a little while that I am going away. I hope to come back in about three months. And many of you can now read the Bible for yourselves. And as to the grand gentleman, that is all fancy; I want no grand gentleman for a husband. The only thing that would detain me in England would be if any of my relations were to find me out and claim me; but if that were to be the case, I am sure none of my friends in the Forest would grudge their child to her own people, and they may be assured she would never forget them, and would not be long in revisiting them." "_Ach!_ if the child were to find her own friends, her father or her mother's people, that would be altogether a different matter," they said simultaneously. "We would then say, 'Stay, woodland child, and be happy with those who have a right to you; but oh, remember the poor wood-cutters and workers in the Forest, who will weary for a sight of the face of the fair girl found by one of them in the Black Forest.'" Very hearty was the welcome which awaited Frida at Stanford Hall. Ada received her with open arms. "Ah, Frida, how glad I am to see you once again; and how good of you to give up the pleasure of a month in London to come to see and comfort us!--You will see how quickly I will get well now, mother.--And erelong, Frida, we shall take you to London ourselves, and father will show you all the wonders there." Frida answered merrily, but she felt much shocked to see how delicate-looking Ada had become. The girls had much to tell each other of all that had happened since last they met; and when dinner was over, and Frida went to see Ada as she lay on her couch in her prettily-fitted-up boudoir, Ada roused herself to have, as she said, "a right down delightful chat." "See, Frida, here is a charming easy-chair for you; please bring it quite close to my couch, and now tell me all about your Forest friends. How are Elsie and Wilhelm, and their little Gretchen and Hans? But, indeed, I believe I know more about them than you do; for only two days ago my father received a letter from Hans's music-teacher in Leipsic, giving him unqualified praise, and predicting a successful musical career for him." "Oh, I am glad!" said Frida. "How pleased his parents will be, and how grateful to Sir Richard Stanford for all he has done for him!" And so in pleasant talk the evening of the first day of Frida's visit to Stanford Hall drew to a close. As time passed on, Ada's health rapidly improved, and together the girls went about the beautiful grounds belonging to the Hall--Ada at first drawn in an invalid chair, and Frida walking by her side. But by-and-by Ada was able to walk, and together the girls visited in some of the cottages near the Hall--Frida finding out that Ada in her English home was conveying comfort and blessing to many weary souls by reading to them from her English Bible the words of life, even as she had done from her German one in the huts of the wood-cutters, carters, and charcoal-burners in the Black Forest. "Have you heard, Ada," said Lady Stanford one morning at breakfast, "that the old woman who has lately come to the pretty picturesque cottage at the Glen is very ill? I wish you and Frida would go and see her, and take her some beef-tea and jelly which the housekeeper will give you. I understand she requires nourishing food; and try and discover if there is anything else she requires." "Certainly, mother," answered Ada; "we will go at once and see what can be done for her.--That Glen is a lovely spot, Frida, and you have never been there. What say you--shall we set off at once? The poor woman is very old, and her memory is a good deal affected." "I shall be pleased to go, Ada; but I have a letter from Miss Drechsler, received this morning, which I must answer by the first post. She tells me that her friend Miss Warden is in great distress about the illness of a friend of hers. She wishes to know how soon I can join her in London; and now that you are so well, Ada, I really think I ought to go." "Ah, well," said Ada with a laugh, "time enough to think of that, Frida. We are not prepared to part with you yet; but seriously, mother talks of carrying us all off to London by another fortnight, and that must suffice you. But after you have written your letter we will set off to the Glen." It was a lovely walk that the girls took that summer day through green lanes and flowery meadows, till they came to a beautiful glen overshadowed with trees in their fresh summer foliage of greenery, through which the sunbeams found their way and touched with golden light the green velvety moss and pretty little woodland flowers which so richly carpeted the ground. "How beautiful it is here!" said Frida, "and yet how unlike the sombre appearance of the trees in the dear Black Forest!" "Ah," said Ada, "that Forest, where I do believe your heart still is, Frida, always seemed to me to be so gloomy and dark, so unlike our lovely English woods with their 'leafy tide of greenery.'" As they spoke they neared the cottage where dwelt the old woman they were going to see. It was thatch-covered and low, but up the walls grew roses and ivy, which gave it a bower-like appearance. "She is a strange old woman," said Ada, "who has only lately come here, and no one seems to know much about her. A grandchild of fourteen or fifteen years old lives with and takes care of her. Her memory is much impaired, but she often talks as if she had friends who if they knew where she lived and how ill-off she was would help her; but when questioned as to their name, she shakes her head and says she can't remember it, but if she could only see the young lady she would know her. They fancy the friends she speaks of must have been the family with whom she lived as nurse, for her grandchild says she used often to speak of having had the charge of a little girl to whom she was evidently much attached. But here we are, Frida, and yonder is little Maggie standing at the door." When they entered the room, Frida was amazed to see how small it was and how dark; for the ivy, which from the outside looked so picturesque, darkened the room considerably. Ada, who had seen the old woman before, went forward to the bed where she lay and spoke some kind words to her. The old woman seemed as if she hardly understood, and gave no answer. "Ah, madam," said the grandchild, "she knows nothing to-day, and when she speaks it is only nonsense." Frida now came forward and laid her hand kindly on the poor woman, addressing a few words of sympathy to her. The invalid raised her eyes and looked around her, giving first of all a look of recognition to Ada, and holding out her thin hand to her, but her eyes sought evidently to distinguish the face of the stranger who had last spoken. "She knows," explained Maggie, "yours is a strange voice, and wishes to see you, which she can't do, miss, for you are standing so much in the shade." Frida moved so that the glimmer of light which entered the little room fell on her face. As she did so, and the old woman caught a glimpse of her, a look of joy lit up the faded face, and she said in a distinct voice: "'Bless the Lord, O my soul;' my dear has come to see me. Oh, but I am glad! It's a long time since I saw you, Miss Hilda--a long, long time. I thought you were dead, or you would never have forgotten your old nurse you loved so dearly; but now you've come, my lamb, and old nurse can die in peace." And seizing Frida's hand, the old woman lay back as if at rest, and said no more. Frida was startled, and turning to her friend, said, "O Ada, whom does she take me for? Can it be that she knew my mother, whose name was Hilda, and that she takes me for her? Miss Drechsler says I am strikingly like the picture I have of her. Perhaps she can tell me where my mother lived, and if any of her relations are still alive;" and bending over the bed, she said in a low tone, "Who was Hilda, and where did she live? Perhaps she was my mother, but she is dead." The old woman muttered to herself, but looked up no more, "Dead, dead; yes, every one I loved is dead. But not Miss Hilda; you are she, and you have come to see your old nurse. But listen, Miss Hilda: there is the master calling on us to go in, and you know we must not keep the master waiting for even a minute;" and then the old woman spoke only of things and people of whom no one in the room knew anything. But through all Frida distinctly heard the words, "Oh, if only you had never played on that instrument, then he would never have come to the house. O Miss Hilda, why did you go away and break the heart of your mother, and old nurse's also? Oh, woe's the day! oh, woe's the day!" "Was his name Heinz?" asked Frida in a trembling voice. "Oh yes, Heinz, Heinz. O Miss Hilda, Miss Hilda, why did you do it?" and then the old woman burst out crying bitterly. "O miss, can you sing?" said Maggie, coming forward; "for nothing quiets grandmother like singing." "Yes, I can," replied Frida.--"And you, I am sure, Ada, will help me. I know now the woman, whoever she is, knows all about my mother." Together the two young girls sang the hymn, "Jesus, Lover of my soul." As they sang the dying woman became quieter, her muttering ceased, and presently she fell into a quiet sleep; the last words she uttered before doing so were, "Jesus, Lover of my soul." Much moved in spirit, Frida quitted the house; she felt as if now she stood on the verge of discovering the name and relations of her mother. She and Ada hastened their return home to confide to Lady Stanford all that had passed. She was much interested, and, as Sir Richard entered the room just then, she repeated the story to him. He listened eagerly, and said he would at once find out all he could about the woman and her friends; and so saying he left the house. He returned home cast down and discouraged. The woman had become quite delirious, and the names of Hilda and Heinz were often on her lips, but he could, of course, get nothing out of her. The grandchild could tell nothing of her former life; she never remembered hearing where she had been nurse, but her father, who was now in Canada, might know. Sir Richard could write and ask him. She had his address, and sometimes got letters from him. The doctor said he did not think that grandmother would live over the night. The only thing that had quieted her was the singing of the young lady whom she had called Miss Hilda, and who had come to the cottage that day with Miss Stanford. Maybe if she could come again and sing grandmother would be quieter. On hearing this Frida rose, and said if Lady Stanford would allow her, she would go and remain all night with the old woman, who she felt sure must have been her mother's nurse. She often, she said, watched a night by dying beds in the Black Forest, and had comforted some on their death-beds by reading to them portions of God's Word. The Stanfords could not refuse her request; and when Lady Stanford had herself filled a basket with provisions for Frida herself and little Maggie, the girl set off, accompanied by Sir Richard, who went with her to the door of the cottage. Finding the poor woman still delirious, Frida took off her cloak and bonnet and prepared to spend the night with her, and sitting down beside the bed she once more began to sing some sweet gospel hymns. In low and gentle tones she sang of Jesus and His love, and again the sufferer's restlessness and moaning ceased, and she seemed soothed. Hours passed, and the early summer morn began to dawn, and still the old woman lived on. Every now and then she muttered the name of Miss Hilda, and once she seemed to be imploring her not to vex her mother; and more than once she said the name of Heinz, and whenever she did so she became more excited, and moaned out the words, "Woe's me! woe's me!" Frida watched anxiously every word, in the hope that she might hear the name of Hilda's mother or the place where they lived; but she watched in vain. It was evident that though there was a look of returning consciousness, life was fast ebbing. A glance upward seemed to indicate that the dying woman's thoughts had turned heavenward. Frida opened her Bible and read aloud the words of the "shepherd psalm," so precious to many a dying soul, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me." To her amazement the sick woman repeated the words, "_thou_ art with me;" and as she finished the last word the soul fled, and Frida and Maggie were alone with the dead. The story of Frida's birth was still undisclosed, but God's word, as recorded in Holy Scripture, had again brought peace to a dying soul. Neighbours came in, and Frida turned away from the death-bed with a heart full of gratitude to the Lord that she had been allowed with His own words to soothe and comfort the old nurse, who she felt sure had tended and loved her own mother. When she returned to the Hall, the Stanfords were truly grieved to hear that the old woman was dead, and that there had been no further revelation regarding Frida's relations. Lady Stanford and Ada had just persuaded Frida to go to bed and rest awhile after her night of watching, when the door opened, and the butler came in bearing a telegram to Miss Heinz. Frida opened it with trembling hands, saw it was from Miss Drechsler, and read the words, "Come at once; you are needed here." What could it mean? Was Miss Drechsler ill? It looked like it, for who else would require her in London? Fatigue was forgotten; she could rest, she said, in the train; she must go at once. In a couple of hours she could start. Ada was disconsolate. Nevertheless, feeling the urgency of the case, she assisted her friend to pack her boxes; and erelong Frida was off, all unaware of what might be awaiting her in the great city. But ere we can tell that, we must turn for a while to other scenes, and write of others closely linked, although unknown to herself, with the life and future of the child found in the Black Forest. CHAPTER XV. THE POWER OF CONSCIENCE. "Being convicted by their own conscience." The day on which Reginald Gower met Dr. Heinz on the street, and sent through him a farewell message to Gertrude Warden, found him a couple of hours afterwards seated in his mother's boudoir, communicating to her his suddenly-formed plan of starting in a few days for America. It was no easy thing to do. The bond between mother and son was a very strong one, and her pleasure in having had him with her for some little time had been great. Her look of pleasure when he entered the room made it more difficult for him to break the news to her. "Earlier back to-day than usual, Reggie," she said, "but never too early for your old mother. But is anything amiss?" she said in a voice of alarm, as she noticed the grave look on his face. "Have you heard any bad news, or are you ill?" "No, mother, it is neither of these things--there is nothing the matter; only I fear, mother dear, that what I am going to say will vex you, but you must not let it do so. I am not worth all the affection you lavish on me. Mother, I have made up my mind to go to America, and to remain there for some time. I cannot stop here any longer. I am tired--not of my dear mother," he said, as he stooped over her and kissed her fondly, "but of the idle life I lead here; and so I mean to go and try and get work there, perhaps buy land if I can afford it, and see if I can make anything of my life as a farmer. Nay, mother, do not look so sad," he pleaded; "you do not know how hard it is for me to come to this resolution, but I must go. I cannot continue to live on future prospects of wealth that may--nay, perhaps ought never to be mine, but must act the man--try and earn my own living." "Your own living, Reginald!" interposed his mother; "surely you have enough of your own to live comfortably on even as a married man, and your prospects of succeeding to Harcourt Manor are, I grieve to say for one reason, almost certain. O Reginald, don't go and leave me so soon again!" But the young man, usually so easily led, fatally so indeed, stood firm now, and only answered, "Mother, it must be, and if you knew all you would be the first to advise me to go. Mother, you will soon hear that Gertie Warden is engaged to be married to a man worthy of her--a noble Christian doctor of the name of Heinz; but don't think that that circumstance is the reason of my leaving home. Fool though I have been and still am, I was never fool enough to think I was worthy of gaining the love of a high-principled girl like Gertie Warden. But, mother, your unselfish, God-fearing life, and that of Gertie and Dr. Heinz, have led me to see my own character as I never saw it before, and to wish to put right what has been so long wrong, and which it seems to me I can do best if I were away from home. Ask me no more, mother dear; some day I will tell you all, but not now. Only, mother, I must tell you that the words of the Bible which you love so well and have so early taught to me have not been without their effect, at least in keeping my conscience awake. And, mother, don't cease to pray for me that I may be helped to do the right. Oh, do not, do not," he entreated, as his mother began to urge him to remain, "say that, mother; say rather, 'God bless you,' and let me go. Believe me, it is best for me to do so." At these words Mrs. Gower ceased speaking. If, indeed, her loved son was striving to do the right thing, would she be the one to hold him back? Ah no! she would surrender her will and trust him in the hands of her faithful God. So with one glance upward for help and strength, she laid her hand on his head and said, "Go then, my son, in peace; and may God direct your way and help you to do the right thing, and may He watch between us when we are separate the one from the other." Just as Reginald was leaving the room Miss Drechsler entered. She greeted Mrs. Gower cordially, remembering her in old times; and she recognized Reginald as the young man who had spoken to Frida the day after the concert, though then she had not heard his name. As Reginald was saying good-bye, he heard his mother ask Miss Drechsler where her friend the young violinist was. "I thought you would have brought her to see me," she added. Her answer struck Reginald with dismay. "Oh! she did not accompany me to London after all. A great friend of hers was ill, and she had to go to her instead. It was a great disappointment to me." Reginald went to his room feeling as if in a dream. Then it might never come to pass, after all, that Frida's parentage would be found out; and Satan suggested the thought that therefore he need not disclose all he knew, but let things go on as they were. He hugged the idea, for not yet had he got the victory over evil; at all events he thought he would still wait a bit, but he would certainly carry out his intention of leaving the country for a while at least; and two days after the time we write of, his mother sat in her own room with a full heart after having parted from her only son. Well for her that she knew the way to the mercy-seat, and could pour out her sorrow at the feet of One who has said, "Call upon me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me." CHAPTER XVI. THE STORM. "More things are wrought by prayer Than the world dreams of." After Mrs. Willoughby's interview with Dr. Heinz of which we have written, her thoughts turned more than ever to the daughter she loved so well. It seemed certain from what Dr. Heinz had said that there had been a child; and if so, even although, as she feared, her loved daughter were dead, the child might still be alive, and probably the father also. The difficulty now was to obtain the knowledge of their place of residence. Mrs. Willoughby quite believed that if any news could be obtained of either mother or child, Mr. Willoughby's heart was so much softened that he would forgive and receive them thankfully. Once more advertisements were inserted in various papers, and letters written to friends abroad, imploring them to make every inquiry in their power. More than once Dr. Heinz called to see his new-made friend; but as Mr. Willoughby had returned to Harcourt Manor, whither his wife was soon to follow him, he never met him; and as Dr. Heinz was leaving town to take a much-needed holiday in the west Highlands of Scotland, nothing more could be done for the present to obtain information regarding the lost ones. It thus happened that although Dr. Heinz was a frequent visitor at Miss Warden's, he never met Miss Drechsler; but he heard from Gertie that she had not been able to bring the young girl violinist with her. It was to Mrs. Willoughby that Mrs. Gower went for sympathy and consolation at the time of her son's departure. Mrs. Willoughby heard of his sudden departure with surprise and deep sorrow for her friend's sake. "Reginald gone off again so soon!" she said. "Oh, I am sorry for you, dear friend! And does he speak of remaining long away? Making his own living, you say? Has he not enough to live comfortably on in the meantime? And then, you know," and her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, "his future prospects are very good, unless--" But here Mrs. Gower interrupted her. "Dear friend, from my heart I can say, if only dear Hilda or any child of hers could be restored to you, there is no one would more truly rejoice than I would; and I believe Reginald would do so also." But even as she said these words a pang of fear crossed her mind as to Reginald's feeling on the subject; but the mother's belief in her child refused to see any evil in him, and she added, "I am sure he would. But in any case the day of his succession as heir-at-law to Harcourt Manor is, we trust, far off, and so perhaps it is best for him that he should make his way in life for himself. I have been able now to trust him in God's hands, who doeth all things well." From that visit Mrs. Gower returned to her home comforted and strengthened. Alone she might be, yet, like her Saviour, "not alone, for the Father was with her." And ere many days had elapsed she was able to busy herself in making preparations for her return to her pleasant country home, which she had only left at Reginald's special request that for once they might spend the season together in London. One thing only she regretted--that she would be for some weeks separated from her friend Mrs. Willoughby, who was not to return to Harcourt Manor for some weeks. Ah! truly has it been said, "Man proposes, but God disposes." The very day that Mrs. Gower started for her home, Mrs. Willoughby received a telegram telling her that Mr. Willoughby was very ill at the Manor, and that the doctor begged she would come at once; and so it turned out that, unknown to each other, the friends were again near neighbours, and Mrs. Willoughby in her turn was to receive help and comfort from her friend Mrs. Gower. Long hours of suspense and anxiety followed the gentle lady's arrival at her country home. It soon became evident that Mr. Willoughby's hours were numbered, but his intellect remained clear. His eyes often rested with great sadness on his wife, and as he thought of leaving her alone and desolate, his prayer was that he might hear something definite regarding the child ere he died. Could he but have obtained that boon, he would have felt that that knowledge had been granted to him as a pledge of God's forgiveness. Not always does our all-wise God grant us signs even as an answer to our prayers. Still, He is a God who not only forgives as a king, royally, but also blesses us richly and fully to show the greatness of His forgiving power. And such a God He was to prove Himself in the case of Mr. Willoughby. * * * * * Whilst he lay on that bed of death, watched over and tended by loving friends, Reginald Gower was tossing on a stormy sea, a fair emblem of the conflict between good and evil, right and wrong, that was still raging within his breast. But that night, when the waves of the Atlantic were wellnigh overwhelming the vessel in which he sailed, when fear dwelt in every heart, when the captain trod the deck with an anxious gravity on his face, light broke on Reginald's heart. So his mother's prayers were answered at last. The Holy Spirit worked on his heart, and showed him as it were in a moment of time his selfishness and his sin; and from the lips of the self-indulgent young man arose the cry never uttered in vain, "God be merciful to me a sinner." And when the morning light dawned, and it was seen they were nearing in safety the harbour whither they were bound, Reginald Gower looked out on the sea, which was fast quieting down, and gave thanks that the conflict in his soul was ended, and that clear above the noise of the waters he heard the voice of Him who, while He tarried here below, had said, "Peace, be still," to the raging billows, say these same words to his soul. "Safe in port," rang out the captain's voice; and "Safe in port, through the merits of my Saviour," echoed through the soul of the young man. "Now," he said to himself, "let house, lands, and fortune go. I will do the just, right thing, which long ago I should have done--write to Mrs. Willoughby, and tell all I know about the child found in the Black Forest." At that resolution methinks a song of rejoicing was heard in heaven, sung by angel voices as they proclaimed the glad news that once more good had overcome evil--that the power of Christ had again conquered the power of darkness--that in another heart the Saviour of the world had seen of the travail of His soul and was satisfied. * * * * * In the meantime, the events we have written of were transpiring in Harcourt Manor. Mr. Willoughby still lay on a bed of sickness, from which the doctor said he would never rise, although a slight rally made it possible that life might yet be spared for a few days or even weeks. He was wonderfully patient, grieving only for the sorrow experienced by his wife, and the sad thought that his own unforgiving spirit was in great part the reason why now she would be left desolate without a child to comfort her. Daily Mrs. Gower visited her friend, and often watched with her by the bed of death. Dr. Heinz, at Mrs. Willoughby's request, came to see Mr. Willoughby, and obtained from his lips a message of full forgiveness if either his daughter, her husband, or any child should be found after his death; and together they prayed that if it were God's will something might be heard of the lost ones ere Mr. Willoughby entered into rest. "'Nevertheless,'" added the dying man, "'not my will but thine be done.'" CHAPTER XVII. THE DISCOVERY. "All was ended now--the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow." One day shortly after Dr. Heinz's visit, Mrs. Gower came to Harcourt Manor accompanied by Miss Drechsler, who had arrived from London the night before to remain with her for a couple of days. "You will not likely see Mrs. Willoughby," she said as they neared the manor-house, "as she seldom leaves her husband's room; but if you do not object to waiting a few minutes in the drawing-room whilst I go to see her, I would be so much obliged to you, as I am desirous of knowing how Mr. Willoughby is to-day. He seemed so low when I last saw him." "Oh, certainly," answered Miss Drechsler. "Don't trouble about me; I can easily wait. And don't hurry, please; I am sure to get some book to while away the time." They parted in the hall, Mrs. Gower turning off to the sick-room, while Miss Drechsler was ushered by the butler into the drawing-room. The room was a very fine one, large and lofty. It had been little used for some weeks, and the venetian blinds were down, obscuring the light and shutting out the summer sunshine. At first Miss Drechsler could hardly distinguish anything in the room, coming into it as she did from a blaze of light; but as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she made out first one object and then another clearly, and rising from the place where she had been seated, she began to look around her, turning to the pictures, which she had heard were considered very fine. She looked attentively at some of them. Then her eyes rested on a full-sized portrait of a beautiful girl, and with a start of astonishment Miss Drechsler uttered the word, "Frida! and with her curious necklace on, too. What does it mean?" she queried. In a moment the whole truth flashed on her mind. That, she felt sure, must be a picture of Frida's mother, and she must have been the missing child of Harcourt Manor. She sat down a moment, feeling almost stunned by the discovery she had made. What a secret she had to disclose! Oh, if Mrs. Gower would only come back quickly, that she might share it with her! Oh, if Frida had only been with her, and she could have presented her to her grandparents as the child of their lost daughter! At last the door opened, and her friend appeared, but much agitated. "Excuse me, dear Miss Drechsler, for having kept you so long waiting; but I found Mr. Willoughby much worse, and I must ask you kindly to allow me to remain here for a short time longer. Perhaps you would like to take a stroll about the beautiful grounds, and--" But Miss Drechsler could no longer keep silence. "O dear friend, do not distress yourself about me! Listen to me for a moment. I have made such a discovery. I know all about Mrs. Willoughby's daughter; but, alas, she is dead! She died some years ago; but her only child, the very image of that picture on the wall yonder, is living, and is now residing within a few hours of London. She is my _protégé_, my dearly-loved young violinist, Frida Heinz, the child I have told you of found in the Black Forest!" "Is it possible?" replied Mrs. Gower. "What a discovery you have made! thank God for it. Can she be got at once, I wonder, ere the spirit of her grandfather passes away? Oh, this is indeed an answer to prayer! The cry of the poor man's heart for days has been, 'Oh, if God has indeed forgiven me, as I fully believe He has, I pray He may allow me to know ere I go hence if my child, or any child of hers, is alive to come and comfort my dear wife in the sorrow that is awaiting her!'" "A telegram must be sent at once to Stanford Hall, where she is now living," said Miss Drechsler; "and another to Miss Warden, asking her to send off Frida, after she arrives at her house, at once to Harcourt Manor." And without loss of time the telegram was dispatched which summoned Frida to London, and from thence to the manor-house. The first sense of surprise having passed, Mrs. Gower's thoughts involuntarily turned to Reginald. How would he like this discovery? But again the mother's partiality, which already had too often blinded her to his faults, suggested the impossibility that he would receive the news with aught but pleasure, though there might be a momentary feeling of disappointment as regarded his future prospects. But now she must return to the sick-room, and try to see her friend for a minute or two alone, and tell her the glad tidings; also, if possible, let her hear the particulars of the story from the lips of Miss Drechsler herself. It was no easy matter now, under any pretence, to get Mrs. Willoughby to leave her husband's side even for a moment. The doctors had just told her that at most her husband had not more than two days to live, perhaps not so long, and every moment was precious; but Mrs. Grower's words, spoken with calm deliberation, "Dear friend, you must see me in another room for a few minutes about a matter of vital importance," had their effect. And she rose, and after leaving a few orders with the nurse, and telling her husband she would return immediately, she quietly followed Mrs. Gower into another room. She listened as if in a dream to the story which Miss Drechsler told. Incident after incident proved that the child found in the Forest was indeed her grand-daughter; and as she heard that her own child, her loved Hilda, was indeed dead, the mother's tears fell fast. The necklace which Frida still possessed, the same as that worn by the girl in the picture, the small portrait which had been found in her bag the night that Wilhelm Hörstel had discovered her in the Black Forest, all confirmed the idea that she was indeed the grandchild of the Manor; but it was not until Mrs. Willoughby heard the story of the "brown German Bible" that she sobbed out the words, "Oh, thank God, thank God, she is the child of my darling Hilda. Now, dear friend, this discovery must be communicated by me to my husband, and he will know that his last prayer for me has been granted." Mr. Willoughby was quite conscious, and evidently understood the fact that at last a child of his daughter's had been found. As regarded the death of the mother, he merely whispered the words, "I shall see her soon;" then said, "I thank thee, O my Father, that Thou hast answered prayer, and that now my sweet wife will not be left alone.--Give my fond love to the girl, wife, for I feel my eyes shall not see her. That is my punishment for so long cherishing an unforgiving spirit." And if God could act as a man, such might have been the case; but our God is fully and for ever a promise-keeping God, and He has declared, "If any man confess his sins, He is faithful and just to forgive him, and to cleanse him from all iniquity." And so it came to pass that ere the spirit of Mr. Willoughby passed away, he had pressed more than one kiss on the lips of his grandchild, and whispered the words, "Full forgiveness through Christ--what a God we have! Comfort your grandmother, my child, and keep near to Jesus in your life. God bless the kind friends who have protected and loved you when you were homeless.--And now, Lord, let Thy servant depart in peace.--Farewell, loved and faithful wife, who, by the reading to me God's word of life, hast led my soul to Christ." One deep-drawn breath, and his spirit fled, and his wife and grandchild were left alone to comfort each other. * * * * * "And now, Frida, my loved child, come and tell me all about those friends who were so kind to you in the Forest," said Mrs. Willoughby some days after Mr. Willoughby's funeral. "Ah, how little we thought that we had a grandchild living there, and that our darling Hilda was dead! When I look upon you, Frida, it almost seems as if all these long years of suffering had been a dream, and my daughter were again seated beside me, work in hand, as we so often sat in the years that have gone. You are wonderfully like her, and I believe that during the last four hours of his life, when his mind was a little clouded, my dear husband thought that Hilda really sat beside him, and that it was to her he said the words, 'I fully forgive, as I hope to be forgiven.' But comfort yourself, Frida; at the very last he knew all distinctly, and told us to console each other.--But now tell me what I asked you to do, and also if you ever met any one who recognized you as your mother's daughter." "Not exactly," replied Frida. "Still, one or two people were struck with my likeness to some one whom they had seen, but whose name they could not recall. Miss Drechsler was one of those, and now she says she wonders she did not remember that it was Miss Willoughby, although she had only seen her twice at the Wardens', and then amongst a number of people. And then a young man, a Mr. Gower (the same name as your friend), who had heard me play on the violin at the Stanfords' concert, told them that he was much struck with my resemblance to a picture he had seen. I wonder if he could be any relation to your Mrs. Gower?" "Was his name Reginald?" Mrs. Willoughby asked hurriedly. "Yes. Sir Richard Stanford used to call him Reginald Gower; but I seldom saw him. But, grandmother, is there anything the matter?" for as Frida spoke, Mrs. Willoughby's face had blanched. Was it possible, she asked herself, that Reginald Gower had known, or at least suspected, the existence of this child, and for very evident reasons concealed it from his friends? A terrible fear that it was so overcame her; for she liked the lad, and tenderly loved his mother. She felt she must betray herself, and so answered Frida's question by saying,-- "Oh, it is nothing, dear, only a passing faintness; but I shall lie on the sofa, and you shall finish your talk. Now tell me about the Forest." And Frida, well pleased to speak of the friends she loved so well, told of her childhood's life in the Forest, and the kindness shown to her by Elsie and Wilhelm, not forgetting to speak of Hans and the little blind Anna so early called to glory. "And, O grandmother, all the wood-cutters and charcoal-burners were so kind to me, and many amongst them learned to love the words of this little book;" and as she spoke she took from her pocket the little brown German Bible, her mother's parting legacy to her child. "It was no words of mine that opened their eyes (I was too young to have said them); but I could read the Word of God to them, and they did the deed." Mrs. Willoughby took the little book in her hands and pressed it to her lips. "It was often in the hands of my darling Hilda, you say? and those words in a foreign language became as precious to her as did the English ones to her mother in the little Bible she gave her ere they parted? Blessed book, God's own inspired revelation of Himself, which alone can make us 'wise unto salvation.'" Mrs. Willoughby listened with great pleasure to Frida's tale, glancing every now and again at the fair girl face, which was lit up as with sunshine as she spoke of her happy days and dear friends in the Forest. "I must write to a friend in Dringenstadt," she said, "to go to the Forest and tell them all the good news,--of how good God has been to me in restoring me to my mother's friends, and in letting me know that a brother of my father's was alive. But see, here comes the postman. I must run and get the letters." In a minute she re-entered bearing a number of letters in her hand. "Ah! here are quite a budget," she said. "See, grandmother, there is one for you bearing the New York mark, and another for myself from Frankfort. Ah! that must be from the uncle you spoke of, Dr. Heinz. You said he had gone there, did you not?" Whilst Frida was talking thus, her grandmother had opened her American letter, and saw that it was from Reginald Gower. "He has heard, of course, of my dear husband's death, and writes to sympathize with me. But no; he could hardly have heard of that event, nor of the discovery of our grandchild, and replied to it. He must be writing about some other subject." She then read as if in a dream the following words:-- "DEAR FRIEND--if indeed I may still dare to address you thus--I write to ask forgiveness for a sore wrong which I have done to you and Mr. Willoughby. I confess with deep shame that for some years I have had a suspicion, nay, almost a certainty, that a child of your daughter was alive. Miss Drechsler, now living with Miss Warden, can tell you all. I met the girl, who plays charmingly on the violin, at a concert in the house of Sir Richard Stanford. Her face reminded me of a picture I had seen somewhere, but at first I could not recall where, until the fact, told me by the Stanfords, of a peculiar necklace which the girl possessed, and which they described to me, brought to my remembrance the picture of your daughter at Harcourt Manor with a _fac-simile_ of the necklace on. Added to this, I had heard that the girl had been found by a wood-cutter in the Black Forest, and that of her birth and parentage nothing was known. It is now with deep repentance that I confess to having concealed these facts (though I had no doubt as to whose child she was), because I knew that by disclosing the secret my right to succeed to the property of Harcourt Manor would be done away with. I felt even then the shame and disgrace of so doing, and knew also the trouble and grief I was causing to you, whom (although you may find it difficult to believe) I really loved, and who had ever been such a kind friend to me. I now see that it was a love of self-indulgence which led me to commit so foul a sin. Conscience remonstrated, and the words of the Bible, so early instilled into my mind by my mother, constantly reproached me; but I turned from and stifled the voice of conscience, and deliberately chose the evil way. All these years I have experienced at times fits of the deepest remorse, but selfishness prevailed; and when I heard that Frida Heinz was coming to England, and that probably ere-long all might be disclosed, I resolved to leave my native land and begin a better life here. Ere I left I had reason to believe that she was unable to come to England, so even now I may be the first to reveal the secret of her existence. I do not know if even yet I would have gained strength to do this or not, had not God in His great mercy opened my eyes, during a fearful storm at sea, when it seemed as if any moment might be my last, to see what a sinner I was in His sight, and led me to seek forgiveness through the merits of Christ for all my past sins. _That_ I believe I have obtained, and now I crave a like forgiveness from you whom I have so cruelly wronged. Should you withhold it, I dare not complain; but I have hopes that you, who are a follower of our Lord Jesus Christ, will not do so. One more request, and I have done. Comfort, I beg of you, my mother when she has to bear the bitter sorrow of knowing how shamefully the son she loves so dearly has acted. By this post I write also to her. I trust to prove to both of you by my future life that my repentance is sincere. REGINALD GOWER." Mrs. Willoughby's grief on reading this letter was profound. To think that the lad whom she had loved, and whom in many ways she had befriended, had acted such a base, selfish part, overwhelmed her; and the thought that if he had communicated even his suspicions to her so long ago the child would have been found, and probably have gladdened her grandfather's life and heart for several years ere he was taken hence, was bitter indeed. But not long could any unforgiving feeling linger in her heart, and ere many hours were over she was able fully to forgive. Of Mrs. Gower's feelings we can hardly write. The shame and grief she experienced on reading the letter, which she received from her son by the same post as that by which Mrs. Willoughby received hers, cannot be expressed; but through it all there rang a joyful song, "This my son was dead, and is alive again." The prayers--believing prayers--of long years were answered, and the bond between mother and son was a doubly precious one, united as they now were in Christ. It was for her friend she felt so keenly, and to know how she had suffered at the hand of Reginald was a deep grief to her. Could she, she queried, as she set out letter in hand to Harcourt Manor--could she ever forgive him? That question was soon answered when she entered the room and met her friend. Ere then Mrs. Willoughby had been alone with her God in prayer, and had sought and obtained strength from her heart to say, "O Lord, as Thou hast blotted out my transgressions as a thick cloud, and as a cloud my sins, so help me to blot out from my remembrance the sorrow which Reginald has caused to me, and entirely to forgive him." After two hours spent together the two friends separated, being more closely bound together than ever before; Mrs. Willoughby saying she would write to Reginald that very night, and let him know that he had her forgiveness, and that without his intervention God had restored her grandchild to her arms. In the meantime letters had reached Dr. Heinz telling that the search for the missing ones was at an end. His short holiday was drawing to a close, and erelong Frida was embraced by the brother of the father she had loved so much and mourned so deeply. And ere another summer had gone she was present at her uncle's marriage with Gertie Warden, and was one of the bridesmaids. And a few days after that event it was agreed, with her grandmother's full consent--nay, at her special request--that she should accompany them on their marriage jaunt, and that that should include a visit to Miss Drechsler and a sight of her friends in the Black Forest. Many were the presents sent by Mrs. Willoughby to Elsie, Wilhelm, and others who had been kind to her grandchild in the Forest. "O grandmother," said Frida, as she was busy packing up the things, "do you know that I have just heard that my kind friend the German pastor has returned to Dringenstadt and settled there. He was so very kind to me when I was a little child, I should like to take him some small special remembrance--a handsome writing-case, or something of that kind." "Certainly, Frida," was the answer. "You shall choose anything you think suitable. I am glad you will have an opportunity of thanking him in person for all his kindness to you, and, above all, for introducing you to Miss Drechsler. And look here, Frida. As you say that Wilhelm and Elsie can read, I have got two beautifully-printed German Bibles, one for each of them, as a remembrance from Frida's grandmother, who, through the reading of those precious words, has got blessing to her own soul. See, I have written on the first page the words, 'Search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of me.'" It was settled that during Frida's absence Mrs. Gower should live at Harcourt Manor, and together Mrs. Willoughby and she bid adieu to Frida as she set off three days after the marriage to meet her uncle and his bride at Dover, from whence they were to start for the Continent. Tears were in Frida's eyes--tears of gratitude--as she thought of the goodness of God in restoring her, a lonely orphan, to the care of kind relations since she had crossed the Channel rather more than a year before. Frida endeared herself much to her uncle and his wife, and after a trip with them for some weeks, they left her with regret at Miss Drechsler's, promising to return soon and take her home with them after she had seen her friends in the Forest. "Ah, Frida," said Miss Drechsler, when they were seated in the evening in the pretty little drawing-room, "does it not seem like olden days? Do you not remember the first time when Pastor Langen brought you here a shy, trembling little child, and asked me to see you from time to time?" Ere Frida could reply, the door opened, and Pastor Langen entered, and Miss Drechsler introduced him to his _protégé_. "Frida Heinz! Is it possible? I must indeed be getting _ein Alter_ if this be the little girl who was found in the Black Forest." He listened with interest whilst Miss Drechsler told him the history of her past years, much of which was new to him, although he had heard of Frida's gift as a violinist; but when she told of the wonderful way in which her relations had been discovered, he could refrain himself no longer, but exclaimed,-- "_Lobe Herrn_, He is good, very good, and answers prayer." And ere they parted the three knelt at the throne of grace and gave thanks to God. On the next day it was settled that Frida should go to the Forest and see her old friends, taking her grandmother's present with her. CHAPTER XVIII. OLD SCENES. "God's world is steeped in beauty, God's world is bathed in light." It was in the leafy month of June that Frida found herself once more treading the Forest paths. The smaller trees were clothed in their bright, fresh, green lining-- "Greenness shining, not a colour, But a tender, living light;" and to them the dark, gloomy pines acted as a noble background, and once again the song of birds was heard, and the gentle tinkle, tinkle of the forest streams. Memory was very busy at work as the girl--nay, woman now--trod those familiar scenes. Yonder was the very tree under which Wilhelm found her, a lonely little one, waiting in vain for the father she would see no more on earth. There in the distance were the lonely huts of the wood-cutters who had so lovingly cared for the orphan child. And as she drew nearer the hut of the Hörstels, she recognized many a spot where she and Hans had played together as happy children, to whom the sighing of the wind amid the tall pines had seemed the most beautiful music in the world. As she recalled all these things, her heart filled with love to God, who had cared for and protected her when her earthly friends had cast her off. The language of her heart might have been expressed in the words of the hymn so often sung in Scottish churches:-- "When all Thy mercies, O my God! My rising soul surveys, Transported with the view, I'm lost In wonder, love, and praise." Words cannot depict the joy of Elsie and Wilhelm at the sight of their dear woodland child. They had already heard of her having found her English relations, and heartily they rejoiced at the good news, although well they knew that they would seldom see the child they loved so well. Many were the questions asked on both sides. Frida, on her part, had to describe Harcourt Manor and her gentle grandmother and her father's brother, Dr. Heinz, and his beautiful bride. She told also of the full-sized picture (which hung on the walls of Harcourt Manor) of her mother, which had been the means of the discovery of her birth, from her extraordinary likeness to it. When the many useful presents sent by Mrs. Willoughby were displayed, the gratitude of those poor people knew no bounds, and even the little girl looked delighted at the bright-coloured, warm frocks and cloaks for winter wear which had been sent for her. Hans was by no means forgotten: some useful books fell to his share when he returned home in a few weeks from Leipsic for a short holiday. It was with difficulty that Frida tore herself away from those kind friends, and went to the Dorf to see her friends there, and take them the gifts she had brought for them also. It was late ere she reached Dringenstadt, and there, seated by Miss Drechsler, related to her the doings of the day. To Pastor Langen was entrusted a sum of money to be given to the Hörstels, and also so much to be spent every Christmas amongst the wood-cutters and charcoal-burners in the Dorf. The two Bibles Frida had herself given to the Hörstels, who had been delighted with them. When, soon after that day, Dr. Heinz and his bride, accompanied by Frida, visited the Forest, they received a hearty welcome. Many of the wood-cutters recognized the resemblance Dr. Heinz bore to his brother who had died in the cottage in the Forest. Many a story did Dr. Heinz hear of the woodland child and her brown book. The marriage trip over, the Heinzes, accompanied by Frida, returned to their homes--they to carry on their work of love in the dark places of the great metropolis, taking with them not only comforts for the body, but conveying to them the great and only treasures of the human mind, the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ. And to many and many a sin-sick, weary soul the words of Holy Scripture spoken by the lips of those two faithful ambassadors of the Lord Jesus Christ brought peace and rest and comfort. And Frida, on her part, found plenty of work to do for the Master in the cottages near Harcourt Manor, in which her grandmother helped her largely. Three years had passed since Frida had become an inmate of her grandmother's home, and they had gone for the winter to London in order to be near Frida's relations the Heinzes, and at Frida's request Ada Stanford, who was now much stronger, had come to pay her a visit. Many a talk the two friends had about the past, recalling with pleasure the places they had visited together and the people they had seen. The beauties of Baden-Baden and the sunny Riviera were often dwelt on, and together they loved to review God's wonderful love as regarded them both. They spoke also of their visit to the dying woman in the Glen, whom Frida had long before found out to have been a faithful nurse to her mother, and for whose little grand-daughter Mrs. Willoughby had provided since hearing from Frida of the old woman's death. Then one day the girls spoke of a musical party which was to take place in Mrs. Willoughby's house that day, and in the arranging for which Ada and Frida had busied themselves even as they had done years before in Baden-Baden for the party at which Frida had played on the violin. A large party assembled that night, and Dr. Heinz and Frida played together; but the great musician of the night was a young German violinist who had begun to attract general attention in the London musical world. He was no other than Hans Hörstel, the playmate of Frida's childhood. Very cordial was the meeting between those two who had last seen each other in such different circumstances. And Sir Richard Stanford, who was also present, felt he was well repaid for what he had spent on young Hörstel's education by the result of it, and by the high moral character which the young man bore. It was a happy night. Frida rejoiced in the musical success of the companion of her early years, and together they spoke of the days of the past, and of his parents, who had been as father and mother to her. Long after the rest of the company had gone, Hans, by Mrs. Willoughby's invitation, remained on; and ere they parted they together gave thanks for all God's kindness towards them. All hearts were full of gratitude, for Mrs. Gower was there rejoicing in the news she had that day received from Reginald, that he was about to be married to a niece of Sir Richard Stanford's, whom he had met whilst visiting friends in New York; and she was one who would help in the work for Christ which he carried on in the neighbourhood of his farm. He was prospering as regarded worldly matters, and he hoped soon to take a run home and introduce his bride to his loved mother and his kind friend Mrs. Willoughby. He added, "I need hardly say that ere I asked Edith to marry me I told her the whole story of my sin in concealing what I knew of the birth of Frida Heinz; but she said, what God had evidently forgiven, it became none to refuse to do so likewise." So after prayer was ended, it was from their hearts that all joined in singing the doxology,-- "Praise God, from whom all blessings flow!" 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T. NELSON AND SONS, LTD., London, Edinburgh, and New York. 
44770	----	available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 44770-h.htm or 44770-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/44770/44770-h/44770-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/44770/44770-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/daisysworkthirdc00mathiala DAISY'S WORK. [Illustration] FLOWERETS. [Illustration] * * * * * * Flowerets. A SERIES OF STORIES ON THE COMMANDMENTS. BY JOANNA H. MATHEWS, _Author of the "Bessie Books."_ I. VIOLET'S IDOL. THE FIRST AND SECOND COMMANDMENTS $0.75 II. DAISY'S WORK. THE THIRD COMMANDMENT 0.75 III. ROSE'S TEMPTATION. THE FOURTH COMMANDMENT 0.75 IV. LILY'S LESSON. THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT 0.75 V. HYACINTHE AND HER BROTHERS. THE SIXTH COMMANDMENT 0.75 VI. PINKIE AND THE RABBITS. THE EIGHTH, NINTH, AND TENTH COMMANDMENTS 0.75 _The set in a neat box, $4.50._ ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, _New York_. * * * * * * [Illustration] DAISY'S WORK. The Third Commandment. by JOANNA H. MATHEWS, Author of the "Bessie Books." "Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain." "Let your communication be yea, yea, and nay, nay; for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil." [Illustration] New York: Robert Carter and Brothers, 530, Broadway. 1870. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by Robert Carter and Brothers, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. Cambridge: Press of John Wilson and Son. [Illustration] TO _MY DEAR LITTLE COUSIN_, LULU CHAUNCEY. [Illustration] [Illustration] CONTENTS. PAGE I. THE LITTLE FLOWER-GIRL 11 II. A CLUSTER OF DAISIES 35 III. THE DAISY TRANSPLANTED 63 IV. DAISY'S SISTER FLOWERETS 85 V. DAISY AT STUDY 107 VI. DAISY A TEACHER 127 VII. THE SWEARING CLASS 151 VIII. DAISY'S NAME 181 IX. THE LOST FOUND 201 [Illustration] [Illustration] THE LITTLE FLOWER-GIRL. [Illustration] [Illustration] DAISY'S WORK. I. THE LITTLE FLOWER-GIRL. THERE stood our Daisy. What a Daisy it was too; what a fair, sweet floweret; pure and innocent-looking as the blossoms over which she bent. There she stood beside her basket of flowers, a little spot of brightness and beauty amidst all the dust and heat and turmoil of the noisy street, on that warm summer afternoon. It was a street which ran beside a great railroad depot. Porters, carmen, and hackmen were calling, shouting, and swearing; passengers were hurrying by to catch the trains which were starting every few minutes; carriages driving up with their loads of ladies and children; and farther down the street were great trucks laden with freight, and express-wagons filled with baggage, which the railroad porters were unloading with a great amount of noise and crash; and amongst it all was Daisy, standing opposite the door of the ladies' entrance. But not one of all those passers-by knew that she was a "Daisy," or that those were her namesakes which she held so lovingly in her little hands. Now and then one stopped to buy one of the five or ten cent bouquets, so tastefully arranged, which lay in her basket; and almost all who did so had a kind word to give the child; for there was something in her look and air which pleaded for tenderness and sympathy. It did not seem that this was her proper place; for even in her homely dress she looked so dainty and delicate, and moved and spoke so like a little lady, that it was easy to see that she had been accustomed to a different kind of life. But all who noticed her, or stopped to buy her flowers, were in such haste that none had time for more than a passing interest in the child, and contented themselves with wondering and pitying. Down the street came a lady with a little girl, the latter skipping and jumping as she held her mother's hand. No wonder the little one was happy, and as full of play and merry pranks as any kitten; for she had been spending such a pleasant day with mamma in the city, and was now going back with "such lots to tell about and heaps of pretty things" to her own lovely country home. "Oh, see, mamma!" she said, as her eye fell upon the other child, "see those pretty flowers that dear little girl is selling. She is just about as large as Lola Swan, and _don't_ she look nice and sweet. Won't you buy some flowers from her, mamma?" "You have plenty of flowers at home, dear Lily, and we have about as much as we can carry now," answered her mother. "Oh, dear mamma, but those little brenkays" (bouquets, Lily meant) "would take up such a tiny mite of room, and I want you to buy some for kindness to the little girl. She looks so sorry out of her eyes, mamma." Moved by the pleadings of her little daughter, Mrs. Ward turned toward the flower-girl, whom in her hurry she had nearly passed without a look, and asked the price of her bouquets. "What a pretty pot of daisies! Can't I have that, mamma?" asked Lily. But at this the flower-girl drew back and put one hand over the pot of daisies she held in the other, as if she feared it was to be taken from her by force. "I'll ask papa to carry them for me, mamma," said Lily. "Ho! ho!" said a cheery voice behind her, "so you think papa has nothing better to do than turn expressman and carry all your traps, do you? I wonder how many bundles are already waiting in the depot for me to put safely in the cars;" and turning about Lily saw her father, who had overtaken his wife and little girl. "Oh! lots and lots!" said Lily, jumping about with new glee as she saw him. "We bought something for everybody, papa; and I bought a present for your birthday to-morrow; but it is a secret. Mamma is going to fill it with ink and I'll put it on your writing-table 'fore you come down in the morning; but you won't ask what it is, will you?" "Not on any account," said Mr. Ward. "But you must make haste and buy your flowers, or we shall not find good seats in the cars. So you want these daisies, do you? How much are they, my child?" But again the flower-girl drew back. "I couldn't sell them, sir," she said; "at least not now, not if,----" "Oh! they are for some favorite customer, hey? You see, Lily, you can't have them. Well, pick out your bouquets; we'll hang them about our necks if we can't carry them any other way," said Mr. Ward. "This is the little girl I told you about, my dear," turning to his wife, who had been looking at the sweet, sad face of the young flower vender. "What is your name, my child?" asked the lady. "My name is--they call me Margaret," said the child, with hesitation in her voice and manner, and a sudden flush breaking over her face. "There," said Mr. Ward, when, having paid for the flowers which Lily had chosen, he hurried his wife and daughter away; "there, my dear, I did not say too much about that child, did I?" "Why no," said Mrs. Ward, looking back to the small figure beside its basket of flowers, "there is certainly something very interesting about her. Her speech and manner, as well as her looks, are strangely refined and lady-like for one in her position. I wish we had time to talk more to her." The flower-girl looked after them and sighed,--a long, weary sigh, as she watched the frolicsome Lily. "Most all little girls have their fathers and mothers," she said softly to herself; "but I don't have either. I wonder why God did take both of mine away; if He didn't know how lonesome I would be, or why He didn't take me too. I don't see what good I can be to Him all alone by myself, except Betty and Jack. But then He knows, and maybe He only wants me to be patient till He's ready to take me." [Illustration] But the wistful eyes brightened again, as, having watched Lily and her friends disappear within the door of the depot, she turned them the other way to see if new customers were coming. "There he comes," she said, as her eye fell upon a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman coming down the street, "soldier" written in every line and motion of his figure, from the erect, stately head, down to the ringing, military tread of his firm foot. "Good afternoon, little woman," he said, returning with a pleasant smile her welcoming look; "is my wife's bouquet all ready?" Taking from the corner of her basket a bouquet somewhat larger than the rest, and of rather choicer flowers, she held it up to him. "Thank you, sir," she said, as she received the price; and then, with rising color, added, "would it be too much trouble to carry this to the lady?" "Too much trouble? No! How much is it?" he said, putting his hand again into his pocket. "Oh! sir, I didn't mean that. I didn't want to sell it, but to give it to you, if you would take it to the lady you buy flowers for every day. I want to send it to her because you are so kind to me, and because--because you put me in mind of--of somebody." "That is it, is it?" said the gentleman. "Well, I can't refuse such a pretty gift, so prettily offered. And who do I put you in mind of, pray?" "Of my papa, sir. You do look like him." "Humph!" said the gentleman, not much pleased at the idea that he was like the father of this little poor child, above her station though she looked. "And these are daisies, hey? My wife will like them." "General, do you mean to miss the train?" said an acquaintance, as he passed. "Not with my own consent, certainly," said the gentleman. "I shall thank you for the lady to-morrow, my little girl." But as he turned to go, his foot slipped upon a piece of orange-peel, thrown down by some careless person, and he had nearly fallen. He would have been down altogether but for his little companion; but as he involuntarily put out his hand, she caught it; and that support, frail and slight as it was, was sufficient to steady him. Kind of heart, noble and generous though he was, the soldier was hasty-tempered and quick, and an oath--a fearful oath--burst from his lips. "Ah, you were my good angel. You have saved me from a bad fall," he said almost in the same breath, but in a very different tone and manner, as he turned to the child. His good angel! Ah, yes! More than he knew, his good angel. Those little hands should from this time hold him from falling into the sin of which he had just been guilty. Years ago General Forster would have been shocked at the thought of letting such words escape his lips, though even then he was none too reverent or careful in speaking of sacred persons or things; but in the bustle and excitement of war he had, alas! like many another brave man, allowed himself to fall into the habit of taking God's holy name in vain. But careless though he might be before men in moments of forgetfulness, or when his hasty temper got the better of him, he seldom or never suffered himself to use such words before women or children; why, you shall learn. "Why, have I hurt you?" he asked, seeing with surprise her startled and troubled face. "No, sir, oh! no," she answered, catching her breath, "but, but"-- "Well, but what?" "But I am so sorry;" and that she was so was proved, as she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. "Sorry for what?" he asked. She gave him no answer, but shrank a little away. "Sorry for what?" he repeated, as if determined to know; and the tone of command, which seemed to say he was used to instant obedience, forced her to speak, whether she would or no. "Sorry for those words you said, sir," she sobbed. "Those words? What words?" But his question answered itself as it was spoken; for his wicked words, which but for this would have been forgotten the next instant, came back to him, and he stood rebuked before this poor little flower-girl. He repented already; but repented only because he had distressed this simple child, in whom he took so much interest, not yet because he had grieved and offended the Holy One whose name he had profaned. Still he was vexed too. "Why, you don't mean to say," he said rather impatiently, "that you never hear such words as those, standing here as you do, half the day, with those rough men and boys about you?" "Oh, yes, sir!" she said, plaintively. "I do hear such words, often, often. I try not to; but I can't help it, you see; and it makes me so sorry. But I thought those poor men and boys could not know how to read, and had never been taught better, or perhaps they did not know what God had said in His commandments. But I did not think gentlemen said such things; and I liked you _so_ much." And did she like him less now? He, the _gentleman_, the rich man, felt that he could not wish to lose the respect and liking of this little child whom he thought so far beneath him, and he was ashamed and sorry. He knew that it was not impertinence, but only her innocent simplicity and truthfulness, which had caused her to say what she did. But to know that he was in the wrong and to acknowledge it, were one and the same thing with this true-hearted man. "You are right, Margaret," he said, forgetting how fast the moments were flying. "_Gentlemen_ should not say such things, especially before ladies and children. It is bad manners; but I forgot myself just then." She took her hands from her face and looked up at him. There was an unspoken question in the clear, earnest eyes, and it was plain that she was not yet satisfied. "Well," he said smiling at her, "what troubles you still? Let me have it all." "I was only thinking what difference could it make, sir." "What difference could what make?" "Whether it was ladies and children who heard it, sir," she answered timidly. "God hears it all the same, doesn't He? And it can't make any difference to Him who else hears it." She looked up as she spoke at the blue sky overhead, and the look and the words brought to him a sudden sense of God's constant presence and nearness. He had known it well enough before,--that the Almighty Eye saw him always; that the Almighty Ear heard him always; but he had never felt it as he did now. The gentle, timid reproof had gone far deeper than the little giver had intended, and her hearer felt ashamed that he had confessed to her that he would pay a respect to a woman or child which he did not feel it needful to pay to his Maker. He could make her no answer. "_You_ behind time, General?" said the voice of another friend as he hurried past; and the scream of the warning whistle told the gentleman that he had no time to lose. "I'll see you to-morrow. Good-by, my child. God bless you," he said hurriedly, and rushed away. But just in time; he was the last passenger, and stepped upon the platform of a car as the train was put in motion. The jar threw him once more a little off his balance, and he caught by the rail to save himself, while again hasty, profane words rose to his lips. But they did not pass them. What though no human ear should hear; "God heard them all the same," and they were checked before even the summer wind could catch them; and in their place the angels carried up the heart-breathed prayer, "God keep me from them in time to come." His next neighbor in the cars thought General Forster remarkably silent and unsociable that afternoon. He would not talk, but buried himself behind his newspaper. If the neighbor had looked closer he would have seen that the General's eyes were fixed, not on the paper held before his face, but on the little pot of daisies which rested on his knee. And over the delicate pink and white blossoms was breathed a vow,--a vow registered in heaven and faithfully kept on earth. [Illustration] A CLUSTER OF DAISIES. [Illustration] [Illustration] II. A CLUSTER OF DAISIES. "WHAT are you thinking of, Frank?" said Mrs. Forster, looking at her husband as he stood leaning against the casing of the window, gazing thoughtfully out at the lovely garden beyond. "Of a bad habit of mine," he answered. "You have none; at least none that I cannot put up with," she said playfully. "That's not the question, dear Gertrude," he returned gravely. "It is whether my Maker can put up with it, and I believe that He cannot, since he has said He 'will not hold him guiltless that taketh His name in vain.'" Mrs. Forster colored as she bent her head over the sleeping baby on her lap. "You did not know, perhaps," her husband said, after a minute's silence, "that I was ever guilty of this--sin?" "I did know it, Frank; at least I have heard you now and then, when you were speaking to your dogs and horses, or even when you were a little impatient with the men. But you did not mean me to hear such words; and I noticed you never used them in my presence." "No," he said a little sadly: "I would not speak in my wife's presence words which were not fit for her to hear; but I forgot an ear still purer, which I was insulting and defying. That is the second thrust I have had to-day, Gertrude, which has made me feel that I have treated the Almighty with less of reverence and respect than I would show to some of my fellow-creatures. Let me tell you of the innocent lesson I received from the little flower-girl, who sent the daisies to you." And sitting down beside her, he told her of the teaching which had come to him from the little wayside blossom; to whose lonely, thirsting heart his few kind words and smiles had been as drops of dew from heaven. But even while they talked of her and her pretty lady-like ways and sayings, which seemed so far above her station, they did not know she was a "Daisy," and that those were her namesakes over which Mrs. Forster bent, dropping happy tears and kisses on them, mingled with many a blessing on the little giver. Plucking one of the flowers from the stem, she opened her baby's tiny hand and placed it within it. The fairy fingers closed around it, clasping it tight, while the unconscious little one slept on. "Her name is Gertrude, but we'll call her Daisy, Frank, as soon as she is old enough to be called any thing but baby," said the young mother, "and her pretty pet name may serve as a reminder of this day's lesson, if ever it should be forgotten." "You think I may need it," said her husband, smiling. "I trust not; for the sin, to say nothing of the vulgarity, of taking God's name in vain, has been set forth so plainly by my innocent little teacher, that I must have a short memory, indeed, if I failed to remember her lesson. She thought _gentlemen_ must know better." "But, dear," said the lady, "you said you would inquire about this child, and see if we could not be of some use to her." "So I did," he answered; "and so I will, and should have done long since; but day after day I have let business or pleasure keep me till I had but just time to catch the train, and none to bestow on the poor little creature who seems to have been so grateful for the few kind words I have given her. You think I am rather fanciful about this child, I know, Gertrude; but I am convinced that some of her few years must have been spent among different people than those by whom she is now surrounded. Nor am I the only one of her customers who has noticed the grace of her speech and manners, so uncommon in a child of her class. Ward, and others beside, have seen it; but like myself have never made it their business to see after her. However, to-morrow afternoon, I shall make it a point to be at the depot in time to have a talk with her. I wonder if the woman who keeps the fruit-stall at the corner, and whose child I believe she is, would give her up and let her go to school." He was as good as his word; and more than an hour earlier than usual, our little flower-girl saw "her gentleman" coming down the street towards the depot. It was an eager, wistful little face, with some questioning fear in it, that she raised to him, for she was anxious lest she should have offended her kind friend, as she had learned to think him, by her plain speech of the day before. She had scarcely meant to speak so plainly; the words had seemed to escape her without her intending it, and, it was true, had been drawn forth by the gentleman's own questions; but when she remembered them afterwards she feared that he would think her rude and disrespectful. She need not have been afraid. His eye and voice were even kinder than usual as he came near to her, and he laid his hand gently on her head, saying,-- "Well, my little woman! and how does the world go with you to-day? The lady told me to thank you very much for the daisies." The young face brightened. "Did she like them, sir?" "Very much indeed,--all the more because she has a little one at home whom she is going to call 'Daisy' after your pretty flowers." "Is she your little girl, sir?" "Yes, she is a mite of a Daisy, but a very precious one," he answered; then looking into the flushed face, with its soft, shining eyes and parted lips, he added, "You are a Daisy yourself." The flowers she held dropped at her feet unheeded as she clasped both hands upon her breast, and with quick-coming breath and filling eyes, asked eagerly, "How _did_ you know it, sir? how did you know it?" "Know what, my child? What troubles you?" "How did you know I was Daisy?" she almost gasped. "I did not know it," he answered in surprise. "Is your name Daisy? I thought it was Margaret." "They call me Margaret, sir,--Betty and Jack; but Daisy is my _own_, _own_ name, that papa and mamma called me," she answered, recovering herself a little. "And where are your papa and mamma?" he asked. "I thought the woman who keeps the fruit-stall at the corner was your mother." "Oh, no, sir!" she said. "She is only Betty. She is very good to me, but she is not mamma. Mamma was a lady," she added, with simple, childish dignity, which told that she was a lady herself. "But _where_ are your father and mother?" he repeated, with fresh interest in the child. "Mamma is drowned, sir; and we could never find papa," she answered, with such pathos in her tones. "Come into the depot with me," said General Forster: "I want to talk to you." She obeyed, and, taking up her basket, followed him into the waiting-room, where, heedless of the many curious eyes around, he made her sit down beside him, and drew from her her sad, simple story:--how long, long ago she had lived with papa and mamma and her little brother and baby sister in their own lovely home, far away from here; where it was, she did not know, but in quite a different place from the great bustling city which she had never seen till she came here with Betty and Jack; how she had left home with mamma and the baby on a great ship, where to go she could not remember; how Betty was on board, and mamma had been kind to her; how a dreadful storm had come and there was great confusion and terror; and then it seemed as if she went to sleep for a long, long time, and knew nothing more till she found herself living with Betty and Jack in their poor home far up in the city. They had been very good to her, nursing and caring for her during the many months she had been weak and ailing; and now that she was stronger and better, she tried to help them all she could, keeping the two small rooms tidy, while Betty was away attending to her stall; and in the afternoon selling the flowers which Jack raised in his little garden, and she arranged in tasteful bouquets. And, lastly, she told how from the very first time she had seen General Forster, she thought he "looked so like papa" that she felt as if she must love him, and was so happy when he stopped to buy flowers of her and spoke kindly to her. The story was told with a straightforward and simple pathos, which went right to the listener's heart, and left him no doubt of its truth. But the child could tell nothing of her own name or her parents', save that she was always called "Daisy" at home, and that she had never since heard the familiar name until to-day, when she thought this stranger had given it to her. Betty and Jack always called her "Margaret;" and Betty thought she knew mamma's name, but she did not. But she loved daisies dearly for the sake of their name, which had been her own; and she had raised and tended with loving care the little plant she had given to "my gentleman" as a token of gratitude for his kindness, and because he was "so like papa." Having learned all that he could from the child herself, the gentleman went to the fruit-woman on the corner. "So," he said, "the little girl whom you call Margaret is not your own daughter?" "Indade, no, sir," answered Betty; "niver a daughter of me own have I barrin' Jack, and he's not me own at all, but jist me sister's son what died, lavin' him a babby on me hands. More betoken that it's not a little lady like her that the likes of me would be raisin', unless she'd none of her own to do it." "Will you tell me how that came about?" Betty told the story in her turn, in as plain and simple a manner as the child's, though in language far different. Her husband had been steward on a sailing vessel running between New Orleans and New York; and about three years ago, she, being sick and ordered change of air, had been allowed to go with him for the voyage. But it made her worse instead of better; and on the return trip she would have died, Betty declared, if it had not been for the kindness and tender nursing of a lady, "Margaret's" mother. This lady--"her name had been Saacyfut, she believed, but maybe she disremembered intirely, for Marga_ret_ said it was not"--was on her way to New York with her little girl who was sick, a baby, and a French nurse; but her home was neither there nor in New Orleans,--at least so the child afterwards said. Her own account of the storm was the same as the child's; but while the recollection of the little one could go no further, Betty remembered only too well the horrors of that day. When it was found that the ship must sink, and that all on board must leave her, there had been, as the little girl said, great confusion. How it was, Betty could not exactly tell; she had been placed in one boat, the French nurse, with the child in her arms, beside her; and the lady was about to follow with the infant, when a spar fell, striking the Frenchwoman on the head and killing her instantly, knocking overboard one of the three sailors who were in the boat,--while at the same time the boat was parted from the ship and at the mercy of the raging waves. In vain did the two sailors who were left try to regain the ship: they were swept further and further away, and soon lost sight of the vessel. They drifted about all night, and the next morning were taken up by a fishing-smack which brought them to New York. Fright and exposure and other hardships, while they seemed to have cured Betty, were too much for the poor little girl, and a long and terrible illness followed: after which she lay for months, too weak to move or speak, and appearing to have lost all memory and sense. And when at last she grew better and stronger, and reason and recollection came back, she could not tell the name of her parents or her home. "Marga_ret_ Saacyfut," Betty persisted in saying the French nurse had called her little charge, "Mamsell Marga_ret_," "and if the lady's name wasn't Saacyfut it was mightily nigh to it." "Marguerite" had been the French woman's name for "Daisy:" that the General saw plainly enough, but he could make nothing of the surname. "But did you not seek for the child's friends, Betty?" he asked. "'Deed did I, sir," she answered. "Didn't I even ad_ver_tise her, an' how she was to be heerd of, but all to no good. An' I writ to New Orleans to them what owned the ship, but they were that oncivil they niver answered, not they. An' it took a hape of money, sir, to be payin' the paper, an' me such hard work to get along, an' Marga_ret_ on me hands, an' I had to be done with it. For ye see me man was gone wid the ship, an' niver heerd of along wid the rest to this day; an' I had to use up the bit he'd put by in the savin's bank till the child was mendin' enough for me to lave her wid Jack." "It was a very generous thing for you to burden yourself with the care of her," said General Forster. "Burden is it, sir? Niver a burden was she, the swate lamb, not even when the sense had left her. An' that was what the neighbors was always a sayin', and why didn't I put her in the hospital. An' why would I do that after the mother of her savin' me from a buryin' in the say, which I niver could abide. For sure if it hadn't been for the lady I'd 'a died on the ould ship, and they'd 'a chucked me overboard widout sayin' by your lave; and sure I'd niver have got over such a buryin' as that all the days of me life. And would I be turnin' out her child afther that? An' isn't she payin' me for it now, an' 'arnin' her livin,' an' mine too? She an' Jack tends the bit of a garden, an' arternoons she comes down an' sells her flowers, an' where'd be the heart to refuse her wid her pretty ways and nice manners; a lady every inch of her, like her mother before her." And thrusting her head out from her stall, Betty gazed down the street with admiring affection on her young _protégée_. "Och! but she's the jewel of a child," she went on; "and it is surprisin' how me and Jack is improved and become ginteel all along of her. Ye see, sir, I did use to say a hape of words that maybe wer'n't jist so; not that I meant 'em for swearin', but it was jist a way of spakin'. But after Marga_ret_ began to mend and get about, ye would have thought she was kilt intirely if I let one out of me mouth. So seein' how it hurted her, I jist minded what I was about, an' Jack the same, for he was a boy that swore awful, poor fellow; he'd been left to himself, and how was he to know better? At first him and me minded our tongues, for that the child shouldn't be hurted; but by and by didn't she make it plain to us that it was the great Lord himself what we was offendin', and knowin' she'd been tached better nor me, I jist heeded her. And now, sir, them words that I never thought no harm of and used to come so aisy, I jist leave them out of me spache widout troublin'; and a deal better it sounds, and widout doubt more plasin' to Him that's above. And Jack the same mostly, though he does let one slip now and agin. So ye see, sir, it's not a burden she is at all, at all, but jist a little bit of light and comfort to the house that houlds her." Glad to find a listener in a "gintleman the likes of him," Betty had talked away to the gentlemen, so taken up with her story, that she paid little heed to the business of her stall. She made wrong change more than once, gave quarts instead of pints, oranges in place of apples, and peanuts for sugar-plums, and provoked some impatient customers not a little; while one wicked boy, seeing her attention was taken up with something else, ran off without paying for the pop-corn he asked for, and was not called back. But Betty lost nothing by the time and thought she had given to the gentleman, or the interest she had shown in her young charge, as she found when she looked at the number upon the note he slipped into her hand when he left her: a note which the warm-hearted Irishwoman laid by "to buy that new gown and pair of shoes Margaret needed so bad." [Illustration] [Illustration] THE DAISY TRANSPLANTED. [Illustration] [Illustration] III. THE DAISY TRANSPLANTED. "BETTY," said General Forster, stopping the next morning at the fruit-woman's stall, "could you make up your mind to give up that little girl if you were sure it was for her good?" Betty sighed and shook her head mournfully as she answered,-- "I've always looked to give her up, sir, if them Saacyfuts, or whatever their name'll be, turned up, and if it was for her good, sorra a word would they hear out of me, though I won't say but it would go hard with me and Jack. But ye'll not be tellin' me ye've been findin' her friends since last night, sir?" "Not the people she belongs to, certainly, Betty; but I have found those who will be friends to her, and provide for her, if you will consent. She should go to school and be well taught: do you not think so?" "Indade, an' there's none knows that better nor meself, sir. An' is it yerself that's the friend ye're spakin' of?" and Betty gave a searching look into the gentleman's face. He smiled. "Yes," he said: "I would like to put her to school and take care of her. She seems a sweet child, and a good one. And you see, Betty, I have it in my power to do more to find her friends than you are able to do, and we may trace them yet. If we never find them, I will promise to provide for her as long as it may be necessary. Are you willing?" Betty again stared into the face of her questioner as if she would look him through. "I'm sinsible of your kindness, sir," she answered; "but ye see I'm in a way risponsible for the child, not to say that she is as dear to me as me own flesh and blood, and I'd say 'yis,' and thank ye kindly, but--ye'll excuse me plain spakin'--ye're a stranger to me, and I couldn't be partin' wid Marga_ret_ widout I was certified as to yer ka_rac_ter. For if I didn't think she'd be brought up right, niver a foot should she stir to go wid ye. I seen Miss Gertrude Allston a walkin' wid ye once last summer, sir, jist after I set up me stand here, but she niver heeded me wid her swate face. But I used to be laundress in her mother's house afore I was married, and a swate child was Miss Gertrude and a good as ye're sayin' of Marga_ret_, and she'll niver go far wrong, I'll answer for it. So, if ye'll jist bring me a line from her and she says ye're all right, I'll not say ye nay." General Forster laughed heartily, not one whit offended at Betty's "plain spakin'." "Miss Gertrude Allston, as you call her, will give me all the lines you want, Betty; and she thought me right enough to marry me. She is my wife,--Mrs. Forster." "An' is it so, sir?" said Betty, dropping the rosy-cheeked apple she was polishing, and gazing at the gentleman with a mixture of curiosity and admiration that was droll to see. "Well, but ye're in luck; and if it's Miss Gertrude that has the managin' of ye, that's ka_rac_ter enough of itself, an' I'll say take the child an' my blessin' on all of yees. But when she gets among yer fine folks, ye'll not let her be forgettin' the woman what cared for her when there was none else to do it: will ye, sir? An' ye'll be lettin' me see her once in a while?" There is no need to say that this was readily promised, and the General went on to tell Betty what plans he and his wife had for Daisy. She was to be taken for a while to his home, where Mrs. Forster would provide her with proper clothing; and then send her to Miss Collins' boarding-school to be taught and trained in a way to satisfy her friends if they should ever find her, or that she might one day be able to earn her own living, if it should be needful. "An' I'm glad she should have the bringin' up of a lady which is what I couldn't give her," said Betty, with another sigh, for it went to her heart to part with her darling; "but ye'll not be able to make her more of a lady nor she is now; no, not if ye dress her in gould and jewels, an' silks an' satins. Niver a rough word nor way has she with her, if she has been with me and Jack more nor two year, nor ye couldn't find a purtier behaved child in all the land." An hour or two later, Betty, having found a friend to "mind" her stall for her, guided General Forster to the tiny house in the suburbs of the city where she lived with Daisy and Jack. The two children were out in the little garden gathering the flowers which were to be tied up in bouquets for Daisy's afternoon sale; and great was their surprise, when the sound of the gate-latch causing them to look up, they saw Betty coming home at this unusual hour of the day, and the gentleman with her. Their business was soon told; but although Daisy flushed and smiled with astonishment and delight when she heard what the "gentleman who looked so like papa" meant to do for her, the little face soon shadowed over again, and she shook her head gently but firmly when she was asked if she would go. "An' why for no, dear?" asked Betty. "Sure ye'd niver be for throwin' away a chance the likes of that, not to spake of it's bein' ongrateful to the gintleman's kindness, an' he no more nor less than the husband of Miss Gertrude." But Daisy shook her head again; and then first begging the gentleman's pardon, as a polite little girl should do, stepped up to her faithful friend, and putting her arms about her neck whispered something in her ear. The tears she had before with trouble kept back now started to Betty's eyes. "Och, an' is it that, honey?" she said in her broadest brogue, "an' ye'll not let that be thrubblin' yer dear heart. What a tinder, grateful little sowl it is! Ye see, sir," she went on, turning to the General, while she smoothed with her loving hand the little head which lay upon her breast, "ye see, sir, it's just as I tellt ye. She's a lady, every inch of her, an' has feelin's that's jist oncommon. An' there's a matter of back rint jew, it's more'n a year, though me landlord he's as good as gould, an' a bill at the poticary's, an' little scores at the baker's an' grocers what I niver got paid off yet, not since the child was sick an' I couldn't rightly make things go; an' she says she won't be lavin' us now that she can turn a penny wid her posies an' help along." Drawing the child to him, General Forster whispered to her in his turn, promising that the "back rint" and other "scores" should be paid off without delay if she would but come with him; and Daisy, feeling herself nearer home and friends than she had ever done since the dreadful day of the shipwreck, when she was parted from "mamma," put her hand trustingly in his to be led where he would. But the parting went hard. Daisy could not leave those who had been so kind, and shared their little all with her, without many a bitter tear. Betty kissed her and clung to her and called down all heaven's blessings on her head; and Jack hung over the gate, uttering frantic howls as he watched the sobbing child led away by her new protector. Not one thought gave Jack to his fourteen years; not one to the "fellers from beyant the lot," who, drawn by his cries, came flocking to see what ailed him who was all their terror and admiration: their admiration, because he was bigger, stronger, braver than any other boy of his age among their crew; their terror, because of late he allowed no bad word to be used in his presence, banishing all who offended in that way from their games, choosing as his favorites and chief companions those who were most careful not to take God's name in vain. So cursing and swearing had come to be much less frequent than of old among the lanes and lots lying around the humble house where the little Daisy had bloomed and grown during the last two years, dropping upon the path which God had chosen for her good seed of which she knew not herself. Betty went back to her stand with a heavy heart, knowing that when she went home that night she should miss the sweet little face which had brightened and cheered her after many a hard day's work; but she was half-consoled for her own loss when she saw Daisy coming down the street holding General Forster's hand. For the General's first care had been to take the little girl to a place where children's clothes could be had ready-made; and where he had her fitted out, as Betty said, "as nice as a new pin and as became the little lady she was by right." But Daisy was as much a lady in the coarse but clean calico frock and patched shoes she had worn yesterday, as she was now in the nice clothes provided for her by General Forster; for it was the sweet manners and pretty ways she had never lost which made her so, and the new garments covered as warm and loving a little heart as the old ones had done. And so Betty found, and knew that pride would have no place there, when, as she reached the stand, Daisy drew her hand from the gentleman's, and running behind the stall as she had many a time done when she was eager to show Betty what a good afternoon's sale she had made with her flowers, threw her arms about her neck and kissed her again and again as lovingly as she had done when she had no other friend in the world. Gentle Mrs. Forster gave Daisy a warm welcome to her new home; and the manner in which the child fell at once into the ways and habits of those about her plainly showed that they were not new to her, but that she had at some time been well accustomed to a different life than that she had led for the last two years. She had ways of her own, too, that were very charming: a pretty, dainty grace in her behavior and speech; a thoughtfulness and care for others, surprising in any child of her age,--for Daisy could not be more than eight years old,--and particularly so for one who had had little teaching for some time. It was easy to see that Daisy had received careful training at one time, and that the lessons then learned had taken deep root and were not yet forgotten in spite of the long separation from her home and friends. It had been intended, as General Forster told Betty, to send the little girl to boarding-school at Miss Collins'; but she soon grew so closely to the hearts of her new friends that they felt as if they could not bear to part with her; and it was at last settled that her home was to be with them for the present, at least, and that she should only go to Miss Collins for the morning, as most of the other little girls in Glenwood did. Mrs. Forster could not bear to send from her this loving child, whose greatest happiness seemed to be in making others happy, and she grew every day more and more interesting as the familiar objects and customs about her called up past recollections of the home and parents she had lost. She would watch the General for hours at a time, as he sat reading or writing, or follow him with wistful eyes as he mounted his horse and rode down the broad avenue "just like papa;" would hang over the lesser Daisy as she lay sleeping, "'cause she looks just as our baby at home used to," and delighted to wait upon her and Mrs. Forster in a dainty, neat-handed manner, which showed that such loving service came quite naturally to her. She never called the infant "baby," as the rest of the family did. With her it was always "little Daisy." She seemed to love the pretty name, either given to herself or another; and all the variety of choice flowers with which General Forster's garden was filled could not win her chief affection from her old favorite daisies, "'cause mamma loved them so and named me after them." But though she remembered so much, the child could not recall the name of her parents, or where they had lived. Their name "was not what Betty called it," she was sure; but none the less had it passed from her mind. "Francine," the French bonne, used to call mamma "Madame," and herself "Mademoiselle Marguerite;" but when she was asked what other people used to call mamma and papa, the little face grew clouded and pained with the effort to remember; and when name after name was mentioned to her, she shook her head at each one. The General tried by every means in his power to discover the friends who must still be mourning the loss of their sweet little daisy blossom, but all in vain; and as week after week went by, he and his wife decided that they could not send her forth from their own roof unless her relations came to claim her. She was an added ray of light where all had been brightness and sunshine before,--a lovely, precious little flower, lending new fragrance and beauty to the home where she blossomed. [Illustration] [Illustration] DAISY'S SISTER FLOWERETS. [Illustration] [Illustration] IV. DAISY'S SISTER FLOWERETS. "GOODNESS gracious! mercy _me_!" "I didn't mean to, Susy; 'pon my word and honor I didn't; just as sure as I'm alive." Such were the words uttered by two different little voices which our Daisy heard, as holding by General Forster's hand, she reached the gate of Miss Collins' garden on the first morning of her going to school in Glenwood. Now would it not have been thought that some terrible misfortune must have called forth that exclamation from the first young speaker; or that the second thought herself accused of some dreadful crime, and that she must prove her innocence at once by all the strong words she could think of, if she would escape severe punishment? And what was this mighty matter? Why, just this. Susy Edwards and several of her schoolmates were "making a land of Egypt." For of late the geography lesson of the young class had been upon that country, and they had been much interested in the pictures of the pyramids and Sphinx. And Susy, who "liked to make her knowledge of use in her plays," and who was considered by the other children to have a great genius in that way, had proposed that they should turn a portion of their play-ground into Egypt. This was thought a capital plan, and the recess of the day before had been employed in this way,--the little planners and builders leaving it with great regret, and returning to it before school-time that morning with fresh pleasure and some new ideas. The gravel walk was supposed to be the desert; the trough which led the waste water from the spring, the River Nile; while a jointed wooden doll, cruelly deprived for the purpose of all its limbs, had half of its remainder buried in the gravel, to represent the Sphinx. Any number of pyramids, four or five inches high, had been built out of pebbles, and several were still going up. And Lily Ward, the pet and darling of the school, the youngest child, and till that day the newest scholar there, had brought that morning a tiny doll's bath-tub, with a doll to match lying in it, saying it was to be "Moses in the bulrushes, for it couldn't be a real land of Egypt without a Moses." Lily's idea was received with great applause and admiration, and she felt rather proud of it herself when she heard it so much praised. But a difficulty arose. The little tub did duty for the ark of bulrushes most beautifully, it was "so real and so cunning;" and never was a meeker baby than the one which lay so quietly within it. But he must be hidden, and nothing could be found to answer for flags. The grass about the mock River Nile was quite too short for that purpose, trampled on as it was through each day's playtime by at least twenty pairs of little feet; and the willow twigs which Lola Swan planted would not stand up straight enough to make a shade for the ark. "There isn't time to plant them deep enough," said Lola; "the school-bell will ring in a few moments, and then we'll have to leave it." "And the sun will go and come round here before recess," said Lily, in a tone of distress, "and Moses will be all sunburned. Besides, it isn't a bit real: they never leave babies lying out in the sun." "Put him out on the grass and turn the ark upside-down over him till we come out again," said Susy. But Lily scouted the idea of having her Moses treated in this way; and all began at once to deepen the holes for the willow twigs before the bell should ring. But suddenly a bright thought struck Lily. "Let's play Moses' mother and Miriam put a pyramid over him," she said. "We could do that pretty quick, and it will be nice and shady for him, and very real too, 'cause they did have pyramids in Egypt." All agreed readily, for this was thought an excellent arrangement, and they fell to work as fast as possible; while Bessie Norton whispered to Violet Swan, "What a smart child Lily is, isn't she?" "Yes," said Violet, in the same tone, "very; and I expect when she is grown up she will do something very remarkable." "What?" asked Susy Edwards, who heard them. "Be a genius, I expect," answered Violet, solemnly. "Oh, how nice!" said Bessie, who had not the least idea what genius meant, but did not like to say so. The pyramid over the sleeping Moses was nearly completed, the little builders expecting each moment to hear the bell, when Lola Swan, coming with a fresh supply of pebbles, tripped over a stick which lay upon the grass, and, trying to recover herself, let her load fall around and upon the half-built pyramid, knocking down half a dozen or so of the stones which composed it. Not much harm was done, but Susy immediately exclaimed,-- "Goodness gracious! mercy me!" and Lola answered as you have heard in the words which met Daisy's ear as she and General Forster entered the garden. The click of the gate-latch caused all the children to look up, and Moses and the pyramids were for the moment forgotten at the sight of the new scholar. "Why! there's Daisy Forster," said Lily, for Daisy was now known by this name. "I wonder if she's coming here to school," said another; and that question was speedily answered, as, stopping by the little group, the General, whom all knew and liked, said, "Here's a new schoolmate for you. Will you be kind to her, and make her feel at home?" "Yes, sir, we will; and I'll take care of her," said Lily, scrambling to her feet and taking Daisy's hand in a patronizing manner. "She won't feel much strange after one day, 'cause we'll all be good to her, and she shall help us make our land of Egypt." "Ah! that is what you are doing, is it?" said the General. "Yes, sir," answered Lily; "we're just putting a pyramid over Moses in the bulrushes, 'cause we hav'n't time to fix so many bulrushes till recess. And part of it is knocked down. Lola did it, but she didn't mean to, and if you peep in there between those stones you can see a little bit of the ark and Moses' dear little china arm poking up. Please to peek, sir." The General did as he was requested, saying that he saw Moses quite plainly. "It isn't much matter if we do have to leave him now," said Lily; "he's pretty nicely covered up." "I think so," said the General, gravely; "and if I were Moses, with a pyramid being built over me, I think I should prefer to have a small breathing-hole left." "Why, so he would," said Lily; "and now we can leave him nicely fixed, and play he's very comfortable in his pyramid, even if it's not quite done." Lily being satisfied with the fate of Moses, all the rest were so; and the bell now ringing, the little group turned towards the house. Daisy wondering, as well she might, that a matter which was so easily settled should call for such violent expressions of distress and alarm as she had heard from two of the little girls. "Why, Miss Collins," said General Forster, as that lady met them at the door, "what a bouquet of flowers you have here! A Rose, a Violet, a Daisy, and a Lily; as choice a nosegay as one could wish for." "And the Lily is going to take care of the Daisy, and make her feel to home, Miss Collins," said Lily, who still held Daisy's hand. "The General said I could." "No, he didn't," said Susy. "Yes, he _did_, 'pon my word he did; least I said I would do it, and he didn't say I couldn't: did you, sir?" said Lily, throwing back her head to look up at the General's tall figure. "And that comes to the same thing, does it, Lily?" he said, laughing; "well, I suppose it does; and I promise you shall look after Daisy till she feels no longer a stranger among you." "She knows me, and Loly and Violet, as well as any thing," said Lily; for the little girls had met several times before, and Lily felt herself and the two Swans to be on rather intimate terms with Daisy Forster. "All right, then. I leave her to you. Good-morning, Miss Collins," and with a bow to the lady, with whom he had before made all the necessary arrangements for Daisy, a pleasant nod for the little ones, and a kiss for Daisy, he went away. Daisy felt rather lonely when he was gone, in spite of Miss Collins' kind look, Lily's tight clasp of the hand, and Violet's, "We have real nice times in school. Don't be afraid." For she was far more shy with children than she was with grown people, probably because she had never had any companions of her own age; and the number of young faces, most of them strange, about her, made her long to be back again at Mrs. Forster's side. And they all looked at her a good deal, for her story was well known among them, and she was an object of great curiosity. Lily observed this, as she took her seat with Daisy beside her, and thought she must speak up for her charge. "Miss Collins," she said, "please to make a rule." "Well," said Miss Collins, smiling; for Lily was constantly asking for new rules concerning things which did not suit her. She had begun with this more than a year ago when she was only a visitor at the school; and she was even now not a regular scholar, but only coming for a few weeks. For her papa and mamma had gone on a journey, and Lily, being lonely at home when Ella and the boys were at school, it had been arranged that she was to go with Ella in the morning. So she was rather a privileged person, and spoke her mind freely concerning that which did not please her, which the other children thought rather a joke, and were generally ready enough to fall in with Lily's rules. So now they all listened. "Please to make a rule that nobody must stare, ma'am," said Lily: "it makes people feel so to be stared at,"--and Lily put up both hands to her cheeks,--"specially if they are new." "Very true," answered Miss Collins: "let us all try to remember the Golden Rule, and then we shall neither stare nor do any thing else to hurt another's feelings." Then she struck the little bell which stood upon her table, and all knew the school had begun, and they must be quiet. Next calling Bessie Norton to her, Miss Collins gave her a number of Bibles, and the little girl handed one to each of her classmates. Then Miss Collins read a verse aloud, and the children followed, each in her turn. "Minnie Grey may take the Bibles," said Miss Collins when this was done. Minnie rose, and went from one to another collecting the Bibles. But instead of taking as many as she could conveniently carry at one time, giving them to Miss Collins, and coming back for the rest, she went on piling one on top of another, till one arm was quite full, when she came to Daisy and held out her other hand for her book. As she did so, the top one of the pile fell to the floor. Minnie stooped for it, and down went two or three more. "Oh! bother the old things," said Minnie, in a low voice, but very impatiently. Daisy had stooped to help her pick up the Bibles, but the glow her cheeks wore when she raised her head again was not all owing to that. Bother the old things! What old things? Why, the Bibles, God's own Holy Word. Daisy was very much shocked, and she looked up at Miss Collins, expecting to hear her reprove such _wicked words_, _she_ thought them. But Miss Collins had not heard Minnie's exclamation, though the noise of the falling books had called her attention that way, and she said,-- "Minnie, my dear, you are careless with those Bibles: do you forget whose books they are?" "I don't care," muttered Minnie, but not so that the lady could hear. Daisy heard again; and the thought passed through her mind, "What a wicked little girl Minnie must be!" And yet Daisy was mistaken. If she had asked Minnie's parents, teacher, or playmates, they would all have told her that Minnie was an uncommonly good and pleasant little girl; truthful, obedient, industrious, and generous and obliging towards others. She had no thought now that she was breaking one of God's commandments; and she would have been both offended and grieved, if she had known what was in Daisy's mind, believing herself, as she did, to be innocent of any wrong. [Illustration] [Illustration] DAISY AT STUDY. [Illustration] [Illustration] V. DAISY AT STUDY. DAISY was soon at home with her schoolmates, and a great favorite among them. It was not strange that they liked and were interested in her. She was such a gentle, modest, amiable little girl; watching and joining in the games and lessons of the others with a kind of innocent wonder which amused and touched them all. For Daisy was not at all accustomed to be with children of her own age, and their ways were all new to her. And of course she was behind all the rest in her studies. She could not even read as well as Lily Ward; and had to begin with the simplest lessons, such as Lily and two or three of the very youngest children learned. At first this troubled her, and she feared the rest of the class would laugh at her. But she soon found she need not have been afraid of that, for the rule of Miss Collins' infant class was the law of kindness; and any one of the little girls would have thought it almost a crime to laugh or mock at Daisy, for that which was her misfortune and not her fault. They might now and then fall out a little among themselves, for they were by no means perfect children; sometimes there would be some selfishness shown, or even a few angry words pass from one to another; but, on the whole, they agreed about as well as any twenty little girls could be expected to do; and not one among them would have had the heart purposely to do an unkind thing to another. Least of all to Daisy Forster, whom they all looked upon with a kind of tender pity and interest, because of her sad and romantic history; and who was at once taken up by both teacher and scholars as a sort of twin pet with Lily, for whom allowances were to be made, and who was to be encouraged and aided as much as possible. So Daisy found plenty of helpers, who, so far from laughing at her mistakes and backwardness, were rather inclined to think her quick and industrious, as indeed she was, trying hard to make up for lost time, and "catch up" with those of her own age. She was almost too eager about this, and had to be checked now and then, for since the long illness which had followed the shipwreck, Daisy had never been strong; and too much fatigue or study, or even too much play, would make her nervous and sick, and her little head would become confused and ache. So now and then Mrs. Forster would have to take the books from her, and forbid more study, sending her out to play, or to work in the plot of ground which had been given her for a garden of her own. She was not always pleased at this, and sometimes would be rather fretful and impatient. But Mrs. Forster soon found a way to put a stop to this. One afternoon she found the little girl bending over her slate with flushed and heated cheeks, anxious eyes, and trembling hands. "Daisy," she said, quietly, "what are you doing? Miss Collins has not given you lessons out of school, has she?" "No, ma'am," said Daisy; "but I asked Ella Ward to set me a whole lot of sums so that I could do them at home, and I can't make this one come right. I know it is not right, 'cause Ella put the answers on the other side of the slate, and mine won't come the same, all I can do." Mrs. Forster took the slate from her hand. "This sum is too hard for you, Daisy," she said: "you do not know enough arithmetic for this." "It is not any harder than the sums Lola and Violet and the other girls as large as I am do," answered Daisy, looking ready to burst out crying; "and I have to do arithmetic with the very little ones, like Lily, and it makes me ashamed; so I want to go on all I can. _Please_ give me the slate again, Aunt Gertrude," she added, as Mrs. Forster laid it beyond her reach. "No, dear. I do not wish you to study out of school. I am glad you want to improve, but you have as much to do there as is good for you; and at home I want you to have rest and play. You are improving quite as fast as could be expected, and for a time you must be content to go on with those who are younger than yourself." "But it makes me ashamed," pleaded Daisy, again. "There is no reason for that," said Mrs. Forster, patting the hot cheek she raised towards her. "The other children do not laugh at you and make you uncomfortable, do they?" "Oh, no, ma'am," said Daisy; "they are all so good to me, and when they can't help seeing what a dunce I am" (here Daisy's tears overflowed), "they always say kind things about how I never went to school before, and how my own dear mamma was drowned, and there was nobody to teach me till I came to you." "You are not a dunce, dear," said the lady. "A child who idles away her time when she should be studying, and does not care whether or no she learns as much as is fit for her, is a dunce: not a little girl who really wishes to be industrious, but does not know quite as much as others of her own age only because God has not given her the same advantages in time past. No one will think my Daisy a dunce. Now, we must have no more studying at home, no more lessons than those Miss Collins sets you." Daisy did not look satisfied: on the contrary, she even pouted a little. "Daisy," said Mrs. Forster, "suppose Uncle Frank were to give you some beautiful and costly thing which would be of great use to you in time to come if you took good care of it, say a watch: what would you do with it?" "Why! I _would_ take great care, oh! such care of it," said Daisy, opening her eyes in some surprise at the question. She did not see what that could have to do with her studies. "I'd wind it up every night, and try to keep it right and safe every way I could. But I don't know if I am quite large enough to have a watch of my own, or take care of it; maybe the best way would be to ask you or Uncle Frank to keep it for me till I was older." "And suppose for a while he gave you no key to this watch, but let it run down and be quiet?" "I'd just put it away till he gave me a key, and be patient about it," said Daisy, wondering more and more. "And if, by and by, when he gave you this key, you should go on winding and winding the watch farther and faster than it was right for it to go, till the wheels and springs were all spoiled and out of order, would Uncle Frank think you cared much for his gift?" "Why, no, Aunt Gertrude; and he wouldn't think I cared much for him, either, to use his pretty present so." "You are right, dear. And now I want my own little Daisy to see how it is with herself. God has given to you a young mind, bright and quick enough; but, for a while, He did not choose that it should do much work. But now He has given you the key by which you may wind it and set it to work; and if you use it without proper care, and so as to hurt and wear out this precious gift, would it not seem as if you cared very little about it, and did not respect and honor the Giver?" "Yes'm," answered Daisy, beginning to see what Mrs. Forster meant; "but I never thought about that." "I believe I never thought about it before, dear," said Mrs. Forster, smiling. "I am not afraid to praise you, Daisy; and I may safely say that I have never seen any little child who showed such true honor and reverence for her Maker, and all which belongs to Him. You must have been well taught, my child; and to know and remember such lessons is worth all the book learning in the world." Daisy was pleased, as she always was when any one spoke to her of her long-lost home, or praised the teaching she had received from those who had loved and cared for her there. And from this time there was no further trouble about the lessons; for it was enough for Daisy to know that she was misusing any one of God's good gifts, to make her change her ways. Many a lesson might have been learned, and, indeed, had been learned, by those older and wiser than herself, from the loving care and respect paid by this little one to her Creator's name, and to all the works of His hand. And it was a great trouble to her to hear the careless way in which many of her schoolmates used sacred names and things. They did not mean any harm; they did not think it any sin; but every day Daisy was shocked and distressed by hearing such words as "mercy," "gracious," "goodness," and "good heavens," and the like, from the lips of the other children, as they were about their play and study. It had become a habit with nearly all in the school; one caught it from another almost without knowing it; even Lily Ward, who once thought the clergyman "preached a sermon at her" because she said "hush up," now and then followed the example of the others when any thing vexed or surprised her. A few weeks at school had accustomed Lily to the constant use of expressions which a year ago she would have considered "real naughty words." The older girls in Miss Sarah Collins' room had fallen into this bad habit as much, if not more, than the little ones of the infant class. And it was not only this carelessness of speech in which they were all, large and small, to blame; but it seemed to Daisy so strange that they could handle and treat the Bible, God's holy Word, with so little reverence and respect, knocking it about among their other books as if it were no better than these last, even using it, sometimes, for purposes to which no book, even the most common one, should be put. Daisy wondered that Miss Collins did not teach them better; but either she did not notice all this, or she did not think it of much consequence; certain it is that she did not check them, and the evil seemed to Daisy to grow worse from day to day. At first she did not like to speak herself. You may wonder that this was so, since she had not feared to speak so plainly to General Forster, who was a grown gentleman, so much older than herself; but she had done that almost without knowing what she was saying, for, as you know, his profane words had startled her so that he was surprised, and he had almost forced her to tell him what had disturbed her. And here she was with every thing strange around her, school, schoolmates, and teacher all new to her; so it is not astonishing that she was rather shy and felt afraid to interfere with the others, or to tell them that she thought they were doing wrong. But by and by there came a day when she could no longer hold her peace. [Illustration] [Illustration] DAISY A TEACHER. [Illustration] [Illustration] VI. DAISY A TEACHER. ONE morning just after school commenced, a heavy shower came up; and when it was time for the recess, which was always given to the infant class at eleven o'clock, the ground was still so wet that the little ones were forced to find amusement within doors or upon the piazza. "What shall we play?" asked Rosie Pierson. "Lady Queen Fair," said Bessie Norton: "we'll go out on the piazza and play it." [Illustration] "Yes," said Violet; "and Lily shall be Lady Queen Fair, and we'll dress her up a little. Miss Emily," as a third Miss Collins, who gave music lessons to the girls, passed by, "may we have a rose to put in Lily's hair for Lady Fair?" The young lady smiled, stopped and pulled a couple of roses from the vine which wound itself around one of the pillars of the piazza, and gave them to Violet, then passed on. Time had been when Violet would have hoped, perhaps would have asked to be Lady Fair herself, and been sulky and displeased if the other children had not agreed; but now she was very different, and more apt to prefer another before herself. The roses were soon arranged, the one in the hair, the other in the bosom of the little Lady Queen, who took her dignities in the calmest manner. Meanwhile some of the other children were drawing forward one of the rustic chairs with which the piazza was furnished, to serve as a throne. But the little queen, like many another royal lady before her, found her throne by no means an easy one. "Ow!" she said, rubbing her little round white shoulders where she had scratched them against the rough bark of the twisted boughs which made the back of the chair, "ow! this is not nice at all, or comfortal. My feet don't come to the floor, and if I lean back I'm all scratched. I'd rather be a queen without a throne." "Oh, no! You must have a throne," said Susy Edwards. "Queens have to." "I don't see why," said Lily, rather pettishly; for she did not feel very well that morning, and that and the close heat of the day made her more fretful than usual. "I should think queens could do just as they have a mind to and make their subjiks do it too; and I don't see what they have to have their skin all scraped up for if they don't want to;" and Lily twisted her head to give an aggrieved look at the little fat shoulder with that red mark upon it. "I'll fix you," said Lola. "I'll put Miss Collins' footstool under your feet and you shall have the big cushion behind you. Some one bring the cushion while I carry the stool." The footstool was brought in a moment; but the cushion was not to be found. "The big girls had it yesterday," said Fanny Satterlee. "I saw them with it in their recess when I was going home. There comes Cora Prime now; let's ask her. Cora, what did the big girls do with that cushion yesterday when they had done with it?" "The Lord knows; I don't," said Cora, playfully tapping Fanny on the head with the roll of music in her hand. "Oh!" exclaimed Lily. Daisy did not speak; but as Cora's eye happened to fall upon her, her face said as much as Lily's "Oh!" "What's the matter with you two?" asked Cora, looking from one to the other of the little girls, but still good-natured. "You oughtn't to say that," said Lily. "Ought not to say what?" "The Lord knows," answered Lily. "Well, don't He know?" asked Cora. "No," said Lily, doubtfully, "I guess not. I don't believe He'd bother Himself with knowing about a worn-out old cushion what has a hole in the cover, and such things." "Yes, He does, too," said Cora, laughing; "are not the very hairs of our head numbered?" "Now, I _know_ you ought to be 'shamed," said Lily. "You're talking Bible; and that is not right, is it, Daisy?" "No," said Daisy, as boldly as Lily herself could have done, for quoting Scripture in a careless manner was also a habit of many in the school. "You two saucy monkeys! correcting your elders," said Cora, much amused. "I heard you both talking Bible to Miss Collins this morning with all the rest of your class." "We were only saying what we learned in Sunday school yesterday," said Lily. "That's not the same thing. I _know_ it's not right to talk Bible that kind of a way. Papa says so, and he tells us not to do it." "Your papa's saying so does not make a thing right or wrong," said Cora. "Yes, it does, too!" said Lily. "My papa knows a whole lot, and he wouldn't tell a story for any thing. Cora, you'd better go to your music lesson: I 'speck Miss Emily wants you." "Oh, you are very considerate for Miss Emily, all at once," said Cora, more amused than ever; "but you haven't told me why I shouldn't say, The Lord knows, when He does know." Lily looked at Daisy, who stood by the arm of her chair, for help. The little one felt that Cora was wrong, but she did not exactly know how to answer, and she had noticed how careful Daisy was to honor the name of God. "Is it not taking the name of God in vain?" said Daisy. "Upon my word!" said Cora. "Do you mean to call that swearing?" "Well, yes," said Lily, taking up the word, "a kind of baby swearing, I s'pose; but you know it's not very good of you, Cora." "Everybody says such things: they don't mean any thing," said Cora. "Not _everybody_," answered Lily. "Daisy don't." "Then Daisy's uncommonly good," said Cora. "Yes, she is," replied Lily; "and I s'pose _everybody_ ought to be uncommonly good and never say them." Cora laughed again. "Everybody must mind their p's and q's before you: mustn't they, Lily?" and away she ran to her music lesson. "Here's the cushion," said Rosie Pierson, running out from the school-room. "I found it in the closet under the shelf where those careless big girls left it, I s'pose." The cushion was put behind Lily's shoulders, but still the little queen fidgeted on her throne and declared she was not yet "comfortal." "'Cause if I lean back against the cushion my feet won't touch the stool," she said. "We'll put something else on the stool to make it higher," said Nettie Prime, who was trying to arrange Lily satisfactorily: "what shall we take? Oh, I know. Daisy, run and bring the big Bible off Miss Collins' table for Lily to put her feet on." Daisy, who made a motion to start forward as Nettie began to speak, stood still when she heard what she called for. "Make haste," said the latter, impatiently: "we won't have a bit of time to play." Daisy did not move, but stood with rising color, trying to make up her mind to speak. "Oh! you disobliging thing!" said Violet, and she ran for the book. "Oh! don't," said Daisy, as Violet came back and stooped to put the Bible on the footstool; "I didn't mean to be disobliging, but we ought not to use the Bible to play with." "Pooh!" said Violet: "Lily's little feet won't hurt it. It's all worn out, any way. The cover is real shabby." "I didn't mean that," answered Daisy; "I meant because it is God's book, and we ought to treat it very carefully." "Oh, fiddle! How awfully particular you are, Daisy!" said Minnie Grey. "Why, girls, do you know, the other day, when I was playing paper-dolls with her and I turned up a Bible to make the side of a house, she took it away, and when I put it back again 'cause it stood up better than the other books, she said she wouldn't play if I did so with the Bible." "I s'pose Daisy would call that 'taking God's name in vain,'" said another, half reproachfully; "wouldn't you, Daisy?" "I think it is something the same," answered Daisy, feeling as if all the others were finding fault with her and thinking her "awfully particular," a crime which no little girl likes to have laid to her charge. "I don't see how," said Lola. "I know we ought not to play with the Bible; but I don't see how it is taking God's name in vain." "But the Bible is God's book, and He told it to the men who wrote it, and His name is in it a great many times," said Daisy, "and I think it seems like taking it in vain to play with it or to put things upon it, or to knock it about like our other school-books. And it is not right to say 'the Lord knows,' and 'mercy,' and 'gracious,' and such words, when we are just playing, or when we are provoked." "What is the harm?" asked Rosie. "Mercy and gracious are not God's name." "Well, no," said Daisy, slowly, not exactly knowing how to explain herself. "And maybe I make a mistake; but it does seem to me as if it was a kind of--of--" "Of little swearing, as Lily says," said Lola. "Yes," said Daisy. "Rosie thinks it is no harm; but even if it is not much harm, I don't see what is the good of it. We can talk just as well without saying such words." "I guess they are pretty wicked," said Lily. "The day mamma went away, I said 'good heavens,' and she said 'Lily! Lily!' very quick, like she does when I do something very naughty, and she asked me where I learned that; and I told her Elly said it. I didn't mean to tell a tale about Elly; but mamma looked sorry, and she told me never to say it again. I guess 'mercy' is 'most the same, and I guess I won't say it any more; and, Daisy, if I hear the other girls say those words, I'll help you correct 'em." Lily promised this with an air of such grave importance that the other children laughed. Not in the least abashed, Lily went on,-- "Papa's coming home day after to-morrow, and I'll ask him to tell me a whole lot about God's name, and why it is wrong to say those things; and then I'll tell all you girls. But I'm not coming to school any more when mamma comes home; so you'll have to come to my house, and I'll have a swearing class, and teach you all about it." Lily's words might have been taken with a different meaning from that which she intended to give them; but the other children understood her, and that was enough. "But, Daisy," said Lola, "how do you know so much about these things when you don't know a great deal about every-day lessons, and have had no one to teach you for so long?" "I don't know," said Daisy. "I think my own mamma who was drowned used to teach me in the home I used to have;" and the dreamy look came into her eyes which they always wore when she spoke of her far-away home and those she had loved there. "I think I've forgotten a good many things," she added; "but you know I couldn't forget what mamma taught me about Jesus and what He wanted us to do if we loved Him. And I think if we do love Him we won't say words about His name, His heaven, or any thing that is His, that are not very good and gentle, and that we are very sure He would like us to say." "But you are so _very_ particular, Daisy," said Minnie; "I think you are most _too_ particular." "I didn't think we could be too particular about doing what Jesus likes," said Daisy. The other children had all gathered about Daisy, and were listening with interest to what she said. Perhaps they heard her with more patience than they would have given to any one else; for Daisy was a kind of mystery to them, and they looked upon her as a sort of fairy or princess in disguise, and would not have been at all surprised to hear the most extravagant stories about her, for she was "just like a story-book child." Lily had said so one day when she was speaking of her at home. "No," said Lola, thoughtfully; "but it does not seem as if such little things could be wrong. I know it can't be right to play with the Bible or say its words just when we are joking or for our own common talk; but I don't see the harm of saying 'goodness,' or 'mercy,' or 'heavens,' or those words which you never will say, Daisy; they are not God's name, and I don't see how it is taking it in vain to say them." Daisy looked thoughtful. She felt she was right, and wanted to explain herself; but she was rather shy and could not find words to do so. But Lily, whom shyness never troubled, came to her aid. "Never mind," she said: "I'll ask papa just as soon as he comes home, and he'll tell us all about it; and if he says it is naughty, why, it is, and we won't do it; and if he says it's good enough, why, we will. That's the way to fix it." Here the bell rang. "There, now," said Susy Edwards, "we have to go in, and we've wasted all our time talking, and never had a bit of good of our recess." But I think Susy was mistaken, and that they had one and all gained more good from their talk than they could have done from any amount of play; for it had set more than one young mind thinking; and from this day, even the most careless among them would check herself when she found she was on the point of using these words which had grown so common among them, more from want of thought than from any wish or temptation to do wrong. [Illustration] THE SWEARING CLASS. [Illustration] [Illustration] VII. THE SWEARING CLASS. WHEN Lily's papa and mamma came home, she was so glad to see them, and there was so much to hear and to talk about, that she quite forgot her purpose of asking her father to teach her about the third commandment. Besides, she no longer went to school now that her mother was at home, but had her lesson each day with her as she had done before Mrs. Ward went on her journey; and so she was not as apt to hear or to say those careless words which Daisy Forster had said it was not right to use. But it was at last brought to her mind one evening as the family all sat at the tea-table. "Mamma," said Ella, "will you let Lily and me have a tea-party to-morrow? I want to ask half a dozen of our girls, and I suppose Lily would like to have a few of the little ones at the same time." "Yes," answered Mrs. Ward, "you may each ask six of your most intimate friends." "Can Walter and I ask some of the fellows?" said Ned. "Oh, mercy! no," said Ella: "we don't want any boys. It is not to be a regular party, Ned. I just want the girls to spend the afternoon and drink tea; and it makes more fuss to have boys too." "Goodness me! You needn't get into such a way about it," said Ned. "Children," said Lily, her brother's and sister's words bringing back to her what Daisy had said, "children, you needn't either of you swear about it." Lily's efforts to keep the family straight were generally considered as a good joke, and her reproofs and advice received with a laugh; but this plain speaking was rather _too_ much for either Ella or Ned, and the former exclaimed,-- "Well, who is swearing, I'd like to know?" "And who gave you leave to correct your elders?" said Ned. "Nobody: I just took it," said unabashed Lily; and then, turning to her father, she exclaimed, "Papa, I b'lieve the girls in our school are pretty heathen, and don't know enough about the comman'ments. So I told them we'd have a swearing class, and I'd ask you to teach it, 'cause I s'pose you know a good deal about swearing; and this will be a good chance when they come to-morrow." This speech turned the vexation of Ella and Ned into amusement, and they laughed with the others. "I don't think your playmates will thank you for asking them here to take tea and then bringing them up for a lecture from me, my pet," said Mr. Ward. "Yes: they will, papa. They want to know about it, and I think we'd better make a swearing party of this. I b'lieve it would do those big girls good too. They swear, oh, dreadfully! and they don't seem to think they do, least Cora don't. Mamma, let's make a rule we won't have any swearing in this house: won't you?" "Certainly," said mamma, smiling; "and I think we must find out what _swearing_ is, and be careful not to break the rule." "If one is going to call 'goodness' and 'mercy,' and such things, swearing, one might as well give up talking altogether," said Ella. "Perhaps not exactly swearing," said her father; "but the use of them is a bad habit, and one that I have noticed is quite too frequent among all the young people of this place. It is growing stronger too, as all such habits do, and going from bad to worse. But I must go out now, and have not time to talk to you about it. If Lily can persuade her little friends to take the 'swearing class,' as part of their afternoon's entertainment to-morrow, well and good; if not, we will have a little private talk among ourselves some other time." Ella was not at all pleased by Lily's proposal; and hoping that it would pass from the child's mind before the afternoon, she was careful not to make her remember it by the use of any such words as had called forth Lily's reproof. This had very nearly proved successful; and in the excitement of arranging her baby-house, setting out the new tea-set mamma had brought her, and dressing the doll which had been papa's present, Lily had almost forgotten her plan for mingling wholesome instruction with the amusement provided for her young friends. There were Lola and Violet Swan, Daisy Forster, Rosie Pierson, Minnie Grey, and Bessie Norton; and they were all having a real good time sitting around a small table and playing tea out of the new china set, when Minnie said,-- "I have a secret to tell all of you, if you'll promise never to tell." "I won't," said Violet. "On your sacred word and honor?" said Minnie. "On my sacred word and honor," repeated Violet. "And you, Rosie?" asked Minnie. "On my word and honor," said Rosie. "Sacred?" said Minnie. "Sacred. Sacred word and honor," was Rosie's answer. Lily repeated the words as desired, and next came Daisy's turn. "I won't tell," she said, when Minnie looked at her. "On your sacred word and honor?" asked Minnie. "I promise I won't tell, Minnie." "But you must say on your word and honor." "I can't," said Daisy. "Then I shan't tell you; and you're real mean, Daisy Forster," said Minnie. "Why won't you say so?" "I don't see why I need, and I don't know if it is quite right," answered Daisy, coloring. "Oh, Daisy Forster, what a girl you are!" said Rosie. "Well," said Lily, "there's nothing left, 'cept these two caramels. Daisy, you eat up this; and, Bessie, you eat up the other. Now the tea-party is all done, and we'll go and ask papa about that comman'ment. He's been playing croquet with the big girls, but they seem to be resting now." Lily was right. Mr. Ward had been persuaded to make the eighth in a game of croquet, for he was a great favorite with all the young people in Glenwood, and his presence never put any check upon their games or pleasure parties. But the afternoon proved rather warm for exercise, even the gentle one of bewitching croquet; and, after a long game was finished, the whole party were ready to agree to Ella's proposal that they should take a rest, and send to the house for some cooling drink. So Mr. Ward was at liberty to attend to Lily, when she came rushing up to him, followed, rather more slowly, by the rest of the children. "Papa," she said, throwing herself across his knee, as he sat upon the green mound which was raised about the foot of one of the fine elm-trees which shaded the croquet-ground, "papa, Daisy says we oughtn't to say upon our words and honors! Oughtn't we? And will you teach us about taking God's name in vain now? It's the _singalest_ circumstance, but I went and forgot all about the swearing class, till Daisy said that." "A very singular circumstance, certainly;" said Mr. Ward, lifting Lily to a seat upon his knee, and smiling, while the other girls laughed at her speech. "I am quite willing to have a little talk with you all on this subject; but tell me first what you want to know." "Daisy is so awfully particular, Mr. Ward," said Minnie, in an aggrieved tone. "She won't let us say any thing; at least, she says every thing is 'wrong.'" "Every thing?" said Mr. Ward: "that is bad. Does Daisy want you all to keep silence? That _must_ spoil your play." "Oh, no!" said Minnie, "not that; but she says such lots of things are wrong to say. Why, sir, she won't say 'upon her word and honor,' 'cause she don't think it is right." "Why do you want her to say it?" asked Mr. Ward. "I was just going to tell them all a great secret, and I wanted her to promise, on her sacred word and honor, she would never tell; and she wouldn't do it." "So Daisy is apt to break her promises, is she?" said the gentleman, with a smile at Daisy, which told very plainly that he was only joking. "Oh, no, sir!" said Minnie. "Indeed she is not. Daisy always tells the truth, and never does what she says she won't; at least, we never knew her to do it: did we, girls?" A chorus of young voices was raised in Daisy's favor. "And yet you cannot trust her unless she swears to what she promises," said Mr. Ward. "Swears, sir!" said Minnie. "I'm sure I don't want her to swear! 'Word and honor' are not bad words, are they?" "Not in themselves, certainly;" answered Mr. Ward. "Many a thing which is good in itself when properly used, becomes bad and hurtful if put to a wrong purpose. Now to swear is to say, by some word or person which you consider holy and sacred, that you will or will not do, that you have or have not done, a certain thing. Suppose some man were accused of a crime, and that the judge were about to try him, and punish him if he were guilty, and it was thought that I knew whether or no the man had done that of which he was accused. So I am called to the court, and there made to promise that I will tell the truth, and nothing but the truth; and to make sure of this I am made to lay my hand on the Bible,--God's holy word,--and call upon Him, to hear me tell what I know. And this is considered a very solemn thing, even by many who have little care or respect for God in other ways; and it is called swearing, or taking the oath." "They ought to be 'shamed of theirselves," said Lily, indignantly; "they ought to know you would never tell a story, papa. And to go and make you swear too! I wouldn't do it if I was you; but I'd tell 'em the third comman'ment, and run away fast from them." "But if this is done in the fear of God, and as a sort of prayer that He will hear and help us to tell that which is true, it is not taking His name in vain, Lily," said Mr. Ward; "and to do it falsely is considered even by men to be a great crime. This is called perjury; and if any one is found guilty of it, he is severely punished by the law. Now it may be wise, and even necessary, for a man to take an oath at such a time as this, when the very life of another may depend on whether he tells the truth or no; but it can hardly be necessary for one little girl at play with another to make her promise sure by swearing to it. For to say 'by your sacred word and honor' is neither more nor less than a sort of swearing or taking an oath that what you say is true." "Then we'll make a rule not to say it any more," said Lily. "We didn't know it was naughty before, papa. But please tell us now about other words. Daisy says we mustn't say 'mercy,' and 'gracious,' and 'heavens,' and maybe we mustn't; but why is that swearing? Swearing is taking God's name in vain, and how do such words take His name in vain if we don't speak it? And she thinks playing with the Bible, or saying its words when we are playing or just talking common talk, is taking God's name in vain, too. Is it?" "I will tell you," said Mr. Ward. "Suppose, Lily, that some great king or queen, or the president of our own country, were to come here; would you not wish to be particularly polite and respectful to them, both in your manner and way of speaking?" "Um-m-m, I don't know," answered Lily, doubtfully; "not partic'lar. I guess I'd just as lieve be saucy to them as to any one else." Mr. Ward saw this would not do, at least, not for Lily: he must go higher than earthly rulers. "Suppose, then," he said, "that Jesus should come down here among us, so that we could see Him with our eyes, walking and talking with us, what would you all do?" "I'd fall down and worship Him," said Minnie. "I'd listen to every word He said, and never speak one myself for fear I should miss one," said Daisy; "and then I'd remember them all the days of my life." "Dear child!" said Mr. Ward, laying his hand fondly on hers: "I believe you do treasure your Lord's words and try to live according to them." "I'd ask Him to put His hand on my head and bless me just as He did those other little children when He was on earth before," said Lola, softly. "So would I. And I'd be glad there were no disciples to forbid us to come to Him," said Lily. "I s'pose they thought Jesus wouldn't care about children; but He did, didn't He? And you wouldn't think so, papa, would you?" and the little child laid her hand lovingly against her father's cheek. "I'd keep very close to Him all the time He was here, and take fast hold of His hand, only I wouldn't be troublesome, but just keep as still as a mouse; and I'd give Him every thing of mine that He wanted." "So you would all show your love and reverence for Him by every means in your power," said Mr. Ward, "trying not to grieve or offend Him by treating His name or His presence with the least carelessness or disrespect, but letting Him see that you honored the one and were blessed by the other: is it not so?" "Yes, sir," came from the older as well as the younger children. "And if, after He had gone away, He should send you each a letter, telling you what He wanted you to do, how you were to love and serve Him, and in which you would find all the advice, help, and comfort you might need at any time,--how would you treat that letter?" "I'd keep it all my life, and take such good care of it," said Rosie. "I'd read it, and read it, and read it; and kiss it, and kiss it, and kiss it," said Lily, "and then I'd put it in my bosom, and keep it, oh! so carefully." "And so would I, and I, and I," said the rest, satisfied to have Lily for spokeswoman. "And if you saw any one misusing that letter, how would you feel?" asked Mr. Ward. "I'd be very provoked with them," answered Lily, "and I think I wouldn't love them any more, 'cept it was you, papa, or mamma, or Elly, or any one of my own that I _have_ to love; and then I'd cry, and ask you not to serve my Jesus' letter so." "You mean the Bible is Jesus' letter to us: don't you, sir?" asked Daisy. "Yes; and, dear children, our Lord's presence is here among us as much as if He were in man's form which He once wore on earth. His ear is as quick to hear our words of love and praise, or those of carelessness and disrespect, as it was then; His eye as ready to see the use we make of the precious Word He has given us. But we forget this when we use His book more carelessly than we would any gift from an earthly friend, or when we take His name lightly or without thought upon our lips. To do this is to take it in vain, and it displeases Him." "But, Mr. Ward," said Minnie, "it is not cursing and swearing to say 'mercy,' and 'gracious,' and 'good Lord,' and such things, is it?" "Not cursing, certainly: that is to use God's name profanely, or to call on Him to destroy us or other people; and this is a most terrible sin. But, Minnie, the use of such words in play or thoughtlessness is a bad habit, and leads to worse. Suppose a man breaks open a bank here, and takes all the money from it: that is stealing, is it not?" "Why, yes, sir," answered Minnie. "And suppose you take a sugar-plum belonging to your sister: it is a very small thing compared to the money taken from the bank, but is it not stealing, all the same?" "Yes, sir; and if I was to be so bad as to take Julia's sugar-plums, I'm afraid I'd maybe steal something worse some time." "Just so," said the gentleman; "and now you see why it is not wise or right to make use of such expressions. It is, as Lily says, a kind of little swearing, and may lead to worse. Besides, it is very useless. You can surely believe one another,--unless, indeed, it is some false and deceitful child,--without saying 'upon your sacred word and honor,' 'as sure as you live,' 'Heaven knows,' and so forth. And there is so little temptation to fall into this sin that it seems strange it should be so common. There is nothing to be gained by it, even of this world's good,--no pleasure, no profit. It is only an idle, useless habit, most displeasing and vexing to the holy ear of Him whose commandment we break without thought or care. Goodness and mercy and graciousness belong to the Almighty; and so, too, we must take heed that we do not speak of what belongs to Him in an irreverent, careless way. And now I think we have had enough talk on this subject for this afternoon. You did not ask your friends here that I might lecture them." "Oh, yes! I did, papa," said Lily; "for we all deserved it very much, 'specially the big girls. But, papa, do you believe the Lord troubles Himself to know where the girls put an old, worn-out cushion, and such things; and if He does, ought we to say He does?" "God knows every thing, Lily; even the smallest trifle is seen by Him; but it is very wrong to say, in a heedless way, 'the Lord knows,' for I suppose that is what you mean. And this very thought, that His eye and His ear are always with us, noticing every word and look, knowing the very feelings of our hearts, should make us all the more careful how we use His holy name. I am glad this question has come up among you; for heedlessness in using God's name, and other sacred words, in quoting Scripture,--talking Bible, my Lily calls it,--and other such habits, were becoming too common, I fear, among all the young people in Glenwood; and we older ones too, I believe, fall too often into the custom. We have, too many of us, constant need of the prayer, 'Set a watch, O Lord, upon my mouth; keep the door of my lips.'" "It is Daisy's doing, sir, that we have come to think of this," said honest Cora. "I, for one, have been very thoughtless about offending God in this way, and have set a bad example to the rest. I believe the little ones have caught it from us larger girls, and we have to thank Daisy that she has taught us a better lesson." [Illustration] [Illustration] DAISY'S NAME. [Illustration] [Illustration] VIII. DAISY'S NAME. "INDADE, now, and hasn't me words come true, sir? For wasn't I afther tellin' ye she was as nate a little lady as iver stepped in two shoes?" said Betty Macarthy, as she stood with her arms akimbo, her head on one side, and her honest face one broad glow of delight and satisfaction, gazing at the dainty-looking little creature who stood before her, her young face bright with as much pleasure as Betty's own. For Daisy's old friend had come to live at Mrs. Forster's; and this was the way it had been brought about. The lady had wanted a laundress; and, thinking that Betty, who had once held that post in her father's family, might know of one, had begged the General to ask her. No sooner had he put the question than Betty eagerly answered she should be only too glad of the place herself; for she was tired of her present position, and a countrywoman of her own was ready to take it off her hands, stock, fixtures, goodwill, and all. "For her heart was sore for the child," Betty said, and to be where she could see her every day, and to live once more with "Miss Gertrude," would be almost as much happiness as she could wish for; and then she would try to put Jack out with some gardener to learn his trade, for which he had always had a turn. So the General, having talked the matter over with his wife, and mindful of the generous care and kindness shown to their Daisy by these poor people, not only told Betty she should come to live with them, but also put Jack under his own gardener, though there was really no need of any more hands about the place. Thus did the "bread cast upon the waters" by this kind-hearted Irishwoman, come back to her, blessed sevenfold. Nothing was told to Daisy of this arrangement till one afternoon, when the General had returned from the city, Mrs. Forster said to her, "I am going to speak to the new laundress and gardener's boy. Come with me, Daisy;" and half wondering, the little girl obeyed. But her surprise soon changed into delight and gratitude when she saw who the new domestics were; for, in spite of all the pleasure she felt in her new way of life, Daisy's loving little heart often longed for the old friends who had been so good to her in her time of need, and she wanted not only to see them, but to share some of her many comforts with them. So you may know how glad she was when her eye fell upon the two figures standing by the back door, and she knew that they had been brought to live in the same place with her. With an excitement very unusual in her, she flew at Betty, and, throwing both arms about her neck, covered her broad, smiling face with warm kisses. Betty returned them with a will, holding her fast in both arms; and then, putting her from her and looking at her from head to foot, put on an air of strong approval, and spoke to the General in the words you have read at the beginning of this chapter. "An' isn't it fit for a princess, she is?" she continued, quite unable to keep back her admiration and pleasure at the child's improved appearance. "Isn't it fit for a princess she is; and Saacyfuts or no Saacyfuts, isn't it a right her own folks would have to the name if they found her now? Sure I'd be saacy meself to have the ownin' of a child like that. An' her not a bit spoiled, but just as lovin' and free-like as when she had none but me an' Jack." Then Daisy was told she might take Betty and Jack away and show them the neat little wash-house, shaded by a fine clump of trees, with its nice bleaching and drying ground beyond, its laundry on the first floor, and two small bedrooms above, where they were to sleep. Betty was enchanted, and expressed over and over again her satisfaction at the change in her life. It was far better, she thought, to stand at the wash-tub or ironing-table, breathing the sweet country air, with all its pleasant sights and sounds about her, than to do the same at her stall in the hot, dusty, crowded city. As for Jack, when he saw the splendid garden, when Daisy had led them there, and knew it was to be his privilege to work among those lovely flowers, he could not contain himself, but shouted and shouted, turned somersault after somersault, till recalled to himself by Betty's reminder that he must "remember that Margaret--she begged her pardon,--Miss Daisy--was a little lady now, and he must mind his manners before her." But Daisy was so like her old self, so free from any pride or haughtiness in her new position, that Jack found it hard to remember she was any other than the little waif whom he had pitied and petted for so long; and his "manners" were brought to his mind with much more force by the sight of the gray-haired old Scotch gardener under whom he was to work, and before whom his gambols ceased at once. Meanwhile General and Mrs. Forster were talking on a very interesting subject, for Betty's words about Daisy's lost friends had given the lady a new idea. "Frank," she said to her husband, "did you notice what Betty said about Daisy's friends?" "Yes," he answered. "I hope she won't turn Daisy's head and make her vain with her praise and flattery." "I'm not afraid," said his wife. "Daisy has a right to her name, the modest, unaffected little girl; and she has too much sense to be spoiled by what she looks upon only as the overflowing of Betty's affection. But don't you know that the Irish often say _saacy_ when they mean proud?" "Oh, yes. I have often noticed it in people of Betty's class," answered the General; "but what has that to do with Daisy's friends?" "Is it not possible that their name is Proudfoot or Proudfit, and that 'Saacyfut' is Betty's way of calling it?" The General laughed heartily. "Hardly, I think," he said; "and yet--I do not know. It may be. But it never struck me. It took a woman's wit to think of that." "We will ask Daisy when she comes," said Mrs. Forster. "If Proudfoot _was_ their name, she must remember it when she hears it spoken, I think. She can hardly have forgotten it so entirely that she would not recognize it. And then, if it should be so, it will be a help to find her friends." Mrs. Forster spoke the last words more slowly. "Yes," said her husband, giving words to the thought which had made her half unwilling to utter them; "and if found, we must give up our Daisy." "But we must not seek them the less for that," she said, "or I shall feel as if we had found some lovely jewel that we were striving to hide from the rightful owner. I know what terrible longings must fill her mother's heart;" and a tear dropped from Mrs. Forster's eye on her baby's face, as she clasped it more tenderly than ever in her arms. "Daisy," said the General that evening, as the little girl stood by his knee, "did you ever hear the name of Proudfoot?" Daisy started, drew a quick, gasping breath, and suddenly threw herself into his arms. "That is it!" she cried, in a rapid, excited manner, "that is it! That is my name, that is what they called papa and mamma. I never heard it since; but I know it now. I am Daisy Proudfoot, I am, I am!" It was some time before the child's excitement could be calmed; but there was no farther knowledge to be gained from her. Proudfoot was her name, of that she was quite sure; and the recollection of it at this late hour seemed to fill her with a kind of tremulous happiness; but still she could not tell where she belonged. Betty too, when she was asked if Proudfoot was the name of Daisy's mother, answered,-- "Sure, an' it was, ma'am. Didn't I say so all along, only she was always gainsayin' it?"[A] The matter was settled; and General Forster, loath as he was to part with Daisy, feeling that he must leave no stone unturned to trace her friends, again put advertisements in the papers, saying, that if any family of the name of Proudfoot had had a child supposed to be lost at sea, they might hear of her at such and such a place. Daisy was not told of this; she was contented and happy in her new home and among her new friends, and it was not thought best to disturb her mind with fresh hopes of finding those who might never come to claim her. But although she was still called Daisy Forster by all in Glenwood, it was a satisfaction to herself and to the kind friends who had taken her up and cared for her, to know the name which rightly belonged to her. However, days and weeks and months went by, and still no one came to seek the Daisy blossom which had been transplanted to such pleasant soil. And there it grew and flourished, and did its Master's work; proving how much even such a simple floweret can do by its own modest example and teaching to win others to honor Him. It was surprising to see how much her schoolmates thought of her opinion; how they profited by the simple lesson she had taught them, and tried to break themselves of the foolish and sinful habit into which nearly all of them had fallen, of using sacred names and things in such a heedless, unthinking manner. It was not only the very little girls, but the older ones also, and even Miss Collins herself, who learned from our Daisy to set a watch upon their lips, and to remember whose ear was ever present, hearing each thoughtless word which dishonored Him or that which especially belonged to Him. Perhaps they gave more heed to Daisy's words than they would have done to those of any other one of their number. There was such a half-mystery about her, and their thoughts were so tender towards her, that they checked their heedless speech for her sake at first; then, as they learned to think more about it, for a better and higher reason, till at last the bad habit was broken up; and if, by chance, such a word as "mercy," "heavens," "good Lord," or the like, came from the lips of any child, the surprised and reproving looks of her companions told her of her fault, and punished her sufficiently. And the good influence spread far and wide. Since the little ones were so careful, their parents and older friends felt that they, too, must take heed lest they offended in this way; and so it came to pass that among the families of Glenwood God's name and word came to be held in such true reverence and honor as had never been before. And so nearly a year passed by, and brought the Daisy and her sister-flowerets to another spring. FOOTNOTE: [A] If this is considered far-fetched, the writer can only say that Betty's rendering of the name of Proudfoot was actually given by a domestic in her own family, and occasioned considerable bewilderment, till the quick wit of one of its members solved the riddle. [Illustration] THE LOST FOUND. [Illustration] [Illustration] IX. THE LOST FOUND. "IS that you, Daisy?" "Yes, sir. Is that you, Uncle Frank?" answered Daisy, playfully. "Well, I thought it was this morning when I went to town; but I am doubtful of it now." "Why?" asked Daisy, laughing, as she reached up on tiptoe to offer the kiss with which she always welcomed her uncle on his return from the city. "Baby Daisy is not doubtful, at least," said Mrs. Forster, coming forward, and putting her little daughter, all crows and smiles, in her father's arms. "Let her pull your hair a little to convince you of the fact." "It will be difficult," said the General. "There was a man in the cars so like me, face, height, and figure, that some of my friends were taking him for me; others accusing me of having a brother whom I have never owned. He sat two or three seats in front of me, and I could not help being amused. Ward came in, nodded familiarly to my double, with, "How are you, General?" passed on to me, stopped, and looked from one to the other with a mixture of surprise and curiosity that was droll; then asked for information which I could not give him. It was the same with many others. I hope the stranger will keep himself out of mischief while he is in Glenwood, or I may be held responsible for his wrong doings." "Did he come to Glenwood?" asked Daisy. "Yes: I left him standing on the platform at the station, and I hardly knew whether my own carriage belonged to him or to me. However, he made no claim as I stepped into it." "Who was he?" asked Mrs. Forster. "Did not you find out?" "No. No one could tell me, and I could not go and ask the man who he was, merely for the reason that he resembled me so much. There, there, little woman," as the baby gave a vigorous pull at his hair. "I've had enough of mamma's proofs, and am satisfied that no other man than Frank Forster would submit to such usage at these tiny hands. I rather imagine this stranger came up to look at Beechgrove, which is to let, as I heard him asking the railway porter in which direction it lay, and where the agent was to be found." A fortnight went by, and nothing more was seen of the stranger who looked so like General Forster; nor after that evening did the General or his wife think of him. Not so Daisy. She thought often of him with a kind of half wish that she might see him; why she scarcely knew herself, but she never spoke of it. She was rather a shy, quiet child, keeping her ideas and wishes pretty much to herself, unless they were drawn out by some one whom she loved or trusted; and neither the General nor Mrs. Forster suspected what was working in her mind. Her idea, too, that the General looked so like her own papa, they regarded only as a childish fancy, ready to see a likeness between the two she most admired and loved in all the world. And they never imagined how the child was dreaming and wondering over this unseen stranger who had had such a passing interest for them. Meanwhile, it became certain that Beechgrove, as the place was called, was taken; for the placards advertising it to rent were taken down, and the house was going through a thorough cleaning. But the General and his wife, being people who never gossiped or concerned themselves about their neighbors' affairs, did not trouble themselves in the matter. And those who were curious and asked questions received no satisfaction from old Dr. Harding, who had charge of the property. All Miss Collins' young scholars, however, thought themselves very much concerned in the letting of Beechgrove, and with good reason. For a large aviary belonged to the place, containing many rare and beautiful birds, and the former owner, who was fond of children, often used to invite the young people of Glenwood to see these birds, and to amuse themselves in other ways about his grounds. But since Dr. Harding had had the care of the place, not a child had been suffered to come within sight or hearing of the aviary, which had a new charm for them since it was a forbidden pleasure. So the new occupants of Beechgrove, and the question as to whether they were likely to recover their old privileges there or no, had been a subject of great interest to our young friends, and they were very anxious for information on the matter. One morning when Daisy came to school, she found the rest of the class grouped about Mattie Prime and Rosie Pierson, who lived beyond Beechgrove, and had to pass it on their way to Miss Collins'. "The new people have gone to Beechgrove," said Violet Swan, when Daisy asked what they were talking about; "and Mattie and Rosie saw a little girl there this morning. We are glad there is a child there, because maybe having her will make the papa good to other children, and he will let us go in and see the birds because of her." "She's a very little thing," said Rosie. "She can't speak plain. Such a crooked tongue." "But she's very cunning," said Mattie. "We were going past the gate and she called out to us, 'Itty dirls, itty dirls;' and when we stopped she put her face through the rails to kiss us, and handed us some flowers she had. She was real sweet." "What is her name?" asked Daisy. "We asked her, but we could not make out what she said. Mamy Modwit it sounded like; but she did speak so crooked," said Mattie. "Do you know," said Rosie, "I think she looked like Daisy. Don't you, Mattie?" "Why, so she does," said Mattie. "Isn't that funny? Only Daisy's eyes always look sorry except when she is laughing or speaking, and that little girl's were so full of mischief and laughing." "How big was she?" asked Lola. "Oh, about as large as your sister Bertie. Not near old enough to come to school." "I s'pose there are no other children but her," said Fanny Delisle. "Willie saw the family come yesterday; and he said there were only the lady and gentleman, and the little girl and servants. If there are no children as old as us, maybe it won't come into their heads to let us see the aviary again." This short conversation put an end to the half hope, half wish, that had been in Daisy's heart. Even supposing the stranger who looked so like General Forster were the gentleman who had taken Beechgrove, he could be nothing to her (not until now had she said even to herself that she had hoped it might be so), for the family did not answer to her own. She had papa and mamma, little brother Theodore, and a baby sister, a very little baby; and only this child of three years old or more seemed to belong to the new-comers; and she had no sister so old. Daisy reasoned this all out for herself with a sad, disappointed little heart, forgetting that time had not stood still with her own family any more than it had with her, and that changes might have come to them as well as to herself. This was on Friday, and nothing more was seen or heard of the strangers by Daisy or her playmates, till Sunday came. But then such a strange and happy thing came to pass, and in such a wonderful way. "Just like a book thing," Lily Ward afterwards said. It was the loveliest of Sabbath days, and every thing seemed to feel it. "What day is it, Bertie?" asked Mr. Swan, as his youngest daughter stood on the piazza steps ready for church. "Jesus' happy Sunday," answered the little one; "and, oh, didn't He mate a nice one!" Other people than Bertie thought so; a nice one indeed. It was the softest, sweetest, warmest of May Sundays. A busy little breeze, carrying with it the perfume of the apple-blossoms over which it had passed, stole in at the open windows of the church, and wandered around among aisles, pillars, and pews, now fluttering the leaves of a book, now toying with a ribbon, now tossing a curl upon some sunny head, now fanning some cheek flushed with a walk in the almost summer heat. A robin, saucy birdie, swung himself lightly to and fro on the branch of one of the fine old elms outside the church-door, and poured forth his hymn of praise; while from far and near came the answering notes of his mates; and mingling with his song were heard the voices of the children in the Sunday school beyond, as they sang the closing hymn. Then they came trooping in gently, and with soft footsteps, as became the house of God (honoring His name and His word had taught them also to honor the place where He was worshipped), and took their places beside their parents and friends. Watching them from one of the pews which ran by the side of the pulpit, were a pair of roguish, dancing eyes, which Rosie Pierson and Mattie Prime recognized at once. They were those of the little girl who had peeped at them through the railing of the Beechgrove grounds. Now they were peeping over the top of the pew-door as she stood at its foot, her hands crossed upon it, her chin resting upon them. What a bright, merry, laughing face it was, and how like Daisy's! General and Mrs. Forster had noticed it from their seat, which commanded a full view of that of the strangers. Beside the little girl sat a gentleman, half turned from the congregation, his face partly shaded by his hand; but there could be no doubt that he was the man who was so like the General. Mrs. Forster saw the likeness at once, even in the turn and shape of his head. Beyond him was a lady in deep mourning, closely veiled. "Frank must find out who they are," said Mrs. Forster to herself. "That child is so like Daisy. Can it be--oh, can it be?" Then she tried to collect her thoughts and bring them back to the service of Him whom she had come to worship. Daisy came in a little behind the rest of the infant class (she had lingered for a word with her teacher), and took her seat. Almost immediately her eye fell on the new-comers to Glenwood. Mrs. Forster saw her start, flush all over, neck and face, and press her small hands tightly together, as if trying to keep back some exclamation which rose to her lips. With a beating heart the child watched the strangers, striving in vain to get a better view of the face of the gentleman, gazing from him to the veiled lady, and then at the little girl. The bell ceased tolling, the congregation were gathered, the hour of service had come, and the clergyman rose in the pulpit. But at that moment the lady drew aside her veil; and ere Dr. Parker had opened his lips, a little voice rang through the still church. "Mamma! Oh, my own mamma!" How much was in those few words! What a tale they told! What a world of longing, of love, of joy, they held! The stranger lady--ah! no stranger was she to our Daisy--started to her feet, stretched out her hands, then with a little cry sank fainting into the arms of the gentleman who had also suddenly arisen. She was carried out; General and Mrs. Forster following with the excited, trembling Daisy; and so the father and mother found the long-lost child. Who could describe it? Who could find words for the joy, the wonder, the gratitude of those concerned; who tell the sympathy which filled the hearts of all in that congregation, which dimmed their eyes with tears, and filled their hearts with adoration, as, before another word of the morning service was begun, the beloved minister called on all to render thanks for the great and signal mercy just shown to those long-parted parents and their little one! And now there is little more to tell. Only how Daisy's mamma, and the little sister whom she remembered only as a tiny baby, had been rescued from the sinking ship with some of the other passengers; how, having been unable to trace their lost treasure, and believing that the boat, with all whom it contained, had gone down in the deep waters, the parents had gone abroad, where they had remained till a few months before this time, and so had never seen the advertisements which might have told them she was still living: all this was soon explained. And then Daisy must tell her story, and Betty must come in to help her out where memory failed and the past was a blank, because of that long, wasting illness. And how Betty laughed and cried by turns, and would hear of no praise or thanks for what she had done, declaring that "Miss Daisy had done her and Jack far more good nor she resaved, taching them to mind their tongues afore God Almighty." And though General and Mrs. Forster must now give up, to her rightful owners, the darling of whom they had grown so fond, yet they did not have to part with her altogether; for she was so near to them that they saw her every day; indeed, the two families became almost as one, and Daisy felt as if she had two homes. The little brother, whom Daisy remembered so well, had gone to a home beyond the sky, but a few weeks before her father and mother came to Glenwood. And so the Daisy blossom, which had been parted from its parent stem and cast by the wayside, where stranger hands had gathered and lovingly tended it, was planted once more in the soil where it belonged, after it had done the Master's work, and scattered the good seed which budded for His glory; proving well, that those who "honor" the Lord He will "delight to honor." [Illustration] Cambridge: Press of John Wilson & Son 
42850	----	[Illustration] If this is borrowed by a friend Right welcome shall he be To read, to study, _not_ to _lend_ But to return to me. Not that imparted knowledge doth Diminish learning's store But books I find if often lent Return to me no more. Every Boy's Library For Little Boys NEW EDITION, 1910 =1 The Man Without a Country= By Rev. E. E. Hale =2 The Bicycle Highwaymen= By Frank M. Bicknell =3 The Railroad Cut= By W. O. Stoddard =4 J. Cole= By Emma Gellibrand =5 Laddie= By Evelyn Whitaker =6 Miss Toosey= By Evelyn Whitaker =7 Elder Leland's Ghost= By Hezekiah Butterworth =9 Wonder Book Stories= By Nathaniel Hawthorne =10 The Prince of the Pin Elves= By Charles Lee Sleight =11 The Little Lame Prince= By Miss Mulock =12 One Thousand Men for a Christmas Present= By Mary B. Sheldon =13 The Little Earl= By Ouida =14 The Double Prince= By Frank M. Bicknell =15 The Young Archer= By Charles E. Brimblecom =16 Little Peterkin Vandike= By Charles Stuart Pratt =17 Christmas Carol= By Charles Dickens =18 A Great Emergency= By Juliana Horatia Ewing =19 The Rose and the Ring= By William M. Thackeray =20 Lazy Lawrence and other Stories= By Maria Edgeworth =21 Forgive and Forget and Other Stories= By Maria Edgeworth =22 The False Key and other Stories= By Maria Edgeworth =23 A Boy's Battle= By Will Allen Dromgoole =24 The Gold Bug= By Edgar Allan Poe =25 The Pineboro Quartette= By Willis Boyd Allen =26 His Majesty the King and Wee Willie Winkie= By Rudyard Kipling =27 The Old Monday Farm= By Louise R. Baker =28 Daddy Darwin's Dovecote= By Juliana H. Ewing =29 Little Dick's Christmas= By Etheldred B. Barry =30 What Paul Did= By Etheldred B. Barry =31 Harum Scarum Joe= By Will Allen Dromgoole =32 The Drums of the Fore and Aft= By Rudyard Kipling =33 The Child of Urbino and Moufflou= By Ouida =34 Hero-Chums= By Will Allen Dromgoole =35 Little Tong's Mission= By Etheldred B. Barry H. M. CALDWELL COMPANY Publishers NEW YORK AND BOSTON [Illustration: THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN] EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY THE PIED PIPER of HAMELIN and Other Poems By ROBERT BROWNING [Illustration] ILLUSTRATED H. M. CALDWELL CO. PUBLISHERS NEW YORK & BOSTON _Copyright, 1899_ BY DANA ESTES & COMPANY CONTENTS. PAGE THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 11 HERVÉ RIEL 24 CAVALIER TUNES 31 "HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX" 34 THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD-EL-KADR 37 INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 39 CLIVE 41 MULÉYKEH 59 TRAY 68 A TALE 70 GOLD HAIR 75 DONALD 82 THE GLOVE 90 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN _Frontispiece_ "'LEAVE TO GO AND SEE MY WIFE, WHOM I CALL THE BELLE AURORE'" 30 "I GALLOPED, DIRCK GALLOPED, WE GALLOPED ALL THREE" 34 "A RIDER BOUND ON BOUND FULL GALLOPING, NOR BRIDLE DREW UNTIL HE REACHED THE MOUND" 39 "HAIR, SUCH A WONDER OF FLIX AND FLOSS" 75 "AND FULL IN THE FACE OF ITS OWNER FLUNG THE GLOVE" 95 THE BOYS' BROWNING. THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. A CHILD'S STORY. I. Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity. II. Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats. III. At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: "'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation--shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation. IV. An hour they sat in council; At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell, I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- I'm sure my poor head aches again, I've scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber-door but a gentle tap? "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?" (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" V. "Come in!"--the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red, And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in; There was no guessing his kith and kin: And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as my great-grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!" VI. He advanced to the council-table: And, "Please your honours," said he, "I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same cheque; And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats: And as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders?" "One? fifty thousand!"--was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. VII. Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser, Wherein all plunged and perished! --Save one who, stout as Julius Cæsar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he, the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary: Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe: And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, 'Oh, rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, All ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!' --I found the Weser rolling o'er me." VIII. You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles, Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!"--when suddenly, up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!" IX. A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation, too. For council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! "Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!" X. The Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait, beside! I've promised to visit by dinner-time Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion." XI. "How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brook Being worse treated than a Cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!" XII. Once more he stept into the street, And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. XIII. The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by, --Could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However, he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top! He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!" When, lo, as they reached the mountainside, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountainside shut fast. Did I say, all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say,-- "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me. For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings: And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!" XIV. Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says that heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, And Piper and dancers were gone for ever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened here On the Twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:" And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it, the Pied Piper's Street-- Where any one playing on pipe or tabour Was sure for the future to lose his labour. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people who ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbours lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand. XV. So, Willy, let me and you be wipers Of scores out with all men--especially pipers! And, whether they pipe us free fróm rats or fróm mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise! HERVÉ RIEL. I. On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French,--woe to France! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view. II. 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signalled to the place "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick--or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will!" III. Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the _Formidable_ here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!" IV. Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!" (Ended Damfreville his speech.) "Not a minute more to wait! Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate. V. "Give the word!" But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these --A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate--first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese. VI. And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel: "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this _Formidable_ clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Grève, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, --Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel. VII. Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief. Still the north wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harboured to the last, And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate, Up the English come--too late! VIII. So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Grève. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, "This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, "Hervé Riel!" As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before. IX. Then said Damfreville, "My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville." X. Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: "Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?-- Since 'tis ask and have, I may-- Since the others go ashore-- Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" That he asked and that he got,--nothing more. XI. Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing-smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore! [Illustration: "'LEAVE TO GO AND SEE MY WIFE, WHOM I CALL THE BELLE AURORE.'"] CAVALIER TUNES. I. MARCHING ALONG. Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing: And, pressing a troop unable to stoop And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, Marched them along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. God for King Charles! Pym and such carles To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles! Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup, Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup Till you're-- CHORUS.--Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell. Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well! England, good cheer! Rupert is near! Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, CHO.--Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song? Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! Hold by the right, you double your might; So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight, CHO.--March we along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song! II. GIVE A ROUSE. King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles! Who gave me the goods that went since? Who raised me the house that sank once? Who helped me to gold I spent since? Who found me in wine you drank once? CHO.--King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles! To whom used my boy George quaff else, By the old fool's side that begot him? For whom did he cheer and laugh else, While Noll's damned troopers shot him? CHO.--King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles! III. BOOT AND SADDLE. Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Rescue my castle before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery gray. CHO.--"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; Many's the friend there, will listen and pray "God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay-- CHO.--"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array: Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay, CHO.--"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay! I've better counsellors; what counsel they? CHO.--"Boot, saddle, to horse and away!" [Illustration: "I GALLOPED, DIRCK GALLOPED, WE GALLOPED ALL THREE."] "HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX." I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear: At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime, So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!" At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare through the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!" "How they'll greet us!" and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to hear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is--friends flocking round As I sat with his head, 'twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD-EL-KADR. As I ride, as I ride, With a full heart for my guide, So its tide rocks my side, As I ride, as I ride, That, as I were double-eyed, He, in whom our Tribes confide, Is descried, ways untried, As I ride, as I ride. As I ride, as I ride To our Chief and his Allied, Who dares chide my heart's pride As I ride, as I ride? Or are witnesses denied-- Through the desert waste and wide Do I glide unespied As I ride, as I ride? As I ride, as I ride, When an inner voice has cried, The sands slide, nor abide (As I ride, as I ride) O'er each visioned homicide That came vaunting (has he lied?) To reside--where he died, As I ride, as I ride. As I ride, as I ride, Ne'er has spur my swift horse plied, Yet his hide, streaked and pied, As I ride, as I ride, Shows where sweat has sprung and dried, --Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed-- How has vied stride with stride As I ride, as I ride! As I ride, as I ride, Could I loose what Fate has tied, Ere I pried, she should hide (As I ride, as I ride) All that's meant me--satisfied When the Prophet and the Bride Stop veins I'd have subside As I ride, as I ride! [Illustration: "A RIDER BOUND ON BOUND FULL GALLOPING, NOR BRIDLE DREW UNTIL HE REACHED THE MOUND."] INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow, Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he mused "My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader, Lannes, Waver at yonder wall,--" Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect-- (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon! The Marshal's in the market-place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire. The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes; "You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: "I'm killed, Sire!" and his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead. CLIVE. I and Clive were friends--and why not? Friends! I think you laugh, my lad. Clive it was gave England India, while your father gives--egad, England nothing but the graceless boy who lures him on to speak-- "Well, Sir, you and Clive were comrades--" with a tongue thrust in your cheek! Very true: in my eyes, your eyes, all the world's eyes, Clive was man, I was, am, and ever shall be--mouse, nay, mouse of all its clan Sorriest sample, if you take the kitchen's estimate for fame; While the man Clive--he fought Plassy, spoiled the clever foreign game, Conquered and annexed and Englished! Never mind! As o'er my punch (You away) I sit of evenings,--silence, save for biscuit crunch, Black, unbroken,--thought grows busy, thrids each pathway of old years, Notes this forthright, that meander, till the long past life appears Like an outspread map of country plodded through, each mile and rood, Once, and well remembered still,--I'm startled in my solitude Ever and anon by--what's the sudden mocking light that breaks On me as I slap the table till no rummer-glass but shakes While I ask--aloud, I do believe, God help me!--"Was it thus? Can it be that so I faltered, stopped when just one step for us--" (Us,--you were not born, I grant, but surely some day born would be) "--One bold step had gained a province" (figurative talk, you see) "Got no end of wealth and honour,--yet I stood stock-still no less?" --"For I was not Clive," you comment: but it needs no Clive to guess Wealth were handy, honour ticklish, did no writing on the wall Warn me "Trespasser, 'ware man-traps!" Him who braves that notice--call Hero! None of such heroics suit myself who read plain words, Doff my hat, and leap no barrier. Scripture says, the land's the Lord's: Louts then--what avail the thousand, noisy in a smock-frocked ring, All-agog to have me trespass, clear the fence, be Clive their king? Higher warrant must you show me ere I set one foot before T'other in that dark direction, though I stand for evermore Poor as Job and meek as Moses. Evermore? No! By and by Job grows rich and Moses valiant, Clive turns out less wise than I. Don't object "Why call him friend, then?" Power is power, my boy, and still Marks a man,--God's gift magnific, exercised for good or ill. You've your boot now on my hearth-rug, tread what was a tiger's skin; Rarely such a royal monster as I lodged the bullet in! True, he murdered half a village, so his own death came to pass; Still, for size and beauty, cunning, courage--ah, the brute he was! Why, that Clive,--that youth, that greenhorn, that quill-driving clerk, in fine,-- He sustained a siege in Arcot ... But the world knows! Pass the wine. Where did I break off at? How bring Clive in? Oh, you mentioned "fear!" Just so: and, said I, that minds me of a story you shall hear. We were friends then, Clive and I: so, when the clouds, about the orb Late supreme, encroaching slowly, surely threaten to absorb Ray by ray its noontide brilliance,--friendship might, with steadier eye Drawing near, hear what had burned else, now no blaze--all majesty. Too much bee's-wing floats my figure? Well, suppose a castle's new: None presume to climb its ramparts, none find foothold sure for shoe 'Twixt those squares and squares of granite plating the impervious pile As his scale-mail's warty iron cuirasses a crocodile. Reels that castle thunder-smitten, storm-dismantled? From without Scrambling up by crack and crevice, every cockney prates about Towers--the heap he kicks now! Turrets--just the measure of his cane! Will that do? Observe moreover--(same similitude again)-- Such a castle seldom crumbles by sheer stress of cannonade: 'Tis when foes are foiled, and fighting's finished that vile rains invade, Grass o'ergrows, o'ergrows till night-birds congregating find no holes Fit to build like the topmost sockets made for banner-poles. So Clive crumbled slow in London, crashed at last. A week before, Dining with him,--after trying churchyard chat of days of yore,-- Both of us stopped, tired as tombstones, head-piece, foot-piece, when they lean Each to other, drowsed in fog-smoke, o'er a coffined Past between. As I saw his head sink heavy, guessed the soul's extinguishment By the glazing eyeball, noticed how the furtive fingers went Where a drug-box skulked behind the honest liquor,--"One more throw Try for Clive!" thought I: "Let's venture some good rattling question!" So-- "Come Clive, tell us"--out I blurted--"what to tell in turn, years hence, When my boy--suppose I have one--asks me on what evidence I maintain my friend of Plassy proved a warrior every whit Worth your Alexanders, Cæsars, Marlboroughs, and--what said Pitt?-- Frederick the Fierce himself! Clive told me once"--I want to say-- "Which feat out of all those famous doings bore the bell away --In his own calm estimation, mark you, not the mob's rough guess-- Which stood foremost as evincing what Clive called courageousness! Come! What moment of the minute, what speck-centre in the wide Circle of the action saw your mortal fairly deified? (Let alone that filthy sleep-stuff, swallow bold this wholesome Port!) If a friend has leave to question,--when were you most brave, in short?" Up he arched his brows o' the instant--formidably Clive again. "When was I most brave? I'd answer, were the instance half as plain As another instance that's a brain-lodged crystal--curse it!--here Freezing when my memory touches--ugh!--the time I felt most fear. Ugh! I cannot say for certain if I showed fear--anyhow, Fear I felt, and, very likely, shuddered, since I shiver now." "Fear!" smiled I. "Well, that's the rarer: that's a specimen to seek, Ticket up in one's museum, _Mind-Freaks_, _Lord Clive's Fear_, _Unique_!" Down his brows dropped. On the table painfully he pored as though Tracing, in the stains and streaks there, thoughts encrusted long ago. When he spoke 'twas like a lawyer reading word by word some will, Some blind jungle of a statement,--beating on and on until Out there leaps fierce life to fight with. "This fell in my factor-days. Desk-drudge, slaving at Saint David's, one must game, or drink, or craze. I chose gaming: and,--because your high-flown gamesters hardly take Umbrage at a factor's elbow, if the factor pays his stake,-- I was winked at in a circle where the company was choice, Captain This and Major That, men high of colour, loud of voice, Yet indulgent, condescending to the modest juvenile Who not merely risked, but lost his hard-earned guineas with a smile. "Down I sat to cards, one evening,--had for my antagonist Homebody whose name's a secret--you'll know why--so, if you list, Call him Cock o' the Walk, my scarlet son of Mars from head to heel! Play commenced: and, whether Cocky fancied that a clerk must feel Quite sufficient honour came of bending over one green baize, I the scribe with him the warrior, guessed no penman dared to raise Shadow of objection should the honour stay but playing end More or less abruptly,--whether disinclined he grew to spend Practice strictly scientific on a booby born to stare At--not ask of--lace-and-ruffles if the hand they hide plays fair,-- Anyhow, I marked a movement when he bade me 'Cut!' "I rose. 'Such the new manoeuvre, Captain? I'm a novice: knowledge grows. What, you force a card, you cheat, Sir?' "Never did a thunder-clap Cause emotion, startle Thyrsis locked with Chloe in his lap, As my word and gesture (down I flung my cards to join the pack) Fired the man of arms, whose visage, simply red before, turned black. "When he found his voice, he stammered 'That expression once again!' "'Well, you forced a card and cheated!' "'Possibly a factor's brain, Busied with his all important balance of accounts, may deem Weighing words superfluous trouble: cheat to clerkly ears may seem Just the joke for friends to venture: but we are not friends, you see! When a gentleman is joked with,--if he's good at repartee, He rejoins, as do I--Sirrah, on your knees, withdraw in full! Beg my pardon, or be sure a kindly bullet through your skull Lets in light and teaches manner to what brain it finds! Choose quick-- Have your life snuffed out or, kneeling, pray me trim yon candle-wick!' "'Well, you cheated!' "Then outbroke a howl from all the friends around. To his feet sprang each in fury, fists were clenched and teeth were ground. 'End it! no time like the present! Captain, yours were our disgrace! No delay, begin and finish! Stand back, leave the pair a space! Let civilians be instructed: henceforth simply ply the pen, Fly the sword! This clerk's no swordsman? Suit him with a pistol, then! Even odds! A dozen paces 'twixt the most and least expert Make a dwarf a giant's equal: nay, the dwarf, if he's alert, Likelier hits the broader target!' "Up we stood accordingly. As they handed me the weapon, such was my soul's thirst to try Then and there conclusions with this bully, tread on and stamp out Every spark of his existence, that,--crept close to, curled about By that toying, tempting, teasing, fool-forefinger's middle joint,-- Don't you guess?--the trigger yielded. Gone my chance! and at the point Of such prime success moreover: scarce an inch above his head Went my ball to hit the wainscot. He was living, I was dead. "Up he marched in flaming triumph--'twas his right, mind!--up, within Just an arm's length. 'Now, my clerkling,' chuckled Cocky, with a grin As the levelled piece quite touched me, 'Now, Sir Counting-House, repeat That expression which I told you proved bad manners! Did I cheat?' "'Cheat you did, you knew you cheated, and, this moment, know as well. As for me, my homely breeding bids you--fire and go to Hell!' "Twice the muzzle touched my forehead. Heavy barrel, flurried wrist. Either spoils a steady lifting. Thrice: then, 'Laugh at Hell who list, I can't! God's no fable either. Did this boy's eye wink once? No! There's no standing him and Hell and God all three against me,--so, I did cheat!' "And down he threw the pistol, out rushed--by the door Possibly, but, as for knowledge if by chimney, roof or floor, He effected disappearance--I'll engage no glance was sent That way by a single starer, such a blank astonishment Swallowed up their senses: as for speaking--mute they stood as mice. "Mute not long, though! Such reaction, such a hubbub in a trice! 'Rogue and rascal! Who'd have thought it? What's to be expected next, When His Majesty's Commission serves a sharper as pretext For ... But where's the need of wasting time now? Naught requires delay: Punishment the Service cries for: let disgrace be wiped away Publicly, in good broad daylight! Resignation? No, indeed! Drum and fife must play the Rogue's-March, rank and file be free to speed Tardy marching on the rogue's part by appliance in the rear --Kicks administered shall right this wronged civilian,--never fear, Mister Clive, for--though a clerk--you bore yourself--suppose we say-- Just as would beseem a soldier? "'Gentlemen, attention--pray! First, one word!' "I passed each speaker severally in review. When I had precise their number, names, and styles, and fully knew Over whom my supervision thenceforth must extend,--why, then-- "Some five minutes since, my life lay--as you all saw, gentlemen-- At the mercy of your friend there. Not a single voice was raised In arrest of judgment, not one tongue--before my powder blazed-- Ventured "Can it be the youngster plundered, really seemed to mark Some irregular proceeding? We conjecture in the dark, Guess at random,--still, for sake of fair play--what if for a freak, In a fit of absence,--such things have been!--if our friend proved weak --What's the phrase?--corrected fortune! Look into the case, at least!" Who dared interpose between the altar's victim and the priest? Yet he spared me! You eleven! Whosoever, all or each, To the disadvantage of the man who spared me, utters speech --To his face, behind his back,--that speaker has to do with me: Me who promise, if positions change, and mine the chance should be, Not to imitate your friend and waive advantage!' "Twenty-five Years ago this matter happened: and 'tis certain," added Clive, "Never, to my knowledge, did Sir Cocky have a single breath Breathed against him: lips were closed throughout his life, or since his death, For if he be dead or living I can tell no more than you. All I know is--Cocky had one chance more; how he used it,--grew Out of such unlucky habits, or relapsed, and back again Brought the late-ejected devil with a score more in his train,-- That's for you to judge. Reprieval I procured, at any rate. Ugh--the memory of that minute's fear makes gooseflesh rise! Why prate Longer? You've my story, there's your instance: fear I did, you see!" "Well"--I hardly kept from laughing--"if I see it, thanks must be Wholly to your Lordship's candour. Not that--in a common case-- When a bully caught at cheating thrusts a pistol in one's face, I should under-rate, believe me, such a trial to the nerve! 'Tis no joke, at one-and-twenty, for a youth to stand nor swerve. Fear I naturally look for--unless, of all men alive, I am forced to make exception when I come to Robert Clive. Since at Arcot, Plassy, elsewhere, he and death--the whole world knows-- Came to somewhat closer quarters." Quarters? Had we come to blows, Clive and I, you had not wondered--up he sprang so, out he rapped Such a round of oaths--no matter! I'll endeavour to adapt To our modern usage words he--well, 'twas friendly license--flung At me like so many fire-balls, fast as he could wag his tongue. "You--a soldier? You--at Plassy? Yours the faculty to nick Instantaneously occasion when your foe, if lightning-quick, --At his mercy, at his malice,--has you, through some stupid inch Undefended in your bulwark? Thus laid open,--not to flinch --That needs courage, you'll concede me. Then, look here! Suppose the man, Checking his advance, his weapon still extended, not a span Distant from my temple,--curse him!--quietly had bade me, 'There! Keep your life, calumniator!--worthless life I freely spare: Mine you freely would have taken--murdered me and my good fame Both at once--and all the better! Go, and thank your own bad aim Which permits me to forgive you!' What if, with such words as these, He had cast away his weapon? How should I have borne me, please? Nay, I'll spare you pains and tell you. This, and only this, remained-- Pick his weapon up and use it on myself. If so had gained Sleep the earlier, leaving England probably to pay on still Rent and taxes for half India, tenant at the Frenchman's will." "Such the turn," said I, "the matter takes with you? Then I abate --No, by not one jot nor tittle,--of your act my estimate. Fear--I wish I could detect there: courage fronts me, plain enough-- Call it desperation, madness--never mind! for here's in rough Why, had mine been such a trial, fear had overcome disgrace. True, disgrace were hard to bear: but such a rush against God's face --None of that for me, Lord Plassy, since I go to church at times, Say the creed my mother taught me! Many years in foreign climes Rub some marks away--not all, though! We poor sinners reach life's brink, Overlook what rolls beneath it, recklessly enough, but think There's advantage in what's left us--ground to stand on, time to call 'Lord, have mercy!' ere we topple over--do not leap, that's all!" Oh, he made no answer, re-absorbed into his cloud. I caught Something like "Yes--courage; only fools will call it fear." If aught Comfort you, my great unhappy hero Clive, in that I heard, Next week, how your own hand dealt you doom, and uttered just the word "Fearfully courageous!"--this, be sure, and nothing else I groaned. I'm no Clive, nor parson either: Clive's worst deed--we'll hope condoned. MULÉYKEH. If a stranger passed the tent of Hóseyn, he cried "A churl's!" Or haply "God help the man who has neither salt nor bread!" --"Nay," would a friend exclaim, "he needs nor pity nor scorn More than who spends small thought on the shore-sand, picking pearls, --Holds but in light esteem the seed-sort, bears instead On his breast a moon-like prize, some orb which of night makes morn. "What if no flocks and herds enrich the son of Sinán? They went when his tribe was mulct, ten thousand camels the due, Blood-value paid perforce for a murder done of old. 'God gave them, let them go! But never since time began, Muléykeh, peerless mare, owned master the match of you, And you are my prize, my Pearl: I laugh at men's land and gold!' "So in the pride of his soul laughs Hóseyn--and right, I say. Do the ten steeds run a race of glory? Outstripping all, Ever Muléykeh stands first steed at the victor's staff. Who started, the owner's hope, gets shamed and named, that day. 'Silence,' or, last but one, is 'The Cuffed,' as we used to call Whom the paddock's lord thrusts forth. Right, Hóseyn, I say, to laugh!" "Boasts he Muléykeh the Pearl?" the stranger replies: "Be sure On him I waste nor scorn nor pity, but lavish both On Duhl the son of Sheybán, who withers away in heart For envy of Hóseyn's luck. Such sickness admits no cure. A certain poet has sung, and sealed the same with an oath, 'For the vulgar--flocks and herds! The Pearl is a prize apart.'" Lo, Duhl the son of Sheybán comes riding to Hóseyn's tent, And he casts his saddle down, and enters and "Peace!" bids he. "You are poor, I know the cause: my plenty shall mend the wrong. 'Tis said of your Pearl--the price of a hundred camels spent In her purchase were scarce ill paid: such prudence is far from me Who proffer a thousand. Speak! Long parley may last too long." Said Hóseyn, "You feed young beasts a many, of famous breed, Slit-eared, unblemished, fat, true offspring of Múzennem: There stumbles no weak-eyed she in the line as it climbs the hill. But I love Muléykeh's face: her forefront whitens indeed Like a yellowish wave's cream-crest. Your camels--go gaze on them! Her fetlock is foam-splashed too. Myself am the richer still." A year goes by: lo, back to the tent again rides Duhl. "You are open-hearted, ay--moist-handed, a very prince. Why should I speak of sale? Be the mare your simple gift! My son is pined to death for her beauty: my wife prompts 'Fool, Beg for his sake the Pearl! Be God the rewarder, since God pays debts seven for one: who squanders on Him shows thrift.'" Said Hóseyn, "God gives each man one life, like a lamp, then gives That lamp due measure of oil: lamp lighted--hold high, wave wide Its comfort for others to share! once quench it, what help is left? The oil of your lamp is your son: I shine while Muléykeh lives. Would I beg your son to cheer my dark if Muléykeh died? It is life against life: what good avails to the life-bereft?" Another year, and--hist! What craft is it Duhl designs? He alights not at the door of the tent as he did last time, But, creeping behind, he gropes his stealthy way by the trench Half-round till he finds the flap in the folding, for night combines With the robber--and such is he: Duhl, covetous up to crime, Must wring from Hóseyn's grasp the Pearl, by whatever the wrench. "He was hunger-bitten, I heard: I tempted with half my store, And a gibe was all my thanks. Is he generous like Spring dew? Account the fault to me who chaffered with such an one! He has killed, to feast chance comers, the creature he rode: nay, more-- For a couple of singing-girls his robe has he torn in two: I will beg! Yet I nowise gained by the tale of my wife and son. "I swear by the Holy House, my head will I never wash Till I filch his Pearl away. Fair dealing I tried, then guile, And now I resort to force. He said we must live or die: Let him die, then,--let me live! Be bold--but not too rash! I have found me a peeping-place: breast, bury your breathing while I explore for myself! Now, breathe! He deceived me not, the spy! "As he said--there lies in peace Hóseyn--how happy! Beside Stands tethered the Pearl: thrice winds her headstall about his wrist: 'Tis therefore he sleeps so sound--the moon through the roof reveals. And, loose on his left, stands too that other, known far and wide, Buhéyseh, her sister born: fleet is she yet ever missed The winning tail's fire-flash a-stream past the thunderous heels. "No less she stands saddled and bridled, this second, in case some thief Should enter and seize and fly with the first, as I mean to do. What then? The Pearl is the Pearl: once mount her we both escape." Through the skirt-fold in glides Duhl,--so a serpent disturbs no leaf In a bush as he parts the twigs entwining a nest: clean through, He is noiselessly at his work: as he planned, he performs the rape. He has set the tent-door wide, has buckled the girth, has clipped The headstall away from the wrist he leaves thrice bound as before, He springs on the Pearl, is launched on the desert like bolt from bow. Up starts our plundered man: from his breast though the heart be ripped, Yet his mind has the mastery: behold, in a minute more, He is out and off and away on Buhéyseh, whose worth we know! And Hóseyn--his blood turns flame, he has learned long since to ride, And Buhéyseh does her part,--they gain--they are gaining fast On the fugitive pair, and Duhl has Ed-Dárraj to cross and quit, And to reach the ridge El-Sabán,--no safety till that he spied! And Buhéyseh is, bound by bound, but a horse-length off at last, For the Pearl has missed the tap of the heel, the touch of the bit. She shortens her stride, she chafes at her rider the strange and queer: Buhéyseh is mad with hope--beat sister she shall and must, Though Duhl, of the hand and heel so clumsy, she has to thank. She is near now, nose by tail--they are neck by croup--joy! fear! What folly makes Hóseyn shout "Dog Duhl, Damned son of the Dust, Touch the right ear and press with your foot my Pearl's left flank!" And Duhl was wise at the word, and Muléykeh as prompt perceived Who was urging redoubled pace, and to hear him was to obey, And a leap indeed gave she, and evanished for evermore. And Hóseyn looked one long last look as who, all bereaved, Looks, fain to follow the dead so far as the living may: Then he turned Buhéyseh's neck slow homeward, weeping sore. And, lo, in the sunrise, still sat Hóseyn upon the ground Weeping: and neighbours came, the tribesmen of Bénu-Asád In the vale of green Er-Rass, and they questioned him of his grief; And he told from first to last how, serpent-like, Duhl had wound His way to the nest, and how Duhl rode like an ape, so bad! And how Buhéyseh did wonders, yet Pearl remained with the thief. And they jeered him, one and all: "Poor Hóseyn is crazed past hope! How else had he wrought himself his ruin, in fortune's spite? To have simply held the tongue were a task for boy or girl, And here were Muléykeh again, the eyed like an antelope, The child of his heart by day, the wife of his breast by night!"-- "And the beaten in speed!" wept Hóseyn. "You never have loved my Pearl." TRAY. Sing me a hero! Quench my thirst Of soul, ye bards! Quoth Bard the first: "Sir Olaf, the good knight, did don His helm and eke his habergeon"... Sir Olaf and his bard--! "That sin-scathed brow" (quoth Bard the second), "That eye wide ope as though Fate beckoned My hero to some steep, beneath Which precipice smiled tempting death"... You too without your host have reckoned! "A beggar-child" (let's hear this third!) "Sat on a quay's edge: like a bird Sang to herself at careless play, And fell into the stream. 'Dismay! Help, you the standers-by!' None stirred. "Bystanders reason, think of wives And children ere they risk their lives. Over the balustrade has bounced A mere instinctive dog, and pounced Plumb on the prize. 'How well he dives! "'Up he comes with the child, see, tight In mouth, alive too, clutched from quite A depth of ten feet--twelve, I bet! Good dog! What, off again? There's yet Another child to save? All right! "'How strange we saw no other fall! It's instinct in the animal. Good dog! But he's a long while under: If he got drowned I should not wonder-- Strong current, that against the wall! "'Here he comes, holds in mouth this time --What may the thing be? Well, that's prime! Now, did you ever? Reason reigns In man alone, since all Tray's pains Have fished--the child's doll from the slime!' "And so, amid the laughter gay, Trotted my hero off,--old Tray,-- Till somebody, prerogatived With reason, reasoned: 'Why he dived, His brain would show us, I should say. "'John, go and catch--or, if needs be, Purchase--that animal for me! By vivisection, at expense Of half-an-hour and eighteenpence, How brain secretes dog's soul, we'll see!'" A TALE. What a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time --Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) Was it prose or was it rhyme, Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, While your shoulder propped my head. Anyhow there's no forgetting This much if no more, That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, Went where suchlike used to go, Singing for a prize, you know. Well, he had to sing, nor merely Sing but play the lyre; Playing was important clearly Quite as singing: I desire, Sir, you keep the fact in mind For a purpose that's behind. There stood he, while deep attention Held the judges round, --Judges able, I should mention, To detect the slightest sound Sung or played amiss: such ears Had old judges, it appears! None the less he sang out boldly, Played in time and tune, Till the judges, weighing coldly Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, Sure to smile "In vain one tries Picking faults out: take the prize!" When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed? Oh, and afterwards eleven, Thank you! Well, sir,--who had guessed Such ill luck in store?--it happed One of those same seven strings snapped. All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What "cicada?" Pooh!) --Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of music--flew With its little heart on fire, Lighted on the crippled lyre. So that when (Ah, joy!) our singer For his truant string Feels with disconcerted finger, What does cricket else but fling Fiery heart forth, sound the note Wanted by the throbbing throat? Ay, and ever to the ending, Cricket chirps at need, Executes the hand's intending, Promptly, perfectly,--indeed Saves the singer from defeat With her chirrup low and sweet. Till, at ending, all the judges Cry with one assent "Take the prize--a prize who grudges Such a voice and instrument? Why, we took your lyre for harp, So it shrilled us forth F sharp!" Did the conqueror spurn the creature, Once its service done? That's no such uncommon feature In the case when Music's son Finds his Lotte's power too spent For aiding soul-development. No! This other, on returning Homeward, prize in hand, Satisfied his bosom's yearning: (Sir, I hope you understand!) --Said "Some record there must be Of this cricket's help to me!" So, he made himself a statue: Marble stood, life-size; On the lyre, he pointed at you, Perched his partner in the prize; Never more apart you found Her, he throned, from him, she crowned. That's the tale: its application? Somebody I know Hopes one day for reputation Through his poetry that's--Oh, All so learned and so wise And deserving of a prize! If he gains one, will some ticket, When his statue's built, Tell the gazer "'Twas a cricket Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt Sweet and low, when strength usurped Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped? "For as victory was nighest, While I sang and played,-- With my lyre at lowest, highest, Right alike,--one string that made 'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain, Never to be heard again,-- "Had not a kind cricket fluttered, Perched upon the place Vacant left, and duly uttered 'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass Asked the treble to atone For its somewhat sombre drone." But you don't know music! Wherefore Keep on casting pearls To a--poet? All I care for Is--to tell him that a girl's "Love" comes aptly in when gruff Grows his singing. (There, enough!) [Illustration: "HAIR, SUCH A WONDER OF FLIX AND FLOSS."] GOLD HAIR. Oh, the beautiful girl, too white, Who lived at Pornic, down by the sea, Just where the sea and the Loire unite! And a boasted name in Brittany She bore, which I will not write. Too white, for the flower of life is red: Her flesh was the soft seraphic screen Of a soul that is meant (her parents said) To just see earth, and hardly be seen, And blossom in heaven instead. Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair! One grace that grew to its full on earth: Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare, And her waist want half a girdle's girth, But she had her great gold hair. Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss, Freshness and fragrance--floods of it, too! Gold, did I say? Nay, gold's mere dross: Here, Life smiled, "Think what I meant to do!" And Love sighed, "Fancy my loss!" So, when she died, it was scarce more strange Than that, when delicate evening dies, And you follow its spent sun's pallid range, There's a shoot of colour startles the skies With sudden, violent change,-- That, while the breath was nearly to seek, As they put the little cross to her lips, She changed; a spot came out on her cheek, A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse, And she broke forth, "I must speak!" "Not my hair!" made the girl her moan-- "All the rest is gone or to go; But the last, last grace, my all, my own, Let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know! Leave my poor gold hair alone!" The passion thus vented, dead lay she; Her parents sobbed their worst on that; All friends joined in, nor observed degree: For indeed the hair was to wonder at, As it spread--not flowing free, But curled around her brow, like a crown, And coiled beside her cheeks, like a cap, And calmed about her neck--ay, down To her breast, pressed flat, without a gap I' the gold, it reached her gown. All kissed that face, like a silver wedge 'Mid the yellow wealth, nor disturbed its hair: E'en the priest allowed death's privilege, As he planted the crucifix with care On her breast, 'twixt edge and edge. And thus was she buried, inviolate Of body and soul, in the very space By the altar; keeping saintly state In Pornic church, for her pride of race, Pure life and piteous fate. And in after-time would your fresh tear fall, Though your mouth might twitch with a dubious smile, As they told you of gold, both robe and pall, How she prayed them leave it alone awhile, So it never was touched at all. Years flew; this legend grew at last The life of the lady; all she had done, All been, in the memories fading fast Of lover and friend, was summed in one Sentence survivors passed: To wit, she was meant for heaven, not earth; Had turned an angel before the time: Yet, since she was mortal, in such dearth Of frailty, all you could count a crime Was--she knew her gold hair's worth. * * * * * At little pleasant Pornic church, It chanced, the pavement wanted repair, Was taken to pieces: left in the lurch, A certain sacred space lay bare, And the boys began research. 'Twas the space where our sires would lay a saint, A benefactor,--a bishop, suppose, A baron with armour-adornments quaint, Dame with chased ring and jewelled rose, Things sanctity saves from taint; So we come to find them in after-days When the corpse is presumed to have done with gauds Of use to the living, in many ways: For the boys get pelf, and the town applauds, And the church deserves the praise. They grubbed with a will: and at length--_O cor Humanum, pectora cæca_, and the rest!-- They found--no gaud they were prying for, No ring, no rose, but--who would have guessed?-- A double Louis-d'or! Here was a case for the priest: he heard, Marked, inwardly digested, laid Finger on nose, smiled, "There's a bird Chirps in my ear:" then, "Bring a spade, Dig deeper!"--he gave the word. And lo, when they came to the coffin-lid, Or rotten planks which composed it once, Why, there lay the girl's skull wedged amid A mint of money, it served for the nonce To hold in its hair-heaps hid! Hid there? Why? Could the girl be wont (She the stainless soul) to treasure up Money, earth's trash and heaven's affront? Had a spider found out the communion-cup, Was a toad in the christening-font? Truth is truth: too true it was. Gold! She hoarded and hugged it first, Longed for it, leaned o'er it, loved it--alas-- Till the humour grew to a head and burst, And she cried, at the final pass,-- "Talk not of God, my heart is stone! Nor lover nor friend--be gold for both! Gold I lack; and, my all, my own, It shall hide in my hair. I scarce die loth If they let my hair alone!" Louis-d'or, some six times five, And duly double, every piece. Now, do you see? With the priest to shrive, With parents preventing her soul's release By kisses that kept alive,-- With heaven's gold gates about to ope, With friends' praise, gold-like, lingering still, An instinct had bidden the girl's hand grope For gold, the true sort--"Gold in heaven, if you will; But I keep earth's too, I hope." Enough! The priest took the grave's grim yield: The parents, they eyed that price of sin As if _thirty pieces_ lay revealed On the place _to bury strangers in_, The hideous Potter's Field. But the priest bethought him: "'Milk that's spilt' --You know the adage! Watch and pray! Saints tumble to earth with so slight a tilt! It would build a new altar; that, we may!" And the altar therewith was built. Why I deliver this horrible verse? As the text of a sermon, which now I preach: Evil or good may be better or worse In the human heart, but the mixture of each Is a marvel and a curse. The candid incline to surmise of late That the Christian faith proves false, I find; For our Essays-and-Reviews' debate Begins to tell on the public mind, And Colenso's words have weight: I still, to suppose it true, for my part, See reasons and reasons; this, to begin: 'Tis the faith that launched point-blank her dart At the head of a lie--taught Original Sin, The Corruption of Man's Heart. DONALD. Do you happen to know in Ross-shire Mount Ben ... but the name scarce matters: Of the naked fact I am sure enough, Though I clothe it in rags and tatters. You may recognise Ben by description; Behind him--a moor's immenseness: Up goes the middle mount of a range, Fringed with its firs in denseness. Rimming the edge, its fir-fringe, mind! For an edge there is, though narrow; From end to end of the range, a strip Of path runs straight as an arrow. And the mountaineer who takes that path Saves himself miles of journey He has to plod if he crosses the moor Through heather, peat, and burnie. But a mountaineer he needs must be, For, look you, right in the middle Projects bluff Ben--with an end in _ich_-- Why planted there, is a riddle: Since all Ben's brothers little and big Keep rank, set shoulder to shoulder, And only this burliest out must bulge Till it seems--to the beholder From down in the gully,--as if Ben's breast, To a sudden spike diminished, Would signify to the boldest foot "All further passage finished!" Yet the mountaineer who sidles on And on to the very bending, Discovers, if heart and brain be proof, No necessary ending. Foot up, foot down, to the turn abrupt Having trod, he, there arriving, Finds--what he took for a point was breadth A mercy of Nature's contriving. So, he rounds what, when 'tis reached, proves straight, From one side gains the other: The wee path widens--resume the march, And he foils you, Ben my brother! But Donald--(that name, I hope, will do)-- I wrong him if I call "foiling" The tramp of the callant, whistling the while As blithe as our kettle's boiling. He had dared the danger from boyhood up, And now,--when perchance was waiting A lass at the brig below,--'twixt mount And moor would he standing debating? Moreover this Donald was twenty-five, A glory of bone and muscle: Did a fiend dispute the right of way, Donald would try a tussle. Lightsomely marched he out of the broad On to the narrow and narrow; A step more, rounding the angular rock, Reached the front straight as an arrow. He stepped it, safe on the ledge he stood, When--whom found he full-facing? What fellow in courage and wariness too, Had scouted ignoble pacing, And left low safety to timid mates, And made for the dread dear danger, And gained the height where--who could guess He would meet with a rival ranger? 'Twas a gold-red stag that stood and stared, Gigantic and magnific, By the wonder--ay, and the peril--struck Intelligent and pacific: For a red deer is no fallow deer Grown cowardly through park-feeding; He batters you like a thunderbolt If you brave his haunts unheeding. I doubt he could hardly perform _volte-face_ Had valour advised discretion: You may walk on a rope, but to turn on a rope No Blondin makes profession. Yet Donald must turn, would pride permit, Though pride ill brooks retiring: Each eyed each--mute man, motionless beast-- Less fearing than admiring. These are the moments when quite new sense, To meet some need as novel, Springs up in the brain: it inspired resource: --"Nor advance nor retreat but--grovel!" And slowly, surely, never a whit Relaxing the steady tension Of eye-stare which binds man to beast,-- By an inch and inch declension, Sank Donald sidewise down and down: Till flat, breast upwards, lying At his six-foot length, no corpse more still, --"If he cross me! The trick's worth trying." Minutes were an eternity; But a new sense was created In the stag's brain too; he resolves! Slow, sure, With eye-stare unabated, Feelingly he extends a foot Which tastes the way ere it touches Earth's solid and just escapes man's soft, Nor hold of the same unclutches Till its fellow foot, light as a feather whisk, Lands itself no less finely: So a mother removes a fly from the face Of her babe asleep supinely. And now 'tis the haunch and hind-foot's turn --That's hard: can the beast quite raise it? Yes, traversing half the prostrate length, His hoof-tip does not graze it. Just one more lift! But Donald, you see, Was sportsman first, man after: A fancy lightened his caution through, --He wellnigh broke into laughter: "It were nothing short of a miracle! Unrivalled, unexampled-- All sporting feats with this feat matched Were down and dead and trampled!" The last of the legs as tenderly Follows the rest: or never Or now is the time! His knife in reach, And his right hand loose--how clever! For this can stab up the stomach's soft, While the left hand grasps the pastern. A rise on the elbow, and--now's the time Or never: this turn's the last turn! I shall dare to place myself by God Who scanned--for he does--each feature Of the face thrown up in appeal to him By the agonising creature. Nay, I hear plain words: "Thy gift brings this!" Up he sprang, back he staggered, Over he fell, and with him our friend --At following game no laggard. Yet he was not dead when they picked next day From the gully's depth the wreck of him; His fall had been stayed by the stag beneath Who cushioned and saved the neck of him. But the rest of his body--why, doctors said, Whatever could break was broken; Legs, arms, ribs, all of him looked like a toast In a tumbler of port wine soaken. "That your life is left you, thank the stag!" Said they when--the slow cure ended-- They opened the hospital door, and thence --Strapped, spliced, main fractures mended, And minor damage left wisely alone,-- Like an old shoe clouted and cobbled, Out--what went in a Goliath wellnigh,-- Some half of a David hobbled. "You must ask an alms from house to house: Sell the stag's head for a bracket, With its grand twelve tines--I'd buy it myself-- And use the skin for a jacket!" He was wiser, made both head and hide His win-penny: hands and knees on, Would manage to crawl--poor crab--by the roads In the misty stalking season. And if he discovered a bothy like this, Why, harvest was sure: folk listened. He told his tale to the lovers of Sport: Lips twitched, cheeks glowed, eyes glistened. And when he had come to the close, and spread His spoils for the gazers' wonder, With "Gentlemen, here's the skull of the stag I was over, thank God, not under!"-- The company broke out in applause; "By Jingo, a lucky cripple! Have a munch of grouse and a hunk of bread, And a tug, besides, at our tipple!" And "There's my pay for your pluck!" cried This, "And mine for your jolly story!" Cried That, while T'other--but he was drunk-- Hiccupped "A trump, a Tory!" I hope I gave twice as much as the rest; For, as Homer would say, "within grate Though teeth kept tongue," my whole soul growled, "Rightly rewarded,--Ingrate!" [Illustration: "AND FULL IN THE FACE OF ITS OWNER FLUNG THE GLOVE."] THE GLOVE. (PETER RONSARD _loipuitur_.) "Heigho," yawned one day King Francis, "Distance all value enhances! When a man's busy, why, leisure Strikes him as wonderful pleasure: 'Faith, and at leisure once is he? Straightway he wants to be busy. Here we've got peace; and aghast I'm Caught thinking war the true pastime. Is there a reason in metre? Give us your speech, master Peter!" I who, if mortal dare say so, Ne'er am at a loss with my Naso, "Sire," I replied, "joys prove cloudlets: Men are the merest Ixions"-- Here the King whistled aloud, "Let's --Heigho--go look at our lions!" Such are the sorrowful chances If you talk fine to King Francis. And so, to the courtyard proceeding Our company, Francis was leading, Increased by new followers tenfold Before he arrived at the penfold; Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen At sunset the western horizon. And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost With the dame he professed to adore most. Oh, what a face! One by fits eyed Her, and the horrible pitside; For the penfold surrounded a hollow Which led where the eye scarce dared follow, And shelved to the chamber secluded Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded. The King hailed his keeper, an Arab As glossy and black as a scarab, And bade him make sport and at once stir Up and out of his den the old monster. They opened a hole in the wire-work Across it, and dropped there a firework, And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled; A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled, The blackness and silence so utter, By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter; Then earth in a sudden contortion Gave out to our gaze her abortion. Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot (Whose experience of nature's but narrow, And whose faculties move in no small mist When he versifies David the Psalmist) I should study that brute to describe you _Illum Juda Leonem de Tribu_. One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy To see the black mane, vast and heapy, The tail in the air stiff and straining, The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning, As over the barrier which bounded His platform, and us who surrounded The barrier, they reached and they rested On space that might stand him in best stead: For who knew, he thought, what the amazement, The eruption of clatter and blaze meant, And if, in this minute of wonder, No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder, Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered, The lion at last was delivered? Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead! And you saw by the flash on his forehead, By the hope in those eyes wide and steady. He was leagues in the desert already, Driving the flocks up the mountain, Or catlike couched hard by the fountain To waylay the date-gathering negress: So guarded he entrance or egress. "How he stands!" quoth the King: "we may well swear, (No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere And so can afford the confession,) We exercise wholesome discretion In keeping aloof from his threshold, Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold, Their first would too pleasantly purloin The visitor's brisket or sirloin: But who's he would prove so foolhardy? Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!" The sentence no sooner was uttered, Than over the rails a glove fluttered, Fell close to the lion, and rested: The dame 'twas, who flung it and jested With life so, De Lorge had been wooing For months past; he sat there pursuing His suit, weighing out with nonchalance Fine speeches like gold from a balance. Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier! De Lorge made one leap at the barrier, Walked straight to the glove,--while the lion Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire, And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,-- Picked it up, and as calmly retreated, Leaped back where the lady was seated, And full in the face of its owner Flung the glove. "Your heart's queen, you dethrone her? So should I!"--cried the King--"'twas mere vanity, Not love, set that task to humanity!" Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing. Not so, I; for I caught an expression In her brow's undisturbed self-possession Amid the Court's scoffing and merriment,-- As if from no pleasing experiment She rose, yet of pain not much heedful So long as the process was needful,-- As if she had tried in a crucible, To what "speeches like gold" were reducible, And, finding the finest prove copper, Felt the smoke in her face was but proper; To know what she had _not_ to trust to, Was worth all the ashes and dust too. She went out 'mid hooting and laughter; Clement Marot stayed; I followed after, And asked, as a grace, what it all meant? If she wished not the rash deed's recallment? "For I"--so I spoke--"am a poet: Human nature,--behooves that I know it!" She told me, "Too long had I heard Of the deed proved alone by the word: For my love--what De Lorge would not dare! With my scorn--what De Lorge could compare! And the endless descriptions of death He would brave when my lip formed a breath, I must reckon as braved, or, of course, Doubt his word--and moreover, perforce, For such gifts as no lady could spurn, Must offer my love in return. When I looked on your lion, it brought All the dangers at once to my thought, Encountered by all sorts of men, Before he was lodged in his den,-- From the poor slave whose club or bare hands Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands, With no King and no Court to applaud, By no shame, should he shrink, overawed, Yet to capture the creature made shift, That his rude boys might laugh at the gift, --To the page who last leaped o'er the fence Of the pit, on no greater pretence Than to get back the bonnet he dropped, Lest his pay for a week should be stopped. So, wiser I judged it to make One trial what 'death for my sake' Really meant, while the power was yet mine, Than to wait until time should define Such a phrase not so simply as I, Who took it to mean just 'to die.' The blow a glove gives is but weak: Does the mark yet discolour my cheek? But when the heart suffers a blow, Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?" I looked, as away she was sweeping, And saw a youth eagerly keeping As close as he dared to the doorway. No doubt that a noble should more weigh His life than befits a plebeian; And yet, had our brute been Nemean-- (I judge by a certain calm fervour The youth stepped with, forward to serve her) --He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn If you whispered, "Friend, what you'd get, first earn!" And when, shortly after, she carried Her shame from the Court, and they married, To that marriage some happiness, maugre The voice of the Court, I dared augur. THE END. Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible. There is no Number 8 in the list of books in "Every Boy's Library". Illustrations have been moved. Italic text has been marked with _underscores_. Bold text has been marked with =equals signs=. OE ligatures have been expanded. 
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33343	----	CAMPMATES _A Story of the Plains_ By KIRK MUNROE _Author of_ "THE FLAMINGO FEATHER," "WAKULLA," "DORYMATES," "DERRICK STERLING" ETC. _Illustrated_ HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON [Illustration: "IT WAS A LIVE BABY."] CONTENTS. I. A WEARY RIDE II. A RUDE BAPTISM III. A BOY WITHOUT A BIRTHDAY IV. "I JUST HATE TO STUDY" V. SWIMMING INTO A FRIENDSHIP VI. RECEIVING AN OFFER AND ACCEPTING IT VII. ACROSS THE MISSISSIPPI VIII. GLEN RUNS A LOCOMOTIVE IX. KANSAS CITY IN EARLY DAYS X. AT WORK WITH THE ENGINEER CORPS XI. ALMOST TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE XII. STARTING ACROSS THE PLAINS XIII. BINNEY GIBBS AND HIS MULE XIV. ON GUARD AT NIGHT XV. THE SUSPICIOUS MOVEMENTS OF CERTAIN COYOTES XVI. IN THE HANDS OF THE CHEYENNES XVII. ATTACKING A STAGE RANCH XVIII. BUFFALO AND THEIR USES XIX. GLEN'S ESCAPE FROM THE INDIANS XX. A PRESENT THAT WOULD PLEASE ANY BOY XXI. LAME WOLF, THE YOUNG CHEYENNE XXII. GLEN AND BINNEY GET INTO TROUBLE XXIII. FIGHTING THE FINEST HORSEMEN IN THE WORLD XXIV. CROSSING THE QUICKSANDS XXV. SWEPT AWAY BY A FRESHET XXVI. RUNNING THE LINE XXVII. "COVERED WITH MUD AND GLORY" XXVIII. LOST IN A MOUNTAIN SNOW-STORM XXIX. PLUNGING INTO A LAKE OF ICE-WATER XXX. DOWN THE LONELY CAÑON XXXI. KIT CARSON'S GOLD MINE XXXII. A NEW MEXICAN WEDDING XXXIII. IN THE VALLEY OF THE RIO GRANDE XXXIV. BAITING A WOLF-TRAP XXXV. EL MORO XXXVI. ZUÑI, THE HOME OF THE AZTECS XXXVII. A PRACTICAL USE OF TRIGONOMETRY XXXVIII. DYING OF THIRST IN THE DESERT XXXIX. CROSSING THE SIERRA NEVADA XL. A HOME AND TWO FATHERS ILLUSTRATIONS. "IT WAS A LIVE BABY" "TWO STALWART WARRIORS SEIZED HIM BY THE ARMS AND RAISED HIM BETWEEN THEM AS THEY SWEPT PAST" "THE STRANGE CRAFT WAS BORNE SLOWLY DOWN STREAM" "'HEAD FOR THAT DARK SPACE, IT MARKS A VALLEY.... IF YOU FIND WATER, FIRE YOUR PISTOL'" _CAMP MATES._ _A Story of the Plains._ Chapter I. A WEARY RIDE. Slowly and heavily the train rumbled on through the night. It was called an express; but the year was long ago, in the early days of railroading, and what was then an express would now be considered a very slow and poky sort of a train. On this particular night too, it ran more slowly than usual, because of the condition of the track. The season was such a wet one, that even the oldest traveller on the train declared he could not remember another like it. Rain, rain, rain, day after day, for weeks, had been the rule of that spring, until the earth was soaked like a great sponge. All the rivers had overflowed their banks, and all the smaller streams were raging torrents, red, yellow, brown, and sometimes milky white, according to the color of the clays through which they cut their riotous way. The lowlands and meadows were flooded, so that the last year's hay-stacks, rising from them here and there, were veritable islands of refuge for innumerable rabbits, rats, mice, and other small animals, driven by the waters from their homes. And all this water had not helped the railroad one bit. In the cuts the clay or gravel banks were continually sliding down on the track; while on the fills they were as continually sliding out from under it. The section gangs were doubled, and along the whole line they were hard at work, by night as well as by day, only eating and sleeping by snatches, trying to keep the track in repair, and the road open for traffic. In spite of their vigilance and unceasing labor, however, the rains found plenty of chances to work their mischief undetected. Many a time only the keen watchfulness of an engine-driver, or his assistant, the fireman, saved a train from dashing into some gravel heap, beneath which the rails were buried, or from plunging into some yawning opening from which a culvert or small bridge had been washed out. Nor with all this watchfulness did the trains always get through in safety. Sometimes a bit of track, that looked all right, would suddenly sink beneath the weight of a passing train into a quagmire that had been formed beneath it, and then would follow the pitiful scenes of a railroad wreck. So nobody travelled except those who were compelled to do so, and the passenger business of this particular road was lighter than it had been since the opening. It was so light that on this night there were not more than half a dozen persons in the single passenger coach of the express, and only one of these was a woman. Another was her baby, a sturdy, wholesome-looking little fellow, who, though he was but a year old, appeared large enough to be nearly, if not quite, two. He had great brown eyes, exactly like those of his mother. She was young and pretty, but just now she looked utterly worn out, and no wonder. The train was twelve hours late; and, instead of being comfortably established in a hotel, at the end of her journey by rail, as she had expected to be before dark that evening, she was wearily trying to sleep in the same stuffy, jolting car she had occupied all day and had no hope of leaving before morning. There were no sleeping-cars in those days, nor vestibuled trains, nor even cars with stuffed easy-chairs in which one could lie back and make himself comfortable. No, indeed; there were no such luxuries as these for those who travelled by rail at that time. The passenger coaches were just long boxes, with low, almost flat roofs, like those of freight cars. Their windows were small, and generally stuck fast in their frames, so that they could not be opened. There was no other means of ventilation, except as one of the end doors was flung open, when there came such a rush of smoke and cinders and cold air that everybody was impatient to have it closed again. At night the only light was given by three candles that burned inside of globes to protect them from being extinguished every time a door was opened. There were no electric lights, nor gas, nor even oil-lamps, for the cars of those days, only these feeble candles, placed one at each end, and one in the middle of the coach. But worst of all were the seats, which must have been invented by somebody who wished to discourage railroad riding. They were narrow, hard, straight-backed, and covered with shiny leather. In a car of this description the young mother, with her baby, had travelled a whole day, and nearly a whole night. It is no wonder then that she looked worn out, or that the baby, who had been so jolly and happy as to be voted a remarkably fine child by all the passengers, should have sunk into an exhausted sleep, after a prolonged fit of screaming and crying, that caused the few remaining inmates of the car to look daggers at it, and say many unkind things, some of which even reached the ears of the mother. During the day there had been other women in the car, travelling for shorter or longer distances. To one of these, a lady-like girl who occupied an adjoining seat for some hours, and who was greatly interested in the baby, the young mother had confided the fact that this was his birthday, and also part of her own history. From this it appeared that she was the wife of an army officer, who was stationed with his regiment in the far West. She had not seen him for nearly a year, or just after the baby was born; but at last he had been ordered to a fort on the upper Mississippi River, where he hoped to remain for some time. Now his young wife, who had only been waiting until he could give her any sort of a home with him, had bravely set forth with her baby to join him. He had written her that, on a certain date in the spring, a detachment of troops was to start from St. Louis by steamboat for the fort at which he was stationed. As one of the officers of this detachment was to take his wife with him, he thought it would be a fine opportunity for her to come at the same time. She wrote back that she could not possibly get ready by the date named, but would come by a later boat. After she had sent the letter, she found that she could get ready; and, as the aunt with whom she was living was about to break up her home and go abroad, she decided to start at once for St. Louis. There she would join her husband's friends, travel with them to the far-away fort, and give the lonely soldier a joyful surprise. There was no time to send another letter telling him of her change of plan, and she was glad of it, for a surprise would be so much nicer. The early part of her journey had been accomplished quite easily. There had been no rains in the East, such as were deluging the whole Ohio valley. If there had been, it is not likely the soldier's wife would have undertaken to travel at that time, and expose her precious baby to such terrible risks, even to carry out the surprise she anticipated so joyfully. From her aunt's house, in New York city, she had travelled by steamer up the Hudson to Albany. From there she took cars to Buffalo, and a lake boat to Cleveland. Now she was travelling by rail again, across the flooded state of Ohio towards Cincinnati. There she intended taking a steamboat down the Ohio River, and up the Mississippi to St. Louis, where she expected to join her husband's friends, on the boat that would carry them all to their journey's end. The details of this plan were fully discussed by the occupants of the adjoining seats in the car, and when it came time for the one who was not going through to leave the train, and take another at a small junction, she had become so greatly interested in her new acquaintance that she begged the latter to write to her, and tell her how she got along. She wrote her own name and address on a bit of paper, just before leaving the car, and gave it to the soldier's wife; but, in her hurry, neglected to make a note of the name given her in return, and afterwards, when she tried to recall it, was unable to do so. The tediousness of the weary day had been so much lessened by the making of this pleasant acquaintance, that for some time after her departure the young mother remained light-hearted and cheerful. The baby, too, was bright and happy, and a source of constant amusement, not only to her, but to all those about him. After a while, though, when it grew dark, and the feeble candles were lighted, and most of the passengers had left the car, and the baby at first fretted and then screamed, refusing to be quieted for more than an hour, the exhausted young mother grew nervous and frightened. Only the thought of the glad meeting, and the great happiness awaiting her at the end of this tedious journey, enabled her to bear it as bravely as she did. At length the babe cried himself to sleep, and the tired arms that had held him so long gladly laid him down in a nest made of shawls and his own dainty blanket on the opposite seat. This blanket had the initials "G. E." embroidered in one corner, though these did not stand for the baby's name. In fact, he had no first name, nor had he yet been christened. This ceremony having been postponed until both the father and mother could take part in it; the question of a name had also been left undecided until then. The young mother wanted her boy called "Gerald," after his father, and she had even embroidered the initial "G." on his blanket to see how it would look. Thus far, however, the baby was only called "baby," and had no right to any other name. As the child slept quietly in spite of the jar and jolt and rumble of the train, the fair young head of the mother who watched so fondly and patiently over him gradually drooped lower and lower. The brown eyes, so like the baby's, closed for longer and longer intervals, until at length she, too, was fast asleep, and dreaming of the joy that awaited her journey's end. Chapter II. A RUDE BAPTISM. There were others on that train equally weary with the young mother, and even more anxious; for they knew better than she the ever-present dangers of that water-soaked road-bed, and they bore the weight of a fearful responsibility. The conductor, looking grave and careworn, started nervously at every lurch of more than ordinary violence, and kept moving uneasily from end to end of his train. He never passed the young mother and her sleeping babe without casting sympathetic glances at them. He had done everything possible for their comfort, but it was little enough that he could do, and for their sake, more than anything else, he wished the trip were ended. All through the long, dark hours, the brake-men stood on the platforms of the swaying cars, ready at a moment's warning to spring to the iron brake-wheels. This crew of train hands had only come on duty at nightfall, and had little knowledge of the through passengers. In the locomotive cab, gazing ahead with strained eyes, were the engine-driver, Luke Matherson, and his fireman. Every now and then the latter found a change of occupation in flinging open the furnace door and tossing chunk after chunk of wood into the glowing interior. As he closed the door he would stand for a moment and look inquiringly at his companion, who sat motionless, with his hand on the throttle, and his eyes fixed steadily on the lines of track gleaming in the light of the powerful headlight. Occasionally, without turning his head, he exchanged a few words with the fireman. "It's a nasty night, Luke," remarked the latter. "Yes. It wouldn't take many more such to make me give up railroading." "What do you think of the Beasely cut?" "I'm afraid of it, and wish we were well through it." "Well, we'll know all about it in five minutes more, and after that there's nothing serious but Glen Eddy creek." The silence that followed was broken, a few minutes later, by two piercing blasts from the whistle. The fireman had already seen the danger, and sprung to the brake-wheel on the tender behind him. On every car the brakes were grinding harshly, set up by nervous, lusty young arms. The train did not come to a standstill an instant too soon; for, as it did so, the cow-catcher was already half buried in a slide from one of the treacherous banks of the Beasely cut. An hour's hard work by all the train hands, and some of the passengers, with shovels and spades, cleared the track, and once more the express proceeded slowly on its uncertain way. Now for the Glen Eddy bridge. Between it and the city that marked the end of the line was the best stretch of road-bed in the state. It was a long one, but it presented no dangers that a railroad man need fear. The gray dawn was breaking as the train approached Glen Eddy creek. In the summer-time it was a quiet stream, slipping dreamily along between its heavily wooded banks. Now it was a furious torrent, swollen beyond all recognition, and clutching spitefully at the wooden piers of heavy crib-work that upheld the single span of the bridge. The train was stopped and the bridge was examined. It seemed all right, and the conductor gave the word to go ahead. It was the last order he ever issued; for, in another minute, the undermined piers had given way, and the train was piled up in the creek a shapeless wreck. From that terrible plunge only two persons escaped unharmed. One was Luke Matherson, the engine-driver, and the other was the baby. When the former felt his engine dropping from under him, he sprang from it, with desperate energy, far out into the muddy waters, that instantly closed over him. On coming to the surface, the instinct of self-preservation forced him to swim, but it was wildly and without an idea of direction or surroundings. For nearly a minute he swam with all his strength against the current, so that he was still near the wreck, when his senses were again quickened into action by a smothered cry, close at hand. At the same time a dark mass drifted towards him, and he seized hold of it. As the cry seemed to come from this, the man's struggles became directed by a definite purpose. Partially supporting himself by the wreckage, he attempted to guide it to the nearest bank; but so swift was the current that he was swept down stream more than a mile before he succeeded in accomplishing his purpose. Finally his feet touched bottom, and he drew his prize to shore. It was a car seat, torn from its fastenings. Tightly wedged between it and its hinged back was a confused bundle, from which came a smothered wailing. Tearing away the wrappings, Luke Matherson stared for a moment, in a dazed fashion, at what they had held so safely. He could hardly believe that it was a live baby, lying there as rosy and unharmed as though in its cradle. The sun had risen when the engine-driver, haggard, exhausted, with clothing torn and muddy, but holding the babe clasped tightly in his arms, staggered into the nearest farm-house, two miles back from the creek. After his night of intense mental strain, the shock of the disaster, his plunge into the chilling waters, and his subsequent struggle to save the only surviving passenger of the train, it is not surprising that even Luke Matherson's strong frame yielded, and that for several weeks he was prostrated by a low fever. All this time the baby was kept at the farm-house with him, in order that he might be identified and claimed; but nobody came for him, nor were any inquiries made concerning the child. He was called "the Glen Eddy baby" by the few settlers of that sparsely populated region, who came to gaze at him curiously and pityingly. Thus those who cared for him gradually came to call him "Glen" for want of a better name; and, as the initials embroidered on the blanket saved with him were "G. E.," people soon forgot that Glen Eddy was not his real name. Although several bodies were recovered from the wreck of the express, that of the young mother was not among them; and, as there was no one left alive who knew that she had been on the train, of course her death was not reported. Thus the mystery surrounding the Glen Eddy baby was so impenetrable that, after a while, people gave up trying to solve it, and finally it was almost forgotten. When Luke Matherson recovered from his fever, nothing could induce him to return to his duties as engine-driver on the railroad. "No," he said, "never will I put myself in the way of going through another such night as that last one." He went to Cincinnati as soon as he was able to travel, and while there was offered a position in the engine-room of a large mill at Brimfield, in western Pennsylvania, which he accepted. The people of the farm-house where he had been ill were willing to keep the baby; but Luke Matherson claimed it, and would not give it up. The babe had been given to him, if ever one had, he said; and, if no one else loved it, he did. Of course, if anybody could prove a better claim to it than his, he would be the last one to dispute it; but, if not, he would keep the child and do the very best by him he knew how. He had no folks of his own in the world, and was only too glad to feel that one human being would grow up to care for him. The farm-house people lost track of Luke Matherson when he left Cincinnati. Thus when, some four months later, a broken-hearted man, who had with infinite pains traced his wife and child to that line of railroad, reached that part of the country, he could gain no further information except that a baby, who might have been his, was saved from the Glen Eddy disaster, but what had become of it nobody knew. Chapter III. A BOY WITHOUT A BIRTHDAY. "It's no use, Glen," said the principal of the Brimfield High School, kindly, but with real sorrow in his tone. "Your marks in everything except history are so far below the average that I cannot, with justice to the others, let you go on with the class any longer. So unless you can catch up during the vacation, I shall be obliged to drop you into the class below, and we'll go all over the same ground again next year. I'm very sorry. It is a bad thing for a boy of your age to lose a whole year; for this is one of the most important periods of your life. Still, if you won't study, you can't keep up with those who will, that's certain." The boy to whom these words were spoken was a squarely built, manly-looking chap, with brown curling hair, and big brown eyes. He was supposed to be seventeen years old, but appeared younger. Now his cheeks were flushed, and a hard, almost defiant, expression had settled on his face. "I know you are right, Mr. Meadows," he said, at length. "And you have been very kind to me. It's no use, though. I just hate to study. I'd rather work, and work hard at almost anything else, then I would know what I was doing; but as for grinding away at stupid things like Latin and geometry and trigonometry and natural philosophy, that can't ever be of any earthly use to a fellow who doesn't intend to be either a professor or an astronomer, I can't see the good of it at all." "No, I don't suppose you can now," replied the principal, smiling, "but you will find even those things of use some time, no matter what you may become in after-life. I will try and talk with you again on this subject before I go away; but now I must leave you. I hope for your sake, though, that you will think better about studying, and not throw away your chance to do so now, while it is comparatively easy. To win success in life you must study some time, and if you had stood anywhere near as high as Binney Gibbs I might have managed to offer you--" "Excuse me, Mr. Meadows, but I must speak with you just a moment," here interrupted a voice, and put an end to the conversation between the principal and the boy who had allowed his distaste for study to bring him into disgrace. As he walked away from the school-house, carrying all his books with him, for the term was ended and the long vacation had begun, the flush of mortification, called to his cheeks by Mr. Meadows's remarks, still reddened them. He felt the disgrace of his position keenly, though he had told the other boys, and had tried to make himself believe, that he did not care whether he passed the examinations or not. Now that he had failed to pass, he found that he did care. What was it that Mr. Meadows might have offered him? It couldn't be _that_, of course; but if it should have been! Well, there was no use in crying over it now. Binney Gibbs had been honored, and he was disgraced. It was bad enough to realize that, without thinking of things to make it worse. He was thankful when he reached home and had closed the front door behind him; for it seemed as though everybody he met must know of his disgrace, and be smiling scornfully at him. He was a sensitive chap, was this Glen Eddy; for that was his name, and he was the same one who, as a baby, was rescued by Luke Matherson from the railroad wreck so many years ago. Most people called him Glen Matherson, and on the school register his name was entered as Glen Eddy Matherson; but, ever since his last birthday, when Luke had told him that he was not his real father, and had fully explained their relations to each other, the boy had thought of himself only as Glen Eddy. The master mechanic of the Brimfield Mills, for such Luke Matherson now was, had meant to keep the secret of the boy's life to himself, at least for some years longer. Glen had, however, heard rumors of it, and had on one occasion been taunted by an angry playmate with the sneer that he was only a nobody who didn't belong to anybody, anyhow. Glen had promptly forced this tormentor to acknowledge that he did not know what he was talking about; but the taunt rankled all the same. A few days afterwards, which happened to be the one that was kept as his seventeenth birthday, he told his father of it, and asked what it meant. Then Luke Matherson, greatly troubled, but seeing that the secret could not be kept any longer from the boy, told him what he knew of his history. He ended with, "It is fifteen years ago this very day, Glen, that the terrible wreck took place; and, as you were then thought to be about two years old, I have called this your birthday ever since." The boy was amazed and bewildered. No idea that the one whom he had always called "father" was not such in reality had ever entered his head; but now that the truth was told him, it seemed strange that he had not always known it instinctively. He had known that Mrs. Matherson was not his own mother, for he was five years old when she assumed that position, and of course he had always known that the two children were not his own sisters, though he loved them as dearly as though they were. But now to find out that he did not really belong to anybody was hard. Who were his real parents? Were they alive? Could he find them? were questions that now began to occupy the boy's mind most of the time. One of the strangest things about this state of affairs was to discover that his birthday was not his birthday after all. It seemed as though some foundation on which he had rested in absolute trust of its security had suddenly been swept from under him, and left him struggling in a stormy sea of uncertainty. The idea of a boy without a birthday! Who ever heard of such a thing? How the other fellows would stare and smile if they knew it! Glen had been so proud of his birthday, too, and it had been made so much of at home. His favorite dishes were always prepared for the meals of that day, his tastes were consulted in everything that was done, and his father always made a point of giving him a more valuable present then than even at Christmas. Why, on the last one, the very day on which the boy first learned how unreal the whole thing was, his father--no, his adopted father--had given him the dearest little silver watch that ever was seen. Many times since learning such a sad lesson in the uncertainties of life, Glen had pulled this watch from his pocket, simply to assure himself of its reality, and that it was not a make-believe like his birthday. But for his natural force of character and sweetness of disposition, Glen would have been a spoiled boy; for Luke Matherson had never been able, since the moment he first saw him lying helplessly on the floating car seat, to cross him in anything, or deny him whatever he asked if it lay in his power to grant it. With his own children Mr. Matherson was rather strict; but with the orphan lad who had shared with him the greatest peril of his life, he could not be. Thus Glen had grown up to be somewhat impatient of restraint, and very much inclined to have his own way. He was also a brave, generous boy, and an acknowledged leader among his young companions. Was he not the best swimmer, the fastest runner, the most daring climber, and expert horseback-rider in Brimfield? Was he not captain of the baseball nine? and did not all the fellows admire him except one or two, who were so jealous of his popularity that they sought to detract from it? One of those who were most envious of him was Binney Gibbs, son of the wealthy owner of the Brimfield Mills. He was taller than Glen, but was no match for him in anything that called for muscle or pluck. It was he who had flung the taunt of Glen's being a nobody at the boy. Binney had never been noted for his studious habits until both he and Glen entered the High School at the same time. Then, realizing that he could not excel at anything else, he determined to beat the other at his studies. To this end he strained every nerve with such effect that he not only outranked Glen in his own class, but, by working all through two long vacations, gained a whole year on him. So now, while poor Glen was threatened with being turned back from the second class, Binney Gibbs had just graduated at the head of the first, and was ready to enter college. And the worst of it all was that everybody believed him to be a whole year younger than Glen, too. To be sure, Binney was pale and thin, and no stronger than a cat. Why, he couldn't even swim; but what of it? Had he not beaten the most popular fellow in town away out of sight in this scholarship race? To crown his triumph another thing had happened to make Binney Gibbs the envy of all the boys in Brimfield, but particularly of Glen Eddy. On that last day of school the diplomas had been awarded, and Binney's had been handed to him the first of all. As he was about to return to his seat, amid the loud applause of the spectators, Mr. Meadows asked him to wait a minute. So Binney stood on the platform while the principal told of a wonderful exploring expedition that was being fitted out at that moment, to go across the plains through the almost unknown territories of New Mexico and Arizona to California. It was to be the most famous expedition of the kind ever sent into the far West; and, as it was to be partly a government enterprise, all sorts of political influence was being used to obtain positions in it. It was to be commanded by a noted general, who was an old friend of Mr. Meadows. "Now," said the principal, "the general writes that he will give a position in this party to the boy who stands highest in my school this year, or, if I cannot recommend him, or he does not choose to accept it, to any other whom I may name." Here Mr. Meadows was interrupted by prolonged applause. When it had subsided, he continued. "There is no question as to which pupil of the school ranks highest this year. He stands before you now, with his well-earned diploma in his hand [applause], and it gives me great pleasure to be able to offer to Master Binney Gibbs a position in the exploring-party that will start from St. Louis two weeks from to-day, under command of my friend General Lyle. I hope that he may be induced to accept it, and that his parents may permit him to do so; for I cannot imagine a more fascinating or profitable way of spending a year at his time of life." Chapter IV. "I JUST HATE TO STUDY." Mr. Meadows's remarks in regard to the famous exploring expedition, about to be sent across the Western plains, were received with tremendous applause, and Binney Gibbs at once became an object of envy to every boy in the school--to say nothing of the girls. What a chance to have offered one just for doing a little hard study! If the other boys had known of it, how they, too, would have studied! Binney Gibbs would have been obliged to work harder than he had for his position! Yes, sir! ten times harder!--only think of it! Indians and buffalo and bears, and the Rocky Mountains, and all the other enchanted marvels of that far-away region. Why, just to contemplate it was better than reading a dime novel! While these thoughts were racing through the minds of his companions, and while they were cheering and clapping their hands, the lucky boy himself was talking with Mr. Meadows, and telling him how much he should like to join that expedition, and how he hoped his father would let him do so. Mr. Gibbs left his seat in the audience and stepped up to the platform, where he talked for a moment with Mr. Meadows. Then he spoke to Binney, and then, as he faced the school, they saw that he had something to say to them. It was that he was proud of his son--proud of the honor shown to the school and to Brimfield through him--and that he should certainly allow Binney to accept the offered position. So it was settled; and all the boys cheered again. To Glen Eddy it seemed that he would be willing to forego all the other good things that life held for him if he could only have the prospect of one such year of adventure as was promised to Binney Gibbs. For the first time in his life he was genuinely envious of another boy. It was that same day, after everybody else had gone, that he had the talk with Mr. Meadows, in which the latter told him he must go back a whole year on account of not having studied; though, if he had, he might have been offered--And then came the interruption. Glen was too heart-sick and miserable to wait and ask what the offer might have been. Besides, he thought he knew, and the thought only added to his distress of mind, until it really seemed as though no boy could be much more unhappy than he. Mr. Matherson knew how the boy stood in school, for the principal had thought it his duty to inform him; and that evening he and Glen had a long and serious talk. "It's no use, father; I just hate to study!" exclaimed Glen, using the same words that had caused Mr. Meadows to look grave earlier in the day. "I fancy we all hate a great many things that we have to do in this life," replied the master mechanic, "and you have certainly had a striking example to-day of the value of study." "Yes, that's so," admitted Glen, reluctantly, "and if I had known that there was anything of that kind to be gained, perhaps I might have tried for it too." "If I had been given your chance to study when I was young," continued the other, "and had made the most of it, I would have a better position to-day than the one I now hold. As it is, I have had to study mighty hard, along with my work, to get even it. I tell you, my boy, the chances come when you least expect them. The only thing to do is to prepare for them, and be ready to seize them as they appear. If one isn't prepared they'll slip right past him--and when once they have done that, he can never catch them again." "But aren't there working chances just as well as studying chances, father?" "Of course there are, and the study must always be followed by work--hard work, too--but the first is a mighty big help to the other. Now I will gladly do all that I can to help you on with your studies, if you will study; but if you won't, you must go to work, for I can't afford to support you in idleness, and I wouldn't if I could." "Well, I'll tell you what, father," said Glen, who was more inclined to take his own way than one proposed by somebody else, "if you can help me to the getting of a job, I'll try the work this summer, and when it comes time for school to open again, I'll decide whether it shall be work or study." "All right, my boy, I'll do what I can to get you a place in the mill or in Deacon Brown's store, whichever you prefer." Now that a definite kind of work was proposed, it did not seem so very desirable after all, and Glen doubted if he should like either the mill or the store. Still he did not say so, but asked for a day longer in which to decide, which was readily granted him. At about the same time that evening, Binney Gibbs was saying to his father, with a self-satisfied air, "Isn't it a good thing that I have stuck to my books as I have, and not wasted my time playing ball, or swimming, or doing the things that Glen Matherson and the other fellows seem to consider so important?" "Well, yes," replied Mr. Gibbs, a little doubtfully, "I suppose it is. At the same time, Binney, I do wish you were a little stronger. I'm afraid you'll find roughing it pretty hard." "Oh, yes, I suppose physical strength was the most important thing when you were young, father; but nowadays its brain-work that tells," answered Binney, with a slight tone of contempt for his father's old-fashioned ideas. Binney was not a bad-hearted fellow--only spoiled. The next day Glen did not feel like meeting any of his young companions. He wanted to think over the several problems that had been presented to him. So he wandered down to the river, where a fine new railroad-bridge, in the building of which he had been greatly interested, was now receiving its finishing touches. As he walked out towards the centre of the graceful structure, admiring, as he had a hundred times before, the details of its construction, its evident strength and airy lightness, he saw the engineer who had charge of the work standing, with a roll of plans under his arm, talking with one of the foremen. Glen had visited the bridge so often that the engineer knew him by sight, and had even learned his name, though he had never spoken to him. He was, however, especially fond of boys, and had been much pleased with Glen's appearance. Several times he had been on the point of speaking to him, but had been restrained by the diffidence a man is so apt to feel in the presence of a stranger so much younger than himself. It is a fear that he may do or say something to excite the undisguised mirth or contempt that so often wait upon the ignorance of youth. Without suspecting these feelings in him, Glen had been strangely attracted towards the engineer, whose profession and position seemed to him alike fascinating and desirable. He wished he could become acquainted with him, but did not know how to set about it. He, too, was diffident and fearful of appearing in an unfavorable light before the other, who was evidently so much older and wiser than he. But he did long to ask this engineer a great many questions. Now he stood at a respectful distance and watched the young man, whose name he knew to be Hobart, and, wondering whether his position had been reached by study or work, wished he could think of some good excuse for speaking to him. The floor of the bridge on which they were standing was about twenty-five feet above Brim River, the deep, swift stream that it spanned. Glen had swum and fished in it, and boated on it, until he knew its every current and slack-water pool. He knew it as well as he did the road to the village, and was almost as much at home in the one as on the other. In order to consult a note-book that he drew from his pocket, Mr. Hobart laid his roll of plans on a floor-beam, at his feet, for a moment. Just then a little whirling gust of wind came along, and in an instant the valuable plans were sailing through the air towards the sparkling waters, that seemed to laugh at the prospect of bearing them away far beyond human reach. The engineer tried in vain to clutch them as they rolled off the floor-beam, and uttered an exclamation of vexation as they eluded his grasp. As he looked around to see what could be done towards their recovery, a boyish figure, without hat, jacket, or shoes, sprang past him, poised for an instant on the end of the floor-beam, and then leaped into space. Like a flash of light it shot downward, straight and rigid, with feet held tightly together, and hands pressed close against the thighs. A myriad of crystal-drops were flung high in the air and glittered in the bright sunlight as Glen, striking the water with the impetus of a twenty-five-foot fall, sank deep beneath its surface. Chapter V. SWIMMING INTO A FRIENDSHIP. Although Glen found no difficulty in coming to the surface, almost at the spot where the roll of plans floated, and grasping it, he did not find it so easy to bring it safely to shore. To begin with, the roll occupied one hand, so that he had but one for swimming. Then the current was strong, and the banks steep. He was very near the middle of the river. Any other Brimfield boy would have been in despair at finding himself in such a situation. But, then, no other boy in Brimfield would have taken that leap. For a moment Glen wondered what he should do. Then he remembered the "back-set" at the Bend, a quarter of a mile below the bridge. It would put him right in to the bank, at a place where it was low, too. The anxious watchers on the bridge wondered to see the boy turn on his back and quietly drift away with the current, at the same time holding the roll of plans, for which he had dared so much, clear of the water. They shouted to him to swim towards one or the other bank and they would fling him a rope; but Glen only smiled without wasting any breath in answering. Most of the men ran to one end of the bridge, because it looked to them as though the boy were nearer that bank than the other; but Mr. Hobart, who had studied the river, remembered the Bend, and hurried to the other end. When he reached it he ran down along the bank, towards the place where he felt certain the boy would attempt to land. He got there in time to see Glen swimming with all his might to get out of the main current and into the "back-set." With two hands he would have done it easily; but with only one it was hard work. Then, too, his clothing dragged heavily. Mr. Hobart shouted to him to let go the roll. "Drop it and make sure of your own safety," he cried. "They are not worth taking any risks for." But Glen was not the kind of a boy to let go of a thing that he had once made up his mind to hold on to, so long as he had an ounce of strength left. So he struggled on, and at last had the satisfaction of feeling that something stronger than his own efforts was carrying him towards shore. He had gained the "back-set," and, though its direction was rather up along the bank, than in towards it, the swimmer had still strength enough left to overcome this difficulty. A tree, growing straight out from the bank, overhung the stream, so that Glen at length drifted under it, and caught hold of a drooping branch. He had not strength enough to pull himself up; but it was not needed. With the activity that comes from a life spent in the open air, the engineer had run out on the horizontal trunk, and now, lying flat on it, he could just reach the boy's hand. In another minute the strong arms had drawn Glen up to a secure resting-place, where he might regain his breath and drip to his heart's content. "Here are the plans, Mr. Hobart," he said, shyly, and at the same time proudly. "I hope they are not spoiled by the water. I held them out of it as much as I could." "I hope you are not spoiled by the water, Glen Matherson," laughed the engineer, as he took the wet roll from the boy's hand. "You have done splendidly, and I am sincerely grateful to you for rescuing my plans, which are indeed of great value. At the same time I wouldn't do such a thing again, if I were you, for anything less important than the saving of life. It was a big risk to take, and I should have suffered a life-long sorrow if anything had gone wrong with you." Although it was a warm June day, and Glen laughed at the idea of catching cold, he had been in the water long enough to be thoroughly chilled. So, when they regained the bank, Mr. Hobart insisted that he should take off his clothes, wring them, and let them dry in the hot sun. In the meantime a workman had come down from the bridge with the boy's hat, jacket, and shoes. He lent him his overalls, and, thus comically arrayed, Glen sat and talked with the engineer while his clothes were drying. How kindly the brown-bearded face was, and with what interest the man listened to all the boy had to say. How pleasant was his voice, and, in spite of his age (he was about thirty-five) and wisdom, how easy it was to talk to him! It was so easy, and he proved such a sympathetic listener, that before Glen knew it he found himself confiding all his troubles and hopes and perplexities to this new friend. It began with his name, which he told the engineer was not Matherson, and then he had to explain why it was not. Then they wondered together what sort of a man Glen's real father could be, provided he were alive; and if, by any strange chance, he and his son would ever meet and know each other. Mr. Hobart did not think it at all likely they ever would. From this the boy was led to tell of his dislike for study, and into what trouble it had led him. He even told of the decision reached by his adopted father and himself the evening before, and the undesirable choice of work that had been presented to him. "And so you don't think you would fancy either the mill or the store?" asked Mr. Hobart. "No, sir, I do not. Each one, when I think of it, seems worse than the other, and they both seem worse than most anything else." "Worse than studying?" "Just as bad, because either of them means being shut up, and I hate to stay in the house. I should like some business that would keep me out-of-doors all the time." "Ploughing, for instance, or driving a horse-car, or digging clams, or civil-engineering, or something nice and easy, like any of those?" suggested Mr. Hobart, gravely. "Civil-engineering is what I think I should like better than anything else in the world!" exclaimed the boy, eagerly. "That's what you are, isn't it, sir?" "That is what I am trying to be," answered Mr. Hobart, smiling; "and if, by years of hard work, hard study, and unceasing effort, I can reach a generally recognized position as an engineer, I shall be satisfied with my life's work." "Do you have to study?" asked Glen, in amazement. "Indeed I do," was the answer. "I have to study continually, and fully as hard as any schoolboy of your acquaintance." Glen looked incredulous. It is hard for a boy to realize that his school is only the place where he is taught how to study, and that his most important lessons will have to be learned after he leaves it. "I think I should like to be a civil-engineer, anyhow," he remarked, after a thoughtful pause, "because it is an out-of-door business." "Yes," admitted the other, "it is to a great extent." Then they found that Glen's clothing was dry enough to be worn, and also that it was dinnertime. So, after Mr. Hobart had shaken hands with the boy, and said he hoped to see him again before long, they separated. That afternoon Glen, still wearing a perplexed expression on his usually merry face, walked down to the mill and looked in at its open door. It was so hot and dusty and noisy that he did not care to stay there very long. He had been familiar with it all his life; but never before had it struck him as such an unpleasant place to work in, day after day, month after month, and even year after year, as it did now. How hard people did have to work, anyway! He had never realized it before. Still, working in a mill must be a little harder than anything else. At any rate, he certainly would not choose to earn his living there. Then he walked down to Deacon Brown's store. The deacon did a large retail business; this was a busy afternoon, and the place was filled with customers. How tired the clerks looked, and what pale faces they had. How people bothered them with questions, and called on them to attend to half a dozen things at once. How close and stuffy the air of the store was. It was almost as bad as that of the mill. Then, too, the store was kept open hours after the mill had shut down; for its evening trade was generally very brisk. It did not seem half so attractive a place to Glen now as it had at other times, when he had visited it solely with a view of making some small purchase. Perhaps going to school, and keeping up with one's class, was not the hardest thing in the world after all. So the poor boy returned home, more perplexed as to what he should do than ever, and he actually dreaded the after-supper talk with his adopted father that he usually enjoyed so much. When the time came, and Mr. Matherson asked, kindly, "Well, my boy, what have you decided to do?" Glen was obliged to confess that he was just as far from a decision as he had been the evening before. Chapter VI. RECEIVING AN OFFER AND ACCEPTING IT. "Well, that is bad," said the master mechanic, when Glen told him that he had been unable to arrive at any decision in regard to going to work. "It is bad, for I can't see that there is anything open to you just now, except one of the two things we talked about last evening. At the same time, I hate to compel you, or even persuade you, to do anything that is hard and distasteful. If you were a year younger, I should say, 'Spend your vacation as you always have done, and have as good a time as you know how, without worrying about the future.' At seventeen, though, a boy should begin to look ahead, and take some decisive step in the direction of his future career. If he decides to study, he should also decide what he wants to study for. If he decides to work, he should have some object to work for, and should turn all his energies in that direction. I declare, Glen, I hardly know how to advise you in this matter. Do you think of any particular thing you would rather do, or try to be? If so, and I can help you to it, you know how gladly I will, in every way that lies in my power." "It seems to me I would rather be a civil-engineer than anything else," answered the boy, a little hesitatingly. "A civil-engineer!" exclaimed the other, in surprise; "why, Glen, lad, don't you know that it takes the hardest kind of study to be that?" Just then their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a visitor, who, to Glen's surprise, was none other than Mr. Hobart, the engineer whose position he had been thinking of as one of the most desirable in the world. After a few moments' pleasant chat the visitor asked Mr. Matherson if he could have a private business talk with him. So Glen left the room, and wandered restlessly about the house, filled with a lively curiosity as to what business the engineer could have with his adopted father. In the meantime Mr. Hobart was saying, "I have known your son for some time by sight, Mr. Matherson, and took a fancy to him from the first. We only got acquainted to-day, when he performed an act of daring in my presence, and at the same time rendered me an important service. I find him to be exactly such a boy as I supposed he was; a generous-hearted, manly fellow, who is just now unhappy and discontented because he has no particular aim in life, and does not know what he wants to do." "Yes," said Mr. Matherson, "that is just the trouble; and the worst of it is that I don't know what to advise him." "Then, perhaps, I am just in time to help you. My work here is about finished, and in a few days I am to leave for Kansas, where I am to take charge of a locating-party on one of the Pacific railroads. If you are willing to let Glen go with me, I can make a place for him in this party. The pay will only be thirty dollars per month, besides his expenses; but, by the end of the summer, I believe he will have gained more valuable knowledge and experience than he could in a year of home and school life. I believe, too, in that time I can show him the value of an education and the necessity of studying for it. Now, without really knowing anything about it, he thinks he would like to become a civil-engineer. After a few months' experience in the unsettled country to which I am going he will have seen the rough side of the life, and can decide intelligently whether he desires to continue in it or not." Mr. Matherson could hardly restrain his delight at the prospect of such an opening for the boy whom he loved so dearly; but he was too honest to let him start out under false colors; so he said, "I can never tell you how grateful I am for this offer, sir; but I don't want you to think that my boy is any better than he really is. He is not a good scholar, and seems to lack application. Even now he is in danger of being turned back a whole year in school because he has failed to keep up with his class." "I know all that," replied Mr. Hobart, smiling; "and it is one of the reasons why I want him to go with me. I was very much such a boy myself, and think I understand his state of mind perfectly. He has reached the most trying period of his life, and the one where he most needs encouragement and help. He has a sufficiently good education to build on, and is bright enough to comprehend things that are clearly explained to him. As for his having no knowledge of the peculiar studies necessary for an engineer, I am glad that he hasn't. I believe that it is better for all boys to gain some practical knowledge of the business they intend to follow before they really begin to study for it. A few months or a year of practice shows them in what they are deficient and what they need to learn. I could get plenty of young fellows to go out to Kansas with me who are crammed with theoretical knowledge of surveying and engineering, but who are ignorant of its practice. Such chaps think they know it all, and are impatient of criticism or advice. I can get along better with one who knows little or nothing to begin with, but who is bright and willing to learn. In the end I will guarantee to make such a one the more valuable engineer of the two." "It is a new idea to me," said Mr. Matherson, reflectively, "but I believe you are right." "There is another reason why I fancy your boy, and think I can make an engineer of him," continued Mr. Hobart. "His physical condition seems to me to be perfect. As they say of prize animals, he seems to be sound in wind and limb, and without a blemish. Now, the life of an engineer, particularly in unsettled countries, is a hard one. He is exposed to all sorts of weather; must often sleep without a shelter of any kind, and must work hard from early dawn until late at night, sometimes on a scanty allowance of food. It is as hard as, and in many cases harder than, active service in the army. It is no life for weaklings, and we do not want them; but, from what I have seen of your boy, I do not believe that even you can point out any physical defect in his make-up." "No, I certainly cannot," replied Mr. Matherson, heartily, glad of a chance to praise his boy without qualification, in at least one respect. "I believe him to be physically perfect, and I know that there is not a boy of his age in town who is his match in strength, agility, or daring." "So you see," laughed the engineer, "he is exactly the boy I want; and if you will let him go with me I shall consider that you have conferred a favor." "Of course I will let him go, sir, and shall feel forever grateful to you for the offer." Thus it was all settled, and Glen was summoned to hear the result of the few minutes' conversation by which the whole course of his life was to be changed. By it, too, he was to be lifted in a moment from the depths of despondency and uncertainty to such a height of happiness as he had not dared dream of, much less hope for. The moment he entered the room he was assured, by the smiling faces of its occupants, that their topic of conversation had been a pleasant one; but when its nature was explained to him he could hardly credit his senses. Would he like to go out to Kansas for the summer?--to a land still occupied by wild Indians and buffalo? The idea of asking him such a question! There was nothing in the whole world he would like better! Why, it was almost as good as the position offered to Binney Gibbs; and, certainly, no boy could ever hope for anything more splendid than that. In two respects he considered himself even more fortunate than Binney. One was that he was to go with Mr. Hobart, whom he had come to regard with an intense admiration as one of the wisest and kindest of men. The other was that they were to start on the third day from that time, while Binney would not go for nearly two weeks yet. What busy days the next two were! How Glen did fly around with his preparations! How interested Mr. Hobart was, and how he laughed at many of the excited boy's questions! Ought he to have a buckskin suit and a broad-brimmed hat? Should he need any other weapons besides a revolver and a bowie-knife? Would it be better to take long-legged leather boots or rubber-boots, or both? How large a trunk ought he to have? His outfit, prepared by Mr. Hobart's advice, finally consisted of two pairs of double blankets, rolled up in a rubber sheet and securely corded, two pairs of easy, laced walking-shoes, and one pair of leather leggings, three flannel shirts, three suits of under-clothing, and six pairs of socks, one warm coat, two pairs of trousers, a soft, gray felt hat, half a dozen silk handkerchiefs, and the same number of towels. Of these he would wear, from the start, the hat, coat, one of the flannel shirts, one of the two pairs of trousers, a suit of under-clothing, one of the silk handkerchiefs knotted about his neck, and one of the pairs of shoes. All the rest could easily be got into a small leathern valise, which would be as much of a trunk as he would be allowed to carry. He would need a stout leather belt, to which should be slung a good revolver in a holster, a common sheath-knife, that need not cost more than thirty cents, and a small tin cup that could be bought for five. Besides these things, Mrs. Matherson, who loved the boy as though he were her own, tucked into the valise a small case of sewing materials, a brush, comb, cake of soap, tooth-brush, hand-glass, and a Testament in which his name was written. On the very day of his departure his adopted father presented the delighted boy with a light rifle of the very latest pattern. It was, of course, a breech-loader, and carried six extra cartridges in its magazine. In its neat canvas-case, Glen thought it was the very handsomest weapon he had ever seen, and the other boys thought so too. With them he was the hero of the hour, and even Binney Gibbs's glittering prospects were almost forgotten, for the time being, in this more immediate excitement. Of course they all gathered at the railway station to see him start on the morning of the appointed day. It seemed as though almost everybody else in the village was there, too. Binney Gibbs was among the very few of Glen's acquaintances who did not come. So, amid tears and laughter, good wishes and loud cheerings, the train rolled away, bearing Glen Eddy from the only home he had ever known towards the exciting scenes of the new life that awaited him in the far West. Chapter VII. ACROSS THE MISSISSIPPI. Never before, since he was first carried to Brimfield as a baby, had Glen been away from there; so, from the very outset, the journey on which he had now started, in company with Mr. Hobart, was a wonderful one. In school, besides history, he had enjoyed the study of geography, being especially fond of poring over maps and tracing out imaginary journeys. In this way he had gained a fair idea of the route Mr. Hobart and he were to pursue, as well as of the cities and other places of interest they were to see. There was one place, however, for which he was not prepared. It was early in the first night of the journey, and the boy had just fallen into a doze in his sleeping-car berth. As the night was warm, and there was no dust, the car door was open, and through it came a sudden shout of "Glen Eddy! Glen Eddy!" As Glen started up, wide awake, and answering "Here I am," the train rumbled over a bridge. Then it stopped, and the meaning of the shout flashed into the boy's mind. He was at the very place where, so long ago, he had lost a father or mother, or both. All the details of that awful scene, as described by his adopted father, appeared vividly before him, and he seemed to see, through a gray dawn, the mass of splintered wreckage nearly covered by angry waters, the floating car seat with its tiny human burden, and the brave swimmer directing it towards land. The train stopped but a moment, and then moved on. As it did so, Glen, who was in an upper berth, heard a deep sigh, that sounded almost like a groan, coming apparently from a lower berth on the opposite side of the car. Directly afterwards he heard a low voice ask, respectfully, "What is it, Governor? Are you in pain? Can I do anything?" "Nothing, Price, thank you. I had a sort of nightmare, that's all," was the reply, and then all was again quiet. Glen wished he might catch a glimpse of the person who spoke last, for he had never seen a governor, and wondered in what way he would look different from other men. He would try and see him in the morning. Thus thinking, he fell asleep. The next morning he was awakened by Mr. Hobart, and told to dress as quickly as possible, for they were within a few miles of East St. Louis, and would soon cross the Mississippi. This news drove all other thoughts from the boy's mind, and he hurried through his toilet, full of excitement at the prospect of seeing the mightiest of American rivers. There was no bridge across the Mississippi then, either at St. Louis or elsewhere. Great four-horse transfer coaches from the several hotels were waiting for passengers beside the train where it stopped, and these were borne to the opposite bank by a steam ferry-boat with a peculiar name and of peculiar construction. The _Cahokia_ looked like a regular river steamer, except that she had no visible paddle-wheels, not even one behind, like a wheelbarrow, as some of the very shoal-draught boats had. For some time Glen could not discover what made her go, though go she certainly did, moving swiftly and easily across the broad expanse of tawny waters towards the smoky city on its farther bank. He would not ask Mr. Hobart, for he loved to puzzle things out for himself if he possibly could. At length he discovered that the boat was double-hulled, and that its single paddle-wheel was located between the two hulls. Glen was obliged to ask the object of this; but when he was told that it was to protect the wheel from the great ice-cakes that floated down the river in winter, he wondered that he had not thought of that himself. So he forgot to look for his governor, or ask about him until they reached the hotel where they were to get breakfast and spend a few hours. Then he was told that the person in whom he was interested was probably General Elting, who had just completed a term of office as governor of one of the territories, and who was now acting as treasurer of the very railroad company for which he was to work. Glen regretted not having seen the ex-governor, but quickly forgot his slight disappointment in the more novel and interesting things that now attracted his attention. He had never been in a city before, and was very glad of a few hours in which to see the sights of this one; for the train that was to carry them to Kansas City would not leave until afternoon. As the offices of the company by whom Mr. Hobart was employed were in St. Louis, he was obliged to spend all his time in them, and could not go about with Glen. So, only charging him to be on hand in time for the train, the engineer left the boy to his own devices. Glen spent most of his time on the broad levee at the river's edge, where he was fascinated by the great steamboats, with their lofty pilot-houses, tall chimneys, roaring furnaces, and crews of shouting negroes, that continually came and went. This seemed to be their grand meeting-point. On huge placards, swung above their gang-planks, Glen read that some of them were bound for New Orleans and all intermediate ports. Then there were boats for the Red, Arkansas, Yazoo, Ohio, Illinois, Missouri, and a dozen other rivers, tributary to the great Father of Waters. Still others were bound for Northern ports, even as far as distant St. Paul, in Minnesota. Two o'clock found the boy at the railway station, standing beside the car in which all his belongings were already safely deposited, waiting anxiously for Mr. Hobart. Just as the train was about to start, that gentleman rushed into the station. "Jump aboard, Glen," he said, hurriedly, "and go on to Kansas City with the baggage. Here is your pass and a note to Mr. Brackett. Report to him at the Kaw House. I am detained here by business, but will join you to-morrow or next day. Good-bye." The train was already in motion, and in another moment the boy had lost sight of his only friend in that part of the world, and was whirling away towards an unknown destination. He felt rather lonely and forlorn at thus being cast upon his own resources, but at the same time he felt proud of the confidence reposed in him, and glad of an opportunity to prove how well he could take care of himself. For several hours he was interested in watching the rapidly changing features of the landscape; but after a while he grew weary of this, and began to study his fellow-passengers. There were not many in the sleeper, and the only ones near him in whom he took an interest were a little girl, five or six years old, who was running up and down the aisle, and a lady, evidently the child's mother, who sat opposite to him. As he watched the little one she tripped and would have fallen had he not sprung forward and caught her. The child smiled at him, the mother thanked him, and in a few minutes he found himself playing with the former and amusing himself in entertaining her. She told him that her name was Nettie Winn; but that her papa, who lived a long way off, and whom she was going to see, called her "Nettle." She was a bright, sunny-haired little thing, who evidently regarded elder people as having been created especially for her amusement and to obey her orders. As, in obedience to one of these, the boy carried her in his arms to the forward end of the car that she might look out of the window in the door, a fine-looking middle-aged gentleman spoke to him, remarking that he seemed very fond of children. "Yes, sir, I am," answered Glen, "for I have two little sisters at home." They exchanged a few more words, and Glen was so attracted by the stranger's appearance and manner that after the tired child had gone to sleep with her head in her mother's lap, he again walked to the end of the car in hopes that the gentleman might be inclined to renew their conversation. Nor was he disappointed; for the stranger welcomed him with a smile, made room on the seat beside him, and they were soon engaged in a pleasant chat. It is not hard for a man of tact to win the confidence of a boy, so that, before long, the gentleman knew that this was Glen's first journey from home, and that he was going to Kansas to learn to be an engineer. "Do you mean a civil-engineer?" he asked, "or an engine-driver?" "Oh, a civil-engineer, of course!" answered the boy; "for I can run a locomotive now, almost as well as father, and that used to be his business." Then he explained that his father, who was now a master mechanic, had given him careful instruction in the art of running a pony switch engine that belonged to the Brimfield Mills, and that once, when the engine-driver was ill, he had been placed in charge of it for a whole day. "That is a most useful accomplishment," remarked the gentleman, "and one that I should be glad to acquire myself." When the train stopped at an eating station they went in to supper together, and Glen began to think that, in his new friend, he had found a second Mr. Hobart, which was the very nicest thing he could think about anybody. The boy did not forget to carry a cup of tea and a glass of milk into the car for Mrs. Winn and Nettie, for which act of thoughtfulness he was rewarded by a grateful smile and hearty thanks. He wondered somewhat at the several men who every now and then came into the car and exchanged a few words in low tone with his other train acquaintance, and also wondered that the gentleman should leave the car and walk towards the forward end of the train every time it stopped at a station. Glen was so tired that he had his berth made up and turned in very early; but for a long time found himself unable to sleep, so busy were his thoughts. At length, however, he fell into a sound, dreamless slumber, that lasted for hours, though he knew nothing of the passage of time. He was suddenly awakened by a loud noise, and found himself sitting bolt upright in his berth, listening, bewildered and half frightened, to a confused sound of pistol-shots, shouts, and screams. The train was motionless. The screams were evidently those of fright, and came from the car he was in, while the other and more terrifying sounds reached his ears from some distance. Chapter VIII. GLEN RUNS A LOCOMOTIVE. Springing from his berth, Glen began hastily to put on his shoes and the few articles of clothing he had laid aside. Several other passengers were doing the same thing, and each was asking the others what had happened; but nobody knew. All the alarming sounds had now ceased, even the women who had screamed being quiet, in the hope of discovering the cause of their terror. Glen was the first to leave the car, and, seeing a confused movement of lanterns at the forward end of the train, he began to run in that direction. It was still dark, though there were signs of dawn in the sky. The train was not stopped at a station, but in a thick woods. As the boy reached the baggage-car, he was horrified to see that several men were lifting a limp and apparently lifeless body into it. The sight made him feel sick and faint. He stood for a moment irresolute. Then, two men, one of whom carried a lantern, came rapidly towards him. "Here he is, now!" exclaimed one of them, as the light from the lantern fell on the boy's face. Glen recognized the voice. It was that of his recent acquaintance. Now he was coatless and bare-headed. In his hand was a Colt's revolver. The other man was the conductor of the train. "This gentleman says you can run a locomotive. Is that so?" asked the conductor, holding up his lantern and scanning Glen's face keenly. "Yes," answered the boy, "I can." "Well, it looks like taking an awful risk to trust a boy as young as you; but I don't know what else we can do. Our engineer has just been killed, and the fireman is badly wounded. Two more men are hurt, and we've got to get them to a doctor as quick as we can. It's fifty miles to Kansas City, and there's only one telegraph station between here and there. It's ten miles ahead. We'll stop there, and send a despatch. Will you undertake to run us in?" "Let me look at the engine first, and then I'll tell you," answered Glen, his voice trembling with excitement in spite of his efforts to appear calm. The three went to the panting locomotive and swung themselves up into its cab. Glen shuddered as he thought of the tragedy just enacted in that cab, and almost drew back as he entered it. Then, controlling himself by a determined effort, he gauged the water, tested the steam, threw the lever over and back, opened the furnace door, glanced at the amount of fuel in the tender, and did it all with such a business-like air and appearance of knowing what he was about as to inspire both the men, who were watching him closely, with confidence. "Yes," he said at length, "I'll take her in; but we shall need some more water." "Good for you, son!" cried the conductor. "You're a trump! and I for one believe you'll do it." "So do I," said the passenger; "and I'm thankful we've got such a plucky young engine-driver along." "But who will fire?" asked Glen, hardly hearing these remarks, though, at the same time, sufficiently conscious of them to feel gratified that he had inspired such confidence. "I will," replied the passenger, promptly. "You, general!" cried the conductor in astonishment. "Certainly! Why not I as well as another?" "Very well," responded the conductor, "I'm only too glad to have you do it, if you will; then let us be off at once." And, springing to the ground, he shouted, "All aboard! Hurry up, gentlemen, we are about to move on." But Glen would not start until he had taken a flaring torch and the engine-driver's long-nosed oil-can, and walked all around the locomotive, examining every part of the huge machine, pouring on a little oil here and there, and making sure that everything was in perfect working order. Then he again swung himself into the cab, pulled the whistle lever for one short, sharp blast, opened the throttle slowly, and the train was once more in motion. It had hardly gone a hundred yards before two rifle-shots rang out of the forest, and one ball crashed through both windows of the cab, but without harming its occupants. Glen started; but his hand did not leave the throttle, nor did his gaze swerve for an instant from the line of gleaming track ahead. He had no time then to think of his own safety. He was too busy thinking of the safety of those so suddenly and unexpectedly intrusted to him. The new fireman glanced at him admiringly, and murmured to himself, "That boy is made of clear grit. I would that I had a son like him." This man, who was heaving great chunks of wood into the roaring furnace with the strength and ease of a trained athlete, formed no unpleasant picture to look upon himself. He was tall and straight, with a keen, resolute face, an iron-gray, military moustache, and close-cropped hair. He looked not only like a soldier, but like one well accustomed to command. At the same time he obeyed promptly, and without question, every order issued by the young engine-driver on the opposite side of the cab. As the train dashed along at full speed there was no chance for conversation between the two, even had they felt inclined for it. Both were too fully engaged in peering ahead along the unfamiliar line of track to pay attention to aught else. Presently the conductor clambered over the tender from the baggage-car, and stood in the cab with them, to post Glen as to the grades and crossings. It lacked a few seconds of fifteen minutes from the time of their starting, when they slowed down for the telegraph-station, the lights of which were twinkling just ahead. Here, while the conductor roused the operator, and sent his despatch, the locomotive was run up to the tank, and a fresh supply of water was taken aboard. Then they were off again--this time for a run of forty miles without a stop or check. Daylight was coming on so rapidly now that the track was plainly visible by it, and thus one source of anxiety was removed. Up to this time Glen had no idea of what had happened, nor of the cause of the shooting that had resulted so disastrously. Now, though he did not turn his head, he learned, from the conversation between the conductor and his fireman, whom the former called "General," that an attempt had been made to rob the train of a large sum of money that the latter had placed in a safe in the express-car. He had received secret information that such an attempt would probably be made, and had engaged two detectives in St. Louis to guard his treasure. When the train was stopped in the woods by a danger signal waved across the track, the engine-driver had been ordered by the would-be robbers, who had cut the express-car loose from those behind it, to go ahead. His refusal to obey them had cost him his life, and the fireman an ugly wound. The general, who left the sleeper, and ran ahead at the first alarm, had shot and severely injured two of the robbers, and with the aid of his men had driven the rest to the shelter of the forest after a few minutes sharp fighting. The three wounded men, together with the body of the dead engine-driver, were now in the baggage-car; while the train-load of passengers, thanks to the practical knowledge of a sixteen-year-old boy, and the pluck that enabled him to utilize it, were rapidly nearing their journey's end in safety. An anxious crowd was gathered about the Kansas City station as the train rolled slowly up to its platform. The general wrung Glen's hand warmly as he said, "God bless you, boy, for what you have just done. I will see you again in a few minutes. Now I must look after the wounded men." Thus saying, he sprang to the platform, leaving Glen in the cab of the locomotive; but when he returned, fifteen minutes later, the boy had disappeared, and was nowhere to be found. Chapter IX. KANSAS CITY IN EARLY DAYS. The reason that Glen Eddy disappeared after running that engine so splendidly, and bringing the night express safely to its destination, was that he was diffident and nervous. Now that the strain was relaxed and he had time to think of the terrible risks run by that train while under his inexperienced guidance, he was seized with a sudden fright. Queerly enough, he felt almost guilty, as though he had done something wrong, or to be ashamed of. Suppose somebody should try to thank him. Suppose the crowd, now surging about the door of the baggage-car, should turn their attention to him, and come to gaze at him as a part of the show that had attracted them. What should he do in either case? It would be unbearable. He must make good his escape before either of these things happened. The wounded men were being carefully lifted from one side of the baggage-car. Everybody's attention was for the moment directed to that spot. So Glen slipped down from the locomotive cab on the opposite side, and ran back to the sleeper in which were his belongings. The car was deserted and empty. Its passengers, and everybody connected with it, had either gone up town or joined the curious throng about the baggage-car. Thus nobody saw the boy, as, securing his valise and rifle, he slipped from the rear end of the car and walked rapidly away. He plunged into one of the tunnel-like streets running back from the railroad, not knowing, nor caring, where it would lead him. His only idea was to escape, he did not even know from what. It had so taken possession of him, that he almost felt as though he were being pursued, with the danger, at any moment, of being overtaken, and dragged ignominiously back to be--thanked and made a hero of. Kansas City, which has since enjoyed such an astonishing growth and prosperity, was at that time very young. It was still burrowing through the high and steep bank of stiff red clay that separated its river front from the main street of the newer portion perched on the bluff. Several cross streets, connecting these two parts of the city, had been dug out with infinite labor, to a great depth through the red clay, and it was up one of these that Glen now walked. He was so far below the level of the airy building-lots on either side that he could not see whether they were occupied or not. Only an occasional long flight of wooden steps, leading up from the street, led him to suppose they might be. He was beginning to wonder where the city was, or if there were any more of it beyond the straggling business street that bordered the railroad, when he came to the main thoroughfare of the new town, and gazed about him with amazement. Although it was yet so early that the sun had only just risen, the broad avenue presented a scene of the most lively activity. In Brimfield the erection of a new house, or building of any kind, was a matter of general interest that afforded a topic of conversation for weeks. Here were dozens, yes, scores of them, springing up in every direction. A few were of brick; but most of those intended for business purposes were long and low, though furnished with pretentious false fronts that towered as high again as the roof itself. Everywhere was heard the din of hammer and saw, or the ring of the mason's trowel, and in every direction Glen could see the city growing, spreading, and assuming new aspects as he gazed. At length a pang of hunger recalled him to his present situation, and he inquired of a man, who was hurrying past, the way to the Kaw House. "Up there a piece," answered the man almost without pausing, and pointing vaguely up the street. "There comes the surveyor's wagon from there now," he added, nodding his head towards one, drawn by two mules, that was dashing in their direction at that moment. The surveyor's wagon. Then, perhaps, Mr. Brackett was in it, thought Glen. Acting on the impulse of the moment, he sprang into the middle of the street, and waved his rifle in the faces of the advancing mules. The driver reined them in sharply, and the team came to a standstill. "Hello, young fellow, what do you want now?" he shouted. "I want to know if Mr. Brackett is in this wagon," answered Glen. "Yes, he is, and that's my name," said a pleasant-faced young man, dressed in a red-flannel shirt, a pair of army trousers tucked into his boot-legs, and what had once been a stylish cutaway coat, who sat beside the driver. "What can I do for you?" For answer Glen handed him Mr. Hobart's note, which the young man glanced quickly through. "I see by this that you are to be a member of our party," he said, as he finished reading it, "and that the chief will not be here for a day or two yet. I am very glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Matherson. Boys, this is Mr. Glen Matherson, our new--Well, we will see what position he will occupy later. Now, Matherson, we are off for our day's work. Would you rather accompany us into the thick of the fray, or will you wend your weary way to the hotel, and while away the hours until our return, surrounded by its gloomy grandeur?" "I think I would rather go with you, sir," replied Glen, who did not know whether to laugh or not at Mr. Brackett's words and tone. "'Tis well, and go with us you shall. So tumble into the chariot, and stow yourself away wherever you can find room. Then let us on with speed." "But I left Mr. Hobart's things and some of my own on board the train," said Glen, hesitatingly, "and here are the checks for them." This difficulty was settled by the hailing of a dray, and instructing its driver to get the articles called for by the checks, and carry them, together with Glen's valise, to the hotel. The boy could not bear to trust his precious rifle out of his sight, and so carried it with him. They had hardly started, when Mr. Brackett turned to Glen and asked him if he had been to breakfast. This was a question in which the boy was greatly interested just at that moment, and he answered very promptly that he had not. "Well, here's a go!" exclaimed the other. "A rule of this party is, Matherson, and I hope I shall never be obliged to repeat it to you, that if a man hath not eaten, neither shall he work. It is now too late to return to Delmonico's, so we must intrust you to the tender mercies of the Princess, and may she have mercy upon your appetite. Joe, drive to the palace." The "palace" proved to be a patchwork shanty of the most unique and surprising description. It was constructed of bits of board, pieces of boxes and barrels, stray shingles and clapboards, roofing-paper, and a variety of other odds and ends. Its doors and windows had evidently been taken from some wrecked steamboat. It was overrun with roses and honeysuckles; while within and without it was scrupulously neat and clean. As the surveyor's wagon with its noisy load drew up before this queer establishment, its mistress appeared at the door. She was a fat, jolly-looking negress, wearing a gay calico dress, and a still more brilliant turban, and she was immediately greeted with shouts of "How are you, Princess?" "Good-morning, Princess!" "How's her royal nibs to-day?" etc., to all of which she smiled and bowed, and courtesied with the utmost good-nature. The moment he could make himself heard, Mr. Brackett said, "Princess, we have here a fainting wayfarer. Can you provide him with a cup of nectar?" "Yes, sah." "A dish of peacock's tongues?" "Sartin, sah." "And a brace of nightingale's eggs on toast?" "In about free minutes, sah." "Very well, hasten the feast and speed our departure; for we must hence, ere many nimble hours be flown." While waiting for his breakfast to be prepared, Glen had a chance to examine his new companions somewhat more closely than he had yet done. There were eight of them, besides the driver of the wagon, mostly young men, some of them hardly more than boys; but all strong, healthy looking, and brown from long exposure to sun and wind. Their dress was a medley of flannel, buckskin, and relics of high civilization. They were as merry, careless, and good-natured a set of young fellows as could well be found, always ready for hard work in its time, and equally so for a frolic when the chance offered. They all seemed to be on a perfect equality, called each other by their given names, and played practical jokes upon one another with impunity. As their wagon clattered out of town in the morning, or dashed in again at dusk, its occupants generally sang the most rollicking of college or camp songs, at the top of their voices, and everybody had a kindly word or an indulgent smile for the young surveyors. Foremost in all their fun was their temporary chief, whom Glen only knew as Mr. Brackett, but who was called "Billy" by all the others. He was about twenty-five years old, and his position was that of transit-man; though, until Mr. Hobart should join the party, he was in charge of it. To Glen, who had thus far only seen him off duty, it was incomprehensible that so frivolous a young man as "Billy" Brackett appeared should hold so responsible a position. The party had recently returned from the front, where they had been locating a line of new road since earliest spring. Now, while waiting to be sent out again, they were engaged in running in the side tracks, Y's, and switches of what has since become one of the greatest railroad yards in the world. It was on the state line, between Kansas and Missouri, about an hour's drive from the Kaw House, where the surveyors made their headquarters. In less than five minutes Glen found himself drinking the most delicious cup of coffee he had ever tasted; while into his hands were thrust a couple of sandwiches of hot corn-pones and crisp bacon. These, with two hard-boiled eggs, furnished a most acceptable meal to the hungry-boy. Mr. Brackett tossed a quarter to the "Princess," and the wagon rolled merrily away with Glen eating his breakfast, as best he could, _en route_. Chapter X. AT WORK WITH THE ENGINEER CORPS. The "Princess" was a character of those early days, and was celebrated for her _café au lait_, which "Billy" Brackett said meant "coffee and eggs;" but which was really the best of coffee and the richest of goat's milk. Her husband was steward on one of the steamboats that plied up and down the Missouri, and her exertions, added to his, enabled them to accumulate a small property, with which they afterwards made some successful investments in real estate. The boys of the engineer corps were quick to discover the "Princess" after their arrival in the place, and with her they were prime favorites. Glen had hardly finished his breakfast when the party reached the place where they were to begin work. Here the boy obtained his first knowledge of the names and uses of the various objects that had attracted his curiosity as they lay in the bottom of the wagon. From their neat wooden boxes were taken two highly polished brass instruments, each of which was provided with a telescope. One of these was a transit, for laying off lines, angles, and curves on the surface of the earth; and the other was a level for measuring the height of elevations or the depth of depressions on this same surface. As these instruments were lifted carefully from their boxes they were screwed firmly to the tops of wooden tripods, that supported them at the height of a man's eyes. Then came the long rod, divided into feet and the decimal fractions of a foot, that was to be used with the level, and two slender flag-poles painted red and white, so as to be seen at long distances. At their lower ends these poles were tipped with sharp iron points, and at the other they bore small flags of red flannel. They went with the transit, and were to designate the points at which the sights were to be taken through its telescope. There was a one-hundred-foot steel chain, having links each one foot long, with which to measure distances. With it went ten slender steel pins, each eighteen inches long, to the tops of which bits of red flannel were tied, so that they could be readily seen. The head chainman carried all of these to start with, and stuck one into the ground at the end of each hundred feet. The rear chainman gathered them up as he came to them, and thus, by counting the number of pins in his hand, he always knew just what distance had been measured. The man having charge of or "running" the transit was called the transit-man; the one running the level was called the leveller; while the other members of the party were designated as rodman, front and back flagmen, or "flags," chainmen, and axemen. There were generally two of these last named, and their duty was to clear away timber, brush, or other obstructions on the line, and to make and drive stakes wherever they were needed. As the several members of the party were preparing for their respective duties, Mr. Brackett put Glen through a sort of an examination, to discover for what particular task he was best fitted. "I don't suppose, Matherson," he began, "that you care to run the transit to-day?" "No," laughed Glen, "I think not to-day." "Nor the level?" "No, sir. I'd rather not try it." "Well, I guess you'd better not. You might get it out of adjustment. Can you read a rod!" No, Glen could not read a rod. He proved equally ignorant of the duties of flagman, chainman, and axeman, which Mr. Brackett said was very fortunate, as all these positions were already so capably filled in his party that he should really hate to discharge anybody to make room for the new arrival. "But," he added, "I have a most important place left, that I believe you will fill capitally. Can you reproduce the letters of the alphabet and the Arabic numerals on a bit of white pine with a piece of red chalk?" Somewhat bewildered by this banter, Glen answered rather doubtfully that he believed he could. "Good! Then you shall stay with the wagon to-day, and mark stakes with this bit of 'kiel'" (red chalk). So Glen's first day's duty as a civil-engineer was to mark stakes with figures to denote the distance measured, or with various letters, such as P. T. (point of tangent), P. C. (point of curve), etc., for the transit party, and B. M. (bench mark), C. (cut), F. (fill), G. (grade), etc., for the levellers. Mr. Brackett explained the meaning of these signs patiently and clearly to the boy, whose quick wit enabled him readily to comprehend all that was told him. By noon he was furnishing stakes, properly marked, for the various purposes required, as well as though he had been engaged in this business for a month. It was not a very important position, to be sure; but he filled it to the very best of his ability, which is the most that can be expected of any boy. One of the things by which the new member was most strongly impressed, during this first day's experience, was the great difference between Mr. Brackett on duty and the same gentleman during his hours of relaxation. While at work he was grave and dignified, nor did he tolerate any familiarity from those who obeyed his orders. And they did obey them promptly, without question or hesitation. He was no longer "Billy;" but was carefully addressed as "Mr. Brackett" by every member of the party. It was evident that he not only thoroughly understood his business, but as thoroughly understood the temper of his men. It was clear, also, that they were well aware that he was not a man to allow his authority to be questioned or trifled with. With this mutual understanding the work progressed smoothly and satisfactorily. All this was a study in character of which Glen was wise enough to learn the lesson; and perhaps it was the most valuable one of that day's schooling. The discipline of a well-drilled engineer corps is very similar to that maintained on board ship; and, while at certain seasons it may be greatly relaxed, it can, and must, be resumed at a moment's notice, if the authority necessary to produce the best results is to be respected. The same merry, rollicking party rode back into Kansas City that evening that had left it in the morning; and, though Glen was very tired, he had become well enough acquainted with them to enter heartily into the spirit of the fun. Thus, whenever they sang a song he knew, his voice was heard among the loudest. At the hotel they learned for the first time of the attempt to rob the train Glen had come on, and wondered that he had said nothing of the affair. When they questioned him, he did not know how to talk of it without proclaiming his share in the night's work, and so only said that, as he was asleep when the fight took place, he had seen nothing of it. Long after Glen had gone to bed that night, Mr. Brackett, the leveller, and the rodman sat up hard at work on the maps and profiles of the lines they had run that day. If Glen had seen this he would have realized what he afterwards learned, that while the work of most men ends with the day, that of an engineer in the field only ends with bedtime, and sometimes a late one at that. For two days longer Glen worked with this congenial party, gaining valuable knowledge with each hour, and thoroughly enjoying his new life. On the third day Mr. Hobart came, and it seemed to Glen like seeing one from home to meet him again. After their first greeting, the engineer said, "Well, my boy, what other wonderful deeds have you been performing since you and the governor ran the locomotive?" "The governor!" almost gasped Glen. "Was he a governor?" "Certainly he was, or rather had been. Didn't you know it? He was General Elting, the ex-governor whom you were inquiring about in St. Louis, and who is now the treasurer of our road. He returned to St. Louis almost immediately from here, and there I heard the whole story from his own lips. He was greatly disappointed at your disappearance, and much pleased to find out that I knew you; for of course I recognized you from his description. He hopes to meet you again some time, and I have promised to see that you do not indulge in any more mysterious disappearances." While they talked of that night, and its tragic incidents, Mr. Hobart suddenly interrupted himself with, "By the way, Glen, I am not going to take charge of this locating-party, after all, and so cannot give you a position in it." Glen felt his face growing pale as he repeated slowly and incredulously, "Not going to take charge of it?' "No; I have been relieved of my command, and am going to engage in another kind of work," replied the engineer, smiling at the boy's startled and distressed expression. Chapter XI. ALMOST TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE. If Glen had detected that smile on Mr. Hobart's face, he would have been spared a few moments of very unhappy reflections. He would have known that his brown-bearded friend could not smile while dashing his high hopes, and that there must be something pleasant back of it all. But as the engineer, who could not resist the temptation to try the effects of a disappointment on the boy's temper, turned away his face at that moment, his words were heard, while the smile was not noticed. Like a great surging wave, the thought of an ignominious return to Brimfield, and a picture of the mill and the store as he had last seen them, swept over the boy's mind. Then came the more recent picture of the happy out-of-door life he had been leading for the past three days. How could he give up the one and go back to the other? Of course, if Mr. Hobart said he could no longer have work with the surveying-party, it must be so. There could be no appeal from that decision. And he had tried so hard to do well whatever had been given him to do, and to make himself useful! It was too bad! But surely there must be other work in this big, bustling, wide-awake West, even for a boy. With this thought his clouded face cleared, and a look of settled resolve overspread it. "I'm awfully sorry, sir," he said; but the tone was almost cheerful, and Mr. Hobart's face was now the one that expressed surprise. If he had been able to examine Glen's mind, he would have seen that the boy had simply decided not to go back, at least not until the summer was over, but to stay where he was, and attempt to solve the bread-and-butter problem alone. "My new orders came very unexpectedly," continued the engineer, "and have completely upset my plans. It seems that the company has decided to send me through to the Pacific with General Lyle's exploring expedition." A lump rose in Glen's throat. General Lyle's expedition! Why, that was the one Binney Gibbs was to accompany. Was all the world going on that wonderful trip except himself? It almost seemed so. "It will be a fine trip, sir," he said, trying to choke down the lump. "Yes, I suppose it will; but it will also be a hard and dangerous one, such as a great many people would not care to undertake. I don't suppose you would, for instance?" and Mr. Hobart looked quizzically at the boy. "Wouldn't I! I'd just like to have somebody offer me a chance to go on that expedition, that's all!" "Very well," replied the engineer, quietly, "I'll offer you the chance, just to see whether you will accept it or not. Will you go with me on this long trip?" For a few seconds Glen gazed into the brown-bearded face without answering. Was he awake or dreaming? Had the words been spoken? "Do you really mean it, sir?" he almost gasped, at length, "or are you only making fun of me!" "Mean it? of course I do," was the reply. "I generally mean what I say, and if you really care to explore Kansas and Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Southern California in my company, I shall be most happy to have you do so. I am also authorized to offer you a position, a humble one, to be sure, but one that will pay the same salary that you would have received as a member of the locating-party, in the division I am to command. I don't suppose there will be many chances for you to run locomotives out there; but I have no doubt there will be plenty of swimming to be done, as well as other things in the line of your peculiar abilities. But you have not answered my question yet. Will you accept my offer, or do you wish a few days in which to consider it?" "Oh, Mr. Hobart!" cried the boy, who was standing up in his excitement. "It seems almost too good to be true! I can't realize that this splendid chance, that I've been trying so hard not to think about, has really come to me. Why, I'd rather go on that trip than do anything else in the whole world, and if you'll only take me along, in any position, I don't care what, I'll be grateful to you all my life." "But what do you think your father will say? Do you suppose he will let you go?" inquired the engineer, soberly. Glen's face became grave again in an instant. "Oh, yes, he's sure to," he replied, "but I'll write this very minute, and ask him. "There won't be time to receive an answer," said Mr. Hobart, "for we must start from here to-morrow; but perhaps this letter will make things all right. You see," he added, "I thought it was just possible that you might care to accept my offer, and so I took the liberty of writing and asking your father if he were willing to have you do so. I also asked him not to say anything about it in Brimfield until after we had started, for fear I should be flooded with applications from other boys, who might imagine I had the power to give them positions. Your father's answer reached me here an hour ago, and with it came this letter for you." No own father could have written a kinder or more satisfactory letter to a boy than the one Mr. Matherson sent to his adopted son. It readily granted the required permission, and congratulated Glen upon the splendid opportunity thus opened to him. At the same time it told him how they already missed him, and how they hated the thought of not seeing him for a whole year. It closed with the information that Binney Gibbs was making extensive preparations for his departure to the far West, and that the famous expedition, of which he was to be a member, was the all-absorbing topic of conversation in Brimfield. Mr. Hobart watched the boy's glowing face as he read this letter with genuine pleasure; for he had taken a real liking to him, and was not only glad of this opportunity for affording him such unalloyed happiness, but also that they were to be companions on the proposed trip. Matters being thus happily settled, the engineer told Glen that they would start the following evening for the end of the track, nearly two hundred miles west of that point, where the expedition was to rendezvous, and where he was to establish a camp for their reception. The information that interested and pleased Glen the most, though, was that Mr. Brackett was to be assistant engineer of the new division, and that most of the members of the party with whom the boy was already on such friendly terms, were also to join it. Being dismissed by Mr. Hobart, with orders to be on hand bright and early in the morning, for the morrow would be a busy day, the happy lad rushed away to find those who were to be his fellow-explorers, and talk over with them the wonders and delights of the proposed trip. To his surprise not one of them was anywhere about the hotel, and he was told that the entire party had gone down town a few moments before. Too excited to do anything else, Glen immediately set out to find them. For some time he searched in vain; but at length, attracted by the sound of great shouting and laughter, he joined a throng of people who were gathered about one of the few barber shops of the city, and seemed to be vastly entertained by something taking place inside. Recognizing "Billy" Brackett's voice above all the other sounds that came from the shop, Glen pushed himself forward until he finally gained a position inside the door. All the engineers were there. Three of them occupied the three chairs that the shop boasted, and were having their hair cut. Another, standing on a table, so that he could overlook the crowd, was superintending the operation. But for his voice and his unmistakable costume, Glen would never have recognized in him the dignified young engineer under whom he had been at work but an hour before. Every spear of hair had disappeared from his head, and he was as bald as a billiard cue. Seated on the table, contentedly swinging their legs, were two other bald-headed figures, whom Glen with difficulty recognized as the leveller and rodman. When the three victims in the chairs had been reduced to a similar state of baldness, their places were instantly occupied by the remaining members of the party. The whole performance was conducted amid the most uproarious fun, of which the recently promoted assistant engineer was the ruling spirit. As the chairs became empty for the third time, and the nine bald-headed members prepared to depart, each declaring that the others were the most comical-looking objects he had ever seen, they suddenly caught sight of Glen, and a rush was made for him. In another moment, despite his struggles, he too was seated in a barber's chair, and was rapidly growing as bald as his fellow-explorers. "You'll look worse than a boiled owl, Glen," remarked "Billy" Brackett, encouragingly. "And be a living terror to Injuns," cried another. "It'll be the greatest comfort in the world, old man, to feel that though you may be killed, you can't be scalped," shouted a third. Realizing that resistance was useless, Glen submitted to the shearing process with as good a grace as possible. A few minutes later, wearing a very loose-fitting hat, he was marching up the street with his jovial comrades, joining with the full strength of his lungs in the popular chorus of "The bald-headed man, who's been always in the van Of everything that's going, since the world first began." Chapter XII. STARTING ACROSS THE PLAINS. Transforming themselves into a party of bald-heads was the last of the absurd pranks with which the young engineers entertained the good people of Kansas City for many a long day. At the same hour on the following evening they were well on their way towards the far West in a dilapidated passenger-coach attached to a freight train loaded with tents and supplies of every description for their long trip. By the next noon, after a hard, rough ride of nearly two hundred miles, the end of the track was reached. It was on a treeless prairie, sweeping away as far as the eye could see on all sides. Here was spread a thick green carpet of short buffalo grass, and into this carpet were woven exquisite patterns of innumerable flowers. The place was at the junction of the Kaw River with one of its numerous branches, and where but a few weeks before wild Indians had camped and vast herds of buffalo had pastured, a railroad town of several hundred rough frame houses, shanties, and tents had already sprung into existence. Here the overland stages took their departure for the distant mining town of Denver, and here the long trains of great freight-wagons were loaded for their toilsome journey over the Santa Fé trail to the far-away valley of the Rio Grande. Here, on side-tracks, were the construction-cars, movable houses on wheels, in which lived the graders, track-layers, and other members of the army of workmen employed in the building of a railroad. Railroad men, soldiers, teamsters, traders, Indians, and Mexicans, horses, mules, and oxen mingled here in picturesque confusion. Nearly every man carried a rifle, and it was rare to meet one who did not wear one or more revolvers strapped to his waist. It was by far the most novel and bustling scene Glen had ever looked upon; and, as he stepped from the last railroad-car he was to see for many months, and stretched his cramped limbs, he gazed about him in astonishment. But there was no time for idling, and Glen had hardly given a glance at his unfamiliar surroundings before Mr. Hobart's voice, saying, "Come, boys, there's plenty to do, and but a few hours to do it in," set the whole party to work in the liveliest possible manner. There was a fine grassy level about a hundred yards from the railroad, on the opposite side from the settlement. It was skirted by a clear but sluggish stream, fringed by a slender growth of cottonwood-trees, and was so evidently the very place for a camp that Mr. Hobart selected it at once. Here the young engineers worked like beavers all through that long, hot afternoon, and by nightfall they had pitched twenty wall-tents, arranged in the form of an open square. One of these was reserved for Mr. Hobart, while Mr. Brackett and the leveller were given another, and two more were allowed to the other members of the party. Into these they had removed all their personal belongings, while in two other tents, carefully ditched and banked to keep out the water in case of rain, were stored all the instruments, implements, blank-books, and stationery provided for the expedition. Heartily tired after this novel but interesting labor, how Glen did enjoy his tin-cup of black coffee without milk, the fried bacon and hard-tack, that constituted his supper, when, at sundown, one of the axemen, who had been at work for an hour over a fire, announced that it was ready! He would have scorned such fare at home; but, with his present appetite, and under the circumstances, it seemed as though nothing had ever tasted better. As the darkness came on, how cheerful the tent, that had now become his home, looked in the light of a lantern hung from its ridge-pole! What a pleasant hour he passed listening to the stories and experiences of his three tentmates, as they lay luxuriously outstretched on their blankets, enjoying their well-earned rest! The entire stock of blankets was used to make one wide, comfortable bed for the four. All the rubbers were, of course, placed underneath, next the ground, and Glen was greatly pleased at the praise bestowed upon his rubber-sheet, which was twice as large as an ordinary blanket, and which he had followed Mr. Hobart's advice in procuring. After the others had finished their evening pipes and dropped off to sleep, and after the light had been put out, the novelty of this first night under canvas kept Glen awake for some time. What a fortunate fellow he felt himself to be, as he lay there recalling the events of the last ten days, and trying to picture the immediate future! To think that he, the worst scholar in his class, a boy without an own father or mother, so far as he knew, nor even a birthday that he was sure of, should be away out here on the Plains, and about to start on an expedition that every boy in the country would be thankful to join if he could. It was simply wonderful; and he resolved that, if hard work and the promptest possible attention to duty could render him worthy of such good-fortune, neither of these things should be lacking. By daylight the camp was astir; but Glen was the first to roll out of his blankets, and he had been down to the creek for a plunge in its cool waters before breakfast-time. Then followed another hard day's work. The train of twenty heavy canvas-topped army-wagons, each drawn by six mules, the three four-mule ambulances, and the drove of spare animals furnished to the expedition by the government, arrived during the morning. These wagons had to be loaded with the vast quantity of provisions and various supplies brought thus far by rail. Then the tents already up had to be ditched, and still others erected for the use of the engineer-in-chief and other officers of the party who were now hourly expected to arrive. A flag-pole was planted in front of the headquarter tents, and that evening, when a train came in bringing General Lyle and about half the members of the expedition, an American flag was run to its top. Both it and the general were greeted with a volley of rifle-shots and a hearty cheer, while at the same time the encampment was christened "Camp Lyle." Glen's youthful appearance attracted the chief's attention as soon as he caught sight of the lad, and he was inclined to doubt the advisability of allowing such a mere boy to accompany the expedition. A few words from Mr. Hobart satisfied him, however, that Glen would prove a credit to the party, and after that the general watched the boy with interest. With the chief-engineer came a geologist, botanist, surgeon, photographer, private secretary, quartermaster, the two other division commanders, and, what was of more immediate interest to all the young engineers, several good camp-cooks. Thus, on the second night of its existence, with this large increase in the number of its occupants, Camp Lyle presented a most cheerful and animated appearance. Early the following morning another train arrived from the East, bringing the remaining members of the expedition. A few minutes after its arrival Glen was awakened by hearing a voice that sounded very familiar, calling, "Hello! I say! Some of you fellows come out here and help me!" As he sat up in his blankets, wondering who could be speaking with such a tone of authority, and whether he ought to answer the summons or not, a head was thrust into the tent-door, and the demand was repeated. It was Binney Gibbs, who had passed as completely out of Glen's mind as though he had never existed. He did not recognize Glen's bald head; but, when the latter stepped from the tent with his hat on, saying, "Hello, Binney, old man, what can I do for you?" the prize scholar of the Brimfield High School stood for a moment speechless with amazement. "You here?" he finally stammered. "What on earth does it mean?" "It means," replied Glen, laughing at the other's incredulous expression, "that Brimfield is to have two representatives on this expedition instead of one, and that I am going through to the Pacific with you." Binney had always been jealous of Glen, but at that moment he felt that he almost hated him. In spite of this, he allowed his former schoolmate and another stout fellow to bring his heavy trunk from the railroad into camp. When the quartermaster saw it he said that, as there would be no room for trunks in the wagons, the owner of this one must take from it what would fill a moderate-sized valise, and either dispose of the trunk with the rest of its contents or send them back home. To this Binney angrily replied that he would see General Lyle about it. The new arrival gave further offence that morning by turning up his nose at the breakfast prepared by one of the camp-cooks, and declaring it unfit for white men to eat. He also refused, point-blank, to help unload a car when requested to do so by one of the division engineers, saying that it was not the kind of work he had been engaged to perform. He was only brought to a realizing sense of his position by a severe reprimand from General Lyle himself, who declared that, upon the next complaint brought to him of the boy's conduct, he should discharge him. He also said that only the fact of Binney's having been sent there by his old friend Mr. Meadows prevented him from doing so at once. The chief closed his remarks by advising Binney to take the other Brimfield boy of the party as an example worthy of copying. Thereupon all the prize scholar's bitterness of feeling was directed against unsuspecting Glen, and he vowed he would get even with that young nobody yet. Chapter XIII. BINNEY GIBBS AND HIS MULE. The effect on Binney Gibbs of General Lyle's reprimand was good, inasmuch as it brought him to a realizing sense of his true position in that party, and showed him that, if he wished to remain a member of it, he must obey orders, even when they were issued in the form of polite requests. So, after that, he made a virtue of necessity, and obeyed every order with a scrupulous exactness, though generally with an injured air, and a protesting expression of countenance as though he were being imposed upon. It was a great mortification to him to be obliged to send home his trunk, and more than half his supply of clothing, together with a number of other cherished luxuries, such as a rubber bathtub, a cork mattress, a rubber pillow, half a dozen linen sheets, several china plates, cups, and saucers, besides some silver and plated ware, all of which he relinquished with a heavy heart and many lamentations. The only thing in the shape of a valise, with which to replace his trunk, that he could purchase in the railroad settlement, was one of those cheap affairs made of glazed leather, such as are often seen in the hands of newly landed immigrants. As Binney brought this into the camp, it at once attracted universal attention. The boys crowded about him, begging to be allowed to examine his new and elegant "grip-sack;" and, from that day forth, he was known as "Grip" by the entire party. For a week longer the expedition remained at Camp Lyle, waiting for settled weather, and preparing for its great undertaking. It was divided into four divisions, three of which were regularly equipped surveying-parties who were to run transit and level lines from a point near the Colorado border to the Pacific Ocean. The fourth, or headquarter division, was composed of the commander and his immediate staff, together with the scientific men and their assistants. As Glen hoped and expected, he was assigned to the second division, of which Mr. Hobart was engineer in charge, and Mr. Brackett was assistant. He was a little disappointed that the only position found for him in the division was the very lowest of all in rank and pay. It was that of tapeman, and his duties were to assist the topographer of the party in measuring distances to, or taking the bearings of, prominent objects along the line. Neither could Glen help wishing that Binney Gibbs had not been assigned to the same division as himself. On account of his brilliant record for scholarship and skill with figures, Binney was made rodman, a position that far outranked Glen's and commanded twice his pay. Still, Glen strove hard not to feel envious of this other Brimfield boy. He was altogether too proud of being a member of the expedition on any terms to have room for any other feeling, and he was anxious to be on a friendly footing with Binney, as he was with everybody else. So, when the positions were announced, and the prize scholar was found to hold such a fine one, Glen was the first to tender his congratulations. Binney received them coldly, merely remarking that they could not very well have given him any lower position, and that he should not have accepted anything less if it had been offered. Glen only smiled at this, and thought how fortunate it was that he did not feel that way. As a rodman Binney was allowed the use of a saddle-animal, and a very small mule was assigned to him as his mount. When he went down to the wagons to inspect his new acquisition, he thought he had never seen a more dangerous-looking animal. It laid back its ears and bit at him when he attempted to pat it on the nose, and manifested every other sign of mulish antipathy towards its new master. In spite of all this, the teamster having it in charge assured Binney that it was a perfect lamb, and the rodman, anxious to prove his ability to ride a mule, which some of the boys had doubted, ordered the animal to be saddled. The man who held the beast while Binney climbed awkwardly into the saddle winked at some of his fellows who were watching the operation, and thrust his tongue derisively into his cheek. For a few moments the mule did prove a veritable lamb, ambling along so gently that Binney's spirits rose, and he began to imagine himself the rider that he claimed to be. Elated by his success, he even dared to give the bridle reins a shake, say "Get up!" and finally to touch the side of his steed with the spur that, in his pride, he had fastened to one of his boot-heels. The effect was electrical. In an instant Binney found himself hatless, with both feet out of the stirrups, clinging for dear life to the pommel of the saddle, and wishing himself anywhere but on the back of a mule dashing madly, at full speed, directly into camp. "Help! help!" he shouted, breathlessly. "Head him off! stop him somebody!" Once inside that square of tents, the mule did not seem to realize the possibility of again passing beyond them, but tore frantically round and round the inner side of the square, as though it were a circus-ring. Everybody dropped his work and rushed out to witness the comical spectacle. "Freeze to him, Grip!" cried one. "Give him his head!" "What made you leave Barnum's?" "Stand up on his back!" "Don't abuse the poor mule! It's a shame to make him run so!" These, and a hundred similar cries, mingled with shouts of uproarious laughter, greeted poor Binney from all sides; while not the slightest attention was paid to his piteous entreaties that somebody would stop the mule. At length these cries seemed to attract the attention of the animal himself; for he suddenly planted his fore-feet and stopped so abruptly that Binney was flung over his head as from a catapult. Then the mule lifted high his head and uttered a prolonged ear-splitting bray of defiance. Glen had sprung forward and caught the animal's bridle almost the instant he stopped. Now leading him to where Binney sat, dazed but unhurt, he asked, soberly, "Do you want to try him again, Binney?" "Try him again!" shouted the rodman, angrily. "No, I never want to see him again; but if you think he's easy to ride, why don't you try him yourself?" "Yes, try him, young 'un! Give him another turn around the ring, Glen!" shouted the spectators, anxious to have their fun prolonged, but having no idea that this boy from Brimfield could ride, any more than the other. Glen borrowed a pair of spurs, soothed the mule for a moment, sinched the girth a trifle tighter, and, with a sudden leap, vaulted into the saddle. For an instant the animal remained motionless with astonishment; then he bounded into the air, and came down with all four legs as stiff as posts. The shock would have been terrible to the boy, had he not lifted himself from the saddle and supported his whole weight in the stirrups. The mule repeated this movement several times, and then began to plunge and kick. But the saddle in which Glen sat was a deeply hollowed, high-pommelled, Mexican affair, built for just such occasions as this, and so the plunging might have been kept up all day without disturbing the rider in the least. The mule laid down and tried to roll, while the boy, who had jumped from his back, stood quietly by, and allowed him to discover the folly of the attempt. The high pommel of the saddle again interfered; and as the disgusted animal scrambled to his feet, he again found his burr-like rider as firmly seated on his back as ever. For a moment the mule hung his head in a dejected manner, as though thinking out some new plan. Suddenly his meditations were interrupted by a yell directly in one of his long ears, and a sharp pain felt in both sides at once. He sprang forward to escape these annoyances; but they clung to him as close as did his new rider. Faster and faster he flew, while harder and harder spurred Glen, and louder grew his yells. All at once the animal stopped, as short as on the former occasion; but this time the rider did not fly over his head. The fact is, the mule was now so thoroughly frightened and bewildered that he had no idea of stopping until his lower jaw was jerked back so sharply that had it belonged to any other kind of an animal it must have been dislocated. Even Glen had no idea of the power of that cruel Mexican bit, and was almost as greatly surprised as the mule at its sudden effect. Then came more yelling, more spurring, and more frantic dashing around that tiresome square. At length the mule spied the opening through which he had entered, and, rushing through it, he sped away over the open prairie, thankful to be rid of those bewildering tents and shouting spectators, even though his rider still clung as close as ever to that Mexican saddle. When the two returned to camp, half an hour later, it was evident that the most perfect understanding existed between them; but the mule was so crest-fallen by his humiliation that for a long time even Binney Gibbs could ride and abuse him with impunity. As for Glen, his reputation as a horseman was firmly established, and from that day until he got a horse of his own there was always somebody willing and anxious to place a mount at his disposal. Chapter XIV. ON GUARD AT NIGHT. A few mornings after Glen's experience with the mule, the white tents of Camp Lyle were struck; and at sunrise the long slow-moving trains of wagons had covered the first mile of the many hundreds lying between it and the Pacific. The last railroad had been left behind, and the sound of its whistle was heard no more. Already our young explorer was learning, from his more experienced comrades, to distinguish an Indian pony and lodge-pole trail from that of a buffalo, and a buffalo wallow from an ordinary mud-hole. Already he had seen his first prairie-dog town, and had gazed curiously at several bleached skulls of the mighty bison, some of which were still partially covered with shaggy hair. Already, too, he was filled with that sense of glorious freedom and boundless possibility that can only be breathed with the air of unlimited space. Glen was surprised to find that, instead of being level, as he had always thought them, the Plains rolled, in vast undulations, having a general north and south direction, so that, as the wagons were moving west, they were always ascending some long slope, or descending its farther side. He was almost startled, too, by the intense silence brooding over them, and unbroken at a short distance from the train, save by the plaintive song of meadow-larks. But nobody was allowed to stray far from the wagons, even to note the silence of the Plains, for fear lest it might be broken by very unpleasant sounds. All the "horse Indians" of the country were leagued together, that summer, to fight the whites. North of the Platte, Sioux, Blackfeet, and Crows had smoked the peace-pipe, and united to harass the builders of the Union Pacific. South of that river, Cheyennes, Kiowas, Comanches, and Arrapahoes were waging common war against those who were turning the buffalo pastures into farms, and making such alarming inroads into the vast herds upon which they depended for meat. The Indians were well armed, well mounted, and determined. Custer, with the Seventh Cavalry, was ranging the Platte valley, and the country between it and the Republican, so that, in that vicinity, Indians were becoming scarce. South of that, however, and particularly along the Smoky Hill, the valley of which General Lyle's expedition was ascending, Indians had never been more plentiful or troublesome than now. Every day brought its rumors of murdered settlers, captured wagon-trains, besieged stage stations, and of the heavily guarded stages themselves turned back, or only reaching their destinations after fierce running fights, riddled with bullets, and bearing sad loads of dead and wounded passengers. Along the entire Smoky Hill route, from the end of the railroad to Denver, a distance of four hundred miles, were only three small forts, with garrisons of three or four companies each; and the strength of these garrisons was constantly weakened by the demand for escorts to stages and emigrant trains. Thus the exploring expedition was forced to depend largely on its own resources, and must fight its way through as best it could. Arms were therefore supplied to all its members who did not possess them, and, from the outset, a strong camp guard was posted each night. At the end of a day's march the wagon-master, or "wagon-boss," who always rode ahead of the train mounted on a sleek saddle mule, would select a camping-ground, generally where wood, water, and grass were to be had, and, turning from the beaten trail, would lead the way to it. Where he halted the first wagon also stopped. Then he would move on a short distance, and the second wagon would follow him, until it was ordered to wheel into line with the first. When all thus occupied their designated positions, they either formed a semicircle on the bank of the stream, with their poles pointing inward, were arranged in two parallel lines facing each other, or, if the place was very much exposed, they would form a complete circle, with each tongue overlapping the hind-wheels of the wagon before it. The minute the train halted, all the stock was unharnessed or unsaddled, and, under guard of two mounted teamsters, were allowed to graze on the sweet buffalo grass, within sight of camp, until sunset, when they were watered and driven in. Then each team was fastened to its own wagon and given its ration of corn. All the saddle animals and spare stock were securely picketed within the line of wagons, thus leaving the smallest possible chance for an Indian to get anywhere near them. While the animals were being thus attended to, the men were hard at work pitching tents, getting out blankets and such baggage as might be needed, collecting fuel for the camp-fires, fetching water for the cooks, and, if the location of the camp was considered especially dangerous, in digging rifle-pits in which the guards for the night would be posted. All this work was performed by regular details, changed each day, and announced each morning at breakfast-time. Thus, one day Glen would find himself on the detail for pitching headquarter tents, and the next answering the cook's imperative demands for water. Or, provided with a gunny-sack, he might be scouring the immediate neighborhood for a supply of dry buffalo chips, with which to eke out the scanty stock of fire-wood. He always performed these tasks cheerfully and faithfully; not that he liked them, but because he realized their necessity, and saw that all the others, below the rank of assistant engineer, were obliged to do the same things. Binney Gibbs, however, considered such duties irksome and demeaning. He thought it very hard that the son of a wealthy man, a prize scholar, and a rodman, such as he was, should be compelled to act as a cook's assistant. To show his contempt for the work he performed it awkwardly and with much grumbling. The cooks were not slow to discover this; and, as a cook is a power in camp as well as elsewhere, they began to make things as unpleasant as possible for him. It was wonderful how much more water was needed when it was his turn to keep them supplied than it was when any one else was on duty. Then, too, while Glen's willingness and good-nature were rewarded by many a tidbit, slyly slipped into his tin plate, it chanced that Binney always got the toughest pieces of meat, the odds and ends of everything, and, whenever he asked for a second helping, was told that there was none of that particular dish left. He tried to retaliate by complaining of the cooks at headquarters; but, as he could prove nothing against them, the only result of this unwise measure was that he got less to eat than ever, and but for a hard-tack barrel that was always open to everybody would have been on a fair way to starvation. Another thing Binney hated to do was to stand guard. This duty came to each one in turn, every three or four nights, according to the number of sentinels required, and on a night of duty each one was obliged to keep watch "two hours on and four off." That is, if Binney or Glen went on duty at six o'clock, he would be relieved at eight, and allowed to sleep until midnight, when he would stand guard again at one of the several posts beyond the camp limits, until two. Then he might sleep until six, when, if camp was not already broken, he must again go on duty until it was, and the wagon-train was in motion. Binney declared this was all nonsense. It was well enough, he said, to talk about Indians attacking a small party, or a stage station here and there; but as for bothering a large, well-armed party like this, they simply wouldn't think of doing such a thing. There was as much danger of their attacking Fort Riley! The idea of waking a fellow up at midnight, and sending him out on the prairie to listen to coyotes and screech-owls for two hours! It was ridiculous! He might as well be enlisted in the army and have done with it! So he growled and grumbled, and tried, in every way possible, to shirk this guard duty, though generally without success. Even Glen wondered if it were necessary to keep so many men on guard, and if the disagreeable duty did not come oftener than it need. At length, however, something happened to convince these boys that no guard against the wily foes surrounding them could be too strong or too carefully kept. They had been out a week, and were in the heart of the Indian country, far beyond the most advanced settlements, when, one evening, camp was pitched on a level bit of valley, bounded on one side by bluffs that separated it from the higher plains. On the other side flowed a creek bordered by a growth of cottonwoods, red willows, and tall, rank grass. Beyond the creek rose still other bluffs, forming the eastern boundary of this pleasant valley. From time immemorial the place had been a favorite resort of Indians, as was shown by the abandoned wick-i-ups, lodge-poles, and quantities of bleached buffalo bones found in a grove of great cottonwoods a short distance up the stream. There was, however, nothing to indicate that they had occupied the place recently, and so, though the one topic of conversation about the camp-fires at supper-time was Indians, it was rather of those belonging to other times and places than to the present. Suddenly, from the top of the bluff behind the camp, came half a dozen shots, and the sentinel who had been posted there rushed in, shouting, "Indians! Indians!" This time the enemy proved to be two overland stages, loaded with mails and troops, who had fought their way through from Denver. These had mistaken the sentinel for an Indian, and fired at him, while he, thinking from this that they certainly must be Indians, had fired back. Late that same night the camp was again alarmed by a shot from one of its sentries. Everybody sprang from his tent, rifle in hand, and for a few minutes the excitement was intense. It was succeeded by a feeling of deep disgust when it was discovered that sentry Binney Gibbs had fired at a coyote that the light of the newly risen moon had disclosed prowling about the camp. When, therefore, at two o'clock in the morning, Glen went on duty, and was stationed on the edge of the slope leading down to the stream, Mr. Brackett, who was officer of the guard, charged him not to fire at anything unless he was absolutely sure it was an Indian. Glen answered that he certainly would not give an alarm without good cause for so doing; and Mr. Brackett, promising to visit him again at the end of an hour, went softly away to inspect the next post on his round. When, at the end of an hour, the officer of the guard returned to the post where he had left Glen, the boy was not to be found. In vain did Mr. Brackett call his name, at first in low tones, and then louder. In vain did he question the other sentries. They had neither seen nor heard anything more suspicious than an occasional coyote. In vain was the whole camp aroused and a search made through its tents and wagons. Not a trace of the boy, who was so universally liked, was to be found. He had disappeared as absolutely, so far as they were concerned, as though the earth had opened and swallowed him. Chapter XV. THE SUSPICIOUS MOVEMENTS OF CERTAIN COYOTES. When Glen was left lying on the ground, with his rifle beside him, peering into the black shadows of the undergrowth, he certainly did not anticipate seeing any thing more dangerous to his own safety, or that of the sleeping camp, than coyotes, and he had already learned what cowardly beasts they were. How absurd it was of Binney Gibbs to fire at one. He might have known what it was. No wonder the fellows were provoked. He would like to know as much as Binney did about some things; but he should hate to be as silly as he in others. How many coyotes there were to-night anyhow. He had already heard their short, sharp barks, and long dismal howls from the bluffs behind him, and from those on the opposite side of the stream. Now another of the weird sounds came floating down on the damp night air from the direction of the old Indian camping-ground. Perhaps that fellow was howling because he couldn't find any meat on those bleached buffalo bones. Well, no wonder. Glen thought he would be inclined to howl, too, over such a disappointment as that. It was not absolutely dark; for, though the moon was in its last quarter, it gave considerable light when the clouds would let it; but they were scurrying across the sky at such a rate that they kept it hidden most of the time. As Glen was facing the east, it lighted the spot where he lay whenever it was allowed to light any thing, and made the darkness of the underbrush, at which he gazed, blacker than ever. It was forlorn and lonely enough without the moonlight; but Glen thought that perhaps it was better to be in darkness than to be lighted up while enemies might possibly be gazing at him from the safe cover of those impenetrable shadows. How easily a rifle-shot from those bushes could pick him off during one of those uncomfortable little spells of moonlight. All at once Glen saw another light, apparently on the edge of the opposite bluffs. It showed yellow and steady for a second, and then disappeared. Was it an Indian signal, or a newly risen star suddenly obscured by clouds? This was a question calculated to keep even a sleepy boy wide awake. Perhaps if he watched closely he would see it again. He had heard a great deal about Indian signals lately, and knew that, by flashes of fire at night, smokes, waving blankets, and mirror flashes by day, they could transmit intelligence across the plains almost as readily as white men could do the same thing by telegraph. How he wished he understood their signals, and how he would like to see them using them. Glen was very curious concerning Indians--real wild ones--and hoped he should at least catch a glimpse of some before the trip was ended. It would be too absurd to return to Brimfield, after crossing the Plains, and to be obliged to confess that he had not met any. Hallo! How near those coyote howls were coming. Wasn't that one of the brutes now, skulking in the shadow of those willows? Certainly something was moving down there. Now there were two of them. With what an ugly snarl they greeted each other. Still, that snarl was a comfort; for it proved them to be really coyotes. At least so thought Glen. Just then the boy sneezed. He couldn't have helped it to save him, and at the same moment the moon shone out. The coyotes had disappeared. Perhaps they thought he would fire at them, as Binney Gibbs had. But they needn't be afraid. He wasn't going to alarm the camp on account of coyotes. Another cloud swallowed the moon, and again Glen thought he could distinguish a black object moving through the shadows. Although he strained his eyes, and watched intently, almost holding his breath in his excitement, he could see only one object, and it certainly was moving towards him. Where was the other? If he only dared fire at that one! The boy clutched his rifle nervously. The coyote came sneaking on, very slowly, frequently stopping and remaining motionless for several seconds; but Glen never took his eyes from it. If he only had, just long enough to give one look at the human figure creeping noiselessly towards him from behind; but no thought of danger from that direction entered his head. As the Indian, gliding up behind the young sentry, reached a point from which he could distinguish the outlines of the recumbent figure before him, he cautiously raised himself on one knee, and fitted a steel-headed arrow to the bow that had been slung on his back. In another instant it would have sped on its fatal mission, and Glen's career would have ended as suddenly as the snuffing of a candle-flame. He was saved by a gleam of moonlight, that caused the Indian to sink, like a shadow, into the grass. The coyote also remained motionless. Then the moon was again obscured, and the Indian again rose to a crouching posture. He had evidently changed his plans; for he no longer held the bow in his hand. That gleam of moonlight had showed him that the sentry was only a boy, instead of the man he had supposed, and he determined to try for a captive instead of a scalp. The next instant he sprang forward with the noiseless bound of a panther, and the breath was driven from Glen's body as the Indian lighted on his back, with one hand over the boy's mouth. The coyote rose on its hind-legs, and leaped forward at the same moment. In a twinkling its skin was flung over Glen's head, and so tightly fastened about his neck that he was at once smothered and strangled. He tried to cry out, but could not. He did not even know what had happened, or who these were that, swiftly and with resistless force, were half dragging, half carrying him between them. For a moment he entertained the wild hope that it was a practical joke of some of the boys from camp. That hope was speedily dispelled; for, as his captors gained the shelter of the trees on the bank of the stream, they halted long enough to secure his arms firmly behind him, and to loosen the coyote-skin so that he could breathe a trifle more freely. Then he was again hurried forward. After travelling what seemed to the poor boy like an interminable distance, and when he was so faint and dizzy with the heat and suffocation of that horrible wolf-skin that he felt he could not go a step farther, it was suddenly snatched from his head, and the strong grasp of his arms was let go. The boy staggered against the trunk of a tree, and would have fallen but for its support. For a few moments he saw nothing, and was conscious of nothing save the delicious coolness of the air and the delight of breathing it freely once more. The halt was a short one; for already a faint light, different from that of the moon, was stealing over the eastern bluffs, and the Indians must have their prisoner far away from there by sunrise. There were three of them now, as well as some ponies and a mule. Glen could also see a great many white objects scattered about the ground. They were bleached buffalo bones. As he recognized them, he knew he was at the old Indian camping-ground he had visited the evening before, and from which one of those coyote howls had seemed to come. So it had; but it had been uttered by the young Cheyenne left there in charge of the animals, in answer to the howls of the two other human coyotes, who, prowling about the engineers' camp, had finally made Glen a prisoner. They were Cheyenne scouts, belonging to the Dog Soldier band, at that time the most famous fighters of that warlike tribe. They had been sent out from their village, on the American Fork, two days before, to find out what they could concerning General Lyle's exploring expedition, rumors of which had already reached the ears of their chiefs. So successfully had they accomplished their mission that they had not only discovered all they wanted to know about these new invaders of their territory, but had actually taken one of their number prisoner. Besides this they had stolen three fine saddle ponies, and a powerful white mule, from the corral of a stage station some twenty miles up the trail. Now, therefore, as they swung their captive on the back of the mule, and secured him by passing a thong of raw-hide about his ankles and beneath the animal's belly, their hearts were filled with rejoicing over their success. Chapter XVI. IN THE HANDS OF THE CHEYENNES. Especially happy was the youngest of the three Indians, who was a boy of about Glen's age. This was the first scout he had ever been allowed to go on; and, as he reflected upon the glory of their return to the village, with that prisoner, those stolen ponies, and all the valuable information they had acquired, he wondered if there was any happier or prouder boy living than he. He even had a kindly feeling towards the white boy, who, by allowing himself to be captured, had contributed so largely to the honors that would be showered upon him, and he grinned good-humoredly in Glen's face as soon as the growing daylight enabled him to see it plainly. Up to this time the Cheyenne boy had only been known as "Blackbird;" but he had set forth on this scout with the firm determination of winning a name more worthy of a young warrior. Had he not already done so? His companions had complimented him on his carefully executed imitation of a coyote's howl, and one of them had suggested that he must have a veritable wolf's tongue in his mouth: "Wolf-Tongue!" There was a fine name for a young Dog soldier. What if he should be allowed to keep it for his own? There was not another boy of his age in the village with such a name as that. Now he began to make some curious motions with his hands, and poor Glen, who, in spite of his own wretchedness, could not keep from watching him with some curiosity, wondered what the young Indian was up to. Dropping the bridle on his pony's neck, the boy lifted both hands to the level of his shoulders with the first two fingers of each extended upward and forward, while the thumbs and other fingers were tightly closed. At the same time he stuck out his tongue. He was spelling out his new name in the Indian sign language, just to see how it would look. The boy only held his hands in this position for an instant, and then dropped them to clutch a gun that was slipping from his knees, across which he had laid it. The movement attracted Glen's attention to the gun, and his face flushed angrily as he recognized his own precious rifle, in which he had taken such pride and delight. It was too bad. Then the thought flashed into his mind, would he ever again care for a rifle or anything else in this world? What did Indians do with prisoners? Tortured them, and put them to death, of course. Did not all the stories he had ever read agree on that point? Could it be possible that he, Glen Eddy, was to be tortured, perhaps burned at the stake? Was that what coming out on the Plains meant? Had life with all its hopes and joys nearly ended for him? It could not be! There must be some escape from such a horrible fate! The poor boy gazed about him wildly, but saw only the endless sea of grass stretching to the horizon on all sides, and the stern faces of his captors, one of whom held the end of a lariat that was fastened about the mule's neck. They all carried bows and arrows slung to their backs, as well as rifles that lay across their knees. They wore moccasins and leggings of buckskin, but no clothing above their waists. Their saddles were simply folded blankets, which would be their covering at night. In place of stirrups they used strips of buffalo hide with a loop at each end. These were thrown across the blanket saddles, and the feet of the riders were supported in the loops. One of them had a pair of field-glasses slung by a strap from his shoulders. Until nearly noon they pushed westward across the trackless undulations of the prairie, and Glen became so faint from hunger and thirst, and so stiff from his painful position, that he could hardly retain his seat. His mule was a long-limbed, raw-boned animal, whose gait never varied from an excruciatingly hard trot. Finally, the boy's sufferings reached such a point that it was all he could do to keep from screaming, and he wondered if any torture could be worse. At length they came to a tiny stream, fringed with a slender growth of willows, and here a long rest was taken. Glen could not stand when his ankles were unbound, and he was allowed to slip from the mule's back, but fell heavily to the ground. The Indian boy said something to his companions, one of whom replied with a grunt, whereupon the lad unbound the prisoner's arms, and helped him to reach the edge of the stream. He was wonderfully revived by plunging his head into the cool water, and the young Indian, who seemed a good-natured sort of a chap, assisted to restore the circulation in his wrists and ankles by rubbing them vigorously. The men smiled scornfully at this; but the boy rubbed away with a hearty good-will, and smiled back at them. He wanted to get this prisoner into the village in as good a condition as possible, and was perfectly willing to be laughed at, if he could only accomplish his object. He even went so far as to kindle a small fire of dry, barkless wood, that would make but little smoke, and heat a strip of dried buffalo-meat over its coals for the prisoner to eat, though wondering at a taste that did not find raw meat just as palatable as cooked. Then he tried to converse with Glen; but, as the latter did not understand either Cheyenne or the sign language, and as the only English word Wolf-Tongue knew was "How," this attempt proved a failure. How Glen wished he could talk with this Indian boy. Why were not white boys taught the Indian language in school, so as to be prepared for such emergencies? It would be so much more valuable than Latin. He wondered if he would have studied it any harder than he had other things, if it had been included in the Brimfield High School course. How far away Brimfield seemed! What wouldn't he give to be there at this moment? How would they feel at home if they could see him now? At length it was time to go on again. The animals, which had been hobbled to prevent them from straying, left the juicy grasses of the bottom-land with reluctance; and, with a heavy heart and still aching body, Glen again mounted his mule. His saddle was the coyote-skin that had been thrown over his head when he was captured. Now he was given a pair of raw-hide Indian stirrups; while, though his hands were again tied behind his back, his feet were left unbound. He therefore rode much more comfortably now than before, and Wolf-Tongue, who seemed to consider the prisoner as his especial property, was allowed to hold the end of his lariat. All the movements of these scouts were as carefully guarded as though they were surrounded by enemies. They avoided soft places where a trail might be left, and whenever they ascended a swell of the prairie they halted just before reaching the top. One of them, dismounting, would then creep cautiously forward, and, without exposing his body above the crest, would gaze long and searchingly in every direction. Not until he was satisfied that no human being was within range of his vision would he show himself on the summit, and beckon his comrades to join him. The afternoon was half gone, when, on one of these occasions, the scout who had just crept to the top of an elevation was seen by the others to gaze long and steadily in a particular direction through his field-glass. At length, apparently satisfied with what he saw, he stood up, and flashed a dazzling ray of sunlight from a small mirror that he held in his hand. Again and again did he send that flash over miles of prairie, before he saw the answering flash for which he was watching. Then he called the others up; they talked earnestly together for a few minutes, and, having reached some conclusion, they galloped rapidly away, almost at right angles to the course they had been following. Glen wondered what this movement meant; but it was not until they had ridden for nearly an hour that his unasked questions were answered. Then, as though by magic, so unexpectedly did they appear, a score or more of Indians seemed to spring from the ground and surround them. It was a Cheyenne war-party. Their ponies, under watchful guard, grazed in a slight depression to one side of them, and their scouts kept a keen lookout from a rise of ground beyond. While these warriors were exchanging greetings with the new-comers, and regarding the prisoner with unconcealed satisfaction, two white men, utterly unsuspicious of their presence so near them, were lounging in front of the Lost Creek stage station, less than a mile away. From this station the scouts had stolen their ponies and the white mule two nights before. The ranch and stable stood side by side, and were low, one-story buildings, with walls of a soft sandstone, quarried near by, and roofs of poles covered with sods. Behind them was a corral enclosed by a low stone wall. The ranch and stable were connected by a narrow subterranean passage, and another led from the house to a "dug-out," or square pit, some ten yards from it. This "dug-out" had a roof of poles heavily covered with earth and sods; while, just at the surface of the ground, port-holes opened on all sides. A similar pit, on the other side, could be reached from the stable, and another, in the rear of the station, was connected with the corral. Lost Creek Station had suffered greatly at the hands of Indians that summer. Its inmates had been killed, and its stock run off. Now but two men were left to guard it. This afternoon they were watching anxiously for the stage from the east, which was some hours overdue. Suddenly, as they gazed along the distant wagon trail, there came a thunderous rush of hoofs from behind the station. But the men had heard the sound before, and did not need to look to know what it meant. "They're after us again, Joe!" exclaimed one, in a disgusted tone, as they sprang into the ranch and barred its heavy door behind them. A moment later they were in the "dug-out" behind the corral, and the gleaming barrels of two rifles were thrust from two of its narrow port-holes. "I swear, Joe! if one of them hasn't the cheek to ride old Snow-ball, and he's in the lead, too. You drop him, and I'll take the next one." There were two reports. A white mule pitched heavily forward and its rider was flung to the ground. A wounded Indian clung to his pony. Then the whole band wheeled and dashed back to where they had come from, taking both their wounded warrior and the one who had been flung to the ground with them. "Did you notice that the fellow I dropped had a white man's hat on?" asked Joe, as the two men watched the retreat of their foes. "Yes, and white men's clothes on, too. I wonder who he murdered and robbed to get 'em?" Chapter XVII. A CHEYENNE WAR-PARTY. The war-party, detected by the wonderful eyesight of the Cheyenne scout while they were yet miles away from him, had been for more than a week engaged in attacking stages and wagon-trains on the Smoky Hill Trail. Hiding behind some slight elevation, or in a cottonwood thicket near the road, with keen-eyed scouts always on the lookout, they would burst like a whirlwind on their unsuspecting victims, pour in a withering volley of bullets and arrows, and disappear, almost before a return shot could be fired. Sometimes they would maintain a running fight for miles with a stage, their fleet ponies easily keeping pace with its frantic mules, and many a one thus fell into their hands. Its fate was always the same. If any of its defenders survived the fight they were either killed or reserved for the worse fate of captives. Its mail-sacks were ripped open and their contents scattered far and wide. Finally it was set on fire and destroyed. Sometimes the stages escaped; in which case their passengers had marvellous tales to tell. One of these, that reached the safety of General Lyle's wagon-train just in time to avoid capture, had but one living passenger, a woman who was not even wounded during the almost continuous storm of arrows and bullets of a ten-mile running fight. Four dead men, one of whom was her husband, were inside the coach, and another was on the box with the driver. The latter was wounded, and the mules fairly bristled with arrows. The stage itself was shivered and splintered in every part by the shower of lead that had been poured into it, and many a blood-stained letter from its mail-sacks afterwards carried a shudder into distant Eastern homes. This, then, was the work of the war-party who were gathered about Glen Eddy; and, even now, they were impatiently awaiting the appearance of the stage from the east that was due that day. For this occasion they had planned a new form of attack. It was not to be made until the stage reached the ranch. There, while its mules were being changed, and its occupants were off their guard, the Indians proposed to dash out from the nearest place of concealment and attempt the capture of both it and the station at the same time. It was a well-conceived plan, and might have been successfully carried out, but for the arrival of the three scouts, who were now so proudly exhibiting their prisoner and telling the story of his capture. Before they had half finished, a few dazzling flashes of light from the mirrors of the distant lookouts announced that the eastern stage was in sight. A minute later the warriors were mounted and riding cautiously towards a point but a short distance from the ranch, where they could still remain concealed from it until the moment of making their final dash. The three scouts, being on other duty, were not expected to take part in the fight, nor had they any intention of so doing, much as they would have liked to; but they could not resist the temptation to witness it. So they, with their prisoner, followed close behind the others to their new place of concealment. When they reached it, these three, with Glen, stood a little apart from the rest, so as not to interfere with their movements. Up to this moment, the boy had not the least idea of what was about to take place, nor where he was. There was nothing to indicate that a stage ranch and a well-travelled wagon road lay just beyond the ridge before him. He wondered what these Indians were up to; but he wondered still more when they would go into camp, and give him a chance to dismount from the back of that hard-trotting mule; for his aches and pains had again become very hard to bear. In spite of his thoughts being largely centred upon himself, Glen could not help noticing the uneasy movements of his steed, and his impatient snuffings of the air, that began as soon as they came to a halt. The scouts noticed them, too, and watched the mule narrowly. Suddenly the animal threw up his great head, and in another instant would have announced his presence to all the country thereabout by a sonorous, far-reaching bray. Before he could open his mouth, however, one of the scouts sprang from his pony and seized him by the nose. In the struggle that followed, the end of the lariat held by Wolf-Tongue was jerked from his hand. At the same moment the mule succeeded in shaking off the scout with such violence that he staggered for nearly a rod before recovering his balance. Then, so quickly that Glen was very nearly flung from his back, the animal sprang to the crest of the little ridge, and dashed, with astonishing speed, towards the corral that had been his home for so long, and which he had scented so plainly the moment he reached its vicinity. Of course the entire body of Indians was in instant pursuit--not of the mule, but of the prisoner that he was bearing from them. Like a thunderclap out of a clear sky, they rushed down that slope, every pony doing his best, and their riders yelling like demons. From the first, Wolf-Tongue took the lead. It was his prisoner who was escaping, his first one. He must have him again. He would almost rather die than lose him. So he lashed his pony furiously with the quirt, or Indian riding-whip of raw-hide fastened to his wrist, and leaned far over on his neck, and yelled, and beat the animal's sides with his moccasined feet, until he had gained a lead of all the others and was almost within reach of the mule. Another moment and he would have that trailing lariat in his hand. Glen, too, was kicking the sides of his ungainly steed, and yelling at him in a perfect frenzy of excitement. He saw the stage ranch, the winding wagon trail, and the shining river beyond the instant he was borne over the crest of the ridge, and knew what they meant for him. To reach that little clump of buildings first, meant life, liberty, and restoration to his friends. He must do it, and he fully believed he could. He leaned as far as possible over the mule's neck, and shouted encouraging words into his ears. What wonderful speed the long-legged animal was showing! Who would have thought it was in him? "Well done, mule!" yelled Glen. "A few more seconds and we'll be there! They can't catch us now!" Then came a burst of flame from the earth in front of him. The white mule gave a convulsive bound and fell dead in his tracks, while poor Glen was flung far over his head to the ground, which he struck so heavily as to partially stun him. Without checking the speed of their ponies in the least, two stalwart warriors bent over, and, seizing the boy by the arms, raised him between them as they swept past. A moment later the entire band, minus only their white mule, had again reached their place of concealment, and poor Glen, breathless, bruised, and heart-broken with disappointment, was more of a prisoner than ever. Besides this, Wolf-Tongue, the only one amid all those stern-featured warriors who had shown the least particle of pity for him, was wounded--a rifle-ball having passed through the calf of one of his legs. [Illustration: "TWO STALWART WARRIORS SEIZED HIM BY THE ARMS AND RAISED HIM BETWEEN THEM AS THEY SWEPT PAST"] This sudden derangement of his plans caused the leader of the war-party to abandon them altogether, and decide upon a new one. It would be useless to attempt to surprise the stage and station now. Besides, it might be just as well to leave the trail in peace for a few days, in order that the large party of white men, of whom the scouts had just brought information, might come on with less caution than they would use if constantly alarmed. He would send runners to the villages of the Kiowas, Arrapahoes, and Comanches, and tell them of the rich prize awaiting their combined action. In the meantime he would return to his own village and raise a war-party that, in point of numbers and equipment, should be a credit to the great Cheyenne nation. So the runners were despatched, and the rest of the party set out in a northwesterly direction towards their distant villages on the American Fork. Shortly before the Indians halted for the night, even Glen almost forgot his heartache and painful weariness of body in the excitement of seeing his first buffalo, and witnessing an Indian buffalo-hunt on a small scale. It was just at sunset, when the scout, who rode ahead, signalled, from the top of an elevation, by waving his blanket in a peculiar manner, that he had discovered buffalo. Obeying a command from their leader, half a dozen warriors at once dashed ahead of the party; and, joining the scout, disappeared over the ridge. As the others gained the summit, they saw that the plain beyond it was covered with a vast herd of buffalo, quietly feeding, singly or in groups, and spreading over the country as far as the eye could reach. There were thousands of them, and Glen was amazed at the wonderful sight. Those nearest to the advancing Indians had already taken the alarm, and in less than a minute more the whole vast mass was in motion, with loud bellowings and a lumbering gallop, that, shaking the earth, sounded like the rush and roar of mighty waters. The fleet war-ponies speedily bore the hunters into the thick of the flying mass, so that for a few seconds they were swallowed up and lost to view in it. Then they reappeared surrounding, and driving before them, a fat young cow, that they had cut out from the rest of the herd. They did not use their rifles, as the reports might have attracted undesirable attention to their presence. From their powerful bows arrow after arrow was buried in the body of the selected victim, some of them even passing completely through it, until at length the animal fell, and the chase was ended. Chapter XVIII. BUFFALO AND THEIR USES. If the Cheyennes had been on a regular hunt they would have killed scores of the mighty beasts before desisting from their bloody work; but buffalo were too valuable to the Plains Indian to be wasted, or killed for mere sport. In fact, their very existence, at that time, depended upon these animals. Not only did their flesh form the chief and almost the sole article of Indian food, but with the skins they covered their lodges, and made boats, ropes, lariats, trunks, or _par fléche_ sacks, saddles, shields, frames for war bonnets, gloves, moccasins, leggings, shirts, gun-covers, whips, quivers, knife-scabbards, cradles, saddle-bags and blankets, beds, bridles, boots, glue, and a score of other necessary articles. From the hair they made ropes and pillows; while the horns provided them with spoons, cups, dishes, powder-flasks, arrow-heads, and even bows. Buffalo sinews gave the Indians thread and twine for innumerable purposes; while certain of the bones were fashioned into axes, knives, arrow-points, and implements for scraping the hides or dressing robes. The ribs were formed into small dog sledges, and the teeth into necklaces and rattles. Buffalo chips were a most important article of fuel on the almost treeless plains, and this is only a partial list of the useful articles furnished to the Indians by this animal. At that time buffalo roamed, in countless thousands, from the Missouri River to the Rocky Mountains, and from Mexico up into British America. Since then they have been ruthlessly slaughtered and exterminated by skin-butchers, emigrants, and an army of so-called sportsmen from all parts of the world. While the hunters were cutting up the cow they had killed, the rest of the party went into camp on the bank of the stream, near which the vast herd had been feeding. Here Wolf-Tongue's wound, that had only been rudely bandaged to check the flow of blood, was carefully dressed and attended to. There was no lack of food in the camp that evening, and the warriors were evidently determined to make up for their days of hard riding and fighting on scanty rations, by indulging in a regular feast. Glen was disgusted to see the liver and kidneys of the buffalo eaten raw, as was also a quantity of the meat while it was yet warm. Still there was plenty of cooked meat for those who preferred it. Over small fires, carefully screened by robes and blankets, so that their light should not attract attention, ribs were roasted and choice bits were broiled. Even the prisoner was unbound and allowed to cut and broil for himself until he could eat no more. Wolf-Tongue's wounded leg was smeared with melted tallow; and, though it was so lame and stiff that he could not use it, his appetite was in no wise impaired by his wound, nor did it dampen his high spirits in the least. It rather added to them; for, as he ate buffalo meat raw or cooked, as it was handed to him, at the same time laughing and chatting with those of the younger warriors who were nearest his own age, he felt that an honorable wound had been the only thing needed to crown the glories of this, his first warpath. Now he would indeed be greeted as a hero upon his return to the village. He felt more assured than ever that he would be allowed to keep the fine name of "Wolf-Tongue." Perhaps, but it was only just within the range of possibility, the head men might commemorate at once his success as a scout, and the fact that he had received a wound in battle, by conferring upon him the distinguished name of "Lame Wolf." Such things had been known. Why might they not happen to him? When the feasting was ended, and the entire band began to feel that to sleep would be far better than to eat any more, they extinguished their fires and moved noiselessly away, a hundred yards or so, from the place where they had been. Here in the tall grass, at the foot of the cottonwood-trees, or in red willow thickets, the tired warriors laid down, each man where he happened to be when he thought he had gone far enough for safety. Each drew his blanket over his head, and also over the rifle that was his inseparable bedfellow. The ponies had already been securely fastened, so that they could be had when wanted, and now they were either lying down or standing motionless with drooping heads. The camp was as secure as an Indian camp ever is, where every precaution is taken to guard against surprise, except the simple one of keeping awake. Wolf-Tongue, who was unable to touch his foot to the ground, was carried to his sleeping-place with his arms about the necks of two of his stalwart friends. Now, with Glen's rifle clasped tightly to him, and with his head completely enveloped in a blanket, he was fast forgetting his pain in sleep. Poor Glen was forced to lie without any blanket, either over or under him, with his wrists bound together, and with one of his arms fastened, by a short cord, to an arm of one of the scouts who had captured him. The latter fell asleep almost instantly, as was proved by his breathing; but it was impossible for the prisoner, weary as he was, to do so. His mind was too busily engaged in revolving possible means of escape. For a long time he lay with wide-open eyes, dismissing one project after another as they presented themselves. Finally he decided that, unless he could first free his hands and then release his arm from the cord that bound him to the scout, he could do nothing. To accomplish the first of these objects, he began to gnaw, very softly, at the raw-hide thong by which his wrists were secured. How tough and hard it was. How his jaws ached after he had worked for an hour or more, without accomplishing his purpose. Still he could feel that his efforts were not altogether fruitless. He knew that he could succeed if he were only given time enough. He was obliged to take several rests, and his work was often interrupted by hearing some wakeful Indian get up and walk about. Twice the scout wakened, and pulled at the cord fastened to his prisoner's arm to assure himself that he was still there. At length the task was concluded, the hateful thong was bitten in two, and Glen's hands were free. They were cold, numb, and devoid of feeling; but after a while their circulation was gradually restored, and the boy began to work at the knot that secured the cord about his arm. It was a hard one to untie, but in this, too, he finally succeeded. Just as it loosened beneath Glen's fingers, the scout woke and gave the cord a pull. Fortunately the boy still held it, and the other was satisfied that his prisoner was still beside him. Glen hardly dared breathe until he felt certain that the Indian again slept. Then he fastened the cord to a bit of willow, that grew within reach, in order that there might be some resistance if the scout should pull at it again, and cautiously rose to his feet. Which way should he go? How should he avoid stepping on some recumbent form if he moved at all? For a moment he stood irresolute. Well, whatever he did he must do quickly, for the short summer night was far advanced. He had not a moment to lose. If he only dared take a pony! If he could drive them all off and leave his pursuers without a horse on which to follow him! It was a thought worthy of a Cheyenne scout, and Glen realized in a moment that, hazardous as the undertaking would be, it offered the only means of ultimate escape. He thought he knew where the horses were, and began to move with the utmost caution, feeling his way inch by inch, in that direction. Twice he just discovered a motionless human form in time to avoid stumbling over it, and each time his heart seemed to leap into his mouth with the narrowness of his escape. Several times, too, he changed his course in order to avoid some real or fancied obstacle, until at length he was completely bewildered, and obliged to confess that he had no idea of what direction he was taking. Still he kept on, trembling with nervousness, until at length he felt certain that he must be at least well outside the circle of sleeping Indians, if not at a considerable distance from them. He began to move more rapidly, when suddenly a human figure rose up before him, so close that he could not avoid it. He sprang at it with a blind fury, hoping to overthrow it, and still effect his escape. Then there came a wild cry, a deafening report, and Glen found himself engaged in a furious struggle with an unknown antagonist. Chapter XIX. GLEN'S ESCAPE FROM THE INDIANS. As Glen struggled desperately, but well-nigh hopelessly, with the assailant who had risen so unexpectedly to bar his escape, there came a crashing volley of shots, a loud cheer, and a rush of trampling feet through the willows and tangled undergrowth. The boy only dimly wondered at these sounds as he was flung to the ground, where he lay breathless, with his arms pinned tightly to the earth, and expecting that each instant would be his last. Then he became strangely conscious that his antagonist was talking in a language that he understood, and was saying, "Yez would, would ye? An' yez tho't ye could wrastle wid Terence O'Boyle? Ye murtherin' rid villin! Bad cess to it I but oi'll tache ye! Phat's that ye say? Ye're a white man? Oh, no, me omadhoon! yez can't fool me into lettin' ye up that way!" "But I am white!" cried Glen, half choked though he was. "Let me up, and I'll prove it to you. Can't you understand English?" Very slowly and reluctantly the astonished Irishman allowed himself to become convinced that the assailant he had failed to shoot, but whom he had overcome after a violent struggle, was not an Indian. It was some minutes before he would permit Glen to rise from his uncomfortable position, and even then he held him fast, declaring that nothing short of an order from the captain himself would induce him to release a prisoner. The explanation of this sudden change in our hero's fortunes and prospects is that, while the Cheyennes were engaged in their buffalo-hunt the evening before, they had been discovered by a Pawnee scout. He was attached to a company of cavalry who were on their way back to Fort Hayes, on the Smoky Hill, from an expedition against the Arrapahoes. The captain of this company had determined to surprise the Indians thus unexpectedly thrown in his way, at daybreak, and had made his arrangements accordingly. Their movements had been carefully noted by the scouts, and, having made a start from their own camp at three o'clock that morning, the troops were cautiously surrounding the place where they supposed their sleeping foes to be. The attack would undoubtedly have proved successful, and the Cheyennes would have sprung from their grassy couches only to fall beneath the fire from the cavalry carbines, had not Glen Eddy run into trooper Terence O'Boyle and been mistaken for an Indian by that honest fellow. Upon the alarm being thus prematurely given, the soldiers fired a volley and charged the Cheyenne camp, only to find it deserted. With one exception, the Indians had made good their escape, and it was never known whether any of them were even wounded by the volley that gave them such a rude awakening. The one who failed to escape was the young scout who hoped to be known as "Wolf-Tongue," and who, on account of his wound, was unable to fly with the rest. He managed to conceal himself in a thicket until daylight. Then he was discovered by one of the Pawnee scouts, who dragged him out, and would have put him to death but for the interference of Glen Eddy, who was just then led to the spot by his Irish captor. An hour later Glen was enjoying the happiest breakfast in his life, in company with Captain Garrett Winn, U.S.A., who was listening with absorbed interest to the boy's account of his recent thrilling experiences. "Well, my lad," said the captain, when Glen had finished his story, "I consider your several escapes from being killed, when first captured, from the bullets of those fellows at the stage ranch, from the Indians, and, finally, from being killed by that wild Irishman, as being little short of miraculous." Soon afterwards the trumpet sounded "Boots and Saddles," and Glen, mounted on a handsome bay mare--which, with several other ponies, had been left behind by the Indians in their hurried flight--trotted happily away with his new friends in the direction of Fort Hayes. In his hand he grasped his own rifle, which was recovered when Wolf-Tongue was captured, and behind him, mounted on a pony led by one of the troopers, rode that wounded and crest-fallen young Indian himself. The future looked very black to Wolf-Tongue just now; for, totally ignorant of the ways of white men, he expected nothing less than death as soon as he should reach the fort. He realized that Glen had saved him from the knife of the Pawnee scout, and wondered if the white boy would interfere in his behalf with the warriors of his own race, or if they would listen to him in case he did. He wished he knew just a little of the white man's language, that he might discover what those soldiers on each side of him were talking about. Perhaps they were even discussing him and his fate. But he only knew one word of English, and now he began to think he did not understand the meaning of that; for, though he heard the soldiers say "how" several times in the course of their conversation, they did not seem to use it at all as he would. So the Indian lad rode along unhappily enough; but, though his thoughts were very busy, no trace of them was allowed to exhibit itself in his impassive face. In the meantime he was the subject of a conversation between Glen and Captain Winn, as they rode side by side. The former had a very kindly feeling towards the young Indian, who had tried to be kind to him when their present positions were reversed, and now he wanted in some way to return this kindness if possible. "What will be done with him do you think, sir?" he asked. "I'm sure I don't know," replied the captain, carelessly. "I suppose he will be kept as a prisoner at some one of the forts until we have whipped his tribe and put it on a reservation, and then he will be sent back to it." "But what will become of him then?" persisted the boy. "Oh, he will grow up to be one of the regular reservation beggars, living on government charity, until he finally drinks himself to death or gets killed in some quarrel. That's the way with most of them on the reservations. You see they haven't anything else to do, and so they drink and gamble, and kill each other just to pass away the time." "Don't you suppose he could learn to live like white folks if he had the chance?" "Yes, I suppose he could. In fact, I know he could, if he had the chance; for these Indian boys are about as bright as they make 'em. But I don't know where he'll get the chance. The government would rather pay a thousand dollars to keep him on a reservation, or even to kill him, than a hundred to give him an education, and I don't know of anybody else, that is able to do anything, who will take an interest in him." There the conversation ended; for, after riding some time in silence and trying to think of a solution of this perplexing Indian problem, Glen all at once found himself nodding so that he almost fell off his horse. He was so thoroughly wearied and sleepy that it did not seem as though he could hold his eyes open another minute. Noticing his condition, the captain said, kindly, "You look just about used up, young man; and no wonder, after what you've gone through. The best thing for you to do is to hand your pony over to one of the men, crawl into the wagon back there, and take a nap." Glen thought this such good advice that he immediately followed it. Two minutes later he was lying, in what looked like a most uncomfortable position, on top of a pile of baggage in the only wagon that accompanied the troops, more soundly asleep than he had ever been before in all his life. He did not even know when the wagon reached the fort, a few hours later, nor did he realize what was happening when he was lifted from it and led by the captain into his own quarters. There the boy was allowed to tumble down on a pile of robes and blankets, and told to have his sleep out. Not until the rising sun streamed full in his face the next morning did that sleep come to an end. Then he awoke so hungry that he felt as though it would take a whole buffalo to satisfy his appetite, and so bewildered by his surroundings that, for some minutes, he could not recall what had happened. He had no idea of where he was, for he could remember nothing since the act of crawling into the wagon and finding a bed on its load of baggage. Chapter XX. A PRESENT THAT WOULD PLEASE ANY BOY. Through the open window, by which the sunlight was streaming in, Glen caught a glimpse of a line of cottonwood-trees, which, as he had long ago learned, denoted the presence of a stream in that country. To a boy who dearly loved to bathe, and had not washed for two whole days, nothing could be more tempting. Nor was Glen long in jumping from the window, running down to the cottonwoods, throwing off his clothes, and plunging headforemost into the cool waters. With that delicious bath disappeared every trace of his weariness, his aches, and everything else that remained to remind him of his recent trials, except his hunger. When he was at length ready to go in search of something with which to appease that, he walked slowly back towards the house in which he had slept. He now noticed that it was built of logs, and was the last one in a row of half a dozen just like it. He also heard bugle calls, saw soldiers in blue uniforms hurrying in every direction, and wisely concluded that, in some way, he must have been brought to Fort Hayes. As he stood irresolute near the house, not knowing which way to go or what to do, a door opened and a little girl, followed by a lady, came out. The child stopped and looked at the boy for a moment. Then running back to her mother, she exclaimed, "Look mamma! look! It's the very same one we knew on the cars!" Glen had recognized her at once as his little acquaintance of the railroad between St. Louis and Kansas City, and now the lady recognized him as the boy who had run the locomotive so splendidly that terrible night, and had then so mysteriously disappeared. It was truly a very happy party that gathered about Captain Winn's hospitable breakfast-table that morning. They had so much to talk about, and so many questions to ask, and so many experiences to relate, and Nettie so bubbled over with delight at again finding her play-fellow, that the meal was prolonged for more than an hour beyond its usual limits. After breakfast Glen asked if he might go and see the prisoner, to which the captain replied, "Certainly you may." As they walked across the parade-ground in the direction of the guard-house, Glen was introduced to several officers, who seemed to take a great interest in him, and shook hands so cordially, and congratulated him so heartily on his escape from the Cheyennes, that the boy began to think his rough experience was not without its compensations after all. In the guard-house they found the young Indian peering disconsolately out between the gratings of his cell window, and looking very forlorn indeed. He gazed sullenly at the visitors, and wondered why they should come there to stare at him; but when Glen stepped up to him with outstretched hand, and said "How?" the boy's face brightened at once. He took the proffered hand, and answered "How" with an evident air of pleasure, for he could comprehend the other's sympathetic expression, if he could not understand his language. Pointing to himself, the white boy said, "Glen," which the other repeated as though he thoroughly understood what was meant. Then Glen pointed to him, with an inquiring look, as much as to ask, "What is your name?" The boy understood; but hesitated a moment before drawing himself up proudly and answering in his own tongue; but the name was so long and hard to say that Glen could not repeat it. "I wish I could understand what he says, for I should so like to have a talk with him," said Glen. "There is an interpreter who speaks Cheyenne somewhere about the place," answered Captain Winn, "and, if you like, I will send for him." When the interpreter came, Glen found out that what the boy had said in Cheyenne was that his name was "Lame Wolf;" but when the young Indian tried to repeat it in English, after Glen, he pronounced it "Lem Wolf," which is what he was called from that day. After they had held quite a conversation, that greatly increased Glen's interest in the boy, he and the captain took their departure, the former promising to come again very soon. Then Captain Winn led Glen down to the corral, in which were a number of horses, ponies, and mules, and, pointing to one of them, asked the boy if he recognized it. "Of course I do," answered Glen. "It's the one I rode yesterday." "And the one I hope you will ride for many days to come," said the captain with a smile; "for I want you to accept that pony as a present from my little girl." "Really?" cried the delighted boy; "do you really mean that I am to have it for my very own?" "I really do," laughed the captain, "and," he continued more soberly, "I wish I could offer you something ten times more valuable, as a slight memento of the service you rendered those so dear to me not long ago." "You couldn't give me anything I should value more," exclaimed Glen, "unless--" Here he hesitated, and his face flushed slightly. "Unless what?" asked Captain Winn. "Unless you could give me that Indian boy." "What on earth would you do with him?" cried the captain, his eyes opening wide with surprise at such an unheard-of request. Then Glen unfolded a plan that had formed itself in his mind within a few minutes; and, when he had finished, the captain's look of surprise still remained on his face, but he said, reflectively: "Well, I don't know but what it might be done, and if you succeed in carrying out your part of the scheme, I will see what I can do with the rest of it." This matter being disposed of, Glen asked if he might try his pony. "But you tried her yesterday," laughed the captain, who enjoyed the boyishness of this boy as much as he admired his manliness. "Yes, sir; but she wasn't mine then, and you know everything, even a horse, is very different when it is your own." "So it is, and you may try her to your heart's content, only don't ride far from the post unless you wish for a repetition of your recent experience." With this the captain beckoned to a soldier, who stood near by, and ordered him to saddle the bay mare, and to tell the stable-sergeant that she belonged to this young gentleman, who was to take her whenever he pleased. He also told Glen that the whole outfit of saddle, bridle, and picket rope, then being placed on the mare, were included in his present. The mare was so well fed, and so thoroughly rested, that she was in high spirits; and, the moment she found Glen on her back, tried her very best to throw him off. She reared, and bucked, and plunged, and sprang sideways, and kicked up her heels, to the great delight of a number of soldiers who were witnesses of the performance; but all to no purpose. Her rider clung to the saddle like a burr, and all her efforts to throw him were quite as unsuccessful as those of Binney Gibbs's mule had been some days before. When Glen, with the breath nearly shaken out of his body, but thoroughly master of the situation, reined the mare up beside the captain, and asked his permission to name her "Nettle," the latter readily granted it, saying, "I think it will be a most appropriate name; for it is evident that she can only be mastered by a firm and steady hand." Then the happy boy rode over to Captain Winn's quarters, anxious to display his new acquisition to the child after whom she had just been named. As he did so he passed the guard-house, and was moved to pity by the sight of a sad-looking young face pressed against the grating of one of its windows, and gazing wistfully at him. That pony had belonged to Lame Wolf but the day before. After an hour's riding in the immediate vicinity of the fort, Glen was fully satisfied that no horse in the world had ever combined so many admirable qualities as this bay mare, or given an owner such complete cause to be satisfied with his possession. As he was about to return her to the corral, his eye caught the gleam of sunlight on a moving white object, a mile or so distant, along the wagon-trail leading to the east. Watching intently, he saw that it was followed by another, and another, until the wagons of a long train were in plain sight, winding slowly along the road towards the fort. When he was certain that he could not be mistaken, the boy uttered a joyous shout, clapped spurs to Nettle, and dashed away to meet them. A group of mounted men rode ahead of the train, and they gazed wonderingly at the reckless rider who approached them with such headlong impetuosity. Their surprise became incredulous amazement as he reined sharply up within a few paces of them, and, politely lifting his hat, disclosed the shaven head and flushed face of the boy whose mysterious disappearance had caused them such sincere grief and distress. They had devoted half a day to scouring the country near the camp from which he had been lost; and, finding plentiful traces of Indians in the creek bottom, had come to the conclusion that, in some way, he had fallen into their hands, and would never again be heard from. Now, to meet him here, safe, and evidently in high spirits, was past comprehension. Mr. Hobart was the first to ride forward and grasp his hand. "Is it really you, Glen?" he exclaimed, his voice choked with feeling; "and where, in the name of all that is mysterious, have you been?" "It is really I," answered the boy, "and I've been a prisoner in the hands of the Cheyennes, and had a glorious time." It really did seem as though he had had a good time, now that it was all over with, and he was the owner of that beautiful mare. Besides, he could not fully realize the nature of the fate he had escaped. Then the others crowded about him, and General Lyle himself shook hands with him, and wanted to hear his story at once. While he was telling it as briefly as possible, the joyful news of his appearance flew back through the train, and the boys came running up to see him, and shake hands with him, and nearly pulled him off his horse in their eagerness to touch him and assure themselves that he was really alive. "Hurrah for the Baldheads!" shouted the irrepressible Brackett; "they don't get left! not much!" Even Binney Gibbs came and shook hands with him. That evening, after the camp was somewhat quieted from its excitement, and after Glen had told his story for about the twentieth time, he disappeared for a short while. When he returned he brought with him an Indian boy, who limped painfully, and seemed very ill at ease in the presence of so many strange pale-faces. "Who's your friend, Glen?" "Where are the rest of the ten little Injuns?" shouted the fellows as they crowded about this new object of interest. When at length a partial quiet was restored, Glen begged them to listen to him for a few minutes, as he had something to propose that he was sure would interest them, and they shouted, "Fire away, old man, we are all listening!" Chapter XXI. LAME WOLF, THE YOUNG CHEYENNE. "Look here, fellows," said Glen, as he stood with one hand on the shoulder of the young Indian, and facing his companions, who, attracted by curiosity, were gathered to hear what he had to say. "This chap is a Cheyenne, and is one of the three by whom I was captured; but he was mighty kind, and did everything he could think of to make things easy for me. So you see he is my friend, and now that he is in trouble, I am bound to do what I can to help him. His name is Lame Wolf--" (here the young Indian stood a little straighter, and his eyes flashed. He had succeeded in having that name recognized as belonging to him, at any rate), "and he's the son of a chief, and the only English word he knows is 'How?' Captain Winn says that if he only had a chance he'd learn as quick as any white boy, and I believe he'd learn a good deal quicker than some--" At this point Glen became somewhat confused, and wondered if Binney Gibbs had told how he had been dropped from his class. "He says, I mean Captain Winn says, that the only thing for him to do out here is to go on a reservation and become a worthless good-for-nothing, and get killed. Now that seems a pretty poor sort of a chance for a fellow that's been as good a friend to me as Lame Wolf has, and I want you to help me give him a better one. "I want to send him back to my home in Brimfield, and let him live with my folks a year or two, and be taught things the same as white boys, and have the same chance they have. Captain Winn says he thinks he can fix it with the folks at Washington about letting him go; but he don't know where the money to pay his expenses is to come from. I didn't tell him, because I thought I'd speak to you first; but I was pretty sure it would come from this very party. I've only got five dollars in cash myself, but I'll give that, and I'll save all I can out of my pay for it, too. Now, what do you say, fellows? Shall Lame Wolf have a chance or not?" "Yes! yes! of course he shall! Hurrah for Lame Wolf! Hurrah for Glen's little Injun! Give him a chance! Put me down for half a month's pay! And me! and me!" shouted a dozen voices at once. "Billy" Brackett jumped up on a box, and, calling the meeting to order, proposed that a committee of three be appointed, with Mr. Hobart as its chairman, to receive subscriptions to the Lame Wolf Fund. "All-in-favor-say-aye-contrary-mind-it-is-a-vote!" he shouted. Then somebody else nominated him and Glen to be the other members, and they were elected without a dissenting voice. While all this was going on the fellows were crowding about the young Indian, eager to shake hands with him, and say, "How! Lame Wolf, old boy! How!" All at once Glen found that the boy was leaning heavily on him, and reproached himself for having allowed him to stand so long on his wounded leg. He got his charge back to the guard-house as quickly as possible, and then, leaving him to enjoy a quiet night's rest, hurried back to camp. Here he found "Billy" Brackett presiding, with great dignity, over what he was pleased to call the "subscription books." They consisted of a single sheet of paper, fastened with thumb-tacks to a drawing-board that was placed on top of a barrel in one of the tents. Mr. Hobart, who had consented to serve on the committee, was also in the tent, and to him were being handed the cash contributions to the Fund. Glen put his name down for five dollars a month, to be paid as long as he should remain a member of the present expedition. Then he started for his own tent to get the five dollars in cash that he had promised, out of his valise. As he was hurrying back with it he was stopped by Binney Gibbs, who thrust a bit of paper into his hand, saying, "I want you to take this check for your Indian, Glen. Father sent it to me to buy a horse with, but I guess a mule is good enough for me, and so the Indian chap can have it as well as not. You needn't say anything about it." With this, Binney, who had spoken in a confused manner, hurried away without giving Glen a chance to thank him. What had come over the boy? Glen had never known him to do a generous thing before. He could not understand it. When he reached the tent, and examined the check, his amazement was so great that he gave a long whistle. "What is it, Glen? Give us a chance to whistle too," shouted "Billy" Brackett. "Our natural curiosity needs to be checked as well as yours." "Binney Gibbs has contributed a hundred dollars," said Glen, slowly, as though he could not quite believe his own words to be true. "Good for Grip! Bravo for Binney! Who would have thought it? He's a trump, after all!" shouted "Billy" Brackett and the others who heard this bit of news. Far beyond the tent, these shouts reached the ears of a solitary figure that stood motionless and almost invisible in the night shadows. They warmed his heart, and caused his cheeks to glow. It was a new sensation to Binney Gibbs to be cheered and praised for an act of generosity. It was a very pleasant one as well, and he wondered why he had never experienced it before. The truth is that this rough life, in which every person he met was his equal, if not his superior, was doing this boy more good than any one had dared to predict that it would. Although he was a prize scholar, and the son of a wealthy man, there were many in this exploring-party who were far better scholars, and more wealthy than he. Yet even these were often outranked in general estimation by fellows who had neither social position, money, nor learning. At first Binney could not understand it. Things were so different in Brimfield; though even there he remembered that he had not been as popular among the other boys as Glen Eddy. Even in this party, where Binney had expected to be such a shining light, the other Brimfield boy was far better liked than he. For this Binney had hated Glen, and declared he would get even with him. Then he began, furtively, to watch him in the hope of discovering the secret of his popularity. Finally it came to him, like a revelation, and he realized for the first time in his life that, in man or boy, such things as unselfishness, honesty, bravery, good-nature, generosity, and cheerfulness, or any one of them, will do more towards securing the regard, liking, and friendship of his fellows than all the wealth or book-learning in the world. Perhaps if Glen had not been captured by the Cheyennes, Binney would not have learned this most valuable lesson of his life as quickly as he did. In the general grief over his schoolmate's disappearance, he heard his character praised for one or another lovable trait, until at length the secret of Glen's popularity was disclosed to him. Then, as he looked back and recalled the incidents of their Brimfield life, he realized what a manly, fearless, open-hearted boy this one, whom he had regarded with contempt, because he was not a student, had been. Now that he was gone, and, as he supposed, lost to him forever, Binney thought there was nothing he would not give for a chance to recall the past and win the friendship he had so contemptuously rejected. For two days these thoughts exercised so strong a sway on Binney's mind, that when, on the third, Glen Eddy appeared before him as one risen from the dead, their influence was not to be shaken off. Although he did not know exactly how to begin, he was determined not only to win the friendship of the boy whom he had for so long regarded as his rival, but also to make every member of the party like him, if he possibly could. His first opportunity came that evening; but it was not until after a long struggle with selfishness and envy that he resolved to contribute that one-hundred-dollar check to the Lame Wolf Fund. He knew that he cut an awkward figure on his mule, and imagined that a horse would not only be much more elegant, but easier to ride. Then, too, Glen had such a beautiful mare; beside her his wretched mule would appear to a greater disadvantage than ever. He could buy as fine a pony as roamed the Plains for a hundred dollars. Then, too, that was what his father had sent him the money for. Had he a right to use it for any other purpose? To be sure, Mr. Gibbs had not known of the mule, and supposed his son would be obliged to go on foot if he did not buy a horse. So poor Binney argued with himself, and his old evil influences strove against the new resolves. It is doubtful if the latter would have conquered, had not the sight of Glen coming towards him brought a sudden impulse to the aid of the resolves and decided the struggle in their favor. Thus generosity won, but by so narrow a margin that Binney could not stand being thanked for it, and so hurried away. But he heard the shouts and cheers coupled with his name, and it seemed to him that he felt even happier at that moment than when he stood on the platform of the Brimfield High School and was told of the prize his scholarship had won. So the money was raised to redeem one young Cheyenne from the misery and wickedness of a government Indian reservation; and, when the grand total of cash and subscriptions was footed up, it was found to be very nearly one thousand dollars. Glen was overjoyed at the result, and it is hard to tell which boy was the happier, as he crept into his blankets that night, he or Binney Gibbs. Chapter XXII. GLEN AND BINNEY GET INTO TROUBLE. The next day, when Glen announced the successful result of his efforts to Captain Winn, that officer informed him that he expected to be ordered East very shortly on special duty, when he would be willing to take charge of the Indian boy, and deliver him to Mr. Matherson in Brimfield. Nothing could have suited Glen's plans better; and he at once wrote a long letter to his adopted father, telling him of all that had happened, and begging him to receive the young Indian for his sake. He also wrote to Mr. Meadows and asked him to announce the coming of the stranger to the Brimfield boys. Then he hunted up the interpreter, and went to the guard-house for a long talk with his captive friend. Lame Wolf was glad to see him, and at once asked what the white men had talked of in their council of the evening before. Glen explained it all as clearly as he knew how. The young Indian was greatly comforted to learn that he was not to be put to death, but also seemed to think that it would be nearly as bad to be sent far away from his own country and people, to the land of the Pale-faces. In his ignorance he regarded the place of his proposed exile much as we do the interior of Africa or the North Pole, one only to be reached by a weary journey, that few ever undertook, and fewer still returned from. He was somewhat cheered by Glen's promise to join him at the end of a year, and that then, if he chose, he should certainly return to his own people. Still, it was a very melancholy and forlorn young Indian who shook hands, for the last time, with the white boy at sunrise the next morning, and said, "How, Glen," in answer to the other's cheery "Good-by, Lame Wolf. Take care of yourself, and I hope you will be able to talk English the next time I see you." Then, after bidding good-bye to the Winns and his other friends of the post, the boy sprang on Nettle's back and dashed after the wagon-train that was just disappearing over a roll of the prairie to the westward. All that morning Glen's attention was claimed by Mr. Hobart, or "Billy" Brackett, or somebody else, who wished to learn more of the details of his recent experience; but late in the afternoon he found himself riding beside Binney Gibbs. For the first time in their lives the two boys held a long and earnest conversation. From it each learned of good qualities in the other that he had never before suspected; and by it a long step was taken towards the cementing of a friendship between them. So engaged were they in this talk, that the animals they were riding were allowed insensibly to slacken their pace, until they had fallen a considerable distance behind the train. They even stopped to snatch an occasional mouthful of grass from the wayside, without opposition on the part of their young riders. These knew that, whenever they chose, a sharp gallop of a minute or two would place them alongside of the wagons, and so they carelessly permitted the distance between them and the train to become much greater than it should have been. Suddenly a dazzling ray of light flashed, for the fraction of a second, full in Glen's eyes, causing him to start, as though a pistol had been fired close beside him. He glanced hurriedly about. Not a wagon was in sight; but he knew the train must be just over the rise of ground he and Binney were ascending. At that same moment the mule threw up its head and sniffed the air uneasily. Glen's second glance was behind him, and it revealed a sight that, for an instant, stopped the beating of his heart. The whole country seemed alive with Indians. Half a mile in the rear, hundreds of them, in a dense body, were advancing at the full speed of their ponies. A small party, evidently of scouts, were coming down the slope of a divide at one side, in the direction of the mirror-flash that had first attracted his attention. But the worst danger of all lay in two fierce-looking warriors who had advanced upon the boys so silently and rapidly that they were already within bow-shot. Fortunately, Glen was close beside his companion. With a quick movement he grasped Binney by the collar and jerked him to one side, so that he very nearly fell off his mule. At the same instant the two arrows, that he had seen fitted to their bowstrings, whizzed harmlessly over the boys' heads. As Nettle and the mule sprang away up the slope, several rifle-balls, from the little party of Indians on the right, whistled past them; while from behind them rose a howl of mingled rage and disappointment. The first two Indians had used the noiseless arrows, in the hope of killing the boys without betraying their presence to the rest of the party, as the moment for the grand charge, that they hoped would be such a complete and overwhelming surprise, had not yet arrived. Now that they had failed in this, there was no longer any need for caution, and they fired shot after shot from their rifles after the fugitives. Glen had seen the Cheyennes dodge from side to side, as they rode away from the stage-ranch three days before, to disconcert the aim of its defenders; and now he and Binney employed the same device. Nettle was so much fleeter than the mule that Glen could have gained the top of the slope in advance of his companion if he had so chosen; but he rather chose to be a little behind him at this point. So, instead of urging the mare to do her best, he faced about in his saddle and returned the rifle-shots of the two Indians who were nearest, until his magazine was emptied. It is not likely that any of his shots took effect; but they certainly weakened the ardor of the pursuit, and gave Binney Gibbs a chance to cross the ridge in safety, which he probably could not have done had not Glen held those Indians in momentary check. With his last shot expended, and no chance to reload, it was evidently high time for Glen to test the speed of his mare to its utmost. His life depended wholly on her now, and he knew it. There would be no taking of prisoners this time. Even at this critical moment he reflected grimly, and with a certain satisfaction, upon the difficulty the Indians would find in getting a scalp off of his shaven head. All this riding and shooting and thinking had been done so rapidly that it was not two minutes from the time of that first tell-tale mirror-flash before Nettle had borne her rider to the top of the ridge, and he could see the wagon-train, not a quarter of a mile from him. Binney Gibbs was already half-way to it; and, as Glen caught sight of him, he was amazed at a most extraordinary performance. Binney suddenly flew from his saddle, not over his mule's head, as though the animal had flung him, but sideways, as though he had jumped. Whether he left the saddle of his own accord or was flung from it the effect was the same; and the next instant he was sprawling at full length on the soft grass, while the mule, relieved of his weight, was making better time than ever towards the wagons. Glen had left the trail, thinking to cut off a little distance by so doing; and, a few moments after Binney's leap into the air, he performed almost the same act. On his part it was entirely involuntary, and was caused by one of Nettle's fore-feet sinking into a gopher burrow that was invisible and not to be avoided. As horse and boy rolled over together, a cry of dismay came from one side, and a wild yell of exultation from the other. Chapter XXIII. FIGHTING THE FINEST HORSEMEN IN THE WORLD. It did not take many seconds for both Glen and Nettle to scramble to their feet after the tremendous header caused by the gopher-hole. Badly shaken though he was, the boy managed to regain his saddle more quickly than he had ever done before. But seconds are seconds; and, in so close a race for the most valuable of all earthly prizes, each one might be worth a minute, an hour, or even a lifetime. Glen had not more than regained his seat, before the foremost of his pursuers, who had far outstripped the other, was upon him. With an empty rifle, Glen had not the faintest hope of escape this time, though Nettle sprang bravely forward. He involuntarily cringed from the expected blow, for he had caught a fleeting glimpse of an uplifted tomahawk; but it did not come. Instead of it, he heard a crash, and turned in time to see the Indian pony and its rider pitch headlong, as he and Nettle had done a minute before. They were almost beside him; and, as he dashed away, he was conscious of wondering if they too had fallen victims to an unseen gopher-hole. He had not noticed the figure running to meet him, nor heard one of the shots it was firing so wildly as it ran. If he had he might have realized that his salvation had not depended on a gopher-hole, but on one of those random shots from Binney Gibbs's rifle. By the merest chance, for it was fired without aim and almost without direction, it had pierced the brain of the Indian pony, and decided that race in favor of Glen. When, to Glen's great surprise, the two boys met, he sprang from Nettle's back and insisted that Binney should take his place, which the other resolutely refused to do. So Glen simply tossed the bridle rein into Binney's hand, and started off on a full run. In a moment Nettle, with Binney on her back, had overtaken him, and the generous dispute might have been resumed had not a party of mounted men from the wagon-train just then dashed up and surrounded the boys. They were headed by "Billy" Brackett, who cried out, "Well, you're a pretty pair of babes in the woods, aren't you? And you've been having lots of fun at the expense of our anxiety! But jump up behind me, Glen, quick, for I believe every wild Injun of the Plains is coming down that hill after us at this moment." Just before the first shots were heard, some anxiety had been felt in the train concerning the boys who had lagged behind, and "Billy" Brackett had already asked if he had not better look them up. Then, as the sound of firing came over the ridge, and the boys were known to have got into some sort of trouble, he rode back at full speed, followed by a dozen of the men. All were equally ready to go, but the rest were ordered to remain behind for the protection of the train. Then the wagons were quickly drawn up in double line, and the spare stock was driven in between them. These arrangements were hardly completed before "Billy" Brackett and his party, with the two rescued boys, came flying back, pursued by the entire body of Indians. As the former gained the wagons they faced about, and, with a rattling volley, checked for an instant the further advance of the dusky pony riders. But those Cheyennes and Arrapahoes and Kiowas and Comanches were not going to let so rich a prize as this wagon-train and all those scalps escape them without at least making a bold try for it. If they could only force the train to go into corral, while it was a mile away from the nearest stream, they would have taken a long step towards its capture. So they divided into two bands; and, circling around, came swooping down on the train from both sides at once. The Plains Indians are the finest horsemen in the world, and their everyday feats of daring in the saddle would render the performance of the best circus-riders tame by comparison. Now, as the two parties swept obliquely on towards the motionless wagons, with well-ordered ranks, tossing arms, waving plumes and fringes, gaudy with vivid colors, yelling like demons, and sitting their steeds like centaurs, they presented a picture of savage warfare at once brilliant and terrible. At the flash of the white men's rifles every Indian disappeared as though shot, and the next moment their answering shower of bullets and arrows came from under their horses' necks. The headlong speed was not checked for an instant; but after delivering their volley they circled off beyond rifle-shot for a breathing-spell. As they did so, the wagon-train moved ahead. A few mules had been killed and more wounded by the Indian volley; but their places were quickly filled from the spare stock. By the time the Indians were ready for their second charge, the train was several hundred yards nearer the coveted water than before. Again they halted. Again the young engineers, inwardly trembling with excitement, but outwardly as firm as rocks, took their places under and behind the wagons, with their shining rifle-barrels steadily pointed outward. Some of them had been soldiers, while others had encountered Indians before; but to most of them this was the first battle of any kind they had ever seen. But they all knew what their fate would be if overpowered, and they had no idea of letting these Indians get any nearer than within good rifle-shot. "If you can't see an Indian, aim at the horses!" shouted General Lyle, from his position on horseback midway between the two lines of wagons. "Don't a man of you fire until I give the word, and then give them as many shots as possible while they are within range." The chief had not the remotest thought of allowing his train to be captured, nor yet of being compelled to corral it before he was ready to do so. The second charge of the Indians was even bolder than the first, and they were allowed to come much nearer before the order to fire was given. The same manoeuvres were repeated as before. One white man, a member of Mr. Hobart's division, was killed outright, and two others were wounded. More mules were killed than before, and more were injured; but still the train moved ahead, and this time its defenders could see the sparkle of water in the river they longed so ardently to reach. How thirsty they were getting, and what dry work fighting was! The wagon mules sniffed the water eagerly, and could hardly be restrained from rushing towards it. But another charge must be repelled first. This time it was so fierce that the Indians rode straight on in the face of the first and second volleys from the engineers' rifles. When the third, delivered at less than two rods' distance, finally shattered their ranks, and sent them flying across the level bottom-land, they left a dozen wagon mules transfixed with their lances. The Indians left many a pony behind them when they retreated from that charge; but in every case their riders, killed, wounded, or unhurt, were borne off by the others, so that no estimate of their loss could be formed. Before another charge could be made, the wagons had been rushed forward, with their mules on a full gallop, to a point so close to the river-bank that there was no longer any danger of being cut off from it. Here they were corralled, and chained together in such a manner as to present an almost impregnable front to the Indians. At least it was one that those who viewed it, with feelings of bitter disappointment, from a safe distance, did not care to attack. After they had noted the disposition of the train, and satisfied themselves that it was established in that place for the night, they disappeared so completely that no trace of them was to be seen, and the explorers were left to take an account of the losses they had sustained in this brief but fierce encounter. Only one man killed! What a comfort it was that no more had shared his fate, and yet how sad that even this one should be taken from their number! Glen had known him well; for he was one of those merry young Kansas City surveyors, one of the "bald heads," as they were known in the party. An hour before he had been one of the jolliest among them. He was one of those who had gone out so cheerfully with "Billy" Brackett to the rescue of the boys. He had been instantly killed while bravely doing his duty, and had suffered no pain. They had that consolation as they talked of him in low, awed tones. His body could not be sent home. It could not be carried with them. So they buried him in a grave dug just inside the line of wagons. The last level beams of the setting sun streamed full on the spot as the chief-engineer read the solemn burial service, and each member of the expedition, stepping forward with uncovered head, dropped a handful of earth into the open grave. Then it was filled, and its mound was beaten to the level of the surrounding surface. After that, mules and horses were led back and forth over it, until there was no longer any chance of its recognition, or disturbance by Indians or prowling beasts. None of the wounded suffered from severe injuries; and, though the bodies of the wagons were splintered in many places, and their canvas covers gaped with rents, no damage had been sustained that could not be repaired. Chapter XXIV. CROSSING THE QUICKSANDS. As soon as Glen found a chance to talk to Binney Gibbs he asked him how his mule happened to throw him in such a peculiar fashion. "He didn't throw me," answered Binney, with a look of surprise; "I jumped off." "What on earth did you do that for?" "Because he was running away, and I couldn't stop him. I saw that your pony couldn't keep up with him, and, of course, I wasn't going to leave you behind to fight all those Indians alone. So I got off the only way I could think of, and started back to help you. It was mighty lucky I did, too. Don't you think so?" "Indeed I do!" answered Glen, heartily, though at the same time he could not help smiling at the idea of Nettle not being able to keep up with Binney's mule. He would not for the world, though, have belittled the other's brave act by saying that he had purposely remained behind to cover his companion's flight. He only said, "Indeed I do, and it was one of the finest things I ever heard of, Binney. I shall always remember it, and always be grateful for it. You made a splendid shot, too, and I owe my life to it; for that Indian was just lifting his hatchet over my head when you rolled him over. I tell you it was a mighty plucky thing for anybody to do, especially--" Glen was about to say, "especially for a fellow who has never been considered very brave;" but he checked himself in time, and substituted, "for a fellow who never had any experience with Indians before." Binney knew well enough, though, that the Brimfield boys had always thought him a coward; for they had never hesitated to tell him so. Now, to be praised for bravery, and that by the bravest boy he had ever known, was a new and very pleasant sensation. It was even better than to be called generous, and he mentally vowed, then and there, never again to forfeit this newly gained reputation. There is nothing that will so stimulate a boy or girl to renewed efforts as a certain amount of praise where it is really deserved. Too much praise is flattery; and praise that is not deserved is as bad as unjust censure. While the boys were thus talking they received word that General Lyle wished to see them. They found him sitting, with Mr. Hobart, in an ambulance; for it had been ordered that no tents should be pitched in that camp. When they stood before the chief-engineer he said, kindly: "Boys, I want both to reprimand and thank you. I am surprised that you should have so disobeyed my positive orders as to lose sight of the train when on a march through an Indian country. This applies to you, Matherson, more than to your companion; for your late experience should have taught you better. I trust that my speaking to you now will prevent any repetition of such disobedience. Your carelessness of this afternoon might have cost many precious lives, including your own. That is all of the reprimand. The thanks I wish to express are for your timely warning of the presence of Indians, and for the individual bravery displayed by both of you during our encounter with them. That is all I have to say this time, and I hope next time the reprimand may be omitted." As the two boys, feeling both ashamed and pleased, bowed and took their departure, the chief, turning to his companion, said: "They are fine young fellows, Hobart, and I congratulate you on having them in your division. Now let us decide on our plans for to-night." This last remark referred to the decision General Lyle had formed of placing the river between his party and the Indians before daylight. He knew that the Indians of the Plains, like all others of their race, are extremely averse to undertaking anything of importance in the dark. He also knew that their favorite time for making an attack is when they can catch their enemy at a disadvantage, as would be the case while his wagons were crossing the river and his men and animals were struggling with its probable quicksands. Another serious consideration was that, during the summer season, all the rivers of the Plains are liable to sudden and tremendous freshets, that often render them impassable for days. Thus it was unwise to linger on the near bank of one that was fordable a moment longer than necessary. He had, therefore, decided to make the crossing of this stream that night, as quietly as possible, and as soon as darkness had set in. For this reason none of the baggage, except the mess-chests and a sack of corn, had been taken from the wagons, so that a start could be made at a few minutes' notice. With the last of the lingering daylight the chief, accompanied by Mr. Hobart and the wagon-master, crossed the river on horseback, to discover its depth, the character of its bottom, the nature of the opposite bank, and to locate a camping-ground on its farther side. They found the water to be but a few inches deep, except in one narrow channel, where it had a depth of about three feet. They also found the bottom to be of that most treacherous of quicksands which is so hard that a thousand-pound hammer cannot force a post into it, yet into which that same post would slowly sink of its own weight until lost to sight, and held with such terrible tenacity that nothing short of a steam-engine could pull it out. Such a quicksand as this is not dangerous to the man or animal who keeps his feet in constant motion while crossing it, but woe to him if he neglects this precaution for a single minute. In that case, unless help reaches him, he is as surely lost as though clasped in the relentless embrace of a tiger. The only place on the opposite bank where teams could emerge from the water was very narrow, and a team striking below it in the dark would almost certainly be lost. Thus the problem of a safe crossing at night became a difficult one. It would be unsafe to build fires or use lanterns, as these would surely draw the attention, and probably the bullets, of the Indians. Finally the plan was adopted of stretching a rope across the river, from bank to bank, on the lower side of the ford, with a line of men stationed along its entire length, so that no team could get below it. These were charged, as they valued their lives, to keep their feet in constant motion, and on no account to let go of the rope. First the ambulances were put across. Then the spare stock and saddle-animals were led over, and securely fastened. Six spare mules, harnessed and attached to a loose rope, were held in readiness, on the farther bank, to assist any team that might get stalled in the river. Then, one by one, the heavily laden wagons began to cross, with two men leading each team. There was little difficulty except at the channel, where the mules were apt to be frightened at the sudden plunge into deeper water. A mule hates the dark almost as much as an Indian; he dislikes to work in water, and above all he dreads miry places or quicksands, for which his small, sharp hoofs are peculiarly unfitted. He is easily panic-stricken, and is then wholly unmanageable. A team of mules, finding themselves stalled in a stream, will become frantic with terror. They utter agonized cries, attempt to clamber on one another's back, and frequently drown themselves before they can be cut loose from the traces and allowed to escape. In spite of all the difficulties to be overcome, the wagons were got safely over, until only one remained, and it had started on its perilous journey. Those members of the party who stood in the water holding the rope were becoming thoroughly chilled, as well as wearied by the treadmill exercise necessary to keep their feet from sinking in the quicksand. Thus, though they still stuck manfully to their posts, they were thankful enough that this was the last wagon, and noted the sound of its progress with eager interest. They were all volunteers, for nobody had been ordered to remain in the river, and this fact added to the strength of purpose with which they maintained their uncomfortable positions. Among them were Glen Eddy and Binney Gibbs, who, when volunteers were called for to perform this duty, had rushed into the river among the first. Now they stood, side by side, near the middle of the stream, and close to the edge of the channel. They rejoiced to see the dim bulk of the last wagon looming out of the darkness, and to know that their weary task was nearly ended. The mules of this team were unusually nervous, splashing more than any of the others had done, and snorting loudly. The rope had been cast loose from the bank the party had so recently quitted, and all those who had upheld it beyond Glen and Binney had passed by them on their way to the other side. They, too, would be relieved from duty as soon as the team crossed the channel. But there seemed to be some difficulty about persuading the mules to cross it. As the leaders felt the water growing deeper and the sandy bank giving way beneath them, they sprang back in terror, and threw the whole team into confusion. The wagon came to a standstill, and everybody in the vicinity realized its danger. The driver, feeling that the need for silence and caution was past, began to shout at his mules, and the reports of his blacksnake whip rang out like pistol-shots. In the excitement of the moment nobody noticed or paid any attention to a gleaming line of white froth that came creeping down the river, stretching from bank to bank like a newly formed snow-drift. Suddenly a rifle-shot rang out from the bank they had left, then another, and then a dozen at once. The Indians had discovered their flight, and were firing angrily in the direction of the sounds in the river. The teamster sprang from his saddle, and, cutting the traces of his mules, started them towards the shore, leaving the wagon to its fate. "It's time we were off, too, old man," said Glen, as he started to follow the team. "I can't move, Glen! Oh, help me! I'm sinking!" screamed Binney, in a tone of inexpressible anguish. Glen dropped the rope, and sprang to his companion's assistance. At the same instant there came a great shout from the bank, "Hurry up, there's a freshet coming! Hurry! Hurry, or you'll be swept away!" With both arms about Binney, Glen was straining every nerve of his muscular young body to tear his friend loose from the grasp of the terror that held him. He could not; but a wall of black water four feet high, that came rushing down on them with an angry roar, was mightier even than the quicksand, and, seizing both the boys in its irresistible embrace, it wrenched them loose and overwhelmed them. Chapter XXV. SWEPT AWAY BY A FRESHET. The rush of waters that wrenched Binney Gibbs loose from the grasp of the quicksand which had seized him as he remained motionless for a minute, forgetful of his own danger in the excitement caused by that of the team, also flung the rope they had been holding against Glen Eddy. He held to it desperately with one hand, while, with the other arm about his companion, he prevented him from being swept away. As the mad waters dashed the boys from their feet and closed over them, it seemed as though Glen's arms must be torn from their sockets, and he would have had to let go had not Binney also succeeded in grasping the rope so that the great strain was somewhat relieved. Gasping for breath, they both rose to the surface. A huge white object was bearing directly down on them. They could not avoid it. Glen was the first to recognize its nature. "It's the wagon!" he shouted. "Grab hold of it, and hang on for your life!" Then it struck them and tore loose their hold of the rope. They both managed to clutch it, though Binney's slight strength was so nearly exhausted that, but for Glen, he must speedily have let go and sunk again beneath the foam-flecked waters. Now the other's sturdy frame and athletic training came splendidly to his aid. Obtaining a firm foothold in the flooded wagon, he pulled Binney up to him by the sheer strength of his muscular young arms. For a moment they stood together panting for breath, and the weaker boy clinging to the stronger. But the water was still rising; and, as the heavily laden wagon could not float, it seemed likely to be totally submerged. "It's no use, Glen. We'll be drowned, anyhow," said Binney, despairingly. "Oh, no, we won't. Not just yet, anyway," answered the other, trying to sustain his companion's spirits by speaking hopefully. "We can get out of the water entirely, by climbing up on top of the cover, and I guess it will bear us." It was a suggestion worth trying; and, though the undertaking was perilous and difficult in the extreme, under the circumstances, they finally succeeded in accomplishing it, and found themselves perched on the slippery, sagging surface of the canvas cover, that, supported by stout ash bows, was stretched above the wagon. All this time their strange craft, though not floating, was borne slowly but steadily down stream by the force of the current. Every now and then it seemed as though about to capsize; and, had it been empty, it must certainly have done so; but its heavy load, acting like ballast in a boat, kept it upright. It headed in all directions, and at times, when its wheels could revolve on the bottom of the river, it moved steadily and rapidly. It was when it got turned broadside to the current that the two shivering figures, clutching at their uncertain support, became most apprehensive, and expected it to be overturned by the great pressure brought to bear against it. [Illustration: "THE STRANGE CRAFT WAS BORNE SLOWLY DOWN STREAM."] How slowly the minutes and hours dragged by! It was about midnight when the freshet struck them and they started on this most extraordinary voyage; but from that time until they saw the first streaks of rosy light in the east seemed an eternity. More than once during the night the wagon brought up against some obstruction, and remained motionless for longer or shorter intervals of time; but it had always been forced ahead again, and made to resume its uncertain wanderings. Now, as the welcome daylight crept slowly over the scene, it found the strange ark, with its two occupants, again stranded, and this time immovably so. At length Glen exclaimed, joyfully: "There's the western bank, the very one we want to reach, close to us. I believe we can swim to it, as easy as not." "But I can't swim, you know," replied Binney, dolefully. "That's so; I forgot," said Glen, in a dismayed tone. "But look," he added, and again there was a hopeful ring to his voice, "there are the tops of some bushes between us and it. The water can't be very deep there. Perhaps we can touch bottom, and you can wade if you can't swim. I'm going over there and take soundings." Binney dreaded being left alone, and was about to beg his companion not to desert him, but the words were checked on his lips by the thought of the reputation he had to sustain. So, as Glen pulled off his wet clothing, he said, "All right, only be very careful and don't go too far, for I think I would rather drown with you than be left here all alone." "Never fear!" cried Glen; "swimming is about the one thing I can do. So, here goes!" He had climbed down, and stood on the edge of the submerged wagon body as he spoke. Now he sprang far out in the yellow waters, and the next moment was making his way easily through them towards the bushes. The swift current carried him down-stream; but at length he caught one of them, and, letting his feet sink, touched bottom in water up to his neck. "It's all right!" he shouted back to Binney. Pulling himself along from one bit of willow to another, he waded towards the bank until the water was not more than up to his waist. Then he made his way up-stream until he was some distance above the place where the wagon was stranded, and, two minutes later, he had waded and swum back to it. Binney had watched every movement anxiously, and now he said, "That's all well enough for you; but I don't see how I am going to get there." "By resting your hands on my shoulders and letting me swim with you till you can touch bottom, of course," answered Glen. He could not realize Binney's dread of the water, nor what a struggle against his natural timidity took place in the boy's mind before he answered, "Very well, if you say so, Glen, I'll trust you." While he was laying aside his water-soaked clothing and preparing for the dreaded undertaking, Glen suddenly uttered an exclamation of dismay. He had spied several horsemen riding along the river-bank towards them. Were they white men or Indians? Did their coming mean life or death? "I'm afraid they are Indians," said Glen; "for our camp must be ten miles off." Binney agreed with him that they must have come at least that distance during the night, and the boys watched the oncoming horsemen with heavy hearts. "I'd rather drown than let them get me again," said Glen. But Binney had not had the other's experience with Indians, and to him nothing could be more terrible than water. Long and earnestly they watched, filled with alternate hopes and fears. The riders seemed to move very slowly. All at once, Glen uttered a shout of joy. "They are white men!" he cried. "I can see their hats;" and, seizing his wet shirt, he began to wave it frantically above his head. That his signal was seen was announced by a distant cheer, and several shots fired in quick succession. A few minutes later, six white men reined in their horses on the bank, just abreast the wagon. They were hardly able to credit their eyes as they recognized, in the two naked figures clinging to it, those whom they had been so certain were long ago drowned, and for whose bodies they were searching. As they hurriedly consulted concerning how best to effect a rescue, they were amazed to see both boys clamber down from their perch, and drop into the turbid waters, one after the other. When they realized that Glen and Binney were swimming, and trying in this way to reach the shore, they forced their horses down the steep bank and dashed into the shallow overflow of the bottom-land to meet them. At that moment Binney Gibbs, by trusting himself so implicitly to Glen's strength and skill, in an element where he was so utterly helpless, was displaying a greater courage than where, acting under impulse, he sprang from his mule the day before, and ran back to fight Indians. The bravest deeds are always those that are performed deliberately and after a careful consideration of their possible consequences. As "Billy" Brackett, who was the first to reach the boys, relieved Glen of his burden, he exclaimed, "Well, if I had the luck of you fellows I'd change my name to Vanderbilt and run for Congress! We were sure you were gone up this time, and the best I hoped for was to find your bodies. Instead of that, here you are, hardly out of sight of camp, perched on the top of a wagon, as chipper as a couple of sparrows after a rainstorm." "Where is camp?" inquired Glen, who was now wading easily along beside the other's horse. "Just around that farther bend, up there." "What made it come so far down the river, and off the road?" "It hasn't. It's right at the ford, where we crossed last night." "But I thought that was at least ten miles from here." "Ten miles! Why, my son, you must have imagined you were travelling on a four-wheeled steamboat all night, instead of an old water-logged prairie schooner. We are not, at this minute, quite a mile from the place where you started on your cruise." It was hard for the boys to realize the truth of this statement; but so it was; and, during those tedious hours of darkness they had only travelled rods instead of miles, as they had fancied. After the short delay necessary to recover the boys' clothing from the wagon, they were triumphantly borne back to camp by the rescuing-party. There the enthusiasm with which they were received was only equalled by the amazement of those who crowded about them and listened to the account of their adventure. By means of a double team of mules, and some stout ropes, even the wagon on which they had made their curious voyage was recovered, and found to be still serviceable, though the greater part of its load was ruined. The river was still an impassable stream, as wide as the Mississippi at St. Louis, and was many feet deep over the place, on its farther side, where they had camped at sunset. Thus there was no danger of another attack from Indians. Two hours after sunrise the explorers were again wending their way westward, rejoicing over their double escape, and over the recovery of the two members who had been given up as lost. Chapter XXVI. RUNNING THE LINE. After this day and night, crowded so full of incident, four days of steady travel brought General Lyle's expedition to a point close to the boundary-line between Kansas and Colorado, where their surveys were to begin. The last hundred miles of their journey had been through a region studded with curious masses of sandstone. These were scattered far and wide over the Plains, and rose to a height of from one hundred to three hundred feet, resembling towers, monuments, castles, and ruins of every description. It was hard to believe that many of them were not the work of human hands; and to Glen and Binney they formed an inexhaustible subject for wonder and speculation. They were now more than three thousand feet above the sea-level; the soil became poorer with every mile; there were fewer streams, and along those that did exist timber was almost unknown. The first line of survey was to be a hard one; for it was to run through the very worst of this country--from the Smoky Hill to the Arkansas, a region hitherto unexplored, and known only to the few buffalo hunters who had crossed it at long intervals. The distance was supposed to be about seventy miles, and there was said to be no water along the entire route. But both a transit and a level line must be run over this barren region, and the distance must be carefully measured. A good day's work for a surveying-party, engaged in running a first, or preliminary, line in an open country, is eight or ten miles; and, at this rate, the distance between the Smoky Hill and the Arkansas rivers could be covered in a week. But a week without water was out of the question, and General Lyle determined to do it in three days. On the night before beginning this remarkable survey, every canteen and bottle that could be found was filled with water, as were several casks. Everybody drank as much as he could in the morning, and all the animals were watered the very last thing. Everything was packed and ready for a start by daylight, and long before sunrise the working-party was in the field. The first division was to run the first two miles. Its transit was set up over the last stake of the old survey that had been ended at that point, and the telescope was pointed in the direction of the course now to be taken. The division engineer, with his front flagman, had already galloped half a mile away across the plain. There they halted, and the gayly painted staff, with its fluttering red pennon, was held upright. Then it was moved to the right or left, as the transit-man, peering through his telescope, waved his right or left arm. Finally, he waved both at a time, and the front flag was thrust into the ground. It was on line. Now the head chainman starts off on a run, with his eyes fixed on the distant flag, and dragging a hundred feet of glistening steel-links behind him. "Stick!" shouts the rear chainman, who stands beside the transit, as he grasps the end of the chain and pulls it taut. "Stuck!" answers the man in front, thrusting one of the steel pins that he carries in his hand into the ground. Then he runs on, and the rear chainman runs after him, but just a hundred feet behind. Two axemen, one with a bundle of marked stakes in his arms, and the other carrying an axe with which to drive them, follow the chain closely. At the end of each five hundred feet they drive a stake. If stakes were not so scarce in this country, they would set one at the end of every hundred feet. It does not make much difference; for these stakes will not remain standing very long anyhow. The buffalo will soon pull them up, by rubbing and scratching their heads against them. At the end of every half-mile, a mound of earth--or stones, if they can be found--is thrown up; and these the Indians will level whenever they come across them. Perhaps some of them will be left, though. While the chainmen are measuring the distance to that front flag, and the axemen are driving stakes and throwing up mounds, the transit-man, mounted on a steady-going mule, with the transit on his shoulder, is galloping ahead to where the front flag awaits him. Only the back flagman is left standing at the place from which the first sight was taken. The front flagman thrust a small stake in the ground, drove a tack in its centre, and held his flag on it before he waved the transit-man up. Now the transit is set over this stake so that the centre of the instrument is directly over the tack; and while it is being made ready the front flag is again galloping away over the rolling prairie, far in advance of the rest of the party. The transit-man first looks through his telescope at the back flag, now far behind him, and waves to him to come on. Then the telescope is reversed, and he is ready to wave the front flag into line as soon as he stops. The leveller, with two rodmen, all well mounted, follow behind the transit-party, noting, by means of their instruments, the elevation above sea-level of every stake that is driven. So the work goes on with marvellous rapidity--every man and horse and mule on a run until two miles have been chained and it is time for the breathless first division to have a rest. Mr. Hobart has watched their work carefully. He has also made some changes in his force, and is going to see what sort of a front flagman Glen Eddy will make. This is because Nettle has proved herself the fleetest pony in the whole outfit. "Two miles in fifty-two minutes!" shouts Mr. Hobart to his men, as the stake that marks the end of ten thousand five hundred and sixty feet is driven. "Boys, we must do better than that." "Ay, ay, sir! We will!" shout the "bald heads," as they spring to the places the first-division men are just leaving. Mr. Hobart, Glen, and a mounted axeman are already galloping to the front. They dash across a shallow valley, lying between two great swells of the prairie, and mount the gentle slope on its farther side, a mile away. It is a long transit sight; but "Billy" Brackett can take it. The boy who rides beside the division engineer is very proud of his new position, and sits his spirited mare like a young lancer. The slender, steel-shod, red-and-white staff of his flag-pole, bearing its gay pennon, that Glen has cut a little longer than the others, and nicked with a swallow-tail, looks not unlike a lance. As the cool morning air whistles past him, the boy's blood tingles, his eyes sparkle, and he wonders if there can be any more fascinating business in the world than surveying and learning to become an engineer. He thinks of the mill and the store with scorn. It beats them away out of sight, anyhow. As they reach the crest of the divide, from which they can see far away on all sides, Mr. Hobart, using his field-glass to watch the movements of "Billy" Brackett's arms, directs Glen where to place his flag. "Right--more--more--away over to the right--there--steady! Left, a little--steady--so! Drive a stake there! Now hold your flag on it! A trifle to the right--that's good! Drive the tack! Move him up--all right, he's coming!" Then, leaving the axeman to point out the stake, just driven, to the transit-man, the engineer and his young flagman again dash forward. "Two miles in thirty-eight minutes! That is quick work! I congratulate you and your division, Mr. Hobart." So said the chief-engineer as the men of the second division, dripping with perspiration, completed their first run, and, turning the work over to those of the third, took their vacant places in the wagon that followed the line. The morning sun was already glowing with heat, and by noon its perpendicular rays were scorching the arid plain with relentless fury. Men and animals alike drooped beneath it, but there was no pause in the work. It must be rushed through in spite of everything. About noon they passed a large buffalo wallow, half filled with stagnant water, that the animals drank eagerly. That evening, when it was too dark to distinguish the cross-hairs in the instruments, the weary engineers knocked off work, with a twenty-one-mile survey to their credit. They were too tired to pitch tents that night, but spread their blankets anywhere, and fell asleep almost as soon as they had eaten supper. There was no water, no wood, and only a scanty supply of sun-dried grass. It was a dry camp. The next day was a repetition of the first. The tired animals, suffering from both hunger and thirst, dragged the heavy wagons wearily over the long undulations of the sun-baked plain. Occasionally they crossed dry water-courses; but at sunset they had not found a drop of the precious fluid, and another dry camp was promised for that night. As the men of the second division drove the last stake of another twenty-one-mile run, and, leaving the line, moved slowly in the direction of camp, the mule ridden by Binney Gibbs suddenly threw up its head, sniffed the air, and, without regard to his rider's efforts to control him, started off on a run. "Stop us! We are running away!" shouted Binney; and, without hesitation, Glen gave spurs to Nettle and dashed away in pursuit. "What scrape are those young scatter-brains going to get into now?" growled Mr. Hobart. "I don't know," answered "Billy" Brackett; "but whatever it is they will come out of it all right, covered with mud and glory. I suppose I might as well begin to organize the rescuing-party, though." Chapter XXVII. "COVERED WITH MUD AND GLORY." As "Billy" Brackett predicted they would, the two boys did return to camp in about fifteen minutes, covered with mud and glory. At least Binney Gibbs was covered with mud, and they brought the glorious news that there were several large though shallow pools of water not more than half a mile away. Binney's mule having scented it, there was no stopping him until he had rushed to it, and, as usual, flung his rider over his head into the very middle of one of the shallow ponds. Glen had reached the place just in time to witness this catastrophe, and to roar with laughter at the comical sight presented by his companion, as the latter waded ruefully from the pond, dripping mud and water from every point. "You take to water as naturally as a young duck, Binney!" he shouted, as soon as his laughter gave him a chance for words. "No, indeed, I don't," sputtered poor Binney. "But somehow water always seems to take to me, and I can get nearly drowned when nobody else can find a drop to drink. As for that mule, I believe he thinks I wouldn't know how to get off his back if he didn't pitch me off." In less than a minute after the boys got back with their report of water, half the men in camp were hastening towards it, and the entire herd of animals, in charge of a couple of teamsters, was galloping madly in the same direction. The ponds were the result of a heavy local rain of the night before; and, within a couple of days, would disappear in the sandy soil as completely as though they had never existed; but they served an admirable purpose, and the whole party was grateful to Binney Gibbs's mule for discovering them. So refreshed were the men by their unexpected bath, and so strengthened were the animals by having plenty of water with both their evening and morning meals, that the survey of the following day covered twenty-four miles. It was the biggest day's work of transit and level on record, and could only have been accomplished under extraordinary circumstances. This was the hardest day of the three to bear. The heat of the sun, shining from an unclouded sky, was intolerable. As far as the eye could reach there was no shadow, nor any object to break the terrible monotony of its glare. A hot wind from the south whirled the light soil aloft in suffocating clouds of dust. The men of the three divisions were becoming desperate. They knew that this killing pace could not be maintained much longer, and the twenty-four mile run was the result of a tremendous effort to reach the Arkansas River that day. From each eminence, as they crossed it, telescope, field-glasses, and straining eyes swept the sky-line in the hope of sighting the longed-for river. Late in the afternoon some far away trees and a ribbon of light were lifted to view against the horizon by the shimmering heat waves; but this was at once pronounced to be only the tantalizing vision of the mirage. So, in a dry camp, the exhausted men and thirsty animals passed the night. The latter, refusing to touch the parched grass or even their rations of corn, made the hours hideous with their cries, and spent their time in vain efforts to break their fastenings that they might escape and seek to quench their burning thirst. But even this night came to an end; and, with the first eastern streaks of pink and gold so exquisitely beautiful through the rarefied atmosphere of this region, the surveyors were once more in the field. There was no merriment now, nor life in the work. It went on amid a dogged silence. The transit and level were lifted slowly, as though they were made of lead. The chain was dragged wearily along at a walk. It was evident that the limit of endurance was nearly reached. Scouts were sent out on both sides to search for water. There was no use sending anybody ahead to hunt up that mirage, or at least so thought General Lyle. His maps showed the river to be miles away; but they also showed a large creek, not far to the westward; and towards this the hopes of the party were turned. On the maps it was called "Sand Creek," a name made infamous forever by a massacre of Indians, mostly women and children, that took place on its banks in November, 1864. Then it had contained water; but now it was true to its name, and the dispirited scouts, returning from it, reported that its bed was but a level expanse of dry, glistening sand. As this report was being made, there came a quick succession of shots from the front, and a thrill of new life instantly pervaded the whole party. What could they indicate, if not good news of some kind. The first division had completed its two miles, and the second was running the line. "Billy" Brackett was preparing for one of his famous mile sights at the front flag, with which Glen Eddy, riding beside Mr. Hobart, was wearily toiling up a distant slope. Gazing at them through his fine telescope, the transit-man could not at first understand their extraordinary actions as they reached the top. He saw Glen fling up his hat, and Mr. Hobart fire his pistol into the air. Then Glen waved his flag, while the division engineer seemed to be pointing to something in front of them. "Well, quit your fooling and give me a sight, can't you?" growled "Billy" Brackett to himself, but directly afterwards he shouted to those near him, "I believe they've found water, and shouldn't wonder if they'd located the Arkansas itself." Then he got his "sight," waved "all right," mounted his mule, shouldered the transit, and galloped away. He was right; they had located the Arkansas, and the alleged mirage of the evening before had been a reality after all. That night of suffering had been spent within five miles of one of the largest rivers that cross the Plains. As Glen and Mr. Hobart reached the crest of that long slope they saw its grassy valley outspread before them. They saw the scattered timber lining its banks, and, best of all, they saw the broad, brown flood itself, rolling down to join the distant Mississippi. By shots and wavings they tried to communicate the joyful intelligence to those who toiled so wearily behind them, and "Billy" Brackett, watching them through his transit, had understood. They waited on the ridge until he joined them, and then hastened away towards the tempting river. When the next foresight was taken Glen's flag was planted on the edge of that famous old wagon-road of the Arkansas Valley known to generations of Plainsmen as the Santa Fé Trail. Glen had hardly waved his "all right" to the transit, before the wagons came tearing down the slope with their mules on the keen run. The perishing animals had seen the life-giving waters, and it was with the greatest difficulty that they were restrained from rushing into the river, wagons and all. The drivers only just succeeded in casting loose the trace-chains, when each team, with outstretched necks and husky brayings, plunged in a body over the bank and into the river, burying their heads up to their eyes in the cooling flood. It seemed as though they would drink themselves to death, and when they finally, consented to leave the river and turn their attention to the rich grasses of its bottom-lands, they were evidently water-logged. It would be hours before they were again fit for work. But nobody wanted them to work. Not until the next morning would the wagons move again. The splendid runs of the last three days had earned a rest for men and animals alike. So it was granted them, and no schoolboys ever enjoyed a half-holiday more. What a luxury it was to have plenty of water again, not only to drink, but actually to wash with and bathe in! And to lie in the shade of a tree! Could anything be more delicious? At sunrise the line was resumed; and, still working together, the three divisions ran it for fifty miles up the broad valley of the Arkansas. A few days after striking the river they passed Bent's Fort, one of the most famous of the old Plains trading-posts built by individuals long before troops were sent out to occupy the land. Its usefulness as a trading-station had nearly departed, for already the Indians were leaving that part of the country, and those who remained were kept too busy fighting to have any time for trading. Its stout log stockade was, however, valuable to its builder as a protection against attacks from Indians led by one of his own sons. Their mother was a Cheyenne squaw, and though they, together with their only sister, had been educated in St. Louis, the same as white children, they had preferred to follow the fortunes of their mother's people on returning to the Plains. Now the Cheyennes had no more daring leader than George Bent, nor was there a girl in the tribe so beautiful as his sister. The little fort, admirably located on a high bluff overlooking the river, was filled with a curious mixture of old Plainsmen, Indians, half-breed children, ponies, mules, burros, and pet fawns. It was a place of noise and confusion at once bewildering and interesting. At the end of fifty miles from the point at which they entered the Arkansas Valley, the explorers caught their first glimpse of the Rocky Mountains, two white clouds that they knew to be the snow-capped summits of the Spanish Peaks, a hundred miles away. Here the expedition was divided. The first and third divisions were to cross the river and proceed southwesterly, by way of the Raton Mountains and Fort Union, to Santa Fé; while Mr. Hobart was to take the second still farther up the Arkansas Valley, and almost due west to the famous Sangre de Cristo Pass through the mountains, just north of the Spanish Peaks. For two weeks longer they worked their way slowly but steadily across the burning Plains, towards the mountains that almost seemed to recede from them as they advanced; though each day disclosed new peaks, while those already familiar loomed up higher and grander with every mile. Finally they were so near at hand that the weary toilers, choked with the alkaline dust of the Plains, and scorched with their fervent heat, could feast their eyes on the green slopes, cool, dark valleys, and tumbling cascades, rushing down from glittering snow-fields. How they longed to be among them, and with what joy did they at length leave the treeless country of which they were so tired and enter the timbered foot-hills! Now, how deliciously cool were the nights, and how they enjoyed the roaring camp-fires. What breathless plunges they took in ice-cold streams of crystal water. How good fresh venison tasted after weeks of salt bacon and dried buffalo meat, and how eagerly they ate raw onions, and even raw potatoes, obtained at the occasional Mexican ranches found nestled here and there in the lower valleys. "I tell you," said Glen to Binney Gibbs, who had by this time become his firm friend, "it pays to go without fresh vegetables for a couple of months, just to find out what fine things onions and potatoes are." Chapter XXVIII. LOST IN A MOUNTAIN SNOW-STORM. A week was spent on the eastern slope of the mountains, running lines through the Mosca and Cuchara passes. Finally, a camp was made in a forest of balsam-firs, beside a great spring of ice-water, that bubbled from a granite basin at the summit of the Sangre de Cristo, nine thousand feet above sea-level. To Glen and Binney, who had always dwelt in a flat country, and knew nothing of mountains, this was a new and delightful experience. They never tired of gazing off on the superb panorama outspread below them. To the east, the view was so vast and boundless that it seemed as though the distant blue of the horizon must be that of the ocean itself, and that they were spanning half the breadth of a continent in a single sight. At their feet lay the Plains they had just crossed, like a great green map on which dark lines of timber and gleams of light marked the Arkansas and its tributary streams, whose waters would mingle with those of the Mississippi. On the other hand, they could see, across the broad basin of the San Luis Valley, other ranges of unknown mountains, whose mysteries they were yet to explore. Through this western valley, flowing southward, wound the shining ribbon of the Rio Grande. Both north and south of them were mountain-peaks. To climb to the very summit of one of these was Glen's present ambition, and his longing eyes were turned more often to the snow-capped dome that rose in solemn majesty on the south side of the pass than in any other direction. He even succeeded in persuading Binney Gibbs that to climb that mountain would be just a little better fun than anything else that could be suggested. Still, he did not see any prospect of their being allowed to make the attempt, and so tried not to think of it. On the first evening, after camp had been pitched on the summit of the pass, he sat on a chunk of moss-covered granite, gazing meditatively into the glowing coals of a glorious fire. He imagined he had succeeded in banishing all thoughts of that desirable mountain-top from his mind, and yet, all of a sudden, he became aware that it was the very thing he was thinking of. He gave himself a petulant shake as he realized this, and was about to move away, when "Billy" Brackett, who sat on the end of a log near him, spoke up and said, "Glen, how would you like to try a bit of mountain climbing with me to-morrow?" "I'd like it better than anything I know of," answered the boy, eagerly. "All right, it's a go, then; you see the chief is going off on an exploration with the topographer; and, as we can't run any lines till he comes back, he asked me if I'd take a couple of fellows and measure the height of that peak." "Do you mean to chain from here away up there?" asked Glen, in astonishment, glancing dubiously up at the dim form towering above them. "Chain! Not much, I don't!" laughed Brackett. "I mean carry up a barometer, and measure with it." "How?" asked Glen, to whom this was a novel idea. "Easy enough. We know that, roughly speaking, a barometer varies a little less than one tenth of an inch with every hundred feet of elevation. For instance, if it reads 21.22 where we now are, it will read 21.14 a hundred feet higher, or 20.40 at an elevation of a thousand feet above this. There are carefully prepared tables showing the exact figures." "Can't you do it by boiling water, too?" asked Binney Gibbs, who had approached them unobserved, and was an interested listener of this explanation. "Certainly you can," answered "Billy" Brackett, looking up with some surprise at the young scholar. "By boiling water we have a neat check on the barometer; for, on account of the rarefication of the air, water boils at one degree less of temperature for about every five hundred feet of elevation." "Then what is the use of levelling?" asked Glen. "Because these figures are only approximate, and cannot be relied upon for nice work. But where did you learn about such things, Grip?" "At the Brimfield High School," answered Binney with some confusion; for he was not really so boastful of his scholarship as he had once been. "Well, how would you like to join our climbing-party? I'm going to take Glen along for his muscle, and I'll take you for your brains if you want to go." "I think I'd like to try it, though perhaps I won't be able to get to the very top," answered Binney. The modesty that this boy had learned from his rough Plains experience would have surprised his Brimfield acquaintances could they have seen it. "Very well, then, we will start at sunrise in the morning. We'll each carry a hatchet, a knife, matches in water-tight cases, and a good bit of lunch. I'll carry the barometer, Glen shall take charge of the thermometer, and 'Grip' shall bring along his brains. Now I'd advise you both to turn in, and lay up a supply of rest sufficient to carry you through a harder day's work than any we've done on this trip yet." The sun was just lifting his red face above the distant rim of the Plains, and its scant beams were bathing the snow-capped peak in a wonderful rosy glow, as the three mountain climbers left camp the next morning. Each one bore the light weight allotted to him, and, in addition, Glen carried a raw-hide lariat hung over his shoulders. Having noted the compass bearings of their general course, they plunged directly into the dense fir forest with which this flank of the mountain was covered to a height of a thousand feet or so above them. For several hours they struggled through it, sometimes clambering over long lanes of fallen trees, prostrated by fierce wind-storms, and piled in chaotic heaps so thickly that often, for half a mile at a time, their feet did not touch the ground. Then they came to a region of enormous granite blocks, ten to thirty feet high, over many of which they were obliged to make their way as best they could. Now they began to find patches of snow, and the timber only appeared in scattered clumps. From here their course led up through an enormous gorge, or cleft, that grew narrower as they ascended, until it terminated in a long, steep slope of boulders and loose rocks. Here they encountered the first real danger of the ascent. Every now and then a boulder, that appeared firmly seated until burdened with the weight of one of them, would give way and go crashing and thundering down with great leaps behind them until lost in the forest below. It was noon when they emerged on a narrow, shelf-like plateau above the gorge. Here stood the last clump of stunted trees. Above them stretched the glistening snow-fields, pierced by crags of splintered granite. Rock, ice, and snow to the very summit. Here Binney said he could go no farther; and here, after building a fire and eating their lunch, the others left him to await their return. A sheer wall of smooth, seamless rock, hundreds of feet in height, bounded one side of the shelf, and a precipice, almost as sheer, the other. For half a mile or so did Glen and his companion follow it, seeking some place at which they might continue their ascent. Finally it narrowed almost to a point, that terminated in an immense field of snow sloping down, smooth and spotless, for a thousand feet below them, to a tiny blue-black lake. Beyond the snow-field the ascent seemed possible; and, by cutting footholes in it with their hatchets, they managed to cross it in safety. For two hours longer they struggled upward; and then, within a few hundred feet of the summit, they could get no farther. In vain did they try every point that offered the faintest hope of success, and at last were forced to give it up. They noted the reading of the barometer, and with a few shavings and slivers cut from its outside case they made a tiny blaze, and, as Glen expressed it, boiled a thermometer in a tin cup. They were now as impatient to descend as they had been to climb upward, and even more so; for the brightness of the day had departed, and ominous clouds were gathering about them. The air was bitterly cold; and, with their few minutes' cessation from violent exercise, they were chilled to the bone. So they hastened to retrace their rugged way, sliding, leaping, hanging by their hands, and dropping from ledge to ledge, taking frightful risks in their eagerness to escape the threatened storm, or at any rate to meet it in some more sheltered spot. If they could only reach the shelf-like ledge, at the farther end of which Binney Gibbs awaited them, they would feel safe. They had nearly done so, but not quite, when the storm burst upon them in a fierce, blinding, whirling rush of snow, that took away their breath and stung like needles. It seemed to penetrate their clothing. It bewildered them. It was so dense that they could not see a yard ahead of them. They had already started to cross that long, sloping snow-field, beyond which lay the rocky shelf. To go back would be as dangerous as to proceed. They could not stay where they were. The deadly chill of the air would speedily render them incapable of maintaining their foothold. The assistant engineer was leading the way, with his companion a full rod behind him. The former dared not turn his head; but he shouted encouragingly that they were almost across, and with a few more steps would reach a place of safety. Then came a swirling, shrieking blast, before which he bowed his head. He thought he heard a cry; but could not tell. It might only have been the howl of the fierce wind. He reached the shelf of rock in safety, and turned to look for his companion; but Glen was not to be seen. Blinded by that furious blast, the boy had missed his footing. The next instant he was sliding, helplessly, and with frightful velocity, down that smooth slope of unyielding snow, towards the blue lake hidden in the storm-cloud far beneath him. Chapter XXIX. PLUNGING INTO A LAKE OF ICE-WATER. As "Billy" Brackett turned and missed the companion whom he supposed was close behind him, his heart sank like lead. In vain did he shout. Not even an echo answered him. His loudest tones were snatched from his lips by the wind, torn into fragments, and indistinguishably mingled with its mocking laughter. It was barely possible that Glen might have turned back; and, with the slender hope thus offered, the engineer retraced his perilous way across the snow-field to the place where they last stood together. It was empty and awful in its storm-swept loneliness. A great terror seized hold upon the man's stout heart; and, as he again crossed the treacherous snow, he trembled so that his reaching the rocky shelf beyond was little short of a miracle. Then he hastened to the place where Binney Gibbs anxiously awaited the return of his friends. He had kept up a roaring fire, knowing that it would be a welcome sight to them, especially since the setting-in of the storm. Its coming had filled him with anxiety and uneasy forebodings, so that he hailed "Billy" Brackett's appearance with a glad shout of welcome. It died on his lips as he noted the expression on the engineer's face; and, with a tremble of fear in his voice, he asked, "Where is Glen?" "I don't know," was the answer. "Do you mean that he is lost on the mountain in this storm?" cried Binney, aghast at the terrible possibilities thus suggested. "Not only that, but I have not the faintest hope that he will ever be found again," replied the other; and then he told all he knew of what had happened. Although, for their own safety, they should already be hurrying towards camp, Binney insisted on going to the place where his friend had last been seen. The snow-squall had passed when they reached it, but the clouds still hung thick about them; and Binney shuddered as he saw the smooth white slide that vanished in the impenetrable mist but a few rods below them. In vain they shouted. In vain they fired every shot contained in the only pistol they had brought with them. There was no answer. And, finally, without a hope that they would ever see Glen Eddy again, they sadly retraced their steps and reached camp just as the complete darkness, that would have rendered their farther progress impossible, shut in. No one was more loved in that camp than Glen, and no loss from the party could have been more keenly felt. It was with heavy hearts that they sought their blankets that night; and, the next evening, when the search-party, that had been out all day without finding the faintest trace of the missing boy, returned, they talked of him in low tones as of one who had gone from them forever. The following morning the camp in the pass was broken, and two days later a line had been run down the western slope of the mountains, to the edge of the San Luis Valley, near Fort Garland--one of the most charmingly located military posts of the West. In the meantime Glen Eddy was not only alive and well, but, at the very minute his companions were approaching Fort Garland he was actually assisting to prepare the quarters of its commandant for a wedding that was to take place in them that evening. For a moment, after he missed his foothold on the upper edge of the treacherous snow-field, and began to shoot down the smooth surface of its long slope, he imagined that he was about to be dashed in pieces, and resigned all hope of escape from the fearful peril that had so suddenly overtaken him. Then the thought of the blue-black lake, with its walls of purple and red-stained granite, that he had seen lying at the foot of this very slope, flashed into his mind. A thrill shot through him as he thought of the icy plunge he was about to take. Still, that was better than to be hurled over a precipice. The boy had even sufficient presence of mind to hold his feet close together, and attempt to guide himself so that they should strike the water first. He might have glided down that slope for seconds, or minutes, or even hours, for all that he knew of the passage of time. He seemed to be moving with great speed, and yet, in breathless anticipation of the inevitable plunge that, in fancy, he felt himself to be taking with each instant, his downward flight seemed indefinitely prolonged. At length the suspense was ended. Almost with the quickness of thought the boy passed into a region of dazzling sunlight, was launched into space, and found himself sinking down, down, down, as though he would never stop, in water so cold that its chill pierced him like knives, and compressed his head as with a band of iron. Looking up through the crystal sheet, he could see an apparently endless line of bubbles rising from where he was to the surface, and, after a while, he began to follow them. With a breathless gasp he again reached the blessed air, and, dashing the water from his eyes, began to consider his situation. He was dazed and bewildered at finding himself still alive and apparently none the worse for his tremendous slide. Although he was in bright sunlight, the mountain-side down which he had come was hidden beneath dense folds of cloud, out of which he seemed to have dropped. Gently paddling with his hands, just enough to keep himself afloat, Glen looked anxiously about for some beach or other place at which he might effect a landing, but could discover none. The upper edge of the snow-field, that bounded the lake on one side, projected far over the water, so that, while he might swim under it, there was no possibility of getting on it. On all other sides sheer walls of rock rose from the water, without a trace of beach, or even of boulders, at their base. In all this solid wall there was but one break. Not far from where Glen swam, and just beyond the snow-field, a narrow cleft appeared; and from it came an indistinct roar of waters. Glen felt himself growing numbed and powerless. He must either give up at once, and tamely allow himself to sink where he was, or he must swim to that cleft, and take his chances of getting out through it. He fully expected to find a waterfall just beyond the gloomy portal, and he clearly realized what his fate would be if it were there. But whatever he did must be done quickly. He knew that, and began to swim towards the cleft. As he approached it, he felt himself impelled onward by a gentle current that grew stronger with each moment. Now he could not go back if he would. He passed between two lofty walls of rock, and, instead of dashing over a waterfall, was borne along by a swift, smooth torrent that looked black as ink in the gloom of its mysterious channel. Ere the swimmer had traversed more than fifty yards of this dim waterway, the channel turned sharply to the left, and the character of the lower portion of its wall, on that side, changed from a precipice to a slope. In another moment Glen's feet touched bottom, and he was slowly dragging his numbed and exhausted body ashore. Although the sun was still shining on the mountain-side, far above him, it was already twilight where he was, and he had no desire to explore that stream farther in darkness. It would be bad enough by daylight. In fact, he was so thankful to escape from that icy water that, had the light been increasing instead of waning at that moment, he would probably have lingered long on those blessed rocks before tempting it further. Now, as he gazed about him in search of some place in which, or on which, to pass the long hours of darkness, his eye fell on a confused pile of driftwood not far away. Here was a prize indeed. He had matches, and, thanks to "Billy" Brackett, they were still dry. Now he could have a fire. He found the driftwood to be a mass of branches and tree-trunks, bleached to the whiteness of bones, and evidently brought down by some much higher water than the present. They were lodged in the mouth of a deep water-worn hollow in the rock, and converted a certain portion of it into a sort of a cave. Creeping in behind this wooden wall of gnarled roots, twisted branches, and splintered trunks, the shivering boy felt for his hatchet; but it had disappeared. His knife still remained in its sheath, however, and with it he finally managed, though with great difficulty on account of the numbness of his hands, to cut off a little pile of slivers and shavings from a bit of pine. In another moment the cave was illumined with a bright glow from one of his precious matches, and a tiny flame was creeping up through the handful of kindling. With careful nursing and judicious feeding the little flame rapidly increased in strength and brightness, until it was lighting the whole place with its cheerful glow, and was leaping, with many cracklings, through the entire mass of driftwood. Before starting that fire, it seemed to Glen that no amount of heat could be unwelcome, or that he could ever be even comfortably warm again. He discovered his mistake, however, when he was finally forced to abandon his cave entirely, and seek refuge in the open air from the intense heat with which it was filled. Not until his pile of wood had burned down to a bed of glowing coals could he return. His couch that night was certainly a hard one, but it was as warm and dry as a boy could wish. If he only had something to eat! But he had not; so he went to sleep instead, and slept soundly until daylight--which meant about an hour after sunrise in the world beyond that narrow cañon. If he was hungry the night before, how ravenous he was in the morning. He even cut off a bit of the raw-hide lariat which he still retained, and tried to chew it. It was so very unsatisfactory a morsel that it helped him to realize the necessity of speedily getting out of that place and hunting for some food more nourishing than lariats. Chapter XXX. DOWN THE LONELY CAÑON. Glen had been conscious, ever since reaching his haven, of a dull, distant roar coming up from the cañon below him; and now, after an hour of scrambling, climbing, slipping, but still managing to keep out of the water, he discovered the fall that he had anticipated, and found himself on its brink. It was a direct plunge of a hundred feet, and the body of water very nearly occupied the whole of a narrow chasm between two cliffs similar to those at the outlet of the lake. A few feet of the rocky dam, where Glen stood, were bare of water; but its face fell away as steep and smooth as that over which the stream took its plunge. Only, in the angle formed by it and the side of the cañon, a mass of débris had collected that reached about half-way up to where Glen stood, or to within fifty feet of the brink. On it grew a few stunted trees, the first vegetation he had seen since taking his slide. Below that place the way seemed more open, and as though it might be possible to traverse. But how should he get down? He dared not leap; he could not fly. But he still had the lariat. It was forty feet long. If he could only fasten it where he stood, he might slide down its length and then drop. Vainly he searched for some projecting point of rock about which to make his rope fast. There was none. All was smooth and water-worn. There was a crack. If he only had a stout bit of wood to thrust into it he might fasten the lariat to that. But he had not seen the smallest stick since leaving his sleeping-place. Some unburned branches were still left there; but the idea of going back over that perilous road, through the gloom of the cañon, was most unpleasant to contemplate. He hated to consider it. Still, before long it would be much more unpleasant to remain where he was, for he was already realizing the first pangs of starvation. So he wearily retraced his steps, procured a stout branch, and, after two hours of the most arduous toil, again stood on the brink of the waterfall. Forcing the stick as far as possible into the crack, and wedging it firmly with bits of rock, he attached the raw-hide rope to it, and flung the loose end over the precipice. Then, hanging over the edge, he grasped the rope firmly and slowly slid down. As he reached the end he hesitated for a moment, and glanced below. His feet dangled on a level with the top of the upmost tree. He dreaded to drop, but there was nothing else to do, and the next moment he was rolling and scrambling in the loose gravel and rounded pebbles of the heap of débris. At last he brought up against a tree-trunk, bruised and shaken, but with unbroken bones. He had now overcome the most difficult part of his hazardous trip; and, though the way was still so rough as to demand the exercise of the utmost care and skill and the use of every ounce of strength he possessed, it presented no obstacles that these could not surmount. Finally, some time in the afternoon, he came to a narrow strip of meadow-land, where flowers were blooming amid the grass, and on which warm sunlight was streaming. Here, too, he found a few blueberries, which he ate ravenously. What should he do for something more substantial? He was close beside the stream, which here flowed quietly, with pleasant ripplings, when he was startled by a splash in it. It must have been a fish jumping. Why had he not thought of fish before? How should he catch them? Necessity is the best sharpener of wits, and, in less than half an hour, Glen was fishing with a line made of fibres from the inner skin of spruce bark, a hook formed of a bent pin, baited with a grasshopper, and the whole attached to a crooked bit of branch. Not only was he fishing, but he was catching the most beautiful brook-trout he had ever seen almost as fast as he could re-bait and cast his rude tackle. There was no art required. Nobody had ever fished in these waters before, and the trout were apparently as eager to be caught as he was to catch them. Glen had not neglected to light a fire before he began his fishing, and by the time half a dozen of the dainty little fellows were caught a fine bed of hot coals was awaiting them. The boy knew very little of the art of cooking, but what he did know was ample for the occasion. His fish were speedily cleaned, laid on the coals for a minute, turned, left a minute longer, and eaten. When the first half-dozen had disappeared he caught more, and treated them in the same way. He had no salt, no condiments, no accessories of any kind, save the sauce of a hunger closely allied to starvation; but that supplied everything. It rendered that feast of half-cooked brook-trout the most satisfactory meal he had ever eaten. When, at last, his hunger was entirely appeased, the sun had set, and another night without shelter or human companionship was before him; but what did he care? As he lay in front of his fire, on an elastic, sweet-scented bed of small spruce boughs, with a semicircle of larger ones planted in the ground behind him, and their feathery tips drooping gracefully above his head, he was as happy and well-content as ever in his life. He had conquered the wilderness, escaped from one of its most cunningly contrived prison-houses, and won from it the means of satisfying his immediate wants. He enjoyed a glorious feeling of triumph and independence. To be sure, he had no idea of where he was, nor where the stream would lead him; but he had no intention of deserting it. He realized that his safest plan was to follow it. Eventually it must lead him to the Rio Grande, and there he would surely be able to rejoin his party, if he did not find them sooner. He was in no hurry to leave the pleasant strip of flower-strewn meadow the next morning, nor did he, until he had caught and eaten a hearty breakfast, and laid in a supply of trout for at least one more meal. The third night found him still on the bank of his stream, which was flowing happily, with many a laugh and gurgle, through a narrow but wonderfully beautiful valley, carpeted with a luxuriant growth of grass and dotted with clumps of cedars. For this night's camp he constructed a rude hut of slender poles and branches, similar to the Indian wick-i-ups he had seen on the Plains. In it he slept on a bed high heaped with soft grasses and cedar twigs that was a perfect cradle of luxury. As Glen emerged from his hut at sunrise he was almost as startled at seeing a herd of several black-tailed (mule) deer, feeding within a hundred feet of him, as they were to see him. Pausing for a good stare at him, for the black-tailed deer is among the most inquisitive animals in the world, they bounded away with tremendous leaps, and disappeared behind a cedar thicket. A minute later Glen was again startled; this time by the report of a rifle from some distance down the valley. He had just been wishing for his own rifle, the sight of deer having suggested that venison would be a very pleasant change from a steady fish diet, and now he hurried away in the direction of the shot. He walked nearly half a mile before coming so suddenly upon the hunter who had fired that shot, and was now engaged in dressing one of those very black-tailed deer, that the latter discovered him at the same moment, and paused in his work to examine the new-comer keenly. He was a man past middle age, squarely built, of medium height, and, as he stood up, Glen saw that he was somewhat bow-legged. His hair was thin and light in color, and his face was beardless. It was seamed and weather-beaten, the cheek-bones were high and prominent, and the keen eyes were gray. He was dressed in a complete hunting-suit of buckskin, and the rifle, lying beside him, was of an old-fashioned, long-barrelled, muzzle-loading pattern. He looked every inch, what he really was, a typical Plainsman of the best kind, possessed of an honest, kindly nature, brave and just, a man to be feared by an enemy and loved by a friend. He gazed earnestly at Glen as the latter walked up to him, though neither by look nor by word did he betray any curiosity. "I don't know who you are, sir," said the boy, "but I know I was never more glad to see anybody in my life, for I've been wandering alone in these mountains for three days." "Lost?" asked the other, laconically. "Well, not exactly lost," replied Glen. Then, as clearly and briefly as possible, he related his story, which the other followed with close attention and evident interest. "You did have a close call, and you've had a blind trail to follow since, for a fact. It sorter looks as though you'd showed sand, and I shouldn't wonder if you was the right stuff to make a man of," said the hunter, approvingly, when the recital was ended. "How old are you?" "I think I am about sixteen," answered the boy. "Just the age I was when I first crossed the Mississip and struck for this country, where I've been ever since. What are you going to do now?" "I'm going to ask you to give me a slice of that venison for my breakfast, and then tell me the best way to rejoin my party," answered Glen. "Of course I'll give you all the deer-meat you can eat, and we'll have it broiling inside of five minutes. Then, if you'll come along with me to the fort, I reckon we'll find your outfit there; or, if they ain't, the commandant will see to it that you do find them. You know him, don't you?" "No, I don't even know who he is. What is his name?" This question seemed, for some reason, to amuse the hunter greatly, and he laughed silently for a moment before replying: "His name is, rightly, 'Colonel Carson,' and since he's got command of a fort they've given him the title of 'General Carson;' but all the old Plainsmen and mountainmen that's travelled with him since he was your age call him 'Kit Carson,' or just 'Old Kit.' Perhaps you've heard tell of him?" Indeed, Glen had heard of the most famous scout the Western Plains ever produced; and, with the prospect of actually seeing and speaking to him, he felt amply repaid for his recent trials and sufferings. Chapter XXXI. KIT CARSON'S GOLD MINE. While the hunter was talking to Glen, he was also preparing some slices of venison for broiling, and lighting a small fire. Anxious to be of use, as well as to have breakfast as soon as possible, the boy set about collecting wood for the fire. This, by the hunter's advice, he broke and split into small pieces, that it might the sooner be reduced to coals; and, while he was doing this, he told his new friend of his experience in cooking trout. "I reckon that was better than eating them raw," said the latter, with an amused smile, "but if we had some now, I think I could show you a better way than that to cook them, though we haven't got any fry-pan." "Perhaps I can catch some," suggested Glen, pulling his rude fishing-tackle from his pocket, as he looked about for some sort of a pole. "And I think I could do it quicker if you would lend me your hat for a few minutes. You see mine got lost while I was coasting down that mountain-side, or in the lake, I don't know which," he added, apologetically. Here the hunter actually laughed aloud. "You don't expect to catch trout with a hat, do you?" he asked. "Oh, no, indeed. I only want it to catch grasshoppers with. It's such slow work catching them, one at a time, with your hands; but, with a hat as big as yours, I could get a great many very quickly," and the boy gazed admiringly at the broad-brimmed sombrero worn by the other. The stranger willingly loaned his hat to Glen, who seemed to amuse him greatly, and the latter soon had, not only all the grasshoppers he wanted, but a fine string of fish as well. By this time the fire had produced a bed of coals, and the slices of venison, spitted on slender sticks thrust into the ground, so as to be held just above them, were sending forth most appetizing odors. Obeying instructions, Glen cleaned his fish, and gathered a quantity of grass, which he wet in the stream. The hunter had scooped out a shallow trench in the earth beside the fire, and had filled it with live coals. Above these he now spread a layer of damp grass, on which he laid the fish, covering them in turn with another layer of grass. Over this he raked a quantity of red-hot embers, and then covered the whole with a few handfuls of earth. Ten minutes later the trout were found to be thoroughly cooked, and Glen was both thinking and saying that no fish had ever tasted so good. After eating this most satisfactory breakfast, and having hung the carcase of the deer to a branch where it would be beyond the reach of wolves until it could be sent for, Glen and his new companion started down the valley. As they walked, the latter explained to the boy that, many years before, while trapping on that very stream, he had discovered gold in its sands. Recently he had employed a number of Mexicans to work for him, and had started some placer diggings about a mile below where they then were. This interested Glen greatly; for all of his dreams had been of discovering gold somewhere in this wonderful Western country, and he was most desirous of learning something of the process of procuring it. As they talked, they came in sight of several tents and brush huts, standing near the inner end of a long sand-bar, that extended diagonally nearly across the stream. A rude dam built along its upper side had diverted the water from it, so that a large area of sand and gravel was left dry. On this a dozen men were at work, digging with shovel and pick, or rocking cradles. Glen had heard of miners' cradles, or "rockers," but he had never seen one. Now he laughed at the resemblance between them and the low wooden cradles babies were rocked in. They were rough boxes mounted on rockers, of which the one at the forward end was a little lower than the other, so as to give the cradle a slight slope in that direction. Each had an iron grating placed across its upper end, and a few wooden cleats nailed crosswise of its bottom. A hole was cut in its foot-board, and a handle, by means of which it was rocked, was fastened to its head-board. There were two men to each cradle: one to shovel dirt on to its grating, and the other to rock it and pour water over this dirt to wash it through. The grating was so fine that only the smallest pebbles could pass through it. As the dirt and water fell to the bottom of the cradle, and ran through it to the opening in the foot-board, the fine particles of gold sank, of their own weight, and lodged against the cleats. From these it was carefully gathered several times each day by the white overseer who had charge of the diggings, and sent to Fort Garland for safe-keeping. Glen's guide also showed him how to wash out a panful of gold-bearing earth, as prospectors do. He picked up a shallow iron pan, filled it with earth, and, holding it half immersed in the stream with its outer edge inclined from him, shook it rapidly to and fro, with a semi-rotary motion. In a minute all the earth had been washed out, and only a deposit of black sand, containing a number of yellow particles, was left on the bottom. The hunter said this black sand was iron, and could be blown away from about the gold after it was dry, or drawn away with a magnet. The boy was greatly pleased to be allowed to attempt this operation for himself, and felt quite like a successful miner when told that the gold yielded by his first panful was worth about thirty cents. While he was thus engaged a swarthy-complexioned soldier, evidently a Mexican, though he wore a United States uniform, came riding up the valley, raised his hand in salute to the hunter, and exchanged a few words with him. The latter hesitated for a moment, and then, after speaking again to the soldier, who immediately dismounted, he said to Glen, "I find that I must return to the fort at once. So if you will take this man's horse, and ride with me, I shall be glad of your company." His own horse was standing near by, and in another minute they were riding rapidly down the little valley, with the mining camp already out of sight. After a mile or so the stream that Glen had followed for so long led them into the broad expanse of the San Luis Valley, up which they turned, and speedily came in sight of the low white walls of Fort Garland, surrounding a tall staff from which an American flag floated lazily in the warm, sun-lit air. Although Glen did not know much about soldiers, or the meaning of military forms, he was somewhat surprised to see the guard at the main entrance of the fort turn hurriedly out and present arms as they clattered in past them. He quickly forgot this incident though, in his admiration of the interior, now opened before him. It was a large square, enclosed on all sides by low comfortable-looking buildings of adobe, neatly whitewashed, and in some cases provided with green blinds and wide piazzas. A hard, smooth driveway ran in front of them, and the middle of the enclosure was occupied by a well-turfed parade-ground, at one end of which stood a battery of light field-pieces. The chief beauty of the place lay in a little canal of crystal water, that ran entirely around the parade-ground. It was as cool and sparkling as that of its parent mountain stream, flowing just beyond the fort, and the refreshing sound of its rippling pervaded the whole place. Riding to the opposite side of the enclosure, the hunter and his companion dismounted in front of one of the houses with blinds and a piazza. This the former invited Glen to enter, and at the same moment an orderly stepped up and took their horses. In a cool, dimly lighted room, Glen's new friend asked him to be seated and wait a few moments. In about fifteen minutes the orderly who had taken the horses entered the room, and saying to Glen that General Carson would like to see him, ushered him into an adjoining apartment. For a moment the boy did not recognize the figure, clad in a colonel's uniform, that was seated beside a writing-table. But, as the latter said, "Well, sir, I was told that you wished to see the commandant," he at once knew the voice for that of his friend the hunter, and, with a tone of glad surprise, he exclaimed, "Why, sir, are you--" "Yes," replied the other, laughing, "I am old Kit Carson, at your service, and I bid you a hearty welcome to Fort Garland." Then he told Glen that one of his daughters was to be married that evening to an officer of the post. They had been engaged for some time, but there had been nobody to marry them until that day, when a priest from Taos had stopped at the fort on his way to the upper Rio Grande settlements. As he must continue his journey the next morning, the colonel had been sent for, and it was decided that the wedding should come off at once. Thus it happened that Glen was assisting to decorate the commandant's quarters with flags and evergreens when Mr. Hobart and "Billy" Brackett, who had come on a little in advance of the rest of the party, rode up to pay their respects to Colonel Carson. He went out to meet them, and, being fond of giving pleasant surprises, did not say a word concerning Glen; but, after an exchange of greetings, led them directly into the room where he was at work. The boy was standing on a box fastening a flag to the wall above his head, as the men entered. The light from a window fell full upon him, and they recognized him at once. Chapter XXXII. A NEW MEXICAN WEDDING. For a moment the amazement of the two men at again beholding the lad whom they were fully persuaded was dead would neither allow them to speak nor move. Then "Billy" Brackett walked softly over to where Glen was standing, and gave one of his legs a sharp pinch. The startled boy, who had not noticed his approach, leaped to the floor with a cry of mingled pain and surprise. "I only wanted to be sure you were real, old man, and not a ghost," said "Billy" Brackett, trying to speak in his usual careless tone; but the tears that stood in the honest fellow's eyes, as he wrung the boy's hand, showed how deeply he was affected, and how truly he had mourned the loss of his young friend. Nor was Mr. Hobart less moved, and, as he grasped Glen's hand, he said, "My dear boy, I honestly believe this is the happiest moment of my life." They did not stop to ask for his story then but insisted on taking him at once out to the camp that was being pitched just beyond the fort, that the rest of the party might share their joy as speedily as possible. The boys were so busily engaged with their evening duties that the little party was not noticed until they were close at hand. Then somebody, gazing sharply at the middle figure of the three who approached, cried out, "If that isn't Glen Matherson, it's his twin brother!" Everybody paused in what he was doing, and every eye was turned in the same direction. For a moment there was a profound silence. Then came a great shout of joyful amazement. Everything was dropped; and, with one accord, the entire party made a rush for the boy whom they all loved, and whom they had never expected to see again. How they yelled, and cheered, and failed to find expressions for their extravagant delight! As for Binney Gibbs, he fairly sobbed as he held Glen's hand, and gazed into the face of this comrade for whom he had mourned, and whom he once thought he hated. Although, at first sight, it seems almost incredible that so many adventures should happen to one boy on a single trip, it must be remembered that, with the exception of Binney, Glen was the youngest of the party, and consequently more likely to be reckless and careless than any of the others. He was also one of those persons who, while everybody around them is moving along quietly and soberly, are always getting into scrapes, and coming out of each one bright, smiling, and ready for another. Then, too, he was a stout, fearless fellow, with perfect confidence in himself that led him into, and out of, situations from which such boys as Binney Gibbs would steer clear. An amusing feature of Glen's adventures was, that while his companions were ready to sympathize with him on account of his sufferings and hardships, it never seemed to occur to him that he had had anything but a good time, and one to be remembered with pleasure. Thus, in the present instance, according to his own account, his slide down the mountain-side had been the jolliest coast he ever took. His swim in the lake had been cold, but then it had not lasted long, and he had enjoyed the fire and the warmth of the cave all the more for it. As for his subsequent experiences, he related them in such a way that, before he finished, his listeners began to regard him as one of the most fortunate and to-be-envied fellows of their acquaintance. They seemed to be crossing the Plains and mountains in the most prosaic manner, without doing anything in particular except work, while, to this boy, the trip was full of adventures and delightful experiences. Would these incidents seem so pleasant to him if he were as old as they? Perhaps not. They were all to enjoy one novel experience that very evening, though; for Glen brought an invitation from Colonel Carson for them to attend the wedding, and of course they promptly accepted it. As it was to be an early affair, they hurried to the fort as soon as supper was over, and found the guests already assembling in a large room, from which every article of furniture had been removed. It was a motley gathering, in which were seen the gay uniforms of soldiers, the buckskin of trappers, the gaudy serapes of Mexican Cabelleros, the flannel shirts and big boots of the engineers, and the blanketed forms of stolid-faced Ute Indians, for whom Kit Carson was acting as agent at that time. The company was ranged about three sides of the room, close against the walls; and, when they were thus disposed, a door on the vacant side opened, and a Mexican woman, bearing a large basket of candles, entered. Giving a candle to each guest, and lighting it for him, she indicated by signs that he was to hold it above his head. So the guests became living candlesticks, and, when all their candles were lighted, the illumination was quite brilliant enough even for a wedding. Everything being ready, the door through which the candles had been brought again opened, and the bridal party entered. First came the priest, then Kit Carson and his wife, who was a Mexican woman from Taos. Behind them walked the couple who were to be married. The bride was a slender, olive-complexioned girl, dressed very simply in white, while the groom wore the handsome uniform of a lieutenant of cavalry. The rear of the procession was brought up by a bevy of black-haired and black-eyed señoritas, sisters and cousins of the bride. The priest read the wedding service in Latin, and the bride made her responses in Spanish, so that the few English words spoken by the groom were all that most of the spectators understood. As "Billy" Brackett afterwards remarked, it was evidently necessary to be liberally educated to get married in that country. At the conclusion of the ceremony the entire wedding-party, with the exception of the bride's father, disappeared, and were seen no more; while Colonel Carson led his guests into a neighboring room, where the wedding supper was served. Here the famous scout, surrounded by the tried comrades of many a wild campaign, entertained the company by calling on these for one anecdote after another of the adventures that had been crowded so thickly into their lives. This was a rare treat to the new-comers, especially to Glen Eddy and Binney Gibbs, to whom the thrilling tales, told by the boy trappers, scouts, hunters, and soldiers who had participated in them, were so real and vivid that, before this delightful evening was over, it seemed as though they too must have taken part in the scenes described. In spite of the late hours kept by most of the engineers that night, their camp was broken by daylight, and at sunrise they were off on the line as usual, for September was now well advanced, and there were mountain ranges yet to be crossed that would be impassable after winter had once fairly set in. So, leaving the pleasant army post and their hospitable entertainers in it, they picked up their line, and, running it out over the broad San Luis Valley to the Rio Grande, began to follow that river into the very heart of New Mexico. Glen was more than glad to find himself once more on Nettle's back, and again bearing the front flag in advance of the party. He was also surprised to find what a barren place the valley that had looked so beautiful and desirable from the mountains really was. Its sandy soil only supported a thick growth of sage brush, that yielded a strong aromatic fragrance when bruised or broken, and which rendered the running of the line peculiarly toilsome. It was a relief to reach the great river of New Mexico, and find themselves in the more fertile country immediately bordering on it. Here, too, they found numbers of quaint Mexican towns, of which they passed one or more nearly every day. These were full of interest to the young explorers. While looking at their low flat-roofed houses, built of adobe, or great sun-dried bricks of mud and straw, it was hard to realize that they were still in America and traversing one of the territories of the United States. All their surroundings were those of the far East, and the descriptions in the Bible of life and scenes in Palestine applied perfectly to the valley of the Rio Grande as they saw it. The people were dark-skinned, with straight, black hair; and while the young children ran about nearly naked, their elders wore loose, flowing garments, and, if not barefooted, were shod with sandals of raw hide or plaited straw. The square houses, with thick walls, broken only by occasional narrow unglazed windows, were exactly like those of the Biblical pictures. Inside, the floors were of hard-beaten clay, and there were neither tables nor chairs, only earthen benches covered with sheep-skins or gay striped blankets. Some of the finer houses enclosed open courts or plazas, in which were trees and shrubs. The cooking was done in the open air, or in round-topped earthen ovens, built outside the houses. The women washed clothing on flat rocks at the edge of the streams, and young girls carried all the water used for domestic purposes in tall earthen jars borne gracefully on their heads. The beasts of burden were donkeys, or "burros," as the Mexicans call them. Grain was threshed by being laid on smooth earthen threshing-floors, in the open air, and having horses, donkeys, cattle, and sheep driven over it for hours. Wine was kept in skins or great earthen jars. The mountains and hills of the country were covered with pines and cedars, its cultivated valleys with vineyards and fruit orchards; while the raising of flocks and herds was the leading industry of its inhabitants. At this season of the year, though the sun shone from an unclouded sky of the most brilliant blue, the air was dry and bracing in the daytime, and crisp with the promises of frost at night. It was glorious weather; and, under its influence, the second division ran a line of a hundred miles down the river in ten days. As the entire party had looked forward with eager anticipations to visiting Santa Fé, which is not on the Rio Grande, but some distance to the east of it, they were greatly disappointed to be met by a messenger from General Lyle, with orders for Mr. Hobart to come into that place, while his party continued their line south to Albuquerque, eighty miles beyond where they were. Glen was intensely disappointed at this, for Santa Fé was one of the places he had been most anxious to visit. His disappointment was doubled when Mr. Hobart said that he must take somebody with him as private secretary, and intimated that his choice would have fallen on the young front flagman if he had only learned to talk Spanish. As it was, Binney Gibbs was chosen for the envied position; for, though he, like the rest, had only been for a short time among Mexicans, he was already able to speak their language with comparative ease. "I don't see how you learned it so quickly," said Glen, one day, when, after he had striven in vain to make a native understand that he wished to purchase some fruit, Binney had stepped up and explained matters with a few words of Spanish. "Why, it is easy enough," replied Binney, "to anybody who understands Latin." Then Glen wished that he, too, understood Latin, as he might easily have done as well as his comrade. He wished it ten times more though, when, on account of it, Binney rode gayly off to Santa Fé with Mr. Hobart, while he went out to work on the line. Chapter XXXIII. IN THE VALLEY OF THE RIO GRANDE. Near the close of a mellow autumn day Glen and "Billy" Brackett sat on a fragment of broken wall and gazed with interest on the scene about them. On one side, crowning a low bluff that overlooked the Rio Grande twelve miles below Albuquerque, was the Indian pueblo of Isletta, a picturesque collection of adobe buildings and stockaded corrals, containing some eight hundred inhabitants. On the other side were extensive vineyards; beyond them were vast plains, from which flocks of bleating sheep were being driven in for the night by Indian boys; and still beyond rose the blue range of the Sierra Madre. The air was so clear and still that through it the sounds of children's voices, the barking of dogs, the bleating of sheep, the lowing of cattle, and the cracked tones of the bell in the quaint old mission church came to the ears of Glen and his companion with wonderful distinctness. The Indian women were preparing their evening meals, and the fragrance of burning cedar drifted down from the village. Never afterwards could Glen smell the odor of cedar without having the scene of that evening vividly recalled to his mind. Mingled with this fragrance was another, equally distinct and suggestive. It was that of crushed grapes; and the two explorers were watching curiously the process of New Mexican wine-making, going on but a short distance from them. Clumsy ox-carts, constructed without the use of iron, and having great wooden wheels that screeched as they turned on their ungreased wooden axles, brought in loads of purple grapes from the vineyards. On top of the loads, as though the grapes were so much hay, rode Indian men or boys, armed with wooden pitchforks. With these they flung the grapes into a great vat of green ox-hides, supported, about ten feet from the ground, by four heavy posts. The sides of this vat were drawn to a point at the bottom, where there was a small outlet left, through which the grape-juice might flow into a second vat, placed directly beneath the other. It was similar in all respects to the first, except that it offered no opening for the escape of its contents. When a load of grapes had been pitched into the upper vat, two naked Indians clambered up, and, springing on top of them, began to tread them with their feet. For hours they continued this performance, while a steady stream of blood-red juice flowed from the upper vat into the lower. From there it was dipped into huge earthen jars, and set away to ferment. "Well," said 'Billy' Brackett, at length, as he rose and started towards camp, "I've seen all the native wine-making I want to. If those beggars had only washed themselves first it wouldn't be so bad, but I honestly believe they only take a bath once a year, and that is in grape-juice." "It is pretty bad," laughed Glen, "though I don't know as it is any worse than their milking." This was a sore point with him, for he was very fond of fresh milk; but, after once witnessing a New Mexican milking, and seeing cows, mares, asses, sheep, and goats all milked into the same vessel, he preferred to go without it. It was surprising to see what a tall, broad-shouldered fellow Glen was getting to be; and a single glance was sufficient to show what crossing the Plains had done for him. His eyes had the clear look of perfect health; his face, neck, and hands were as brown as sun and wind could make them, while his hair had entirely recovered from its Kansas City shearing, and was now plainly visible beneath the broad sombrero that replaced the hat lost on the Spanish Peak. A heavy blue flannel shirt, a pair of army trousers tucked into the tops of cowhide boots, a leather belt supporting a revolver and a sheath-knife, and a silk handkerchief loosely knotted about his neck, completed his costume. "Billy" Brackett was dressed in a similar fashion, except that he still clung fondly to the shiny cutaway coat in which he was introduced to the reader, and to which he was deeply attached. As they walked towards camp, he and Glen discussed the topic now uppermost in their minds, namely, that of their future movements. Since going to Santa Fé, Mr. Hobart had not rejoined them, though a note received from him at Albuquerque promised that he would do so at Isletta, to which place he ordered the line to be run. Now they had been for two days at the Pueblo, but where they were to go next, or whether they were to go any farther, they did not know, and were anxious to find out. They had heard vague rumors that General Lyle was to return to the States, and that all the plans of the expedition might be changed. Thus, when Mr. Hobart galloped into camp just after supper that evening, he was heartily welcomed. "Where is Binney Gibbs?" was the first question asked. "Promoted to be private secretary to General Elting, the new chief," was the reply. "Where is General Elting?" "He is still in Santa Fé, but is going across with the other two divisions by the Gila route." "And where are we going?" "Going to run a one-thousand-mile line from here to the Pacific Ocean, in just the shortest time we can accomplish it." "Good enough! Hurrah for the Pacific! Hurrah for California!" shouted every member of the party but one. He was the leveller; and when Mr. Hobart, after explaining the dangers and hardships of the trip before them, said that anybody who did not care to encounter them would be furnished with free transportation from that point back to the States, this man decided to accept the offer. Little, did Glen Eddy imagine, as he bade him good-bye the next day, what an effect upon his future the decision thus suddenly reached by the leveller was to have. In the stage from Santa Fé the latter met a gentleman and his wife who were greatly interested in his description of the explorations in which he had just taken part. Among other things, he described Glen Eddy Matherson's remarkable adventures; and the lady, who seemed struck by the boy's name, asked many questions concerning him. Fortunately, the leveller was able to answer most of them, and thus she learned, what Glen had never attempted to conceal, that he was an adopted son of Luke Matherson, of Brimfield, Pennsylvania, who had saved him from a railroad wreck in Glen Eddy creek when he was a baby. She did not explain why she asked these questions, and soon changed the conversation to other topics. The most immediate effect upon Glen of the leveller's departure was to promote him and increase his pay. As it was impossible, in that country, to engage men of experience to fill places in an engineer corps, Mr. Brackett was obliged to take the level, while Mr. Hobart himself took charge of the transit; and, when the former was asked who he would like as rodman in place of Binney Gibbs, he promptly answered, "Glen Matherson." In speaking to Glen of this change of position, the division engineer asked the boy if he was sure he wanted to go through to the Pacific. "Of course I do, sir!" answered Glen, in surprise at the question. "It is going to be a trip full of danger and all sorts of hardships, possibly including starvation and freezing. I don't know but what you really ought to go back." "Oh, sir, please don't send me back!" pleaded Glen, earnestly. "I should feel awfully to have to go home with the trip only half finished." "Then you are willing to face all the hardships?" "Yes, sir, I'm willing to face anything, rather than going back." "All right!" laughed Mr. Hobart; "I suppose I shall have to take you along. I proposed to the general to take Binney Gibbs with him, or else send him back to the States, because I did not consider him strong enough to endure what is ahead of us; but I don't see how I could urge that in your case, for I actually believe you are one of the toughest among us." How Glen rejoiced in his strength as he heard this! Perhaps it was going to prove as valuable to him as a scholarship, after all. "Mr. Brackett is going to run the level, and wants you for his rodman," continued Mr. Hobart. "The pay will be double what you are now receiving, and you can soon fit yourself for the position by a little hard study; for Mr. Brackett is a capital instructor. I have told him that he may take you on trial, and see what he can do with you. I also told him of your aversion to study, and gave him to understand what a difficult job he had undertaken." Glen flushed at this, and gazed at the ground for a moment. Finally he said, "Studying seems very different when you can look right ahead and see what good it is going to do." "Yes," replied Mr. Hobart, "I know it does. Still, in most cases we have to trust the word of those who can look ahead when we can't. I've no doubt but what you were told at school that a knowledge of Latin would aid you in learning many other languages; but you were not willing to believe it until you saw for yourself how it helped Binney Gibbs pick up Spanish." Glen did not make any promises aloud in regard to fitting himself for his new position, for he believed in actions rather than words; but he made one to himself, and determined to keep it. They remained in camp at Isletta one day longer, to prepare for their arduous undertaking, and to engage several new axemen to fill the places of those who had been promoted; but on the second morning the transit was set up over the last stake they had driven, and its telescope was pointed due west. At first Glen missed the excitement of riding in advance of the party with the front flag. On a preliminary survey, the level can hardly keep up with the transit; and it was not so pleasant to be always behind, striving to catch up, as it had been to be in the lead. To "Billy" Brackett the change of positions came even harder than to Glen, because in taking the level he had gone back a step rather than forward; but he never showed it. Indeed, by his steady cheerfulness and unceasing flow of good spirits the new leveller soon banished even a shadow of regret from the mind of his young rodman, and taught him to feel a real interest in his new work. So they slowly climbed the western slope of the Rio Grande Valley, crossed the barren plateau of the divide between it and the Rio Puerco, followed that stream and its tributary, the San José, on the banks of which they saw the ancient pueblos of Laguna and Acoma, into another region of rugged mountains, and, in about two weeks, found themselves at the forlorn frontier post of Fort Wingate, where they were to obtain their final supplies for the winter. Chapter XXXIV. BAITING A WOLF-TRAP. At Fort Wingate the real hardships of the trip began in an unexpected manner. Instead of being plentifully supplied with provisions, as had been reported, the post was found to be very poorly provided, and all that could be spared to the engineers were condemned quartermaster's stores. The party must take these or nothing; and when Mr. Hobart left it to his men whether they should accept the damaged stores and push on, or go back to the Rio Grande, they unanimously said, "Go on!" So, for the next two months, they made the best of half-spoiled hams and bacon, hard-tack filled with white worms, and sugar abounding in little black bugs, that fortunately floated on top of the coffee and could be skimmed off. The men provided themselves with a number of little luxuries at the sutler's--the last store they would see for months--and "Billy" Brackett bought a cheese. This was considered a very queer purchase; but Glen's was queerer still, for it was a small quantity of strychnine. He only procured this after giving assurances that he did not propose to commit suicide and making many promises to be very careful in its use. What he proposed to do with the poison he did not confide to anybody except his friend "Billy" Brackett, who agreed with him that it was a capital plan. A run of twelve miles from Fort Wingate brought the party to a camp, in a forest of the most stately yellow-pines they had ever seen, beside a great spring of ice-cold water--known as the Agua Fria (cold water). Here, as soon as supper was over, Glen proceeded to put his great plan into execution. The nights were now very cold, and the boy generally woke before morning to find himself shivering beneath his insufficient covering of blankets. Every night, too, since entering the mountains the party had been annoyed by the sneaking visits and unearthly howlings of wolves that hung on the outskirts of the camp from dark to daylight, every now and then making a quick dash through it, if the guard was not watching sharply, and snatching at bits of food or at anything made of leather that lay in their path. So Glen thought he would teach the wolves a lesson, which should at the same time add some of their skins to his bed-clothing; and it was for this purpose he had procured the strychnine. Now, with "Billy" Brackett's help, he dragged out from one of the wagons a gunny-sack, containing some kidneys, lungs, and other refuse animal matter, obtained from the Fort Wingate butcher, and these he smeared with the deadly powder. Then they prepared several torches of pine slivers, and, amid the unanswered questionings of their companions, left camp, carrying the sack of meat between them. Beginning at a point a few rods from the tents, they strewed the poisoned bait for half a mile along the banks of the little stream flowing from the spring. It was an exciting task, for they seemed to hear suspicious sniffs, and the soft pattering of feet on both sides of them; while Glen felt certain that his torchlight was reflected from gleaming eyeballs more than once. So greatly did these things work upon their imaginations that when, as they started back towards camp, their last torch suddenly went out, leaving them in blackest darkness, they both took to their heels, and raced breathlessly for the distant light of the friendly camp-fire. When they reached it, in perfect safety, they burst out laughing in one another's faces, and wondered what they had run from. Glen was disappointed, as he lay shivering in his blankets that night, not to hear so many wolves as usual, while the few howls that did reach his ears seemed to come from a distance. Still, he comforted himself with the reflection that dead wolves couldn't howl, and doubtless all those that had ventured near the camp had eaten the poisoned meat, and had their howlings effectually silenced. It seemed to him that he had hardly dropped asleep when he was rudely awakened by being pulled, feet foremost, out of his blankets, under the side of the tent, and into the open air. At the same moment "Billy" Brackett's laughing voice cried, "Come, Glen, here it is broad daylight, and high time we were gathering in our wolves." Whew! how cold it was! and in what a hurry Glen sprang from the frozen ground, to rush back into the tent for his boots and army overcoat. He had everything else on, for there was very little undressing at night in that party. As for being sleepy, the biting air had awakened him as effectually as a dash of ice-water. As they left camp, "Billy" Brackett shouted back to one of the Mexican axemen to follow after them, and the man answered that he would be along in a minute. It was light enough, when they reached the place where they had left the first of the poisoned meat, for them to see it if it had been there; but it was not. Neither was there any dead wolf to be found in the vicinity. It was the same along the whole line, where they had scattered their bait. They could neither discover meat nor wolves. "Hello!" exclaimed "Billy" Brackett softly, as they were about to turn back, "I believe the wolves are cooking their meat;" and with that he pointed to a thin column of blue smoke rising through the trees at some distance farther down the stream. "Perhaps they are Indians," suggested Glen. "Perhaps they are. Let's go and find out. We can take a look at them without being seen. Besides, the Indians hereabout are peaceful now." So they crept cautiously towards the smoke, until at length they were lying flat on the ground, on the edge of a low bank, with their heads hidden in tufts of grass, peering into a small encampment of Indians just below them. They had hardly gained this position when Glen, uttering a cry of horror, sprang down the bank, rushed in among the Indians, and, snatching a piece of meat from the hands of one of them, who was raising it to his mouth, flung it so far away that it was snapped up and swallowed by a lean, wolfish-looking cur, that had not dared venture near the fire. At Glen's sudden appearance the Indian women and children ran screaming into the bushes, while the men, springing to their feet, surrounded him with angry exclamations and significant handlings of their knives. They received a second surprise, and fell back a little as "Billy" Brackett, who had not at first understood Glen's precipitate action, came rushing down the bank after him, shouting, "Stand back, you villains! If you lay a hand on him, I'll blow the tops of all your heads off!" At the same time Glen was making all the faces expressive of extreme disgust that he could think of, and saying, as he pointed to a pile of meat lying in a gunny-sack beside the fire: "_Carne no bueno! Muy mal! No bueno por hombre!_" which was the best Spanish he knew for, "The meat is not good. It is very bad, and not at all good for a man to eat." But the Indians could not understand. The meat might not be good enough for white men, who were so very particular, but it was good enough for them. The white men had thrown it away and they had found it. They meant to eat it, too, for they were very hungry. Now, if these uninvited guests to their camp would not clear out and let them eat their breakfast in peace, they must suffer the consequences. This is what they said; but neither Glen nor "Billy" Brackett understood a word of it. They were preparing to defend themselves, as well as they could, from the scowling Indians, who were again advancing upon them with drawn knives. Both Glen and his companion had their rifles, and now, as they stepped slowly backward, they held them ready for instant use. "We won't fire," said "Billy" Brackett, "unless they point a gun or an arrow at us; for the first shot will be the signal for a rush, and if they make that we haven't got a living show." All this time the Indians, to the number of a dozen or so, advanced steadily, taking step for step with the whites, as they fell back, and watching for a chance to get past or around the black muzzles of those rifles. Chapter XXXV. EL MORO. To Glen Eddy and "Billy" Brackett the situation looked serious, and almost desperate, as they confronted that crowd of angry savages who advanced towards them so steadily, and with such unmistakable meaning. "It's a tough outlook for us," muttered the latter. "Yes," answered Glen, "it is, but--" Here the boy clinched his teeth, and clutched his rifle more firmly. "Look out!" cried the other, noticing that the Indians were gathering themselves for a rush. "They're coming!" and he raised his rifle. In another instant he would have fired, and their fate would have been sealed. But their time had not yet come; for, at that same moment, another figure bounded down the low bank, and stood beside them facing the Indians, and speaking angrily to them in Spanish. They evidently understood him, and hesitated. He was the Mexican axeman. "What is the trouble, Mr. Brackett?" he asked hurriedly, in English. With a few words they made the situation clear to him, and he, in turn, quickly explained to the Indians that these white men had merely tried to save their lives by preventing them from eating poisoned meat. "Tell them to look at the dog!" cried Glen, pointing to the poor animal that had swallowed the very bit of meat he had snatched from the Indian, and which was evidently dying. The sight was a powerful argument, worth more than all the words that could have been spoken. The Indians sullenly returned to their fire and sat down, while our friends, casting many watchful glances over their shoulders as they went, made good their retreat in the direction of their own camp. "What kind of Indians were they?" asked Glen, of the Mexican, when they had lost sight of their unpleasant acquaintances. "Navajos," was the answer. They were indeed a wretched band of the once wealthy and powerful tribe who claimed that whole country as a pasture-land for their countless flocks and herds. For many years they had been hunted and killed, their flocks driven off and their growing crops destroyed wherever found, until now the main body of the tribe was being slowly starved out of existence on a small reservation in Eastern New Mexico. It was so small that no more Indians could be crowded into it, and the miserable remnant, who still lurked in the fastnesses of their own country, despoiled of all means of procuring a livelihood, prowled about like so many hungry dogs, gleaning the offal from white men's camps, and hunted like wild beasts by all whom they were unfortunate enough to meet. This band had probably followed Mr. Hobart's party for the sake of what might be picked up in their abandoned camps, and had evidently regarded the poisoned meat, discovered that very morning, as a perfect godsend. "I reckon we'll have to manage somehow to get along without any wolves," said "Billy" Brackett. "Yes," replied Glen, regretfully, "I suppose we shall." Ten miles of line were run that day, through the solemn pine forest, and darkness overtook the party on the very summit of the great Continental Divide. They were crossing the Sierra Madre Mountains, through Zuñi Pass. As Glen subtracted the last reading of his rod for the day from the last height of instrument, and found that it gave an elevation of 7925 feet, he uttered a shout. For weeks the elevations above sea-level had been steadily mounting upward. This one was a foot lower than the last. "Hurrah!" he cried, "we are on the Pacific Slope." It was hard to realize that water, on one side of where they stood, would find its way into the Rio Grande, and so on into the Atlantic, while that but a few feet away would flow through the Colorado into the Pacific. The country did not look any different, but it seemed so. They actually seemed to be breathing the air of the mighty sunset ocean, and this one day's run seemed to place the States, and everything eastern, farther behind them than all the rest of their journey. About the camp-fires that evening the conversation was wholly of California and the golden West, and they sprang to their work the next day with an added zeal. Fifty miles west of this point they came to Zuñi, one of the most picturesque and by far the most interesting of American towns. First, though, a few miles east of Zuñi, they halted beside the magnificent pile of El Moro, or Inscription Rock, that lifted its frowning battlements, like those of some vast Moorish castle, four hundred feet above the plain. Its base is covered, on all sides, with Indian hieroglyphics, Spanish inscriptions, and English names. Curiously, and almost reverently, our explorers bent down the brushwood near its left-hand corner, and searched until they found the most ancient inscription of all: "Don Joseph de Basconzeles 1526." There is nothing more, and this is the sole existing record of Don Joseph's having lived and explored this country while Cortez was still occupying the city of Mexico. Where he came from, who he was, what companions he had, and whither he went will never be known; but through all the centuries that have passed since he carved his name on El Moro's base, the great rock has faithfully preserved the record of his presence. The next inscription was made nearly one hundred years later, and is a Spanish legend that is translated into, "Passed by this place with despatches, April 16, 1606." There is no name signed, and who passed by on that day can never be told. Then follows innumerable names of Spanish dons, captains, bishops, soldiers, and priests, with varying dates that come down as late as the beginning of the present century. The first English inscription is, "O. R., March 19, 1836." Then came Whipple, in 1853, followed by many other American soldiers and gold-seekers. Now Glen Eddy and "Billy" Brackett added their names beneath those of the others of Mr. Hobart's party. Then they, too, passed on, leaving a new page of history to be preserved by El Moro for the eyes of future generations. For some hours before reaching Zuñi they could see it crowning the hill that uplifts it conspicuously above the level of the surrounding plain. It was the "Cibola" of the earliest Spanish explorers, the chief of the seven "golden cities" that they believed to exist in that region, and whose alleged riches led them to undertake the conquest of the country. They called it "Cibola" until they reached it. Then they adopted the native name of Zuñi (pronounced _Zoon-ya_), by which it has been known ever since. The town, or city, contained some twelve hundred inhabitants, and the hill on which it is built slopes gently up from the plain on one side, but falls away in a precipitous bluff to the narrow waters of the Zuñi River on the other. "Billy" Brackett had read up on this ancient city of Cibola, and had imparted so much of his information to Glen as to arouse a curiosity in the boy's mind regarding the place fully equal to his own. So, as soon as they reached camp, which was on the plain at the foot of the hill, they hurried off to "do" the town. Chapter XXXVI. ZUÑI, THE HOME OF THE AZTECS. As the leveller and his rodman ascended the slope on which Zuñi is built, they saw that the town reached entirely across it, and seemingly presented a blank wall of irregular heights, containing only two or three low arched openings. A ladder, here and there, reached from the ground to a flat terrace on top of the wall; but evidently the means of entering the place were few, and could readily be made less. Outside of the wall were long ranges of corrals, fenced with poles, set close together, and fixed firmly in the ground. These poles, which were of all lengths, and the tops of ladders projecting everywhere above the roofs of the town, gave the place a peculiarly ragged and novel appearance. Glen wondered at the height of the buildings, most of which were of five or six stories, and what the ladders were for. Seeing no other way of gaining an entrance, they followed an Indian, who led a burro bearing an immense load of fagots on his back, into one of the dark arched passages through the wall. It was just wide enough to admit the laden donkey, and so low that, as they followed him, they were obliged to stoop to avoid striking their heads against its roof. It was so long that it evidently led beneath an entire block of houses. Finally they emerged from its darkness into one of the most novel plazas, or squares, of the world. It was surrounded by buildings of several stories in height, but very few of them had any doors, while the tiny windows of the lower stories were placed high up, beyond a man's reach. On the flat roof of the lower house, or first story, a second house was built; but it was so much narrower than the first as to leave a broad walk on the roof in front of it. Above this second house rose a third, fourth, fifth, and often a sixth, each one narrower than the one beneath it, so that the whole looked like a gigantic flight of steps. These houses were built either of adobe or of stone, plastered over with adobe mud; and nearly all those on the ground floor were entered, as Robinson Crusoe entered his castle, by climbing a ladder to the roof, and descending another that led down through a skylight. Thus, if an enemy should succeed in forcing his way through the narrow tunnel into the plaza, the people would merely retire to their house-tops, draw up their ladders, and he would find it as hard to get at them as ever. The upper tiers of houses had doors opening on the roofs of those below them; but ladders were necessary to climb up from one terrace to another, so that they were everywhere the most prominent feature of the place. There were but few of the inhabitants in the plaza, or in the narrow lanes leading from it to other open squares; but they swarmed on the flat house-tops, and gazed down on our friends as eagerly as the latter gazed up at them. Americans were curiosities to the people of Zuñi in those days. "Hello!" exclaimed Glen, as they stood in the middle of the plaza, wondering which way they should go. "Here come some white fellows dressed up like Indians. I wonder who they can be?" Sure enough, two young men, having white skins, blue eyes, and yellow hair, but wearing the leggings and striped blankets of Indians, entered the square as Glen spoke. He shouted to them, both in English and Mexican, but they only glanced at him in a startled manner, and then, hurriedly climbing the nearest ladder, they joined a group who were curiously inspecting Glen and his companion from a roof. "Well! that is queer," said the former. "Who do you suppose those chaps are?" "I shouldn't be a bit surprised if they were two of the white Indians I have read of," answered "Billy" Brackett; "and, if so, they are the greatest curiosities we'll see in this town." "I never heard of them," said Glen. "Where did they come from?" "That's more than I can tell, or anybody else. All we know is that the earliest Spaniards found a race of white people living among the Pueblo Indians, whom they describe as being exactly like these chaps grinning at us from that roof. In one respect they are a distinct race, as they have never been allowed to marry with the dark-skinned Indians; but in every other respect they are thorough Puebloes, and there is no tradition going back far enough to show that they were ever anything else. I believe that the race is nearly extinct, and that they are now so few in number as to be rarely seen." In this "Billy" Brackett was correct; for at that time there were but three of those white Indians in Zuñi, two men and a woman. Before leaving this remarkable town of curious people, Glen discovered that they kept eagles for pets, and were also very fond of snakes, especially rattlesnakes, which they did not hesitate to handle freely and even to hold in their mouths. He saw the entire population turn out on the flat roofs of their houses at daybreak, and, facing the east, patiently await the coming of Montezuma, whom they firmly believed would appear some morning in the place of the sun. He heard of, but was not allowed to see, the perpetual fire, lighted by Montezuma, that has been kept burning for ages by a family of priests, set apart and supported by the people for that particular purpose. He saw women grinding corn into fine white meal between two stones, and baking it into delicious thin cakes on another. He saw them weaving blankets, of sheep's wool, so fine that they will hold water for a whole day, and so strong that they will last a long lifetime. He ate some of the white dried peaches and other fruits that these Indians raise in such abundance and prepare with such skill. And what pleased him more than anything else was that, in exchange for two flour-sacks and a small piece of bacon, one of the Indians made him a fine buckskin shirt, very much adorned with fringes, that he wore all the rest of the winter. It certainly was a most interesting place, and the whole party would gladly have lingered there longer than the three days that could be spared to it. But it was now November, and they must be beyond the San Francisco Mountains before the passes were blocked with heavy snows. So they bade good-bye to Zuñi and New Mexico, and, taking their way past Jacob's Well, where a fine spring bubbles up at the bottom of a funnel-shaped pit, six hundred feet across at the top, and a hundred and fifty feet deep, they entered the little-known region of Northern Arizona. For three months they toiled through that wild country, as lost to the view and knowledge of white civilization as though they were running their line through Central Africa. Then they emerged on the bank of the mighty Colorado, and, looking across its turbid flood, saw the barren wastes of the Great Colorado Desert; but they gave a shout of joy at the sight, for, with all its dreariness of aspect, that was California, and beyond it lay the Pacific, the goal of their hopes. The last three months had been filled with toil, hardships, and adventure. Although in that time they saw no white men, nor men of any kind beyond catching occasional glimpses of the stealthy Apaches, who hung on their trail for weeks, and with whom they exchanged more than one rifle-shot, they were never without evidences that this whole vast country had once been occupied by a mighty people. Hardly a day passed that Glen did not hold his rod on the ruined foundation-wall of some huge structure of long ago, or stumble over heaps of broken pottery graceful in form and design, or gaze wonderingly at the stone houses of ancient cliff-dwellers perched on ledges now inaccessible, or walk in the dry beds of crumbling aqueducts, or select choice specimens from piles of warlike implements fashioned from shining crystal or milk-white quartz, or, in some way, have his attention called to the fact that he was traversing a country in which had dwelt millions of his kind, who had long since passed away and been forgotten. He had puzzled over miles of hieroglyphic inscriptions and rude pictures, drawn on the smooth black walls of rugged cañons, and learned from them fragmentary tales of ancient battles or of encounters with savage beasts. Then, too, he had known hunger and thirst and bitter cold. His Christmas dinner, eaten during a short pause from work on the line, had been a bit of spoiled bacon and a couple of wormy hard-tack, with which, in honor of the day, he had his full share of "Billy" Brackett's treasured cheese, brought out at last to grace this feast. Not only were their provisions nearly exhausted at that time, but it was the fifth day on which they had been unable to wash, for want of water. Two weeks before, a wagon had been sent to the mining-camp of Prescott, nearly a hundred miles away, and they had nearly given up all hopes of its safe return. That night it came into camp, and that night, too, they found a number of rock cisterns full of water. In the darkness of that same evening, while hastening from the pool in which he had been bathing, to get his share of the Christmas supper, poor Glen had run plump into a gigantic cactus, and filled his body with its tiny, barbed thorns. Altogether it was a memorable Christmas, and one he will never forget. On the last night of December they built a gigantic bonfire of whole trees, and welcomed in the new year by the light of its leaping flames. They had passed through vast tracts of wonderful fertility and beauty, unknown to white men, and through regions abounding in game that they had no time to hunt. From the summit of the Aztec Pass they had gazed, with dismay, over the boundless expanse of the Black Forest, and then had plunged into its dark depths. They had threaded their way through labyrinths of precipitous cañons, the walls of which rose thousands of feet above their heads, and had known of others still more tremendous. They had waded through the snows of the San Francisco Mountains, and revelled in the warmth and beauty of the superb Val de Chino, where snow and ice are unknown. They had dodged the crashing boulders hurled down on them in Union Pass by the Hualapi Indians, posted on the inaccessible heights far above them. Here they had lost a wagon, crushed to splinters by one of these masses of rock; but no lives had been sacrificed, and their number was still the same as when they left the Rio Grande. Now they were on the bank of the Colorado, with only one desert and one range of mountains yet to cross. These seemed so little, after all they had gone through; and yet that desert alone was two hundred and fifty miles wide. Two hundred and fifty miles of sand, sage-brush, and alkali; the most barren region of country within the limits of the United States. If they could have looked ahead and seen what the crossing of that desert meant, they would have entered upon the undertaking with heavy hearts and but faint hopes of accomplishing it. How fortunate it is that we cannot look ahead and see the trials that await us. We would never dare face them if they should all appear to us at once; while, by meeting them singly, and attacking them one by one, they are overcome with comparative ease. But neither Glen nor his companions were thinking of the trials ahead of them as they came in sight of the Colorado River. They were only thinking of those left behind, and what a glorious thing it was to have got thus far along in their tremendous journey. The transit-party had run their line to the river's bank and gone to camp a mile or so below, when the levellers came up, and Glen held his rod, for a final reading, at the water's edge. He had just noted the figures in his book, and waved an "All right" to "Billy" Brackett, when he was startled by a rush of hoofs and a joyous shout. The next instant a horse was reined sharply up beside him, while its rider was wringing his hand and uttering almost incoherent words of extravagant joy at once more seeing him. Chapter XXXVII. A PRACTICAL USE OF TRIGONOMETRY. It was Binney Gibbs who had come up the river from Fort Yuma several days before, with General Elting, to meet the second division, and guide them to "The Needles," the point at which the line was to cross the Colorado. The other divisions, which had followed the Gila route, and crossed the Colorado at Fort Yuma, where the desert was narrower, had reached the Pacific ere this, and gone on to San Francisco. The hardest task of all, that of running a line over the desert where it was two hundred and fifty miles wide, had been reserved for Mr. Hobart's men, who had proved themselves so capable of enduring and overcoming hardships. Binney had waited impatiently in camp until the transit-party reached it, expecting to see Glen ride in at its head with the front flag. Then he had borrowed a horse, and set forth to find the boy whom he had once considered his rival, but whom he now regarded as one of his best friends. After the first exchange of greetings, they stood and looked at each other curiously. Glen's hair hung on his shoulders, and the braid that bound the brim of his sombrero was worn to a picturesque fringe, matching that of his buckskin shirt. He was broader and browner than ever; and though his face was still smooth and boyish, these last three months had stamped it with a look of resolute energy that Binney noticed at once. He, too, was brown, though not nearly so tanned as Glen, in spite of the burning suns of the Gila Valley; for his work had kept him under cover as much as Glen's had kept him in the open air. As General Elting's secretary, Binney had spent most of his time in the ambulance, that, fitted up with writing-desk and table, was the chief-engineer's field-office, or in temporary offices established in tents or houses wherever they had halted for more than a day at a time. He had evidently met with barbers along the comparatively well-travelled Gila; while, as compared with Glen's picturesquely ragged costume, his was that of respectable civilization. Although he, too, was the picture of health, his frame lacked the breadth and fulness of Glen's, and it was evident at a glance that, in the matter of physical strength, he was even more greatly the other's inferior than when they left Brimfield. Glen could not help noting this with a feeling of secret satisfaction; but, as they rode towards camp together, and Binney described his winter's experiences, Glen began to regard him with vastly increased respect. He thought he had studied hard, and done well to master the mysteries of adjusting and running a level, perfecting himself as a rodman, and learning to plot profile; but his knowledge appeared insignificant as compared with that which Binney had picked up and stored away. Not only had he learned to speak Spanish fluently, but he had become enough of a geologist to talk understandingly of coal-seams and ore-beds. He had the whole history of the country through which he had passed, from the date of its Spanish discovery, at his tongue's end. He spoke familiarly of the notable men to whom, at General Elting's dictation, he had written letters, and altogether he appeared to be a self-possessed, well-informed young man of the world. Poor Glen was beginning to feel very boyish and quite abashed in the presence of so much wisdom, and to wonder if he had not been wasting his opportunities on this trip as he had those of school. His thoughts were inclining towards a decidedly unpleasant turn, when they were suddenly set right again by Binney, who exclaimed, "But, I say, old man, what a fine thing you fellows have done this winter! The general declares that you have made one of the most notable surveys on record; and it's a thing every one of you ought to be proud of. You should have heard him congratulate Mr. Hobart. He asked at once about you, too, and wants to see you as soon as you get in. He seems to take a great interest in you, and has spoken of you several times. I expect, if you choose to keep on in this business, you can always be sure of a job through him. He seems to think it queer that you should be a year older than I am; but I told him it was certainly so, because I knew just when your birthday came." Glen was on the point of saying that, if Binney knew that, it was more than he did, but something thing kept him silent. He hated to acknowledge that he knew nothing of his real birthday, nor how old he really was, but he wondered if he could truly be a year older than this wise young secretary. At this point the conversation was interrupted by their arrival at camp, and by General Elting stepping from his tent to give Glen a hearty handshake as he exclaimed, "My dear boy, I am delighted and thankful to see you again. I tried to persuade our friend Mr. Hobart, when I last saw him at Santa Fé, that, in spite of your performance on that railroad ride you and I took together last summer, you were too young to make the trip I had laid out for him. He said he didn't know anything about your age, but that you were certainly strong and plucky enough for the trip. I made him promise, though, to try and induce you to go back from Isletta; but he doesn't seem to have succeeded." "No, sir," laughed Glen, "and I'm awfully glad he didn't, for it's been the most glorious kind of a trip, and I have enjoyed every minute of it." "I am glad, too, now that it is all over; but I must tell you that, if I had not been assured that you were a whole year older than my young secretary here, I should have insisted on your going back, for I considered it too hard and dangerous a trip for a boy so young as I had supposed you to be until then." Here was another good reason why Glen was glad he had remained silent on the subject of his birthday. "Now what do you think of running a line across the desert ahead of us?" continued the chief-engineer; "are you as anxious to undertake that as you were to cross Arizona?" "Yes, indeed, I am, sir," replied Glen, earnestly. "I am anxious to go wherever the second division goes; and if anybody can get a line across that desert, I know we can." "I believe you can," said the chief, smiling at the boy's enthusiasm, "and I am going along to see how you do it." The Colorado was so broad, deep, and swift that Glen wondered how they were going to measure across it, and had a vague idea that it could be done by stretching a long rope from bank to bank. He asked "Billy" Brackett; and when the leveller answered, "By triangulation, of course," Glen showed, by his puzzled expression, that he was as much in the dark as ever. "You have studied geometry and trigonometry, haven't you?" asked the leveller. Glen was obliged to confess that, as he had not been able to see the use of those studies, he had not paid much attention to them. "Well, then, perhaps you'll have a better opinion of old Euclid when you see the practical use we'll put him to to-morrow," laughed "Billy" Brackett. Glen did see, the next day, and wondered at the simplicity of the operation. The front flag was sent across the river in a boat, and on the opposite side he drove a stake. While he was thus engaged, a line a quarter of a mile long was measured on the bank where the rest of the party still remained, and a stake was driven at each end of it. The transit was set up over one of these stakes, and its telescope was pointed first at the other and then at the one across the river, by which means the angle where it stood was taken. It was then set over the stake at the other end of the measured line, and that angle was also taken. Then Mr. Hobart drew, on a leaf of his transit-book, a triangle, of which the base represented the line measured between the two stakes on his side of the river, and one side represented the distance across the river that he wished to find. He thus had one side and two angles of a triangle given to find one of the other two sides, and he solved the problem as easily as any boy or girl of the trigonometry-class can whose time in school has not been wasted as Glen Eddy's was. It was a simple operation, and one easily performed, but it involved a knowledge of the four fundamental rules of arithmetic, of proportion, or the rule of three, of geometry, of trigonometry, and of how to use a surveyor's transit; all of which, except the last, are included in the regular course of studies of every boy and girl in America who receives a common-school education. Glen had also been sent across the river, where he held his rod so high up on the bank that the cross hair in the telescope of the level cut just one tenth of an inch above its bottom. Then, when "Billy" Brackett came over, and went on beyond Glen, he set the level up so high on the bank that, through it, he could just see the top of the rod, extended to its extreme length. So they climbed slowly up out of the Colorado Valley, and began to traverse the dreary country that lay between it and the Sierra Nevada. For the first hundred miles or so they got along very well, so far as water was concerned, though the mules and horses speedily began to grow thin and weak for want of food. The patches of grass were very few and far between, and the rations of corn exceedingly small; for in that country corn was worth its weight in gold, and scarce at that. Chapter XXXVIII. DYING OF THIRST IN THE DESERT. Matters were bad enough by the time Mr. Hobart's party reached Camp Cady, nearly half way across the desert; but, from there on, they became much worse. The line could no longer follow the winding government trail, but must be run straight for the distant mountains, that were now plainly to be seen. This experience vividly recalled that of the preceding summer, when they were crossing the Plains towards the Rocky Mountains, and longing so eagerly to reach them. But this was infinitely worse than that. There they generally found water that was sweet and fit to drink, and always had plenty of grass for their stock. Here they rarely found water, and when they did it was nearly always so strongly impregnated with salt, soda, and alkali as to be unfit to drink. Here, too, instead of grass, they found only sand, sage brush, greasewood, and cacti. To be sure the greasewood was a comfort, because it burned just as readily green as dry, and in certain of the cacti, round ones covered with long curved spines, they could nearly always find a mouthful of water, but none of these things afforded any nourishment for the hungry animals. They became so ravenous that they gnawed off one another's manes and tails, chewed up the wagon covers, and every other piece of cloth they could get hold of. Then they began to die so fast from starvation and exhaustion that some dead ones were left behind with every camp, and each day the number was increased. At nearly every camp, too, a wagon was abandoned, and for miles they could look back and see its white cover, looming above the dreary expanse of sand and sage, like a monument to the faithful animals that had fallen beside it. At length but one wagon and the two ambulances were left. Tents, baggage, clothing, all the bedding except one blanket apiece, and the greater part of their provisions, had been thrown away, or left in the abandoned wagons. Within forty miles of the mountains they gave up work on the line. The men had no longer the strength to drag the chain or carry the instruments. They still noted their course by compass, and the height of various elevations as they crossed them, by the barometer. They were even able to measure the distance from one sad camping-place to another, by means of the odometer, an instrument that, attached to a wagon-wheel, records the number of revolutions made by it. This number, multiplied by the circumference of the wheel, gave them the distance in feet and inches. Everybody was now on foot, even the chief's saddle-horse, Señor, and Glen's Nettle being harnessed to one of the ambulances. At last, when the mountains appeared tantalizingly near, but when they were still nearly twenty miles away, it seemed as though the end had come. For two days neither men nor animals had tasted a drop of water. At the close of the second day, a slight elevation had disclosed a lake lying at their feet, glowing in the red beams of the setting sun. With feeble strength they had rushed to it, and flung themselves into its tempting waters. They were as salt as brine, and, with this bitter disappointment, came despair. They lighted fires and made coffee with the brackish water that oozed into holes dug in the salt-encrusted sand, but it sickened them, and they could not drink it. Their lips were cracked, their tongues swollen, their throats like dry leather, and their voices were hardly more than husky whispers. As the moon rose that evening, and poured its cold light on the outstretched forms grouped about the solitary, white-sheeted wagon, a hand was laid on Glen's shoulder, and the chief's voice bade the boy rise and follow him. Leading the way to the ambulance in which Binney Gibbs slept the sleep of utter exhaustion and despair, and to which the horses Señor and Nettle were fastened, the general said, "There is but one hope left for us, Matherson. It is certain that some of the party have not strength enough to carry them to the mountains, and equally so that, without water, the teams can never reach there. In the valleys of these mountains are streams, and on these streams are ranches. If we can get word to one of these, the entire party may yet be saved. I am going to try and ride there to-night, and I want you to come with me. Our horses, and yours in particular, are the freshest of all the animals. I have told Mr. Hobart; but there is no need of rousing any of the others to a sense of their misery. Will you make the attempt with me?" Of course the boy would go; and, for a moment, he almost forgot his sufferings, in a feeling of pride that he should be selected for such an undertaking. A minute later they rode slowly away, and the desert sands so muffled the sound of their horses' hoofs that their departure was not noted by those whom they left. With fresh, strong animals, and without that terrible choking thirst, that night ride over the moonlight plain would have been a rare pleasure. Under the circumstances it was like a frightful dream. Neither of the riders cared to talk; the effort was too painful; but both thought of the last ride they had taken together in the cab of a locomotive on a Missouri railroad, and the man looked tenderly at the boy, as he recalled the incidents of that night. For an hour they rode in silence, their panting steeds maintaining a shambling gait through the sand, that was neither a trot nor a lope, but a mixture of the two. Then they dropped into a walk, and, for another hour, were only roused to greater speed by infinite exertions on the part of their riders. At last Señor stumbled heavily, recovered himself, and then fell. "There is no use trying to get him up again," said the chief. "I'm afraid the poor old horse is done for; but you must ride on, and I will follow on foot. Head for that dark space. It marks a valley. I shall not be far behind you. If you find water, fire your pistol. The sound will give me new strength. Good-bye, and may God prosper you." [Illustration: "'HEAD FOR THAT DARK SPACE. IT MARKS A VALLEY.... IF YOU FIND WATER, FIRE YOUR PISTOL.'"] "But I hate to leave you, sir." "Never mind me; hurry on. A moment wasted now may be at the price of a life." So Glen went on alone, trying, in husky tones, to encourage his brave little mare, and urge her to renewed efforts. She seemed to realize that this was a struggle for life, and responded nobly. She even broke into a lope, as the ground became harder. The sand was disappearing. Water might be nearer than they thought. Five miles farther Nettle carried her rider, and then she staggered beneath his weight. She could not bear him a rod farther, and he knew it. A choking sob rose in the boy's parched throat as he dismounted and left her standing there, the plucky steed that had brought him so far and so faithfully; but he could not stay with her, he must go on. He could see the opening to the valley plainly now, though it was still some miles away; and, summoning all his strength, he walked towards it. At half the distance he was skirting a foot-hill, when down its gravelly side, directly towards him, rushed two animals, like great dogs. They were mountain-wolves at play, one chasing the other, and they came on, apparently without seeing him. When, with a hoarse cry, he attracted their attention, they stopped, and, sitting on their haunches, not more than a couple of rods away, gazed at him curiously. He dared not fire at them, for fear of only wounding one and thus arousing their fury. Nor did he wish to raise false hopes in the mind of General Elting, who might hear the shot and think it meant water. Some one had told him of the cowardice of wolves. He would try it. Picking up a stone, he flung it at them, at the same time running forward, brandishing his arms, and giving a feeble shout. They sprang aside, hesitated a moment, and then turned tail and fled. Soon afterwards Glen reached the valley, which was apparently about half a mile broad. On its farther side was a line of shadow blacker than the rest. It might be timber. With tottering footsteps the boy staggered towards it. As his feet touched a patch of grass he could have knelt and kissed it, but at the same instant he heard the most blessed sound on earth, the trickling of a rivulet. He fell as he reached it, and plunged his head into the life-giving water. It was warm and strongly impregnated with sulphur; but never had he tasted anything so delicious, nor will he ever again. Had it been cold water, the amount that he drank might have killed him; as it was, it only made him sick. After a while he recovered, and then how he gloated in that tiny stream. How he bathed his hands and face, and, suddenly, how he wished the others were there with him. Perhaps a shot might bear the joyful news to the ears of the general. With the thought he drew his revolver, and roused the mountain echoes with its six shots, fired in quick succession. Then he tried to walk up the valley in the hope of finding a ranch. It was all he could do to keep on his feet, and only a mighty effort of will restrained him from flinging himself down on the grass and going to sleep beside that stream of blessed water. A few minutes later there came a quick rush of hoofs from up the valley, and in the moonlight he saw two horsemen galloping towards him. They dashed up with hurried questions as to the firing they had heard, and, somehow, he managed to make them understand that a party of white men were dying of thirst twenty miles out on the desert. The next thing he knew, he was in a house, and dropping into a sleep of such utter weariness that to do anything else would have been beyond his utmost power of mind or body. Chapter XXXIX. CROSSING THE SIERRA NEVADA. When Glen next woke to a realizing sense of his surroundings, the evening shadows had again fallen, and he heard familiar voices near by him. All were there, General Elting, Mr. Hobart, "Billy" Brackett, Binney Gibbs, and the rest, just sitting down to a supper at the hospitable ranch table. It was laden with fresh beef, soft bread, butter, eggs, milk, boiled cabbage, and tea, all of them luxuries that they had not tasted for months. And they had plates, cups and saucers, spoons, knives, and forks. Glen wondered if he should know how to use them; but he did not wonder if he were hungry. Nor did he wait for an invitation to join that supper-party. He was dirty and ragged and unkempt as he entered the room in which his comrades were assembled; but what did they care? He was the one who had found help and sent it to them in the time of their sore need. Some of them owed their lives to him, perhaps all of them did. Every man in the room stood up, as the chief took him by the hand and led him to the head of the table, saying, "Here he is, gentlemen. Here is the lad who saved the second division. Some of us might have got through without his help; others certainly would not. Right here I wish to thank him, and to thank God for the strength, pluck, and powers of endurance with which this boy, to whom we owe so much, is endowed." And Glen! How did he take all this praise? Why, he was so hungry, and his eyes were fixed so eagerly on the table full of good things spread before him that he hardly knew what the general was talking about. If they would only let him sit down and eat, and drink some of that delicious-looking water! He came very near interrupting the proceedings by doing so. At length, to his great relief, they all sat down, and in a moment Glen was eating and drinking in a manner only possible to a hearty boy who has gone without water and almost without food for two days. A little later, seated before a glorious camp-fire of oak logs outside the ranch, Glen learned how the two ranchmen, after getting him to the house, had loaded a wagon with barrels of water and gone out on the desert. They first found General Elting, nearly exhausted, but still walking, within a couple of miles of the valley, and afterwards discovered the rest of the party dragging themselves falteringly along beside one of the ambulances, which, with the notes and maps of the expedition, was the only thing they had attempted to bring in. And Nettle! Oh, yes; the brave little mare was also found, revived, and brought in to the ranch. She needed a long rest; and both for her sake and as a token of his gratitude, Glen presented her to one of the ranchmen. The settlers went out that same night after the other ambulance and the wagon, abandoned on the shore of the salt lake. When they returned, General Elting traded his big, nearly exhausted army mules for their wiry little bronchos, giving two for one, and thus securing fresh teams to haul all that remained of his wagon-train to the coast. The party spent three days in recruiting at this kindly ranch, to which they will always look back with grateful hearts, and think of as one of the most beautiful spots on earth. Then, strengthened and refreshed, they passed on up the valley, which proved to be that of the Tehachapa, the very pass towards which they had directed their course from the moment of leaving the Colorado. How beautiful seemed its oak-groves, its meadows, its abounding springs of cool, sweet water, and its clear, bracing air! How they ate and slept and worked and enjoyed living! What grand camp-fires they had, and how much merriment circulated about them! And had they not cause for rejoicing? Had they not toiled across half the width of a continent? Had they not traversed vast plains and mountain-ranges and deserts? Had they not encountered savage men and savage beasts? Had they not suffered from hunger, thirst, cold, and hardships of all kinds? Had they not conquered and triumphed over all these? Were they not left far behind, and was not the journey's end in sight? No wonder they were light-hearted and excited, and no wonder they seemed to inhale champagne with every breath of that mountain air! General Elting left them at the summit of the pass, and, taking Binney Gibbs with him in his private ambulance, hastened on to Los Angeles to make arrangements for the transportation of the party, by steamer, up the coast to San Francisco; for there were no railroads in California in those days. The rest of the engineers travelled leisurely down the western slope of the Sierras into a region that became more charming with each mile of progress. It was spring-time. The rainy season was drawing to its close, and the Golden State was at its best. The air was filled with the sweet scents of innumerable flowers, the song of birds, and the music of rushing waters. The bay-trees wore their new spring robes of vivid green, from which the soft winds shook out delightfully spicy odors. The trunks of the manzanitas glowed beneath their wine-red skins, while the madronos were clad in glossy, fawn-colored satins. To the toil-worn explorers, just off the alkaline sands of the parched and verdureless desert, the old mission of San Gabriel, nestled at the base of the western foot-hills, seemed the very garden-spot of the world. Here were groves of oranges, lemons, limes, pomegranates, and olives. Here were roses and jasmines. Here were heliotrope and fuchsias, grown to be trees, and a bewildering profusion of climbing vines and flowering shrubs, of which they knew not the names. But they recognized the oranges, though none of them had ever seen one growing before; and, with a shout of joy, the entire party rushed into the grove, where the trees were laden at once with the luscious fruit and perfumed blossoms. There was no pause to discuss the proper method of peeling an orange in this case, for they did not stop to peel them at all. They just ate them, skin and all, like so many apples. It was such a treat as they had never enjoyed before, and they made the most of it. Not long after leaving San Gabriel, as they were making a night march towards Los Angeles, Glen suddenly became aware of a strange humming sound above his head; and, looking up, saw a telegraph wire. With a glad shout he announced its presence. It was the most civilized thing they had seen since leaving Kansas. At Los Angeles they could not make up their minds to endure the close, dark rooms of the Fonda, and so camped out for the night in the government corral beside their wagon. The following day they made their last march over twenty miles of level prairie, dotted with flocks and herds, to San Pedro, on the coast. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was setting, when, from a slight eminence, they caught their first glimpse of the gold-tinted Pacific waters. For a moment they gazed in silence, with hearts too full for words. Then everybody shook hands with the one nearest to him, and more than one tear of joyful emotion trickled down the bronzed and weather-beaten cheeks of the explorers. As for Glen Eddy, he never expects to be so thrilled again as he was by the sight of that mighty ocean gleaming in the red light of the setting sun, and marking the end of the most notable journey of his life. That night they made their last camp, and gathered about their final camp-fire. Glen and "Billy" Brackett had shared their blankets ever since leaving the Rio Grande, and had hardly slept, even beneath a canvas roof, in all those months. Now, as they lay together for the last time, on their bed of grassy turf, which is of all beds the one that brings the sweetest and soundest sleep, and gazed at the stars that had kept faithful watch above them for so long, they talked in low tones until a gentle sea-breeze set in and they were lulled to sleep by the murmur of distant breakers, a music now heard by both of them for the first time in their lives. The next day they turned over their sole remaining wagon and their ambulance to a government quartermaster. Then, having no baggage, they were ready, without further preparation, to embark on the steamer _Orizaba_ for San Francisco, to which place General Elting and Binney Gibbs had gone on, by stage, from Los Angeles, some days before. As the great ship entered the Golden Gate and steamed up the bay, past Tamalpias, past the Presidio, past Alcatraz Island, and into the harbor of San Francisco, Glen Eddy found it hard to realize that it was all true, and that this young explorer, who was about to set foot in the city of his most romantic day dreams, was really the boy who had started from Brimfield ten months before, without an idea of what was before him. Chapter XL. A HOME AND TWO FATHERS. Of course they all went to the Occidental, for everybody went first to the Occidental in those days. As they drove through the city, in open carriages, their long hair, buckskin shirts, rags, in some cases soleless and toeless boots, and generally wild and disreputable appearance attracted much amused attention from the well-dressed shoppers of Montgomery Street; and, when they trooped into the marble rotunda of the great hotel, they excited the universal curiosity of its other and more civilized guests. But they did not mind--they enjoyed the sensation they were creating; and Glen, who was one of the wildest-looking of them all, rather pitied Binney Gibbs on account of the fine clothing he had already assumed, as the two met and exchanged hearty greetings once more. "Come up into my room, Glen," said Binney, eagerly, "I've got a lot of Brimfield news, and there's a pile of letters for you besides. Only think, Lame Wolf is playing short-stop on the ball nine, and they say he's going to make one of the best players they've ever had." The last news Glen had received from home was in the letters Mr. Hobart had brought from Santa Fé nearly five months before. He had learned then of Lame Wolf's safe arrival at Brimfield, and of his beginning to study English; but now to hear of his being on the ball nine! That was making progress; and the boy felt very proud of his young Indian. But there was more startling news than that awaiting him. In one of the letters from his adopted father, which, though it bore the latest date, had already been waiting in San Francisco more than a month, he read, with amazement, the following paragraphs: "I have just received a note from a lady who writes that she met a gentleman in New Mexico who told her all about you. She was intensely interested, because she thinks she knew your mother, and travelled with her and you on the day the train was wrecked in Glen Eddy creek, when you and I were the only survivors. She also says that the mother with whom she travelled said her baby was just a year old, and that day was his birthday. So, my dear boy, if it should happen that you and the baby she mentions are the same, you are a year younger than we have always thought you, and are just the age of Binney Gibbs. In conclusion, the lady writes that she believes your real father to be still alive, and she thinks she knows his name, but prefers not to mention it until she hears from me all that I know of your history. I, of course, wrote to her at once, and am anxiously expecting an answer. I never loved you more than now, and to give you up will well-nigh break my heart; but, if there is anything better in store for you than I can offer, I would be the last one to stand in the way of your accepting it. "Now, my dear boy, come home as soon as you can, and perhaps you will find two fathers awaiting you instead of one. We are full of anxiety concerning you. Be sure and telegraph the moment you arrive in San Francisco." Over and over did Glen read this letter before he could control himself sufficiently to speak. Binney Gibbs noticed his agitation, and finally said, "No bad news, I hope, old man?" For answer the boy handed him the letter, which Binney read with ever-growing excitement. When he finished he exclaimed, "It's wonderful, Glen, and I do hope it will come out all right. I always felt sorry for you at not knowing who you were, even when I was so meanly jealous of you for being stronger and more popular than I, and now I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart. What a lucky thing it has been though, over and over again, not only for you, but for me, and the whole second division, that you were stronger than I!" he added, with a hearty sincerity that he would not have exhibited a year before. "I tell you what, this trip has opened my eyes to some things, and one of them is that a fellow's body needs just as much training as his mind." "It has opened mine too," said Glen, earnestly. "It has taught me that, no matter how strong a fellow is, he can't expect to amount to much in this world unless he knows something, and that he can't know much unless he learns it by hard study. If ever I get a chance to go to school again, you better believe I'll know how to value it." "And if I ever get another chance to learn how to swim, you may be sure I won't throw it away in a hurry," laughed Binney. "Only see what a splendid fellow 'Billy' Brackett is," continued Glen, "just because he has trained his muscle and his brain at the same time, without letting either get ahead of the other. And, speaking of 'Billy' Brackett, I must go and show him this letter, because he is one of the best friends I have got in the world, and I know he'll be glad to hear anything that pleases me." First, Glen stopped at the telegraph office in the hotel, and sent the following despatch to Brimfield. "Just arrived, safe and sound. Start for home first steamer," for which he paid eight dollars in gold. Then he went to "Billy" Brackett's room, where he found that young engineer struggling with a new coat that had just been sent in from a tailor's, and lamenting, more than ever, the loss of his shiny but well-loved old cutaway that had been eaten by one of the hungry mules on the desert. He was as interested as Glen knew he would be in the letter, and as he finished it he exclaimed: "Well, you are in luck, my boy, and I'm glad of it! Here I am, without a father to my name, while you seem likely to have two. Well, you deserve a dozen; and if you had 'em, each one would be prouder of you than the other." After a week spent in San Francisco, during which time the barber, tailor, and various outfitters made a marvellous change in Glen's personal appearance, he, together with General Elting and Binney Gibbs, boarded one of the great Pacific Mail Steamships for Panama. Mr. Hobart, "Billy" Brackett, and the other members of the second division, had decided to remain for a while on that coast, and most of them had already accepted positions on some of the various engineering works then in progress in California; but they were all at the steamer to see the homeward-bound travellers off. As the great wheels were set in motion, and the stately ship moved slowly from the wharf, the quieter spectators were startled by the tremendous farewell cheer that arose from the "campmates" who remained behind; and the cries of "good-bye, general! we'll be on hand whenever you want us again! Good-bye, Grip! Good-bye, Glen, old man! We won't forget the desert in a hurry! Good-bye!" The run down the coast was a smooth and pleasant one; while the several Mexican and Central American ports at which they touched were full of interest and delightful novelty to the Brimfield boys. They thoroughly enjoyed crossing the Isthmus, and would gladly have lingered longer amid its wonderful tropic scenery. Not until they were on the Atlantic, however, and steaming northward, did they realize that they were fairly on their way home. One day, as the two boys were sitting on deck, in company with General Elting, gazing at the coast of Cuba, which they were then passing, Binney Gibbs broke a long silence with the remark, "Doesn't it seem queer, Glen, to think that when you get home you will be just the age you were when you left it, and perhaps your name won't be 'Glen Eddy' after all?" General Elting had not heard of Glen's letter from his adopted father, nor had he ever heard him called "Glen Eddy" before; and now he asked Binney what he meant by such a curious speech. When it was explained, he sat silent for several minutes, looking at Glen with such a peculiar expression that the boy grew uneasy beneath the fixed gaze. Then, without a word, he rose and walked away, nor did they see him again for several hours. He talked much with Glen during the remainder of the voyage, and frequently puzzled him by his questions, and the interest he manifested in everything relating to his past life. As he was going to St. Louis, he took the same train with the boys from New York; and, though he bade them good-bye as they neared Brimfield, he said that he hoped and expected to see them again very shortly. How natural the place looked as the train rolled up to the little station, and how impossible it was to realize that they had crossed the continent and sailed on two oceans since leaving it! "There's father!" shouted Glen and Binney at the same instant. "And there are all the boys! Who is that dark, good-looking chap with them? It can't be Lame Wolf! But it is, though! Did you ever see such a change for the better? Bully for Lame Wolf!" "Hurrah for Glen Eddy! Hurrah for Binney Gibbs!" shouted the Brimfield boys, wild with the excitement of welcoming home two such heroes as the young explorers were in their eyes. The very first to grasp Glen's hand was the Indian lad, and he said in good English, though with a Cheyenne accent, "How Glen! Lem Wolf is very glad. Lem Wolf is short-stop now. He can play ball." Binney Gibbs disappeared in his father's carriage; but Glen walked from the station with his adopted father, and everybody wanted to shake hands with him, and ask him questions, and throng about him, so that it seemed as though they never would reach home. It was a happy home-coming, and Glen was touched by the interest and the kindly feeling manifested towards him; but how he did long to reach the house, and be alone for a minute with Mr. Matherson. There was one question that he was so eager, and yet almost afraid, to ask. Had his own father been discovered? But he could not ask it before all those people, nor did he have an opportunity for a full hour after they reached the house. Some of the neighbors were there, and they had to have supper, and everything seemed to interfere to postpone that quiet talk for which he was so anxious. At length he could wait no longer, and, almost dragging Mr. Matherson into the little front parlor, he closed the door and said breathlessly, "Now tell me, father; tell me quick! Is he alive? Have you found him?" "Yes, my boy, he is alive, or was a few months ago, and I think we can find him. In fact, I believe you know him very well, and could tell me where to find him better than I can tell you." "What do you mean?" cried Glen. "Oh, tell me quick! What is his name?" There was so much confusion outside that they did not notice the opening of the front gate, nor the strange step on the walk. As Mr. Matherson was about to reply to the boy's eager question, the parlor door opened, and one of the children entered, with a card in her hand, saying, "Somebody wants to see you, papa." As Mr. Matherson glanced at the card he sprang to his feet, trembling with excitement. "Gerald Elting!" he cried. "Why, Glen, that is the name of your own father!" "And here is his own father, eager to claim his son," came from the open doorway, in the manly tones that Glen had long since learned to love. The next moment the man's arms were about the boy's neck, as, in a voice trembling with long-suppressed emotion, he cried, "Oh, my son, my son! Have I found you after all these years? Now is my long sorrow indeed turned to joy." THE END. Books by KIRK MUNROE CAMPMATES. DORYMATES. CANOEMATES. RAFTMATES. WAKULLA. THE FLAMINGO FEATHER. DERRICK STERLING. CHRYSTAL, JACK & CO. THE COPPER PRINCESS. FORWARD, MARCH! THE BLUE DRAGON. FOR THE MIKADO. UNDER THE GREAT BEAR. THE FUR-SEAL'S TOOTH. SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES. RICK DALE. THE PAINTED DESERT. 
41708	----	[Illustration] [Illustration: That which had come out of the east on this bright June morning was a ship's lifeboat about eighteen feet long.--Page 4.] JACK THE HUNCHBACK; A STORY OF ADVENTURE ON THE COAST OF MAINE. BY JAMES OTIS, _Author of "The Castaways," "A Runaway Brig," "Search for the Silver City," "The Treasure Finders," "With Lafayette at Yorktown," "With Washington at Monmouth," "The Treasure of Cocos Island," "Wrecked on Spider Island," etc., etc._ NEW YORK: A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER Copyright, 1892, BY BRADLEY & WOODRUFF. _All rights reserved._ CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. ADRIFT 1 II. AT AUNT NANCY'S 14 III. LEARNING TO MILK 28 IV. PURSUED 40 V. AN ENCOUNTER 52 VI. A MENTAL STRUGGLE 64 VII. FARMER PRATT 75 VIII. A SECOND WARNING 88 IX. THE ALARM 99 X. SICKNESS 111 XI. GARDENING 122 XII. LOUIS'S ADVENTURE 137 XIII. THE SEWING CIRCLE 152 XIV. AFTER THE STORM 167 XV. BROTHER ABNER 179 XVI. A HURRIED DEPARTURE 191 XVII. CAMP MEETING 204 XVIII. A DISASTER 218 XIX. JACK'S PROPOSITION 232 XX. BILL DEAN 247 XXI. STARTLING INFORMATION 261 XXII. THE ARRIVAL 273 _JACK THE HUNCHBACK._ CHAPTER I. ADRIFT. Tom Pratt firmly believed he was the most unfortunate boy in Maine when, on a certain June morning, his father sent him to the beach for a load of seaweed. Tom had never been in love with a farmer's life. He fancied that in any other sphere of action he could succeed, if not better, certainly more easily, than by weeding turnips or hoeing corn on the not very productive farm. But either planting or digging was preferable to loading a huge cart with the provokingly slippery weeds which his father insisted on gathering for compost each summer. Therefore, when the patient oxen, after much goading and an unusual amount of noise from their impatient driver, stood knee-deep in the surf contentedly chewing their cuds and enjoying the cool footbath, Tom, instead of beginning his work, sat at the forward part of the cart gazing seaward, thinking, perhaps, how pleasant must be a sailor's life while the ocean was calm and smiling as on this particular day. So deeply engrossed was he in idleness that his father's stern command from the hillside a short distance away, "to 'tend to his work an' stop moonin'," passed unheeded, and the same ox-goad he had been using might have been applied to his own body but for the fact that just as Farmer Pratt came within striking distance a tiny speck on the water attracted his attention. "It looks to me as if that might be a lapstreak boat out there, Tommy. Can you see anybody in her?" "I reckon that's what it is, father, an' she must be adrift." Farmer Pratt mounted the cart and scrutinized the approaching object until there could no longer be any question as to what it was, when Tom said gleefully,-- "It must be a ship's boat, an' if she hasn't got a crew aboard, we'll make a bigger haul than we could by cartin' seaweed for a week." "Yes, them kind cost more'n a dory," the farmer replied dreamily, as he mentally calculated the amount of money for which she might be sold. "I reckon we'll take her into Portland an' get a tidy--" "I can see a feller's head!" Tom interrupted, "an' it shets off our chance of sellin' her." That the boat had an occupant was evident. A closely shaven crown appeared above the stem as if its owner had but just awakened, and was peering out to see where his voyage was about to end. Nearer and nearer the little craft drifted until she was dancing on the shore line of the surf, and the figure in the bow gazed as intently landward as the farmer and his son did seaward. "It's a boy, father, an' he ain't as big as me!" Tom cried. "Well, that beats anything I ever saw!" This last remark probably referred to the general appearance of the young voyager. He was an odd-looking little fellow, with a head which seemed unusually small because the hair was closely cropped, and a bent, misshapen body several sizes too large for the thin legs which barely raised it above the gunwales. The face was by no means beautiful, but the expression of anxiety and fear caused it to appeal directly to Tom's heart, if not to his father's. Farmer Pratt was not pleased at thus learning that the boat had an occupant. Empty, she would have been a source of profit; but although there was apparently no one save the deformed lad aboard, he could make no legal claim upon her. The craft was there, however, and would speedily be overturned unless he waded out into the surf at the risk of a rheumatic attack, to pull her inshore. Although decidedly averse to performing any charitable deed, he did this without very much grumbling, and Tom was a most willing assistant. That which had come out of the east on this bright June morning was a ship's lifeboat about eighteen feet long, and with the name "Atlanta" painted on the gunwales. She was a much more valuable craft than Mr. Pratt had ever seen ashore on Scarborough beach, and yet he failed to calculate her value immediately, because as the bow grated on the sand the misshapen boy, from whose white lips not a word had escaped during all this time, suddenly lifted what at first appeared to be a bundle of cloth. This act in itself would not have caused any surprise, but at the same moment a familiar noise was heard from beneath the coverings. Farmer Pratt stepped back quickly in genuine alarm and wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt as he exclaimed,-- "Well, this beats anything I ever seen!" "It's a baby, father!" Tom cried, starting forward to take the burden from the crooked little sailor's arms; but the latter retreated as if afraid the child was to be carried away, and the farmer replied testily,-- "Of course it's a baby. Haven't I heard you cry often enough to know that?" "But how did it come here?" "That's what beats me"; and then, as if suddenly realizing that the apparent mystery might be readily solved, he asked the stranger, "Where did you come from, sonny?" "From Savannah." "Sho! Why, that's way down in Georgy. You didn't sail them many miles in this 'ere little boat?" "No, sir. We broke adrift from Captain Littlefield's ship yesterday when she blowed up, an' the baby's awful hungry." "Ship blowed up, eh? Whereabouts was she?" "Out there"; and the boy pointed eastward in an undecided manner, as if not exactly certain where he had come from. "What made her blow up?" Tom asked curiously. "I don't know. There was an awful splosion like more'n a hundred bunches of firecrackers, an' the captain put Louis an' me in the lifeboat to wait till his wife got some things from the cabin. While all the sailors was runnin' 'round wild like, we got adrift. I hollered an' hollered, but nobody saw us." Then he added in a lower tone, "Louis cried last night for somethin' to eat, an' he must be pretty hungry now." "Well, well, well!" and as the thought of whether he would be paid for the trouble of pulling the boat ashore came into the farmer's mind, he said quickly, "'Cordin' to that you don't own this boat?" "She belongs to the ship." "An' seein's how the vessel ain't anywhere near, I reckon I've as much right to this craft as anybody else. Where do you count on goin'?" "If we could only get back to New York I'm sure I would be able to find the captain's house." "It's a powerful long ways from here, sonny; but I'll see that you are put in a comfortable place till somethin' can be done. What's your name?" "John W. Dudley; but everybody calls me Jack, an' this is Louis Littlefield," the boy replied as he removed the coverings, exposing to view a child about two years old. Master Tom was delighted with the appearance of the little pink and white stranger, who was dressed in cambric and lace, with a thin gold chain around his neck, and would have shaken hands with him then and there if Jack had not stepped quickly back as he said,-- "He's afraid of folks he don't know, an' if you get him to cryin' I'll have a worse time than last night. What he wants is somethin' to eat." "Take 'em right up to the house, Tommy, an' tell mother to give them breakfast. When I get the boat hauled around (for I've got every reason to consider her mine), I'll carry both out to Thornton's." Jack clambered from the craft, disdaining Tom's assistance, and, taking the child in his arms, much as a small cat might carry a very large kitten, stood waiting for his guide to lead the way. Farmer Pratt's son was in no especial hurry to reach home, for while escorting the strangers he certainly could not be expected to shovel seaweed, and Jack said as Tom walked leisurely over the hot sand,-- "If you don't go faster, the baby'll begin to cry, for he's pretty near starved." "Why not let him walk? He's big enough; his legs are twice as large as Mrs. Libby's baby, an' he went alone a good while ago." "I'd rather carry him," Jack replied; and then he refused to enter into any conversation until they were at the foot of the narrow, shady lane leading to the house, when he asked, "Who's Mr. Thornton?" "He keeps the poor farm, an' father's goin' to take you out there." "What for? We want to go to New York." "Well, you see I don't reckon you'll get as far as that without a slat of money, an' father wants to put you fellers where you'll be took care of for a while." Jack stopped suddenly, allowed the baby to slip from his arms under the shade of an apple-tree whose blossoms filled the air with perfume, as he said angrily,-- "Louis sha'n't be taken to the poorhouse! I'll walk my feet off before anybody but his mother shall get him." "You couldn't go as far as New York, an' if he's so hungry you'd better let him have some bread an' milk." "How long before your father'll be back?" "It'll take him a couple of hours to carry the boat down to the Neck, an' that's the only place where she can lie without gettin' stove." "Then we'll go into your house long enough to feed the baby, an' I'll leave before he comes." "All right," and Tom took up the line of march once more. "I don't know as I blame you, for Thornton's ain't the nicest place that ever was, an' I'd rather haul seaweed for a month than stay there one night." Jack looked wistfully at the little farmhouse with its beds of old maid's pinks and bachelor's buttons in front of the muslin-curtained windows, thinking, perhaps, that shelter should be given him there rather than among the town's paupers; but he made no remark, and a few moments later they were standing in the cool kitchen while Tom explained to his mother under what circumstances he had made the acquaintance of the strangers. Mrs. Pratt was quite as economical as her husband; but the baby face touched her heart fully as much as did the fact that the boat in which the children had drifted ashore would amply repay any outlay in the way of food and shelter. She accepted the statement made by Tom, that the children were to be sent to Thornton's, because the town provided such an asylum, and there was no good reason, in her mind at least, why it should not be utilized in a case like this. Thus, with the pleasing knowledge that her involuntary guests would remain but a short time and cost her nothing, she set out a plentiful supply of fresh milk and sweet home-made bread, as she said,-- "Fill yourselves right full, children, for it will rest you to eat, and after you've had a nice ride, Mrs. Thornton will give you a chance to sleep." Jack looked up quickly as if about to make an angry reply, and then, as little Louis went toward the table eagerly, he checked himself, devoting all his attention to the child by waiting until the latter had finished before he partook of as much as a spoonful. Then he ate rapidly, and after emptying two bowls of milk, asked,-- "May I put some of the bread in my pocket?'" "Certainly, child; but it won't be needed, for there is plenty to eat at Thornton's, and most likely in a few days the selectmen will find some way to send word to the baby's relatives." Jack put three slices of bread in his pocket before replying, and then, as with an effort he lifted Louis in his arms, said,-- "We're not goin' to the poor farm, ma'am. We are bound to get to New York, an' thank you for the bread an' milk." Just at that moment Mrs. Pratt was intent on carrying the dishes from the table to the pantry, therefore she did not see the deformed boy leave the house quickly, Tom following close behind. Jack heard her call after him to wait until Mr. Pratt should return; but he shook his head decidedly, and trudged out from the green-carpeted lane to the dusty road, bent only on saving his little charge from the ignominy of the poorhouse. "Say, hold on for father!" Tom cried. "You can't walk even so far as Saco, an' where'll you sleep to-night?" "I'd rather stay in the woods, an' so had Louis," Jack replied; and then in reply to the child's fretful cries, he added, "Don't fuss; I'll find your mother." "But how can you do it if the ship has blowed up?" Tom asked, quickening his steps to keep pace with the deformed boy. "Perhaps mother'll let you sleep in my bed to-night, an' you won't have to go out to the poor farm." "And then again she mightn't, so I guess we won't risk it." "Have you got any money?" "Not a cent." Tom halted irresolutely for a moment, and then his charitable impulses gained the mastery. "Here's half of what I've got, an' I wish it was more." Involuntarily Jack extended his hand for the gift. Four marbles were dropped into it, and then Tom turned and ran like a deer as if afraid he might regret his generosity. The dusty road wound its way among the fields like a yellow ribbon on a green cloth, offering no shelter from the burning rays of the sun, and stretching out in a dreary length. The hunchback plodded steadily on with his heavy burden, and as he walked the good people in the neighboring city of Portland were reading in their morning papers the following item:-- A SINGULAR EXPLOSION. The ship "Atlanta" anchored inside the breakwater just before midnight, and her master reports a remarkable accident. The "Atlanta" loaded at Savannah last week with cotton and turpentine, bound for Bremen. Owing to baffling winds she was eighty miles off Wood Island yesterday afternoon when an explosion occurred which blew off the main hatch, and was followed by dense volumes of what appeared to be smoke. Believing the ship to be on fire, Capt. Littlefield's first thought was of his wife and child, who were on board. The lifeboat was lowered, and in her were placed the captain's son and the cabin boy, a hunchback. Before Mrs. Littlefield could be gotten over the side, the sailors reported no fire in the hold, and the vapor supposed to be smoke was probably the gases arising from the turpentine stored in porous barrels of red oak. In the excitement no particular attention was paid to the children for some time, since the boat was believed to be firmly secured, and the consternation of the captain can be imagined when it was discovered that the craft had gone adrift. The ship stood off and on several hours without discovering any signs of the missing ones, and was then headed for this harbor. As a matter of course the captain will be obliged to proceed on his voyage without delay; but Mrs. Littlefield is to remain in town several days hoping to receive some news of her child, and it is believed that the revenue cutter "Cushing" will cruise along the shore until the boat is found. It is understood that a liberal reward will be offered for any information which may be given regarding the whereabouts of the children, and until that has been done the editors of this paper will thankfully receive tidings of the missing ones in case they have been seen or sighted. It is particularly desirable that masters of vessels should keep a sharp lookout for a drifting boat. CHAPTER II. AT AUNT NANCY'S. Jack toiled manfully on, running until his breath came in such short gasps that he was forced to walk slowly, and then pressing forward once more as if expecting Farmer Pratt was in full pursuit, urged to rapid travelling by the fear that little Louis would be taken to the poor farm. Up the long, steep hill, past the railroad station, until three roads stretched out before him: one straight ahead, another to the right, and the third to the left. He believed there was no time for hesitation. The one leading toward the south was the most inviting because of the trees scattered here and there along its edges, and into this he turned, going directly away from the city where Louis's mother awaited tidings of her darling. The child grew fretful because of the heat and the dust, and the little hunchback heeded not his own fatigue in the effort to quiet him. On he went, literally staggering under his heavy burden, until the yellow road seemed to mellow into a mist which danced and fell, and rose and danced again before his eyes until further progress was wellnigh impossible. They had arrived at a tiny stream, the banks of which were fringed with alders, and overhead a wooden bridge afforded a most pleasing shelter from the sun's burning rays. Wiping the perspiration from his face, Jack looked back. No one was in sight. If Farmer Pratt had come in pursuit he might have mistaken the road, or turned homeward again some time previous, believing the boat not of sufficient value to warrant the journey which, if successful, would only end at the poorhouse. "Here's where we're goin' to stop, Louis," Jack said, lowering the child to the ground. "It'll be cool among these bushes, and if we turn into the fields a bit no one can see us from the road." Then Jack took off his shoes and stockings, holding them on one arm as he raised the child with the other, and, wading through the shallow water, made his way among the bushes a distance of forty or fifty feet to where the leafy screen would prevent passing travellers from seeing them. "I tell you what, the water feels good around a fellow's feet. I'm goin' to give you the same kind of a dose, an' then you'll be ready to go to sleep." Louis, sitting on the grass at the edge of the stream, offered no objection to the plan, and Jack soon made him ready for the partial bath. As the child's feet touched the water he laughed with glee, and Jack's fatigue was forgotten in his delight at having been able to afford this pleasure. After a few moments of such sport the misshapen guardian wiped the pink feet carefully with his handkerchief, replaced the shoes and stockings, took from his pocket the bread which was crumbled into many fragments, moistened them in the brook, and fed his charge until the latter's eyes closed in slumber. Not before he had arranged a screen of leaves in such a manner that the sun would be prevented from looking in upon the sleeping child did Jack think of himself and then he too indulged in the much-needed rest. The hours passed until the sun began to sink in the west. The birds came out from among the leaves and peeped down curiously at the sleeping children, while a colony of frogs leaped upon a moss-covered log, croaking in chorus their surprise at these unfamiliar visitors. One venerable fellow seemed to think this a most fitting opportunity to read his sons a homily on the sin of running away, and after the lengthy lesson was concluded he plunged into the water with a hoarse note of disapprobation, making such a splash that Jack leaped to his feet thoroughly awake and decidedly frightened. The hasty departure of the other frogs explained the cause of the disturbance, and he laughed to himself as he said,-- "I reckon my hump frightened them as much as they did me." He made a hurried toilet, bathed Louis's face with his wet handkerchief until the little fellow awoke, and then continued what was at the same time a flight and a journey. "We've got to run the risk that somebody else will try to send us to the poor farm," he said when they had trudged along the dusty road until the child became fretful again. "At the next nice-lookin' house we come to I'm goin' to ask the folks if they'll let me do chores enough to pay for our lodging." Fully half an hour passed before they were where this plan could be carried into effect, and then Jack halted in front of a small white cottage which stood at the head of an arm of the sea, partially hidden by the trees. "Here's where we've got to try our luck," the boy said as he surveyed the house intently, and almost as he spoke a tiny woman with tiny ringlets either side her wrinkled face appeared in the doorway, starting back as if in alarm on seeing the newcomers. "Goodness me!" she exclaimed as she suddenly observed Jack staring intently at her. "Why don't you come out of the sun? That child will be burned brown as an Injun if you stand there long." Jack pressed Louis closer to him as he stepped forward a few paces, and asked hesitatingly,-- "Please, ma'am, if you'll let us stay here to-night I'll do up all the chores as slick as a pin." The little woman's surprise deepened almost into bewilderment as she glanced first at Louis, who had by this time clambered down from his guardian's arms, and then at Jack's boots, which were covered thickly with dust. "Oh, I'll brush myself before I come in," the boy said quickly, believing her hesitation was caused by the dirt on his garments, "an' we won't be a mite of trouble." The mistress of the cottage took Louis by the hand and led him, with Jack following close behind, into the wide, cool hall, the floor of which was covered with rugs woven with representations of impossible animals in all the colors of the rainbow. "Now tell me where you came from, and why it is necessary to ask for a home?" Jack hesitated an instant. The fear that she too might insist on sending Louis to the poor farm caused him to question whether he had better tell the whole truth, but another look at the kindly face decided him. He related his story with more detail than he had to Farmer Pratt, and when he concluded the little woman said in a motherly tone,-- "You poor children! If the ship exploded there's no one for you to go home to, and what _will_ become of such a helpless pair?" "I can't tell I'm sure, ma'am; but I know we ain't helpless"; and Jack spoke very decidedly now. "I'm big an' can work, so I'll take care of Louis till we find his father." "But if the ship was blown all to pieces?" the little woman continued. "That don't make any difference," Jack interrupted. "We're goin' right to his house in New York some time, no matter how far it is." "But it's a terribly long distance, and you children will surely be sun-struck before you get even to Boston!" Then she added quickly, "Here I am forgetting that you must be hungry! Come straight away into the kitchen while I see what there is in the cupboard, for Aunt Nancy Curtis never lets any one, much less children, want for food very long in her house." "Are you Aunt Nancy?" Jack asked. "I'm aunt to everybody in the neighborhood, which ain't many, and two or three more nephews won't make any difference. Set right up to the table, and after you've had a glass of cool milk, a piece of chicken and some cake I baked to put away for the summer boarders, we'll see what can be done." Jack was disposed to be just a trifle jealous of Louis's evident admiration for this quaint little Aunt Nancy. He had already taken her by the hand, and, in his baby fashion, was telling some story which no one, probably not even himself, could understand. "You are a dear little boy," the old lady said as she led him into the kitchen; "but neither you nor Jack here is any more calculated to walk to New York than I am to go to China this minute." "If you'll let me have a brush I'll get some of this dust off," Jack said as he glanced at the well-scoured floor and then at his shoes. "I'm not fit to go anywhere till I look more decent." "Here's a whisk-broom. Be careful not to break the handle, and don't throw it on the ground when you're done," Aunt Nancy said as she handed the brush to Jack. "There's the pump, and here's a towel and piece of soap, so scrub yourself as much as you please, for boys never can be too clean. I'll comb the baby's hair while you're gone, and then we'll have supper." Louis made not the slightest protest when his misshapen little guardian left him alone with Aunt Nancy. He had evidently decided that she was a woman who could be trusted, and had travelled so much during the day that even a journey to the pump was more than he cared to undertake. Jack brushed and scrubbed, and rubbed his face with the towel, after holding his head under the pump, until the skin glowed red, but cleanly. When he entered the kitchen again where the little woman and Louis were seated cosily at the table, he was presentable even to Aunt Nancy, in whose eyes the least particle of dirt was an abomination. He took the vacant chair by Louis's side, and was considerably surprised, because it was something so unusual in his experience, to see the little woman clasp her withered hands and invoke a blessing upon "the strangers within her gates," when she had thanked her Father for all his bounties. "I went to meetin' once down in Savannah," Jack said; "but I didn't know folks had 'em right in their houses." Aunt Nancy looked at him with astonishment, and replied gravely,-- "My child, it is never possible to give too much praise for all we are permitted to enjoy, and one needn't wait until he is in church before speaking to our Father." Jack did not exactly understand what she meant, but he knew from the expression on the wrinkled face that it was perfectly correct, and at once proceeded to give his undivided attention to the food which had been put upon his plate with a liberal hand. How thoroughly enjoyable was that meal in the roomy old kitchen, through which the summer breezes wafted perfume from the honeysuckles, and the bees sang at the open windows while intent on the honey harvest! When the children's hunger was appeased, it seemed as if half their troubles had suddenly vanished. Louis crowed and talked after his own peculiar fashion; Jack told stories of life on board the "Atlanta," and Aunt Nancy appeared to enjoy this "visiting" quite as much as did her guests. The housework was to be done, however, and could not be neglected, deeply interested though the little woman was in the yarns Jack spun, therefore she said as she began to collect the soiled dishes,-- "Now if you will take care of the baby I'll have the kitchen cleaned in a twinkling, and then we'll go out under the big oak-tree where I love to sit when the sun is painting the clouds in the west with red and gold." "Louis can take care of himself if we put him on the floor," Jack replied, "and I will dry the dishes for you; I've done it lots of times on the 'Atlanta.'" The little woman could not refuse this proffered aid, although she looked very much as if she fancied the work would not be done exactly to her satisfaction, and after glancing at Jack's hands to make certain they were perfectly clean, she began operations. Much to her surprise, the deformed boy was very apt at such tasks, and Aunt Nancy said as she looked over her spectacles at him while he carefully dried one of her best China cups,-- "Well I declare! If you ain't the first boy I ever saw who was fit to live with an old maid like me. You are handier than half the girls I have here when the summer boarders come, and if you could only milk a cow we should get along famously." "It wouldn't take me long to learn," Jack said quickly; for he was eager to assist the little lady as much as possible, having decided in his own mind that this would be a very pleasant abiding place for himself and Louis until the weather should be cooler, when the tramp to New York could be continued with less discomfort. "If you'd show me how once I'm sure I'd soon find out, and--" "It won't do any harm to try at all events," Aunt Nancy replied thoughtfully; "but the cow hasn't come home yet, and there's plenty of time." When the dishes were washed and set carefully away in the cupboard, the little woman explaining to her assistant where each particular article of crockery belonged, Jack began to sweep the already painfully clean floor. Aunt Nancy wiped with a damp towel imaginary specks of dirt from the furniture, and Louis, as if realizing the importance of winning the affections of his hostess, laid his head on the rag rug and closed his eyes in slumber before the work of putting the kitchen to rights was finished. "Dear little baby! I suppose he's all tired out," Aunt Nancy said as she took him in her arms, leaving to Jack the important duty of folding one of her best damask tablecloths, a task which, under other circumstances, she would not have trusted to her most intimate friend. "I'm not very handy with children, but it seems as if I ought to be able to undress this one." "Of course you can. All there is to do is unbutton the things an' pull them off." Aunt Nancy was by no means as awkward at such work as she would have her guest believe. In a few moments she had undressed Louis without awakening him, and clothed him for the night in one of her bedgowns, which, as a matter of course, was much too long, but so strongly scented with lavender that Jack felt positive the child could not fail to sleep sweetly and soundly. Then laying him in the centre of a rest-inviting bed which was covered with the most intricate of patchwork quilts, in a room on the ground-floor that overlooked the lane and the big oak-tree, they left him with a smile on his lips, as if the angels had already begun to weave dream-pictures for him. Aunt Nancy led the way out through the "fore-room," and, that Jack might see the beauties it contained, she opened one of the shutters, allowing the rays of the setting sun to fall upon the pictures of two of the dead and gone Curtis family, an impossible naval engagement colored in the most gorgeous style, two vases filled with alum-encrusted grasses, and a huge crockery rooster with unbending feathers of every hue. This last-named ornament particularly attracted Jack's attention, and during fully five minutes he stood gazing at it in silent admiration, but without daring to ask if he could take the brilliantly painted bird in his hands. "Handsome, isn't it?" Aunt Nancy asked, turning her head slowly from side to side while she critically viewed the combination of colors much as if she had never seen them before. "Its perfectly splendid!" "I'm glad you like it. I think a great deal of him; too much to allow a live rooster on the place crowing around when he can't. It was presented to me in my girlhood days by a young gentleman whom every one thought was destined to be an ornament in the world; but--" Aunt Nancy paused. Her thoughts had gone trooping down the dusty avenues of the past, and after waiting fully a moment Jack asked,-- "Where is the young gentleman now?" "I don't know," was the reply sandwiched between two sobs, and then Aunt Nancy became her old self once more. She closed the shutters carefully, waved her apron in the air to frighten away any overbold dust specks, and the two went out on the long, velvety lane that the little woman might admire the glories of the setting sun. CHAPTER III. LEARNING TO MILK. A low bench painted green and fastened against the trunk of the old oak, that there might be no possibility of its being overturned, was the place where Aunt Nancy told Jack she spent the pleasant summer evenings. "Except where there are caterpillars around," she added, "and then I carry the rocking-chair to the stone doorstep. If you could kill caterpillars, Jack, you would be doing the greatest possible favor, for they certainly make my life wretched at times, although I don't know why a person should be afraid of anything God has made." "Oh, I can kill 'em," Jack replied confidently. "Bring on your caterpillars when you want 'em killed, an' I'll fix the job. There ain't any trouble about that." "But I don't want to bring them on," Aunt Nancy said, hesitatingly. "I never like to touch the little crawling things, and you will have to do that part of the work." "I'll see to it," Jack replied, and believing she would be free in the future from the pests which interfered with her twilight pleasures, Aunt Nancy's face took on an expression of complete satisfaction. "Now let's talk about yourself and the baby," she said. "You must not attempt to walk to New York while this hot weather lasts, and it would cost a power of money to go there on the cars." "I know it," Jack replied with a sigh, "but so long as there isn't a cent between us, I guess we'll have to foot it." "I've been thinking why you shouldn't stay here a spell. You make yourself so handy about the house that I sha'n't mind the extra trouble with the baby, and there are times while the summer boarders are here when I do need a boy very badly." "That's just what I'd like," and Jack spoke emphatically. "If you'll let us stay two or three weeks I'll pay my way in work, an' see that Louis don't bother you." "I believe that will be the best way out of it. The summer boarders are to come in two or three weeks. Before then I'll write to my brother Abner, in Binghamton, who'll be sure to know about Capt. Littlefield, and perhaps he can make some arrangement for your passage." "Where's Binghamton?" Jack asked in perplexity. "Why, it's in York State. I ain't certain how near to the big city, but of course it can't be very far away. Abner's a master hand at readin', so if he don't happen to know Capt. Littlefield as a friend, he'd be sure to have heard of him. When he was home here he was acquainted with everybody for fifty miles around. He could tell you who each man married, how many children they had, and kept the run of everything that happened in the neighborhood. I used to say Abner minded other people's business better than his own, and that _was_ his fault," she added with a sigh. "But we all of us have our faults, and it's never right to speak about those of another before we have fairly weighed our own. He's the one, though, to find the baby's father, so you needn't have any further trouble regarding it; but wait till we get a letter from him." Jack was not as confident as Aunt Nancy appeared to be that this "brother Abner" would know all the people in New York; but he was more than content to remain where he was for a certain length of time in the hope of being able to reach the city in some less laborious way than by walking. Then Aunt Nancy told him about herself, and of the farm which had belonged to her father, but descended to her at his death, because Abner was unwilling to spend his time on land so unproductive that the severest labor failed to bring forth a remunerative crop. "It isn't very good, I'll admit," she said reflectively; "but by taking a few summer boarders I've been able to make both ends meet, and that's all an old maid like me ought to expect." "Have you always lived alone?" "It's nigh on to twelve years since father died, and, excepting in the summer, I've had neither child nor chick here. An old woman ain't pleasant company at the best, and if Abner's daughters don't like to visit their aunt, I can't say I blame them." "Well I do!" Jack said decidedly. "I think you're the nicest old lady I ever saw, and I'd be willin' to stay here all the time if I could." Aunt Nancy was not accustomed to flattery; but it must be admitted, from the expression on her wrinkled face, that it was far from unpleasant, and by way of reward she patted Jack on the head almost affectionately. "Perhaps you won't think so after a while," she said with a smile; and then as Jack was about to make protestations, she added, "it's time to go after the cow, and then I'll give you the first lesson in milking." The farm was not so large that it required many moments to reach the pasture, for the old lady had only to walk to the rear of the barn where the crumple-horned cow was standing at the end of a narrow lane awaiting her coming. As the animal stepped carefully over the bars after they had been let down, Jack could not help thinking she was just such a cow as one would fancy should belong to Aunt Nancy. She walked in a dainty manner, acting almost as if trying not to bring any unnecessary amount of dirt into the barnyard, and behaving in every way as one would say her mistress might under similar circumstances. "While I go for the milking pail you pull some clover from under the trees, for she always expects a lunch while being milked," Aunt Nancy said; and in a few moments Jack had gathered such a feast as caused the sedate animal to toss her head in disapprobation at the unusually large amount she was expected to devour after having been cropping pasture grass all day. With a pail which had been scoured until it shone like silver, and a tiny three-legged stool, white as the floor of her kitchen, the little woman returned. Then with many a "Co, Bossy! So, Bossy!" as if the quiet-looking animal was expected to give way to the most violent demonstrations of wrath, Aunt Nancy placed the stool in the most advantageous position, and said, as she seated herself,-- "Now watch me a few minutes, and you'll see how easy it is after getting the knack." Jack gazed intently at every movement, his eyes opened wide with astonishment as the streams of milk poured into the pail with a peculiar "swish," and before the creamy foam had fully covered the bottom he was quite positive it would be no difficult matter for him to perform the same operation. "I can do it now, if you'll get up." Aunt Nancy vacated the stool without hesitation, for milking seemed such a simple matter that there was no question in her mind but that it could be learned in one very short lesson, and Jack sat down. The cow looked around at this change of attendants, but was too well-bred to express any great amount of surprise, and the hunchback took hold of what appeared like so many fat fingers. Fancying that strength alone was necessary, he pulled most vigorously. Not a drop of milk came; but he accomplished something, for the animal tossed her head impatiently. Jack pulled harder the second time, and then, as Aunt Nancy screamed loudly, the cow started at full speed for the other side of the yard, facing about there at the boy whom she believed was tormenting her wilfully, while she shook her head in a menacing manner. Fortunately the milk-pail was not overturned; but in preventing such a catastrophe, Jack rolled from the stool to the ground with no gentle force, terrified quite as much by Aunt Nancy's screams as by the sudden movement of old crumple-horn. "Why, what's the matter?" he asked, as he scrambled to his feet, looking first at his hostess, and then at the frightened animal. "I ought to have known a boy couldn't milk," Aunt Nancy said impatiently and almost angrily. "It seems as if they have a faculty of hurting dumb beasts." "But I didn't mean to," Jack said apologetically. "I worked just as you did, and pulled a good deal harder, but yet the milk wouldn't come." Aunt Nancy made no reply. Taking up the pail and stool she walked across the yard, trying to soothe the cow in the peculiar language she had used when beginning the task; and Jack, understanding that he had hurt the feelings of both his hostess and her pet, followed contritely, as he said coaxingly,-- "Please let me try it once more. I am certain I can do it if you'll give me another chance." It was not until Aunt Nancy had led the cow back to the pile of clover, and there stroked her head and ears until she was ready to resume the rudely interrupted feast, that any attention was paid to Jack's entreaties. "I'll show you once more," she finally said, "and you must watch to see exactly how I move my fingers. It isn't the pulling that brings the milk, but the pressure of the hand." This time Jack paid strict attention, and in a few moments began to fancy he had discovered what Aunt Nancy called the "knack." But she would not relinquish her seat. "Take hold with one hand while I stay here, and be careful not to hurt the poor creature." Very tenderly Jack made the second attempt, and was so successful as to extract at least a dozen drops from the well-filled udder. This was sufficient, however, to show him what should be done, even though he was at first unable to perform the task, and, thanks to Aunt Nancy's patience, and the gentleness of the animal, before the milking was brought to a close, he had so far mastered the lesson as to win from his teacher a limited amount of praise. "I don't know as I should expect you to learn at once," she said; "but you are getting along so well that by to-morrow night I wouldn't be surprised if you could do it alone. Now I'll go and strain the milk, and you may split me a little kindling wood if you will. Somehow I have never been able to use an axe without danger of cutting my feet, and it's almost like tempting Providence to take one in my hands." Jack did as he was bidden, and although the axe was decidedly rusty and very blunt, to say nothing of its being shaky in the helve, before she finished taking care of the milk he had such a pile of kindlings as would have cost her a week's labor to prepare. "Well!" the little woman said as she came from the cool cellar and surveyed the fruits of his industry, "if you can't do anything else on a farm but that, it'll be a wonderful relief to me. An axe is such a dangerous instrument that I always tremble when I touch one." Jack looked at the ancient tool (which could hardly have inflicted any injury unless one chanced to drop it on his toes) with a smile, but said nothing, and after Aunt Nancy had shown him how to fasten the woodshed door with a huge latch that any burglar over four feet tall could have raised, she led the way into the house. The milking pail was to be washed, a solitary moth which had found its way into the kitchen was to be killed lest he should do some damage to the rag carpet, and Aunt Nancy lighted a candle with a solemn air. "This is the last work of the day," she said, "and perhaps I attach too much importance to it, but I never allow myself to go to bed without making sure there's no one hidden in the house. We'll examine the upper part first, and after that has been done I will show you a chamber which you can have until the summer boarders come. Then we must make different arrangements, for the house is so small that I'm terribly put to it for room." Jack followed the little woman up the back stairs, and each of the four apartments was subjected to the most rigid scrutiny, the boy holding the candle while Aunt Nancy not only peered under the beds and behind the bureaus, but even opened the tiniest closets in search of a supposed intruder. "We are safe for another day," she said with a long-drawn sigh of relief, "and after looking through the fore-room once more I'll lock the doors." There was such an air of responsibility about the little woman that Jack, not fully understanding what she expected to find, immediately conceived the idea that peaceful though this portion of the country appeared, it must be a very dangerous neighborhood, for his hostess could not have taken more precautions had it been known positively that a band of Indians were lurking in the vicinity. Nothing more alarming than the moth was found, however, and after the window fastenings had been carefully examined, Aunt Nancy led the way back to the kitchen, where she once more surprised her guest by taking down the well-worn Bible. In a thin, quavering voice she read therefrom a certain number of verses in which she seemed to find the greatest satisfaction, and then replaced the book reverentially on the stand appropriated to its keeping. Then, to Jack's further surprise, she knelt by the side of the chair and began a simple but heartfelt prayer, while the boy nestled around uneasily, not certain whether it was proper for him to stand up, or follow her example, therefore he remained where he was. When the evening devotions had been brought to a close, he felt decidedly uncomfortable in mind, but did not think it advisable to expose his ignorance by asking the little woman what he should have done. "Now we'll go to bed," Aunt Nancy said as she arose to her feet with such a look of faith on her wrinkled face as reminded the boy of pictures he had seen. Without a word he followed her upstairs to a small room directly over the kitchen, which, however contracted it might seem to others, was twice as large as he needed when compared with his quarters on board the "Atlanta." Then, as if her aim was to astonish and bewilder him on this first evening, Aunt Nancy kissed him on both cheeks as she said "Good night," and left him to his own reflections. CHAPTER IV. PURSUED. It was a long while before slumber visited Jack's eyelids on this first night spent at the farm. To have found such a pleasant resting place after his experience at Farmer Pratt's, and when the best he had expected was to be allowed to remain until morning, was almost bewildering; at the same time the friendly manner in which the kindly faced old lady treated him made a deep impression on his heart. During fully an hour he speculated as to how it would be possible for him to reach New York with Louis, and, not being able to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion, he decided that that matter at least could safely be left in Aunt Nancy's care. Then, all anxiety as to the immediate future having been dissipated, he thought of various ways by which he could lighten the little woman's labors. He laid plans for making himself so useful about the farm that she would be repaid for her care of Louis, and these ideas were in his mind when he crossed the border of dreamland, where, until nearly daybreak, he tried to milk diminutive cows, or struggled to carry enormous tin pails. Despite his disagreeable dreams, the sleep was refreshing, and when the first glow of dawn appeared in the eastern sky he was aroused by the sound of Aunt Nancy's voice from the foot of the stairs. Jack's first waking thought was a continuation of the last on the night previous, and, dressing hurriedly, he ran down to the kitchen to begin the labor which he intended should make him a desirable member of the family. To his great disappointment the fire had been built, Louis dressed, and the morning's work well advanced when he entered the room. "Why didn't you call me before?" he asked reproachfully. "I meant to have done all this while you were asleep; but I laid awake so long last night that it didn't seem possible for my eyes to open." "I am accustomed to doing these things for myself," Aunt Nancy replied with a kindly smile, "and don't mind it one bit, especially when the kindlings have been prepared. I got up a little earlier than usual because I was afraid there might be some trouble about dressing the baby; but he's just as good a child as can be, and seems right well contented here." "It would be funny if he wasn't," Jack replied as he took Louis in his arms for the morning greeting. There was a shade of sorrow in his heart because the child evinced no desire to remain with him, but scrambled out of his arms at the first opportunity to toddle toward Aunt Nancy, who ceased her work of brushing imaginary dirt from the floor in order to kiss the little fellow as tenderly as a mother could have done. "It seems as if he'd got all through with me," Jack said sorrowfully. "I believe he likes you the best now." "Don't be jealous, my boy. It's only natural the child should cling to a woman when he can; but that doesn't signify he has lost any affection for you. It is time old crumple-horn was milked, and we'll take Louis with us so he won't get into mischief. I'm going to give you another lesson this morning." Jack made a vain effort to repress the sigh which would persist in coming to his lips as the baby crowed with delight when the little woman lifted him in her arms, and taking the milking pail, he led the way out through the dewy grass to the barnyard, where the cow stood looking over the rails as if wondering why Aunt Nancy was so late. Jack insisted that he could milk without any further instructions, and, after gathering an armful of the sweet-scented clover, he set boldly to work while Aunt Nancy and Louis watched him from the other side of the fence. This time his efforts were crowned with success, and although he did not finish the task as quickly as the little woman could have done it, by the aid of a few hints from her he had drawn the last drop of milk into the pail before the cow began to show signs of impatience. Then Aunt Nancy and Louis returned to the house while Jack drove the meek-eyed animal to the pasture, and when this was done he searched the shed for a rake. He succeeded in finding one with not more than half the teeth missing, and began to scrape up the sticks and dried leaves from the lane, a work which was well calculated to yet further win the confidence of the neat little mistress of the farm. When the morning meal was served, Jack had so far become accustomed to Aunt Nancy's ways that he bowed his head without being prompted, while she asked a blessing. After breakfast was concluded the hunchback proceeded to put into execution the plan formed on the night previous. "If you'll tell me what to do I'll go to work as soon as the lane is cleaned, an' that won't take a long while. I s'pose there's plenty to be done." "Yes," Aunt Nancy replied with a sigh, "there's a great deal of work which a woman can't do; but I don't know as a boy like you would be able to get along any better than I." "There won't be any harm in tryin'," Jack said manfully. "Tell me what it is you want." "Well, the pasture fence is broken in several places, and I was thinking of getting Daniel Chick to come an' fix it; but perhaps you might patch the breaks up so's a cow couldn't get out." "Of course I can. It ain't much of a job if you've got nails an' a hammer. I'll tackle it as soon as the lane is finished." Aunt Nancy explained that the fence to which she referred bordered the road a short distance above the house, and Jack was so impatient to begin the labor that, contrary to his usual custom, he took a hurried leave of Louis. An hour was sufficient in which to finish the self-imposed task on the lane, and then, with a very shaky hammer and a handful of rusty nails, he set out to repair the fence, leaving Louis playing in the kitchen with the gorgeous crockery rooster, while Aunt Nancy was busily engaged setting the house to rights generally. The scene of Jack's first attempt at fence building was fully an eighth of a mile away, and in a clump of alder-bushes which shut off all view of the house. It was by no means a simple task which he found before him. The posts had so far decayed that an expert workman would have considered it necessary to replace them with new timbers; but since this was beyond his skill, he set about mending it after his own fashion. It must not be supposed that Jack loved to work better than does any other boy; but he believed it was necessary for him to remain with Aunt Nancy until such time as he could find an opportunity of continuing the journey in some more rapid manner than by walking, and the desire to make himself useful about the farm was so great that labor ceased to be a hardship. He had been engaged in this rather difficult task fully an hour, paying little or no attention to anything save the work in hand, when the rattle of wheels on the hard road attracted his notice. Up to this time no person had passed in either direction, and it was from curiosity rather than any idea the approaching travellers might be connected with his fortunes, that he peered out from among the alder-bushes. Immediately he drew back in alarm. He had seen, coming directly toward him in a lumbering old wagon and hardly more than a hundred yards away, Farmer Pratt and his son Tom. "They're huntin' for me!" he said to himself as he crept farther among the bushes to conceal himself from view, and a secure hiding place had hardly been gained when the travellers came to a full stop at the little brook which ran on the opposite side of the road, in order to give their horse some water. As a matter of fact Farmer Pratt _was_ in search of the two who had left his house so unceremoniously; but now he had no intention of taking them to the poorhouse. Quite by accident a copy of a newspaper containing an account of the explosion on board the "Atlanta," and the information that Mrs. Littlefield would remain in Portland in the hope of gaining some information regarding her child, had come into his hands, and it did not require much study on his part to understand that in the greed to possess himself of the boat by ridding himself of the children, he had lost the opportunity of earning a valuable reward. There was a stormy time in the Pratt household when this fact became known, and even Master Tom came in for more than his full share of the scolding because the children had been allowed to go away. "It would have been as good as a hundred dollars in my pocket if I could have lugged them youngsters into town," the farmer repeated over and over again as he blamed first his wife and then his son for what was really his own fault. "I thought a boat worth twenty dollars would be a mighty big haul for one mornin', but here was a show of gettin' five times as much jest by holdin' them two over night, an' you had to let 'em slip through your fingers." Farmer Pratt dwelt upon this unpleasant fact until he finally convinced himself that he would have acted the part of a good Samaritan had the opportunity not been denied him, and very early on this same morning he started out for the purpose of earning the reward by finding the castaways. Jack, crouching among the bushes where he could distinguish the movements of those whom he considered his enemies, heard the farmer say, while the half-fed horse was quenching his thirst,-- "I reckon we've got a day's work before us, all on account of you an' your mother, for that hunchback couldn't have walked as far with the baby. Most likely he found some one who gave him a lift on the road. The chances are he's in Biddeford by this time, other folks have heard the whole story." Tom made no reply, probably because he feared to say anything which might again call forth a flood of reproach, and his father added,-- "I reckon our best way will be to push right on to town instead of huntin' along the road as we've been doin'. Time is gettin' mighty short if we want to catch him before people know what has happened." The farmer was so impatient to arrive at the city that the horse was urged on before his thirst was fully quenched, and as the noise of the wheels told that the briefly interrupted journey had been resumed, Jack crept cautiously out from among the bushes to where he could watch the movements of the travellers until they should have passed Aunt Nancy's farm. As may be supposed, he was thoroughly alarmed. That which he heard convinced him beyond a doubt the farmer was searching for him, and there was no question in his mind but that it was for the sole and only purpose of carrying him and Louis to the poor farm. "I s'pose Aunt Nancy would up an' tell the whole story if they should ask her," he muttered, "an' then I'd have to come out an' go along with 'em, 'cause I wouldn't let that man carry Louis off alone." The color came back to his cheeks, however, and the throbbing of his heart was lessened as he saw the wagon wheel past the lane without either of its occupants making any move toward calling at the house. Most likely neither Aunt Nancy nor Louis were in the yard, and Farmer Pratt was so eager to reach the town where he believed the children to be, that, as he had intimated, there was no further stop to be made along the road. But Jack's mind was far from being relieved even after the clumsy vehicle had passed out of sight, for he knew the farmer would return, failing to gain any information of those he was so anxious to find, and he might think it worth his while to call at Aunt Nancy's. Jack had now lost all interest in his work, and seated himself near the fence trying to decide whether he would be warranted in leaving the temporary home he had found, to take refuge in flight. This he might have done on the impulse of the moment but for the restraining thought that it would be in the highest degree dangerous to travel in either direction on the road, and to make his way through the fields and woods was a matter of impossibility, since he had no idea of the proper course to be pursued. "I don't s'pose Aunt Nancy'd lie even to save us from goin' to the poor farm," he said aloud to himself; "but if she would, I'd hide out in the bushes with Louis till I was sure that man had got through huntin' after us, 'cause he can't keep this thing up all summer." This was by far the best plan Jack could devise for the baby's safety, and yet it seemed hardly possible it would be carried into execution because of the probable unwillingness of Aunt Nancy to so much as equivocate. After thinking the matter over fully twenty minutes without arriving at any other conclusion which promised the slightest hope of escape from his pursuers, he decided to boldly ask the little woman if she would promise, in case Mr. Pratt should call upon her, to say that she had seen neither of her guests. "She can't any more'n get mad at it, an' if she won't agree then I'll take the risk of startin' off once more, but it's goin' to be pretty tough on both of us." There was yet considerable work to be done in the way of fence building; but now Jack had no idea of continuing the labor. He was so agitated that the shaky hammer lay unheeded on the ground where it had fallen when he first saw the travellers, and the nails were left to gather a yet thicker coat of rust as he made his way up through the line of bushes to approach the house from the rear, not daring to go boldly around by the road. CHAPTER V. AN ENCOUNTER. Believing his only enemies were those whom he had seen driving up the road, Jack paid no attention to anything in front of him, save when it was absolutely necessary in order to guide his footsteps, but kept his eyes fixed upon the dusty highway. Owing to the straggling line of bushes, he was forced to make a wide detour to reach the barn unseen by any travellers, and he had not traversed more than half the required distance when a loud cry from a clump of alders which bordered the duck pond caused him to come to a full stop. "Hello, Hunchie! What are you doin' here?" Jack looked up quickly in alarm, fancying the voice sounded like Tom Pratt's, and for an instant believed his pursuers had apparently continued their journey only for the purpose of taking him by surprise in the rear. There was no person in sight, however, and during a few seconds he stood motionless, trying to decide whether it would be safest to run directly toward the farmhouse, or attempt to make his escape through the fields. Then the question was repeated, and before Jack could have fled, had he been so disposed, three boys came out from among the alders, approaching very near as if to prevent flight on the part of the hunchback. "Who are you?" one of the strangers asked, "an' where did you come from?" "I'm Jack Dudley." "Where do you live?" "I'm stayin' over to Aunt Nancy Curtis's awhile," Jack replied hesitatingly, doubtful if it would be well to give these not over-friendly looking boys all the information they desired. "What are you doin' there?" another of the party asked. "Helpin' 'round at whatever she wants done till the summer boarders go away." "Oh! So you're the hired man, are you?" the first boy said in a sneering tone. "I ain't so very much of a man; but I reckon I can do her work, an' I mustn't fool 'round here, for I'm pretty busy this mornin'." "You'll stay till we find out what right you've got to run across this field," the boy who had first spoken said decidedly. "We've always done Aunt Nancy's chores, an' you're makin'a big mistake by takin' our job away." Jack looked once more toward the road to make certain Farmer Pratt and his son were not returning. Then he glanced in the direction of the house, hoping Aunt Nancy might be in sight, for he understood from the tone and attitude of the strangers that they were bent on mischief. Not a person could be seen, and he had no other alternative save to remain where he was until such time as the boys should be willing to let him pass. Any attempt at flight could have been easily checked, since, owing to his deformity, he was not able to run as fast as others of his age. Probably he felt just a trifle frightened; but he stood his ground boldly, determined not to let the strangers see a show of weakness, as he said,-- "I didn't come here to take any feller's job. Aunt Nancy gave me a chance to stay this summer, an' I jumped at it, 'cause there's no boy needs a home more'n I do jest now." "Well, see here, Hunchie," the elder of the party replied in a threatening tone, "we don't know how much you need a home, nor we don't care; but there's one thing certain, you ain't goin' to stay 'round here this summer." "Us fellers can do all Aunt Nancy's chores an' a good deal more. The job belongs to us. If you say you'll leave before night, it'll be all right, an' if not, we'll thump the life out of you." [Illustration: "Does that mean you ain't goin' to leave?" And the boy advanced threateningly with clinched fists, until he stood within a few inches of the deformed lad.--Page 55.] "Perhaps that can't be done," Jack said calmly, with an assumption of courage which was far from natural. "Last summer there was a feller come snoopin' 'round to help on the summer-boarder business, but he soon found it wasn't safe to steal jobs from them as lives here the whole year. We jest about killed him." "Why didn't you stuff his skin an' set it up on the road here, so's other fellers would know enough not to stop?" Jack asked in a sarcastic tone as he stepped back a few paces toward a thicker clump of bushes, where it would be impossible for the strangers to make an attack from the rear. "You can't be any tougher than you look, an' I guess I'll be able to keep on livin' till summer's over, even if I do stay." "Does that mean you ain't goin' to leave?" And the boy advanced threateningly with clinched fists until he stood within a few inches of the deformed lad, who now understood that a fight was inevitable. "It's pretty nigh the size of it," Jack replied; and despite all efforts, his voice trembled slightly, for he knew full well it would be impossible to hold his own against three bullies. "But before beginnin' the row I want you to understand one thing: if I don't work for somebody, I've got to live out of doors, for I haven't a cent. I ain't sayin' but the three of you can lick me, of course, but you'll have to do it every day in the week before I'll leave this farm." Perhaps the bully was a trifle ashamed for threatening one so much smaller than himself, and deformed, for, instead of immediately striking a blow as at first had seemed to be his purpose, he drew back a few paces to hold a whispered consultation with his companions, after which he said,-- "Look here, Hunchie, we're willin' to give you a show, but won't allow no fellers 'round takin' away money we could earn as well as not. Aunt Nancy's always hired us to do her chores when the city folks was here, till she got that feller last year, an' then the old fool said she'd never pay us another cent jest 'cause we didn't jump spry enough to please her. Now we're goin' to show that it's got to be us or nobody. We're willin' to wait till to-morrow night if you say you'll go then. There's plenty of jobs up Old Orchard way, so there ain't any need of your feedin' on wind." "Why don't you go there?" "'Cause we don't want to. This is where we live, an' anything that's to be done 'round here belongs to us. Now cross your throat that you'll leave before to-morrow night, an' we won't say another word." "I'll go an' see what Aunt Nancy thinks about it," Jack replied, not with any intention of obeying these peremptory demands, but in order to escape from what was a very awkward predicament. "You won't do anything of the kind! Promise before leavin' this place or we'll thump you!" "Then thump away, for I won't go," Jack replied determinedly as he backed still farther into the bushes and prepared to defend himself as best he might against such an overwhelming force, although knowing there was no question but that he would receive a severe whipping. "Give it to him, Bill!" the boys in the rear cried. "You can polish him off with one hand, so there's no need of our chippin' in." Bill did not wait for further encouragement. Jack's defence was necessarily very slight, and before he was able to strike a blow in his own behalf, Bill had him on the ground, pounding him unmercifully, while his companions viewed the scene with evident satisfaction. Jack made no outcry: first, because he feared that by bringing Aunt Nancy on the scene the fact of Louis's being at the farm would be made known; and, secondly, he fancied Farmer Pratt might be near enough to hear his appeals for help. Therefore he submitted to the cruel and uncalled-for punishment without a word, although every blow caused severe pain, and when Bill had pummelled him for fully five minutes the other boys interrupted by saying,-- "Come, let up on him! That's enough for the first, an' if he ain't out of town by to-morrow we'll give him another dose. Let's cool him off in the pond." Jack struggled in vain against this last indignity. It was a simple matter for the three boys to lift and throw him half a dozen feet from the bank into the muddy water. There was no danger the little fellow would be drowned, for the duck pond was not more than two feet deep, and as his assailants ran hurriedly away he scrambled out, presenting a sorry sight as he stood on the firm ground once more with mud and water dripping from his face and every angle of his garments. Jack was as sore in mind as he was in body; but even while making his way toward the house he did not neglect any precautions which might prevent his being seen by Farmer Pratt. He skirted around through the straggling line of alders until he reached the rear of the barn, and then, coming across crumple-horn's yard, he was confronted by Aunt Nancy, who had just emerged from the shed. "For mercy's sake!" the little woman screamed, raising her hands in dismay as she surveyed the woe-begone Jack, who looked more like a misshapen pillar of mud than a boy. "Where _have_ you been, and what _have_ you done to yourself? It _is_ strange that boys _will_ be forever mussing in the dirt. I thought I'd had some bad ones here, but you beat anything I ever saw! Why, you must have been rolling in the pond to get yourself in such a condition." "Yes, ma'am, I have," Jack replied meekly as he again tried to brush the mud from his face, but only succeeded in grinding it in more deeply. "What's the matter with your nose? It's bleeding!" Aunt Nancy screamed in her excitement; while Louis, who was sitting on the grass near the broad doorstep, crowed and laughed as if fancying she was talking to him. "Three fellers out there tried to make me promise I'd go away before to-morrow night, an' when I wouldn't, they gave me an awful poundin'. Then the fun was wound up by throwin' me in the pond." "Three boys!" and Aunt Nancy's tone was an angry one. "I'll venture to say William Dean was among the party; and if he thinks he's going to drive off every decent child in the neighborhood, he is mistaken. I'd do my chores alone, and wait on the city folks too, before he should come here again!" Then Aunt Nancy peered in every direction as if fancying the evil-doers might yet be in the vicinity where she could punish them immediately, while Jack stood silent, if not quite motionless, wiping the mixture of blood and mud from his face in a most disconsolate manner. Aunt Nancy's anger vanished, however, as she turned again toward the cripple. All her sympathies were aroused, but not to such an extent as to smother her cleanly instincts. "Did they hurt you very much?" she asked solicitously. "They wasn't any too careful about hittin'," Jack replied with a feeble attempt at a smile, to show that his injuries were not really serious. "If there hadn't been more than one, I'd have hurt him some before he got me into the pond." "I wish you had flogged every single member of that party in the most severe--No, I don't either, for it wouldn't be right, Jack. We are told when anybody smites us on one cheek, we must turn the other also; but it's terrible hard work to do right sometimes. I'm glad you didn't strike them, though I _do_ wish they could be punished." Again Aunt Nancy showed signs of giving way to anger, and one could see that a severe conflict was going on in her mind as she tried to obey the injunctions of the Book she read so often. As if to turn her attention from vengeful thoughts, she immediately made preparations for dressing Jack's wounds. "If you can stand a little more water," she said, "we'll try to get you into something like a decent condition." "I reckon I can stand almost anything after the dose I've had," Jack replied grimly; and Aunt Nancy led him under the pump, stationing him directly beneath the spout as she said,-- "Now I'll wash the mud off; but if the water feels too cold let me know, and we'll heat it." "I'll take it as long as you can keep the handle goin'," Jack replied as he bent his head and involuntarily drew a long breath preparatory to receiving the expected shock. Aunt Nancy could pump a long while when it was for the purpose of removing dirt; and during the next five minutes she deluged Jack with the cold spring water until he stood in the centre of a miniature pond, no longer covered with mud, but dripping tiny streams from every portion of his face and garments. Sitting on the grass near by, Louis clapped his hands and laughed with glee at what he probably thought a comical spectacle designed for his own especial amusement. It was not until Jack had been, as he expressed it, "so well rinsed it was time to wring him out," that either he or Aunt Nancy remembered the very important fact that he had no clothes to replace those which were so thoroughly soaked. "Now what _are_ we going to do?" Aunt Nancy asked in dismay, as she surveyed the dripping boy, who left little rivers of water behind him whenever he moved. "You haven't got a second shirt to your back, and I can't let you remain in these wet clothes." "I might go out to the barn an' lay 'round there till they dried," Jack suggested. "Mercy on us, child, you'd get your death of cold! Wait right here while I go into the attic and see if there isn't something you can wear for a few hours. Don't step across the threshold." This last admonition was unnecessary. Short a time as Jack had known Aunt Nancy, he was reasonably well acquainted with her cleanly habits, and to have stepped on that floor, which was as white as boards can be, while in his present condition, would have been to incur the little woman's most serious displeasure. He was also forced to remain at a respectful distance from Louis, who laughed and crowed as if begging to be taken, and while moving farther away he whispered,-- "It wouldn't do at all to touch you when I'm so wet, old fellow, but I'll lug you around as much as you want as soon as I'm dried off. After Aunt Nancy comes back, I'm goin' to talk with her about Farmer Pratt, an' see if she'll agree to say we ain't here in case he calls. You an' I'll be in a pretty hard box if she don't promise to tell a lie for us." CHAPTER VI. A MENTAL STRUGGLE. When Aunt Nancy returned from the attic, she had a miscellaneous collection of cast-off garments sufficient to have clothed a dozen boys like Jack, providing they had been willing to wear female apparel. "I thought there might be some of father's things upstairs," she said, examining once more each piece; "but I've given them away. You won't care if you have to put on a dress for a little while, will you? Here are some old ones of mine, and it will be a great deal better to use them than to stand around in wet clothes." Jack was not at all anxious to masquerade as a girl, and would have preferred to "dry off," as he expressed it, in the barn; but, fearing lest he should offend the old lady at a time when he was about to ask a very great favor, he made no protest. Aunt Nancy selected from the assortment two skirts, a pair of well-worn cloth shoes, and a shawl, saying as she handed them to the boy,-- "Now you can go out in the barn and put these on. Then we'll hang your clothes on the line, where they'll dry in a little while. In the mean time I'll find some sticking plaster for your face, and a piece of brown paper to put over your eye to prevent it from growing black." Jack walked away as if he were about to perform a very disagreeable task, and by the time Aunt Nancy had carried the superfluous wardrobe upstairs and procured such things as she thought would be necessary in the treatment of the boy's wounds, he emerged from the barn looking decidedly shamefaced. He knew he presented a most comical appearance, and expected to be greeted with an outburst of laughter; but Aunt Nancy saw nothing to provoke mirth in what had been done to prevent a cold, and, in the most matter-of-fact manner, began to treat the bruises on his face. A piece of court plaster fully half as large as Jack's hand was placed over the scratch on his right cheek, another upon a small cut just in front of his left ear, while a quantity of brown paper thoroughly saturated with vinegar covered his eye and a goodly portion of his forehead. This last was tied on with a handkerchief knotted in such a manner as to allow the two ends to stick straight up like the ears of a deformed rabbit. During this operation Louis laughed in glee. It was to him the jolliest kind of sport to see his guardian thus transformed into a girl, and even Aunt Nancy herself could not repress a smile when she gazed at the woe-begone looking boy who appeared to have just come from some desperate conflict. "I s'pose I look pretty rough, don't I?" Jack asked with a faint attempt at a smile. "I feel like as if I'd been broke all to pieces an' then patched up ag'in." "It isn't as bad as it might be," Aunt Nancy replied guardedly; "but out here where we don't see any one it doesn't make much difference, and to run around this way a few hours is better than being sick for a week." "I reckon I can stand it if you can," Jack said grimly, "but I don't think I want to fix fences in this rig. Them fellers would think I'd put on these things so they wouldn't know me." "No indeed, you mustn't leave the house even when your clothes are dry, until I have seen that Dean boy's father." "You ain't goin' to tell him about their poundin' me, are you?" Jack asked quickly. "Of course I am. You don't suppose for a single moment that I intend to run the chances of your being beaten to death by them! If Mr. Dean can't keep his boy at home I'll--I'll--I don't know what I will do." "Seems to me it would be better not to say anything about it," Jack replied hesitatingly. "If we go to tellin' tales, them fellers will think I'm afraid, an' be sure to lay for me whenever I go out." "I'm not going to tell any tales; but I intend to see if it isn't possible for me to have a decent, well-behaved boy around this place without his being obliged to fight a lot of disreputable characters such as some we've got in the neighborhood." This is not the time for Jack to make any vehement protests, lest Aunt Nancy should be provoked because of his persistency, and he changed the subject of conversation by broaching the matter which occupied all his thoughts. "That Mr. Pratt what tried to send Louis an' me to the poor farm drove past here with Tom jest before them fellers tackled me, an' I heard him say he was lookin' for us." "Mercy on me!" Aunt Nancy exclaimed as she pushed the spectacles back from her nose to her forehead and peered down the lane much as if expecting to see the farmer and his son in the immediate vicinity. "Why _is_ he so possessed to send you to the poorhouse?" "That's what I don't know," Jack replied with a sigh; "but he's after us, an' if he once gets his eye on me, the thing is settled." "He has no more right to bother you than I have, and not half as much. According to your story, he didn't even take the trouble to give you a decent meal, and I'll soon let him know he can't carry you away from here." "But how'll you prevent it if he starts right in an' begins to lug us off? He's stronger'n you an' me put together, an' if he's come all this distance there won't be much stoppin' for anything you'll say to him, I'm afraid. Now don't you think it would be better to tell him I wasn't here?" "Mercy on us, Jack! How could I do that when you _are_ here?" "Well, you wouldn't like to have him lug us off if you knew we'd got to go to the poorhouse, would you? 'Cause neither Louis nor me ever did anything to you, or to him either." "But you sha'n't go there, my dear child. So long as I am willing to keep you here, I don't see what business it is of his, or anybody else's." "It seems as though he was makin' it his business," Jack replied disconsolately; for he was now beginning to despair of persuading Aunt Nancy to tell a lie. "If you'd say we wasn't here, that would settle it, and he wouldn't stay." "But I can't, Jack; I can't tell an absolute falsehood." Jack gave vent to a long-drawn sigh as he looked toward the baby for a moment, and then said,-- "Well, I didn't s'pose you would do it anyhow, so Louis an' me'll have to start off, 'cause I won't go to that poor farm if I have to walk every step of the way to New York an' carry the baby besides." "I don't see why you should talk like that, my child. In the first place, there is no reason for believing that hard-hearted man will come here, and--" "Oh, yes, there is!" and Jack repeated the conversation he had overheard while hiding in the alder-bushes. "When he finds out we haven't been to Biddeford, he'll ask at every house on the way back." "Do you really think he would try to take you if I said to him in a very severe tone that I would have him prosecuted for attempting anything of the kind?" "I don't believe you could scare him a bit, an' there isn't much chance you'd be able to stop him after he's come so far to find us." "But I can't have you leave me, Jack," the little woman said in a quavering voice. "You have no idea how much I've been countin' on your company." "You won't feel half so bad as I shall to go," Jack replied mournfully. "But it is out of the question to even think of walking all that distance." "It's got to be done jest the same, an' as soon as my clothes are dried we'll start. Things will come mighty tough; but they can't be helped." Aunt Nancy looked thoroughly distressed, and there was a suspicious moisture in her eyes as she asked,-- "How would it do to lock the doors, and refuse to come down when he knocked?" Jack shook his head. "I don't believe it would work." "No, it mustn't be thought of, for then we should be acting a lie, which is almost, if not quite, as bad as telling one." "How do you make that out?" Jack asked in surprise. "We shouldn't lock the doors unless it was to give him the impression that there was no one at home, which would be a falsehood." The expression on Jack's face told that he failed to understand either the argument or the spirit which prompted it, and for several moments no word was spoken. Then, as a happy thought occurred to him, the boy said eagerly,-- "I'll tell you how it could be done without any lie at all, an' everything would go along as slick as grease." "How?" Aunt Nancy asked quickly, as a look of relief passed over her face. "I'll watch up the road a piece till I see the team comin'. Then I'll run back here, get Louis, an' carry him off somewhere." "Well?" the little woman asked as he paused. "Why, can't you see how easy it'll be then? You'll only have to tell him you don't know where we are, an' he'll be bound to leave." "But, Jack dear, I should know where you were." "How do you make that out?" "You wouldn't leave the farm, an' while I--" "That's jest what you don't know. I didn't tell you where we'd go. It would be the same thing if we left for New York this minute; you might think we was on the road somewhere; but that wouldn't make it so." Aunt Nancy remained silent, and although he did not believe she was convinced, Jack fancied there was a look of hesitation on her face as if she might be persuaded into complying with his request, therefore he added eagerly,-- "You want us to stay here, an'--" "Indeed I do!" the little woman replied fervently. "I never knew a boy who seemed so much like our own folks as you do, and since last night it has been a great relief to think I should have you with me this summer." "And if Mr. Pratt knows we're anywhere around, he'll snake us away for certain." "I don't understand how that can be done, Jack." "Neither do I; but he has come to do it, an' you can't stop him. Now I'll promise to go where you'd never guess of our bein', an' then there wouldn't be the least little bit of a lie in sayin' you didn't know." "I would do almost anything for the sake of keeping you here, Jack, except to commit a sin." "This way you won't be doin' anything of the kind. I reckon my clothes are dry now, an' I'd better put 'em on so's to be ready to watch for Mr. Pratt." Then Jack hurried off as if the matter had been positively settled. Aunt Nancy gazed after him with an expression of mingled pain and perplexity on her wrinkled face, and just then Louis crept to her knee, begging in his odd language to be taken on her lap. "You dear little creature!" she cried, pressing him to her bosom while he chattered and laughed. "It would be cruel to send you among the paupers, when a lonely old woman like me loves you so much!" Jack looked back just in time to see this picture, and there was no longer any doubt in his mind but that Aunt Nancy would accede to his request. Five minutes later he returned clad in his own garments, which looked considerably the worse for the hasty drying, and said as he ran swiftly past the little woman,-- "Don't let Louis go into the house, for I'll want to get hold of him in a hurry!" Aunt Nancy began to make some remark; but he was moving so swiftly that the words were unheard, and the old lady said to herself with a long-drawn sigh as she pressed the baby yet more closely,-- "I'm afraid it is wrong to do as he wishes; but how can I allow cruel men to take this dear child from me, when I know he will not be cared for properly?" Then she began to think the matter over more calmly, and each moment it became clearer to her mind that by acceding to Jack's request she would be evading the truth, if not absolutely telling a lie. "I can't do it," she said, kissing the baby affectionately. "Much as I shall grieve over them, it is better they should go than for me to do what I know to be wrong." Having thus decided, she hurried up the lane to warn Jack; but before reaching the road the boy was met coming at full speed. "Mr. Pratt has just shown up at the top of the hill; he's stoppin' at the house over there! I'll get Louis and hide." "But, Jack dear, I have been thinking this matter over, and I can't even act a lie." "Why didn't you say so before, when I had a chance to get away?" he cried reproachfully. "By lettin' me think you'd do it, you've got us into a reg'lar trap!" The boy did not wait to hear her reply, but ran to where Louis was seated contentedly on the grass, raised him in his arms and disappeared behind the barn, leaving the little woman feeling very much like a culprit. CHAPTER VII. FARMER PRATT. Aunt Nancy was now in a fine state of perplexity. Jack's reproachful tone had cut very deeply, and she began to consider herself responsible for all which might happen because of not having warned him in time. "I'm a wicked woman," she said, wringing her hands distractedly, "and accountable for all that happens now. Why was I so weak as not to give the dear boy a decided answer when he came from the barn?" Then she ran to the bars and called after Jack in a whisper; but if any one had asked why she wanted him to come back just at that time, she could not have explained. Returning to the old oak, she was about to sit down again when the rattle of wheels told that Farmer Pratt was near at hand. Hardly aware of what she did, the little woman went hurriedly into the house, and there awaited what must necessarily be a very painful interview. A few moments later the man whom Jack looked upon as a merciless enemy knocked at the door, and Aunt Nancy said feebly, "Come in." Farmer Pratt entered without very much ceremony, and as the little woman gazed at his face she fancied, probably from what Jack had told her, that it was possible to see covetousness and hard-heartedness written on every feature. He did not remove his hat, but stood in the centre of the floor, whip in hand, as he said,-- "Mornin' ma'am, mornin'. I'm from Scarborough, an' my name is Nathan Pratt. P'rhaps you've heard of me." Aunt Nancy was about to say she never had, meaning that her neighbors never had spoken of him as a person of importance; but she checked herself on remembering this would be a falsehood because of what Jack had said. "I have heard the name," she replied faintly. "I thought so, I thought so. I've lived, man an' boy, in Scarborough for nigh on to fifty years, an' when that's been done without givin' anybody a chance to say a word agin me, except that I want my own, as other folks do, then it would be kinder strange if I wasn't known within a dozen miles of home." "Was that all you came here to say?" Aunt Nancy asked. "Of course not,--of course not"; and the farmer seated himself without waiting for an invitation. "The fact of the matter is, ma'am, I'm huntin' for a couple of children what drifted ashore on my place the other day. One of 'em was a hunchback, an' I must say he is bad, for after eatin' all the food in my house that he an' the young one wanted, he run away, leavin' me in the lurch." "I don't suppose they stole it, did they?" and Aunt Nancy spoke very sharply, for it made her angry to hear such things said about Jack. "No, it wasn't exactly that," and the farmer hesitated, as if to give her the impression something equally wrong had been done by the boy; "but as a citizen of the town I don't want it said we let a couple of youngsters run around loose like calves." "What do you intend to do with them?" the little woman asked severely. Farmer Pratt had no idea of telling a secret which he believed would be worth at least an hundred dollars to him, and by keeping it he again defeated himself. "They oughter be carried to the poor farm till we can find out who owns 'em. You see I'm as big a tax-payer as there is in Scarborough, an' if any other town takes care of the children, we're likely to be sued for the cost of keepin'. Now I don't believe in goin' to law, for it's dreadful expensive, so I've come out to save myself an' my neighbors what little money I can." If Farmer Pratt had told the truth, Aunt Nancy would have done all in her power to aid him, and Jack could not but have rejoiced, although the farmer received a rich reward; but by announcing what was a false proposition, he aroused the little woman's wrath. She no longer remembered that it was wrong even to act a lie, and thought only of the possibility that those whom she had learned to love were really to be taken to the refuge for paupers, if her visitor should be so fortunate as to find them. "It seems hard to put children in such a place," she said, with an effort to appear calm. "That's only prejudice, ma'am, sheer prejudice. What do we keep up sich institoots for? Why, to prevent one man from bein' obleeged to spend more'n another when a lot of beggars come around." "And yet it seems as if almost any one would be willing to feed a couple of children who were lost." "There's where you are makin' a mistake ag'in, ma'am. Youngsters eat more'n grown folks, an' I know what I'm talkin' about, 'cause I've raised a family. Heaven helps them as helps themselves, an' when we find two like the one I'm huntin' for, then I say since heaven won't take a hand at it, the town should." Aunt Nancy remained silent, but those who knew her intimately would have said, because of the manner in which she moved her chair to and fro, that the little woman was struggling very hard to "rule her spirit." "I don't reckon you know anything about 'em, ma'am," Farmer Pratt said after a long pause, during which Aunt Nancy had rocked violently, with her gaze fixed upon an overbold honey bee who was intent on gathering the sweets from a honeysuckle blossom which the wind had forced through the open window. "I know this much," she replied with vehemence, "that I hope you won't find the children if it is simply to carry them to the poor farm. We are told of the reward which--" "Who said anything about a reward?" the farmer asked in alarm, fearing that which he wished should remain a secret was already known. "The Book tells us what shall be the reward of those who give a cup of cold water only to these His little ones--" "Oh! is that it?" and the visitor appeared greatly relieved. "I count myself about as good as my neighbors, but when it comes to keepin' a parcel of children, after I've paid my taxes to run a place especially for sich as they, then I say it's a clear waste of money, an' that's as much of a sin as anything else." "We won't argue the matter," the little woman replied with dignity, "but I hope the time will never come that I, poor as I am, can count the pennies in a dollar when it is a question of giving aid or comfort to the distressed." "Since you haven't seen the youngsters, there's no need of my stayin' any longer, ma'am, but it does seem funny that nobody has run across 'em, when I heard for a fact that they'd come up this road." Aunt Nancy knew full well that by remaining silent now, she was giving the visitor to understand she knew nothing about the missing ones; but just at the moment she would have told a deliberate lie rather than give Jack and Louis up to such a man, however much she might have regretted it afterward. "Of course there's no harm in my askin' the questions," Farmer Pratt said as he moved toward the door, feeling decidedly uncomfortable in mind because of the little woman's sharp words. "Certainly not; but at the same time I am sorry you came." "Why, ma'am?" "Because I have learned how hard-hearted men can be when it is a question of a few dollars. If the children should come to me, they would be given a home, such as it is, until their relatives could be found." "If they should come, I warn you that it is your duty to let me know, for they drifted ashore on my property, an' I've got the first claim." This was rather more than meek little Aunt Nancy could endure; but she succeeded in checking the angry words, and rose from her chair to intimate that the interview was at an end. Farmer Pratt went out very quickly, probably fearing he might hear more unpalatable truths, and the old lady watched him until he drove away. "It was wicked, but I'm glad I did it!" she said emphatically. "The idea of hunting up such children as Jack and Louis simply to send them among paupers!" Not for many moments did the little woman remain in this frame of mind. After a time she began to realize that she had done exactly what she told Jack would be impossible--acted a lie, and her conscience began to trouble her greatly. She tried to read a chapter in the Book with the hope of finding something to comfort her, and, failing in this, her thoughts went out to the children who had left so suddenly. "Mercy on us!" she exclaimed. "Suppose Jack really has gone away, believing I would tell that man all I knew about him!" This idea was sufficient to arouse her to action, and she went behind the barn, where she called softly,-- "Jack! Jack! Where are you?" Not until this very feeble outcry had been repeated half a dozen times did she receive any reply, and then the hunchback, with Louis clasped in his arms, peered out from among the bushes. "Has the farmer gone?" he asked in a whisper. "Indeed he has." "And you didn't tell him where we was?" "He never asked the question; but all the same, Jack dear, I did wrong in allowing him to suppose I knew nothing about you." "You're the sweetest aunt any feller ever had," the hunchback said heartily as he came swiftly up and kissed one of the old lady's wrinkled hands before she was aware of his intentions. "I couldn't believe you wanted us taken to the poorhouse, so I didn't go very far off." "I almost wish I hadn't done it, for--No, I don't either! After talking with that wretch it would have broken my heart to see him take you away! Give me the baby this minute; it seems as if I hadn't seen him for a week." Jack willingly relinquished his charge to the motherly arms extended to receive the laughing child, and said, as Aunt Nancy almost smothered Louis with kisses,-- "You sha'n't ever be sorry for what you have done. I'll work awful hard, an' take care of the baby whenever you've got somethin' else to do." "I know you are a good boy, Jack, and I wouldn't undo what's been done if I could; but at the same time my conscience will reproach me, for I realize that I acted wickedly." So far as the sin was concerned, Jack did not think it of great importance, and wondered not a little that as good a woman as Aunt Nancy should attach so much importance to what, in his mind at least, was nothing more than a charitable act. He took care not to give expression to his thoughts, however, and led the way back to the old oak-tree, where he said,-- "You sit down here awhile, an' I'll go out to make certain that man has gone. It might be he's waitin' 'round somewhere to find whether we're really here." "I don't think there is any danger of that," Aunt Nancy replied as she seated herself on the bench and fondled Louis until the little fellow was tired of caresses. Jack could not be comfortable in mind unless positive his enemy had left the vicinity, and he walked quite a long distance up the road before convincing himself of the fact. When he returned the desire to make himself necessary to the little woman was stronger than ever, and he proposed to finish the work of fence mending at once. "Better wait till after dinner now that it is so near noon," she said. "We'll have a quiet talk, and then I will start the fire." "Is it about Farmer Pratt you want to say something?" "No, we'll try to put him out of our minds. It is the baby." "What's the matter with him?" "He must have another frock and some clothes. These are very dirty, and I'm afraid he'd take cold if I should wash them at night, and put them on again in the morning." "Haven't you got an old dress like the one I wore? By pinnin' it up he'd get along all right." "Indeed he wouldn't, Jack. Boys can't be expected to know what a child needs; but it puzzles me how to get the material from the store." "What's the matter with my goin' after it?" "It is a very long distance--more than four miles away." "That's all right; I walked a good deal farther the day I came here. Jest say what you want, an' I'll go after it now." "Do you really think you could get back before sunset?" "I'm certain of it, providin' I don't wait for dinner." "But you must have something to eat, Jack dear." "I can take a slice of bread and butter in my hand, an' that'll last me more'n four miles." "I have half a mind to let you go," Aunt Nancy said as if to herself, and Jack insisted so strongly that she finally decided he should do the shopping. Not one, but half a dozen slices of bread were spread thickly with butter as a dinner for the messenger, and then the little woman wrote on a slip of paper the different articles she needed. "You must see that Mr. Treat gives you exactly what I've asked for," she said as she read the list, and explained what the texture or color of each article should be. "Watch him closely, and be sure he makes the right change." Then she gave him the most minute directions as to the road, the time which should be occupied in the journey, and the manner the goods were to be brought home. A basket was provided for the purchases, and Aunt Nancy said as she gave Jack a ten-dollar note,-- "Tie that in your handkerchief so's to be sure not to lose it, Jack dear, for it's a great deal of money to a lone woman like me." He promised to be careful, and kissed the baby good by. Aunt Nancy leaned over for the same salute, and when it had been given she said in a sorrowful tone,-- "It is a deal of comfort to have you with me, Jack; but I do wish I had been bold enough to tell that man the truth, and then refused to let you go with him." "It's lucky you didn't, Aunt Nancy, for he'd been bound to have us any way." Then Jack walked swiftly down the daisy-embroidered lane, thinking he was a very fortunate boy indeed in having found such a good friend as the sweet-faced old lady. CHAPTER VIII. A SECOND WARNING. True to his promise, Jack returned before the sun was very low in the western sky, and Aunt Nancy expressed the greatest surprise at seeing him so soon. "When I send William Dean to the store he needs all day for the journey, and on two or three occasions it has been late in the evening before he came back." "It isn't such an awful long walk, but it makes a feller kinder tired, an' I s'pose he had to rest a good while before startin' back. I thought I'd better come the minute the things were ready, 'cause I was afraid you'd do the milkin'." "Of course I shall. You don't suppose I'd let you work after that terribly long walk." "But I'm goin' to do the chores jest the same," Jack replied; and to prove his words he carried in the kindlings for morning. Aunt Nancy was perfectly satisfied with the purchases he made, and until it was time to bring the cow up from pasture she explained her intentions in the way of making clothes for Louis. "This piece of calico isn't as pretty as some I've had from Treat's," she said, unfolding the goods, "but it seems to be a good quality, and that's the main thing. Now, the question is whether I shall make his frock with a yoke, or plain? What do you think, Jack dear?" Jack hadn't the faintest idea of what she meant by a "yoke" or a "frock," but, wishing to please the little woman by giving an opinion, he answered decidedly,-- "I should make it plain." "That was just my idea. How queer it is that you should know all about such things, and have good judgment too!" Jack came very near smiling because of this praise which he did not deserve, but was wise enough not to make any reply, and Aunt Nancy consulted him on every detail until the garment had been fully decided upon. Then it was time to attend to old crumple-horn, and when Jack came into the kitchen again supper was on the table. In view of the fact that he had had such a long tramp, the little woman insisted on his retiring very early, and the Book was opened as soon as the supper-table had been cleared. On this day Aunt Nancy's evening devotions occupied an unusually long time, and she prayed fervently to be forgiven for her sin of the forenoon,--a fact which caused Jack to say when she had finished,-- "It don't seem to me as if you could ever do anything wicked, Aunt Nancy, an' there ain't any need of fussing about what you said to Farmer Pratt, for God knows jest how good you are." "You mustn't talk like that, Jack dear. There are very many times when I give way to anger or impatience, and there can be no question but that I as much as told a lie when that man was here." Jack would have protested that no wrong had been done, but she prevented further conversation by kissing him on both cheeks as she said, "Good night." On the following morning, Aunt Nancy's "man of all work" took good care she should not be the first one awake. He arose as the rays of the coming sun were glinting the eastern sky, and when the little woman entered the kitchen the fire had been built, the floor swept, and the morning's milk in the pail ready for straining. Her surprise at what he had done was sufficient reward for Jack, and he resolved that she should never have an opportunity to do such work while he was sleeping. "I begin to feel quite like a visitor," the little woman said with a cheery laugh as she bustled around in her sparrow-like fashion, preparing breakfast. "This is the first time in a great many years that the fire has been made and the milking done before I got up." Thanks to Jack's labors, the morning meal was unusually early, and when it had been eaten and the dishes washed, the hunchback said as he took up his hat,-- "I'll go now an' finish mendin' the fence." "Wait until I have seen Mr. Dean. I'm afraid those dreadful boys will do you some mischief." "I don't reckon they'll be stirring so early, an' it won't take me more'n an hour longer. While I'm gone, think of somethin' else that needs to be done, for I'd rather be workin' than layin' still." "You're a good boy, Jack dear, and I should be very sorry to have you go away from me now." "There's no danger of that yet awhile, unless Mr. Pratt takes it into his head to come this way again," Jack replied with a laugh as he left the house. It required some search to find the hammer and nails he had thrown down when he was so frightened, and then the task of fence mending progressed famously until a rustling among the bushes caused him to raise his eyes suddenly. Bill Dean stood before him, looking particularly savage and threatening. Jack took a yet firmer grasp of the hammer, resolved to defend himself vigorously providing there should be no other enemies in the vicinity. "So you're still here, eh?" Bill asked sternly. "Looks like it I reckon." "When are you goin'?" "I haven't quite made up my mind; but I'll write an' tell you before I pack my trunk." Bill stepped forward quickly, but Jack persuaded him to go back by swinging the hammer unpleasantly near the bully's head as he said,-- "Don't come too near! You served me out yesterday because there was three in the gang, an' I hadn't anything to defend myself with; but now matters are a little different." "Are you goin' to leave this place to-day?" Bill asked, as he retreated a few paces. "No, nor to-morrow either." "Then remember what I say. This is the second warnin' you've had, an' it'll be the last. Look out for trouble if you're in this town to-night!" "I shall be here, an' I want you to remember that somebody besides me may get into trouble if there's any funny business. Aunt Nancy threatened to tell your father about what was done yesterday, but I coaxed her not to, an' I won't say a word another time." "I don't mind what she says, we'll run you out of this place before two days go by, so take care of yourself." "That's jest what I count on doin', an' if you've got any sense you'll keep away from me." Bill shook his fist threateningly as near Jack's nose as he thought prudent, and disappeared among the bushes, leaving the hunchback decidedly disturbed in mind despite the bold front he had assumed. "Them fellers can make it hot for me, of course," he said to himself when the bully had gone, "an' I expect I shall catch it rough, but almost anything is better than leavin' here after Aunt Nancy has fixed it so nice with Farmer Pratt." He worked more rapidly after receiving this second warning, and returned to the house by the main road instead of going around past the frog pond. The little woman was under the old oak making Louis's new garments when he arrived, and she saw at once by the troubled expression on his face that something had gone wrong. "What's the matter, Jack dear?" she asked kindly. "Matter? I guess I don't know what you mean." "Indeed you do, so now tell Aunt Nancy all about it. Have you seen that Dean boy again to-day?" Jack was forced to confess he had, and in a few moments the little woman succeeded in learning the whole story. She insisted that it was necessary for her to see Bill's father at once; but the hunchback begged her not to do anything of the kind, and she apparently abandoned the idea. "Why is it you don't want me to go?" she finally asked. "Because when any fuss is raised about me, I'm afraid it'll come to Farmer Pratt's ears somehow, an' he'll be over here again." "I wish he would, for then I could confess to him that I the same as told a lie, and defy any one to take you children from me." "When that time comes we shall have to go," Jack replied despondently; and Aunt Nancy endeavored to cheer him by displaying Louis's frock, which was rapidly approaching completion. During the remainder of the day Jack busied himself around the farm at such chores as he or Aunt Nancy could find, and when night came nothing had been heard of those who insisted he must leave the town. The baby sat under the old oak during the evening in all the bravery of his new dress, and Aunt Nancy discussed the subject matter of her proposed letter to "Brother Abner" until it was time to retire. Then Jack went into his tiny room with a heart full of thankfulness that his lines "had been cast in such pleasant places," and it seemed as if his eyes had but just closed in slumber when he was awakened by the pressure of a soft hand on his face. Fear would have caused him to rise to a sitting posture very suddenly but for the fact that the same gentle pressure forced him to remain in a reclining position, and then he heard a familiar voice whisper,-- "O Jack dear, burglars are trying to get into the house! What _shall_ we do?" He was now thoroughly awake, and as the hand was removed from his mouth he asked in a low tone,-- "Are you certain of that?" "Absolutely. I thought I heard an unusual noise, and looked out when--There! _Do_ you hear that?" "It would be strange if I didn't," Jack replied as the creaking of the shed door swinging back on its hinges sounded remarkably loud and harsh on the still night air. "I'll get right up; go downstairs and wait for me." "It will be better if I stay in the hall-way," Aunt Nancy said in a voice, the tremor of which told that she was thoroughly frightened. Never before had Jack dressed so quickly, and as he did he tried to think what course should be pursued. There seemed to be no question but that burglars were on the premises, and to encounter them single handed and alone would be the height of folly. As may be fancied, he had not made a very elaborate toilet when he joined Aunt Nancy at the head of the stairs. It was sufficient that he had on enough clothing to admit of his going out of doors without danger of taking cold. "Have you got a gun or a pistol?" he asked of the little woman who was shivering with fear as if with an ague fit. "No indeed, I never would dare to sleep in the same house with such things." "What have you that I can use as a weapon?" "There isn't a single article in this house which is dangerous except the carving knife, and that is very dull." "It will be better than nothing." "But you surely don't intend to go out there when desperate men may be laying in wait to take your life!" "Something must be done; we can't stay shut up here and allow them to do as they please." "But you'll be killed, Jack dear"; and poor old Aunt Nancy clung to the boy in a frenzy of fear. "To think that I've been expecting something of the kind all my life, and it has come at last!" A sound as if the shed door had been closed told Jack he was wasting what might be precious time. "Get the carving knife quick," he whispered, "and when I go out lock the door after me." Aunt Nancy obeyed in silence. She brought the knife much as though it was the deadliest of weapons, and put it in Jack's hands with something very like awe. "Don't kill the men if you can help it," she whispered. "It would be better to frighten them very badly rather than stain your hands with blood." Jack made no reply; but the thought came into his mind that he would stand a poor chance of frightening a burglar, with nothing but the well worn knife. He opened the door softly. Aunt Nancy stood ready to close and lock it instantly he was on the outside, and the decisive moment had arrived. CHAPTER IX. THE ALARM. It must be confessed that Jack was not at all eager to face the alleged burglars. He knew very well that if there were no more than two he would stand a slim chance of driving them away, and even one good sized man might make it very uncomfortable for him. Had he been left to follow his own inclinations, the outer door would not have been opened, but he knew Aunt Nancy depended upon him for protection, and he must make a reputation for courage or be disgraced in her eyes. The sky was overcast with clouds, and Jack could not distinguish objects ten paces away as he stepped on to the broad stone in front of the door. He heard the key turn in the lock behind him, and this was sufficient to tell him he need not expect any assistance from the little woman inside. Grasping the carving knife firmly, he moved forward slowly in the direction of the shed, and saw a shadowy form dart around the corner of the building. Then another, or the same one, returned, approached Jack, and stooped over as if in the act of placing something on the ground. An instant later the shadow had disappeared, and Jack saw before him a thin line of sparks, apparently coming from the solid earth, but not sufficiently large to cast any light. Quite naturally Jack's first thought was that the miscreants were trying to set the buildings on fire, and he ran forward to extinguish what seemed ready to burst into a flame, when there was a muffled report, the ground appeared to be a mass of coals, while at the same time a soft, sticky substance was thrown in a shower upon him. Jack leaped back in surprise and alarm, and as he did so struck his foot against some obstruction with sufficient power to throw him headlong. The explosion, the sudden glare of light, and the shower of he knew not what, all served to bewilder the boy to such an extent that for the moment it seemed as if the same force which caused the report had knocked him down. The first idea which came into his mind was that he had been shot, for he remembered having heard that the victim does not feel pain for some time after a bullet enters his body, and the sticky substance on his face he thought must be blood. "That Bill Dean meant what he said, an' has commenced drivin' me out of town," he muttered to himself, making not the slightest effort to rise, because he believed it impossible to do so. The silence was almost oppressive after the loud report. Jack could hear nothing to denote that there was any one in the vicinity, and was feeling of his limbs to ascertain the amount of injury done, when a shrill, tremulous voice from the doorway cried,-- "Jack! Jack dear! Are you hurt much?" "I'm afraid I'm shot. It seems as if I was bleedin' dreadful!" "Wait till I can light the lantern, my poor boy"; and the door was closed and locked again. By this time Jack had fully persuaded himself he was seriously wounded, and wondered how long it would be before the pain came. Two minutes later Aunt Nancy, partially dressed and with an odd little lantern in her hand, emerged very cautiously from the house. The fear Jack might be fatally injured was greater than that of the supposed burglars. Her desire to aid others conquered her timidity, and the only thought was to bring relief as speedily as possible. "Mercy on us! What a dreadful thing!" Aunt Nancy exclaimed as she arrived at the place where Jack was lying at full length on the ground. "Tell me where you are hurt, my poor child." "I don't know; but it seems as if somethin' tough must have happened, for I'm bleedin' terribly." The little woman knelt by his side, and held the lantern up until its rays illumined the boy's face. "I can't see any blood, Jack dear; but you seem to be literally covered with something yellow." The boy passed his hand over his face, scraping off the supposed sanguinary fluid, and examined it carefully by aid of the light. Then he leaped to his feet very quickly, looking both ashamed and angry. "It's some kind of a trick Bill Dean's gang have been playing!" he cried, and at that instant from behind the barn came a shout of derision, followed by hearty laughter. "Oh, I wish I was strong enough to flog those wicked wretches!" Aunt Nancy said, her eyes filling with tears of vexation. Jack made no reply. He had taken the lantern from her hand, and was searching carefully in the immediate vicinity. It was not long before he and Aunt Nancy decided that the yellow substance was the seeds and pulp of a pumpkin, and Jack said, as he picked up several pieces of red paper,-- "Now I know what it means. Those fellers have dug the inside out of a pumpkin, and put into it a big firecracker. They waited until I came near the shed before lighting it, an', of course, when the thing exploded it sent the stuff flyin'." "Thank goodness it was no worse!" the little woman added, and Jack burst into a hearty laugh. Despite the suffering caused by fear, the idea that he had been scared almost into dying by an exploded pumpkin was comical in the extreme, and his mirth was not checked until Aunt Nancy asked quite sharply,-- "What on earth are you laughing at?" "To think how frightened we got about nothing." "I'm sure it was a good deal. Here we've been forced out of our beds at this hour of the night, believing burglars were around, and then scared nearly to death because it appeared as if you were wounded, all on account of those terrible boys who wanted to have some sport!" "It can't be helped now, an' the sooner you get into the house the less will be the chances of your taking cold," Jack replied, checking his mirth with difficulty as he saw how angry Aunt Nancy really was. Although it was a practical joke which had caused a great deal of mental anxiety for a short time, he could not look upon it otherwise than as funny, except when he realized that this was the first step taken to drive him out of the town. The little woman insisted on examining the interior of the shed to learn if the boys had done any further mischief, and they found fragments of pumpkin and paper, showing that the "infernal machine" had been constructed there. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed, and the two who had been so unceremoniously awakened returned to the house after the pulp was scraped with a chip from Jack's face, hair, and clothing. It was a long time before the boy could induce slumber to visit his eyelids again that night, but he finally succeeded with such good effect that he did not awaken until the noise Aunt Nancy made while building the fire aroused him. Dressing hurriedly, he went downstairs in time to do a portion of the work, and when the milk was brought into the house after old crumple horn had been driven to pasture, Aunt Nancy asked,-- "Do you think you could take care of Louis a little while this forenoon?" "Of course I can. Are you going visitin'?" "Yes; I intend to see if something can't be done to prevent those wretched boys from carrying on in this manner." "But, Aunt Nancy--" "Now don't say a word, Jack dear. Things were very much like this last summer when I hired a boy from Portland, and no one can tell what might have happened if he hadn't run away. I know it is wrong to get angry, but I can't help it. Seems to me I am growing more wicked every day; yesterday I just the same as told a lie, and last night I did not control my angry passions." "But, Aunt Nancy--" "Don't try to argue with me, or I shall get worse. I am going to see Mr. Dean at once, and you must keep house till I come back." Louis's guardian realized that words would be worse than useless at such a time, and he wisely refrained from speaking, while Aunt Nancy, as if trying hard to keep her temper within bounds, did the morning work in ominous silence. When the last duty had been performed, she directed Jack to take the baby out under the old oak, and then disappeared for half an hour or more, at the end of which time she reappeared dressed with scrupulous neatness, but in the quaintest of fashions. "I sha'n't be away more than an hour; and if any of those boys show themselves, be sure to go into the house with Louis at once." Saying this, she walked swiftly down the lane, and Jack muttered to himself as she turned the corner into the main road,-- "I'm mighty sorry she's bent on anything of the kind, for I'm certain there'll be trouble for me come out of it." Fortunately nothing occurred to cause alarm during the little woman's absence. Jack amused the baby, split more kindlings and piled them up in the shed, being thus occupied when Aunt Nancy returned, looking mildly triumphant. "There!" she said in a tone of satisfaction as she seated herself beneath the old oak and fanned her heated face with a tiny pocket-handkerchief, "I did control my temper, and I don't think the Dean boy will trouble either of us again." "Did you tell his father?" "I gave him a full account of all which had been done, both this summer and last. Mr. Dean has promised me nothing of the kind shall ever happen again, and we are free from that annoyance." Jack thought, but did not venture to put it into words, that Bill Dean would not give up the struggle so easily, and felt convinced there was yet more serious trouble in store for him before the summer came to an end. "Do you know, Jack dear, I would give almost anything in the world if I hadn't told a lie to Mr. Pratt. We should have stood our ground, and defied him to take you and the baby away, rather than commit a sin." "But I can't see that you were so very wicked, Aunt Nancy. He would have carried us off in spite of anything you could say, an' I'm sure you didn't tell a lie." "It is on my conscience just the same, Jack dear, and I shall never feel easy in mind," the little woman replied with a long-drawn sigh. Jack was really distressed because Aunt Nancy should regret so deeply what was done in his behalf; but he could think of nothing consoling to say, since she insisted on believing a downright falsehood had been told. "I am also to be condemned for having given way to my temper; but those boys do try it so severely it is very difficult to remember that he who 'rules his spirit is better than he who taketh a city.'" Jack looked up in bewilderment. He did not understand the application of the quotation, and the remark about taking a city mystified him. Aunt Nancy was so intent on her own sad thoughts that she paid no attention to his perplexity, and after a long silence entered the house, returning a few moments later in her home costume, which the boy thought more becoming than the antiquated finery she had been arrayed in for the call on Bill Dean's father. The little woman did not give Jack the details of her visit to Mr. Dean; but he felt more confident than ever that it was an ill-advised move, so far as his own peace was concerned, and but a little time was to elapse before this was to be proven. "I believe I will send a line to Brother Abner now," Aunt Nancy suddenly said. "It is time he learned what has happened; and since we have no pressing work on hand, you can mind the baby. It isn't as easy for me to write letters as it used to be. I need a long while in which to compose my thoughts." Then the little woman set about the task, and it could be seen it was a hard one by the manner in which she began. Watching through the open window, Jack saw her bring pens, paper, and ink from her chamber to the kitchen, and then nibble at the end of her penholder as if to derive inspiration from that source. Had it been some weighty document of state she could not have been more particular, and fully two hours were spent before the labor was completed. "Took me a long while, didn't it?" she asked on coming into the yard once more. "I believe I've told Abner the whole story, and we'll soon know if the baby's parents are yet alive." "Shall I carry it to the post-office?" "Mercy! no. It is in Treat's store, and I couldn't think of letting you take that long walk again to-day." "It won't hurt me a bit." "You must stay here quietly with me, and to-morrow perhaps you shall go. There is plenty of time, and who knows if Abner is home now; he's a master hand at gadding about, which accounts for his being so poor. I've always told him that 'a rolling stone gathers no moss,' but he laughs it off by saying he doesn't want to be moss-grown." CHAPTER X. SICKNESS. Now that the important letter had been written, Aunt Nancy was in no hurry to mail it. She acted very much as if believing the children would be lost to her immediately after Abner learned the news, and it was simply a case of "deferring the evil day." During the afternoon Jack further endeared himself to the little woman's heart by patching up the door of the shed in such a manner that it could not be opened readily, and fastening it with an old padlock he found in the barn. "That is just what I have been wanting for a long time," Aunt Nancy exclaimed in surprise when he called her to see the result of his labors. "How strange I can't do that as well as you!" "That's because you're a woman," Jack replied, not a little delighted with the praise bestowed upon him. "It may be; but I'm so very much older, it seems as if I should be able to do such things properly, and yet I can't even drive a nail." "There'll be no need of your doin' it while I'm 'round." "And I hope you and Louis will stay a long time; but I suppose it isn't right to say so, for although there isn't any chance his mother can be alive after the ship exploded, he has probably relatives who want to see him." During the remainder of the day, Jack assisted the little woman with the housework, and at sunset the two sat in the favorite place under the old oak, until Louis became unusually fretful. After trying in vain to soothe him, Aunt Nancy insisted they should retire, saying as she went toward the house,-- "I am afraid he doesn't feel very well. Are you sure he didn't play in the sun while I was away?" "I kept him in the shade as much as I could. Do you think he can be sick?" "Not enough for us to worry about, Jack dear. Children are apt to fuss when everything don't go just right. After I undress him, we'll read the Book, and then you shall go to bed." The fact that Louis was not in his usual good spirits and temper worried Jack considerably, despite the little woman's cheery words, and when he went to his tiny room it was impossible for him to sleep immediately. He had lain awake fully two hours, at times speculating as to how he and the baby would finally get to New York, and again wondering if it could be possible that both Captain and Mrs. Littlefield were dead, when the stairway door was opened, as Aunt Nancy whispered cautiously,-- "Jack! Jack dear! Are you awake?" The boy was on his feet in an instant. "What's the matter? Is Louis worse?" "He seems to be quite sick. Will you dress and come down?" Jack answered this summons very quickly as he tried to keep back the dry sob which came into his throat, for it seemed as if the greatest misfortune which could befall him would be to lose the baby at the time when he was in such a good home. He found Aunt Nancy in the kitchen with Louis in her arms. A fire had been built in the stove, and the little woman was seated in front of it rocking the baby as she stirred the boiling contents of a tin kettle. "Do you know what catnip is when you see it growing?" she asked as Jack entered the room. "I don't; but if you'll tell me where to go, I'll hunt for it." "Light the lantern, so there won't be any mistake, and run out to the lane. You'll find some growing along the fence. Get as much as will fill this kettle, and come back as soon as you can." "Is he very bad?" Jack asked in a trembling voice as he gazed at the baby's flushed cheeks. "I never have had much experience with children, but I guess a little catnip tea will bring him around all right by morning." "Hadn't we better have a doctor?" "There is no need yet, and, besides, there isn't one within six miles." "It don't make any difference how far it is, I'm willin' to walk any distance for him." "We will first see what the morning brings forth." Jack delayed no longer. The lantern was lighted, and he started at once in search of an herb he did not even know by sight. Ten minutes later he returned with an armful of green leaves, and Aunt Nancy bestowed but one hasty glance upon them when she cried,-- "O Jack, Jack, you've spent your time gathering burdocks! If you can hold the baby, I'll go after it myself." "I'd rather try ag'in than have you go out where the grass is wet with dew." "It won't hurt me. Take Louis"; and the little woman put the baby in Jack's arms as she hurried away, lantern in hand. It seemed to Jack as if she had but left the house before she returned with the desired herb, and the boy said in surprise,-- "Is that what you call catnip? I saw plenty of it, but didn't think the leaves were big enough to do any good." "In this world it isn't the big things which are capable of working the most benefit, Jack." "If I hadn't known that before, I should after seeing you, Aunt Nancy. You're small, but there couldn't be anybody gooder." Although the little woman said nothing, it could readily be seen that the compliment pleased her. She bustled around much like a busy sparrow, putting the herbs in the kettle, making sundry mysterious decoctions, and otherwise preparing such things as she thought might be of benefit to the baby. Jack held Louis meanwhile, and before Aunt Nancy was ready to take him again he asked in a low tone,-- "Do you think there is any chance he would die?" "I don't believe he is in any danger now, Jack dear; but all of us should think of death as something which will come sooner or later." The boy was silent for a moment, and then he asked abruptly,-- "You pray for everything you want, why don't you do it now so he'll be sure to live?" "It wouldn't be right to ask God simply for the child's life." "Why not?" "Because He doeth all things well, and we do not know what His purpose may be." "But there can't be any good come of takin' Louis away from me, when he's all I've got." "That is something you don't know, Jack dear. What God does is right, and we must bow to His will." Aunt Nancy spoke in such a solemn tone, or, as Jack afterward expressed it, "like as if she was in meetin'," that the boy could say no more, but watched intently every move the little woman made until she was ready to take the baby in her arms once more. This night was a long one to both, for neither thought of going to sleep. Once Aunt Nancy insisted Jack should lie down; but he pleaded so hard to be allowed to remain awake, that she said no more, and the two sat with Louis until daybreak. During this long time neither spoke until the baby had fallen asleep, and Jack was on the point of going out to milk the cow, when the little woman said in a tone very like that of fear,-- "Wouldn't it be a dreadful thing if I should be punished for telling a lie to Mr. Pratt, by losing Louis just now when we are living so comfortably?" "But you didn't tell a lie," Jack replied just a trifle impatiently. "Both you and I know I did, however much we may try to persuade ourselves that it isn't so, and I am certain some punishment will follow." Jack shook his head incredulously. He began to understand that it would be useless to attempt to convince Aunt Nancy she had not committed a grievous sin, and was disposed to lose faith in a religion which would condemn so good a woman for having saved himself and the baby from much trouble. To avoid paining her by saying what was in his mind, he went out to milk, and on returning found the baby sleeping naturally. "He seems much relieved," Aunt Nancy said as she put him to bed. "He will probably sleep a long while, and you had better get some rest." Jack insisted that he did not need any, and continued doing such chores as he could find around the house until breakfast was ready, after which he proposed going to the post-office. "Now the letter is written it had better be mailed, an' perhaps there are some things you want from the store." "I do need a few notions; but it seems too bad to have you walk so far this hot morning." "It'll do me good. I can be back by noon, and the weather won't be very warm while I'm goin' over." Aunt Nancy allowed herself to be persuaded, because there really were some groceries she wanted, and after making out a list with infinite care, cautioning him not to pay more than five cents a pound for the coarse sugar and eighty cents for the tea, she gave him a lunch to be eaten during the return journey. "I don't want you to stay any longer than is necessary; but at the same time you mustn't hurry too fast," she said, as he walked rapidly down the lane; and Jack replied,-- "I'll be back by noon, unless something terrible happens." Although the hunchback could not move as fast as more favored boys, he "kept at it," to use his favorite expression, and by this means was able to get over the ground with reasonable rapidity. He was travelling steadily on, thinking of the baby and Aunt Nancy's apparently needless sorrow at having acted a lie during Mr. Pratt's call, when he was aroused to a sense of what was passing around him by hearing the disagreeably familiar voice of Bill Dean, as he shouted,-- "Hold on there a minute, I want to see you." Bill was coming across the fields at full speed, and, knowing he could not escape if the bully should pursue him, Jack halted. "So you're tryin' to hide behind Aunt Nancy's apron strings, eh?" Master Dean cried as he reached the road. "I don't know what you mean." "Oh, yes, you do. Didn't you send her over to tell my father that I was goin' to drive you out of town, an' didn't she let on about the lickin' we give you?" "That was her business. I tried to stop her, for I can 'tend to my own battles." "Perhaps you can; we'll see about that later. Say, what of that man who was over here huntin' for you?" Jack's cheeks grew pale. He understood to whom Bill referred, and it seemed positive the whole story would be known, despite the sacrifice made by Aunt Nancy. "Haven't got anything to say, eh? Well, I'm goin' to see him, an' tell where you are, then we'll see how you like tattlers." Jack was frightened beyond the power of speech. He had no idea but that his enemy knew exactly where to find Mr. Pratt, and firmly believed the time was near at hand when he and Louis would be forcibly taken away from Aunt Nancy's kindly care. "That don't seem to strike you very well!" Bill cried with a laugh of triumph. "We'll have this thing fixed up in short order, an' then I reckon old Nancy will be ready to hire boys who know their business." "What makes you jump down on me?" Jack asked piteously. "You know mighty well. We told you what to do, an' you thought we didn't mean business. Now you'll soon find out." Jack hadn't the heart to hold any further conversation with his tormentor. His only thought was to hurry on that he might be alone where the matter could be calmly discussed in his own mind, and walked swiftly away, followed by Bill's jeering words. Now indeed he had a cup running over with sorrow. If his enemies knew of Mr. Pratt, it would not be long before that gentleman learned of his whereabouts, and it surely seemed as if the time had finally come when he must start out on the long journey, leaving behind the dearest friend he had ever met since the day when his mother crossed the dark river. "There's no help for it," he said resolutely, "an' I've got to look at this thing right. Bill will tell the farmer right away, an' the sooner we leave the farther we'll be off when they come to find us." Thus the matter was settled in his mind that the flight should be resumed at the earliest moment it might be safe to take Louis out of doors. CHAPTER XI. GARDENING. It can readily be supposed Jack was not inclined to linger on the road after this interview with Bill Dean. That the latter would inform Farmer Pratt of his whereabouts he had no doubt, and this was a method of driving him "out of town" for which he was not prepared. Walking at full speed, running over the descending ground, and trying to keep on at a good pace when he ascended hills, the journey to Treat's store was accomplished in a remarkably short time. He found many customers before him, however, and was obliged to wait until it should be his turn, although he felt quite certain every moment was precious. It was the proprietor of the establishment, who also acted as postmaster, that waited upon him, and while weighing out the "notions" Aunt Nancy had sent for, the gentleman said, as if answering his own question,-- "So you've been hired by Aunt Nancy." "I'm stayin' there a little while, sir." "You are, eh? Where do you hail from?" Jack hesitated an instant, and then replied with a forced laugh,-- "I s'pose I oughter say I belong to the farm, 'cause I haven't any other home." "An orphan, eh?" "Yes, sir." "Where did your folks useter live?" Jack was not aware that Mr. Treat had the name of being the most inveterate gossip in the neighborhood; but felt positive there was no good reason why he should satisfy his curiosity on this point, more particularly since, in view of Bill Dean's threats, he wished to keep as a secret everything concerning himself, therefore said with an assumption of carelessness,-- "Almost anywhere. You see I was brought up to be a sailor." "Sho! Is that so? Well now I wouldn't think you'd make much of a fist shinnin' 'round on the riggin'." "Even if I am crooked I might be as spry as other fellers." "That's a fact; but you don't look it"; and then the worthy Mr. Treat turned his attention to the list Aunt Nancy had written for Jack's guidance. When the goods had been made ready the proprietor of the store would have questioned the messenger further, but the latter hurried away without replying to what he did not consider it was necessary strangers should know. Jack arrived at the farm unusually early, and Aunt Nancy exclaimed as he came up the lane looking heated and breathless,-- "Well, I declare! It does beat all how you can get over the ground! Why, I've known it to take Daniel Chick's horse a good bit longer to go to the post-office and back." "I was in a hurry to talk with you, an' so come as quick as I could, for I'm afraid Louis an' I must go away, even after all that's been done." The little woman looked up quickly in mingled alarm and surprise. "Why, what has happened, Jack dear?" For reply the boy repeated that which Bill Dean had said, and added in conclusion,-- "You see Mr. Pratt will be over here the minute he hears the news, an' then everything is settled the wrong way." "Are you certain Bill Dean knows where he lives?" "Of course he must, else he wouldn't have said what he did." "I'm sorry to have to doubt his word; but I couldn't put the least dependence in a thing he says, and there are more than me in this town of the same opinion. Besides, he is too indolent to walk so far." "Still there's a chance he might send some word." "You are right, Jack; but at the same time I wouldn't borrow trouble. In case that man should come, you can find some way of keeping out of his clutches until I see the 'Squire." "What good would that do?" "I don't know; but it does seem as if we might prevent him from carrying you and the baby away when I'm not only willing but anxious to have you both stay with me. I don't believe there is any law to compel children who have a good home to go to a poorhouse, and if there is the least bit more bother I'm going to have the matter settled once and for all in the 'Squire's court." Aunt Nancy spoke in such a decided tone, and seemed so thoroughly convinced there was a legal remedy for the trouble, that Jack felt relieved at once. "I could get out of his way, no matter how close he got to me; but there's the baby. It might be I was where I couldn't find Louis quick enough when the farmer came, an' then he'd soon drag him away." "The baby will be with me, and I promise you there'll be no dragging when I'm around," the little woman said with considerable dignity. "Keep up your courage, and I'm sure we shall come out all right, except for that miserable action of mine yesterday. If I had told the truth then and defied him, things would seem a great deal smoother now." "Then I'll hold on a while longer." "Certainly, and in the future stay close around the house, so those terrible boys can't make mischief. Did you ever do any gardening, Jack?" "Do you mean plantin' seeds an' makin' 'em grow?" "I mean cultivating the ground. No one can force the seeds to grow but He who rules over all. I would dearly love to have a few string beans and some cabbages, but it's so expensive hiring the land ploughed that I haven't been able to afford it." "I could dig up a good deal with a shovel." "If you'll try it I will get the seeds, and perhaps we shall have the pleasure of harvesting our own crops." Jack was so relieved in mind that he did not feel any fatigue because of the long walk, and insisted on beginning work in the garden at once. Despite all Aunt Nancy could say against it, he labored industriously with the shovel during the next two hours, and at the end of that time as much ground had been prepared as the little woman thought necessary. "It won't do to try too much at first," she said musingly, as, with Louis in her arms, she watched the deformed boy make ready the small plot between the woodshed and barn. "I'll see about the seeds to-morrow, and it does seem as if we might put in more than cabbages and beans now that we've got so much room. I didn't suppose you would care to dig up very much." "It isn't such hard work but that I'd be willin' to make one twice this size; as it is, I reckon you can plant pretty nearly all you want." Then Aunt Nancy, looking very grave as if the task was one of the greatest importance, measured the plot into rows, putting in little bits of wood to mark where each kind of seed should be planted, and when it was finished she looked thoroughly happy. "We shall have a famous garden, Jack dear, and it won't be necessary for me to spend so much money for vegetables when the summer boarders come. They always wonder why I don't raise my own green stuff." The garden and the plans concerning it gave both so much pleasure that, for the time being at least, Farmer Pratt was almost forgotten. The chores occupied Jack's time during the remainder of the day, and when he retired it was to fall asleep almost immediately because of fatigue. Early next morning Aunt Nancy visited one of the neighbors to procure seeds, and when another night came every row was planted. During the three succeeding days Jack remained near the house, never going farther away than the main road, where he spent his spare time watching for Farmer Pratt. It surely seemed as if Bill Dean was ignorant of the gentleman's address, or, as Aunt Nancy had suggested, was too indolent to make the journey to Scarborough, for nothing was seen or heard of Tom's father, and Jack began to feel a certain sense of security. Louis was as contented as a child well could be, and each day claimed more of the little woman's affections until she actually began to look forward with dismay to the coming of the summer boarders, because then she could not devote to him so much of her time. Never once was the nightly search for burglars omitted; and when Jack asked why such a labor was necessary when it was positive no one could enter the house during the day without her knowledge, she replied with an ominous shake of the head,-- "We can't say, Jack dear, what might happen. I have done this same thing for the last fifteen years, and don't intend to be careless now in my old age." "But you never found anybody, did you?" "No, and I hope I never shall; but it would be impossible to sleep if I neglected what seems like a solemn duty." On the fourth day after the garden was planted both Jack and Aunt Nancy visited it twice to see if the seeds had sprouted, and several times did the sight of a weed cause them the greatest joy for a few moments, since it seemed certain something in the vegetable line had shown itself. Like Farmer Pratt, Bill Dean remained out of sight, and the little woman was confident she had frightened him away. "We can count on being left alone this summer, Jack dear, for he won't show his head around here. In all the years I have lived on the farm, when I went to his father was the first time I ever made a complaint to a neighbor, and I hope it will be the last, for I do think people should avoid troubling others with such things. We are told that we must forgive our brother seventy times seven; but there was no use in doing that by William, since it made no difference to him whether he was forgiven or not." Jack was not so confident that those who threatened to drive him away had relinquished their purpose; but he said nothing regarding his fears, since no good could come of alarming the little woman. The day on which the first cabbage showed two tiny leaves above the surface was a red-letter day for the amateur gardeners. Aunt Nancy spent at least two hours admiring it, and the seat under the big oak was abandoned at sunset in order that she might search for further proofs of their success. "There is so much pleasure in having a garden that I shall never again be without one, that is," she added with a sigh, "if I have you with me. I can't bear to think that the time may come when we must part." "May come? Why, it must come, Aunt Nancy. Just as soon as the weather gets cool, we are bound to start." "I have been thinking perhaps Louis hasn't any relatives living, and in that case what would prevent you and he from staying here until I go down into the valley of the shadow of death?" "Nothing would suit me better," Jack replied emphatically. "This is the first home I have ever known, and it will be hard to leave it." "If you do go, Jack dear, it will be a lonely old woman you leave behind. I had gotten accustomed to living alone; but now it is different, and the house would seem deserted without you and the baby. Yet I am afraid something of the kind must happen to punish me for telling Mr. Pratt a lie. It is through a crime that I was enabled to enjoy your company, and we know what are the wages of sin." Jack was not disposed to allow the conversation to continue in this channel. He could not bring himself to believe the little woman had done anything wrong in letting Farmer Pratt think he and Louis were not there, and it made him impatient to hear her blame herself so severely. "You see, Aunt Nancy, we would have to leave whether you done as you did or not, for how can we tell whether Capt. Littlefield or his wife are alive unless we go to find out?" "Oh, Abner will attend to all that! He lived in York State so long that he knows nearly every one in it by this time, and when we hear from him the whole story must be known, for interesting himself in other people's affairs is what exactly suits Abner." Jack could not be satisfied with this reply. He believed implicitly everything Aunt Nancy told him, and she was so positive that there appeared to be no chance for doubt. The little woman was called from the contemplation of the garden by that which, for a moment, caused Jack the greatest alarm. The rattle of wheels was heard from the road, and an instant later Aunt Nancy said in surprise,-- "Mercy on us! who can that be driving up the lane?" "It is the farmer comin' for us!" Jack cried excitedly as he caught Louis from Aunt Nancy's arms, and would have run off at full speed if she had not restrained him. "Wait a moment, my child. I don't see any man in the wagon." Jack looked quickly in the direction of the newcomers and then said,-- "There are two women, but one of them may be Mrs. Pratt." Again he would have sought refuge in flight but for Aunt Nancy's detaining hand. "It is only Mrs. Hayes and Mrs. Souders. I suppose they have come to make a call, and what _will_ they think at seeing the house in such confusion?" Jack, now that his fears were allayed, could not repress a smile at the idea of Aunt Nancy's house ever being in anything save a cleanly and orderly condition; but the little woman appeared really distressed because she had not had an opportunity to inspect it thoroughly before receiving company. "Take care of Louis, and stay under the oak-tree until I come out again," she said, hurrying away to receive the newcomers. Jack loitered near the barn where he would not be seen until the visitors had alighted, tied securely the aged horse, whose only ambition appeared to be to remain motionless, and entered the house. Then, instead of doing as Aunt Nancy had suggested, he took Louis into the woodshed, amusing him there for nearly an hour, when the two ladies departed. "Where are you, Jack?" the little woman called softly when the horse had drawn the wagon and its occupants on to the highway. "What is the matter?" Jack cried, as on emerging from his place of retreat he saw a look of deepest anxiety on Aunt Nancy's face. "Did they come here to take us away?" "It's not quite as bad as that," the little woman replied with a long-drawn sigh, "but very nearly. What _do_ you suppose they wanted?" Jack didn't even attempt to hazard a guess, and Aunt Nancy continued in a mournful tone,-- "They want to hold the monthly sewing circle here day after to-morrow!" "Well?" Jack asked, surprised that such a request should have caused so much distress. "Well? Why, Jack, how can you treat it so lightly? Just think of it! Only one day to clean house, go to the store, and do all the cooking!" "I don't see that there'll be very much to do in the way of cleaning house. It shines like a new three-cent piece already, and how are you goin' to make it look any better?" "O Jack! boys don't understand about such things. You can't see in the corners where the dirt always lodges, and the company will be sure to find everything that is slighted." "Well, I can go to the store for you at least." "I wouldn't allow you to take the chances of seeing William Dean even if you could do the errands, which is impossible. I must get Mr. Chick to carry me over in his team, and while I am away you and Louis are to stay in the house with the doors locked." "I don't think there is any need of that. Those fellers wouldn't dare to come here." "I can't believe they would; but at the same time it will do no harm to be careful. Now what _shall_ we have for supper?" "Do you mean to-night?" "Of course not. It doesn't make any difference what we eat for a day or two; but we must think very seriously of what is to be cooked for the circle." "Have some of your nice biscuits and a piece of cake. If folks can get anything better than that, they deserve to go hungry." "O Jack! you don't understand such things. I should be mortified almost to death if I didn't do as well as Mrs. Souders did when the circle met at her house last month." Then Aunt Nancy, looking as if a heavy burden of care had suddenly fallen upon her, went in to the kitchen, taking Louis with her, that Jack might be free to milk the cow. CHAPTER XII. LOUIS'S ADVENTURE. On this evening, immediately after supper had been eaten and the dishes washed, Aunt Nancy announced that it would be necessary for her to call upon Mr. Daniel Chick. "If I wait until morning his team may not be at home, and, besides, I want him to be ready to make an early start. We must be back by noon at the latest." "Why not let me go and tell him what you want?" Jack asked. "Because you don't know where he lives, and then again it is necessary to pass Mr. Dean's in order to reach his house. William might be at home, and who knows what would happen?" Then Aunt Nancy made a hurried toilet, clothing herself in one of those quaint costumes which Jack did not think at all becoming, and said, as she entered the kitchen again,-- "You must promise not to step your foot out of doors while I am gone. Keep everything well locked, and if any one should happen to call don't show yourself without first learning who they are." Jack agreed, and while the little woman was absent he rocked Louis to sleep, swept the floor until one would have said a broom ought to be ashamed for going over such a cleanly surface with any idea of collecting dirt, and was in the "fore-room" with a lighted candle admiring the crockery rooster when Aunt Nancy returned. "It's me, Jack dear!" she cried as she knocked softly on the door, and when it was opened, entered with the air of one who has been successful. "I got there just in time. He was going over to Henry Mitchell's to tell him he'd haul gravel to-morrow; but of course he had rather go to Treat's, for the work isn't so hard on either himself or his horse. Now we must get to bed early, for I told him I wanted to start by sunrise at the very latest." "But, Aunt Nancy, you don't mean that I am to stay in the house with the doors locked all the forenoon, do you? There are lots of things I could do; but it would be pretty warm if there wasn't any chance for air." "I suppose you might have the doors open, provided you kept a sharp watch on the road, and closed them again in case that Dean boy or his associates should come," the little woman replied thoughtfully. "What shall I do?" "You could clean the knives and forks, and wash all the best dishes through two waters. Be careful when you wipe them, Jack dear, for it would be terrible if any should be broken." After these arrangements had been made, Aunt Nancy remained silent a short time to free her mind from worldly thoughts, and then came the evening devotions, when the little woman prayed earnestly for the "weary and heavy laden," which Jack thought was a reference to herself and the expected company. It was yet dark next morning when a noise from the kitchen aroused the hunchback, and hurrying down he found Aunt Nancy busily engaged preparing breakfast. "Why, you must have stayed awake all night!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Indeed I wasn't so foolish as to do anything of the kind; but when I have work on hand I like to be about it, and goodness knows there's plenty for me to do between now and to-morrow night." "Did you wake Louis?" "No; let him sleep as long as he chooses. You can dress and give him some bread and milk?" "That part of it will be all right," Jack replied confidently, and then he prepared to astonish old crumple-horn by appearing before her while it was yet so dark that she could hardly see the lunch of clover to which she was accustomed during milking time. Breakfast had been cooked, eaten, and the dishes washed before Mr. Daniel Chick and his venerable horse came up the lane. Aunt Nancy was not only ready for the journey, but had begun to grow impatient because of the delay, when he reined up in front of the broad stone step as he said in a cheery tone, calculated to soothe any angry feelings,-- "Well, I must say you're a master hand at gettin' up, Aunt Nancy. 'Pears like as if you was allers on foot like a sparrer." "I try to do what I have on hand in good season," was the rather sharp reply. "There would be less poor folks in this world if people didn't dally round in such a shiftless manner." Mr. Chick knew full well that this remark was aimed especially at him; but like a wise man he made no reply lest worse should follow, and turned the wheels of the wagon that the little woman might have no trouble in clambering on board. Aunt Nancy stopped only long enough to give some parting advice to Jack. "Be sure to keep a sharp watch on the road if you have the doors open," she whispered, "and don't go out, even into the yard, unless it is absolutely necessary, for nobody knows what may happen. When you wash the best dishes be careful, Jack dear, for I should feel very badly in case any were broken." "I'll attend to it in great shape, Aunt Nancy." "Don't give Louis too much milk at a time, the weather is so hot that it might curdle on his stomach; and if I don't succeed in getting home until afternoon, there is some cold meat and cake on the hanging shelf in the cellar. Don't go without a lunch; it is very unhealthy to work while you are hungry." "Who's dallying now, Aunt Nancy?" Mr. Chick cried as he tried to prevent his horse from nibbling at the honeysuckle-bush. "If you had come as you agreed I should have had plenty of time to attend to matters," was the sharp reply; and then with many injunctions for him to keep a firm hold on the reins, the little woman succeeded in gaining the rather shaky seat. "Take good care of Louis!" she cried as the horse ambled slowly down the lane; and Jack re-entered the house feeling decidedly lonely at the prospect of being without Aunt Nancy for several hours. In order to occupy his mind he set about the work laid out, and was so industrious that before the baby made known the fact of being awake, the knives and forks had been cleaned. Fully an hour was spent dressing and feeding Louis, after which he was allowed to play on the kitchen floor while his crooked guardian washed the "best dishes." This was a task which required considerable time, and at eleven o'clock it was hardly more than half finished. Then again Louis wanted milk, and when it had been given him he insisted upon being allowed to go out on the doorstep. At first Jack was disposed to keep him in the house; but when he became fretful, gave him his own way, as he said half to himself,-- "I don't s'pose there can be any harm in lettin' you stay here; but if anything _should_ happen, Aunt Nancy would think I had been careless." After that he kept a strict watch over the baby, going to the door every few moments, and on each occasion finding Louis playing contentedly with a string of buttons the little woman had prepared for him. The fact that he showed no disposition to leave the broad stone caused Jack to have less care than usual, and this, coupled with the idea of cleaning the most elaborate dishes, rendered him oblivious to the flight of time. He was brought to a realization of what was passing around by hearing the rumble of a carriage in the lane, and almost before he could reach the door, Aunt Nancy was in the house, while Mr. Chick had driven away at the full speed of his very slow horse. "Did you get along all right, Jack dear?" the little woman asked, as she deposited an armful of bundles on the table. "Yes, indeed. You see there has been plenty of work, and it doesn't seem any time since you left." "Where is the baby?" "On the doorstep. He fussed to go out, an' I thought the fresh air wouldn't do him any harm." "Which doorstep?" "Why here, of course"; and Jack stepped forward only to give vent to a cry of alarm an instant later. "He isn't here at all! Where do you suppose he could have gone?" Aunt Nancy was at the door before he ceased speaking, and gazed up and down the yard in bewilderment, but without seeing any signs of the missing baby. For an instant the two stood gazing at each other in perplexity, and then Aunt Nancy asked sharply,-- "How long since you saw him?" "It didn't seem many minutes before you came; but I s'pose it must have been, else he'd be 'round here now." "Run up to the barn and see if he is there!" As she spoke the little woman went down the lane, returning just as Jack came back. "He isn't there," the latter said. "Nor on the road. Of course he must be somewhere near, for children can't disappear entirely in such a mysterious fashion. Go up the lane and I'll look back of the barn." "But then we shall be leaving the barn alone You stay here an' I'll do the searchin'." "It wouldn't make any difference if we left the house wide open for a month, I couldn't stand still while that dear little baby is wandering around nobody knows where." Jack understood that it would be useless to remonstrate, and started off at full speed. Up to the entire length of the lane he ran without finding that for which he sought, and then back to the house where he was met by Aunt Nancy on whose wrinkled face was written fear and anguish. She did not wait for him to tell her that the search had been in vain, but cried,-- "Go up through the field from the shed. There is a place where he might have gotten through the fence, and it would lead directly to the duck pond if he kept on in a straight line!" There was a tone in her voice which told of the fear she had regarding the possible ending of his adventures; and Jack, with a mental prayer that he would find the little fellow before it was too late, ran across the enclosure, Aunt Nancy going in the same direction, but at a slight angle. The little woman's anxiety gave fleetness to her feet, and she travelled even faster than Jack could. Both called loudly from time to time, but without receiving any answer, and Jack's heart grew heavy as he thought of what might have happened while he was in the house all unconscious of impending trouble. As the two neared the pond the figure of a boy could be distinguished among the foliage of alders running at full speed toward the main road, and Jack shouted to Aunt Nancy,-- "There goes one of Bill Dean's gang. They know where Louis is." This caused the little woman to redouble her cries, and a few seconds later two more boys could be dimly seen as they hurried away, keeping well within the shelter of the bushes to avoid recognition. There was no longer any question in Jack's mind but that he would soon find the baby, nor was he mistaken. On arriving in view of the pond both saw a rudely constructed raft of fence rails at least ten yards from the shore, and on it, crowing and laughing as if he was having the jolliest possible time sat Louis. "How can we reach him?" Aunt Nancy cried, as she stood wringing her hands, while the big tears ran down her cheeks. "He will surely be drowned, Jack! What is to be done?" The hunchback had no thought of his own safety or discomfort as compared with that of rescuing the baby. Without hesitation he ran into the pond, continuing on at risk of being mired, until the water was above his waist, and the baby held out his hands to be taken. [Illustration: Jack ran into the pond, until the water was above his waist, and the baby held out his hands to be taken.--Page 147.] "Sit still Louis, sit still an' Jack will come to you!" It was impossible to run very fast through the water; and to Aunt Nancy, who stood on the bank in helpless grief, it seemed as if the deformed lad hardly moved, so slow was his progress. More than once did it appear as if the baby would attempt to leave the raft in order to meet his crooked guardian; but by dint of coaxing, Jack succeeded in persuading him to remain seated until he gained his side. Then he lifted the child in his arms, staggering ashore to where the little woman stood waiting to receive him, and the rescue was accomplished. Aunt Nancy alternately laughed and cried as she pressed Louis closely to her bosom, and Jack stood silently by, wondering whether he was to be scolded for having so grossly neglected his charge. It was several moments before she paid any attention to the older boy, and then it was to exclaim,-- "Mercy on us, Jack! I had entirely forgotten you! Run home as soon as possible, or you will catch your death a cold!" "A wettin' won't hurt me on a warm day like this. I'm used to such things." "But you must change your clothes at once, and there's no other way but to put on one of my dresses again." Jack gave no heed to this suggestion, or command, whichever it might be called. He was trying to understand how the baby could have come so far without assistance, when Aunt Nancy said suddenly,-- "It doesn't take one loner to realize how the dear little fellow came here. Those wicked boys must have found him near the shed, and brought him to this place." Several poles lying near by told how the raft was forced toward the centre of the pond, and the fact that three fellows had been seen running through the bushes was sufficient proof, at least to Aunt Nancy and Jack, that Bill Dean and his friends had done the mischief. "I should forget everything I ought to remember if I had that Dean boy here this minute!" the little woman said angrily as she surveyed the evidences of the cruel work. "It is a burning shame that such as he should be allowed among decent people!" "We don't know for certain that it was Bill Dean," Jack suggested. "Yes, we do, for there is no other boy in this town who does such things. I shall see his father again, and when I do it will be very hard work to rule my spirit." "It only makes them worse to complain." "Then I will have him arrested!" And now Aunt Nancy spoke in such an angry tone that Jack did not venture to reply; but he knew from past experience that she would soon be sorry for having given way to her temper. Again the little woman spoke of Jack's condition as if she had not noticed it before, and insisted on his coming home at once, although she could not have supposed he wished to go anywhere else. Louis apparently had no idea he had been exposed to danger, but laughed and pulled at the tiny ringlets either side Aunt Nancy's face until her anger vanished, and she said in a tone of penitence,-- "Really, Jack dear, I get frightened sometimes when I realize how wicked I am growing. I can't seem to control my temper in anything which concerns the baby, and goodness knows how it is all going to end. I began by telling a lie, and now say terrible things on the slightest provocation, though goodness knows this would have stirred up almost any one. You see I took the first step, which is the hardest, and now fall before the least temptation." "You oughtent talk that way, Aunt Nancy. If everybody was as good as you are, this would be an awful nice place to live in." The little woman shook her head as if reproaching him for his words of praise, but did not continue the subject, because by this time they had arrived at the house, and it was necessary she should get the garments Jack had worn once before. Again the hunchback received a ducking under the pump, and then went out to the barn to make his toilet. "Come back as soon as you can, for I want to show you what I bought, and between us we must decide what we shall have for supper to-morrow." When Jack returned to the house, Aunt Nancy had her purchases arranged on the table that he might see them to the best advantage, and then came the discussion of what was a very important matter in the little woman's mind. "I bought citron so as to make that kind of cake if you think it would be nicer than sponge, though I have always been very fortunate in making sponge cake, and that is a good deal more than most people can say." "Why not have both kinds?" "I declare I never thought of that. It is the very thing, and I'll begin at once while you finish the dishes. This time we'll see if between both of us we can't keep Louis away from those wicked boys. I got a nice ham, for that is always good cold, and I engaged two chickens from Daniel Chick. Had we better have them roasted or boiled?" "I thought this was to be only a supper." "That's what it is; but it would never do to have but one kind of cold meat. Why, if you'll believe me, Mrs. Souders had chicken, ham, and tongue, to say nothing of soused pig's feet." "Your supper'll be better'n hers if you make plenty of hot biscuit." "I shall surely do that, and have loaf bread besides. I wonder if you couldn't wait on the table?" "Of course I can. That was what I did on board the 'Atlanta.'" "Then we shall get along famously. Now help me clear off one end of this table, and I'll begin work." The little woman at once set about the task of preparing food for the members of the sewing circle, and nothing was done without first asking Jack's advice. CHAPTER XIII. THE SEWING CIRCLE. So deeply engrossed was Aunt Nancy in the work of making ready for the supper, that the indignities offered Louis by Bill Dean and his partners passed almost unheeded for the time being. It is true that now and then she would speak of what had been done, announcing her intention of complaining again to Bill's father; but the words would hardly be spoken before something in the culinary line demanded her attention, and the subject would be dropped until a more convenient season. Jack labored most industriously, beating eggs, sifting flour, washing pans, and keeping the fire roaring, thus doing his full share in the important preparations. Louis was forced to remain in the kitchen, despite his great desire to get out of doors; and both Jack and the little woman kept strict watch over him, but happily ignorant of the fact that hidden within the friendly shelter of the alder-bushes were Bill Dean and his chums watching another opportunity to get hold of the baby as before. "The sewin' circle is goin' over to old Nancy's termorrer," Bill said in a whisper, "an' we won't be smart if we don't get a chance to square off with Hunchie." "What do you count on doin'?" Sam Phinney asked. "That's jest what we've got to fix up. The old woman will have her hands full of company, an' it seems as if we might rig somethin' that'll pay. Hunchie won't show himself outside the place, for he knows we're layin' for him, an' our only show is to sneak in while the supper is goin' on." "We can easy get in the shed an' wait for something to turn up," Jip Lewis suggested; and the others thought this a very good idea. "I'll cook up somethin' between now an' then," Bill said confidently. "There ain't much chance they'll let that youngster out ag'in, so come, go over on the hill an' see what the fellers there are doin'." This had the effect of causing the party to adjourn without anything having been accomplished save an agreement between the three that, during the meeting of the sewing circle something should be done toward settling matters with the boy who insisted upon remaining in town after they had warned him to leave. During the remainder of the day Aunt Nancy and Jack worked without ceasing in the kitchen, and when night came the arrangements for the company were so nearly completed that the little woman said with a sigh of relief when she and her crooked-assistant were resting under the old oak,-- "I declare, Jack dear, it is surprising how much we have done since noon! I never could have gotten through without you, and don't understand what I did before you came." "I wish I could do more. It doesn't seem as if I worked half hard enough to pay for what you've done to help Louis an' me." "Bless you, child, I'd be paid a dozen times over if I had nothing more than your company; and as for work, why, you've done twice as much as Daniel Chick's daughter would in the same time, and I should have paid her fifty cents, at least, if you hadn't been here." "It doesn't seem very much anyhow; but if you're satisfied, why that settles it, of course. I wonder if Bill Dean's crowd will try to get hold of Louis again?" "Not after I've seen his father, and that's just what I intend to do when the circle meetin' is over. We had better get old crumple-horn in the yard now so we can go to bed early, for I count on being at work by sunrise to-morrow." The chores were quickly done, the house searched once more for possible intruders, the evening devotions concluded, and Jack went to his tiny room happy in the thought that he had been of considerable assistance to Aunt Nancy. The finishing touches were completed by noon on the following day, and the little woman was arrayed in all her antiquated finery to receive the expected guests. Jack had only the suit of clothes he had worn at the time of leaving the "Atlanta," consequently very little could be done on his part toward "dressing up"; but his face shone from repeated applications of soap and water, his hair was combed until every portion of it looked as if it had been fastened in place, and his shoes had a very high polish. Louis's white frock had been washed and ironed, therefore he was, as Aunt Nancy expressed it, "in apple-pie order, and as pretty a baby as ever came into Maine." "I suppose we shall have to put some of the horses in the stable, Jack dear, for a good many of the people will ride, and the question is whether you could unharness them?" Aunt Nancy said as she sat in the "fore-room" awaiting the coming of the guests. "I never did such a thing; but it can't be hard if a feller watches how the harness comes off." "You are smart enough to do almost anything. I'm certain there won't be trouble," Aunt Nancy said in a tone of conviction, and then the rumble of wheels on the lane told that the first of the "company" was coming. The newcomer was Mrs. Souders, who drove a horse Jack felt confident he could unharness; and as she alighted he stood by the head of the venerable animal as he had seen regular grooms do in the city. From that time until nearly three o'clock the hunchback was kept very busy attending to the stable work. Not less than ten horses were driven into the yard, and he was expected to put them in a barn where were but two stalls, including the one it would be necessary to reserve for old crumple-horn. It was some time before he could solve the problem, but it was finally done by hitching several to the fence outside, and standing the remainder on the thrashing-floor. The matter of harness and carriages troubled him considerably; but he believed the owners of the same would be able to recognize their property, therefore no attempt was made to keep them in regular order. When the visitors ceased to arrive, and Aunt Nancy told him she did not think any more were coming, he went to the pump for a thorough wash, and while thus engaged heard a certain portion of the conversation which came from the "fore-room" where the members of the circle were supposed to be working very hard to relieve the poor and distressed by supplying them with garments, each fashioned according to the fancy of its maker. Not for a moment would Jack have thought of deliberately playing the part of eavesdropper; but hearing reference made to Louis and himself, it was only natural he should linger longer than was absolutely necessary. Mrs. Souders was speaking when he first came near the house, and he heard her say quite sharply,-- "Why, Nancy Curtis, are you thinkin' of adoptin' a couple of children at your time of life, an' one of 'em a worthless cripple that'll always be a bill of expense? It seems as if you'd lived long enough in the world to be more sensible." "I'd like to know, Sarah Souders, why you think Jack is 'worthless'?" the little woman asked in a tone of indignation. "Because he can't be anything else. A hunchback isn't any better than a reg'lar invalid, an' besides I've always heard it said they are terribly conceited." "Then this one is an exception. I never had a girl on the farm that helped me as much as he does, and as for the baby--" "That's it exactly," Mrs. Souders interrupted. "It seems that the cripple isn't enough, but you are determined to make your cross heavier by taking care of a baby, when it would be better to think of restin' your old bones." "If it is a pleasure to me, it would seem as if nothing should be said against it," Aunt Nancy replied mildly. "I only wish it might be possible for me to keep the little fellow as long as I live." Then Jack heard that which told him Aunt Nancy was kissing the baby, and he said to himself,-- "If these people think Aunt Nancy has no business to keep me here, I s'pose they are right, an' I oughter go away." "Of course you've the privilege of doing as you please, Nancy Curtis," Mrs. Souders continued, "but I must maintain that it is wrong for you to be obliged to support two helpless children when it is hard work to make both ends meet. I am only sayin' this for your own good, Nancy, an' both Mrs. Hayes an' myself decided it was the duty of some one to talk with you about it." The little woman made no reply to this, and Jack was forced to leave the pump, since his toilet had been completed. "They've made her believe it," he said to himself as the tears would persist in coming into his eyes, "an' it's my place to tell her I'll go. Then she won't have any more trouble with Bill Dean's crowd." He firmly believed it was necessary he and Louis should leave the farm, and the knowledge that Aunt Nancy depended upon him during this day, at least, was a positive pleasure. It had been agreed he should wait upon the table. Such dishes as could not well remain on the overladen board were to be left in the small summer kitchen, and the little woman had arranged a system of signals by which he could understand what she wanted. Although it was yet too soon for supper, he went to his post of duty in order to be ready at the earliest moment Aunt Nancy should require his services, and there stayed, thinking mournfully of what he had heard. In the mean while the stable was unguarded, for Jack had no idea danger was to be apprehended from that quarter, and at about the same time he entered the kitchen, Bill Dean said to his companions who had followed him into the shed,-- "I did have a plan for some fun, fellers; but now there's a bigger show than we ever struck. I don't reckon Hunchie knows very much about harnessin' horses, an' even if he does we'll set him wild." "How?" Sam asked in a whisper. "It ain't likely anybody will go out to the barn till after supper, is it?" "Of course not." "Then all we've got to do is to sneak around back of the stable. I know how to get in from there, an' we'll mix them harnesses up in sich shape that even Mike Crane himself couldn't put 'em together in less'n one day." "You're a brick, Bill, at fixin' things. Let's hurry, for it'll take quite awhile." With decidedly more care than was necessary, the conspirators crept out of the shed, and, going around by the rear of the buildings, entered the barn where Jack had left the harness. There was not one in the party who would not have grumbled loud and long had he been obliged to work as rapidly and hard as was necessary in order to effect their purpose; but since it was mischief instead of useful labor, neither so much as dreamed of complaining. The harness belonging to the teams driven by Mrs. Souders and Mrs. Hayes received the greater portion of their attention. On them nearly every strap was shortened or lengthened, and other parts interchanged, until one not thoroughly familiar with both could hardly have recognized the original set. Each in turn was overhauled, and when the mischief-makers left the barn there was no question but that Jack would have great difficulty in untangling the snarl, even if he should ever be able to do so. "I reckon that will make all hands mad, an' Hunchie's the one who is bound to get the blame," Bill said with a chuckle of satisfaction as they stood for an instant at the rear of the barn. "Now where'll we stay to watch the fun?" "Out by the cow-yard. The grass is so tall nobody'll ever see us." This appeared to be a good idea, and the three adopted it at once, although all believed it must be several hours before Jack would be called upon to harness the horses. In the kitchen the deformed boy, with a heart so heavy it seemed as if he could never smile again, waited patiently until a bustle from the "fore-room" told that the guests were making preparations to discuss Aunt Nancy's supper. "They are getting ready to come," the little woman said excitedly, as she entered the kitchen hurriedly. "Help me fill these plates with biscuit, and then cover the rest over and leave them in the oven till they are needed. I was afraid I should have bad luck with my bread; but it seems to be all right." "Them biscuit couldn't be better if the Queen of England had made 'em," Jack replied emphatically. "I'm sure I don't know what kind of a breadmaker she may be; but I wouldn't like to have it said that even a queen could do better than I, taking it the whole year through, an' allowing for the trouble that yeast will sometimes cause." Aunt Nancy was ready to go into the main kitchen, which on this occasion had been converted into a dining-room, and Jack followed close behind with his hands full of plates. It so chanced that the guests had not waited to be summoned, but came from the "fore-room" under the pretence of assisting the little woman, and Jack, who was walking quite rapidly, intent only on carrying the dishes without accident, ran directly into Mrs. Souders. That lady had never been celebrated for curbing her temper, and to-day she appeared to be in a very ill-humor, probably because of something which may have been said by her friends in the "fore-room." Therefore, instead of treating the matter as an accident, and acknowledging she had no business to be standing in the way of those who were working, she wheeled suddenly and gave the cripple a resounding blow on the ear, which sent him headlong, scattering plates and biscuit in every direction. "You little beggar!" she screamed, as her face grew crimson with rage. "I didn't come here to have any of your low tricks played on me. If Nancy Curtis hasn't got spirit enough to give you a lesson, I'll do it myself." She stepped quickly toward poor Jack, who stood silent and motionless surveying the wreck of Aunt Nancy's best crockery, never for a moment thinking the guest had any idea of inflicting further punishment, and seized him by the coat collar. Jack involuntarily threw up his arm to ward off the blow; but the heavy hand descended twice in rapid succession, and then it was grasped from behind as the little woman's voice, trembling with suppressed rage, was heard,-- "Sarah Souders, aren't you ashamed to strike a cripple?" "Indeed I'm not when it is one like this, whose place is at the poor farm rather than in decent people's houses"; and the lady would have repeated the blow but for the fact that Aunt Nancy clung to her with nervous desperation. "Don't you _dare_ strike that child again, Sarah Souders!" she cried. "I am trying hard to rule my spirit, but the struggle may be too much for my strength, and then I shall say that which would make me sorry afterward." "You should be sorry now when you reject the advice of your best friends," Mrs. Souders replied; but she released her hold of Jack's collar, and he began gathering up the fragments of crockery and bread. "If you mean that I ought to throw these children, who have made my life happier than it has been for many years, out on to a world of such hard-hearted people as you, then it is time you tried to understand the meaning of the word 'charity,'" the little woman said with a slight tremor of the voice as she stepped back a few paces from her angry guest. "The fault was yours, so far as his running into you was concerned. He was doing his work, and you were in his way." "I didn't suppose your foolishness had gone so far that you would uphold the crooked little beggar when he deliberately insults one who has been your best friend." "He had no intention of insulting you, and I do not want him called a beggar, for he isn't. Even though he was, I have yet to learn that poverty is a crime." "I see plainly this is no place for me. The most you can do now is to turn me out of doors." "I do not wish to do anything of the kind, but feel called upon to advise that you think the matter over before speaking again." "That is sufficient, Nancy Curtis, quite sufficient. Jane Hayes, will you go with me, or do you prefer to remain?" "I shall stay here," Mrs. Hayes replied; and with a fling of her skirts, which was probably intended to express both indignation and injury received, Mrs. Souders sailed out of the room. CHAPTER XIV. AFTER THE STORM. Jack who had gathered up the fragments and swept the crumbs from the floor, now looked about him in alarm. The sense of having been wrongly treated was overpowered by the thought that he was the cause, however innocent, of plunging Aunt Nancy into new troubles. It seemed just then as if he was pursued by some unkind fate which brought to him and those who befriended him all manner of misfortune. During fully a minute after Mrs. Souders drifted so majestically from the room, not a word was spoken. Aunt Nancy stood leaning against the table, a vivid red spot glowing on either cheek, and holding her hand over her heart as if to repress its beatings. The guests gathered around her, each trying at the same time to express her opinion of what had occurred,--a proceeding which resulted only in a perfect Babel of confusion. The little woman soon recovered her composure sufficiently to remember her duties as hostess, and said to Jack in a low tone,-- "Do you think you can harness Mrs. Souders's horse? We mustn't forget the courtesy we owe a guest, no matter what has happened." "I can do it if she will show me which wagon an' harness is hers. You see there were so many teams comin' all at once I couldn't keep run of 'em." "Go out and do the best you can. Very likely she will be at the stable by the time you get there." Jack hurried away feeling rather uncertain as to what the result would be when he was alone with the angry woman, but determined to remain silent whatever she might say. On reaching the barn he had but little difficulty in deciding upon the carriage he believed belonged to Mrs. Souders, and was backing it into the yard when that lady arrived. "Are you so stupid that you can't tell one wagon from another?" she asked sharply. "Isn't this yours, ma'am?" "No, it isn't, and you know as well as I do." "I never saw it but once, an' that was when there were a good many here. If you'll pick it out, an' show me the harness, I'll soon have the horse hitched up." "I suppose Nancy Curtis told you to get rid of me as soon as possible; what you did in the dining-room wasn't enough, eh?" "Indeed she didn't; an', if you please, ma'am, I couldn't tell where you was goin' to step when I had my arms full of dishes." "You needn't talk to me. If Nancy Curtis is fool enough to put you above your place, it's no reason why you should think others haven't good sense. That is my carriage, and the sooner it is ready the better I'll be pleased." Jack wheeled out the vehicle she designated, and then asked,-- "Now will you tell me which is your harness an' horse?" "You're a bigger fool than I took you to be," was the reply, as the lady rushed like a small-sized tornado into the barn, and, after some difficulty, succeeded in finding the animal, which was hitched with the others on the thrashing-floor. "Couldn't even find a stall for him! I don't know what's come over Nancy Curtis since you brats arrived at this place!" Then she examined the pile of harness, expressing her opinion very forcibly because Jack had laid them on the floor instead of hanging each set on pegs; but to find her own was more than she could do. "Take any one of them," she finally said in an angry tone, wiping the perspiration from her flushed face. Jack obeyed without a word, but, thanks to the efforts of Bill Dean and his partners, neither he nor Mrs. Souders could gear the horse. One set of harness was much too large, and another so small a goat could hardly have worn it, while all were strapped together in the oddest fashion. This Mrs. Souders believed was owing to Jack's carelessness or ignorance while unharnessing the horses, and the more she struggled to fit one without regard to ownership the greater became her anger, until it was almost beyond bounds. "My husband shall hear of this," she said wrathfully. "Put that horse right back, and he will come over to undo your wicked tricks. Don't speak to me, you little pauper," she cried as the cripple was about to reply; and dealing him a blow on the ear which sent him reeling against the animal, the lady walked rapidly out of the barn. Jack rubbed the injured member an instant, looked about ruefully, wondering what could have happened to the harness, led the horse back to his place, and went out of the barn just in time to see Mrs. Souders sailing around the corner of the lane into the main road. He walked slowly to the house, arriving there as the guests had seated themselves at the table, and Aunt Nancy, who looked as if she had been crying, asked,-- "Why didn't Mrs. Souders go with her team?" Jack told the story of the bewitched harness, adding in conclusion,-- "I took every piece off as carefully as I knew how, and laid them on the floor, because there wasn't any pegs or nails to hang them on. Now it seems like as if nothing was right, an' in the whole lot we couldn't find a single thing which would fit." The guests looked at each other in surprise and alarm, probably thinking if Mrs. Souders didn't succeed in getting her team with the entire collection to choose from, their chances of leaving Aunt Nancy's save by walking were exceedingly slim. A flood of questions were poured forth on the hapless Jack, who could only repeat his former statement. The matter was now becoming so serious that Aunt Nancy's inviting meal no longer had sufficient charms to command their attention, and the entire party insisted on visiting the barn at once to ascertain for themselves the true condition of affairs. With the baby in her arms, Aunt Nancy led the way. Bill Dean and his friends, seeing the procession coming, were not at a loss to divine the meaning of this sudden exodus from the house. "This is gettin' too hot for us," Bill said in a whisper. "With all them old women around we'll be found for certain, an' the quicker we skin out of here the safer we'll be." His partners were of the same opinion, only a trifle more frightened, and their terror caused them to do a very foolish thing. Instead of crawling under shelter of the grass until they were at a safe distance, Sam and Jip leaped to their feet, running at full speed toward the road. As a matter of course Bill was bound to follow the example, thinking how pleased he would be to have his hands on Jip for a single moment in order to punish him for his cowardice, and thus the conspirators stood revealed. "I think we can understand now what has happened to the harness," Mrs. Hayes said as she pointed towards the fugitives, "and I for one say it's time that Dean boy was made to believe it is dangerous to play such tricks." The red spots came on Aunt Nancy's cheeks again as she gazed after the retreating figures, and from the nervous working of her fingers Jack understood she was using every effort to "rule her spirit." As she stood silent and motionless, heeding not the fact that Louis was pulling her ringlets out of shape, some of the other ladies continued on to the barn, and a single glance at the mismated harness convinced them it was useless to attempt straightening matters. "It is foolish to stand here while the biscuit are getting cold," Mrs. Hayes finally said. "Let us go and get supper, after which there will be plenty of time to think over what should be done." The majority of the party shared this opinion, and Aunt Nancy was literally led back to her own home, while the guests divided their attention between the bountiful supper and a discussion as to how Bill Dean and his associates could best be suppressed. None of the party had had more than three cups of tea when Mr. Souders arrived looking very warm because of his long walk, and decidedly angry in consequence of the report made by his wife. He first demanded an interview with Jack, who was sitting in the kitchen fully occupied with his mournful thoughts; but when the ladies began to explain matters relative to the mischief done, he could not but believe the hunchback was innocent of the charges brought against him by Mrs. Souders. "I'll take Bill Dean in hand myself," he said with an ominous gesture. "There is plenty of time for that; but I reckon fixing things in the barn will last longer. Can you lend me the cripple for a while, Aunt Nancy?" The little woman called Jack, explained that he was to assist the gentleman, and as the two went toward the barn she said feelingly,-- "It makes very little difference what people may say, although I would rather have the good will of a dog than his ill will; but if I can prevent it that boy shall not leave this farm unless relatives come forward to claim him." Several united with Aunt Nancy in praising Jack, and since the others remained silent there was no opportunity for a disagreeable argument. It did not require many seconds for Mr. Souders to see that the harness had been tampered with, and he said in a cheery tone, which was a delightful contrast to the one used a short time previous by his wife, as he pulled off his coat,-- "I reckon you an' I have a big contract ahead of us, my boy. It would puzzle a lawyer to fix all these as they should be, and the most we can hope for is to put the sets together so the old women may go home. We'll begin with mine, an' see what can be made of the job." It was a long and tedious task, and before it had been half completed Jack was so well pleased with the gentleman that he said confidentially,-- "Mr. Souders, I don't want you to think I tried to insult your wife. It was an accident which I couldn't prevent, an' you see for yourself I wasn't to blame for this muss." "Don't worry about it, my boy. Mother is a leetle hot-headed with a powerful dislike to youngsters 'cause she hain't got any of her own; but I'll venter to say she's sorry as a cat this very minute for what's been said an' done. If you knowed her little ways you wouldn't mind anything about it; but I'm put out to think she laid her hands on a poor cripple like you." "It wasn't that which made me feel so bad as to have her think I would act mean." "She don't believe a word of what she said by this time, an' for that I'll go bail. There's no use talkin' 'bout it now; I allow you'll see her ag'in mighty soon. Have you been havin' a great deal of trouble with Bill Dean?" Jack was not disposed to tell very much lest it should be thought he was complaining; but Mr. Souders finally succeeded in drawing from him a full account of the threats made. "You sha'n't be troubled any more, my boy, that I'll answer for. Bill is pretty wild, but I reckon we can tame him down a bit before another day goes by." "I wouldn't like any of the fellows to say I'd been carryin' tales, sir." "Neither have you. Aunt Nancy's life is bein' worried pretty nigh out of her, an' that's enough to give me a right to interfere." Jack did not think it proper to tell anything more regarding his experiences with the village boys, and, as a matter of fact, would have preferred saying nothing whatever to Mr. Souders until he had talked with Aunt Nancy. Before the gentleman left the barn he so far sorted out the harness that it was possible to gear up his own team, and Jack thought best to get each one ready while he had the opportunity to call upon such a valuable assistant. When the two returned to the house the supper was ended, and one of the ladies held Louis in her arms while Aunt Nancy and several of the guests washed the dishes. Then Jack milked old crumple-horn, and when the last of the visitors departed all of the chores had been done, therefore nothing prevented he and Aunt Nancy from discussing the events of the day. "I can't say I'm sorry William Dean cut up as he did," the little woman said, "for it has given Mr. Souders a chance to see what he really would do, and there is reason to believe the boy will be obliged to mend his ways." Jack had very little interest in Bill Dean at that moment. He was thinking only of the conversation he heard from the "fore-room," and had determined the matter should be settled finally before he retired. "It seems as if most of the folks think I oughtn't to stay here makin' you feed me," he began. "Bless my soul, what has put that idea into your head, my child?" "I heard what Mrs. Souders said in the front-room before supper." Aunt Nancy looked around quickly as a shade of displeasure passed over her face. "I'm sorry you did hear it, Jack dear; but you must not be so foolish as to let it worry you. I am old enough to attend to my own affairs, and, even if I wasn't, Sarah Souders is not the one to whom I should go for advice." "But, Aunt Nancy, my being here makes trouble for you with your neighbors, and I have been thinking it would be better for Louis an' I to go away at once." "Your being here has very little to do with the trouble I may have. It is my own wicked self. I began by telling a lie to that man from Scarborough, and one sin surely leads to others. You are of great assistance to me, and I should be more sorry than I can say if you went away." Jack was about to make some reply, but before the words could be spoken, Aunt Nancy checked him by laying her hand on his shoulder as she said,-- "Don't argue the matter, Jack dear. We are all tired enough to go to bed, and we'll make ready by searching the house again. After what has happened since noon it wouldn't surprise me the least little mite, if we found half a dozen burglars in hiding." CHAPTER XV. BROTHER ABNER. When Jack retired on this night he was far from feeling comfortable in mind. Aunt Nancy had literally obliged him to cease speaking of the matter, and during the evening devotions prayed so fervently that she might be forgiven for acting a lie, it really distressed him. She had done it solely for him, and he felt personally responsible for her mental trouble. It caused the little woman great anxiety as he could well understand from the fact that she referred to the subject very frequently, and never ceased to sue for pardon. As has been said, Jack did not think the little woman did any great wrong; but since she believed it, the case was as serious to her as if a deadly crime had been committed. He remained awake a long while trying to decide what should be done, and more than once was he tempted to run the risk of calling upon Farmer Pratt to explain all the circumstances, in order to relieve Aunt Nancy's mind. To do this would be, as he firmly thought, neither more nor less than voluntarily condemning himself to the poor farm; but Louis would be safe from the ignominy, and he would be doing the little woman a very great favor. He had decided upon nothing when sleep visited his eyelids, and on the following morning there was so much to be done around the house he could not find any opportunity to study the subject. Aunt Nancy believed it necessary to clean nearly every portion of the house, and as a matter of course he assisted. Louis was really neglected on this day. Having been allowed to play on the floor to his heart's content, neither his crooked guardian nor Aunt Nancy paid very much attention to him. Not until late in the afternoon was the labor brought to a close, and then the tired ones sought rest under the big oak. Jack was about to broach the subject which occupied the greater portion of his thoughts, when the rumble of wheels at the end of the lane caused him to look up in alarm. "Who is that?" he asked excitedly, fearing lest it might be a messenger from Farmer Pratt. "Only Deacon Downs. He sometimes stops on his way home from Treat's store to see if anything is needed. I buy a good many vegetables of him." On this occasion the deacon had not called for any such purpose. He reined in his horse near where Aunt Nancy was sitting, and, refusing her invitation to "get out and visit," unbuttoned his coat in a deliberate manner, saying slowly as he did so,-- "I found this 'ere for you down to Treat's, an' kinder 'lowed you'd be wantin' it." Then fully a moment more was spent before the article referred to was produced, and, meanwhile, Aunt Nancy was in a mild state of excitement through curiosity. "Something for me? What is it, Deacon?" "Wait till I find the pesky thing. I put it in this pocket so there shouldn't be any chance of losin' it, an' now I wouldn't be surprised if it had slipped out." Aunt Nancy came close to the wagon watching the old gentleman's every movement, her face expressing the liveliest impatience; but the visitor did not gratify her curiosity until having found that for which he sought. "Here it is," he said, as he handed her a letter, "an' seein's how it's stamped Binghamton, I wouldn't be surprised if it was from Abner, for I don't reckon you know anybody but him in York State, Nancy?" "Of course it's from Abner, and you gave me almost a shock, Deacon, for I couldn't imagine what you had found of mine." "I don't allow there's any bad news, eh?" and the visitor waited as if expecting Aunt Nancy would open the letter at once. "It's only in regard to some business, Deacon," the little woman replied in a tone which told she did not intend to read the missive until she should be alone. "I don't reckon he's thinkin' of comin' here this summer?" "Dear me, no. Abner's getting too old to go gallivantin' 'round the country very much, an' it's a powerful long journey from here to York State." "You're right, Nancy; but you know Abner allers was a master hand at travellin'." Then the deacon, despairing of getting a glimpse of the letter, urged the aged horse into a slow trot, and the occupants of the Curtis farm were alone once more. "The deacon is a real obliging neighbor," Aunt Nancy said as the rumble of wheels died away in the distance, "but terribly inquisitive. He thought I would read Abner's letter so he'd know what was going on, and perhaps I might have done so if it hadn't been concerning your business, which should be kept to ourselves." "Do you s'pose he has found out anything about Louis's father?" Jack asked, eager to learn the contents of the letter, but not feeling at liberty to hurry the little woman. "I don't think there is any doubt about it"; and Aunt Nancy tore open the envelope with a slowness and deliberation which was almost provoking. During the next five minutes Jack waited impatiently to hear "brother Abner's" reply; but nothing was said until the letter had been read carefully twice over, and then Aunt Nancy exclaimed as she took off her spectacles,-- "Well, I declare!" "Does he know the captain?" "He's never heard of him! It's so surprising when I think of how many people he used to be acquainted with when he lived here." "What does he say about it?" "Nothing of any consequence, and writes as if he was provoked because I asked the question. Wants to know how I suppose he can find a man who was exploded in a vessel at sea; and I can't say but there is considerable good sense in his asking that, for of course when the ship blowed to pieces that settled the whole thing." "But the captain might have been saved, and, besides, while we were in sight the 'Atlanta' looked whole and sound as before the explosion." "But if she didn't go to pieces why hasn't the captain come after his son?" This was a question which Jack could not answer, and had to remain silent. "According to Abner's story, he don't know many of the York State folks except them as lives in Binghamton. Perhaps he's settling down, and isn't as newsy as when he was with me." "If he can't help us, what are Louis an' I to do?" "Stay here, of course." "But, Aunt Nancy, I must try to find Louis's relations, even if his father and mother are dead." "I reckon you're bound to do that somehow; but there's no sense in trying to walk to New York while the weather is so hot." Then the little woman, as if believing the matter had been finally settled, began to speak of the subject which was very near her heart, and for at least the hundredth time Jack was forced to listen to her lamentations because of the equivocation when Farmer Pratt called. It was particularly hard for him to remain quiet during her self-accusations, for now that it was useless to expect "brother Abner" could do anything in the way of learning the details concerning the fate of the good ship "Atlanta," it seemed in the highest degree important to decide upon some course of action. He was well content to stay where he was a certain time; but it seemed as if he should have at least some idea of what was to be done in the future. Aunt Nancy did not give him an opportunity to discuss the matter, however, and when the hour came to search the house for supposed burglars he was in a fine state of perplexity. On the following morning it seemed as if the little woman had dismissed all such thoughts from her mind, for whenever she spoke to Jack it was upon anything rather than how he might best accomplish that which he believed to be his duty. He noticed she was particularly tender toward Louis, and gave him an unusual amount of attention when she thought he and she were alone. It was on this day Mrs. Souders called, and during fully half an hour was closeted with Aunt Nancy, after which she met Jack in the yard when her greeting was more than cordial, but never a word was spoken in reference to the incidents of the day she allowed anger to overcome judgment. Since Jack had not expected anything in the way of an apology, he was agreeably surprised by the change in her manner toward him, and felt that ample reparation had been made. What the lady may have said to Aunt Nancy will never be known, for the little woman maintained the most perfect secrecy regarding it, despite the fact that Jack questioned her as closely as he dared. It was on the evening of this day when they were sitting under the old oak, and Louis was playing in front of them, that Bill Dean walked boldly into the yard, accosting Aunt Nancy as if he and she were on the most friendly terms. Jack was so thoroughly surprised that he experienced the sensation of one who has suddenly been plunged into cold water, for the assurance of the boy was more than he could understand until Master Dean handed Aunt Nancy a printed circular, as he said,-- "I've been hired to carry these around, an' I know you allers go to camp meetin', so I stopped here first. I s'pose you think I'm kinder tough; but them as come here lookin' for jobs without wantin' to work ain't so good as you believe they are." "I don't intend to argue with you, William; but you know very well I have good reason to feel harsh toward you." "Why, what have I done?" and Bill looked as innocent as a lamb. "It would be better if you asked what you haven't done," and the little woman spoke in the most severe tone. "In the first place you drove away a well-disposed boy last summer, and are now trying to do the same by poor little crippled Jack." "I don't see how you can say sich a thing, Aunt Nancy"; and Bill assumed an injured expression. "Didn't you mix up the harness when the circle met here, and didn't you try to drown the baby?" "Me drown a baby?" Bill cried in a horrified tone. "Yes, it was you and your friends who carried him to the duck pond and set him adrift on a raft." "Now, Aunt Nancy, it ain't right to talk agin me in this way"; and a stranger would have said that Bill was on the point of crying. "Why, William Dean, I saw you running away!" "I ain't sayin' you didn't; but that's nothin' to do with the baby. When I came across the field he was at the pond, an' I didn't know what he might do to my raft. Before I got up to him he was sailin' like all possessed, an' when you came I run away for fear you'd want me to wade in after him." Aunt Nancy's eyes opened wide in astonishment at this marvellous story, and while she felt convinced it was false, she would not accuse him of telling a lie without having something in the way of evidence against him. "At least I know you fought with Jack because he wouldn't promise to go away," she said after quite a long pause. Louis's guardian tried to prevent this last remark by a look, but was unsuccessful, and Bill replied boldly,-- "There ain't any use sayin' I didn't, 'cause it's true; but us fellers only was doin' what we had a right." "What do you mean by that?" "Why, we've got a license from the s'lectmen to do all the chores 'round this neighborhood, an' had to pay a mighty big price for it. Do you s'pose we'll let any other fellers come in an' take the bread an' butter outer our mouths after we've scraped the cash together to pay the town tax for that kind of business?" This statement was rather more than even Aunt Nancy could credit, and she said quite sharply,-- "William Dean, I won't have you standing there telling such wrong stories! You must think I'm a natural born idiot to listen." "It's the truth all the same, and if Hunchie don't clear out he won't get along very easy. Good by, Aunt Nancy, I s'pose I'll see you at camp meetin', for all the old maids will be there." Bill did not linger in the lane after this last remark, but went quickly out into the highway, leaving the little woman literally gasping with surprise and indignation. "It's no disgrace to be an old maid," she said when it was once more possible for her to speak; "but I won't have an impudent boy like William Dean throwing it in my face as if it was something to be ashamed about." "I wouldn't pay any 'tention to him," Jack replied consolingly. "You're nicer than any woman _I_ ever saw, an' he'd be only too glad if you was as much of a friend to him as you are to me." Aunt Nancy leaned over and kissed the little cripple on the forehead as she said in a low tone,-- "You are a good boy, Jack dear, and would be a great comfort to me if we were never to part until the good God calls me home." CHAPTER XVI. A HURRIED DEPARTURE. It was not until the following morning that Aunt Nancy paid any particular attention to the circular regarding camp meeting which Bill Dean had brought. Then, as Jack came in from milking, she said with a suddenness which caused the boy to start in surprise,-- "I have been thinking about the camp meeting. What is your opinion?" "I don't know what you mean." "You remember the paper which William Dean brought last night?" "Yes." "Well, it was the time-table of the trains which run to the grounds. Somehow your coming upset me so I had forgotten all about the meeting, and if I should miss it, it would be the first time since I was quite a young girl." "When does it begin?" "Day after to-morrow." "Why don't you go? I can stay here an' take care of crumple-horn and Louis well enough." "Bless you, child, I wouldn't think of leaving you alone three or four days." "Would you be gone as long as that?" "A great many stay the whole week, and I did one year; but it was almost too tedious." "Well, both of us couldn't be away at the same time, an'--" "Why not?" "Because the cow must be milked an' put in the barn." "Daniel Chick's daughters have always done that for me, and would again." "But what about Louis?" "I have been wondering whether I couldn't take him with me." "It would be terrible hard work to lug a baby 'round all the time." "If you went I should be relieved of the greater portion of that care." "It seems as if you had pretty nigh made up your mind already." "There is only one thing which prevents me, and I can't figure it out," the little woman said with an air of anxiety. "What is it?" Jack asked in surprise. "I don't know that it is prudent to spare the money. You see it won't be long now before the summer boarders come, and it costs a great deal to get ready for them." Jack could make no reply. This was a question about which he was ignorant, and there was a certain hesitation on his part regarding the discussion of such a subject when he could do nothing to forward the matter by pecuniary aid. No more was said until after breakfast, when Mrs. Hayes came in, looking excited and breathless. "Haven't you done anything about going to camp meeting, Nancy Curtis?" she cried, as she swung the big rocking-chair around and would have sat on Louis had not Jack called her attention to the fact by pulling the baby from his dangerous position. "I was just speaking about it, but don't know as I shall go." "But you must, Nancy. The children can stay at my house." "If I went they would go with me," the little woman replied, in a tone which told she was not willing to discuss that question. "Very well, there is nothing to prevent. Daniel Chick will take his big tent, and he says you're welcome to use as much of it as you want." "He is very good, I'm sure." "And you'll go, of course? It wouldn't seem like a camp meeting if you wasn't there; and, besides, we always look to you for the coffee. Deacon Downs says it's one of the pleasures of the week to drink Aunt Nancy's Mocha." "I do try to get the best, and when that has been done any one can make it good," the little woman said as her withered cheeks flushed with pleasure at the compliment, while never for a moment did she fancy this praise might have been given only that she should supply the occupants of the tent with their morning beverage. "Then it is settled, you will go?" and Mrs. Hayes arose to her feet. "I can't stop a minute, but felt I must run over to find out if you'd begun preparations." "I haven't, and whether you see me there or not depends. I will let you know to-morrow." "But you must go, because we won't take no for an answer." Aunt Nancy shook her head as if to say the matter was very uncertain, and the visitor took her departure, insisting that the townspeople "couldn't get along without their coffee maker." "I'm sure I don't know what to do," the little woman said with a long-drawn sigh when she and Jack were alone. "If you haven't money enough, why not leave me an' Louis here alone? I'll be awful careful with the house, an' there can't any accident happen." "I'm not afraid to trust you, Jack dear; but as I told Mrs. Hayes, it isn't to be thought of for a minute." "Ain't there some way I might earn the money?" "Bless you, no, child. Even if I was willing you should do such a thing, there isn't any time. The most expensive part of it is that I have always furnished the coffee for all in the tent, and it does take a powerful lot to go around. Why, Deacon Downs himself can drink three cups of a morning, an' then look around sort of wishfully for another. I always give it to him, too, if there's enough left in the pot." Jack felt very badly because he could do nothing toward helping the little woman out of her difficulty, while Louis laughed and crowed as if he thought the whole affair decidedly comical. Aunt Nancy bustled around the house performing a great deal of unnecessary work, her forehead knitted into a frown which showed she was thinking the matter over in the most serious fashion, and Jack watched her every movement. Finally the problem was solved, for her face lighted up as, taking Louis in her arms and seating herself in the rocking-chair, she said cheerily,-- "I don't think William Dean would attempt to make trouble for you now, Jack dear." "Neither do I. Mr. Souders probably scolded him for mixin' up the harness, and he won't bother me." "Do you feel quite certain of that?" "Indeed I do." "Then would it be too much of a walk for you to go to Treat's store?" "Of course it wouldn't, Aunt Nancy. You've only to say the word, an' I'll be off like a shot." Jack had seized his hat as he spoke, and appeared to be on the point of rushing away without waiting for the message, when she stopped him by saying,-- "There's no need of such haste. It will take me some time to fix the errand so you can do it. Last season Daniel Chick farmed the back field for me on shares, and I have quite a lot of wheat on hand. Mr. Treat wanted to buy it, and now I'm going to accept his offer. In case he still wants it, you must bring back some things from the store." "Am I to get the coffee?" "No, that would be too large a bundle. I'll write Mr. Treat a letter, and the remainder of the business you can arrange." Jack was delighted at being able to do something toward settling the vexed question, and waited very impatiently for the little woman to make her preparations. This was quite a long task because a letter was to be written, and after that a list of articles prepared; but finally Aunt Nancy completed the work, and Jack set off at full speed with a generous supply of bread and butter in a neatly tied parcel. He returned before she fancied he could have more than gotten there, and brought with him the goods required. "Mr. Treat says he'll tell Daniel Chick to haul the wheat, and you shall know how much there is as soon as it can be weighed. If you want anything more you shall send for it." "Did he say I could have some money?" Aunt Nancy asked anxiously. "He told me to tell you to call on for cash or goods up to thirty dollars, for he was certain it would amount to as much as that." "Then everything will be fixed without any trouble, and I will tell Mrs. Hayes we shall go to the camp meeting. Now, Jack dear, lie down a little while and get rested so you can help me. We must do a great deal of cooking before to-morrow night." During the remainder of the afternoon and the day following, the household was in as great a state of confusion and excitement as when arrangements were being made for the sewing circle. Aunt Nancy, assisted by Jack, cooked provisions sufficient to have kept a much larger family in food fully two weeks; but the little woman explained she "never liked to go to camp meeting without having something to give those who might come hungry." The neighbors, and, more particularly, Deacon Downs, had called to ascertain if "the coffee maker" was really going, and Daniel Chick promised to come for her with his wagon at an early hour the following morning. The deacon agreed to attend to the transportation of the Mocha, and on the evening before the journey was to be made everything appeared to be in "apple-pie order," although to Aunt Nancy's eyes the house was far from being in a proper condition. Jack was both tired and excited. The prospect of going to a camp meeting pleased him wonderfully, for he had never attended one, and fancied it was something intended for sport rather than anything serious. The baskets were packed; Louis's suit of white clothes stiff with starch and without a blemish; Jack's boots were polished until they shone like a mirror; and Aunt Nancy spent considerable time bewailing the fact that she could not afford to buy him a new coat and pair of trousers. Not until late was the little woman ready to retire, and it appeared to Jack as if he had just fallen asleep when she awakened him to milk the cow. After feeding the animal it seemed as if a very long time would elapse before it would be possible for him to do the same again, and he patted her sleek sides affectionately as he explained that one of Mr. Chick's daughters would take his place during the next three or four days. It isn't very likely the animal understood what he said, but she was perfectly willing to part with him, since it was to exchange the stuffy barnyard for the cool, inviting pasture. The milk was strained and put out on the doorsteps for Miss Chick, since Aunt Nancy could not take it with her, and then a hurried breakfast was eaten. None too soon, either, for the meal had just been finished when Mr. Chick drove up, fretting considerably because the party were not ready to get into the vehicle instantly he arrived. Half a dozen times was Jack sent to make certain this door or that was fastened securely, and the owner of the wagon worked himself into a state of profuse perspiration before Aunt Nancy finally announced she was ready. Jack thoroughly enjoyed the ride to the depot, four miles away. The odor of the flowers and grasses was heavy on the cool air; the birds sang their hymns of thanksgiving that the new day had come; and the trees whispered together of the goodness of the Creator in making for his creatures such a beautiful place in which to live. "It seems almost wicked to enjoy a scene like this when there are so many poor people who never see the country from one year's end to another," Aunt Nancy said, as she looked around in delight; and Mr. Chick replied, speaking much as if he had a cold in his head,-- "It's for us to take all the enjiment that comes in this world, an' leave others to bear the burdens which are put upon them." "If that is good doctrine, Daniel Chick, I'd like to know how you'd fancied a dose of it when you was down with the rheumatiz an' depended upon the neighbors to gather the crops?" "That was a different matter, Nancy Curtis." "In what way?" "Well, you see--I--I--p'rhaps I can't explain it so's you an' the children can understand; but there was a difference." "Only because you can't put yourself in the situation of others. The Golden Rule is good enough for me yet, and I don't think I'll change it for yours." This brief conversation had no effect on Jack, nor would he have thought it an important matter if Mr. Chick had attempted to prove the little woman was wrong. His faith in Aunt Nancy was so great that whatever she said was to him a truth not to be disputed. On arriving at the depot it was learned they were fully an hour too early for the train, and Jack mourned the fact that he might have remained at home long enough to put the barn in better order. It was a large party who intended to make the journey on this morning, and to Jack's dismay he saw Bill Dean and his particular friends arrive about half an hour before the time for leaving. If it had been possible he would have remained out of sight; but the station was small, and Aunt Nancy insisted he should stand where she could keep her eyes on him, consequently it was not many moments before Master Dean recognized him. "Oh, dear! _is_ he going? and _must_ we be in fear and trembling of him all the time we stay?" Aunt Nancy said pathetically as she saw the three boys approaching. "Keep close to me, Jack dear, and if he attempts any mischief I'll appeal for help to Deacon Downs." Bill, however, did not intend to commit any overt act while there were so many around who would not hesitate about dealing out justice to him without delay. He contented himself by walking slowly around Aunt Nancy and Jack, as he said to Jip Lewis,-- "I didn't think we stood so much of a chance to have a good time at camp meetin' this year. Here's Hunchie with the old maid, and we'll see that they don't get lonesome." Fortunately Aunt Nancy did not hear him, otherwise she might have said something which would have provoked further and louder threats. Jack, however, could distinguish every word, and before the three tormentors finished their promenade he regretted having accompanied the little woman. "I ain't afraid they'll get very much the best of me," he said to himself; "but there isn't goin' to be a great deal of fun if I've got to keep my eyes open for them all the time." CHAPTER XVII. CAMP MEETING. When the train drew up at the station, Jack was relieved at seeing his tormentors take their places in a car far ahead of the one he and Aunt Nancy occupied. He anticipated no slight amount of enjoyment from this ride behind the iron horse, and it would be sadly marred if he was forced to listen to such remarks as Bill Dean and his friends would probably make. Aunt Nancy sat by the window with Louis in her arms, and Jack took the seat beside her, watching everything around with the most intense interest, for it was the first time he had ever journeyed so far on the cars. The little woman would have spent considerable of the money received from the sale of the wheat in buying for her crippled escort such articles as the newsboy brought, in the hope of tempting customers; but for the fact that Jack prevented her by whispering more than once,-- "You've paid enough for me already in buyin' the railroad ticket, an' you must save some to get things for the summer boarders." "Bless you, child, I ought to be able to take a little pleasure now and then without thinking constantly of how many pennies there are in a dollar." "But this time, Aunt Nancy, you are not using it for yourself. If you want any of the stuff, why, it's only right you should have it, but don't buy anything for me." Then the little woman whispered as she laid her hand affectionately on his shoulder,-- "It's a comfort to have you around, Jack dear, for you are always thinking of others and never of yourself." "A crooked feller like me don't need as much as other folks, an' I'm sure I get more'n I deserve." "That could never be, my child," Aunt Nancy replied; and Jack fancied she wiped a tear from her eye, but it might have been nothing more than a cinder. Judging from Louis's expressions of delight, he would have been pleased had the journey continued all day, and even Jack was a trifle disappointed because the tenting grounds were reached so soon. The place at which they disembarked was not a village, but only a grove of pine-trees bordering the ocean, with a broad strip of shimmering white sand between the foliage and the water. It was a little settlement of canvas houses among the pines, the gleaming white showing vividly amid the sober green, and the dusty paths here and there resembling yellow ribbons laid on to complete the harmony of color. Jack would have remained a long while silent and motionless gazing in delight at the scene before him, now and then raising his eyes to view the heaving emerald bosom of the sea beyond, but that Aunt Nancy was impatient to "settle down" before the morning services should begin. "It looks pretty, I know, Jack dear, but we mustn't stand dawdling here, because there is considerable work for us to do. I'll carry the baby, and you see what can be done with the bundles." The two were literally laden to the utmost of their strength, as they stepped from the railway platform. Such generous supplies had the little woman brought for their bodily comfort that quite an amount of the belongings would have been left behind but for Deacon Downs, who kindly offered to take charge of the remainder of the goods. In order to find Mr. Chick's tent it was only necessary to follow the party with whom they had travelled, and in a few moments the little woman was arranging her provisions in one corner of the huge tent which had been reserved for her use. Jack hovered around helplessly. He wanted to do something toward aiding Aunt Nancy, but camp life was so new to him he could do nothing more than watch her bird-like movements. After pinning a towel around Louis's neck to avoid the possibility of soiling his white frock, the little woman gave him a small slice of bread and butter, offering some to Jack, but the latter was not hungry. "If you don't care, I'd rather go down to the beach a little while." "You shall do that later, Jack dear, but the morning services will commence very soon, and I want you with me then." "Will it be a reg'lar meetin' where people preach an' pray like they do in a church?" "Certainly, my child; and this is a church, for don't you remember it is said 'the groves were God's first temples'?" Jack didn't remember anything of the kind, for his education had been so sadly neglected he could not read any but the smallest words, therefore made no answer, and as soon as Louis had satisfied his hunger the three went to the cleared space where the services were to be held. Jack watched everything around him with intense interest, and, it must also be said, to such a degree that he failed to hear a single word spoken by the preacher. Aunt Nancy sat with a look of devotion on her face, which to Jack was very beautiful. After a time the boy saw the tears rolling down her cheeks, and listened to the words from the pulpit in order to learn what had caused such apparent sorrow. The clergyman was speaking of those who keep the word, but not the spirit of God's laws, and he failed to find in the teaching anything which could distress the little woman. When the sermon was concluded and the three were walking slowly through the grove, he understood better. "It seemed as if the minister was talking directly to me, Jack dear," she said with quivering lips. "I didn't hear him say anything that sounded like it, Aunt Nancy, an' I listened a good deal of the time." "It was the passage about obeying the word but not the spirit which applied to my case. You see I didn't _speak_ a lie to Mr. Pratt, and might try to comfort myself with the idea I had not disobeyed the commandment; but the meaning of it is, I shouldn't deceive in the slightest manner." "I wish we hadn't come here if you're goin' to think of that thing again." "Again, Jack dear? Do you fancy it has ever been out of my mind?" "I thought you'd kinder got over it." "But I hadn't, and perhaps I was led to come here that I might realize even more fully what I have done." "There isn't any need of that, Aunt Nancy"; and Jack began to look distressed. "Please put it out of your thoughts for a while, an' we'll go down on the beach." "I can't, my child. You shall stroll around an hour, after which you must come back to the tent for dinner." Jack hardly thought he ought to leave the little woman while she was feeling badly, but she insisted on his doing so, and he walked slowly away saying to himself,-- "I never knew religion hurt anybody; but I think Aunt Nancy has too much of it if she's goin' to fuss so over Farmer Pratt. It won't do to let her feel as she does, an' the whole amount of the story is I'll have to leave Louis here while I take the chances of gettin' into the poorhouse by explainin' things to him." So deeply engrossed was he in his thoughts that no attention was paid to anything around until he was brought to a standstill by hearing a disagreeably familiar voice cry,-- "Hold on, Hunchie, we want to know where you left the old maid!" Jack had halted involuntarily, and now would have moved on again in the hope of escaping from Master Dean and his friends, but they barred his way by closing in upon him. There was a large crowd on the grounds surging to and fro, therefore the three boys had little difficulty in forcing Jack to move in this direction or that as they chose, by pretending the press was so great they could not prevent themselves from being pushed against him. "We're goin' down for a swim," Bill Dean said as he linked his arm in the hunchback's, "an' it'll just about break our hearts if you can't come with us." [Illustration: "We're goin' down for a swim," Bill Dean said, as he linked his arm in the hunchback's.--Page 210.] "I don't want to do anything of the kind. You know very well a crooked feller like me couldn't swim, no matter how hard he tried." "We'll show you how, so don't be frightened"; and Bill motioned for Sam and Jip to force the intended victim along in the desired direction. Jack knew perfectly well he could not struggle successfully against his tormentors, but at the same time he did not intend allowing them to take him away from the throng where he might find assistance if necessary. "I don't want to go with you, and shall ask some of these people to help me if you don't go away." "Then you'd only be makin' it all the hotter for yourself, 'cause we count on stayin' here the whole week, an' you can't be tied to the old maid's apron strings every minute of the time." "I'll take my chances of that, so keep off or I'll make a disturbance." Bill had good reason to believe the cripple would carry this threat into execution, and, not wishing to come in direct contact with the guardians of the peace, concluded to bring their sport to a close. "Of course if you don't feel like comin' nobody's goin' to make you, so we'll say good by." As he spoke he gave a quick twist of his foot in front of Jack, at the same instant Jip pushed from behind, and the result was the cripple fell forward on his face, in the gravel and sand. The three boys were off like a flash, and as Jack rose to his feet after some effort, with dusty clothes and a bleeding face, his heart was filled with anger. "If I was only strong enough I'd soon show them fellers what it is to pick on a fellow they thought couldn't help himself!" He had hardly said these words when a man brushed past him with the air of one who feels he has a right to considerably more than half the road, and looking up quickly Jack saw Farmer Pratt. For an instant he thought the man was pursuing him, and would have taken refuge in flight, had not the idea occurred to his mind that Mr. Pratt had come to camp meeting for the same purpose as Aunt Nancy. "I'm foolish to think he's still chasin' after me," he said to himself, "though I s'pose he would take Louis an' me with him if he saw us." Without knowing why he did it, Jack followed a short distance behind the farmer, as if it was necessary to retain him constantly in sight, and while doing so thought of Aunt Nancy's distress concerning the alleged lie. Now surely would be a good time to sacrifice his own comfort in order to ease her mind by taking upon his shoulders the blame, and he ran forward intending, for an instant, to speak with the gentleman. Then it occurred to him that it would be proper to consult the little woman first, and he turned back only to doubt again. It might distress Aunt Nancy yet more to know the farmer was on the grounds, and Jack wished he knew of some one who could give him the proper advice. Deacon Downs was the only person he could think of, and yet he ought not to tell him of what Aunt Nancy had done. "I've got to settle this thing myself," he said as he turned resolutely in the direction of the tent, "and the next thing to do is to talk with Aunt Nancy herself. She knows more goodness than all these people put together." His mind once made up, he was eager to reach the tent, and ran at full speed, arriving just as Deacon Downs summoned the occupants of this particular dwelling to dinner. The little woman was acting as cook, a post of duty to which she had been elected each year because the remainder of the party knew she would perform the arduous labors without complaint. To speak with her now would be to attract the attention of all, and Jack believed he should wait until a more convenient season. Therefore he seated himself at the rough table around which all the others, save Aunt Nancy, were gathered, and tried unsuccessfully to appear as if nothing unusual had occurred. Jack's face told of some trouble, however, and when the deacon had refreshed himself with a large cup of Aunt Nancy's Mocha, he asked in a severe tone,-- "Master Dudley, is it possible that after living with as good a woman as Sister Curtis, you allow your passions to tempt you into fighting? Don't you remember what Dr. Watts says about letting 'dogs delight to bark and bite, for 'tis their nature,' et cetera?" Perhaps Jack might have understood the deacon's question, had it not been for the last word. What an "et cetera" was he hadn't the slightest idea, and instead of replying sat staring stupidly at his plate until Aunt Nancy came forward and asked,-- "What is it about Jack? Has he been doing anything out of the way?" "By the appearance of his face I should say he had. It is strange boys will fight in such a place as this!" "Why, what _has_ happened to you, Jack dear?" the little woman asked anxiously as she lifted the boy's head by placing her hand under his chin. Jack said nothing, and Aunt Nancy asked, as the crimson spots appeared on her cheeks,-- "Has William Dean been troubling you again?" "I had rather tell you some other time," Jack replied in a whisper, as he slipped down from his seat at the table and went toward the scene of the little woman's culinary operations. She followed him at once, and the good but rather inquisitive deacon craned his neck in vain to hear what passed between the two. "It was Bill Dean; but don't say anything about it now, for I've just seen Farmer Pratt," Jack said in a low tone; and as Aunt Nancy started in surprise, a cry of distress came from Deacon Downs's lips. At the moment Jack spoke, the little woman was in the act of removing the coffee pot from the stove, for fear its contents should boil over, when it fell to the ground. Neither Aunt Nancy nor the hunchback paid any attention to this catastrophe; but the deacon was so angry he even threatened that Jack should not be allowed near the tent again. It is doubtful if his words were heard by the two who were in such distress of mind. Aunt Nancy led Jack to the rear of the tent, and there, where no one could overhear, he told the whole story, concluding by saying,-- "You have felt so bad I had a great mind to go right up an' tell him how it happened you acted a lie." "But, Jack dear, then he might drag you off to the poor farm." "I had rather do that than have you feel as you do about it. Louis could stay here, an' I wouldn't tell him where you were, no matter how hard he might try to make me." "I should go to him myself and confess all," the little woman said after a pause. "Then the chances are he'd get hold of both Louis an' me. If it is to be done, I oughter do it." "I declare I don't know what is best"; and Aunt Nancy stood with clasped hands as if expecting Jack would advise. "It is only right I should atone in some way for that which I did; but the flesh is indeed weak when it comes to parting with either of you." "Perhaps there might be some way for me to get clear, an' you'd feel so much better that I'd be contented to stay almost anywhere." The little woman made no reply; she remained silent so long Jack began to be afraid she was ill, and as he stood watching her, the notes of a song of praise to the Maker rose high above the deacon's querulous tones, while mingling with it was the murmur of the surf as it rolled up on the beach, the whole forming a sort of melody which was soothing to the little hunchback. CHAPTER XVIII. A DISASTER. Not for several moments was Aunt Nancy able to decide what should be done, and then, as the song died away leaving only the deacon's words to mingle with the reverberation of the surf, she said in a voice which sounded strained and harsh,-- "It must be done. You shall bring him here, and I will tell the story myself. When he comes, take Louis and walk down by the beach for a while." The little woman could say no more, for at that moment Deacon Downs asked in his blandest tones,-- "Do you think it would be possible to make a leetle more coffee, Sister Curtis?" Aunt Nancy had never been known to refuse a request which involved only her own discomfort or labor, and on this occasion there was no exception to the rule. "It will be ready in a few minutes, Deacon," she replied in a trembling voice, at the same time keeping her face turned from the party lest they should see the tears in her eyes. Jack understood there was no necessity of any further conversation, therefore walked slowly away, feeling very much like a fellow who voluntarily goes to receive unmerited punishment. He now had no fear of Bill Dean and his friends. The present trouble was so much greater than any they could cause him that it was as if this particular trio of boys never existed. Not until he had walked to and fro for half an hour did he begin to realize it might not be possible to find the farmer amid the throng. Each succeeding train brought additional worshippers or visitors to the grove, and the walks were so densely lined with people that he might have passed within ten feet of Mr. Pratt without seeing him. Having made up his mind to that which he considered a sacrifice, he was impatient to have it finished, and walked rapidly until the afternoon was more than half spent; but all in vain. It seemed more than probable he had gone home, or at least Jack so argued to himself, and returned to the tent looking as if suffering from some grievous disappointment. Aunt Nancy was at the flap of the canvas house with an expression of anxiety on her face, but the baby was nowhere to be seen. "Where's Louis?" Jack asked in alarm. "Mrs. Hayes is taking care of him. I thought it best he shouldn't be seen when Mr. Pratt came. Will he be here soon?" "I couldn't find him; he must have gone home." The little woman's face lighted up wonderfully as she cried,-- "O Jack dear, I know it is wicked to say, but I am _so_ glad! It is only right I should bear the burden I myself have caused; but the thought of losing you and the baby almost broke my heart." Then she kissed him on both cheeks, and again did he feel the moisture of her tears. "Well, Aunt Nancy, you haven't lost us yet awhile, an' if Mr. Pratt has gone home that settles the matter for a while." "Yes, Jack dear, but the sin is yet to be atoned for; it is only a postponement of the evil day." "Any way there's no need of worryin' about it now. If, when we get home, you feel that he should know the truth, it won't be much of a job for me to walk over to his house, an' then," Jack added with a feeble attempt at a smile, "they won't have so far to carry me when I'm taken to the poor farm." "Don't talk in such a manner, my dear, for I am hoping it won't ever come to pass." Jack made no reply. He felt quite confident the farmer would insist on his going to the home for paupers, but no good could be done by further distressing the little woman. "I declare I'd entirely forgotten you and I have had no dinner," she suddenly said with a nervous laugh. "I'll get some cold meat and bread, if there is any left; but it is astonishing how strong people's appetites are at the seashore, especially during camp-meeting time. We must get along without coffee, for the deacon fairly swam in that second pot I made." "I don't feel so terribly hungry," Jack replied; "but I'll sit down for the sake of seeing you eat. As to the coffee, that don't trouble me; water is good enough for boys." "It is more wholesome I admit; but there's nothing good enough for a dear heart like yours." Then the little woman bustled around as Jack had seen her do at home, and in a few moments a most appetizing lunch was spread, the amount of food contradicting her fears that all the provisions had been consumed. The two made a hearty meal, considering all their troubles, and when it was concluded Jack helped Aunt Nancy set the tent to rights generally, so when the remainder of the party returned from afternoon services everything was in proper order. Mrs. Hayes brought Louis with her, and after delivering him to Jack she said with a sigh of relief,-- "I declare, Sister Curtis, it is a real pleasure to come to camp meeting with you. It takes the care off of one entirely. I only wish I had your knack at going ahead. Now look at me; I'm almost worn out looking after the baby, and don't feel as if I could do a stitch toward getting supper." The other ladies in the party appeared to be in the same condition of prostration, and the little woman, tired though she was from the labor of preparing and serving dinner for so many, meekly replied that she was perfectly willing to give them a rest by performing all the work. Jack heard the compliment paid by Mrs. Hayes, and understood that it had been given only for the purpose of getting the little woman to continue on while the others enjoyed their leisure. "I'm goin' to help you, Aunt Nancy," he said in a low tone as he went toward the stove where she was making ready to bake some biscuit. "It's too bad for you to do all this work while the others are havin' a good time." "Oh, I don't mind it, dear, so long as I can be of service to some one. We are put in this world to help others, and it should be a pleasure." "But you're doin' all instead of helpin'. Now tell me what I can do, if you're bound to wait on the whole crowd." "Take care of the baby, that will be enough." "He'll stay around here all right," Jack replied as he placed the little fellow on the grass, giving him some smooth stones to play with. Then he set about assisting Aunt Nancy, working so industriously that Deacon Downs said in a tone of faint approbation,-- "That there little hunchback seems right handy if he wants to, an' if he wasn't so given to fightin' it might be a good thing for Aunt Nancy to have him around; but when once a boy gets as quarrelsome as this one, it ain't much use trying to make anything out of him." The majority of the party were of the same opinion, and from that time forth it was believed, at least by those who were present when the deacon spoke, that Jack was a boy who would fight under the slightest provocation. Not until the bell had rung as a signal that the evening services were about to begin did Jack and Aunt Nancy cease their labors. The other occupants of the tent had already departed, and the little woman and her assistant were so tired it seemed almost too great an exertion to walk to the auditorium. "Why not go to bed?" Jack asked. "I'll take care of Louis until he gets sleepy, an' then bring him to you." "No, it would be wrong to remain here when so many truths will be presented, simply because I chance to be tired." "Then we'll all go"; and Jack lifted Louis in his arms. Aunt Nancy enjoyed the services so much that Jack was very glad she had come; but as for himself he believed the time would have been quite as profitably spent in sleeping. On the following morning at daybreak Deacon Downs aroused the hunchback with a harshly spoken command to build the fire and awaken Aunt Nancy when it was burning. "Are you goin' to make her do all the work?" Jack asked as he started to his feet. "Don't be impudent!" the deacon said sternly, raising his cane threateningly. "Learn to do as you are bidden, and in silence." Jack made no reply, but felt that the little woman whom he loved so dearly was being imposed upon. As for Aunt Nancy, she appeared to have no such idea. Jack awakened her as he had been told, and she arose from the bed of straw on which she had lain without undressing, uttering no word of protest. "I would have let you sleep till noon, but the deacon told me to, an' was kinder mad when I asked if you'd got to do all the work," Jack said, his tones proving there was yet anger in his heart. "You shouldn't have said anything about it, my dear, for it is a pleasure to me." "You try to think it is, but I know it's nothin' more than hard work, while the others are enjoying a long nap." "We won't say any more about it, Jack dear. Don't you think you could get me some water?" "Of course I can"; and Jack labored with a will, relieving the tired-looking little woman whenever it was possible. The second day at camp meeting was spent by these two in much the same manner as the first, as regards work, and Louis received very little attention. Jack, in obedience to Aunt Nancy's request, looked again for Mr. Pratt, but with no better success than before; and after dinner he washed the dishes in order that the little woman might attend the afternoon services. It was a decided relief to him when the day came on which they were to return home. He knew Aunt Nancy had worked too hard, and the bustle and confusion tired him almost as much as the labor. Gladly he helped gather up the empty baskets, and when the three were on the cars being whirled rapidly toward home, the little woman said with a sigh of relief,-- "What a comfort it will be to find ourselves on the farm once more, Jack dear! I believe I am getting too old to go to such places, and a week's rest wouldn't be too much to make me feel like myself again." "If you had gone alone, without tryin' to run a boardin'-house for them who didn't care whether you had any fun or not, it would have been different." "You don't look at the matter in the proper light, my child. They've always been accustomed to having Aunt Nancy go at such times, and I couldn't disappoint them as long as I was able to hold up my head." Jack realized it was useless to continue this conversation, so far as convincing the little woman that she had been imposed upon was concerned, and he remained silent. Never before had the farm looked so beautiful, either to Jack or the little woman, as when they arrived home that night, and during the evening devotions Aunt Nancy's thankfulness was made apparent by the fervently spoken words. The hunchback's first care, after opening the house, was to visit the barn to assure himself old crumple-horn had been well taken care of; but he could not gain much information in the darkness. The animal was lying in her stall, and appeared to be in good condition. Notwithstanding the fact that the house had been closed four days, the search for burglars was made before retiring, and then Jack, after seeing Louis tucked snugly in Aunt Nancy's bed, went to his cosey little room feeling confident he would never again have any desire to attend another camp meeting. When the morning came he went out with a light heart to milk the cow, but to his great surprise still found her lying down. All in vain did he urge her to get up; she refused to move, nor would she pay any attention to the tempting lunch of sweet clover he placed in front of her. Running back to the house he summoned Aunt Nancy, and both spent fully an hour alternately coaxing and petting the animal. "She is very sick, Jack dear, there can be no question about that," the little woman said as her eyes filled with tears. "It would grieve me if she should die, for I have owned her a long while." "How many years?" "I hardly know; but it can't be less than eighteen." "Then she must be dying of old age." "I will go right over to Daniel Chick's and ask him to come here. He's a master hand at doctoring animals." Then before Jack could offer to go in her steady Aunt Nancy started down the lane bareheaded, which showed how deeply she felt the possible loss of her pet. In a short time Mr. Chick arrived with the little woman, and his verdict brought no relief to Aunt Nancy's heart. "All you can do is to knock her in the head, for she'll never get up again. It's kinder tough on you, I'll admit, for that cow has been a powerful help, 'specially when the summer boarders are here; but it won't do any good to fret." Aunt Nancy made no reply, but walked slowly to the house as if desirous of being alone. "She feels mighty bad I allow," Mr. Chick continued, speaking to Jack. "I've said many times I didn't know how Aunt Nancy would get along if it wasn't for the cow, an' now I reckon she'll be eatin' her bread without butter." "What will she do when the boarders come?" "That's what I don't know"; and Mr. Chick walked away as if he had no further concern in the matter. Jack sat down where he could watch crumple-horn and at the same time think over this disaster which had come to the little woman. While he was trying to form some plan, the poor old cow laid her head on the sweet-scented clover, gave a few short gasps, and ceased breathing as if from sheer weariness. Jack stood over her a moment, and then returned to the house, arriving there just as Aunt Nancy was emerging with Louis in her arms. "I wouldn't go out there"; and he motioned toward the barn. Aunt Nancy looked at him an instant, appearing to understand what he meant, for she re-entered the house, leaving Jack on the doorstep in a profound study. He could hear Louis's voice from the "fore-room" now and then, therefore it was not necessary to tell him the little woman had gone there to hide her grief. "I must do something" he said to himself, "an' what I first thought of seems to be the only show." Then going to the door of the "fore-room" and knocking gently, he said in a low tone,-- "Aunt Nancy, could you spare me a little while?" "Where are you bound, Jack?" "I'd like to run down to Treat's store if you don't care." Aunt Nancy opened the door, and Jack noticed her eyes were red from weeping. "What is your idea of going there?" she asked in surprise. "I've got some business that I'd rather not explain till I get back." "There's nothing to prevent, my child, and I can trust you not to do anything wrong." "I should hope you could," Jack replied emphatically. "You shall know all about it when I come home." "Don't try to walk too fast, but return as soon as your business is finished." Jack promised to do so, and was hurrying up the lane when the little woman stopped him with these words:-- "I wish you would call at Daniel Chick's and tell him what has happened. It will be necessary to bury poor old crumple-horn, and he must attend to it." "I'll ask him to come over right away"; and Jack resumed his journey, wondering whether he was on the point of doing that for which Aunt Nancy would censure him. "It doesn't make any difference whether she does or not," he said to himself. "If I told her she wouldn't let me go, so this is the only way to fix it." CHAPTER XIX. JACK'S PROPOSITION. Jack called at Mr. Chick's house, saw that gentleman and got his promise to bury old crumple-horn at once, after which he continued on past Bill Dean's home, fearing no trouble from him since he was yet at the camp grounds. On arriving at the store he found Mr. Treat alone, and was greeted with the question,-- "Hello! Here's Aunt Nancy's young man! How's the old lady after her trip to the grove?" "She is well, but tired." "I'll warrant that. When folks want to go off for a good time they invite Nancy Curtis, reckonin' she'll do whatever work there is without grumblin', an' they ain't far out of the way, either. Did the deacon get his full share of that Mocha she bought?" "I don't know, sir; but I guess so, I didn't hear him findin' fault." "Then you can count on his havin' been filled up; _he_ don't buy very much of that kind of coffee when it's him as has to foot the bills." Jack had no interest in this subject, and changed it abruptly by saying,-- "Aunt Nancy's cow died this mornin'." "Sho! How'd that happen?" "Mr. Chick thought it must be old age." "Well I reckon it was. That cow has been in the family quite a spell." "It'll be hard on Aunt Nancy not to have the milk." "I 'low you're 'bout right, sonny; it helped make up a good bit of the old woman's livin', an' she hasn't so much money but that a dollar makes a big difference." "That's true, an' I've come to see if I can't help her out in some way." "You?" and Mr. Treat looked up in surprise. "Why, I thought you hadn't any great amount of cash on hand." "And I haven't; but I thought perhaps I might make a trade with you." "Want to have a dicker of some kind, eh? Well, what have you got to show up?" and Mr. Treat selected from a pile of pine wood a convenient stick to whittle, as he assumed a more comfortable attitude preparatory to indulging in his favorite pastime of "dickering." "I haven't got anything, sir; but thought there might be work I could do around here till I'd earned enough to buy Aunt Nancy another cow." Jack stammered and hesitated until it was a positive pleasure both to himself and the storekeeper when the speech was finally ended. "What can you do?" Mr. Treat asked thoughtfully as he fashioned with infinite care the bit of wood into a toothpick. "Almost anything, sir. I'd be willin' to work very hard if I could get the job." "Have you got any idea what the jobs 'round here might be?" "It don't make any difference; I'm not afraid of bucklin' down to them." "How much do you count on earnin'?" "I want to get enough to buy a cow for Aunt Nancy." "Do you know what one is worth?" "No, sir." Mr. Treat was silent for a moment as if revolving some very weighty matter in his mind, and said slowly,-- "I've got jest sich a cow as would suit Aunt Nancy; she's a good one, an' I wouldn't like to part with her for nothin'. Now, if you'd do the chores 'round here this summer, an' she would put in some of the money I owe for the wheat, we might strike a trade." "But I don't want her to pay anything." "Thought you could do it all yourself, eh?" "I hoped so," Jack replied in a tone of disappointment. "Why, I don't reckon you'd earn it in a year. I'd want forty dollars at the very lowest figger for my cow, an' it would take a mighty smart boy to git that much in twelve months." Jack could no longer conceal his feelings, and, seeing he was pained because of the failure of his plans, Mr. Treat continued in what he intended should be a soothing tone,-- "I'd be willin' to allow you twenty dollars for a summer's work previdin' you'd board yourself at Aunt Nancy's. Then she'd only be called on to pay as much more, an' have twice as good a cow as the one that's dead." "How long do you say the summer should last?" "Well, I wouldn't be hard on you, an' we'd call it quits by the middle of November." "How much of that time would it be necessary for me to stay in the store?" "From five o'clock in the mornin' till nine at night, the same as is expected of other boys." It was the last blow to Jack's hopes. His duty to Louis would prevent him from remaining in this section of the country such a length of time, and it was essential he should assist Aunt Nancy in order to pay her for the food he and Louis consumed. "Well, what do you think of it?" Mr. Treat asked, as the boy stood irresolutely for a moment. "I couldn't because I can't stay here as long as that, and, besides, I must do something for Aunt Nancy to earn our board." "That's right, my boy. There's no harm done because we didn't make a trade; but it shows I'm willin' to help along all I can in a case like this." "I'm much obliged to you," Jack replied faintly, and then he started up the road once more, walking decidedly faster than when he came. He had counted on being able to ease the sorrow in Aunt Nancy's mind by buying for her a cow as good as the one she had lost. He was revolving in his mind half a dozen plans by which the desired result might be attained, when a voice from the opposite side of the road caused him to halt. "How's Aunt Nancy by this time?" It was Mr. Souders who spoke, and because that gentleman had been so kind to him on the day when the sewing circle met at the little woman's house, he decided to tell him the whole story, not from any expectation of receiving assistance, but in order to relieve his mind. Mr. Souders listened attentively to all he had to say, and then replied,-- "Treat was trying to swindle you. His cow isn't worth ten dollars, to say nothing of forty, an' he wasn't over an' above anxious to give you too much for your work. Let the matter drop a couple of days an' I'll see what can be done. We mustn't allow Aunt Nancy to suffer." There was a world of encouragement in the gentleman's tones, and Jack felt as if half his troubles had already been removed. "I'm willin' to do anything I can towards earnin' the money to buy one; but Louis an' I mustn't stay here till November, an' I don't want her to use her own money." "That will be all right, my lad. Go home now, an' I'll see you later." Jack's heart was quite light when he walked swiftly down the lane leading to the tiny house, but became heavy again when he saw the little woman's face. It was evident Aunt Nancy was mourning deeply the loss of her pet, and the cripple felt that as yet he had nothing tangible to assuage her grief. She looked up inquiringly as he approached, but he offered no explanation regarding his journey until the question had been asked directly, and then said hesitatingly,-- "I would rather not tell you, Aunt Nancy. I thought I might be able to do something, but it was a failure, an' the less we say about it the better." "Jack dear," and the little woman was very grave, "when a boy can't tell his friends what he has been doing it looks as if there was something of which to be ashamed." "But in this case there isn't, Aunt Nancy; cross my throat if there is." "I believe you, my child, but would have much preferred if there had been perfect confidence between us." Jack looked up in positive alarm. The little woman's tone was so different from what he had ever heard before when she was addressing him, that he actually felt frightened. "I'll tell you all about it," he said quickly; but Aunt Nancy held up her hand to prevent his saying anything more. "If it is something which you wish to keep a secret from me I don't want to hear it." Now Jack was distressed, for there could be no question but that he had displeased his best friend. "Please listen to me, Aunt Nancy. I did say I wasn't going to tell you, because I thought perhaps you'd think I was meddlin'. That is, you might have thought so after I failed; but if the thing had gone through all right you'd been glad." Then, disregarding entirely her gestures for him to remain silent, he told all the story save that relating to his interview with Mr. Souders. It was yet possible old crumple-horn's place would be filled, but he believed it best not to raise any false hopes. When he concluded Aunt Nancy took his face in her hands, bending his head over until she could kiss his cheeks, when she said in a tremulous voice,-- "Jack, you are a dear, good boy, and have been a blessing to me from the hour you first came into this house; but you must not think of taking any such load upon your shoulders. I would not have permitted it even had you been able to make a satisfactory bargain with Mr. Treat, and that is what no person has ever done before to my knowledge. It was not right to keep from me anything you wished to do, and it is proven in this case, for if I had known what you thought of attempting, I could have explained how useless it would be." "It didn't seem so to me, Aunt Nancy, and I surely believed I could earn more than twenty dollars by working all summer." "Not for such a man as the storekeeper. Now you will be obliged to walk over to Daniel Chick's twice each day for milk, and that will be more labor than taking care of poor old crumple-horn." "Perhaps you may get another cow, Aunt Nancy." "It is impossible, at least during this year. I spent more money at camp meeting than I could afford, and must now pay the penalty when the summer boarders come by being forced to buy both milk and butter. It will make a big hole in my earnings." Now that there was no cow to care for, the work in Jack's particular department was very light, and, as he said to Aunt Nancy, it seemed as if he had hardly begun before the whole was done. The walk to Daniel Chick's was not as pleasant as taking care of old crumple-horn, and besides, he would be forced to pass Bill Dean's house twice each day, a fact which caused him no little disquietude; but he said nothing regarding this to Aunt Nancy. The following forty-eight hours passed very quietly on the farm. The little woman was so thoroughly tired from her labors at camp meeting that she did not have the ambition to bustle around as usual, and the greater portion of her time was spent with Jack in the garden. It is probable that no collection of vegetables ever received more care than was bestowed by these enthusiastic gardeners. The smallest weed was detected and instantly pulled up by Aunt Nancy, while Jack loosened the ground around the roots of each tiny plant until it seemed certain they would be dwarfed. Much to Jack's discomfort, hardly an hour passed when the little woman did not make some reference to Mr. Pratt, and constantly bewailed the fact that she failed to see him. "But it wasn't your fault I couldn't find him, Aunt Nancy," Jack finally said. "I suppose not; but yet it seems as if my cowardice had something to do with it." "You know that couldn't be so, Aunt Nancy; but if you want me to I'll walk over to his house. It ain't so terribly far." This proposition had the effect of reducing the little woman to silence, and during three or four hours Louis' guardian heard nothing regarding the man whom he had every reason to consider an enemy. Late on the afternoon of the third day after he had talked with Mr. Souders, that gentleman's wife drove up, and instead of alighting to call upon Aunt Nancy, said quite sharply,-- "Samuel wanted me to drive over here for Jack." "Why, what is the matter?" The little woman asked in alarm. "Nothing very serious, Nancy Curtis, so don't begin to fret. Sam always was full of whims, an' I reckon this is one of 'em." Jack fancied he knew what was wanted, and his heart was very light when he clambered into the wagon. "I'll come right back," he cried, as the carriage rolled away, and Aunt Nancy sat looking at Louis as if speechless with astonishment. "Is it about the cow?" Jack asked of Mrs. Souders, who sat stiff as a statue and quite as forbidding looking, holding the reins tightly in both hands, and paying no attention to the cripple. She nodded her head, and Jack could not but wonder if she thought her breath too valuable to be wasted in words. This was the extent of the conversation during the ride of ten minutes or more, and the hunchback felt decidedly relieved when it came to an end. Mrs. Souders, silent and stern, was quite as disagreeable a companion as Mrs. Souders angry. The cause of his having thus been summoned was, as he had hoped, a cow. In the yard, with a halter on her head and a card tied to her horn, stood a meek-eyed animal which Jack thought a model of her kind. Mr. Souders came from the shed as the hunchback alighted, and cried in his hearty, cheery voice,-- "What do you think of that, lad? Talk about Treat's cow; why, she can't hold a candle side of this one, and there was a big difference in the price." "Is it for Aunt Nancy?" "Sartin, an' I sent for you to lead her over to the little woman." "But who's to pay for her?" "That part of the transaction has been settled already, an' all you have to do now, is to take the creater away." "But I wanted to do somethin' toward buyin' her." "So you have, my boy. Can you read writin'?" "Not very well." "Then come here while I tell you what's on the card. I got one of Daniel Chick's daughters to fix it up so's it would be kerrect." Then Mr. Souders, after wiping his glasses lest a single word should escape his attention, read the following:-- "TO AUNT NANCY CURTIS FROM JACK DUDLEY, TO WHOM THIS COW WAS PRESENTED BY SARAH SOUDERS, IN TOKEN OF HER REGRET FOR THE UNKIND TREATMENT WHICH HE RECEIVED AT HER HANDS." "You see," Mr. Souders explained confidentially as he finished reading the inscription, "mother has been sorry about what happened over to Aunt Nancy's, jest as I said she would be, an' this is kind of a peace-offerin' to you, at the same time a good turn is done the old woman." "Then no one else paid for the cow? Your wife did the whole thing?" "I may have chipped in a bit; but that don't count. Its mother's present to you an' Aunt Nancy, an' I'm right glad of the chance to help the little woman along. She'd be in mighty hard lines this summer if she had to buy butter an' milk." Jack hardly knew what to do or say. He was delighted almost beyond bounds at being able to take the cow to Aunt Nancy, and at the same time it seemed necessary he should thank Mrs. Souders, but was at a loss to know how it was to be done. "Where is your wife?" he asked after a pause. "In the house, an' I reckon she's locked the door. Better not try to say anything to her. Mother's peculiar, an' flies off dreadfully sometimes, but her heart's in the right place, my boy, which makes up for a good many faults. Lead the creater home now, an' I'll venter to say you'll enjoy seein' Aunt Nancy dance when she knows its hers." Jack would have attempted to thank Mr. Souders, but the gentleman prevented him by unfastening the cow's halter, and insisting that the animal be led away at once. CHAPTER XX. BILL DEAN. Jack was a very proud boy when he came down the lane to the farmhouse leading the docile animal by the halter. He hoped to reach the door before Aunt Nancy should see him; but the little woman was sitting under the old oak wondering what business Mr. Souders had on hand which required the cripple's presence. He was half way from the main road to the house when she saw him, and cried in astonishment,-- "Bless my soul, Jack, have you been and made a trade with Mr. Treat after what I said?" "Indeed I haven't! Jest wait till you see what's on this beauty's horn, an' then you'll know all about it." Aunt Nancy could not curb her curiosity until the animal was led in, but ran forward with Louis in her arms, Jack stopping the cow that she might read that which was written on the card. The little woman was bewildered. She could hardly realize the animal was a present until Jack repeated again and again what Mr. Souders had said, and then it was the hunchback's turn to be bewildered, for instead of expressing her gratitude, she sat down on the grass, regardless of possible stains to her dress, and began to cry heartily. "Why, I thought you'd be glad," Jack said in a tone of disappointment, while Louis pulled at the little woman's ringlets to show his sympathy for what seemed to be grief. "So--so--so I am--Jack dear; but--but--it doesn't seem right that people should do so--so--so much for me." "It wouldn't be enough if they'd sent a thousand cows." "But for you I might never have had poor old crumple-horn replaced." "Of course you would. That was wrote on the card only to make me feel better about what Mrs. Souders did; but she'd given you this all the same." Aunt Nancy refused to look at it in that light, and Jack became confused at being overwhelmed with thanks. The little woman insisted on tracing the gift directly to his visit to Treat's store, thus giving him nearly all the credit, until the conversation became really painful. "Let's take her out to the pasture, for she must be hungry by this time," he said, as a means of putting an end to the words of gratitude which he believed were undeserved. This aroused Aunt Nancy to a sense of the situation as nothing else could have done, for the thought that anything around her might be suffering would always cause her to forget herself, and she followed Jack, who had lifted Louis to the cow's back to give him a ride. It was a sort of triumphal procession which halted at the pasture bars in order that Aunt Nancy might inspect more closely her new pet. "Seems wrong to say anything disparaging of poor old crumple-horn after she has served me faithfully for so many years, but I must confess this cow looks as if she might be a better milker." "I'll bet she's the best in town," Jack replied enthusiastically, as he pulled clover for the gentle animal to eat. "Not quite that, Jack dear, for Deacon Downs has a Jersey that leads everything." "At any rate his cow can't be as kind as this one." "That may be," Aunt Nancy replied meditatively as she kissed the fawn colored nose. "I do really think we couldn't have found a better substitute for poor old crumple-horn." Then the animal was examined critically, without a single flaw having been found, and not until half an hour was spent in this manner could she be allowed to enter the pasture. Aunt Nancy thought it her duty to see Mrs. Souders at the earliest opportunity in order to thank her for the gift, and decided to do so on the following morning when the breakfast dishes had been cleared away. Jack went to clean the stall in the barn for the new cow's occupancy, and was working industriously when he fancied he heard a cry of distress coming from the direction of the duck pond. His first thought was that Louis had strayed again, but on looking out, both he and the little woman were seen under the big oak, apparently as happy and contented as well could be. Believing he had been deceived by his fancy, he resumed the work, but only to stop an instant later as the cries sounded more distinct. This time there could be no mistake, and he ran toward Aunt Nancy as he asked,-- "Do you hear that noise? I'm goin' to see what it means." As he went rapidly across the fields without waiting for a reply, the little woman followed him, but her pace was slow because of having the baby in her arms. The cries continued almost incessantly, and by them Jack was guided to a clump of large trees standing near one end of the pond within a few yards of the spot where Louis had been set adrift on the raft. It was not necessary to search long for the sufferer. Lying on the ground, held firmly down by a huge limb of a tree which had fallen across his breast in such a manner that he could not use his arms, was Bill Dean. His face was pale, whether from pain or fear Jack had no means of ascertaining, for the boy did not wait to be questioned, but cried piteously,-- "O Hunchie, help me outer this scrape an' I won't ever play tricks on you agin!" This promise was not necessary to enlist Jack's sympathy. It was a boy in agony and not an enemy he saw before him; the only question in his mind was how the rescue could be effected. "Lay still, an' I'll do the best I can; but it may hurt a little more when I try to lift the limb." Kneeling that he might get his shoulder under one end of the heavy branch, Jack tried to raise it, but in vain. He was making the second effort, Bill moaning piteously meanwhile, when Aunt Nancy arrived, and she, like Jack, thought only of relieving suffering. "Where are you hurt, William?" she asked anxiously. "I don't know, but it seems as if the ache was all over my body." "How did the accident happen?" "I was choppin' this limb off to build a new raft, an' it fell on me." "Can you lift it, Jack dear?" "I'm afraid not; it's terribly heavy." "Let me help you." The two strained and tugged all to no purpose, when, as he paused to regain his breath and wipe the perspiration from his face, Jack said,-- "I could cut away part of it if I had an axe." "Mine is around here somewhere," Bill said with a groan. Jack soon found the tool, and, working very cautiously lest he should cause the sufferer yet more pain, chopped here and there to remove the larger twigs, while Aunt Nancy bathed Bill's pale face with her handkerchief wetted in the pond. [Illustration: "Where are you hurt, William?" asked Aunt Nancy anxiously.--Page 252.] It required nearly half an hour of the most fatiguing labor to perform the task, and then Jack said as he threw down the axe,-- "When I lift on this end you must try to pull him out, Aunt Nancy." The first attempt was a failure, but at the second the little woman succeeded, and Bill was drawn from his uncomfortable position looking decidedly the worse for wear. "Can you stand up?" Aunt Nancy asked solicitously as she brushed the dirt from Bill's hands, and little Louis patted his cheek to show he wished to take some part in the rescue, even though it only was to display sympathy. "I'll try," Master Dean said meekly, and, with the aid of Aunt Nancy and Jack, the sorrowful looking bully arose to his feet. It was positive the bones of his legs were not broken, for he stood erect without difficulty, and, this having been ascertained, Aunt Nancy proceeded to make a careful examination of his arms and chest. "I do not believe you are seriously injured, William," she said with a sigh of relief. "There can be no doubt but that you will be very lame for a few days; you must bear with it, and thank your Father it is no worse." "My father didn't have anything to do with it. He'd given me Jesse if he knowed I was here cuttin' down the tree." "I mean your Father in heaven, William, who watches over even the sparrow's fall." Bill looked rather shamefaced at having made such a mistake, and said as he turned half away from his rescuers,-- "I told Hunchie I wouldn't bother him any more if he'd help me out, an' I'm goin' to stick to my promise." "It would have been much better if you had arrived at that conclusion before you were in need of assistance," Aunt Nancy replied gravely. "One should do right because it is his duty, and not as a reward to others." "What's the matter now?" Bill asked in surprise. "Do you want me to keep on roughin' it into him?" "Certainly not, and I am glad you made the promise. What I meant was that it would have been better had you done so because you wished to." "But I didn't till now." "We won't speak of it further now. Go home and ask your mother to rub the bruises with liniment. When you feel inclined I would like to have you come to see Jack and me." "I ain't goin' 'round to be preached at," Bill replied in his old defiant tone. "There was enough of that at camp meetin' to last a feller a month." "I did not see you at the services." "Once I had to go when mother caught me jest as the bell was ringin', an' its the last time I'll get in the same box." Aunt Nancy shook her head sadly. She was discouraged, but not so much as to give up the struggle, for it was her intention to renew it again at a more "convenient season." "We had best go back, Jack dear, and William will come to-morrow to tell us how he feels. "I ain't so sure 'bout that, if you're goin' to stuff a feller with a lot of sabbath-school talk," Bill said sulkily, as he picked up the axe and started across the fields without further thanks to his kind friends. "He doesn't seem like a very good boy at heart," Aunt Nancy said sadly, as she raised Louis in her arms; "but we must not judge by outward appearances. I almost feel condemned for saying anything when my own sin has not been atoned for. My mind would be much easier if I had seen Mr. Pratt at the meeting." "It won't take long to fix that," Jack replied, noting with sorrow the look of pain which had come over the little woman's face. "It will do jest as well if I go there an' tell him what you wanted to say." "But then you would be where they could easily carry you to the poor farm." "Well, s'posen they did, what would that 'mount to side of makin' you feel good? Besides, don't you believe Mr. Souders could make them let me out?" "Perhaps he might; I never thought of that." "I'll leave here to-morrow mornin', an' by night be there." "Bless your heart, child, I would never think of letting you walk that long distance. If we should make up our minds that it was best to go, and I wish I _could_ have the strength to say it, you'd ride in the cars." "Why not decide now?" "Because, Jack dear, it nearly breaks my heart to think there is a possibility of being obliged to give you up." "Well, s'posen we go home an' talk the thing over some other time," Jack said with an assumption of cheerfulness which was far from natural. He had suddenly conceived a plan by which the little woman could be relieved without the pain of deciding that it should be so, and there was no more than sufficient time to put it into execution. Aunt Nancy walked back to the house in a meditative mood, Jack talking about the cow and kindred topics to prevent her mind from dwelling upon the dreaded subject. He at once set about doing the chores in an unusually careful manner when they arrived home. A large quantity of wood was brought into the kitchen, an extra amount of water drawn, and the cow given a generous lunch of clover after she had been driven into the stable. "Why do you do so much unnecessary work, Jack dear?" Aunt Nancy asked. "There will be nothing left for morning, and it is bad to have 'idle hands.'" "I may as well fix everything now, for you know what you said about puttin' off till to-morrow. Say, Aunt Nancy, would you lend me a lead pencil an' a piece of paper?" "Of course, my child. Are you going to write a letter?" "Yes, Aunt Nancy, an' you shall see it in the mornin'." "Better sit down at the kitchen table. If writing is as much of a task for you as it is for me, you'll need every possible convenience." "I had rather do it in my room, for you see I don't know very much about such things, an' it'll come mighty hard, but you won't care if it don't look very nice, will you?" "Certainly not, my child. It could only annoy me because I have not taken advantage of our leisure time to teach you the little I know." "You are always blamin' yourself, Aunt Nancy, an' I don't like to hear it. I wouldn't let anybody else talk that way about you." For reply the little woman patted the boy on the cheek, and then proposed the nightly search for burglars be made. After the evening devotions Aunt Nancy gave Jack the articles he had asked for, and was considerably surprised by the warmth of the boy's good-night salute. Once in his room, Jack set about what was for him a formidable task, and it was late before he completed the following:-- "DEAR AUNT NANCY I AM GOIN TO SEA THE FARMER & TELL HIM YOU R SORRY IF I DONT COME BACK U WILL NO WHERE I AM BUT DONT FEL BAD FOUR I LUV U. I CARNT STOP TO MILK JACK DUDLEY URE JACK DEAR." When this had been done Jack looked around the little room as if taking leave of all it contained, wiped a suspicious moisture from his eyes, and then dressed, but with his shoes in his hands, crept softly down the stairs. The ticking of the clock sounded strangely loud and unnatural; the silence, save for this clicking noise, was oppressive, and he felt as if he was about to commit some crime against the woman who had befriended him. "It's got to be done, an' I mustn't stand here worryin' about it, or I might back out," he said to himself. It was necessary he should think of Aunt Nancy's self accusations and sorrow before he could nerve himself to raise the window. He took this method of departing rather than by the door, for he feared the little woman would be alarmed on learning she had remained in the house a portion of the night without every place of egress being securely fastened. Once outside he gazed around several moments, taking in all the details of the place where he had spent so many pleasant days, and then, putting on his shoes, he started up the lane with a heart so heavy it seemed a positive burden. The moon shone faintly through the clouds; the night wind murmured mournfully among the trees, and before him could dimly be seen the road he believed led him to the paupers' home by way of Mr. Pratt's house. CHAPTER XXI. STARTLING INFORMATION. Realizing that he had a long walk before him, Jack continued on at a steady pace keeping ever in mind the good he hoped to accomplish. He did not dare dwell upon the possible ending to the journey lest he should grow faint-hearted, but tried to persuade himself there would be some way by which he might escape the threatened ignominy. By starting at midnight, he expected to arrive at Scarborough early in the day, and then, in case Farmer Pratt did not attempt to detain him, it would be possible to return to the farm before sunset. It was not believed he would meet any travellers at that hour, and the loneliness, when the shadows danced to and fro athwart the road like fairy-land monsters, was so great as to make him repent ever having attempted the undertaking. As the curtain of night was slowly removed, and the heralds of the coming morn appeared in the sky, his drooping spirits revived. He listened with interest to the sounds which proclaimed that day was awakening. The birds in their leafy homes began to discuss the propriety of going out in search of the "early worm." The frogs from the watery dwellings called to their children that it was time to be up and doing unless they wanted to remain tadpoles forever, and the wind which came "out of the sea" whispered: Awake! it is the day. The leaves bowed and courtesied, the waving grasses bent yet lower their heads, the flowers brought out their sweetest perfumes, and all nature was quivering with excitement because the kindly sun was about to show himself once more. Then as the first golden rays of light shot across the sky and the birds burst forth into song, Jack felt a certain sense of relief. The words which he had heard Aunt Nancy speak so often came to his mind, and he repeated over and over again, understanding the meaning better than ever before,-- "He doeth all things well." It was but a little past eight o'clock when he turned the corner which led to Farmer Pratt's house, and the first person he saw was none other than Master Tom. "Hello! Where'd you come from?" that young gentleman cried in surprise. "Down the road a bit." "Why didn't you git back before? Father's been lookin' almost everywhere for you an' the baby." "Is he still huntin'?" "No, he gave it up as a bad job a good while ago, for there's no chance of gettin' the reward now." "The reward?" Jack asked in surprise. "Yes; you see the baby's mother went away from Portland, an' father don't allow there's anybody in town who cares very much about it after so long a time." "Louis' mother in Portland?" Jack cried, rapidly growing bewildered. "Of course; father went in to see her after he made up his mind you'd gone away; but she wasn't there, so he said it would pay him better to 'tend to the farm instead of runnin' 'round after you fellers." Jack's eyes were opened wide with astonishment, and Tom began to think the hunchback had taken leave of his senses. "What's the matter with you?" he asked sharply, and Jack replied slowly,-- "I can't make out how Mrs. Littlefield happened to be in Portland when the last I saw of her was on the 'Atlanta.' Why, the ship was goin' to Bremen!" "She come inside the breakwater after you went adrift. It's all in the papers father's got." "Why didn't you tell me about it?" Jack asked reproachfully. "How could I when we didn't know where you was? Me an' father hunted all 'round, but couldn't find hide nor hair of either you or the baby." "Was your father tryin' to send us back to Mrs. Littlefield?" "Sure, 'cause he wanted to earn the reward." "An' I've been keepin' out of his way when I might have given Louis back to his mother long ago!" Jack cried in dismay. "You oughter knowed better." "How could I when he'd threatened to send us to the poor farm?" "But he didn't." "He told Aunt Nancy so." "Who's she?" "A lady we've been livin' with. Say, Tom, have you got the papers that tell about Mrs. Littlefield huntin' for us?" "There's a whole slat of 'em down to the house. Father spent more'n twenty cents buyin' whatever had anything in it about you." "Will you give me one?" "Of course. I know they ain't any good, for I heard him say he'd thrown away jest so much money on the pesky things." "Let's go right down an' get one," Jack cried excitedly as he tried to quicken Tom's movements by pulling at his arm. Master Pratt was not a boy who could be hurried; he objected to moving quickly upon any occasion, however important, and said irritably,-- "Don't yank a feller 'round so; if I go back now I'm afraid father'll be there an' set me to work." "I'll help you if he does." "A feller like you wouldn't 'mount to much haulin' rock-weed," Tom said scornfully. "But I'll help as much as I can. _Do_ go, Tom; only think what it means to Louis! His mother will soon find him if I can take one of the papers back to Aunt Nancy." "How do you make that out?" "She'd see where to write to Mrs. Littlefield, an' that would settle the whole thing." "Well, I'll go," Master Pratt said with an air such as he fancied a martyr should wear; "but it's goin' to be mighty hard if I'm set to work after gettin' so far away from home." Jack hurried him along as fast as possible, which at the best was a slow pace, and, on arriving at the Pratt farm, Tom reconnoitred several minutes, determined not to enter the house if his father was on the premises. Mr. Pratt was nowhere to be seen, and Tom whispered,-- "You stay here while I run in an' get it. Mother may be mad if she sees you hangin' 'round after father has blowed us up so much for lettin' you go away." Jack hid himself behind a clump of hollyhocks, and in a few moments Tom came back with two papers which showed signs of having been subjected to hard usage. "Put 'em in your pocket, an' let's skip." Jack was about to act upon this suggestion when it suddenly occurred to him that, in the excitement caused by learning Louis' mother was searching for her child, he had forgotten the reason for his visit. "I've got to see your father before I leave," he said. "What for? He won't be very pleasant after losin' all the money the captain's wife was willin' to pay." "I can't help that. I'm here with a message from Aunt Nancy, an' it must be delivered." "I guess you'll find him down in the potato patch, but I ain't fool enough to go with you. Hurry up, an' I'll see you on the road, for I reckon you count on goin' back to that Aunt Nancy." "Of course, an' I must be there as soon as possible." Tom pointed out the location of the field, and Jack started across the ploughed land feeling very light at heart, because it now seemed probable Louis would soon find his mother. Farmer Pratt was not aware he had a visitor until Jack had approached within a couple of yards, and said in a voice which was decidedly shaky,-- "Good mornin', sir." "Hello! It's you, eh?" "Yes, sir," Jack replied, as if believing the gentleman wished for an answer. "Well, you young scoundrel, what have you to say for yourself after cheatin' me out of one hundred dollars? Answer me that, you misshapen villain!" "I didn't cheat you, sir." "Don't contradict me, you miserable cripple, or as sure's my name's Nathan Pratt I'll strike you with this hoe!" Jack started back in alarm as the farmer raised the tool, and then, hoping to bring the interview to a speedy close, said timidly,-- "I came here, sir, to tell you that Aunt Nancy is awful sorry she acted a lie when you were at the house huntin' for us. She can't be easy in her mind till she's confessed, an' as she couldn't walk so far I've come in her place." "Is that the little woman up on the Saco road with a couple of curls an' a mighty sharp tongue?" "She's got two curls." "I know her! So she lied to me, eh?" "Not exactly, sir, for you didn't ask straight out if we were there; but she's awful good and thinks by not tellin' everything it was the same as a lie, so I come over here to tell you she's sorry." "So she ought to be, the vixen! The idea of a little drop of vinegar like her keepin' that baby away from his mother!" "Did you know, then, that Louis' mother was huntin' for him?" "Of course I did, or else why would I have gone gallivantin' 'round the country lookin' for him?" "Then why didn't you tell her? She'd been only too glad to hear from Mrs. Littlefield, but you made her believe we'd got to be took to the poor farm." The farmer glared at Jack for an instant, and then it flashed across his mind that the cause of his losing the reward was the lie he told to Aunt Nancy. This was not a consoling thought to one who had mourned so deeply over the loss of the prospective money as had Mr. Pratt, and the only relief he could find was in scolding Jack. The cripple listened to his angry words a few seconds, and then, knowing no good could come of waiting, said as he walked away,-- "I only came over here to tell you Aunt Nancy was sorry, an' there's no need of stayin' any longer after you know it." "I'll have her arrested for swindlin' me outer that money!" "She didn't do anything of the kind, an' it's all your own fault you lost it," Jack cried, emboldened by the knowledge that he was at a safe distance from the angry man. The farmer shook his fist at the cripple in impotent rage, and Jack hurried out to the road where Tom was waiting to receive him. "What was goin' on down there?" Master Pratt asked eagerly. "I heard him hollerin' awful." "It wasn't much. Your father was kinder mad, but I guess he'll get over it pretty soon." "I hope so, for he's been scoldin' about losin' the money ever since he first saw the papers. Where are you goin' now?" "Home." "Why don't you hold on a while an' get rested?" "It won't do to stop; Aunt Nancy'll be worryin' about me, an', besides, we've got to send a letter to Louis' mother right away." Tom insisted that after the service he had rendered it would be nothing more than a friendly act for the cripple to remain and chat a while, but Jack would listen to nothing of the kind. Despite his weariness he set out on the return journey at once, but with a lighter heart than when he left Aunt Nancy's home. It was dark when he came down the lane and found the little woman sitting under the old oak. "O Jack dear!" she cried in tones of mingled joy and surprise. "It's really you, and that hard-hearted farmer didn't send you to the poor farm. But perhaps you couldn't find him," she added as the thought occurred to her. "Yes I did, an' I told him you was sorry." Then Jack related the incidents of his journey, reserving until the last the startling news which promised to restore Louis to his parents' arms. Aunt Nancy alternately laughed and cried when she heard the story, and at its conclusion said,-- "What a lesson that should be to us, Jack dear. If I hadn't acted the lie Louis would have seen his mother just so much sooner, and I have been the means of making the poor woman's heart ache longer than was necessary. You thought it wasn't a sin because I didn't _speak_ the words which formed the falsehood, and yet you can now see that increased trouble has been brought about by it." "But Mr. Pratt told a reg'lar lie." "That doesn't excuse me in the slightest. If every person in the world spoke falsely I couldn't plead that it gave me a right to do so. But come into the house and get something to eat. You must be nearly famished as well as tired." "A slice of bread and butter wouldn't taste bad. Where's Louis?" "I put him to bed an hour ago," the little woman replied as she led the way in. "After I set the table I'll read the papers you brought so we can find out what's to be done to let that poor woman know where her baby is." Jack insisted there was no reason why the table should be laid for him, but Aunt Nancy would not listen to his proposition of taking the food in his hands. She set out some of the best crockery, and in it placed as tempting a lunch as the most fastidious boy could have asked for. Then as Jack ate she read the accounts of the accident on board the "Atlanta." "It doesn't state here where the captain lives," she said after a while, "but I think I know how we can find Mrs. Littlefield. I will write a letter to the editor of the paper asking for her address, or perhaps it would save time to send one to her and get him to address it." "The last plan is the best," Jack said after some thought. "Then I'll write at once, and you shall take it to the post office the first thing in the morning." It was late before the little woman finished what was to her a hard task, and then she thanked her Father for his wondrous goodness and mercy in allowing that her sin brought forth no other evil than the delay in restoring the baby to his mother's arms. CHAPTER XXII. THE ARRIVAL. Bright and early on the following morning Jack set out for the post office with the letter, and Mr. Treat would have resumed the "dicker" for the cow immediately after his arrival, but the hunchback prevented him by saying,-- "I don't want to buy one now. Mrs. Souders gave Aunt Nancy a handsome creature, and that is all she needs." "Sho! You don't mean to tell me Sarah Souders gave one right out?" "That's what she did." "Then all I can say is, it's a case of fool an' her money soon parted. Why shouldn't Aunt Nancy pay for things the same as anybody else?" "She hadn't the money." "There's where you make a mistake, for we haven't settled for the wheat yet, an' I've quite a little sum in my hands belongin' to her." "But that must be used in gettin' ready for the summer boarders." "Well," Mr. Treat said with a long-drawn sigh, as if pained because he had been prevented from performing a charitable act, "I can't help it if the old woman wants sich a cow as Sarah Souders would buy when she can get a good one from me by puttin' out a little money." Then the worthy post master took the letter Jack handed him, scrutinized it carefully, asked if Aunt Nancy was thinking of putting an advertisement in the papers for summer boarders, and, on receiving a non-committal answer, finally dropped it in the mail bag. Jack had waited to see this last act performed, and when the missive disappeared he hurried home. It so chanced that he did not arrive there as soon as he had expected. While passing Mr. Dean's house Bill came out and hailed him with,-- "Say, Hunchie, is the old maid waitin' for me to come 'round so she can talk Sunday school?" "Aunt Nancy doesn't do anything of the kind. If you knowed her as well as I do you'd be mighty glad to be where she was." "I ain't sayin' that isn't so, an' don't be s'prised if you see me up there pretty soon." "Shall I tell her so?" "No, for it might give the old woman too much of a shock. I only thought I'd let you know so's you wouldn't get frightened when I came inter the yard," and with this remark Master Dean re-entered the house, probably thinking he had paved the way in a very delicate manner for a visit to the little woman whom he had so often held up to ridicule. Now that the important letter had really been sent both Aunt Nancy and Jack were in a nervously expectant frame of mind. They were unable to decide whether the editor of the newspaper or Mrs. Littlefield would write first, and anxiously they awaited for some tidings. Jack went to the post office for every mail, and the little woman actually neglected to wipe imaginary specks of dust from the furniture during three whole days. At the expiration of this time both were startled at seeing Daniel Chick drive up the lane with a strange lady in his wagon. It was at the close of the afternoon, and the two were sitting under the big oak while Louis nestled snugly in the little woman's arms. There was no doubt in Aunt Nancy's mind as to who the stranger might be when she leaped from the carriage, and, seizing the baby in her arms, covered his face with kisses and tears. "It's the dear little fellow's mother," Aunt Nancy whispered, as she led Jack away, "and it is well to leave her alone for a while. She may be hungry, and we must get supper at once. Send Daniel Chick off while I start the fire." It was not an easy matter to dismiss the driver of the vehicle. He had been unable to extract any information from Mrs. Littlefield, and wanted to know why she had come to Aunt Nancy's at least three weeks before the summer boarders should arrive. "It's the baby's mother, and we want to leave her alone," Jack replied. "I ain't troublin' of her, am I?" and Mr. Chick crossed one leg over the other as he gazed at the scene. "No; but Aunt Nancy said you were to go away now," Jack persisted, and then, seeing that the gentleman evinced no disposition to leave, he joined the little woman in the house. Supper was ready and on the table before Mrs. Littlefield could relinquish the baby long enough to ask Jack for the particulars of his adventures. Then when she came to the door Aunt Nancy said, as her ringlets, sharing the feelings of the wearer, shook with suppressed excitement,-- "I hope you will have something to eat. You must be hungry by this time, and Louis shall sit with me while you are at the table." As she spoke the little woman held out her hands invitingly to the baby, and he showed every desire to go to her. "It can be plainly seen that my darling has had a good home," Mrs. Littlefield replied as she kissed him again and again. "He has been loved perhaps better than in a house where there were other children; but almost any one would have given him the same treatment." "I am afraid not; both he and Jack have been very fortunate. Now I will take a cup of tea, but had rather hold him myself." Aunt Nancy beckoned for Jack to be seated although it was not more than two hours since he had eaten supper, and when the little woman's head was bowed in devotion she fervently thanked her Father for his wondrous goodness and mercy in allowing the mother and child to meet again in this world. During the meal Mrs. Littlefield asked Jack to tell the story of his wanderings, and he gave them in detail, not omitting an account of Farmer Pratt's determination to send them to the poor farm. "I shall never be able to repay you for all you have done, my boy," Louis' mother said feelingly when the cripple concluded. "You are to go back with me, and I will take care that you have a good home." Jack had nothing to say in regard to this. It seemed only natural he should remain with Louis after all that had happened, but the idea of leaving the farm was not a pleasant one. He had known Mrs. Littlefield only during such time as she was on shipboard, and while she had been kind to him it was as nothing compared with what he experienced during his stay with Aunt Nancy. Very much was said regarding the children's adventures. Aunt Nancy was thanked over and over again for all her kindness, and then Louis' mother intimated that she would like to retire. "I wish to leave here on the first train to-morrow morning, and have travelled so long that rest seems necessary now." The little woman conducted her guest to another apartment, and then, with Jack's assistance, the kitchen was made tidy once more. Louis was nestling in his mother's arms in the lavender-scented bed which Aunt Nancy kept especially for "company," and the little woman and Jack were under the big oak together for what both believed would be the last time. "You must think sometimes, Jack dear, of the poor old maid who is sitting out here at this same hour wondering where in the big world her boy and baby are." "There won't come a day or evening, Aunt Nancy, when I sha'n't think of you, and remember you are the best friend I or any other boy ever had. You see I can't say what is in my heart, but if I could you'd know I'd never forget how good you've been to me." "The little I have done, Jack dear, was only my duty, and you have paid me a thousand fold for everything. I haven't been so contented for many years as since you came here, and but for the wrong committed when Mr. Pratt called I should have been perfectly happy." "I'm glad you liked me," Jack said half to himself, "for if you hadn't I wouldn't have known what a real home was like. It kinder seems as if I belonged here." "You _do_ act the same as own folks, and I wonder if Mrs. Littlefield will take as much comfort with you as I have?" "But I'm not goin' to stay at her house very long. When the captain comes home I shall get work on board the 'Atlanta' again. Folks won't keep me for an ornament, you know, an' I must earn my own livin'." "Do you like to go to sea?" "Well, there's some things about it that's pleasanter than stayin' ashore. The sailors are kinder than the boys in town, an' don't call me 'Hunchie,' or names of that sort." Aunt Nancy remained silent, as if in deep thought, several moments, and then said abruptly,-- "You certainly ought to go to school a portion of the time, Jack dear." "I s'pose I had, for I don't know scarcely anything, an' never had a chance to learn." "Can you read?" "If the words ain't too long; but in printin' there are so few short ones, that I don't seem to find out what the man who made it meant." "I should have taught you instead of sitting here idle; but we couldn't have accomplished a great deal since you came." "You've had enough to do without botherin' about me." "But, Jack, you can do a great deal by yourself. Before you go away I want to give you a little money, and with some of it you must buy a school book. Then study a certain portion of it each day, until there is no difficulty in reading any ordinary print. After that will be time enough to take up other branches, and writing must come with the reading, as I shall look very anxiously for a letter in your own hand." "I'll do the best I can, Aunt Nancy, but I don't want you to give me any money. You haven't much to spare, and that I know." "I shall share it with you, Jack dear, and you mustn't make any objection, for after you have gone I shall feel better to know you are able to buy what little you may want." Then Aunt Nancy drew from her pocket a small black book which she handed to the boy as she said in a low tone,-- "This was my father's Bible, and the print is so faint that I can no longer read it even with glasses." "Hadn't you rather keep it? It was your father's." "No, dear. I have one as you know, and this can be put to no better service than teaching you the right way. For my sake, Jack, become a good man. Shun evil company, and do unto others as you would they should do unto you. I haven't set a very good example in that way since you came here; but you have a better temper than I, and for that more is expected. Don't be tempted to tell a lie, and then you'll never feel as I have since Mr. Pratt called." "I'll remember all you say, Aunt Nancy, and it would be a mighty ungrateful feller who'd do anything he thought would make you feel bad." Then ensued another long interval of silence, during which the sun finished his work of painting the clouds, and had sunk behind the hills. "It'll come pretty hard not to see you at night," Jack finally said thoughtfully. "Will it, really?" the little woman asked eagerly. "Of course," and Jack looked up in surprise that such a question should have been asked. "I don't s'pose I'll ever find a home as nice as this." "And would you be willing to stay here?" "Indeed I would if I could get work to pay my way." "Don't you think it would be lonely when winter comes, and you would be obliged to remain a greater portion of the time in the house?" "Not if you was here." "Then, Jack, I am going to say something I thought ought not to be spoken of for fear you might do it simply to please me. Why not stay?" "But I can't find any work 'round here, Aunt Nancy." "You have contrived to get plenty from the first night I saw you. If this home seems pleasant there is no reason why you should leave it, and when the white winged messengers come to carry me to the Father, the little I leave behind shall be yours. It isn't much, Jack dear, but would keep you from want, and a delicate boy like you is not able to fight the hard world. If you were strong and well the case would be different." Jack drew a long breath as if the pleasurable surprise was almost overpowering, and then asked slowly,-- "Do you really want me to live here?" "Do I want you? If you say you will stay the pain which is now in my heart will go away in an instant, and I would be the happiest old woman in the State." "Then there'll be two feelin' mighty good, Aunt Nancy, for I'm only too glad of the chance." The little woman kissed him tenderly, which told better than words that the invitation really came from the heart. Not until a late hour that night did the tiny woman and the cripple leave the bench under the old oak. Aunt Nancy had many plans for the future, chief among which was giving Jack an education, and he speculated upon the possibility of tilling so much of the farm during the coming season as would give him a small income. All this was so interesting that for the first time in her life Aunt Nancy came very near forgetting to search the house for supposed burglars. "Mercy on us, Jack! It must be near midnight, and we haven't looked into a single room yet. I am so excited I hardly know what I'm about." "I don't believe there would be any harm done if we didn't search the place for a week," Jack said with a merry laugh; "but we'll go through the motions all the same." On the following morning there was very little opportunity for a lengthy conversation upon the change in the plans as arranged by Aunt Nancy and Jack. When she made known the fact that the cripple would remain with her, Mrs. Littlefield approved heartily of it. "I am positive he couldn't have a better home," she said, "and will take it upon myself to see he is not a burden. That much I owe him, if nothing more, for all he did to make my baby happy and comfortable." "I am not a rich woman, Mrs. Littlefield," Aunt Nancy said with considerable dignity, "but I can care for the dear boy while I live." This concluded the subject, for at that moment Daniel Chick arrived to take the visitor to the station, and Aunt Nancy and Jack could think of nothing save the parting with the little fellow they had learned to love so dearly. Louis crowed and laughed at the prospect of a ride, and Aunt Nancy said sadly when he disappeared around the corner of the lane,-- "It almost seems as if he was glad to go away from us, Jack dear." "I reckon the farm will be kinder lonesome for a day or two, but he's with his mother, an' that's where he belongs." "Yes, dear, we mustn't repine. The day will soon come for me when I go away to my Father, and then you must think the same, for I shall be many times happier in the eternal city than the baby is now. It will be a lonely time for you, Jack dear, but only for a short while, after which the old maid and the cripple will be in the glory and splendor of God's own light." Then Aunt Nancy kissed Jack affectionately as she drew him to the favorite seat, and, under the old oak where so many happy as well as sad hours have been spent, will we bid adieu to the hunchback and his best earthly friend. THE END. A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS For Young People BY POPULAR WRITERS. 52-58 Duarte Street, New York. =Bonnie Prince Charlie=: A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The adventures of the son of a Scotch officer in French service. The boy, brought up by a Glasgow bailie, is a arrested for aiding a Jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the French coast, reaches Paris, and serves with the French army at Dettingen. He kills his father's foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the adventures of Prince Charlie, but finally settles happily in Scotland. "Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of 'Quentin Durward.' The lad's journey across France, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read. For freshness of treatment and variety of incident Mr. Henty has surpassed himself."--_Spectator._ =With Clive in India=; or, the Beginnings of an Empire. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in India and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. At its commencement the English were traders existing on sufferance of the native princes. At its close they were masters of Bengal and of the greater part of Southern India. The author has given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adventure, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume. "He has taken a period of Indian history of the most vital importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply interesting. Young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume."--_Scotsman._ =The Lion of the North=: A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the Wars of Religion. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by JOHN SCH�NBERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Henty gives the history of the first part of the Thirty Years' War. The issue had its importance, which has extended to the present day, as it established religious freedom in Germany. The army of the chivalrous king of Sweden was largely composed of Scotchmen, and among these was the hero of the story. "The tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be trusted to read it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited."--_Times._ =The Dragon and the Raven;= or, The Days of King Alfred. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle between Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. The hero, a young Saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by King Alfred. He is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the Danes on their own element, and being pursued by them up the Seine, is present at the long and desperate siege of Paris. "Treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader."--_Athenæum._ =The Young Carthaginian=: A Story of the Times of Hannibal. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Boys reading the history of the Punic Wars have seldom a keen appreciation of the merits of the contest. That it was at first a struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of Carthage, that Hannibal was a great and skillful general, that he defeated the Romans at Trebia, Lake Trasimenus, and Cannæ, and all but took Rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of their knowledge. To let them know more about this momentous struggle for the empire of the world Mr. Henty has written this story, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant description of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of exciting adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader. "Well constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force."--_Saturday Review._ =In Freedom's Cause=: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. By G. A. HENTY. With full page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish War of Independence. The extraordinary valor and personal prowess of Wallace and Bruce rival the deeds of the mythical heroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time Wallace was ranked with these legendary personages. The researches of modern historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing man--and a valiant champion. The hero of the tale fought under both Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of "hairbreadth 'scapes" and wild adventure. "It is written in the author's best style. Full of the wildest and most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly put on one side."--_The Schoolmaster._ =With Lee in Virginia=: A Story of the American Civil War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of a young Virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves with no less courage and enthusiasm under Lee and Jackson through the most exciting events of the struggle. He has many hairbreadth escapes, is several times wounded and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had assisted, bring him safely through all difficulties. "One of the best stories for lads which Mr. Henty has yet written. The picture is full of life and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story."--_Standard._ =By England's Aid=; or, The Freeing of the Netherlands (1585-1604) By G.A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE, and Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of two English lads who go to Holland as pages in the service of one of "the fighting Veres." After many adventures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a Spanish ship at the time of the defeat of the Armada, and escapes only to fall into the hands of the Corsairs. He is successful in getting back to Spain under the protection of a wealthy merchant, and regains his native country after the capture of Cadiz. "It is an admirable book for youngsters. It overflows with stirring incident and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the scene are finely reproduced. The illustrations add to its attractiveness."--_Boston Gazette._ =By Right of Conquest=; or, With Cortez in Mexico. By G. A. HENTY. With full page Illustrations by W. S. STACEY, and Two Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.50. The conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under the magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightly ranked among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. With this as the groundwork of his story Mr. Henty has interwoven the adventures of an English youth, Roger Hawkshaw, the sole survivor of the good ship Swan, which had sailed from a Devon port to challenge the mercantile supremacy of the Spaniards in the New World. He is beset by many perils among the natives, but is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion of an Aztec princess. At last by a ruse he obtains the protection of the Spaniards, and after the fall of Mexico he succeeds in regaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming Aztec bride. "'By Right of Conquest' is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that Mr. Henty has yet published."--_Academy._ =In the Reign of Terror=: The Adventures of a Westminster Boy By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by J. SCH�NBERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Harry Sandwith, a Westminster boy, becomes a resident at the chateau of a French marquis, and after various adventures accompanies the family to Paris at the crisis of the Revolution. Imprisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds himself beset by perils with the three young daughters of the house in his charge. After hairbreadth escapes they reach Nantes. There the girls are condemned to death in the coffin-ships, but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector. "Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat Mr. Henty's record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict.... The story is one of Mr. Henty's best."--_Saturday Review._ =With Wolfe in Canada=; or, The Winning of a Continent. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In the present volume Mr. Henty gives an account of the struggle between Britain and France for supremacy in the North American continent. On the issue of this war depended not only the destinies of North America, but to a large extent those of the mother countries themselves. The fall of Quebec decided that the Anglo-Saxon race should predominate in the New World; that Britain, and not France, should take the lead among the nations of Europe; and that English and American commerce, the English language, and English literature, should spread right round the globe. "It is not only a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by flood and field."--_Illustrated London News._ =True to the Old Flag=: A Tale of the American War of Independence. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author has gone to the accounts of officers who took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which American and British soldiers have been engaged did they behave with greater courage and good conduct. The historical portion of the book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures with the redskins on the shores of Lake Huron, a story of exciting interest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried through the book. "Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against American emancipation. The son of an American loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile redskins in that very Huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of Hawkeye and Chingachgook."--_The Times._ =The Lion of St. Mark=: A Tale of Venice in the Fourteenth Century. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story of Venice at a period when her strength and splendor were put to the severest tests. The hero displays a fine sense and manliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of intrigue, crime, and bloodshed. He contributes largely to the victories of the Venetians at Porto d'Anzo and Chioggia, and finally wins the hand of the daughter of one of the chief men of Venice. "Every boy should read 'The Lion of St. Mark.' Mr. Henty has never produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious."--_Saturday Review._ =A Final Reckoning=: A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The hero, a young English lad, after rather a stormy boyhood emigrates to Australia, and gets employment as an officer in the mounted police. A few years of active work on the frontier, where he has many a brush with both natives and bushrangers, gain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles down to the peaceful life of a squatter. "Mr. Henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully constructed, or a better written story than this."--_Spectator._ =Under Drake's Flag=: A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the supremacy of the sea. The heroes sail as lads with Drake in the Pacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. The historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon, but this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure through which the young heroes pass in the course of their voyages. "A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough, one would think, to turn his hair gray."--_Harper's Monthly Magazine._ =By Sheer Pluck=: A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. His hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, is detained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war, but escapes, and accompanies the English expedition on their march to Coomassie. "Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. 'By Sheer Pluck' will be eagerly read."--_Athenæum._ =By Pike and Dyke=: A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by MAYNARD BROWN, and 4 Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Henty traces the adventures and brave deeds of an English boy in the household of the ablest man of his age--William the Silent. Edward Martin, the son of an English sea-captain, enters the service of the Prince as a volunteer, and is employed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes through the great sieges of the time. He ultimately settles down as Sir Edward Martin. "Boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the book, while the rest who only care for adventure, will be students in spite of themselves."--_St. James' Gazette._ =St. George for England=: A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. No portion of English history is more crowded with great events than that of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers; the destruction of the Spanish fleet; the plague of the Black Death; the Jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in "St. George for England." The hero of the story, although of good family, begins life as a London apprentice, but after countless adventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire, and at last the trusted friend of the Black Prince. "Mr. Henty has developed for himself a type of historical novel for boys which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labors of Sir Walter Scott in the land of fiction."--_The Standard._ =Captain's Kidd's Gold=: The True Story of an Adventurous Sailor Boy. By JAMES FRANKLIN FITTS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. There is something fascinating to the average youth in the very idea of buried treasure. A vision arises before his eyes of swarthy Portuguese and Spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes--sinister-looking fellows who once on a time haunted the Spanish Main, sneaking out from some hidden creek in their long, low schooner, of picaroonish rake and sheer, to attack an unsuspecting trading craft. There were many famous sea rovers in their day, but none more celebrated than Capt. Kidd. Perhaps the most fascinating tale of all is Mr. Fitts' true story of an adventurous American boy, who receives from his dying father an ancient bit of vellum, which the latter obtained in a curious way. The document bears obscure directions purporting to locate a certain island in the Bahama group, and a considerable treasure buried there by two of Kidd's crew. The hero of this book, Paul Jones Garry, is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water New England ancestry, and his efforts to reach the island and secure the money form one of the most absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press. =Captain Bayley's Heir=: A Tale of the Gold Fields of California. By G.A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in the heirship of a considerable property. The former falls into a trap laid by the latter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves England for America. He works his passage before the mast, joins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested with Indians to the Californian gold diggings, and is successful both as digger and trader. "Mr. Henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of John Holl, the Westminster dustman, Dickens himself could hardly have excelled."--_Christian Leader._ =For Name and Fame=; or, Through Afghan Passes. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. An interesting story of the last war in Afghanistan. The hero, after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures among the Malays, finds his way to Calcutta and enlists in a regiment proceeding to join the army at the Afghan passes. He accompanies the force under General Roberts to the Peiwar Kotal, is wounded, taken prisoner, carried to Cabul, whence he is transferred to Candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army of Ayoub Khan. "The best feature of the book--apart from the interest of its scenes of adventure--is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the Afghan people."--_Daily News._ =Captured by Apes=: The Wonderful Adventures of a Young Animal Trainer. By Harry Prentice. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. The scene of this tale is laid on an island in the Malay Archipelago. Philip Garland, a young animal collector and trainer, of New York, sets sail for Eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities. The vessel is wrecked off the coast of Borneo and young Garland, the sole survivor of the disaster, is cast ashore on a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the place. The lad discovers that the ruling spirit of the monkey tribe is a gigantic and vicious baboon, whom he identifies as Goliah, an animal at one time in his possession and with whose instruction he had been especially diligent. The brute recognizes him, and with a kind of malignant satisfaction puts his former master through the same course of training he had himself experienced with a faithfulness of detail which shows how astonishing is monkey recollection. Very novel indeed is the way by which the young man escapes death. Mr. Prentice has certainly worked a new vein on juvenile fiction, and the ability with which he handles a difficult subject stamps him as a writer of undoubted skill. =The Bravest of the Brave=; or, With Peterborough in Spain. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. There are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so completely fallen into oblivion as those of the Earl of Peterborough. This is largely due to the fact that they were over-shadowed by the glory and successes of Marlborough. His career as general extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been surpassed. "Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work--to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth. Lads will read 'The Bravest of the Brave' with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure."--_Daily Telegraph._ =The Cat of Bubastes=: A Story of Ancient Egypt. By G. A. HENTY. With full page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight into the customs of the Egyptian people. Amuba, a prince of the Rebu nation, is carried with his charioteer Jethro into slavery. They become inmates of the house of Ameres, the Egyptian high-priest, and are happy in his service until the priest's son accidentally kills the sacred cat of Bubastes. In an outburst of popular fury Ameres is killed, and it rests with Jethro and Amuba to secure the escape of the high-priest's son and daughter. "The story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the perilous exodus into Asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed and full of exciting adventures. It is admirably illustrated."--_Saturday Review._ =With Washington at Monmouth:= A Story of Three Philadelphia Boys. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Three Philadelphia boys, Seth Graydon "whose mother conducted a boarding-house which was patronized by the British officers;" Enoch Ball, "son of that Mrs. Ball whose dancing school was situated on Letitia Street," and little Jacob, son of "Chris, the Baker," serve as the principal characters. The story is laid during the winter when Lord Howe held possession of the city, and the lads aid the cause by assisting the American spies who make regular and frequent visits from Valley Forge. One reads here of home-life in the captive city when bread was scarce among the people of the lower classes, and a reckless prodigality shown by the British officers, who passed the winter in feasting and merry-making while the members of the patriot army but a few miles away were suffering from both cold and hunger. The story abounds with pictures of Colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of Washington's soldiers which are given show that the work has not been hastily done, or without considerable study. =For the Temple=: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by S. J. SOLOMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Mr. Henty here weaves into the record of Josephus an admirable and attractive story. The troubles in the district of Tiberias, the march of the legions, the sieges of Jotapata, of Gamala, and of Jerusalem, form the impressive and carefully studied historic setting to the figure of the lad who passes from the vineyard to the service of Josephus, becomes the leader of a guerrilla band of patriots, fights bravely for the Temple, and after a brief term of slavery at Alexandria, returns to his Galilean home with the favor of Titus. "Mr. Henty's graphic prose pictures of the hopeless Jewish resistance to Roman sway add another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world."--_Graphic._ =Facing Death=; or, The Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of the Coal Mines. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "Facing Death" is a story with a purpose. It is intended to show that a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that he will rise in life, and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule and hardship to carry out his determination, is sure to succeed. The hero of the story is a typical British boy, dogged, earnest, generous, and though "shamefaced" to a degree, is ready to face death in the discharge of duty. "The tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is much reality in the characters. If any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the lookout for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend."--_Standard._ =Tom Temple's Career.= By HORATIO ALGER. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Tom Temple, a bright, self-reliant lad, by the death of his father becomes a boarder at the home of Nathan Middleton, a penurious insurance agent. Though well paid for keeping the boy, Nathan and his wife endeavor to bring Master Tom in line with their parsimonious habits. The lad ingeniously evades their efforts and revolutionizes the household. As Tom is heir to $40,000, he is regarded as a person of some importance until by an unfortunate combination of circumstances his fortune shrinks to a few hundreds. He leaves Plympton village to seek work in New York, whence he undertakes an important mission to California, around which center the most exciting incidents of his young career. Some of his adventures in the far west are so startling that the reader will scarcely close the book until the last page shall have been reached. The tale is written in Mr. Alger's most fascinating style, and is bound to please the very large class of boys who regard this popular author as a prime favorite. =Maori and Settler=: A Story of the New Zealand War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The Renshaws emigrate to New Zealand during the period of the war with the natives. Wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant, courageous lad, is the mainstay of the household. He has for his friend Mr. Atherton, a botanist and naturalist of herculean strength and unfailing nerve and humor. In the adventures among the Maoris, there are many breathless moments in which the odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasant New Zealand valleys. "Brimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting conversation, and vivid pictures of colonial life."--_Schoolmaster._ =Julian Mortimer=: A Brave Boy's Struggle for Home and Fortune. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Here is a story that will warm every boy's heart. There is mystery enough to keep any lad's imagination wound up to the highest pitch. The scene of the story lies west of the Mississippi River, in the days when emigrants made their perilous way across the great plains to the land of gold. One of the startling features of the book is the attack upon the wagon train by a large party of Indians. Our hero is a lad of uncommon nerve and pluck, a brave young American in every sense of the word. He enlists and holds the reader's sympathy from the outset. Surrounded by an unknown and constant peril, and assisted by the unswerving fidelity of a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the most happy results. Harry Castlemon has written many entertaining stories for boys, and it would seem almost superfluous to say anything in his praise, for the youth of America regard him as a favorite author. ="Carrots:"= Just a Little Boy. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "One of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good fortune to meet with for some time. Carrots and his sister are delightful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of."--_Examiner._ "A genuine children's book; we've seen 'em seize it, and read it greedily. Children are first-rate critics, and thoroughly appreciate Walter Crane's Illustrations."--_Punch._ =Mopsa the Fairy.= By JEAN INGELOW. With Eight page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "Mrs. Ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers for children, and 'Mopsa' alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive right to the love and gratitude of our young folks. It requires genius to conceive a purely imaginary work which must of necessity deal with the supernatural, without running into a mere riot of fantastic absurdity; but genius Miss Ingelow has and the story of 'Jack' is as careless and joyous, but as delicate as a picture of childhood."--_Eclectic._ =A Jaunt Through Java=: The Story of a Journey to the Sacred Mountain. By Edward S. Ellis. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The central interest of this story is found in the thrilling adventures of two cousins, Hermon and Eustace Hadley, on their trip across the island of Java, from Samarang to the Sacred Mountain. In a land where the Royal Bengal tiger runs at large; where the rhinoceros and other fierce beasts are to be met with at unexpected moments; it is but natural that the heroes of this book should have a lively experience. Hermon not only distinguishes himself by killing a full grown tiger at short range, but meets with the most startling adventure of the journey. There is much in this narrative to instruct as well as entertain the reader, and so deftly has Mr. Ellis used his material that there is not a dull page in the book. The two heroes are brave, manly young fellows, bubbling over with boyish independence. They cope with the many difficulties that arise during the trip in a fearless way that is bound to win the admiration of every lad who is so fortunate as to read their adventures. =Wrecked on Spider Island=; or, How Ned Rogers Found the Treasure. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A "down-east" plucky lad who ships as cabin boy, not from love of adventure, but because it is the only course remaining by which he can gain a livelihood. While in his bunk, seasick, Ned Rogers hears the captain and mate discussing their plans for the willful wreck of the brig in order to gain the insurance. Once it is known he is in possession of the secret the captain maroons him on Spider Island, explaining to the crew that the boy is afflicted with leprosy. While thus involuntarily playing the part of a Crusoe, Ned discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and overhauling the timbers for the purpose of gathering material with which to build a hut finds a considerable amount of treasure. Raising the wreck; a voyage to Havana under sail; shipping there a crew and running for Savannah; the attempt of the crew to seize the little craft after learning of the treasure on board, and, as a matter of course, the successful ending of the journey, all serve to make as entertaining a story of sea life as the most captious boy could desire. =Geoff and Jim=: A Story of School Life. By ISMAY THORN. Illustrated by A. G. WALKER. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "This is a prettily told story of the life spent by two motherless bairns at a small preparatory school. Both Geoff and Jim are very lovable characters, only Jim is the more so; and the scrapes he gets into and the trials he endures will, no doubt, interest a large circle of young readers."--_Church Times._ "This is a capital children's story, the characters well portrayed, and the book tastefully bound and well illustrated."--_Schoolmaster._ "The story can be heartily recommended as a present for boys."--_Standard._ =The Castaways=; or, On the Florida Reefs. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This tale smacks of the salt sea. It is just the kind of story that the majority of boys yearn for. From the moment that the Sea Queen dispenses with the services of the tug in lower New York bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed off the coast of Florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind through her rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to the leeward, and feel her rise to the snow-capped waves which her sharp bow cuts into twin streaks of foam. Off Marquesas Keys she floats in a dead calm. Ben Clark, the hero of the story, and Jake, the cook, spy a turtle asleep upon the glassy surface of the water. They determine to capture him, and take a boat for that purpose, and just as they succeed in catching him a thick fog cuts them off from the vessel, and then their troubles begin. They take refuge on board a drifting hulk, a storm arises and they are cast ashore upon a low sandy key. Their adventures from this point cannot fail to charm the reader. As a writer for young people Mr. Otis is a prime favorite. His style is captivating, and never for a moment does he allow the interest to flag. In "The Castaways" he is at his best. =Tom Thatcher's Fortune.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Like all of Mr. Alger's heroes, Tom Thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. He supports his mother and sister on meager wages earned as a shoe-pegger in John Simpson's factory. The story begins with Tom's discharge from the factory, because Mr. Simpson felt annoyed with the lad for interrogating him too closely about his missing father. A few days afterward Tom learns that which induces him to start overland for California with the view of probing the family mystery. He meets with many adventures. Ultimately he returns to his native village, bringing consternation to the soul of John Simpson, who only escapes the consequences of his villainy by making full restitution to the man whose friendship he had betrayed. The story is told in that entertaining way which has made Mr. Alger's name a household word in so many homes. =Birdie=: A Tale of Child Life. By H. L. CHILDE-PEMBERTON. Illustrated by H. W. RAINEY. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "The story is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness about it that makes one hear again the ringing laugh and the cheery shout of children at play which charmed his earlier years."--_New York Express._ =Popular Fairy Tales.= By the BROTHERS GRIMM. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "From first to last, almost without exception, these stories are delightful."--_Athenæum._ =With Lafayette at Yorktown=: A Story of How Two Boys Joined the Continental Army. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The two boys are from Portsmouth, N. H., and are introduced in August, 1781, when on the point of leaving home to enlist in Col. Scammell's regiment, then stationed near New York City. Their method of traveling is on horseback, and the author has given an interesting account of what was expected from boys in the Colonial days. The lads, after no slight amount of adventure, are sent as messengers--not soldiers--into the south to find the troops under Lafayette. Once with that youthful general they are given employment as spies, and enter the British camp, bringing away valuable information. The pictures of camp-life are carefully drawn, and the portrayal of Lafayette's character is thoroughly well done. The story is wholesome in tone, as are all of Mr. Otis' works. There is no lack of exciting incident which the youthful reader craves, but it is healthful excitement brimming with facts which every boy should be familiar with, and while the reader is following the adventures of Ben Jaffreys and Ned Allen he is acquiring a fund of historical lore which will remain in his memory long after that which he has memorized from text-books has been forgotten. =Lost in the Canon=: Sam Willett's Adventures on the Great Colorado. By ALFRED R. CALHOUN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This story hinges on a fortune left to Sam Willett, the hero, and the fact that it will pass to a disreputable relative if the lad dies before he shall have reached his majority. The Vigilance Committee of Hurley's Gulch arrest Sam's father and an associate for the crime of murder. Their lives depend on the production of the receipt given for money paid. This is in Sam's possession at the camp on the other side of the cañon. A messenger is dispatched to get it. He reaches the lad in the midst of a fearful storm which floods the cañon. His father's peril urges Sam to action. A raft is built on which the boy and his friends essay to cross the torrent. They fail to do so, and a desperate trip down the stream ensues. How the party finally escape from the horrors of their situation and Sam reaches Hurley's Gulch in the very nick of time, is described in a graphic style that stamps Mr. Calhoun as a master of his art. =Jack=: A Topsy Turvy Story. By C. M. CRAWLEY-BOEVEY. With upward of Thirty Illustrations by H. J. A. MILES. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "The illustrations deserve particular mention, as they add largely to the interest of this amusing volume for children. Jack falls asleep with his mind full of the subject of the fishpond, and is very much surprised presently to find himself an inhabitant of Waterworld, where he goes though wonderful and edifying adventures. A handsome and pleasant book."--_Literary World._ =Search for the Silver City=: A Tale of Adventure in Yucatan. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Two American lads, Teddy Wright and Neal Emery, embark on the steam yacht Day Dream for a short summer cruise to the tropics. Homeward bound the yacht is destroyed by fire. All hands take to the boats, but during the night the boat is cast upon the coast of Yucatan. They come across a young American named Cummings, who entertains them with the story of the wonderful Silver City, of the Chan Santa Cruz Indians. Cummings proposes with the aid of a faithful Indian ally to brave the perils of the swamp and carry off a number of the golden images from the temples. Pursued with relentless vigor for days their situation is desperate. At last their escape is effected in an astonishing manner. Mr. Otis has built his story on an historical foundation. It is so full of exciting incidents that the reader is quite carried away with the novelty and realism of the narrative. =Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Thrown upon his own resources Frank Fowler, a poor boy, bravely determines to make a living for himself and his foster-sister Grace. Going to New York he obtains a situation as cash boy in a dry goods store. He renders a service to a wealthy old gentleman named Wharton, who takes a fancy to the lad. Frank, after losing his place as cash boy, is enticed by an enemy to a lonesome part of New Jersey and held a prisoner. This move recoils upon the plotter, for it leads to a clue that enables the lad to establish his real identity. Mr. Alger's stories are not only unusually interesting, but they convey a useful lesson of pluck and manly independence. =Budd Boyd's Triumph=; or, the Boy Firm of Fox Island. By WILLIAM P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The scene of this story is laid on the upper part of Narragansett Bay, and the leading incidents have a strong salt water flavor. Owing to the conviction of his father for forgery and theft, Budd Boyd is compelled to leave his home and strike out for himself. Chance brings Budd in contact with Judd Floyd. The two boys, being ambitious and clear sighted, form a partnership to catch and sell fish. The scheme is successfully launched, but the unexpected appearance on the scene of Thomas Bagsley, the man whom Budd believes guilty of the crimes attributed to his father, leads to several disagreeable complications that nearly caused the lad's ruin. His pluck and good sense, however, carry him through his troubles. In following the career of the boy firm of Boyd & Floyd, the youthful reader will find a useful lesson--that industry and perseverance are bound to lead to ultimate success. =The Errand Boy=; or, How Phil Brent Won Success. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The career of "The Errand Boy" embraces the city adventures of a smart country lad who at an early age was abandoned by his father. Philip was brought up by a kind-hearted innkeeper named Brent. The death of Mrs. Brent paved the way for the hero's subsequent troubles. Accident introduces him to the notice of a retired merchant in New York, who not only secures him the situation of errand boy but thereafter stands as his friend. An unexpected turn of fortune's wheel, however, brings Philip and his father together. In "The Errand Boy" Philip Brent is possessed of the same sterling qualities so conspicuous in all of the previous creations of this delightful writer for our youth. =The Slate Picker=: The Story of a Boy's Life in the Coal Mines. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This is a story of a boy's life in the coal mines of Pennsylvania. There are many thrilling situations, notably that of Ben Burton's leap into the "lion's mouth"--the yawning shute in the breakers--to escape a beating at the hands of the savage Spilkins, the overseer. Gracie Gordon is a little angel in rags, Terence O'Dowd is a manly, sympathetic lad, and Enoch Evans, the miner-poet, is a big-hearted, honest fellow, a true friend to all whose burdens seem too heavy for them to bear. Ben Burton, the hero, had a hard road to travel, but by grit and energy he advanced step by step until he found himself called upon to fill the position of chief engineer of the Kohinoor Coal Company. =A Runaway Brig=; or, An Accidental Cruise. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "A Runaway Brig" is a sea tale, pure and simple, and that's where it strikes a boy's fancy. The reader can look out upon the wide shimmering sea as it flashes back the sunlight, and imagine himself afloat with Harry Vandyne, Walter Morse, Jim Libby and that old shell-back, Bob Brace, on the brig Bonita, which lands on one of the Bahama keys. Finally three strangers steal the craft, leaving the rightful owners to shift for themselves aboard a broken-down tug. The boys discover a mysterious document which enables them to find a buried treasure, then a storm comes on and the tug is stranded. At last a yacht comes in sight and the party with the treasure is taken off the lonely key. The most exacting youth is sure to be fascinated with this entertaining story. =Fairy Tales and Stories.= By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "If I were asked to select a child's library I should name these three volumes 'English,' 'Celtic,' and 'Indian Fairy Tales,' with Grimm and Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales."--_Independent._ =The Island Treasure=; or, Harry Darrel's Fortune. By FRANK H. CONVERSE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Harry Darrel, an orphan, having received a nautical training on a school-ship, is bent on going to sea with a boyish acquaintance named Dan Plunket. A runaway horse changes his prospects. Harry saves Dr. Gregg from drowning and the doctor presents his preserver with a bit of property known as Gregg's Island, and makes the lad sailing-master of his sloop yacht. A piratical hoard is supposed to be hidden somewhere on the island. After much search and many thwarted plans, at last Dan discovers the treasure and is the means of finding Harry's father. Mr. Converse's stories possess a charm of their own which is appreciated by lads who delight in good healthy tales that smack of salt water. =The Boy Explorers=: The Adventures of Two Boys in Alaska. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Two boys, Raymond and Spencer Manning, travel from San Francisco to Alaska to join their father in search of their uncle, who, it is believed, was captured and detained by the inhabitants of a place called the "Heart of Alaska." On their arrival at Sitka the boys with an Indian guide set off across the mountains. The trip is fraught with perils that test the lads' courage to the utmost. Reaching the Yukon River they build a raft and float down the stream, entering the Mysterious River, from which they barely escape with their lives, only to be captured by natives of the Heart of Alaska. All through their exciting adventures the lads demonstrate what can be accomplished by pluck and resolution, and their experience makes one of the most interesting tales ever written. =The Treasure Finders=: A Boy's Adventures in Nicaragua. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Roy and Dean Coloney, with their guide Tongla, leave their father's indigo plantation to visit the wonderful ruins of an ancient city. The boys eagerly explore the dismantled temples of an extinct race and discover three golden images cunningly hidden away. They escape with the greatest difficulty; by taking advantage of a festive gathering they seize a canoe and fly down the river. Eventually they reach safety with their golden prizes. Mr. Otis is the prince of story tellers, for he handles his material with consummate skill. We doubt if he has ever written a more entertaining story than "The Treasure Finders." =Household Fairy Tales.= By the BROTHERS GRIMM. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "As a collection of fairy tales to delight children of all ages this work ranks second to none."--_Daily Graphic._ =Dan the Newsboy.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The reader is introduced to Dan Mordaunt and his mother living in a poor tenement, and the lad is pluckily trying to make ends meet by selling papers in the streets of New York. A little heiress of six years is confided to the care of the Mordaunts. At the same time the lad obtains a position in a wholesale house. He soon demonstrates how valuable he is to the firm by detecting the bookkeeper in a bold attempt to rob his employers. The child is kidnaped and Dan tracks the child to the house where she is hidden, and rescues her. The wealthy aunt of the little heiress is so delighted with Dan's courage and many good qualities that she adopts him as her heir, and the conclusion of the book leaves the hero on the high road to every earthly desire. =Tony the Hero=: A Brave Boy's Adventure with a Tramp. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Tony, a sturdy bright-eyed boy of fourteen, is under the control of Rudolph Rugg, a thorough rascal, shiftless and lazy, spending his time tramping about the country. After much abuse Tony runs away and gets a job as stable boy in a country hotel. Tony is heir to a large estate in England, and certain persons find it necessary to produce proof of the lad's death. Rudolph for a consideration hunts up Tony and throws him down a deep well. Of course Tony escapes from the fate provided for him, and by a brave act makes a rich friend, with whom he goes to England, where he secures his rights and is prosperous. The fact that Mr. Alger is the author of this entertaining book will at once recommend it to all juvenile readers. =A Young Hero=; or, Fighting to Win. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This story tells how a valuable solid silver service was stolen from the Misses Perkinpine, two very old and simple minded ladies. Fred Sheldon, the hero of this story and a friend of the old ladies, undertakes to discover the thieves and have them arrested. After much time spent in detective work, he succeeds in discovering the silver plate and winning the reward for its restoration. During the narrative a circus comes to town and a thrilling account of the escape of the lion from its cage, with its recapture, is told in Mr. Ellis' most fascinating style. Every boy will be glad to read this delightful book. =The Days of Bruce=: A Story from Scottish History. By GRACE AGUILAR. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "There is a delightful freshness, sincerity and vivacity about all of Grace Aguilar's stories which cannot fail to win the interest and admiration of every lover of good reading."--_Boston Beacon._ =Tom the Bootblack=; or, The Road to Success. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A bright, enterprising lad was Tom the bootblack. He was not at all ashamed of his humble calling, though always on the lookout to better himself. His guardian, old Jacob Morton, died, leaving him a small sum of money and a written confession that Tom, instead of being of humble origin, was the son and heir of a deceased Western merchant, and had been defrauded out of his just rights by an unscrupulous uncle. The lad started for Cincinnati to look up his heritage. But three years passed away before he obtained his first clue. Mr. Grey, the uncle, did not hesitate to employ a ruffian to kill the lad. The plan failed, and Gilbert Grey, once Tom the bootblack, came into a comfortable fortune. This is one of Mr. Alger's best stories. =Captured by Zulus=: A story of Trapping in Africa. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This story details the adventures of two lads, Dick Elsworth and Bob Harvey, in the wilds of South Africa, for the purpose of obtaining a supply of zoological curiosities. By stratagem the Zulus capture Dick and Bob and take them to their principal kraal or village. The lads escape death by digging their way out of the prison hut by night. They are pursued, and after a rough experience the boys eventually rejoin the expedition and take part in several wild animal hunts. The Zulus finally give up pursuit and the expedition arrives at the coast without further trouble. Mr. Prentice has a delightful method of blending fact with fiction. He tells exactly how wild-beast collectors secure specimens on their native stamping grounds, and these descriptions make very entertaining reading. =Tom the Ready=; or, Up from the Lowest. By RANDOLPH HILL. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This is a dramatic narrative of the unaided rise of a fearless, ambitious boy from the lowest round of fortune's ladder--the gate of the poorhouse--to wealth and the governorship of his native State. Thomas Seacomb begins life with a purpose. While yet a schoolboy he conceives and presents to the world the germ of the Overland Express Co. At the very outset of his career jealousy and craft seek to blast his promising future. Later he sets out to obtain a charter for a railroad line in connection with the express business. Now he realizes what it is to match himself against capital. Yet he wins and the railroad is built. Only an uncommon nature like Tom's could successfully oppose such a combine. How he manages to win the battle is told by Mr. Hill in a masterful way that thrills the reader and holds his attention and sympathy to the end. =Roy Gilbert's Search=: A Tale of the Great Lakes. By WM. P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A deep mystery hangs over the parentage of Roy Gilbert. He arranges with two schoolmates to make a tour of the Great Lakes on a steam launch. The three boys leave Erie on the launch and visit many points of interest on the lakes. Soon afterward the lad is conspicuous in the rescue of an elderly gentleman and a lady from a sinking yacht. Later on the cruise of the launch is brought to a disastrous termination and the boys narrowly escape with their lives. The hero is a manly, self-reliant boy, whose adventures will be followed with interest. =The Young Scout=; The Story of a West Point Lieutenant. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The crafty Apache chief Geronimo but a few years ago was the most terrible scourge of the southwest border. The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the incidents of Geronimo's last raid. The hero is Lieutenant James Decker, a recent graduate of West Point. Ambitious to distinguish himself so as to win well-deserved promotion, the young man takes many a desperate chance against the enemy and on more than one occasion narrowly escapes with his life. The story naturally abounds in thrilling situations, and being historically correct, it is reasonable to believe it will find great favor with the boys. In our opinion Mr. Ellis is the best writer of Indian stories now before the public. =Adrift in the Wilds=: The Adventures of Two Shipwrecked Boys. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, price, $1.00. Elwood Brandon and Howard Lawrence, cousins and schoolmates, accompanied by a lively Irishman called O'Rooney, are en route for San Francisco. Off the coast of California the steamer takes fire. The two boys and their companion reach the shore with several of the passengers. While O'Rooney and the lads are absent inspecting the neighborhood O'Rooney has an exciting experience and young Brandon becomes separated from his party. He is captured by hostile Indians, but is rescued by an Indian whom the lads had assisted. This is a very entertaining narrative of Southern California in the days immediately preceding the construction of the Pacific railroads. Mr. Ellis seems to be particularly happy in this line of fiction, and the present story is fully as entertaining as anything he has ever written. =The Red Fairy Book.= Edited by ANDREW LANG. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "A gift-book that will charm any child, and all older folk who have been fortunate enough to retain their taste for the old nursery stories."--_Literary World._ =The Boy Cruisers=; or, Paddling in Florida. By ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE. 12mo, cloth, price, $1.00. Boys who like an admixture of sport and adventure will find this book just to their taste. We promise them that they will not go to sleep over the rattling experiences of Andrew George and Roland Carter, who start on a canoe trip along the Gulf coast, from Key West to Tampa, Florida. Their first adventure is with a pair of rascals who steal their boats. Next they run into a gale in the Gulf and have a lively experience while it lasts. After that they have a lively time with alligators and divers varieties of the finny tribe. Andrew gets into trouble with a band of Seminole Indians and gets away without having his scalp raised. After this there is no lack of fun till they reach their destination. That Mr. Rathborne knows just how to interest the boys is apparent at a glance, and lads who are in search of a rare treat will do well to read this entertaining story. =Guy Harris=: The Runaway. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Guy Harris lived in a small city on the shore of one of the Great Lakes. His head became filled with quixotic notions of going West to hunt grizzlies, in fact, Indians. He is persuaded to go to sea, and gets a glimpse of the rough side of life in a sailor's boarding house. He ships on a vessel and for five months leads a hard life. He deserts his ship at San Francisco and starts out to become a backwoodsman, but rough experiences soon cure him of all desire to be a hunter. At St. Louis he becomes a clerk and for a time he yields to the temptations of a great city. The book will not only interest boys generally on account of its graphic style, but will put many facts before their eyes in a new light. This is one of Castlemon's most attractive stories. =The Train Boy.= By Horatio Alger, Jr. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Paul Palmer was a wide-awake boy of sixteen who supported his mother and sister by selling books and papers on one of the trains running between Chicago and Milwaukee. He detects a young man named Luke Denton in the act of picking the pocket of a young lady, and also incurs the enmity of his brother Stephen, a worthless follow. Luke and Stephen plot to ruin Paul, but their plans are frustrated. In a railway accident many passengers are killed, but Paul is fortunate enough to assist a Chicago merchant, who out of gratitude takes him into his employ. Paul is sent to manage a mine in Custer City and executes his commission with tact and judgment and is well started on the road to business prominence. This is one of Mr. Alger's most attractive stories and is sure to please all readers. Transcriber's Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. Punctuation has been standardised. The word assauge was changed to assuage. Variations in spelling, including dialect, have been retained as in the original publication. 
31189	----	available by Internet Archive (http://www.archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 31189-h.htm or 31189-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31189/31189-h/31189-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31189/31189-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See http://www.archive.org/details/monsterotherstor00cranuoft THE MONSTER AND OTHER STORIES by STEPHEN CRANE [Illustration: "'If You Ain't Afraid, Go Do It Then'"] Illustrated New York and London Harper & Brothers Publishers 1899 Copyright, 1899, by Harper & Brothers. All rights reserved. [Illustration: "'Henry Johnson! Rats!'"] CONTENTS The Monster The Blue Hotel His New Mittens ILLUSTRATIONS "'If You Ain't Afraid, Go Do It Then'" "No One Would Have Suspected Him of Ever Having Washed a Buggy" "'Henry Johnson! Rats!'" "They Bowed and Smiled Until a Late Hour" "The Band Played a Waltz" "'What District?'" In the Laboratory "They Did Not Care Much for John Shipley" "'If I Get Six Dollehs for Bo'ding Hennery Johnson, I Uhns It'" "The Door Swung Portentously Open" Mrs. Farragut "'It's About What Nobody Talks Of--Much,' Said Twelve" Little Horace "Yelling Like Hawks at the White Balls Flew" "'I've Got to Go Home'" "When He Raised His Voice to Deny the Charge" "'Aw, Come On!'" "A Pair of Very Wet Mittens" "Brought a Plate of Food" "Horace Stared With Sombre Eyes at the Plate of Food" "Some Sort of Bloody-Handed Person" "People, Bowed Forward" "Eight Cents' Worth of Something" "His Head Hung Low" "'Mam-ma! Mam-ma! Oh, Mam-ma!'" THE MONSTER I Little Jim was, for the time, engine Number 36, and he was making the run between Syracuse and Rochester. He was fourteen minutes behind time, and the throttle was wide open. In consequence, when he swung around the curve at the flower-bed, a wheel of his cart destroyed a peony. Number 36 slowed down at once and looked guiltily at his father, who was mowing the lawn. The doctor had his back to this accident, and he continued to pace slowly to and fro, pushing the mower. Jim dropped the tongue of the cart. He looked at his father and at the broken flower. Finally he went to the peony and tried to stand it on its pins, resuscitated, but the spine of it was hurt, and it would only hang limply from his hand. Jim could do no reparation. He looked again towards his father. He went on to the lawn, very slowly, and kicking wretchedly at the turf. Presently his father came along with the whirring machine, while the sweet, new grass blades spun from the knives. In a low voice, Jim said, "Pa!" The doctor was shaving this lawn as if it were a priest's chin. All during the season he had worked at it in the coolness and peace of the evenings after supper. Even in the shadow of the cherry-trees the grass was strong and healthy. Jim raised his voice a trifle. "Pa!" The doctor paused, and with the howl of the machine no longer occupying the sense, one could hear the robins in the cherry-trees arranging their affairs. Jim's hands were behind his back, and sometimes his fingers clasped and unclasped. Again he said, "Pa!" The child's fresh and rosy lip was lowered. The doctor stared down at his son, thrusting his head forward and frowning attentively. "What is it, Jimmie?" "Pa!" repeated the child at length. Then he raised his finger and pointed at the flowerbed. "There!" "What?" said the doctor, frowning more. "What is it, Jim?" After a period of silence, during which the child may have undergone a severe mental tumult, he raised his finger and repeated his former word--"There!" The father had respected this silence with perfect courtesy. Afterwards his glance carefully followed the direction indicated by the child's finger, but he could see nothing which explained to him. "I don't understand what you mean, Jimmie," he said. It seemed that the importance of the whole thing had taken away the boy's vocabulary, He could only reiterate, "There!" The doctor mused upon the situation, but he could make nothing of it. At last he said, "Come, show me." Together they crossed the lawn towards the flower-bed. At some yards from the broken peony Jimmie began to lag. "There!" The word came almost breathlessly. "Where?" said the doctor. Jimmie kicked at the grass. "There!" he replied. The doctor was obliged to go forward alone. After some trouble he found the subject of the incident, the broken flower. Turning then, he saw the child lurking at the rear and scanning his countenance. The father reflected. After a time he said, "Jimmie, come here." With an infinite modesty of demeanor the child came forward. "Jimmie, how did this happen?" The child answered, "Now--I was playin' train--and--now--I runned over it." "You were doing what?" "I was playin' train." The father reflected again. "Well, Jimmie," he said, slowly, "I guess you had better not play train any more to-day. Do you think you had better?" "No, sir," said Jimmie. During the delivery of the judgment the child had not faced his father, and afterwards he went away, with his head lowered, shuffling his feet. II It was apparent from Jimmie's manner that he felt some kind of desire to efface himself. He went down to the stable. Henry Johnson, the negro who cared for the doctor's horses, was sponging the buggy. He grinned fraternally when he saw Jimmie coming. These two were pals. In regard to almost everything in life they seemed to have minds precisely alike. Of course there were points of emphatic divergence. For instance, it was plain from Henry's talk that he was a very handsome negro, and he was known to be a light, a weight, and an eminence in the suburb of the town, where lived the larger number of the negroes, and obviously this glory was over Jimmie's horizon; but he vaguely appreciated it and paid deference to Henry for it mainly because Henry appreciated it and deferred to himself. However, on all points of conduct as related to the doctor, who was the moon, they were in complete but unexpressed understanding. Whenever Jimmie became the victim of an eclipse he went to the stable to solace himself with Henry's crimes. Henry, with the elasticity of his race, could usually provide a sin to place himself on a footing with the disgraced one. Perhaps he would remember that he had forgotten to put the hitching-strap in the back of the buggy on some recent occasion, and had been reprimanded by the doctor. Then these two would commune subtly and without words concerning their moon, holding themselves sympathetically as people who had committed similar treasons. On the other hand, Henry would sometimes choose to absolutely repudiate this idea, and when Jimmie appeared in his shame would bully him most virtuously, preaching with assurance the precepts of the doctor's creed, and pointing out to Jimmie all his abominations. Jimmie did not discover that this was odious in his comrade. He accepted it and lived in its shadow with humility, merely trying to conciliate the saintly Henry with acts of deference. Won by this attitude, Henry would sometimes allow the child to enjoy the felicity of squeezing the sponge over a buggy-wheel, even when Jimmie was still gory from unspeakable deeds. Whenever Henry dwelt for a time in sackcloth, Jimmie did not patronize him at all. This was a justice of his age, his condition. He did not know. Besides, Henry could drive a horse, and Jimmie had a full sense of this sublimity. Henry personally conducted the moon during the splendid journeys through the country roads, where farms spread on all sides, with sheep, cows, and other marvels abounding. "Hello, Jim!" said Henry, poising his sponge. Water was dripping from the buggy. Sometimes the horses in the stalls stamped thunderingly on the pine floor. There was an atmosphere of hay and of harness. For a minute Jimmie refused to take an interest in anything. He was very downcast. He could not even feel the wonders of wagon washing. Henry, while at his work, narrowly observed him. "Your pop done wallop yer, didn't he?" he said at last. "No," said Jimmie, defensively; "he didn't." After this casual remark Henry continued his labor, with a scowl of occupation. Presently he said: "I done tol' yer many's th' time not to go a-foolin' an' a-projjeckin' with them flowers. Yer pop don' like it nohow." As a matter of fact, Henry had never mentioned flowers to the boy. Jimmie preserved a gloomy silence, so Henry began to use seductive wiles in this affair of washing a wagon. It was not until he began to spin a wheel on the tree, and the sprinkling water flew everywhere, that the boy was visibly moved. He had been seated on the sill of the carriage-house door, but at the beginning of this ceremony he arose and circled towards the buggy, with an interest that slowly consumed the remembrance of a late disgrace. Johnson could then display all the dignity of a man whose duty it was to protect Jimmie from a splashing. "Look out, boy! look out! You done gwi' spile yer pants. I raikon your mommer don't 'low this foolishness, she know it. I ain't gwi' have you round yere spilin' yer pants, an' have Mis' Trescott light on me pressen'ly. 'Deed I ain't." He spoke with an air of great irritation, but he was not annoyed at all. This tone was merely a part of his importance. In reality he was always delighted to have the child there to witness the business of the stable. For one thing, Jimmie was invariably overcome with reverence when he was told how beautifully a harness was polished or a horse groomed. Henry explained each detail of this kind with unction, procuring great joy from the child's admiration. III After Johnson had taken his supper in the kitchen, he went to his loft in the carriage house and dressed himself with much care. No belle of a court circle could bestow more mind on a toilet than did Johnson. On second thought, he was more like a priest arraying himself for some parade of the church. As he emerged from his room and sauntered down the carriage-drive, no one would have suspected him of ever having washed a buggy. [Illustration: "No One Would Have Suspected Him of Ever Having Washed a Buggy"] It was not altogether a matter of the lavender trousers, nor yet the straw hat with its bright silk band. The change was somewhere, far in the interior of Henry. But there was no cake-walk hyperbole in it. He was simply a quiet, well-bred gentleman of position, wealth, and other necessary achievements out for an evening stroll, and he had never washed a wagon in his life. In the morning, when in his working-clothes, he had met a friend--"Hello, Pete!" "Hello, Henry!" Now, in his effulgence, he encountered this same friend. His bow was not at all haughty. If it expressed anything, it expressed consummate generosity--"Good-evenin', Misteh Washington." Pete, who was very dirty, being at work in a potato-patch, responded in a mixture of abasement and appreciation--"Good-evenin', Misteh Johnsing." The shimmering blue of the electric arc lamps was strong in the main street of the town. At numerous points it was conquered by the orange glare of the outnumbering gaslights in the windows of shops. Through this radiant lane moved a crowd, which culminated in a throng before the post-office, awaiting the distribution of the evening mails. Occasionally there came into it a shrill electric street-car, the motor singing like a cageful of grasshoppers, and possessing a great gong that clanged forth both warnings and simple noise. At the little theatre, which was a varnish and red plush miniature of one of the famous New York theatres, a company of strollers was to play "East Lynne." The young men of the town were mainly gathered at the corners, in distinctive groups, which expressed various shades and lines of chumship, and had little to do with any social gradations. There they discussed everything with critical insight, passing the whole town in review as it swarmed in the street. When the gongs of the electric cars ceased for a moment to harry the ears, there could be heard the sound of the feet of the leisurely crowd on the bluestone pavement, and it was like the peaceful evening lashing at the shore of a lake. At the foot of the hill, where two lines of maples sentinelled the way, an electric lamp glowed high among the embowering branches, and made most wonderful shadow-etchings on the road below it. When Johnson appeared amid the throng a member of one of the profane groups at a corner instantly telegraphed news of this extraordinary arrival to his companions. They hailed him. "Hello, Henry! Going to walk for a cake to-night?" "Ain't he smooth?" "Why, you've got that cake right in your pocket, Henry!" "Throw out your chest a little more." Henry was not ruffled in any way by these quiet admonitions and compliments. In reply he laughed a supremely good-natured, chuckling laugh, which nevertheless expressed an underground complacency of superior metal. Young Griscom, the lawyer, was just emerging from Reifsnyder's barber shop, rubbing his chin contentedly. On the steps he dropped his hand and looked with wide eyes into the crowd. Suddenly he bolted back into the shop. "Wow!" he cried to the parliament; "you ought to see the coon that's coming!" Reifsnyder and his assistant instantly poised their razors high and turned towards the window. Two belathered heads reared from the chairs. The electric shine in the street caused an effect like water to them who looked through the glass from the yellow glamour of Reifsnyder's shop. In fact, the people without resembled the inhabitants of a great aquarium that here had a square pane in it. Presently into this frame swam the graceful form of Henry Johnson. "Chee!" said Reifsnyder. He and his assistant with one accord threw their obligations to the winds, and leaving their lathered victims helpless, advanced to the window. "Ain't he a taisy?" said Reifsnyder, marvelling. But the man in the first chair, with a grievance in his mind, had found a weapon. "Why, that's only Henry Johnson, you blamed idiots! Come on now, Reif, and shave me. What do you think I am--a mummy?" Reifsnyder turned, in a great excitement. "I bait you any money that vas not Henry Johnson! Henry Johnson! Rats!" The scorn put into this last word made it an explosion. "That man was a Pullman-car porter or someding. How could that be Henry Johnson?" he demanded, turbulently. "You vas crazy." The man in the first chair faced the barber in a storm of indignation. "Didn't I give him those lavender trousers?" he roared. And young Griscom, who had remained attentively at the window, said: "Yes, I guess that was Henry. It looked like him." "Oh, vell," said Reifsnyder, returning to his business, "if you think so! Oh, vell!" He implied that he was submitting for the sake of amiability. Finally the man in the second chair, mumbling from a mouth made timid by adjacent lather, said: "That was Henry Johnson all right. Why, he always dresses like that when he wants to make a front! He's the biggest dude in town--anybody knows that." "Chinger!" said Reifsnyder. [Illustration: "'Henry Johnson! Rats!'"] Henry was not at all oblivious of the wake of wondering ejaculation that streamed out behind him. On other occasions he had reaped this same joy, and he always had an eye for the demonstration. With a face beaming with happiness he turned away from the scene of his victories into a narrow side street, where the electric light still hung high, but only to exhibit a row of tumble-down houses leaning together like paralytics. The saffron Miss Bella Farragut, in a calico frock, had been crouched on the front stoop, gossiping at long range, but she espied her approaching caller at a distance. She dashed around the corner of the house, galloping like a horse. Henry saw it all, but he preserved the polite demeanor of a guest when a waiter spills claret down his cuff. In this awkward situation he was simply perfect. The duty of receiving Mr. Johnson fell upon Mrs. Farragut, because Bella, in another room, was scrambling wildly into her best gown. The fat old woman met him with a great ivory smile, sweeping back with the door, and bowing low. "Walk in, Misteh Johnson, walk in. How is you dis ebenin', Misteh Johnson--how is you?" Henry's face showed like a reflector as he bowed and bowed, bending almost from his head to his ankles, "Good-evenin', Mis' Fa'gut; good-evenin'. How is you dis evenin'? Is all you' folks well, Mis' Fa'gut?" After a great deal of kowtow, they were planted in two chairs opposite each other in the living-room. Here they exchanged the most tremendous civilities, until Miss Bella swept into the room, when there was more kowtow on all sides, and a smiling show of teeth that was like an illumination. The cooking-stove was of course in this drawing-room, and on the fire was some kind of a long-winded stew. Mrs. Farragut was obliged to arise and attend to it from time to time. Also young Sim came in and went to bed on his pallet in the corner. But to all these domesticities the three maintained an absolute dumbness. They bowed and smiled and ignored and imitated until a late hour, and if they had been the occupants of the most gorgeous salon in the world they could not have been more like three monkeys. After Henry had gone, Bella, who encouraged herself in the appropriation of phrases, said, "Oh, ma, isn't he divine?" [Illustration: "They Bowed and Smiled Until a Late Hour"] IV A Saturday evening was a sign always for a larger crowd to parade the thoroughfare. In summer the band played until ten o'clock in the little park. Most of the young men of the town affected to be superior to this band, even to despise it; but in the still and fragrant evenings they invariably turned out in force, because the girls were sure to attend this concert, strolling slowly over the grass, linked closely in pairs, or preferably in threes, in the curious public dependence upon one another which was their inheritance. There was no particular social aspect to this gathering, save that group regarded group with interest, but mainly in silence. Perhaps one girl would nudge another girl and suddenly say, "Look! there goes Gertie Hodgson and her sister!" And they would appear to regard this as an event of importance. On a particular evening a rather large company of young men were gathered on the sidewalk that edged the park. They remained thus beyond the borders of the festivities because of their dignity, which would not exactly allow them to appear in anything which was so much fun for the younger lads. These latter were careering madly through the crowd, precipitating minor accidents from time to time, but usually fleeing like mist swept by the wind before retribution could lay hands upon them. The band played a waltz which involved a gift of prominence to the bass horn, and one of the young men on the sidewalk said that the music reminded him of the new engines on the hill pumping water into the reservoir. A similarity of this kind was not inconceivable, but the young man did not say it because he disliked the band's playing. He said it because it was fashionable to say that manner of thing concerning the band. However, over in the stand, Billie Harris, who played the snare-drum, was always surrounded by a throng of boys, who adored his every whack. After the mails from New York and Rochester had been finally distributed, the crowd from the post-office added to the mass already in the park. The wind waved the leaves of the maples, and, high in the air, the blue-burning globes of the arc lamps caused the wonderful traceries of leaf shadows on the ground. When the light fell upon the upturned face of a girl, it caused it to glow with a wonderful pallor. A policeman came suddenly from the darkness and chased a gang of obstreperous little boys. They hooted him from a distance. The leader of the band had some of the mannerisms of the great musicians, and during a period of silence the crowd smiled when they saw him raise his hand to his brow, stroke it sentimentally, and glance upward with a look of poetic anguish. In the shivering light, which gave to the park an effect like a great vaulted hall, the throng swarmed, with a gentle murmur of dresses switching the turf, and with a steady hum of voices. [Illustration: "The Band Played a Waltz"] Suddenly, without preliminary bars, there arose from afar the great hoarse roar of a factory whistle. It raised and swelled to a sinister note, and then it sang on the night wind one long call that held the crowd in the park immovable, speechless. The band-master had been about to vehemently let fall his hand to start the band on a thundering career through a popular march, but, smitten by this giant voice from the night, his hand dropped slowly to his knee, and, his mouth agape, he looked at his men in silence. The cry died away to a wail and then to stillness. It released the muscles of the company of young men on the sidewalk, who had been like statues, posed eagerly, lithely, their ears turned. And then they wheeled upon each other simultaneously, and, in a single explosion, they shouted, "One!" Again the sound swelled in the night and roared its long ominous cry, and as it died away the crowd of young men wheeled upon each other and, in chorus, yelled, "Two!" There was a moment of breathless waiting. Then they bawled, "Second district!" In a flash the company of indolent and cynical young men had vanished like a snowball disrupted by dynamite. V Jake Rogers was the first man to reach the home of Tuscarora Hose Company Number Six. He had wrenched his key from his pocket as he tore down the street, and he jumped at the spring-lock like a demon. As the doors flew back before his hands he leaped and kicked the wedges from a pair of wheels, loosened a tongue from its clasp, and in the glare of the electric light which the town placed before each of its hose-houses the next comers beheld the spectacle of Jake Rogers bent like hickory in the manfulness of his pulling, and the heavy cart was moving slowly towards the doors. Four men joined him at the time, and as they swung with the cart out into the street, dark figures sped towards them from the ponderous shadows back of the electric lamps. Some set up the inevitable question, "What district?" "Second," was replied to them in a compact howl. Tuscarora Hose Company Number Six swept on a perilous wheel into Niagara Avenue, and as the men, attached to the cart by the rope which had been paid out from the windlass under the tongue, pulled madly in their fervor and abandon, the gong under the axle clanged incitingly. And sometimes the same cry was heard, "What district?" "Second." [Illustration: "What District"] On a grade Johnnie Thorpe fell, and exercising a singular muscular ability, rolled out in time from the track of the on-coming wheel, and arose, dishevelled and aggrieved, casting a look of mournful disenchantment upon the black crowd that poured after the machine. The cart seemed to be the apex of a dark wave that was whirling as if it had been a broken dam. Back of the lad were stretches of lawn, and in that direction front-doors were banged by men who hoarsely shouted out into the clamorous avenue, "What district?" At one of these houses a woman came to the door bearing a lamp, shielding her face from its rays with her hands. Across the cropped grass the avenue represented to her a kind of black torrent, upon which, nevertheless, fled numerous miraculous figures upon bicycles. She did not know that the towering light at the corner was continuing its nightly whine. Suddenly a little boy somersaulted around the corner of the house as if he had been projected down a flight of stairs by a catapultian boot. He halted himself in front of the house by dint of a rather extraordinary evolution with his legs. "Oh, ma," he gasped, "can I go? Can I, ma?" She straightened with the coldness of the exterior mother-judgment, although the hand that held the lamp trembled slightly. "No, Willie; you had better come to bed." Instantly he began to buck and fume like a mustang. "Oh, ma," he cried, contorting himself--"oh, ma, can't I go? Please, ma, can't I go? Can't I go, ma?" "It's half-past nine now, Willie." He ended by wailing out a compromise: "Well, just down to the corner, ma? Just down to the corner?" From the avenue came the sound of rushing men who wildly shouted. Somebody had grappled the bell-rope in the Methodist church, and now over the town rang this solemn and terrible voice, speaking from the clouds. Moved from its peaceful business, this bell gained a new spirit in the portentous night, and it swung the heart to and fro, up and down, with each peal of it. "Just down to the corner, ma?" "Willie, it's half-past nine now." [Illustration: "They Did Not Care Much for John Shipley"] VI The outlines of the house of Dr. Trescott had faded quietly into the evening, hiding a shape such as we call Queen Anne against the pall of the blackened sky. The neighborhood was at this time so quiet, and seemed so devoid of obstructions, that Hannigan's dog thought it a good opportunity to prowl in forbidden precincts, and so came and pawed Trescott's lawn, growling, and considering himself a formidable beast. Later, Peter Washington strolled past the house and whistled, but there was no dim light shining from Henry's loft, and presently Peter went his way. The rays from the street, creeping in silvery waves over the grass, caused the row of shrubs along the drive to throw a clear, bold shade. A wisp of smoke came from one of the windows at the end of the house and drifted quietly into the branches of a cherry-tree. Its companions followed it in slowly increasing numbers, and finally there was a current controlled by invisible banks which poured into the fruit-laden boughs of the cherry-tree. It was no more to be noted than if a troop of dim and silent gray monkeys had been climbing a grapevine into the clouds. After a moment the window brightened as if the four panes of it had been stained with blood, and a quick ear might have been led to imagine the fire-imps calling and calling, clan joining clan, gathering to the colors. From the street, however, the house maintained its dark quiet, insisting to a passer-by that it was the safe dwelling of people who chose to retire early to tranquil dreams. No one could have heard this low droning of the gathering clans. Suddenly the panes of the red window tinkled and crashed to the ground, and at other windows there suddenly reared other flames, like bloody spectres at the apertures of a haunted house. This outbreak had been well planned, as if by professional revolutionists. A man's voice suddenly shouted: "Fire! Fire! Fire!" Hannigan had flung his pipe frenziedly from him because his lungs demanded room. He tumbled down from his perch, swung over the fence, and ran shouting towards the front-door of the Trescotts'. Then he hammered on the door, using his fists as if they were mallets. Mrs. Trescott instantly came to one of the windows on the second floor. Afterwards she knew she had been about to say, "The doctor is not at home, but if you will leave your name, I will let him know as soon as he comes." Hannigan's bawling was for a minute incoherent, but she understood that it was not about croup. "What?" she said, raising the window swiftly. "Your house is on fire! You're all ablaze! Move quick if--" His cries were resounding, in the street as if it were a cave of echoes. Many feet pattered swiftly on the stones. There was one man who ran with an almost fabulous speed. He wore lavender trousers. A straw hat with a bright silk band was held half crumpled in his hand. As Henry reached the front-door, Hannigan had just broken the lock with a kick. A thick cloud of smoke poured over them, and Henry, ducking his head, rushed into it. From Hannigan's clamor he knew only one thing, but it turned him blue with horror. In the hall a lick of flame had found the cord that supported "Signing the Declaration." The engraving slumped suddenly down at one end, and then dropped to the floor, where it burst with the sound of a bomb. The fire was already roaring like a winter wind among the pines. At the head of the stairs Mrs. Trescott was waving her arms as if they were two reeds. "Jimmie! Save Jimmie!" she screamed in Henry's face. He plunged past her and disappeared, taking the long-familiar routes among these upper chambers, where he had once held office as a sort of second assistant house-maid. Hannigan had followed him up the stairs, and grappled the arm of the maniacal woman there. His face was black with rage. "You must come down," he bellowed. She would only scream at him in reply: "Jimmie! Jimmie! Save Jimmie!" But he dragged her forth while she babbled at him. As they swung out into the open air a man ran across the lawn, and seizing a shutter, pulled it from its hinges and flung it far out upon the grass. Then he frantically attacked the other shutters one by one. It was a kind of temporary insanity. "Here, you," howled Hannigan, "hold Mrs. Trescott--And stop--" The news had been telegraphed by a twist of the wrist of a neighbor who had gone to the fire-box at the corner, and the time when Hannigan and his charge struggled out of the house was the time when the whistle roared its hoarse night call, smiting the crowd in the park, causing the leader of the band, who was about to order the first triumphal clang of a military march, to let his hand drop slowly to his knees. VII Henry pawed awkwardly through the smoke in the upper halls. He had attempted to guide himself by the walls, but they were too hot. The paper was crimpling, and he expected at any moment to have a flame burst from under his hands. "Jimmie!" He did not call very loud, as if in fear that the humming flames below would overhear him. "Jimmie! Oh, Jimmie!" Stumbling and panting, he speedily reached the entrance to Jimmie's room and flung open the door. The little chamber had no smoke in it at all. It was faintly illuminated by a beautiful rosy light reflected circuitously from the flames that were consuming the house. The boy had apparently just been aroused by the noise. He sat in his bed, his lips apart, his eyes wide, while upon his little white-robed figure played caressingly the light from the fire. As the door flew open he had before him this apparition of his pal, a terror-stricken negro, all tousled and with wool scorching, who leaped upon him and bore him up in a blanket as if the whole affair were a case of kidnapping by a dreadful robber chief. Without waiting to go through the usual short but complete process of wrinkling up his face, Jimmie let out a gorgeous bawl, which resembled the expression of a calf's deepest terror. As Johnson, bearing him, reeled into the smoke of the hall, he flung his arms about his neck and buried his face in the blanket. He called twice in muffled tones: "Mam-ma! Mam-ma!" When Johnson came to the top of the stairs with his burden, he took a quick step backward. Through the smoke that rolled to him he could see that the lower hall was all ablaze. He cried out then in a howl that resembled Jimmie's former achievement. His legs gained a frightful faculty of bending sideways. Swinging about precariously on these reedy legs, he made his way back slowly, back along the upper hall. From the way of him then, he had given up almost all idea of escaping from the burning house, and with it the desire. He was submitting, submitting because of his fathers, bending his mind in a most perfect slavery to this conflagration. He now clutched Jimmie as unconsciously as when, running toward the house, he had clutched the hat with the bright silk band. Suddenly he remembered a little private staircase which led from a bedroom to an apartment which the doctor had fitted up as a laboratory and work-house, where he used some of his leisure, and also hours when he might have been sleeping, in devoting himself to experiments which came in the way of his study and interest. When Johnson recalled this stairway the submission to the blaze departed instantly. He had been perfectly familiar with it, but his confusion had destroyed the memory of it. In his sudden momentary apathy there had been little that resembled fear, but now, as a way of safety came to him, the old frantic terror caught him. He was no longer creature to the flames, and he was afraid of the battle with them. It was a singular and swift set of alternations in which he feared twice without submission, and submitted once without fear. "Jimmie!" he wailed, as he staggered on his way. He wished this little inanimate body at his breast to participate in his tremblings. But the child had lain limp and still during these headlong charges and countercharges, and no sign came from him. Johnson passed through two rooms and came to the head of the stairs. As he opened the door great billows of smoke poured out, but gripping Jimmie closer, he plunged down through them. All manner of odors assailed him during this flight. They seemed to be alive with envy, hatred, and malice. At the entrance to the laboratory he confronted a strange spectacle. The room was like a garden in the region where might be burning flowers. Flames of violet, crimson, green, blue, orange, and purple were blooming everywhere. There was one blaze that was precisely the hue of a delicate coral. In another place was a mass that lay merely in phosphorescent inaction like a pile of emeralds. But all these marvels were to be seen dimly through clouds of heaving, turning, deadly smoke. Johnson halted for a moment on the threshold. He cried out again in the negro wail that had in it the sadness of the swamps. Then he rushed across the room. An orange-colored flame leaped like a panther at the lavender trousers. This animal bit deeply into Johnson. There was an explosion at one side, and suddenly before him there reared a delicate, trembling sapphire shape like a fairy lady. With a quiet smile she blocked his path and doomed him and Jimmie. Johnson shrieked, and then ducked in the manner of his race in fights. He aimed to pass under the left guard of the sapphire lady. But she was swifter than eagles, and her talons caught in him as he plunged past her. Bowing his head as if his neck had been struck, Johnson lurched forward, twisting this way and that way. He fell on his back. The still form in the blanket flung from his arms, rolled to the edge of the floor and beneath the window. Johnson had fallen with his head at the base of an old-fashioned desk. There was a row of jars upon the top of this desk. For the most part, they were silent amid this rioting, but there was one which seemed to hold a scintillant and writhing serpent. Suddenly the glass splintered, and a ruby-red snakelike thing poured its thick length out upon the top of the old desk. It coiled and hesitated, and then began to swim a languorous way down the mahogany slant. At the angle it waved its sizzling molten head to and fro over the closed eyes of the man beneath it. Then, in a moment, with a mystic impulse, it moved again, and the red snake flowed directly down into Johnson's upturned face. Afterwards the trail of this creature seemed to reek, and amid flames and low explosions drops like red-hot jewels pattered softly down it at leisurely intervals. [Illustration: "In the Laboratory"] VIII Suddenly all roads led to Dr. Trescott's. The whole town flowed towards one point. Chippeway Hose Company Number One toiled desperately up Bridge Street Hill even as the Tuscaroras came in an impetuous sweep down Niagara Avenue. Meanwhile the machine of the hook-and-ladder experts from across the creek was spinning on its way. The chief of the fire department had been playing poker in the rear room of Whiteley's cigar-store, but at the first breath of the alarm he sprang through the door like a man escaping with the kitty. In Whilomville, on these occasions, there was always a number of people who instantly turned their attention to the bells in the churches and school-houses. The bells not only emphasized the alarm, but it was the habit to send these sounds rolling across the sky in a stirring brazen uproar until the flames were practically vanquished. There was also a kind of rivalry as to which bell should be made to produce the greatest din. Even the Valley Church, four miles away among the farms, had heard the voices of its brethren, and immediately added a quaint little yelp. Dr. Trescott had been driving homeward, slowly smoking a cigar, and feeling glad that this last case was now in complete obedience to him, like a wild animal that he had subdued, when he heard the long whistle, and chirped to his horse under the unlicensed but perfectly distinct impression that a fire had broken out in Oakhurst, a new and rather high-flying suburb of the town which was at least two miles from his own home. But in the second blast and in the ensuing silence he read the designation of his own district. He was then only a few blocks from his house. He took out the whip and laid it lightly on the mare. Surprised and frightened at this extraordinary action, she leaped forward, and as the reins straightened like steel bands, the doctor leaned backward a trifle. When the mare whirled him up to the closed gate he was wondering whose house could be afire. The man who had rung the signal-box yelled something at him, but he already knew. He left the mare to her will. In front of his door was a maniacal woman in a wrapper. "Ned!" she screamed at sight of him. "Jimmie! Save Jimmie!" Trescott had grown hard and chill. "Where?" he said. "Where?" Mrs. Trescott's voice began to bubble. "Up--up--up--" She pointed at the second-story windows. Hannigan was already shouting: "Don't go in that way! You can't go in that way!" Trescott ran around the corner of the house and disappeared from them. He knew from the view he had taken of the main hall that it would be impossible to ascend from there. His hopes were fastened now to the stairway which led from the laboratory. The door which opened from this room out upon the lawn was fastened with a bolt and lock, but he kicked close to the lock and then close to the bolt. The door with a loud crash flew back. The doctor recoiled from the roll of smoke, and then bending low, he stepped into the garden of burning flowers. On the floor his stinging eyes could make out a form in a smouldering blanket near the window. Then, as he carried his son towards the door, he saw that the whole lawn seemed now alive with men and boys, the leaders in the great charge that the whole town was making. They seized him and his burden, and overpowered him in wet blankets and water. But Hannigan was howling: "Johnson is in there yet! Henry Johnson is in there yet! He went in after the kid! Johnson is in there yet!" These cries penetrated to the sleepy senses of Trescott, and he struggled with his captors, swearing, unknown to him and to them, all the deep blasphemies of his medical-student days. He rose to his feet and went again towards the door of the laboratory. They endeavored to restrain him, although they were much affrighted at him. But a young man who was a brakeman on the railway, and lived in one of the rear streets near the Trescotts, had gone into the laboratory and brought forth a thing which he laid on the grass. IX There were hoarse commands from in front of the house. "Turn on your water, Five!" "Let 'er go, One!" The gathering crowd swayed this way and that way. The flames, towering high, cast a wild red light on their faces. There came the clangor of a gong from along some adjacent street. The crowd exclaimed at it. "Here comes Number Three!" "That's Three a-comin'!" A panting and irregular mob dashed into view, dragging a hose-cart. A cry of exultation arose from the little boys. "Here's Three!" The lads welcomed Never-Die Hose Company Number Three as if it was composed of a chariot dragged by a band of gods. The perspiring citizens flung themselves into the fray. The boys danced in impish joy at the displays of prowess. They acclaimed the approach of Number Two. They welcomed Number Four with cheers. They were so deeply moved by this whole affair that they bitterly guyed the late appearance of the hook and ladder company, whose heavy apparatus had almost stalled them on the Bridge Street hill. The lads hated and feared a fire, of course. They did not particularly want to have anybody's house burn, but still it was fine to see the gathering of the companies, and amid a great noise to watch their heroes perform all manner of prodigies. They were divided into parties over the worth of different companies, and supported their creeds with no small violence. For instance, in that part of the little city where Number Four had its home it would be most daring for a boy to contend the superiority of any other company. Likewise, in another quarter, where a strange boy was asked which fire company was the best in Whilomville, he was expected to answer "Number One." Feuds, which the boys forgot and remembered according to chance or the importance of some recent event, existed all through the town. They did not care much for John Shipley, the chief of the department. It was true that he went to a fire with the speed of a falling angel, but when there he invariably lapsed into a certain still mood, which was almost a preoccupation, moving leisurely around the burning structure and surveying it, putting meanwhile at a cigar. This quiet man, who even when life was in danger seldom raised his voice, was not much to their fancy. Now old Sykes Huntington, when he was chief, used to bellow continually like a bull and gesticulate in a sort of delirium. He was much finer as a spectacle than this Shipley, who viewed a fire with the same steadiness that he viewed a raise in a large jack-pot. The greater number of the boys could never understand why the members of these companies persisted in re-electing Shipley, although they often pretended to understand it, because "My father says" was a very formidable phrase in argument, and the fathers seemed almost unanimous in advocating Shipley. At this time there was considerable discussion as to which company had gotten the first stream of water on the fire. Most of the boys claimed that Number Five owned that distinction, but there was a determined minority who contended for Number One. Boys who were the blood adherents of other companies were obliged to choose between the two on this occasion, and the talk waxed warm. But a great rumor went among the crowds. It was told with hushed voices. Afterwards a reverent silence fell even upon the boys. Jimmie Trescott and Henry Johnson had been burned to death, and Dr. Trescott himself had been most savagely hurt. The crowd did not even feel the police pushing at them. They raised their eyes, shining now with awe, towards the high flames. The man who had information was at his best. In low tones he described the whole affair. "That was the kid's room--in the corner there. He had measles or somethin', and this coon--Johnson--was a-settin' up with 'im, and Johnson got sleepy or somethin' and upset the lamp, and the doctor he was down in his office, and he came running up, and they all got burned together till they dragged 'em out." Another man, always preserved for the deliverance of the final judgment, was saying: "Oh, they'll die sure. Burned to flinders. No chance. Hull lot of 'em. Anybody can see." The crowd concentrated its gaze still more closely upon these flags of fire which waved joyfully against the black sky. The bells of the town were clashing unceasingly. A little procession moved across the lawn and towards the street. There were three cots, borne by twelve of the firemen. The police moved sternly, but it needed no effort of theirs to open a lane for this slow cortege. The men who bore the cots were well known to the crowd, but in this solemn parade during the ringing of the bells and the shouting, and with the red glare upon the sky, they seemed utterly foreign, and Whilomville paid them a deep respect. Each man in this stretcher party had gained a reflected majesty. They were footmen to death, and the crowd made subtle obeisance to this august dignity derived from three prospective graves. One woman turned away with a shriek at sight of the covered body on the first stretcher, and people faced her suddenly in silent and mournful indignation. Otherwise there was barely a sound as these twelve important men with measured tread carried their burdens through the throng. The little boys no longer discussed the merits of the different fire companies. For the greater part they had been routed. Only the more courageous viewed closely the three figures veiled in yellow blankets. X Old Judge Denning Hagenthorpe, who lived nearly opposite the Trescotts, had thrown his door wide open to receive the afflicted family. When it was publicly learned that the doctor and his son and the negro were still alive, it required a specially detailed policeman to prevent people from scaling the front porch and interviewing these sorely wounded. One old lady appeared with a miraculous poultice, and she quoted most damning Scripture to the officer when he said that she could not pass him. Throughout the night some lads old enough to be given privileges or to compel them from their mothers remained vigilantly upon the kerb in anticipation of a death or some such event. The reporter of the Morning Tribune rode thither on his bicycle every hour until three o'clock. Six of the ten doctors in Whilomville attended at Judge Hagenthorpe's house. Almost at once they were able to know that Trescott's burns were not vitally important. The child would possibly be scarred badly, but his life was undoubtedly safe. As for the negro Henry Johnson, he could not live. His body was frightfully seared, but more than that, he now had no face. His face had simply been burned away. Trescott was always asking news of the two other patients. In the morning he seemed fresh and strong, so they told him that Johnson was doomed. They then saw him stir on the bed, and sprang quickly to see if the bandages needed readjusting. In the sudden glance he threw from one to another he impressed them as being both leonine and impracticable. The morning paper announced the death of Henry Johnson. It contained a long interview with Edward J. Hannigan, in which the latter described in full the performance of Johnson at the fire. There was also an editorial built from all the best words in the vocabulary of the staff. The town halted in its accustomed road of thought, and turned a reverent attention to the memory of this hostler. In the breasts of many people was the regret that they had not known enough to give him a hand and a lift when he was alive, and they judged themselves stupid and ungenerous for this failure. The name of Henry Johnson became suddenly the title of a saint to the little boys. The one who thought of it first could, by quoting it in an argument, at once overthrow his antagonist, whether it applied to the subject or whether it did not. "Nigger, nigger, never die. Black face and shiny eye." Boys who had called this odious couplet in the rear of Johnson's march buried the fact at the bottom of their hearts. Later in the day Miss Bella Farragut, of No. 7 Watermelon Alley, announced that she had been engaged to marry Mr. Henry Johnson. XI The old judge had a cane with an ivory head. He could never think at his best until he was leaning slightly on this stick and smoothing the white top with slow movements of his hands. It was also to him a kind of narcotic. If by any chance he mislaid it, he grew at once very irritable, and was likely to speak sharply to his sister, whose mental incapacity he had patiently endured for thirty years in the old mansion on Ontario Street. She was not at all aware of her brother's opinion of her endowments, and so it might be said that the judge had successfully dissembled for more than a quarter of a century, only risking the truth at the times when his cane was lost. On a particular day the judge sat in his armchair on the porch. The sunshine sprinkled through the lilac-bushes and poured great coins on the boards. The sparrows disputed in the trees that lined the pavements. The judge mused deeply, while his hands gently caressed the ivory head of his cane. Finally he arose and entered the house, his brow still furrowed in a thoughtful frown. His stick thumped solemnly in regular beats. On the second floor he entered a room where Dr. Trescott was working about the bedside of Henry Johnson. The bandages on the negro's head allowed only one thing to appear, an eye, which unwinkingly stared at the judge. The later spoke to Trescott on the condition of the patient. Afterward he evidently had something further to say, but he seemed to be kept from it by the scrutiny of the unwinking eye, at which he furtively glanced from time to time. When Jimmie Trescott was sufficiently recovered, his mother had taken him to pay a visit to his grandparents in Connecticut. The doctor had remained to take care of his patients, but as a matter of truth he spent most of his time at Judge Hagenthorpe's house, where lay Henry Johnson. Here he slept and ate almost every meal in the long nights and days of his vigil. At dinner, and away from the magic of the unwinking eye, the judge said, suddenly, "Trescott, do you think it is--" As Trescott paused expectantly, the judge fingered his knife. He said, thoughtfully, "No one wants to advance such ideas, but somehow I think that that poor fellow ought to die." There was in Trescott's face at once a look of recognition, as if in this tangent of the judge he saw an old problem. He merely sighed and answered, "Who knows?" The words were spoken in a deep tone that gave them an elusive kind of significance. The judge retreated to the cold manner of the bench. "Perhaps we may not talk with propriety of this kind of action, but I am induced to say that you are performing a questionable charity in preserving this negro's life. As near as I can understand, he will hereafter be a monster, a perfect monster, and probably with an affected brain. No man can observe you as I have observed you and not know that it was a matter of conscience with you, but I am afraid, my friend, that it is one of the blunders of virtue." The judge had delivered his views with his habitual oratory. The last three words he spoke with a particular emphasis, as if the phrase was his discovery. The doctor made a weary gesture. "He saved my boy's life." "Yes," said the judge, swiftly--"yes, I know!" "And what am I to do?" said Trescott, his eyes suddenly lighting like an outburst from smouldering peat. "What am I to do? He gave himself for--for Jimmie. What am I to do for him?" The judge abased himself completely before these words. He lowered his eyes for a moment. He picked at his cucumbers. Presently he braced himself straightly in his chair. "He will be your creation, you understand. He is purely your creation. Nature has very evidently given him up. He is dead. You are restoring him to life. You are making him, and he will be a monster, and with no mind. "He will be what you like, judge," cried Trescott, in sudden, polite fury. "He will be anything, but, by God! he saved my boy." The judge interrupted in a voice trembling with emotion: "Trescott! Trescott! Don't I know?" Trescott had subsided to a sullen mood. "Yes, you know," he answered, acidly; "but you don't know all about your own boy being saved from death." This was a perfectly childish allusion to the judge's bachelorhood. Trescott knew that the remark was infantile, but he seemed to take desperate delight in it. But it passed the judge completely. It was not his spot. "I am puzzled," said he, in profound thought. "I don't know what to say." Trescott had become repentant. "Don't think I don't appreciate what you say, judge. But--" "Of course!" responded the judge, quickly. "Of course." "It--" began Trescott. "Of course," said the judge. In silence they resumed their dinner. "Well," said the judge, ultimately, "it is hard for a man to know what to do." "It is," said the doctor, fervidly. There was another silence. It was broken by the judge: "Look here, Trescott; I don't want you to think--" "No, certainly not," answered the doctor, earnestly. "Well, I don't want you to think I would say anything to--It was only that I thought that I might be able to suggest to you that--perhaps--the affair was a little dubious." With an appearance of suddenly disclosing his real mental perturbation, the doctor said: "Well, what would you do? Would you kill him?" he asked, abruptly and sternly. "Trescott, you fool," said the old man, gently. "Oh, well, I know, judge, but then--" He turned red, and spoke with new violence: "Say, he saved my boy--do you see? He saved my boy." "You bet he did," cried the judge, with enthusiasm. "You bet he did." And they remained for a time gazing at each other, their faces illuminated with memories of a certain deed. After another silence, the judge said, "It is hard for a man to know what to do." XII Late one evening Trescott, returning from a professional call, paused his buggy at the Hagenthorpe gate. He tied the mare to the old tin-covered post, and entered the house. Ultimately he appeared with a companion--a man who walked slowly and carefully, as if he were learning. He was wrapped to the heels in an old-fashioned ulster. They entered the buggy and drove away. After a silence only broken by the swift and musical humming of the wheels on the smooth road, Trescott spoke. "Henry," he said, "I've got you a home here with old Alek Williams. You will have everything you want to eat and a good place to sleep, and I hope you will get along there all right. I will pay all your expenses, and come to see you as often as I can. If you don't get along, I want you to let me know as soon as possible, and then we will do what we can to make it better." The dark figure at the doctor's side answered with a cheerful laugh. "These buggy wheels don' look like I washed 'em yesterday, docteh," he said. Trescott hesitated for a moment, and then went on insistently, "I am taking you to Alek Williams, Henry, and I--" The figure chuckled again. "No, 'deed! No, seh! Alek Williams don' know a hoss! 'Deed he don't. He don' know a hoss from a pig." The laugh that followed was like the rattle of pebbles. Trescott turned and looked sternly and coldly at the dim form in the gloom from the buggy-top. "Henry," he said, "I didn't say anything about horses. I was saying--" "Hoss? Hoss?" said the quavering voice from these near shadows. "Hoss? 'Deed I don' know all erbout a boss! 'Deed I don't." There was a satirical chuckle. At the end of three miles the mare slackened and the doctor leaned forward, peering, while holding tight reins. The wheels of the buggy bumped often over out-cropping bowlders. A window shone forth, a simple square of topaz on a great black hill-side. Four dogs charged the buggy with ferocity, and when it did not promptly retreat, they circled courageously around the flanks, baying. A door opened near the window in the hill-side, and a man came and stood on a beach of yellow light. "Yah! yah! You Roveh! You Susie! Come yah! Come yah this minit!" Trescott called across the dark sea of grass, "Hello, Alek!" "Hello!" "Come down here and show me where to drive." The man plunged from the beach into the surf, and Trescott could then only trace his course by the fervid and polite ejaculations of a host who was somewhere approaching. Presently Williams took the mare by the head, and uttering cries of welcome and scolding the swarming dogs, led the equipage towards the lights. When they halted at the door and Trescott was climbing out, Williams cried, "Will she stand, docteh?" "She'll stand all right, but you better hold her for a minute. Now, Henry." The doctor turned and held both arms to the dark figure. It crawled to him painfully like a man going down a ladder. Williams took the mare away to be tied to a little tree, and when he returned he found them awaiting him in the gloom beyond the rays from the door. He burst out then like a siphon pressed by a nervous thumb. "Hennery! Hennery, ma ol' frien'. Well, if I ain' glade. If I ain' glade!" Trescott had taken the silent shape by the arm and led it forward into the full revelation of the light. "Well, now, Alek, you can take Henry and put him to bed, and in the morning I will--" Near the end of this sentence old Williams had come front to front with Johnson. He gasped for a second, and then yelled the yell of a man stabbed in the heart. For a fraction of a moment Trescott seemed to be looking for epithets. Then he roared: "You old black chump! You old black--Shut up! Shut up! Do you hear?" Williams obeyed instantly in the matter of his screams, but he continued in a lowered voice: "Ma Lode amassy! Who'd ever think? Ma Lode amassy!" Trescott spoke again in the manner of a commander of a battalion. "Alek!" The old negro again surrendered, but to himself he repeated in a whisper, "Ma Lode!" He was aghast and trembling. As these three points of widening shadows approached the golden doorway a hale old negress appeared there, bowing. "Good-evenin', docteh! Good-evenin'! Come in! come in!" She had evidently just retired from a tempestuous struggle to place the room in order, but she was now bowing rapidly. She made the effort of a person swimming. "Don't trouble yourself, Mary," said Trescott, entering. "I've brought Henry for you to take care of, and all you've got to do is to carry out what I tell you." Learning that he was not followed, he faced the door, and said, "Come in, Henry." Johnson entered. "Whee!" shrieked Mrs. Williams. She almost achieved a back somersault. Six young members of the tribe of Williams made a simultaneous plunge for a position behind the stove, and formed a wailing heap. XIII "You know very well that you and your family lived usually on less than three dollars a week, and now that Dr. Trescott pays you five dollars a week for Johnson's board, you live like millionaires. You haven't done a stroke of work since Johnson began to board with you--everybody knows that--and so what are you kicking about?" The judge sat in his chair on the porch, fondling his cane, and gazing down at old Williams, who stood under the lilac-bushes. "Yes, I know, jedge," said the negro, wagging his head in a puzzled manner. "Tain't like as if I didn't 'preciate what the docteh done, but--but--well, yeh see, jedge," he added, gaining a new impetus, "it's--it's hard wuk. This ol' man nev' did wuk so hard. Lode, no." "Don't talk such nonsense, Alek," spoke the judge, sharply. "You have never really worked in your life--anyhow, enough to support a family of sparrows, and now when you are in a more prosperous condition than ever before, you come around talking like an old fool." The negro began to scratch his head. "Yeh see, jedge," he said at last, "my ol' 'ooman she cain't 'ceive no lady callahs, nohow." "Hang lady callers'" said the judge, irascibly. "If you have flour in the barrel and meat in the pot, your wife can get along without receiving lady callers, can't she?" "But they won't come ainyhow, jedge," replied Williams, with an air of still deeper stupefaction. "Noner ma wife's frien's ner noner ma frien's 'll come near ma res'dence." "Well, let them stay home if they are such silly people." The old negro seemed to be seeking a way to elude this argument, but evidently finding none, he was about to shuffle meekly off. He halted, however. "Jedge," said he, "ma ol' 'ooman's near driv' abstracted." "Your old woman is an idiot," responded the judge. Williams came very close and peered solemnly through a branch of lilac. "Judge," he whispered, "the chillens." "What about them?" Dropping his voice to funereal depths, Williams said, "They--they cain't eat." "Can't eat!" scoffed the judge, loudly. "Can't eat! You must think I am as big an old fool as you are. Can't eat--the little rascals! What's to prevent them from eating?" In answer, Williams said, with mournful emphasis, "Hennery." Moved with a kind of satisfaction at his tragic use of the name, he remained staring at the judge for a sign of its effect. The judge made a gesture of irritation. "Come, now, you old scoundrel, don't beat around the bush any more. What are you up to? What do you want? Speak out like a man, and don't give me any more of this tiresome rigamarole." "I ain't er-beatin' round 'bout nuffin, jedge," replied Williams, indignantly. "No, seh; I say whatter got to say right out. 'Deed I do." "Well, say it, then." "Jedge," began the negro, taking off his hat and switching his knee with it, "Lode knows I'd do jes 'bout as much fer five dollehs er week as ainy cul'd man, but--but this yere business is awful, jedge. I raikon 'ain't been no sleep in--in my house sence docteh done fetch 'im." "Well, what do you propose to do about it?" Williams lifted his eyes from the ground and gazed off through the trees. "Raikon I got good appetite, an' sleep jes like er dog, but he--he's done broke me all up. 'Tain't no good, nohow. I wake up in the night; I hear 'im, mebbe, er-whimperin' an' er-whimperin', an' I sneak an' I sneak until I try th' do' to see if he locked in. An' he keep me er-puzzlin' an' er-quakin' all night long. Don't know how'll do in th' winter. Can't let 'im out where th' chillen is. He'll done freeze where he is now." Williams spoke these sentences as if he were talking to himself. After a silence of deep reflection he continued: "Folks go round sayin' he ain't Hennery Johnson at all. They say he's er devil!" "What?" cried the judge. "Yesseh," repeated Williams, in tones of injury, as if his veracity had been challenged. "Yesseh. I'm er-tellin' it to yeh straight, jedge. Plenty cul'd people folks up my way say it is a devil." "Well, you don't think so yourself, do you?" "No. 'Tain't no devil. It's Hennery Johnson." "Well, then, what is the matter with you? You don't care what a lot of foolish people say. Go on 'tending to your business, and pay no attention to such idle nonsense." "'Tis nonsense, jedge; but he _looks_ like er devil." "What do you care what he looks like?" demanded the judge. "Ma rent is two dollehs and er half er month," said Williams, slowly. "It might just as well be ten thousand dollars a month," responded the judge. "You never pay it, anyhow." "Then, anoth' thing," continued Williams, in his reflective tone. "If he was all right in his haid I could stan' it; but, jedge, he's crazier 'n er loon. Then when he looks like er devil, an' done skears all ma frien's away, an' ma chillens cain't eat, an' ma ole 'ooman jes raisin' Cain all the time, an' ma rent two dollehs an' er half er month, an' him not right in his haid, it seems like five dollehs er week--" The judge's stick came down sharply and suddenly upon the floor of the porch. "There," he said, "I thought that was what you were driving at." Williams began swinging his head from side to side in the strange racial mannerism. "Now hol' on a minnet, jedge," he said, defensively. "'Tain't like as if I didn't 'preciate what the docteh done. 'Tain't that. Docteh Trescott is er kind man, an' 'tain't like as if I didn't 'preciate what he done; but--but--" "But what? You are getting painful, Alek. Now tell me this: did you ever have five dollars a week regularly before in your life?" Williams at once drew himself up with great dignity, but in the pause after that question he drooped gradually to another attitude. In the end he answered, heroically: "No, jedge, I 'ain't. An' 'tain't like as if I was er-sayin' five dollehs wasn't er lot er money for a man like me. But, jedge, what er man oughter git fer this kinder wuk is er salary. Yesseh, jedge," he repeated, with a great impressive gesture; "fer this kinder wuk er man oughter git er Salary." He laid a terrible emphasis upon the final word. The judge laughed. "I know Dr. Trescott's mind concerning this affair, Alek; and if you are dissatisfied with your boarder, he is quite ready to move him to some other place; so, if you care to leave word with me that you are tired of the arrangement and wish it changed, he will come and take Johnson away." Williams scratched his head again in deep perplexity. "Five dollehs is er big price fer bo'd, but 'tain't no big price fer the bo'd of er crazy man," he said, finally. "What do you think you ought to get?" asked the judge. "Well," answered Alek, in the manner of one deep in a balancing of the scales, "he looks like er devil, an' done skears e'rybody, an' ma chillens cain't eat, an' I cain't sleep, an' he ain't right in his haid, an'--" "You told me all those things." After scratching his wool, and beating his knee with his hat, and gazing off through the trees and down at the ground, Williams said, as he kicked nervously at the gravel, "Well, jedge, I think it is wuth--" He stuttered. "Worth what?" "Six dollehs," answered Williams, in a desperate outburst. The judge lay back in his great arm-chair and went through all the motions of a man laughing heartily, but he made no sound save a slight cough. Williams had been watching him with apprehension. "Well," said the judge, "do you call six dollars a salary?" "No, seh," promptly responded Williams. "'Tain't a salary. No, 'deed! 'Tain't a salary." He looked with some anger upon the man who questioned his intelligence in this way. "Well, supposing your children can't eat?" "I--" "And supposing he looks like a devil? And supposing all those things continue? Would you be satisfied with six dollars a week?" Recollections seemed to throng in Williams's mind at these interrogations, and he answered dubiously. "Of co'se a man who ain't right in his haid, an' looks like er devil--But six dollehs--" After these two attempts at a sentence Williams suddenly appeared as an orator, with a great shiny palm waving in the air. "I tell yeh, jedge, six dollehs is six dollehs, but if I git six dollehs for bo'ding Hennery Johnson, I uhns it! I uhns it!" "I don't doubt that you earn six dollars for every week's work you do," said the judge. "Well, if I bo'd Hennery Johnson fer six dollehs er week, I uhns it! I uhns it!" cried Williams, wildly. [Illustration: "'If I Get Six Dollehs for Bo'ding Hennery Johnson, I Uhns It'"] XIV Reifsnyder's assistant had gone to his supper, and the owner of the shop was trying to placate four men who wished to be shaved at once. Reifsnyder was very garrulous--a fact which made him rather remarkable among barbers, who, as a class, are austerely speechless, having been taught silence by the hammering reiteration of a tradition. It is the customers who talk in the ordinary event. As Reifsnyder waved his razor down the cheek of a man in the chair, he turned often to cool the impatience of the others with pleasant talk, which they did not particularly heed. "Oh, he should have let him die," said Bainbridge, a railway engineer, finally replying to one of the barber's orations. "Shut up, Reif, and go on with your business!" Instead, Reifsnyder paused shaving entirely, and turned to front the speaker. "Let him die?" he demanded. "How vas that? How can you let a man die?" "By letting him die, you chump," said the engineer. The others laughed a little, and Reifsnyder turned at once to his work, sullenly, as a man overwhelmed by the derision of numbers. "How vas that?" he grumbled later. "How can you let a man die when he vas done so much for you?" "'When he vas done so much for you?'" repeated Bainbridge. "You better shave some people. How vas that? Maybe this ain't a barber shop?" A man hitherto silent now said, "If I had been the doctor, I would have done the same thing." "Of course," said Reifsnyder. "Any man vould do it. Any man that vas not like you, you--old--flint-hearted--fish." He had sought the final words with painful care, and he delivered the collection triumphantly at Bainbridge. The engineer laughed. The man in the chair now lifted himself higher, while Reifsnyder began an elaborate ceremony of anointing and combing his hair. Now free to join comfortably in the talk, the man said: "They say he is the most terrible thing in the world. Young Johnnie Bernard--that drives the grocery wagon--saw him up at Alek Williams's shanty, and he says he couldn't eat anything for two days." "Chee!" said Reifsnyder. "Well, what makes him so terrible?" asked another. "Because he hasn't got any face," replied the barber and the engineer in duct. "Hasn't got any face!" repeated the man. "How can he do without any face?" "He has no face in the front of his head. In the place where his face ought to grow." Bainbridge sang these lines pathetically as he arose and hung his hat on a hook. The man in the chair was about to abdicate in his favor. "Get a gait on you now," he said to Reifsnyder. "I go out at 7.31." As the barber foamed the lather on the cheeks of the engineer he seemed to be thinking heavily. Then suddenly he burst out. "How would you like to be with no face?" he cried to the assemblage. "Oh, if I had to have a face like yours--" answered one customer. Bainbridge's voice came from a sea of lather. "You're kicking because if losing faces became popular, you'd have to go out of business." "I don't think it will become so much popular," said Reifsnyder. "Not if it's got to be taken off in the way his was taken off," said another man. "I'd rather keep mine, if you don't mind." "I guess so!" cried the barber. "Just think!" The shaving of Bainbridge had arrived at a time of comparative liberty for him. "I wonder what the doctor says to himself?" he observed. "He may be sorry he made him live." "It was the only thing he could do," replied a man. The others seemed to agree with him. "Supposing you were in his place," said one, "and Johnson had saved your kid. What would you do?" "Certainly!" "Of course! You would do anything on earth for him. You'd take all the trouble in the world for him. And spend your last dollar on him. Well, then?" "I wonder how it feels to be without any face?" said Reifsnyder, musingly. The man who had previously spoken, feeling that he had expressed himself well, repeated the whole thing. "You would do anything on earth for him. You'd take all the trouble in the world for him. And spend your last dollar on him. Well, then?" "No, but look," said Reifsnyder; "supposing you don't got a face!" XV As soon as Williams was hidden from the view of the old judge he began to gesture and talk to himself. An elation had evidently penetrated to his vitals, and caused him to dilate as if he had been filled with gas. He snapped his fingers in the air, and whistled fragments of triumphal music. At times, in his progress towards his shanty, he indulged in a shuffling movement that was really a dance. It was to be learned from the intermediate monologue that he had emerged from his trials laurelled and proud. He was the unconquerable Alexander Williams. Nothing could exceed the bold self-reliance of his manner. His kingly stride, his heroic song, the derisive flourish of his hands--all betokened a man who had successfully defied the world. On his way he saw Zeke Paterson coming to town. They hailed each other at a distance of fifty yards. "How do, Broth' Paterson?" "How do, Broth' Williams?" They were both deacons. "Is you' folks well, Broth' Paterson?" "Middlin', middlin'. How's you' folks, Broth' Williams?" Neither of them had slowed his pace in the smallest degree. They had simply begun this talk when a considerable space separated them, continued it as they passed, and added polite questions as they drifted steadily apart. Williams's mind seemed to be a balloon. He had been so inflated that he had not noticed that Paterson had definitely shied into the dry ditch as they came to the point of ordinary contact. Afterwards, as he went a lonely way, he burst out again in song and pantomimic celebration of his estate. His feet moved in prancing steps. When he came in sight of his cabin, the fields were bathed in a blue dusk, and the light in the window was pale. Cavorting and gesticulating, he gazed joyfully for some moments upon this light. Then suddenly another idea seemed to attack his mind, and he stopped, with an air of being suddenly dampened. In the end he approached his home as if it were the fortress of an enemy. Some dogs disputed his advance for a loud moment, and then discovering their lord, slunk away embarrassed. His reproaches were addressed to them in muffled tones. Arriving at the door, he pushed it open with the timidity of a new thief. He thrust his head cautiously sideways, and his eyes met the eyes of his wife, who sat by the table, the lamp-light defining a half of her face. '"Sh!" he said, uselessly. His glance travelled swiftly to the inner door which shielded the one bed-chamber. The pickaninnies, strewn upon the floor of the living-room, were softly snoring. After a hearty meal they had promptly dispersed themselves about the place and gone to sleep. "'Sh!" said Williams again to his motionless and silent wife. He had allowed only his head to appear. His wife, with one hand upon the edge of the table and the other at her knee, was regarding him with wide eyes and parted lips as if he were a spectre. She looked to be one who was living in terror, and even the familiar face at the door had thrilled her because it had come suddenly. Williams broke the tense silence. "Is he all right?" he whispered, waving his eyes towards the inner door. Following his glance timorously, his wife nodded, and in a low tone answered: "I raikon he's done gone t' sleep." Williams then slunk noiselessly across his threshold. He lifted a chair, and with infinite care placed it so that it faced the dreaded inner door. His wife moved slightly, so as to also squarely face it. A silence came upon them in which they seemed to be waiting for a calamity, pealing and deadly. Williams finally coughed behind his hand. His wife started, and looked upon him in alarm. "Pears like he done gwine keep quiet ternight," he breathed. They continually pointed their speech and their looks at the inner door, paying it the homage due to a corpse or a phantom. Another long stillness followed this sentence. Their eyes shone white and wide. A wagon rattled down the distant road. From their chairs they looked at the window, and the effect of the light in the cabin was a presentation of an intensely black and solemn night. The old woman adopted the attitude used always in church at funerals. At times she seemed to be upon the point of breaking out in prayer. "He mighty quiet ter-night," whispered Williams. "Was he good ter-day?" For answer his wife raised her eyes to the ceiling in the supplication of Job. Williams moved restlessly. Finally he tiptoed to the door. He knelt slowly and without a sound, and placed his ear near the key-hole. Hearing a noise behind him, he turned quickly. His wife was staring at him aghast. She stood in front of the stove, and her arms were spread out in the natural movement to protect all her sleeping ducklings. But Williams arose without having touched the door. "I raikon he er-sleep," he said, fingering his wool. He debated with himself for some time. During this interval his wife remained, a great fat statue of a mother shielding her children. It was plain that his mind was swept suddenly by a wave of temerity. With a sounding step he moved towards the door. His fingers were almost upon the knob when he swiftly ducked and dodged away, clapping his hands to the back of his head. It was as if the portal had threatened him. There was a little tumult near the stove, where Mrs. Williams's desperate retreat had involved her feet with the prostrate children. After the panic Williams bore traces of a feeling of shame. He returned to the charge. He firmly grasped the knob with his left hand, and with his other hand turned the key in the lock. He pushed the door, and as it swung portentously open he sprang nimbly to one side like the fearful slave liberating the lion. Near the stove a group had formed, the terror stricken mother, with her arms stretched, and the aroused children clinging frenziedly to her skirts. The light streamed after the swinging door, and disclosed a room six feet one way and six feet the other way. It was small enough to enable the radiance to lay it plain. Williams peered warily around the corner made by the door-post. Suddenly he advanced, retired, and advanced again with a howl. His palsied family had expected him to spring backward, and at his howl they heaped themselves wondrously. But Williams simply stood in the little room emitting his howls before an open window. "He's gone! He's gone! He's gone!" His eye and his hand had speedily proved the fact. He had even thrown open a little cupboard. Presently he came flying out. He grabbed his hat, and hurled the outer door back upon its hinges. Then he tumbled headlong into the night. He was yelling: "Docteh Trescott! Docteh Trescott!" He ran wildly through the fields, and galloped in the direction of town. He continued to call to Trescott, as if the latter was within easy hearing. It was as if Trescott was poised in the contemplative sky over the running negro, and could heed this reaching voice--"Docteh Trescott!" In the cabin, Mrs. Williams, supported by relays from the battalion of children, stood quaking watch until the truth of daylight came as a reinforcement and made the arrogant, strutting, swashbuckler children, and a mother who proclaimed her illimitable courage. [Illustration: "The Door Swung Portentously Open"] XVI Theresa Page was giving a party. It was the outcome of a long series of arguments addressed to her mother, which had been overheard in part by her father. He had at last said five words, "Oh, let her have it." The mother had then gladly capitulated. Theresa had written nineteen invitations, and distributed them at recess to her schoolmates. Later her mother had composed five large cakes, and still later a vast amount of lemonade. So the nine little girls and the ten little boys sat quite primly in the dining-room, while Theresa and her mother plied them with cake and lemonade, and also with ice-cream. This primness sat now quite strangely upon them. It was owing to the presence of Mrs. Page. Previously in the parlor alone with their games they had overturned a chair; the boys had let more or less of their hoodlum spirit shine forth. But when circumstances could be possibly magnified to warrant it, the girls made the boys victims of an insufferable pride, snubbing them mercilessly. So in the dining-room they resembled a class at Sunday-school, if it were not for the subterranean smiles, gestures, rebuffs, and poutings which stamped the affair as a children's party. Two little girls of this subdued gathering were planted in a settle with their backs to the broad window. They were beaming lovingly upon each other with an effect of scorning the boys. Hearing a noise behind her at the window, one little girl turned to face it. Instantly she screamed and sprang away, covering her face with her hands. "What was it? What was it?" cried every one in a roar. Some slight movement of the eyes of the weeping and shuddering child informed the company that she had been frightened by an appearance at the window. At once they all faced the imperturbable window, and for a moment there was a silence. An astute lad made an immediate census of the other lads. The prank of slipping out and looming spectrally at a window was too venerable. But the little boys were all present and astonished. As they recovered their minds they uttered warlike cries, and through a side door sallied rapidly out against the terror. They vied with each other in daring. None wished particularly to encounter a dragon in the darkness of the garden, but there could be no faltering when the fair ones in the dining-room were present. Calling to each other in stern voices, they went dragooning over the lawn, attacking the shadows with ferocity, but still with the caution of reasonable beings. They found, however, nothing new to the peace of the night. Of course there was a lad who told a great lie. He described a grim figure, bending low and slinking off along the fence. He gave a number of details, rendering his lie more splendid by a repetition of certain forms which he recalled from romances. For instance, he insisted that he had heard the creature emit a hollow laugh. Inside the house the little girl who had raised the alarm was still shuddering and weeping. With the utmost difficulty was she brought to a state approximating calmness by Mrs. Page. Then she wanted to go home at once. Page entered the house at this time. He had exiled himself until he concluded that this children's party was finished and gone. He was obliged to escort the little girl home because she screamed again when they opened the door and she saw the night. She was not coherent even to her mother. Was it a man? She didn't know. It was simply a thing, a dreadful thing. XVII In Watermelon Alley the Farraguts were spending their evening as usual on the little rickety porch. Sometimes they howled gossip to other people on other rickety porches. The thin wail of a baby arose from a near house. A man had a terrific altercation with his wife, to which the alley paid no attention at all. There appeared suddenly before the Farraguts a monster making a low and sweeping bow. There was an instant's pause, and then occurred something that resembled the effect of an upheaval of the earth's surface. The old woman hurled herself backward with a dreadful cry. Young Sim had been perched gracefully on a railing. At sight of the monster he simply fell over it to the ground. He made no sound, his eyes stuck out, his nerveless hands tried to grapple the rail to prevent a tumble, and then he vanished. Bella, blubbering, and with her hair suddenly and mysteriously dishevelled, was crawling on her hands and knees fearsomely up the steps. Standing before this wreck of a family gathering, the monster continued to bow. It even raised a deprecatory claw. "Doh' make no botheration 'bout me, Miss Fa'gut," it said, politely. "No, 'deed. I jes drap in ter ax if yer well this evenin', Miss Fa'gut. Don' make no botheration. No, 'deed. I gwine ax you to go to er daince with me, Miss Fa'gut. I ax you if I can have the magnifercent gratitude of you' company on that 'casion, Miss Fa'gut." The girl cast a miserable glance behind her. She was still crawling away. On the ground beside the porch young Sim raised a strange bleat, which expressed both his fright and his lack of wind. Presently the monster, with a fashionable amble, ascended the steps after the girl. She grovelled in a corner of the room as the creature took a chair. It seated itself very elegantly on the edge. It held an old cap in both hands. "Don' make no botheration, Miss Fa'gut. Don' make no botherations. No, 'deed. I jes drap in ter ax you if you won' do me the proud of acceptin' ma humble invitation to er daince, Miss Fa'gut." She shielded her eyes with her arms and tried to crawl past it, but the genial monster blocked the way. "I jes drap in ter ax you 'bout er daince, Miss Fa'gut. I ax you if I kin have the magnifercent gratitude of you' company on that 'casion, Miss Fa'gut." In a last outbreak of despair, the girl, shuddering and wailing, threw herself face downward on the floor, while the monster sat on the edge of the chair gabbling courteous invitations, and holding the old hat daintily to his stomach. At the back of the house, Mrs. Farragut, who was of enormous weight, and who for eight years had done little more than sit in an armchair and describe her various ailments, had with speed and agility scaled a high board fence. [Illustration: "Mrs. Farragut"] XVIII The black mass in the middle of Trescott's property was hardly allowed to cool before the builders were at work on another house. It had sprung upward at a fabulous rate. It was like a magical composition born of the ashes. The doctor's office was the first part to be completed, and he had already moved in his new books and instruments and medicines. Trescott sat before his desk when the chief of police arrived. "Well, we found him," said the latter. "Did you?" cried the doctor. "Where?" "Shambling around the streets at daylight this morning. I'll be blamed if I can figure on where he passed the night." "Where is he now?" "Oh, we jugged him. I didn't know what else to do with him. That's what I want you to tell me. Of course we can't keep him. No charge could be made, you know." "I'll come down and get him." The official grinned retrospectively. "Must say he had a fine career while he was out. First thing he did was to break up a children's party at Page's. Then he went to Watermelon Alley. Whoo! He stampeded the whole outfit. Men, women, and children running pell-mell, and yelling. They say one old woman broke her leg, or something, shinning over a fence. Then he went right out on the main street, and an Irish girl threw a fit, and there was a sort of a riot. He began to run, and a big crowd chased him, firing rocks. But he gave them the slip somehow down there by the foundry and in the railroad yard. We looked for him all night, but couldn't find him." "Was he hurt any? Did anybody hit him with a stone?" "Guess there isn't much of him to hurt any more, is there? Guess he's been hurt up to the limit. No. They never touched him. Of course nobody really wanted to hit him, but you know how a crowd gets. It's like--it's like--" "Yes, I know." For a moment the chief of the police looked reflectively at the floor. Then he spoke hesitatingly. "You know Jake Winter's little girl was the one that he scared at the party. She is pretty sick, they say." "Is she? Why, they didn't call me. I always attend the Winter family." "No? Didn't they?" asked the chief, slowly. "Well--you know--Winter is--well, Winter has gone clean crazy over this business. He wanted--he wanted to have you arrested." "Have me arrested? The idiot! What in the name of wonder could he have me arrested for?" "Of course. He is a fool. I told him to keep his trap shut. But then you know how he'll go all over town yapping about the thing. I thought I'd better tip you." "Oh, he is of no consequence; but then, of course, I'm obliged to you, Sam." "That's all right. Well, you'll be down tonight and take him out, eh? You'll get a good welcome from the jailer. He don't like his job for a cent. He says you can have your man whenever you want him. He's got no use for him." "But what is this business of Winter's about having me arrested?" "Oh, it's a lot of chin about your having no right to allow this--this--this man to be at large. But I told him to tend to his own business. Only I thought I'd better let you know. And I might as well say right now, doctor, that there is a good deal of talk about this thing. If I were you, I'd come to the jail pretty late at night, because there is likely to be a crowd around the door, and I'd bring a--er--mask, or some kind of a veil, anyhow." XIX Martha Goodwin was single, and well along into the thin years. She lived with her married sister in Whilomville. She performed nearly all the house-work in exchange for the privilege of existence. Every one tacitly recognized her labor as a form of penance for the early end of her betrothed, who had died of small-pox, which he had not caught from her. But despite the strenuous and unceasing workaday of her life, she was a woman of great mind. She had adamantine opinions upon the situation in Armenia, the condition of women in China, the flirtation between Mrs. Minster of Niagara Avenue and young Griscom, the conflict in the Bible class of the Baptist Sunday-school, the duty of the United States towards the Cuban insurgents, and many other colossal matters. Her fullest experience of violence was gained on an occasion when she had seen a hound clubbed, but in the plan which she had made for the reform of the world she advocated drastic measures. For instance, she contended that all the Turks should be pushed into the sea and drowned, and that Mrs. Minster and young Griscom should be hanged side by side on twin gallows. In fact, this woman of peace, who had seen only peace, argued constantly for a creed of illimitable ferocity. She was invulnerable on these questions, because eventually she overrode all opponents with a sniff. This sniff was an active force. It was to her antagonists like a bang over the head, and none was known to recover from this expression of exalted contempt. It left them windless and conquered. They never again came forward as candidates for suppression. And Martha walked her kitchen with a stern brow, an invincible being like Napoleon. Nevertheless her acquaintances, from the pain of their defeats, had been long in secret revolt. It was in no wise a conspiracy, because they did not care to state their open rebellion, but nevertheless it was understood that any woman who could not coincide with one of Martha's contentions was entitled to the support of others in the small circle. It amounted to an arrangement by which all were required to disbelieve any theory for which Martha fought. This, however, did not prevent them from speaking of her mind with profound respect. Two people bore the brunt of her ability. Her sister Kate was visibly afraid of her, while Carrie Dungen sailed across from her kitchen to sit respectfully at Martha's feet and learn the business of the world. To be sure, afterwards, under another sun, she always laughed at Martha and pretended to deride her ideas, but in the presence of the sovereign she always remained silent or admiring. Kate, the sister, was of no consequence at all. Her principal delusion was that she did all the work in the up-stairs rooms of the house, while Martha did it down-stairs. The truth was seen only by the husband, who treated Martha with a kindness that was half banter, half deference. Martha herself had no suspicion that she was the only pillar of the domestic edifice. The situation was without definitions. Martha made definitions, but she devoted them entirely to the Armenians and Griscom and the Chinese and other subjects. Her dreams, which in early days had been of love of meadows and the shade of trees, of the face of a man, were now involved otherwise, and they were companioned in the kitchen curiously, Cuba, the hot-water kettle, Armenia, the washing of the dishes, and the whole thing being jumbled. In regard to social misdemeanors, she who was simply the mausoleum of a dead passion was probably the most savage critic in town. This unknown woman, hidden in a kitchen as in a well, was sure to have a considerable effect of the one kind or the other in the life of the town. Every time it moved a yard, she had personally contributed an inch. She could hammer so stoutly upon the door of a proposition that it would break from its hinges and fall upon her, but at any rate it moved. She was an engine, and the fact that she did not know that she was an engine contributed largely to the effect. One reason that she was formidable was that she did not even imagine that she was formidable. She remained a weak, innocent, and pig-headed creature, who alone would defy the universe if she thought the universe merited this proceeding. One day Carrie Dungen came across from her kitchen with speed. She had a great deal of grist. "Oh," she cried, "Henry Johnson got away from where they was keeping him, and came to town last night, and scared everybody almost to death." Martha was shining a dish-pan, polishing madly. No reasonable person could see cause for this operation, because the pan already glistened like silver. "Well!" she ejaculated. She imparted to the word a deep meaning. "This, my prophecy, has come to pass." It was a habit. The overplus of information was choking Carrie. Before she could go on she was obliged to struggle for a moment. "And, oh, little Sadie Winter is awful sick, and they say Jake Winter was around this morning trying to get Doctor Trescott arrested. And poor old Mrs. Farragut sprained her ankle in trying to climb a fence. And there's a crowd around the jail all the time. They put Henry in jail because they didn't know what else to do with him, I guess. They say he is perfectly terrible." Martha finally released the dish-pan and confronted the headlong speaker. "Well!" she said again, poising a great brown rag. Kate had heard the excited new-comer, and drifted down from the novel in her room. She was a shivery little woman. Her shoulder-blades seemed to be two panes of ice, for she was constantly shrugging and shrugging. "Serves him right if he was to lose all his patients," she said suddenly, in blood-thirsty tones. She snipped her words out as if her lips were scissors. "Well, he's likely to," shouted Carrie Dungen. "Don't a lot of people say that they won't have him any more? If you're sick and nervous, Doctor Trescott would scare the life out of you, wouldn't he? He would me. I'd keep thinking." Martha, stalking to and fro, sometimes surveyed the two other women with a contemplative frown. XX After the return from Connecticut, little Jimmie was at first much afraid of the monster who lived in the room over the carriage-house. He could not identify it in any way. Gradually, however, his fear dwindled under the influence of a weird fascination. He sidled into closer and closer relations with it. One time the monster was seated on a box behind the stable basking in the rays of the afternoon sun. A heavy crepe veil was swathed about its head. Little Jimmie and many companions came around the corner of the stable. They were all in what was popularly known as the baby class, and consequently escaped from school a half-hour before the other children. They halted abruptly at sight of the figure on the box. Jimmie waved his hand with the air of a proprietor. "There he is," he said. "O-o-o!" murmured all the little boys--"o-o-o!" They shrank back, and grouped according to courage or experience, as at the sound the monster slowly turned its head. Jimmie had remained in the van alone. "Don't be afraid! I won't let him hurt you," he said, delighted. "Huh!" they replied, contemptuously. "We ain't afraid." Jimmie seemed to reap all the joys of the owner and exhibitor of one of the world's marvels, while his audience remained at a distance--awed and entranced, fearful and envious. One of them addressed Jimmie gloomily. "Bet you dassent walk right up to him." He was an older boy than Jimmie, and habitually oppressed him to a small degree. This new social elevation of the smaller lad probably seemed revolutionary to him. "Huh!" said Jimmie, with deep scorn. "Dassent I? Dassent I, hey? Dassent I?" The group was immensely excited. It turned its eyes upon the boy that Jimmie addressed. "No, you dassent," he said, stolidly, facing a moral defeat. He could see that Jimmie was resolved. "No, you dassent," he repeated, doggedly. "Ho?" cried Jimmie. "You just watch!--you just watch!" Amid a silence he turned and marched towards the monster. But possibly the palpable wariness of his companions had an effect upon him that weighed more than his previous experience, for suddenly, when near to the monster, he halted dubiously. But his playmates immediately uttered a derisive shout, and it seemed to force him forward. He went to the monster and laid his hand delicately on its shoulder. "Hello, Henry," he said, in a voice that trembled a trifle. The monster was crooning a weird line of negro melody that was scarcely more than a thread of sound, and it paid no heed to the boy. Jimmie: strutted back to his companions. They acclaimed him and hooted his opponent. Amid this clamor the larger boy with difficulty preserved a dignified attitude. "I dassent, dassent I?" said Jimmie to him. "Now, you're so smart, let's see you do it!" This challenge brought forth renewed taunts from the others. The larger boy puffed out his checks. "Well, I ain't afraid," he explained, sullenly. He had made a mistake in diplomacy, and now his small enemies were tumbling his prestige all about his ears. They crowed like roosters and bleated like lambs, and made many other noises which were supposed to bury him in ridicule and dishonor. "Well, I ain't afraid," he continued to explain through the din. Jimmie, the hero of the mob, was pitiless. "You ain't afraid, hey?" he sneered. "If you ain't afraid, go do it, then." "Well, I would if I wanted to," the other retorted. His eyes wore an expression of profound misery, but he preserved steadily other portions of a pot-valiant air. He suddenly faced one of his persecutors. "If you're so smart, why don't you go do it?" This persecutor sank promptly through the group to the rear. The incident gave the badgered one a breathing-spell, and for a moment even turned the derision in another direction. He took advantage of his interval. "I'll do it if anybody else will," he announced, swaggering to and fro. Candidates for the adventure did not come forward. To defend themselves from this counter-charge, the other boys again set up their crowing and bleating. For a while they would hear nothing from him. Each time he opened his lips their chorus of noises made oratory impossible. But at last he was able to repeat that he would volunteer to dare as much in the affair as any other boy. "Well, you go first," they shouted. But Jimmie intervened to once more lead the populace against the large boy. "You're mighty brave, ain't you?" he said to him. "You dared me to do it, and I did--didn't I? Now who's afraid?" The others cheered this view loudly, and they instantly resumed the baiting of the large boy. He shamefacedly scratched his left shin with his right foot. "Well, I ain't afraid." He cast an eye at the monster. "Well, I ain't afraid." With a glare of hatred at his squalling tormentors, he finally announced a grim intention. "Well, I'll do it, then, since you're so fresh. Now!" The mob subsided as with a formidable countenance he turned towards the impassive figure on the box. The advance was also a regular progression from high daring to craven hesitation. At last, when some yards from the monster, the lad came to a full halt, as if he had encountered a stone wall. The observant little boys in the distance promptly hooted. Stung again by these cries, the lad sneaked two yards forward. He was crouched like a young cat ready for a backward spring. The crowd at the rear, beginning to respect this display, uttered some encouraging cries. Suddenly the lad gathered himself together, made a white and desperate rush forward, touched the monster's shoulder with a far-outstretched finger, and sped away, while his laughter rang out wild, shrill, and exultant. The crowd of boys reverenced him at once, and began to throng into his camp, and look at him, and be his admirers. Jimmie was discomfited for a moment, but he and the larger boy, without agreement or word of any kind, seemed to recognize a truce, and they swiftly combined and began to parade before the others. "Why, it's just as easy as nothing," puffed the larger boy. "Ain't it, Jim?" "Course," blew Jimmie. "Why, it's as e-e-easy." They were people of another class. If they had been decorated for courage on twelve battle-fields, they could not have made the other boys more ashamed of the situation. Meanwhile they condescended to explain the emotions of the excursion, expressing unqualified contempt for any one who could hang back. "Why, it ain't nothin'. He won't do nothin' to you," they told the others, in tones of exasperation. One of the very smallest boys in the party showed signs of a wistful desire to distinguish himself, and they turned their attention to him, pushing at his shoulders while he swung away from them, and hesitated dreamily. He was eventually induced to make furtive expedition, but it was only for a few yards. Then he paused, motionless, gazing with open mouth. The vociferous entreaties of Jimmie and the large boy had no power over him. Mrs. Hannigan had come out on her back porch with a pail of water. From this coign she had a view of the secluded portion of the Trescott grounds that was behind the stable. She perceived the group of boys, and the monster on the box. She shaded her eyes with her hand to benefit her vision. She screeched then as if she was being murdered. "Eddie! Eddie! You come home this minute!" Her son querulously demanded, "Aw, what for?" "You come home this minute. Do you hear?" The other boys seemed to think this visitation upon one of their number required them to preserve for a time the hang-dog air of a collection of culprits, and they remained in guilty silence until the little Hannigan, wrathfully protesting, was pushed through the door of his home. Mrs. Hannigan cast a piercing glance over the group, stared with a bitter face at the Trescott house, as if this new and handsome edifice was insulting her, and then followed her son. There was wavering in the party. An inroad by one mother always caused them to carefully sweep the horizon to see if there were more coming. "This is my yard," said Jimmie, proudly. "We don't have to go home." The monster on the box had turned its black crepe countenance towards the sky, and was waving its arms in time to a religious chant. "Look at him now," cried a little boy. They turned, and were transfixed by the solemnity and mystery of the indefinable gestures. The wail of the melody was mournful and slow. They drew back. It seemed to spellbind them with the power of a funeral. They were so absorbed that they did not hear the doctor's buggy drive up to the stable. Trescott got out, tied his horse, and approached the group. Jimmie saw him first, and at his look of dismay the others wheeled. "What's all this, Jimmie?" asked Trescott, in surprise. The lad advanced to the front of his companions, halted, and said nothing. Trescott's face gloomed slightly as he scanned the scene. "What were you doing, Jimmie?" "We was playin'," answered Jimmie, huskily. "Playing at what?" "Just playin'." Trescott looked gravely at the other boys, and asked them to please go home. They proceeded to the street much in the manner of frustrated and revealed assassins. The crime of trespass on another boy's place was still a crime when they had only accepted the other boy's cordial invitation, and they were used to being sent out of all manner of gardens upon the sudden appearance of a father or a mother. Jimmie had wretchedly watched the departure of his companions. It involved the loss of his position as a lad who controlled the privileges of his father's grounds, but then he knew that in the beginning he had no right to ask so many boys to be his guests. Once on the sidewalk, however, they speedily forgot their shame as trespassers, and the large boy launched forth in a description of his success in the late trial of courage. As they went rapidly up the street, the little boy who had made the furtive expedition cried out confidently from the rear, "Yes, and I went almost up to him, didn't I, Willie?" The large boy crushed him in a few words. "Huh!" he scoffed. "You only went a little way. I went clear up to him." The pace of the other boys was so manly that the tiny thing had to trot, and he remained at the rear, getting entangled in their legs in his attempts to reach the front rank and become of some importance, dodging this way and that way, and always piping out his little claim to glory. XXI "By-the-way, Grace," said Trescott, looking into the dining-room from his office door, "I wish you would send Jimmie to me before school-time." When Jimmie came, he advanced so quietly that Trescott did not at first note him. "Oh," he said, wheeling from a cabinet, "here you are, young man." "Yes, sir." Trescott dropped into his chair and tapped the desk with a thoughtful finger. "Jimmie, what were you doing in the back garden yesterday--you and the other boys--to Henry?" "We weren't doing anything, pa." Trescott looked sternly into the raised eyes of his son. "Are you sure you were not annoying him in any way? Now what were you doing, exactly?" "Why, we--why, we--now--Willie Dalzel said I dassent go right up to him, and I did; and then he did; and then--the other boys were 'fraid; and then--you comed." Trescott groaned deeply. His countenance was so clouded in sorrow that the lad, bewildered by the mystery of it, burst suddenly forth in dismal lamentations. "There, there. Don't cry, Jim," said Trescott, going round the desk. "Only--" He sat in a great leather reading-chair, and took the boy on his knee. "Only I want to explain to you--" After Jimmie had gone to school, and as Trescott was about to start on his round of morning calls, a message arrived from Doctor Moser. It set forth that the latter's sister was dying in the old homestead, twenty miles away up the valley, and asked Trescott to care for his patients for the day at least. There was also in the envelope a little history of each case and of what had already been done. Trescott replied to the messenger that he would gladly assent to the arrangement. He noted that the first name on Moser's list was Winter, but this did not seem to strike him as an important fact. When its turn came, he rang the Winter bell. "Good-morning, Mrs. Winter," he said, cheerfully, as the door was opened. "Doctor Moser has been obliged to leave town to-day, and he has asked me to come in his stead. How is the little girl this morning?" Mrs. Winter had regarded him in stony surprise. At last she said: "Come in! I'll see my husband." She bolted into the house. Trescott entered the hall, and turned to the left into the sitting-room. Presently Winter shuffled through the door. His eyes flashed towards Trescott. He did not betray any desire to advance far into the room. "What do you want?" he said. "What do I want? What do I want?" repeated Trescott, lifting his head suddenly. He had heard an utterly new challenge in the night of the jungle. "Yes, that's what I want to know," snapped Winter. "What do you want?" Trescott was silent for a moment. He consulted Moser's memoranda. "I see that your little girl's case is a trifle serious," he remarked. "I would advise you to call a physician soon. I will leave you a copy of Dr. Moser's record to give to any one you may call." He paused to transcribe the record on a page of his note-book. Tearing out the leaf, he extended it to Winter as he moved towards the door. The latter shrunk against the wall. His head was hanging as he reached for the paper. This caused him to grasp air, and so Trescott simply let the paper flutter to the feet of the other man. "Good-morning," said Trescott from the hall. This placid retreat seemed to suddenly arouse Winter to ferocity. It was as if he had then recalled all the truths which he had formulated to hurl at Trescott. So he followed him into the hall, and down the hall to the door, and through the door to the porch, barking in fiery rage from a respectful distance. As Trescott imperturbably turned the mare's head down the road, Winter stood on the porch, still yelping. He was like a little dog. XXII "Have you heard the news?" cried Carrie Dungen as she sped towards Martha's kitchen. "Have you heard the news?" Her eyes were shining with delight. "No," answered Martha's sister Kate, bending forward eagerly. "What was it? What was it?" Carrie appeared triumphantly in the open door. "Oh, there's been an awful scene between Doctor Trescott and Jake Winter. I never thought that Jake Winter had any pluck at all, but this morning he told the doctor just what he thought of him." "Well, what did he think of him?" asked Martha. "Oh, he called him everything. Mrs. Howarth heard it through her front blinds. It was terrible, she says. It's all over town now. Everybody knows it." "Didn't the doctor answer back?" "No! Mrs. Howarth--she says he never said a word. He just walked down to his buggy and got in, and drove off as co-o-o-l. But Jake gave him jinks, by all accounts." "But what did he say?" cried Kate, shrill and excited. She was evidently at some kind of a feast. "Oh, he told him that Sadie had never been well since that night Henry Johnson frightened her at Theresa Page's party, and he held him responsible, and how dared he cross his threshold--and--and--and--" "And what?" said Martha. "Did he swear at him?" said Kate, in fearsome glee. "No--not much. He did swear at him a little, but not more than a man does anyhow when he is real mad, Mrs. Howarth says." "O-oh!" breathed Kate. "And did he call him any names?" Martha, at her work, had been for a time in deep thought. She now interrupted the others. "It don't seem as if Sadie Winter had been sick since that time Henry Johnson got loose. She's been to school almost the whole time since then, hasn't she?" They combined upon her in immediate indignation. "School? School? I should say not. Don't think for a moment. School!" Martha wheeled from the sink. She held an iron spoon, and it seemed as if she was going to attack them. "Sadie Winter has passed here many a morning since then carrying her schoolbag. Where was she going? To a wedding?" The others, long accustomed to a mental tyranny, speedily surrendered. "Did she?" stammered Kate. "I never saw her." Carrie Dungen made a weak gesture. "If I had been Doctor Trescott," exclaimed Martha, loudly, "I'd have knocked that miserable Jake Winter's head off." Kate and Carrie, exchanging glances, made an alliance in the air. "I don't see why you say that, Martha," replied Carrie, with considerable boldness, gaining support and sympathy from Kate's smile. "I don't see how anybody can be blamed for getting angry when their little girl gets almost scared to death and gets sick from it, and all that. Besides, everybody says--" "Oh, I don't care what everybody says," said Martha. "Well, you can't go against the whole town," answered Carrie, in sudden sharp defiance. "No, Martha, you can't go against the whole town," piped Kate, following her leader rapidly. "'The whole town,'" cried Martha. "I'd like to know what you call 'the whole town.' Do you call these silly people who are scared of Henry Johnson 'the whole town'?" "Why, Martha," said Carrie, in a reasoning tone, "you talk as if you wouldn't be scared of him!" "No more would I," retorted Martha. "O-oh, Martha, how you talk!" said Kate. "Why, the idea! Everybody's afraid of him." Carrie was grinning. "You've never seen him, have you?" she asked, seductively. "No," admitted Martha. "Well, then, how do you know that you wouldn't be scared?" Martha confronted her. "Have you ever seen him? No? Well, then, how do you know you _would_ be scared?" The allied forces broke out in chorus: "But, Martha, everybody says so. Everybody says so." "Everybody says what?" "Everybody that's seen him say they were frightened almost to death. Tisn't only women, but it's men too. It's awful." Martha wagged her head solemnly. "I'd try not to be afraid of him." "But supposing you could not help it?" said Kate. "Yes, and look here," cried Carrie. "I'll tell you another thing. The Hannigans are going to move out of the house next door." "On account of him?" demanded Martha. Carrie nodded. "Mrs. Hannigan says so herself." "Well, of all things!" ejaculated Martha. "Going to move, eh? You don't say so! Where they going to move to?" "Down on Orchard Avenue." "Well, of all things! Nice house?" "I don't know about that. I haven't heard. But there's lots of nice houses on Orchard." "Yes, but they're all taken," said Kate. "There isn't a vacant house on Orchard Avenue." "Oh yes, there is," said Martha. "The old Hampstead house is vacant." "Oh, of course," said Kate. "But then I don't believe Mrs. Hannigan would like it there. I wonder where they can be going to move to?" "I'm sure I don't know," sighed Martha. "It must be to some place we don't know about." "Well." said Carrie Dungen, after a general reflective silence, "it's easy enough to find out, anyhow." "Who knows--around here?" asked Kate. "Why, Mrs. Smith, and there she is in her garden," said Carrie, jumping to her feet. As she dashed out of the door, Kate and Martha crowded at the window. Carrie's voice rang out from near the steps. "Mrs. Smith! Mrs. Smith! Do you know where the Hannigans are going to move to?" XXIII The autumn smote the leaves, and the trees of Whilomville were panoplied in crimson and yellow. The winds grew stronger, and in the melancholy purple of the nights the home shine of a window became a finer thing. The little boys, watching the sear and sorrowful leaves drifting down from the maples, dreamed of the near time when they could heap bushels in the streets and burn them during the abrupt evenings. Three men walked down the Niagara Avenue. As they approached Judge Hagenthorpe's house he came down his walk to meet them in the manner of one who has been waiting. "Are you ready, judge?" one said. "All ready," he answered. The four then walked to Trescott's house. He received them in his office, where he had been reading. He seemed surprised at this visit of four very active and influential citizens, but he had nothing to say of it. After they were all seated, Trescott looked expectantly from one face to another. There was a little silence. It was broken by John Twelve, the wholesale grocer, who was worth $400,000, and reported to be worth over a million. "Well, doctor," he said, with a short laugh, "I suppose we might as well admit at once that we've come to interfere in something which is none of our business." "Why, what is it?" asked Trescott, again looking from one face to another. He seemed to appeal particularly to Judge Hagenthorpe, but the old man had his chin lowered musingly to his cane, and would not look at him. "It's about what nobody talks of--much," said Twelve. "It's about Henry Johnson." Trescott squared himself in his chair. "Yes?" he said. Having delivered himself of the title, Twelve seemed to become more easy. "Yes," he answered, blandly, "we wanted to talk to you about it." "Yes?" said Trescott. [Illustration: "'It's About What Nobody Talks Of--Much,' Said Twelve"] Twelve abruptly advanced on the main attack. "Now see here, Trescott, we like you, and we have come to talk right out about this business. It may be none of our affairs and all that, and as for me, I don't mind if you tell me so; but I am not going to keep quiet and see you ruin yourself. And that's how we all feel." "I am not ruining myself," answered Trescott. "No, maybe you are not exactly ruining yourself," said Twelve, slowly, "but you are doing yourself a great deal of harm. You have changed from being the leading doctor in town to about the last one. It is mainly because there are always a large number of people who are very thoughtless fools, of course, but then that doesn't change the condition." A man who had not heretofore spoken said, solemnly, "It's the women." "Well, what I want to say is this," resumed Twelve: "Even if there are a lot of fools in the world, we can't see any reason why you should ruin yourself by opposing them. You can't teach them anything, you know." "I am not trying to teach them anything." Trescott smiled wearily. "I--It is a matter of--well--" "And there are a good many of us that admire you for it immensely," interrupted Twelve; "but that isn't going to change the minds of all those ninnies." "It's the women," stated the advocate of this view again. "Well, what I want to say is this," said Twelve. "We want you to get out of this trouble and strike your old gait again. You are simply killing your practice through your infernal pigheadedness. Now this thing is out of the ordinary, but there must be ways to--to beat the game somehow, you see. So we've talked it over--about a dozen of us--and, as I say, if you want to tell us to mind our own business, why, go ahead; but we've talked it over, and we've come to the conclusion that the only way to do is to get Johnson a place somewhere off up the valley, and--" Trescott wearily gestured. "You don't know, my friend. Everybody is so afraid of him, they can't even give him good care. Nobody can attend to him as I do myself." "But I have a little no-good farm up beyond Clarence Mountain that I was going to give to Henry," cried Twelve, aggrieved. "And if you--and if you--if you--through your house burning down, or anything--why, all the boys were prepared to take him right off your hands, and--and--" Trescott arose and went to the window. He turned his back upon them. They sat waiting in silence. When he returned he kept his face in the shadow. "No, John Twelve," he said, "it can't be done." There was another stillness. Suddenly a man stirred on his chair. "Well, then, a public institution--" he began. "No," said Trescott; "public institutions are all very good, but he is not going to one." In the background of the group old Judge Hagenthorpe was thoughtfully smoothing the polished ivory head of his cane. XXIV Trescott loudly stamped the snow from his feet and shook the flakes from his shoulders. When he entered the house he went at once to the dining-room, and then to the sitting-room. Jimmie was there, reading painfully in a large book concerning giraffes and tigers and crocodiles. "Where is your mother, Jimmie?" asked Trescott. "I don't know, pa," answered the boy. "I think she is up-stairs." Trescott went to the foot of the stairs and called, but there came no answer. Seeing that the door of the little drawing-room was open, he entered. The room was bathed in the half-light that came from the four dull panes of mica in the front of the great stove. As his eyes grew used to the shadows he saw his wife curled in an arm-chair. He went to her. "Why, Grace." he said, "didn't you hear me calling you?" She made no answer, and as he bent over the chair he heard her trying to smother a sob in the cushion. "Grace!" he cried. "You're crying!" She raised her face. "I've got a headache, a dreadful headache, Ned." "A headache?" he repeated, in surprise and incredulity. He pulled a chair close to hers. Later, as he cast his eye over the zone of light shed by the dull red panes, he saw that a low table had been drawn close to the stove, and that it was burdened with many small cups and plates of uncut tea-cake. He remembered that the day was Wednesday, and that his wife received on Wednesdays. "Who was here to-day, Gracie?" he asked. From his shoulder there came a mumble, "Mrs. Twelve." "Was she--um," he said. "Why--didn't Anna Hagenthorpe come over?" The mumble from his shoulder continued, "She wasn't well enough." Glancing down at the cups, Trescott mechanically counted them. There were fifteen of them. "There, there," he said. "Don't cry, Grace. Don't cry." The wind was whining round the house, and the snow beat aslant upon the windows. Sometimes the coal in the stove settled with a crumbling sound, and the four panes of mica flashed a sudden new crimson. As he sat holding her head on his shoulder, Trescott found himself occasionally trying to count the cups. There were fifteen of them. ------ THE BLUE HOTEL I The Palace Hotel at Fort Romper was painted a light blue, a shade that is on the legs of a kind of heron, causing the bird to declare its position against any background. The Palace Hotel, then, was always screaming and howling in a way that made the dazzling winter landscape of Nebraska seem only a gray swampish hush. It stood alone on the prairie, and when the snow was falling the town two hundred yards away was not visible. But when the traveller alighted at the railway station he was obliged to pass the Palace Hotel before he could come upon the company of low clapboard houses which composed Fort Romper, and it was not to be thought that any traveller could pass the Palace Hotel without looking at it. Pat Scully, the proprietor, had proved himself a master of strategy when he chose his paints. It is true that on clear days, when the great trans-continental expresses, long lines of swaying Pullmans, swept through Fort Romper, passengers were overcome at the sight, and the cult that knows the brown-reds and the subdivisions of the dark greens of the East expressed shame, pity, horror, in a laugh. But to the citizens of this prairie town and to the people who would naturally stop there, Pat Scully had performed a feat. With this opulence and splendor, these creeds, classes, egotisms, that streamed through Romper on the rails day after day, they had no color in common. As if the displayed delights of such a blue hotel were not sufficiently enticing, it was Scully's habit to go every morning and evening to meet the leisurely trains that stopped at Romper and work his seductions upon any man that he might see wavering, gripsack in hand. One morning, when a snow-crusted engine dragged its long string of freight cars and its one passenger coach to the station, Scully performed the marvel of catching three men. One was a shaky and quick-eyed Swede, with a great shining cheap valise; one was a tall bronzed cowboy, who was on his way to a ranch near the Dakota line; one was a little silent man from the East, who didn't look it, and didn't announce it. Scully practically made them prisoners. He was so nimble and merry and kindly that each probably felt it would be the height of brutality to try to escape. They trudged off over the creaking board sidewalks in the wake of the eager little Irishman. He wore a heavy fur cap squeezed tightly down on his head. It caused his two red ears to stick out stiffly, as if they were made of tin. At last, Scully, elaborately, with boisterous hospitality, conducted them through the portals of the blue hotel. The room which they entered was small. It seemed to be merely a proper temple for an enormous stove, which, in the centre, was humming with godlike violence. At various points on its surface the iron had become luminous and glowed yellow from the heat. Beside the stove Scully's son Johnnie was playing High-Five with an old farmer who had whiskers both gray and sandy. They were quarrelling. Frequently the old farmer turned his face towards a box of sawdust--colored brown from tobacco juice--that was behind the stove, and spat with an air of great impatience and irritation. With a loud flourish of words Scully destroyed the game of cards, and bustled his son up-stairs with part of the baggage of the new guests. He himself conducted them to three basins of the coldest water in the world. The cowboy and the Easterner burnished themselves fiery-red with this water, until it seemed to be some kind of a metal polish. The Swede, however, merely dipped his fingers gingerly and with trepidation. It was notable that throughout this series of small ceremonies the three travellers were made to feel that Scully was very benevolent. He was conferring great favors upon them. He handed the towel from one to the other with an air of philanthropic impulse. Afterwards they went to the first room, and, sitting about the stove, listened to Scully's officious clamor at his daughters, who were preparing the mid-day meal. They reflected in the silence of experienced men who tread carefully amid new people. Nevertheless, the old farmer, stationary, invincible in his chair near the warmest part of the stove, turned his face from the sawdust box frequently and addressed a glowing commonplace to the strangers. Usually he was answered in short but adequate sentences by either the cowboy or the Easterner. The Swede said nothing. He seemed to be occupied in making furtive estimates of each man in the room. One might have thought that he had the sense of silly suspicion which comes to guilt. He resembled a badly frightened man. Later, at dinner, he spoke a little, addressing his conversation entirely to Scully. He volunteered that he had come from New York, where for ten years he had worked as a tailor. These facts seemed to strike Scully as fascinating, and afterwards he volunteered that he had lived at Romper for fourteen years. The Swede asked about the crops and the price of labor. He seemed barely to listen to Scully's extended replies. His eyes continued to rove from man to man. Finally, with a laugh and a wink, he said that some of these Western communities were very dangerous; and after his statement he straightened his legs under the table, tilted his head, and laughed again, loudly. It was plain that the demonstration had no meaning to the others. They looked at him wondering and in silence. II As the men trooped heavily back into the front-room, the two little windows presented views of a turmoiling sea of snow. The huge arms of the wind were making attempts--mighty, circular, futile--to embrace the flakes as they sped. A gate-post like a still man with a blanched face stood aghast amid this profligate fury. In a hearty voice Scully announced the presence of a blizzard. The guests of the blue hotel, lighting their pipes, assented with grunts of lazy masculine contentment. No island of the sea could be exempt in the degree of this little room with its humming stove. Johnnie, son of Scully, in a tone which defined his opinion of his ability as a card-player, challenged the old farmer of both gray and sandy whiskers to a game of High-Five. The farmer agreed with a contemptuous and bitter scoff. They sat close to the stove, and squared their knees under a wide board. The cowboy and the Easterner watched the game with interest. The Swede remained near the window, aloof, but with a countenance that showed signs of an inexplicable excitement. The play of Johnnie and the gray-beard was suddenly ended by another quarrel. The old man arose while casting a look of heated scorn at his adversary. He slowly buttoned his coat, and then stalked with fabulous dignity from the room. In the discreet silence of all other men the Swede laughed. His laughter rang somehow childish. Men by this time had begun to look at him askance, as if they wished to inquire what ailed him. A new game was formed jocosely. The cowboy volunteered to become the partner of Johnnie, and they all then turned to ask the Swede to throw in his lot with the little Easterner, He asked some questions about the game, and, learning that it wore many names, and that he had played it when it was under an alias, he accepted the invitation. He strode towards the men nervously, as if he expected to be assaulted. Finally, seated, he gazed from face to face and laughed shrilly. This laugh was so strange that the Easterner looked up quickly, the cowboy sat intent and with his mouth open, and Johnnie paused, holding the cards with still fingers. Afterwards there was a short silence. Then Johnnie said, "Well, let's get at it. Come on now!" They pulled their chairs forward until their knees were bunched under the board. They began to play, and their interest in the game caused the others to forget the manner of the Swede. The cowboy was a board-whacker. Each time that he held superior cards he whanged them, one by one, with exceeding force, down upon the improvised table, and took the tricks with a glowing air of prowess and pride that sent thrills of indignation into the hearts of his opponents. A game with a board-whacker in it is sure to become intense. The countenances of the Easterner and the Swede were miserable whenever the cowboy thundered down his aces and kings, while Johnnie, his eyes gleaming with joy, chuckled and chuckled. Because of the absorbing play none considered the strange ways of the Swede. They paid strict heed to the game. Finally, during a lull caused by a new deal, the Swede suddenly addressed Johnnie: "I suppose there have been a good many men killed in this room." The jaws of the others dropped and they looked at him. "What in hell are you talking about?" said Johnnie. The Swede laughed again his blatant laugh, full of a kind of false courage and defiance. "Oh, you know what I mean all right," he answered. "I'm a liar if I do!" Johnnie protested. The card was halted, and the men stared at the Swede. Johnnie evidently felt that as the son of the proprietor he should make a direct inquiry. "Now, what might you be drivin' at, mister?" he asked. The Swede winked at him. It was a wink full of cunning. His fingers shook on the edge of the board. "Oh, maybe you think I have been to nowheres. Maybe you think I'm a tenderfoot?" "I don't know nothin' about you," answered Johnnie, "and I don't give a damn where you've been. All I got to say is that I don't know what you're driving at. There hain't never been nobody killed in this room." The cowboy, who had been steadily gazing at the Swede, then spoke: "What's wrong with you, mister?" Apparently it seemed to the Swede that he was formidably menaced. He shivered and turned white near the corners of his mouth. He sent an appealing glance in the direction of the little Easterner. During these moments he did not forget to wear his air of advanced pot-valor. "They say they don't know what I mean," he remarked mockingly to the Easterner. The latter answered after prolonged and cautious reflection. "I don't understand you," he said, impassively. The Swede made a movement then which announced that he thought he had encountered treachery from the only quarter where he had expected sympathy, if not help. "Oh, I see you are all against me. I see--" The cowboy was in a state of deep stupefaction. "Say." he cried, as he tumbled the deck violently down upon the board "--say, what are you gittin' at, hey?" The Swede sprang up with the celerity of a man escaping from a snake on the floor. "I don't want to fight!" he shouted. "I don't want to fight!" The cowboy stretched his long legs indolently and deliberately. His hands were in his pockets. He spat into the sawdust box. "Well, who the hell thought you did?" he inquired. The Swede backed rapidly towards a corner of the room. His hands were out protectingly in front of his chest, but he was making an obvious struggle to control his fright. "Gentlemen," he quavered, "I suppose I am going to be killed before I can leave this house! I suppose I am going to be killed before I can leave this house!" In his eyes was the dying-swan look. Through the windows could be seen the snow turning blue in the shadow of dusk. The wind tore at the house and some loose thing beat regularly against the clap-boards like a spirit tapping. A door opened, and Scully himself entered. He paused in surprise as he noted the tragic attitude of the Swede. Then he said, "What's the matter here?" The Swede answered him swiftly and eagerly: "These men are going to kill me." "Kill you!" ejaculated Scully. "Kill you! What are you talkin'?" The Swede made the gesture of a martyr. Scully wheeled sternly upon his son. "What is this, Johnnie?" The lad had grown sullen. "Damned if I know," he answered. "I can't make no sense to it." He began to shuffle the cards, fluttering them together with an angry snap. "He says a good many men have been killed in this room, or something like that. And he says he's goin' to be killed here too. I don't know what ails him. He's crazy, I shouldn't wonder." Scully then looked for explanation to the cowboy, but the cowboy simply shrugged his shoulders. "Kill you?" said Scully again to the Swede. "Kill you? Man, you're off your nut." "Oh, I know." burst out the Swede. "I know what will happen. Yes, I'm crazy--yes. Yes, of course, I'm crazy--yes. But I know one thing--" There was a sort of sweat of misery and terror upon his face. "I know I won't get out of here alive." The cowboy drew a deep breath, as if his mind was passing into the last stages of dissolution. "Well, I'm dog-goned," he whispered to himself. Scully wheeled suddenly and faced his son. "You've been troublin' this man!" Johnnie's voice was loud with its burden of grievance. "Why, good Gawd, I ain't done nothin' to 'im." The Swede broke in. "Gentlemen, do not disturb yourselves. I will leave this house. I will go away because"--he accused them dramatically with his glance--"because I do not want to be killed." Scully was furious with his son. "Will you tell me what is the matter, you young divil? What's the matter, anyhow? Speak out!" "Blame it!" cried Johnnie in despair, "don't I tell you I don't know. He--he says we want to kill him, and that's all I know. I can't tell what ails him." The Swede continued to repeat: "Never mind, Mr. Scully; nevermind. I will leave this house. I will go away, because I do not wish to be killed. Yes, of course, I am crazy--yes. But I know one thing! I will go away. I will leave this house. Never mind, Mr. Scully; never mind. I will go away." "You will not go 'way," said Scully. "You will not go 'way until I hear the reason of this business. If anybody has troubled you I will take care of him. This is my house. You are under my roof, and I will not allow any peaceable man to be troubled here." He cast a terrible eye upon Johnnie, the cowboy, and the Easterner. "Never mind, Mr. Scully; never mind. I will go away. I do not wish to be killed." The Swede moved towards the door, which opened upon the stairs. It was evidently his intention to go at once for his baggage. "No, no," shouted Scully peremptorily; but the white-faced man slid by him and disappeared. "Now," said Scully severely, "what does this mane?" Johnnie and the cowboy cried together: "Why, we didn't do nothin' to 'im!" Scully's eyes were cold. "No," he said, "you didn't?" Johnnie swore a deep oath. "Why this is the wildest loon I ever see. We didn't do nothin' at all. We were jest sittin' here play in' cards, and he--" The father suddenly spoke to the Easterner. "Mr. Blanc," he asked, "what has these boys been doin'?" The Easterner reflected again. "I didn't see anything wrong at all," he said at last, slowly. Scully began to howl. "But what does it mane?" He stared ferociously at his son. "I have a mind to lather you for this, me boy." Johnnie was frantic. "Well, what have I done?" he bawled at his father. III "I think you are tongue-tied," said Scully finally to his son, the cowboy, and the Easterner; and at the end of this scornful sentence he left the room. Up-stairs the Swede was swiftly fastening the straps of his great valise. Once his back happened to be half turned towards the door, and, hearing a noise there, he wheeled and sprang up, uttering a loud cry. Scully's wrinkled visage showed grimly in the light of the small lamp he carried. This yellow effulgence, streaming upward, colored only his prominent features, and left his eyes, for instance, in mysterious shadow. He resembled a murderer. "Man! man!" he exclaimed, "have you gone daffy?" "Oh, no! Oh, no!" rejoined the other. "There are people in this world who know pretty nearly as much as you do--understand?" For a moment they stood gazing at each other. Upon the Swede's deathly pale checks were two spots brightly crimson and sharply edged, as if they had been carefully painted. Scully placed the light on the table and sat himself on the edge of the bed. He spoke ruminatively. "By cracky, I never heard of such a thing in my life. It's a complete muddle. I can't, for the soul of me, think how you ever got this idea into your head." Presently he lifted his eyes and asked: "And did you sure think they were going to kill you?" The Swede scanned the old man as if he wished to see into his mind. "I did," he said at last. He obviously suspected that this answer might precipitate an outbreak. As he pulled on a strap his whole arm shook, the elbow wavering like a bit of paper. Scully banged his hand impressively on the foot-board of the bed. "Why, man, we're goin' to have a line of ilictric street-cars in this town next spring." "'A line of electric street-cars,'" repeated the Swede, stupidly. "And," said Scully, "there's a new railroad goin' to be built down from Broken Arm to here. Not to mintion the four churches and the smashin' big brick school-house. Then there's the big factory, too. Why, in two years Romper 'll be a _metropolis_." Having finished the preparation of his baggage, the Swede straightened himself. "Mr. Scully," he said, with sudden hardihood, "how much do I owe you?" "You don't owe me anythin'," said the old man, angrily. "Yes, I do," retorted the Swede. He took seventy-five cents from his pocket and tendered it to Scully; but the latter snapped his fingers in disdainful refusal. However, it happened that they both stood gazing in a strange fashion at three silver pieces on the Swede's open palm. "I'll not take your money," said Scully at last. "Not after what's been goin' on here." Then a plan seemed to strike him. "Here," he cried, picking up his lamp and moving towards the door. "Here! Come with me a minute." "No," said the Swede, in overwhelming alarm. "Yes," urged the old man. "Come on! I want you to come and see a picter--just across the hall--in my room." The Swede must have concluded that his hour was come. His jaw dropped and his teeth showed like a dead man's. He ultimately followed Scully across the corridor, but he had the step of one hung in chains. Scully flashed the light high on the wall of his own chamber. There was revealed a ridiculous photograph of a little girl. She was leaning against a balustrade of gorgeous decoration, and the formidable bang to her hair was prominent. The figure was as graceful as an upright sled-stake, and, withal, it was of the hue of lead. "There," said Scully, tenderly, "that's the picter of my little girl that died. Her name was Carrie. She had the purtiest hair you ever saw! I was that fond of her, she--" Turning then, he saw that the Swede was not contemplating the picture at all, but, instead, was keeping keen watch on the gloom in the rear. "Look, man!" cried Scully, heartily. "That's the picter of my little gal that died. Her name was Carrie. And then here's the picter of my oldest boy, Michael. He's a lawyer in Lincoln, an' doin' well. I gave that boy a grand eddycation, and I'm glad for it now. He's a fine boy. Look at 'im now. Ain't he bold as blazes, him there in Lincoln, an honored an' respicted gintleman. An honored an' respicted gintleman," concluded Scully with a flourish. And, so saying, he smote the Swede jovially on the back. The Swede faintly smiled. "Now," said the old man, "there's only one more thing." He dropped suddenly to the floor and thrust his head beneath the bed. The Swede could hear his muffled voice. "I'd keep it under me piller if it wasn't for that boy Johnnie. Then there's the old woman--Where is it now? I never put it twice in the same place. Ah, now come out with you!" Presently he backed clumsily from under the bed, dragging with him an old coat rolled into a bundle. "I've fetched him," he muttered. Kneeling on the floor, he unrolled the coat and extracted from its heart a large yellow-brown whiskey bottle. His first maneuver was to hold the bottle up to the light. Reassured, apparently, that nobody had been tampering with it, he thrust it with a generous movement towards the Swede. The weak-kneed Swede was about to eagerly clutch this element of strength, but he suddenly jerked his hand away and cast a look of horror upon Scully. "Drink," said the old man affectionately. He had risen to his feet, and now stood facing the Swede. There was a silence. Then again Scully said: "Drink!" The Swede laughed wildly. He grabbed the bottle, put it to his mouth, and as his lips curled absurdly around the opening and his throat worked, he kept his glance, burning with hatred, upon the old man's face. IV After the departure of Scully the three men, with the card-board still upon their knees, preserved for a long time an astounded silence. Then Johnnie said: "That's the dod-dangest Swede I ever see." "He ain't no Swede," said the cowboy, scornfully. "Well, what is he then?" cried Johnnie. "What is he then?" "It's my opinion," replied the cowboy deliberately, "he's some kind of a Dutchman." It was a venerable custom of the country to entitle as Swedes all light-haired men who spoke with a heavy tongue. In consequence the idea of the cowboy was not without its daring. "Yes, sir," he repeated. "It's my opinion this feller is some kind of a Dutchman." "Well, he says he's a Swede, anyhow," muttered Johnnie, sulkily. He turned to the Easterner: "What do you think, Mr. Blanc?" "Oh, I don't know," replied the Easterner. "Well, what do you think makes him act that way?" asked the cowboy. "Why, he's frightened." The Easterner knocked his pipe against a rim of the stove. "He's clear frightened out of his boots." "What at?" cried Johnnie and cowboy together. The Easterner reflected over his answer. "What at?" cried the others again. "Oh, I don't know, but it seems to me this man has been reading dime-novels, and he thinks he's right out in the middle of it--the shootin' and stabbin' and all." "But," said the cowboy, deeply scandalized, "this ain't Wyoming, ner none of them places. This is Nebrasker." "Yes," added Johnnie, "an' why don't he wait till he gits _out West?_" The travelled Easterner laughed. "It isn't different there even--not in these days. But he thinks he's right in the middle of hell." Johnnie and the cowboy mused long. "It's awful funny," remarked Johnnie at last. "Yes," said the cowboy. "This is a queer game. I hope we don't git snowed in, because then we'd have to stand this here man bein' around with us all the time. That wouldn't be no good." "I wish pop would throw him out," said Johnnie. Presently they heard a loud stamping on the stairs, accompanied by ringing jokes in the voice of old Scully, and laughter, evidently from the Swede. The men around the stove stared vacantly at each other. "Gosh!" said the cowboy. The door flew open, and old Scully, flushed and anecdotal, came into the room. He was jabbering at the Swede, who followed him, laughing bravely. It was the entry of two roisterers from a banquet-hall. "Come now," said Scully sharply to the three seated men, "move up and give us a chance at the stove." The cowboy and the Easterner obediently sidled their chairs to make room for the new-comers. Johnnie, however, simply arranged himself in a more indolent attitude, and then remained motionless. "Come! Git over, there," said Scully. "Plenty of room on the other side of the stove," said Johnnie. "Do you think we want to sit in the draught?" roared the father. But the Swede here interposed with a grandeur of confidence. "No, no. Let the boy sit where he likes," he cried in a bullying voice to the father. "All right! All right!" said Scully, deferentially. The cowboy and the Easterner exchanged glances of wonder. The five chairs were formed in a crescent about one side of the stove. The Swede began to talk; he talked arrogantly, profanely, angrily. Johnnie, the cowboy, and the Easterner maintained a morose silence, while old Scully appeared to be receptive and eager, breaking in constantly with sympathetic ejaculations. Finally the Swede announced that he was thirsty. He moved in his chair, and said that he would go for a drink of water. "I'll git it for you," cried Scully at once. "No," said the Swede, contemptuously. "I'll get it for myself." He arose and stalked with the air of an owner off into the executive parts of the hotel. As soon as the Swede was out of hearing Scully sprang to his feet and whispered intensely to the others: "Up-stairs he thought I was tryin' to poison 'im." "Say," said Johnnie, "this makes me sick. Why don't you throw 'im out in the snow?" "Why, he's all right now," declared Scully. "It was only that he was from the East, and he thought this was a tough place. That's all. He's all right now." The cowboy looked with admiration upon the Easterner. "You were straight," he said. "You were on to that there Dutchman." "Well," said Johnnie to his father, "he may be all right now, but I don't see it. Other time he was scared, but now he's too fresh." Scully's speech was always a combination of Irish brogue and idiom, Western twang and idiom, and scraps of curiously formal diction taken from the story-books and newspapers, He now hurled a strange mass of language at the head of his son. "What do I keep? What do I keep? What do I keep?" he demanded, in a voice of thunder. He slapped his knee impressively, to indicate that he himself was going to make reply, and that all should heed. "I keep a hotel," he shouted. "A hotel, do you mind? A guest under my roof has sacred privileges. He is to be intimidated by none. Not one word shall he hear that would prejudice him in favor of goin' away. I'll not have it. There's no place in this here town where they can say they iver took in a guest of mine because he was afraid to stay here." He wheeled suddenly upon the cowboy and the Easterner. "Am I right?" "Yes, Mr. Scully," said the cowboy, "I think you're right." "Yes, Mr. Scully," said the Easterner, "I think you're right." V At six-o'clock supper, the Swede fizzed like a fire-wheel. He sometimes seemed on the point of bursting into riotous song, and in all his madness he was encouraged by old Scully. The Easterner was incased in reserve; the cowboy sat in wide-mouthed amazement, forgetting to eat, while Johnnie wrathily demolished great plates of food. The daughters of the house, when they were obliged to replenish the biscuits, approached as warily as Indians, and, having succeeded in their purpose, fled with ill-concealed trepidation. The Swede domineered the whole feast, and he gave it the appearance of a cruel bacchanal. He seemed to have grown suddenly taller; he gazed, brutally disdainful, into every face. His voice rang through the room. Once when he jabbed out harpoon-fashion with his fork to pinion a biscuit, the weapon nearly impaled the hand of the Easterner which had been stretched quietly out for the same biscuit. After supper, as the men filed towards the other room, the Swede smote Scully ruthlessly on the shoulder. "Well, old boy, that was a good, square meal." Johnnie looked hopefully at his father; he knew that shoulder was tender from an old fall; and, indeed, it appeared for a moment as if Scully was going to flame out over the matter, but in the end he smiled a sickly smile and remained silent. The others understood from his manner that he was admitting his responsibility for the Swede's new view-point. Johnnie, however, addressed his parent in an aside. "Why don't you license somebody to kick you down-stairs?" Scully scowled darkly by way of reply. When they were gathered about the stove, the Swede insisted on another game of High Five. Scully gently deprecated the plan at first, but the Swede turned a wolfish glare upon him. The old man subsided, and the Swede canvassed the others. In his tone there was always a great threat. The cowboy and the Easterner both remarked indifferently that they would play. Scully said that he would presently have to go to meet the 6.58 train, and so the Swede turned menacingly upon Johnnie. For a moment their glances crossed like blades, and then Johnnie smiled and said, "Yes, I'll play." They formed a square, with the little board on their knees. The Easterner and the Swede were again partners. As the play went on, it was noticeable that the cowboy was not board-whacking as usual. Meanwhile, Scully, near the lamp, had put on his spectacles and, with an appearance curiously like an old priest, was reading a newspaper. In time he went out to meet the 6.58 train, and, despite his precautions, a gust of polar wind whirled into the room as he opened the door. Besides scattering the cards, it dulled the players to the marrow. The Swede cursed frightfully. When Scully returned, his entrance disturbed a cosey and friendly scene. The Swede again cursed. But presently they were once more intent, their heads bent forward and their hands moving swiftly. The Swede had adopted the fashion of board-whacking. Scully took up his paper and for a long time remained immersed in matters which were extraordinarily remote from him. The lamp burned badly, and once he stopped to adjust the wick. The newspaper, as he turned from page to page, rustled with a slow and comfortable sound. Then suddenly he heard three terrible words: "You are cheatin'!" Such scenes often prove that there can be little of dramatic import in environment. Any room can present a tragic front; any room can be comic. This little den was now hideous as a torture-chamber. The new faces of the men themselves had changed it upon the instant. The Swede held a huge fist in front of Johnnie's face, while the latter looked steadily over it into the blazing orbs of his accuser. The Easterner had grown pallid; the cowboy's jaw had dropped in that expression of bovine amazement which was one of his important mannerisms. After the three words, the first sound in the room was made by Scully's paper as it floated forgotten to his feet. His spectacles had also fallen from his nose, but by a clutch he had saved them in air. His hand, grasping the spectacles, now remained poised awkwardly and near his shoulder. He stared at the card-players. Probably the silence was while a second elapsed. Then, if the floor had been suddenly twitched out from under the men they could not have moved quicker. The five had projected themselves headlong towards a common point. It happened that Johnnie, in rising to hurl himself upon the Swede, had stumbled slightly because of his curiously instinctive care for the cards and the board. The loss of the moment allowed time for the arrival of Scully, and also allowed the cowboy time to give the Swede a great push which sent him staggering back. The men found tongue together, and hoarse shouts of rage, appeal, or fear burst from every throat. The cowboy pushed and jostled feverishly at the Swede, and the Easterner and Scully clung wildly to Johnnie; but, through the smoky air, above the swaying bodies of the peace-compellers, the eyes of the two warriors ever sought each other in glances of challenge that were at once hot and steely. Of course the board had been overturned, and now the whole company of cards was scattered over the floor, where the boots of the men trampled the fat and painted kings and queens as they gazed with their silly eyes at the war that was waging above them. Scully's voice was dominating the yells. "Stop now? Stop, I say! Stop, now--" Johnnie, as he struggled to burst through the rank formed by Scully and the Easterner, was crying, "Well, he says I cheated! He says I cheated! I won't allow no man to say I cheated! If he says I cheated, he's a ------ ------!" The cowboy was telling the Swede, "Quit, now! Quit, d'ye hear--" The screams of the Swede never ceased: "He did cheat! I saw him! I saw him--" As for the Easterner, he was importuning in a voice that was not heeded: "Wait a moment, can't you? Oh, wait a moment. What's the good of a fight over a game of cards? Wait a moment--" In this tumult no complete sentences were clear. "Cheat"--"Quit"--"He says"--these fragments pierced the uproar and rang out sharply. It was remarkable that, whereas Scully undoubtedly made the most noise, he was the least heard of any of the riotous band. Then suddenly there was a great cessation. It was as if each man had paused for breath; and although the room was still lighted with the anger of men, it could be seen that there was no danger of immediate conflict, and at once Johnnie, shouldering his way forward, almost succeeded in confronting the Swede. "What did you say I cheated for? What did you say I cheated for? I don't cheat, and I won't let no man say I do!" The Swede said, "I saw you! I saw you!" "Well," cried Johnnie, "I'll fight any man what says I cheat!" "No, you won't," said the cowboy. "Not here." "Ah, be still, can't you?" said Scully, coming between them. The quiet was sufficient to allow the Easterner's voice to be heard. He was repealing, "Oh, wait a moment, can't you? What's the good of a fight over a game of cards? Wait a moment!" Johnnie, his red face appearing above his father's shoulder, hailed the Swede again. "Did you say I cheated?" The Swede showed his teeth. "Yes." "Then," said Johnnie, "we must fight." "Yes, fight," roared the Swede. He was like a demoniac. "Yes, fight! I'll show you what kind of a man I am! I'll show you who you want to fight! Maybe you think I can't fight! Maybe you think I can't! I'll show you, you skin, you card-sharp! Yes, you cheated! You cheated! You cheated!" "Well, let's go at it, then, mister," said Johnnie, coolly. The cowboy's brow was beaded with sweat from his efforts in intercepting all sorts of raids. He turned in despair to Scully. "What are you goin' to do now?" A change had come over the Celtic visage of the old man. He now seemed all eagerness; his eyes glowed. "We'll let them fight," he answered, stalwartly. "I can't put up with it any longer. I've stood this damned Swede till I'm sick. We'll let them fight." VI The men prepared to go out-of-doors. The Easterner was so nervous that he had great difficulty in getting his arms into the sleeves of his new leather coat. As the cowboy drew his fur cap down over his cars his hands trembled. In fact, Johnnie and old Scully were the only ones who displayed no agitation. These preliminaries were conducted without words. Scully threw open the door. "Well, come on," he said. Instantly a terrific wind caused the flame of the lamp to struggle at its wick, while a puff of black smoke sprang from the chimney-top. The stove was in mid-current of the blast, and its voice swelled to equal the roar of the storm. Some of the scarred and bedabbled cards were caught up from the floor and dashed helplessly against the farther wall. The men lowered their heads and plunged into the tempest as into a sea. No snow was falling, but great whirls and clouds of flakes, swept up from the ground by the frantic winds, were streaming southward with the speed of bullets. The covered land was blue with the sheen of an unearthly satin, and there was no other hue save where, at the low, black railway station--which seemed incredibly distant--one light gleamed like a tiny jewel. As the men floundered into a thigh deep drift, it was known that the Swede was bawling out something. Scully went to him, put a hand on his shoulder and projected an ear. "What's that you say?" he shouted. "I say," bawled the Swede again, "I won't stand much show against this gang. I know you'll all pitch on me." Scully smote him reproachfully on the arm. "Tut, man!" he yelled. The wind tore the words from Scully's lips and scattered them far alee. "You are all a gang of--" boomed the Swede, but the storm also seized the remainder of this sentence. Immediately turning their backs upon the wind, the men had swung around a corner to the sheltered side of the hotel. It was the function of the little house to preserve here, amid this great devastation of snow, an irregular V-shape of heavily incrusted grass, which crackled beneath the feet. One could imagine the great drifts piled against the windward side. When the party reached the comparative peace of this spot it was found that the Swede was still bellowing. "Oh, I know what kind of a thing this is! I know you'll all pitch on me. I can't lick you all!" Scully turned upon him panther fashion. "You'll not have to whip all of us. You'll have to whip my son Johnnie. An' the man what troubles you durin' that time will have me to dale with." The arrangements were swiftly made. The two men faced each other, obedient to the harsh commands of Scully, whose face, in the subtly luminous gloom, could be seen set in the austere impersonal lines that are pictured on the countenances of the Roman veterans. The Easterner's teeth were chattering, and he was hopping up and down like a mechanical toy. The cowboy stood rock-like. The contestants had not stripped off any clothing. Each was in his ordinary attire. Their fists were up, and they eyed each other in a calm that had the elements of leonine cruelty in it. During this pause, the Easterner's mind, like a film, took lasting impressions of three men--the iron-nerved master of the ceremony; the Swede, pale, motionless, terrible; and Johnnie, serene yet ferocious, brutish yet heroic. The entire prelude had in it a tragedy greater than the tragedy of action, and this aspect was accentuated by the long, mellow cry of the blizzard, as it sped the tumbling and wailing flakes into the black abyss of the south. "Now!" said Scully. The two combatants leaped forward and crashed together like bullocks. There was heard the cushioned sound of blows, and of a curse squeezing out from between the tight teeth of one. As for the spectators, the Easterner's pent-up breath exploded from him with a pop of relief, absolute relief from the tension of the preliminaries. The cowboy bounded into the air with a yowl. Scully was immovable as from supreme amazement and fear at the fury of the fight which he himself had permitted and arranged. For a time the encounter in the darkness was such a perplexity of flying arms that it presented no more detail than would a swiftly revolving wheel. Occasionally a face, as if illumined by a flash of light, would shine out, ghastly and marked with pink spots. A moment later, the men might have been known as shadows, if it were not for the involuntary utterance of oaths that came from them in whispers. Suddenly a holocaust of warlike desire caught the cowboy, and he bolted forward with the speed of a broncho. "Go it, Johnnie! go it! Kill him! Kill him!" Scully confronted him. "Kape back," he said; and by his glance the cowboy could tell that this man was Johnnie's father. To the Easterner there was a monotony of unchangeable fighting that was an abomination. This confused mingling was eternal to his sense, which was concentrated in a longing for the end, the priceless end. Once the fighters lurched near him, and as he scrambled hastily backward he heard them breathe like men on the rack. "Kill him, Johnnie! Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!" The cowboy's face was contorted like one of those agony masks in museums. "Keep still," said Scully, icily. Then there was a sudden loud grunt, incomplete, cut short, and Johnnie's body swung away from the Swede and fell with sickening heaviness to the grass. The cowboy was barely in time to prevent the mad Swede from flinging himself upon his prone adversary. "No, you don't," said the cowboy, interposing an arm. "Wait a second." Scully was at his son's side. "Johnnie! Johnnie, me boy!" His voice had a quality of melancholy tenderness. "Johnnie! Can you go on with it?" He looked anxiously down into the bloody, pulpy face of his son. There was a moment of silence, and then Johnnie answered in his ordinary voice, "Yes, I--it--yes." Assisted by his father he struggled to his feet. "Wait a bit now till you git your wind," said the old man. A few paces away the cowboy was lecturing the Swede. "No, you don't! Wait a second!" The Easterner was plucking at Scully's sleeve. "Oh, this is enough," he pleaded. "This is enough! Let it go as it stands. This is enough!" "Bill," said Scully, "git out of the road." The cowboy stepped aside. "Now." The combatants were actuated by a new caution as they advanced towards collision. They glared at each other, and then the Swede aimed a lightning blow that carried with it his entire weight. Johnnie was evidently half stupid from weakness, but he miraculously dodged, and his fist sent the over-balanced Swede sprawling. The cowboy, Scully, and the Easterner burst into a cheer that was like a chorus of triumphant soldiery, but before its conclusion the Swede had scuffled agilely to his feet and come in berserk abandon at his foe. There was another perplexity of flying arms, and Johnnie's body again swung away and fell, even as a bundle might fall from a roof. The Swede instantly staggered to a little wind-waved tree and leaned upon it, breathing like an engine, while his savage and flame-lit eyes roamed from face to face as the men bent over Johnnie. There was a splendor of isolation in his situation at this time which the Easterner felt once when, lifting his eyes from the man on the ground, he beheld that mysterious and lonely figure, waiting. "Arc you any good yet, Johnnie?" asked Scully in a broken voice. The son gasped and opened his eyes languidly. After a moment he answered, "No--I ain't--any good--any--more." Then, from shame and bodily ill he began to weep, the tears furrowing down through the blood-stains on his face. "He was too--too--too heavy for me." Scully straightened and addressed the waiting figure. "Stranger," he said, evenly, "it's all up with our side." Then his voice changed into that vibrant huskiness which is commonly the tone of the most simple and deadly announcements. "Johnnie is whipped." Without replying, the victor moved off on the route to the front door of the hotel. The cowboy was formulating new and un-spellable blasphemies. The Easterner was startled to find that they were out in a wind that seemed to come direct from the shadowed arctic floes. He heard again the wail of the snow as it was flung to its grave in the south. He knew now that all this time the cold had been sinking into him deeper and deeper, and he wondered that he had not perished. He felt indifferent to the condition of the vanquished man. "Johnnie, can you walk?" asked Scully. "Did I hurt--hurt him any?" asked the son. "Can you walk, boy? Can you walk?" Johnnie's voice was suddenly strong. There was a robust impatience in it. "I asked you whether I hurt him any!" "Yes, yes, Johnnie," answered the cowboy, consolingly; "he's hurt a good deal." They raised him from the ground, and as soon as he was on his feet he went tottering off, rebuffing all attempts at assistance. When the party rounded the corner they were fairly blinded by the pelting of the snow. It burned their faces like fire. The cowboy carried Johnnie through the drift to the door. As they entered some cards again rose from the floor and beat against the wall. The Easterner rushed to the stove. He was so profoundly chilled that he almost dared to embrace the glowing iron. The Swede was not in the room. Johnnie sank into a chair, and, folding his arms on his knees, buried his face in them. Scully, warming one foot and then the other at a rim of the stove, muttered to himself with Celtic mournfulness. The cowboy had removed his fur cap, and with a dazed and rueful air he was running one hand through his tousled locks. From overhead they could hear the creaking of boards, as the Swede tramped here and there in his room. The sad quiet was broken by the sudden flinging open of a door that led towards the kitchen. It was instantly followed by an inrush of women. They precipitated themselves upon Johnnie amid a chorus of lamentation. Before they carried their prey off to the kitchen, there to be bathed and harangued with that mixture of sympathy and abuse which is a feat of their sex, the mother straightened herself and fixed old Scully with an eye of stern reproach. "Shame be upon you, Patrick Scully!" she cried. "Your own son, too. Shame be upon you!" "There, now! Be quiet, now!" said the old man, weakly. "Shame be upon you, Patrick Scully!" The girls, rallying to this slogan, sniffed disdainfully in the direction of those trembling accomplices, the cowboy and the Easterner. Presently they bore Johnnie away, and left the three men to dismal reflection. VII "I'd like to fight this here Dutchman myself," said the cowboy, breaking a long silence. Scully wagged his head sadly. "No, that wouldn't do. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be right." "Well, why wouldn't it?" argued the cowboy. "I don't see no harm in it." "No," answered Scully, with mournful heroism. "It wouldn't be right. It was Johnnie's fight, and now we mustn't whip the man just because he whipped Johnnie." "Yes, that's true enough," said the cowboy; "but--he better not get fresh with me, because I couldn't stand no more of it." "You'll not say a word to him," commanded Scully, and even then they heard the tread of the Swede on the stairs. His entrance was made theatric. He swept the door back with a bang and swaggered to the middle of the room. No one looked at him. "Well," he cried, insolently, at Scully, "I s'pose you'll tell me now how much I owe you?" The old man remained stolid. "You don't owe me nothin'." "Huh!" said the Swede, "huh! Don't owe 'im nothin'." The cowboy addressed the Swede. "Stranger, I don't see how you come to be so gay around here." Old Scully was instantly alert. "Stop!" he shouted, holding his hand forth, fingers upward. "Bill, you shut up!" The cowboy spat carelessly into the sawdust box. "I didn't say a word, did I?" he asked. "Mr. Scully," called the Swede, "how much do I owe you?" It was seen that he was attired for departure, and that he had his valise in his hand. "You don't owe me nothin'," repeated Scully in his same imperturbable way. "Huh!" said the Swede. "I guess you're right. I guess if it was any way at all, you'd owe me somethin'. That's what I guess." He turned to the cowboy. "'Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!'" he mimicked, and then guffawed victoriously. "'Kill him!'" He was convulsed with ironical humor. But he might have been jeering the dead. The three men were immovable and silent, staring with glassy eyes at the stove. The Swede opened the door and passed into the storm, giving one derisive glance backward at the still group. As soon as the door was closed, Scully and the cowboy leaped to their feet and began to curse. They trampled to and fro, waving their arms and smashing into the air with their fists. "Oh, but that was a hard minute!" wailed Scully. "That was a hard minute! Him there leerin' and scoffin'! One bang at his nose was worth forty dollars to me that minute! How did you stand it, Bill?" "How did I stand it?" cried the cowboy in a quivering voice. "How did I stand it? Oh!" The old man burst into sudden brogue. "I'd loike to take that Swade," he wailed, "and hould 'im down on a shtone flure and bate 'im to a jelly wid a shtick!" The cowboy groaned in sympathy. "I'd like to git him by the neck and ha-ammer him "--he brought his hand down on a chair with a noise like a pistol-shot--"hammer that there Dutchman until he couldn't tell himself from a dead coyote!" "I'd bate 'im until he--" "I'd show _him_ some things--" And then together they raised a yearning, fanatic cry--"Oh-o-oh! if we only could--" "Yes!" "Yes!" "And then I'd--" "O-o-oh!" VIII The Swede, tightly gripping his valise, tacked across the face of the storm as if he carried sails. He was following a line of little naked, gasping trees, which he knew must mark the way of the road. His face, fresh from the pounding of Johnnie's fists, felt more pleasure than pain in the wind and the driving snow. A number of square shapes loomed upon him finally, and he knew them as the houses of the main body of the town. He found a street and made travel along it, leaning heavily upon the wind whenever, at a corner, a terrific blast caught him. He might have been in a deserted village. We picture the world as thick with conquering and elate humanity, but here, with the bugles of the tempest pealing, it was hard to imagine a peopled earth. One viewed the existence of man then as a marvel, and conceded a glamour of wonder to these lice which were caused to cling to a whirling, fire-smote, ice-locked, disease-stricken, space-lost bulb. The conceit of man was explained by this storm to be the very engine of life. One was a coxcomb not to die in it. However, the Swede found a saloon. In front of it an indomitable red light was burning, and the snow-flakes were made blood color as they flew through the circumscribed territory of the lamp's shining. The Swede pushed open the door of the saloon and entered. A sanded expanse was before him, and at the end of it four men sat about a table drinking. Down one side of the room extended a radiant bar, and its guardian was leaning upon his elbows listening to the talk of the men at the table. The Swede dropped his valise upon the floor, and, smiling fraternally upon the barkeeper, said, "Gimme some whiskey, will you?" The man placed a bottle, a whiskey-glass, and a glass of ice-thick water upon the bar. The Swede poured himself an abnormal portion of whiskey and drank it in three gulps. "Pretty bad night," remarked the bartender, indifferently. He was making the pretension of blindness which is usually a distinction of his class; but it could have been seen that he was furtively studying the half-erased blood-stains on the face of the Swede. "Bad night," he said again. "Oh, it's good enough for me," replied the Swede, hardily, as he poured himself some more whiskey. The barkeeper took his coin and maneuvered it through its reception by the highly nickelled cash-machine. A bell rang; a card labelled "20 cts." had appeared. "No," continued the Swede, "this isn't too bad weather. It's good enough for me." "So?" murmured the barkeeper, languidly. The copious drams made the Swede's eyes swim, and he breathed a trifle heavier. "Yes, I like this weather. I like it. It suits me." It was apparently his design to impart a deep significance to these words. "So?" murmured the bartender again. He turned to gaze dreamily at the scroll-like birds and bird-like scrolls which had been drawn with soap upon the mirrors back of the bar. "Well, I guess I'll take another drink," said the Swede, presently. "Have something?" "No, thanks; I'm not drinkin'," answered the bartender. Afterwards he asked, "How did you hurt your face?" The Swede immediately began to boast loudly. "Why, in a fight. I thumped the soul out of a man down here at Scully's hotel." The interest of the four men at the table was at last aroused. "Who was it?" said one. "Johnnie Scully," blustered the Swede. "Son of the man what runs it. He will be pretty near dead for some weeks, I can tell you. I made a nice thing of him, I did. He couldn't get up. They carried him in the house. Have a drink?" Instantly the men in some subtle way incased themselves in reserve. "No, thanks," said one. The group was of curious formation. Two were prominent local business men; one was the district-attorney; and one was a professional gambler of the kind known as "square." But a scrutiny of the group would not have enabled an observer to pick the gambler from the men of more reputable pursuits. He was, in fact, a man so delicate in manner, when among people of fair class, and so judicious in his choice of victims, that in the strictly masculine part of the town's life he had come to be explicitly trusted and admired. People called him a thoroughbred. The fear and contempt with which his craft was regarded was undoubtedly the reason that his quiet dignity shone conspicuous above the quiet dignity of men who might be merely hatters, billiard markers, or grocery-clerks. Beyond an occasional unwary traveller, who came by rail, this gambler was supposed to prey solely upon reckless and senile farmers, who, when flush with good crops, drove into town in all the pride and confidence of an absolutely invulnerable stupidity. Hearing at times in circuitous fashion of the despoilment of such a farmer, the important men of Romper invariably laughed in contempt of the victim, and, if they thought of the wolf at all, it was with a kind of pride at the knowledge that he would never dare think of attacking their wisdom and courage. Besides, it was popular that this gambler had a real wife and two real children in a neat cottage in a suburb, where he led an exemplary home life; and when any one even suggested a discrepancy in his character, the crowd immediately vociferated descriptions of this virtuous family circle. Then men who led exemplary home lives, and men who did not lead exemplary home lives, all subsided in a bunch, remarking that there was nothing more to be said. However, when a restriction was placed upon him--as, for instance, when a strong clique of members of the new Pollywog Club refused to permit him, even as a spectator, to appear in the rooms of the organization--the candor and gentleness with which he accepted the judgment disarmed many of his foes and made his friends more desperately partisan. He invariably distinguished between himself and a respectable Romper man so quickly and frankly that his manner actually appeared to be a continual broadcast compliment. And one must not forget to declare the fundamental fact of his entire position in Romper. It is irrefutable that in all affairs outside of his business, in all matters that occur eternally and commonly between man and man, this thieving card-player was so generous, so just, so moral, that, in a contest, he could have put to flight the consciences of nine-tenths of the citizens of Romper. And so it happened that he was seated in this saloon with the two prominent local merchants and the district-attorney. The Swede continued to drink raw whiskey, meanwhile babbling at the barkeeper and trying to induce him to indulge in potations. "Come on. Have a drink. Come on. What--no? Well, have a little one, then. By gawd, I've whipped a man to-night, and I want to celebrate. I whipped him good, too. Gentlemen," the Swede cried to the men at the table, "have a drink?" "Ssh!" said the barkeeper. The group at the table, although furtively attentive, had been pretending to be deep in talk, but now a man lifted his eyes towards the Swede and said, shortly, "Thanks. We don't want any more." At this reply the Swede ruffled out his chest like a rooster. "Well," he exploded, "it seems I can't get anybody to drink with me in this town. Seems so, don't it? Well!" "Ssh!" said the barkeeper. "Say," snarled the Swede, "don't you try to shut me up. I won't have it. I'm a gentleman, and I want people to drink with me. And I want 'em to drink with me now. _Now_--do you understand?" He rapped the bar with his knuckles. Years of experience had calloused the bartender. He merely grew sulky. "I hear you," he answered. "Well," cried the Swede, "listen hard then. See those men over there? Well, they're going to drink with me, and don't you forget it. Now you watch." "Hi!" yelled the barkeeper, "this won't do!" "Why won't it?" demanded the Swede. He stalked over to the table, and by chance laid his hand upon the shoulder of the gambler. "How about this?" he asked, wrathfully. "I asked you to drink with me." The gambler simply twisted his head and spoke over his shoulder. "My friend, I don't know you." "Oh, hell!" answered the Swede, "come and have a drink." "Now, my boy," advised the gambler, kindly, "take your hand off my shoulder and go 'way and mind your own business." He was a little, slim man, and it seemed strange to hear him use this tone of heroic patronage to the burly Swede. The other men at the table said nothing. "What! You won't drink with me, you little dude? I'll make you then! I'll make you!" The Swede had grasped the gambler frenziedly at the throat, and was dragging him from his chair. The other men sprang up. The barkeeper dashed around the corner of his bar. There was a great tumult, and then was seen a long blade in the hand of the gambler. It shot forward, and a human body, this citadel of virtue, wisdom, power, was pierced as easily as if it had been a melon. The Swede fell with a cry of supreme astonishment. The prominent merchants and the district attorney must have at once tumbled out of the place backward. The bartender found himself hanging limply to the arm of a chair and gazing into the eyes of a murderer. "Henry," said the latter, as he wiped his knife on one of the towels that hung beneath the bar-rail, "you tell 'em where to find me. I'll be home, waiting for 'em." Then he vanished. A moment afterwards the barkeeper was in the street dinning through the storm for help, and, moreover, companionship. The corpse of the Swede, alone in the saloon, had its eyes fixed upon a dreadful legend that dwelt atop of the cash-machine: "This registers the amount of your purchase." IX Months later, the cowboy was frying pork over the stove of a little ranch near the Dakota line, when there was a quick thud of hoofs outside, and presently the Easterner entered with the letters and the papers. "Well," said the Easterner at once, "the chap that killed the Swede has got three years. Wasn't much, was it?" "He has? Three years?" The cowboy poised his pan of pork, while he ruminated upon the news. "Three years. That ain't much." "No. It was a light sentence," replied the Easterner as he unbuckled his spurs. "Seems there was a good deal of sympathy for him in Romper." "If the bartender had been any good," observed the cowboy, thoughtfully, "he would have gone in and cracked that there Dutchman on the head with a bottle in the beginnin' of it and stopped all this here murderin'." "Yes, a thousand things might have happened," said the Easterner, tartly. The cowboy returned his pan of pork to the fire, but his philosophy continued. "It's funny, ain't it? If he hadn't said Johnnie was cheatin' he'd be alive this minute. He was an awful fool. Game played for fun, too. Not for money. I believe he was crazy." "I feel sorry for that gambler," said the Easterner. "Oh, so do I," said the cowboy. "He don't deserve none of it for killin' who he did." "The Swede might not have been killed if everything had been square." "Might not have been killed?" exclaimed the cowboy. "Everythin' square? Why, when he said that Johnnie was cheatin' and acted like such a jackass? And then in the saloon he fairly walked up to git hurt?" With these arguments the cowboy browbeat the Easterner and reduced him to rage. "You're a fool!" cried the Easterner, viciously. "You're a bigger jackass than the Swede by a million majority. Now let me tell you one thing. Let me tell you something. Listen! Johnnie _was_ cheating!" "'Johnnie,'" said the cowboy, blankly. There was a minute of silence, and then he said, robustly, "Why, no. The game was only for fun." "Fun or not," said the Easterner, "Johnnie was cheating. I saw him. I know it. I saw him. And I refused to stand up and be a man. I let the Swede fight it out alone. And you--you were simply puffing around the place and wanting to fight. And then old Scully himself! We are all in it! This poor gambler isn't even a noun. He is kind of an adverb. Every sin is the result of a collaboration. We, five of us, have collaborated in the murder of this Swede. Usually there are from a dozen to forty women really involved in every murder, but in this case it seems to be only five men--you, I, Johnnie, old Scully, and that fool of an unfortunate gambler came merely as a culmination, the apex of a human movement, and gets all the punishment." The cowboy, injured and rebellious, cried out blindly into this fog of mysterious theory: "Well, I didn't do anythin', did I?" ------ HIS NEW MITTENS I Little Horace was walking home from school, brilliantly decorated by a pair of new red mittens. A number of boys were snowballing gleefully in a field. They hailed him. "Come on, Horace! We're having a battle." [Illustration: "Little Horace"] Horace was sad. "No," he said, "I can't. I've got to go home." At noon his mother had admonished him: "Now, Horace, you come straight home as soon as school is out. Do you hear? And don't you get them nice new mittens all wet, either. Do you hear?" Also his aunt had said: "I declare, Emily, it's a shame the way you allow that child to ruin his things." She had meant mittens. To his mother, Horace had dutifully replied, "Yes'm." But he now loitered in the vicinity of the group of uproarious boys, who were yelling like hawks as the white balls flew. [Illustration: "...Yelling Like Hawks as the White Balls Flew"] Some of them immediately analyzed this extraordinary hesitancy. "Hah!" they paused to scoff, "afraid of your new mittens, ain't you?" Some smaller boys, who were not yet so wise in discerning motives, applauded this attack with unreasonable vehemence. "A-fray-ed of his mit-tens! A-fray-ed of his mit-tens." They sang these lines to cruel and monotonous music which is as old perhaps as American childhood, and which it is the privilege of the emancipated adult to completely forget. "Afray-ed of his mit-tens!" Horace cast a tortured glance towards his playmates, and then dropped his eyes to the snow at his feet. Presently he turned to the trunk of one of the great maple-trees that lined the curb. He made a pretence of closely examining the rough and virile bark. To his mind, this familiar street of Whilomville seemed to grow dark in the thick shadow of shame. The trees and the houses were now palled in purple. "A-fray-ed of his mit-tens!" The terrible music had in it a meaning from the moonlit war-drums of chanting cannibals. [Illustration: "Horace: I've got to go home."] At last Horace, with supreme effort, raised his head. "'Tain't them I care about," he said, gruffly. "I've got to go home. That's all." Whereupon each boy held his left forefinger as if it were a pencil and began to sharpen it derisively with his right forefinger. They came closer, and sang like a trained chorus, "A-fray-ed of his mittens!" When he raised his voice to deny the charge it was simply lost in the screams of the mob. He was alone, fronting all the traditions of boyhood held before him by inexorable representatives. To such a low state had he fallen that one lad, a mere baby, outflanked him and then struck him in the cheek with a heavy snowball. The act was acclaimed with loud jeers. Horace turned to dart at his assailant, but there was an immediate demonstration on the other flank, and he found himself obliged to keep his face towards the hilarious crew of tormentors. The baby retreated in safety to the rear of the crowd, where he was received with fulsome compliments upon his daring. Horace retreated slowly up the walk. He continually tried to make them heed him, but the only sound was the chant, "A-fray-ed of his mit-tens!" In this desperate withdrawal the beset and haggard boy suffered more than is the common lot of man. [Illustration: "When He Raised His Voice to Deny the Charge"] Being a boy himself, he did not understand boys at all. He had, of course, the dismal conviction that they were going to dog him to his grave. But near the corner of the field they suddenly seemed to forget all about it. Indeed, they possessed only the malevolence of so many flitter-headed sparrows. The interest had swung capriciously to some other matter. In a moment they were off in the field again, carousing amid the snow. Some authoritative boy had probably said, "Aw, come on!" [Illustration: "Aw, Come On!"] As the pursuit ceased, Horace ceased his retreat. He spent some time in what was evidently an attempt to adjust his self respect, and then began to wander furtively down towards the group. He, too, had undergone an important change. Perhaps his sharp agony was only as durable as the malevolence of the others. In this boyish life obedience to some unformulated creed of manners was enforced with capricious but merciless rigor. However, they were, after all, his comrades, his friends. They did not heed his return. They were engaged in an altercation. It had evidently been planned that this battle was between Indians and soldiers. The smaller and weaker boys had been induced to appear as Indians in the initial skirmish, but they were now very sick of it, and were reluctantly but steadfastly, affirming their desire for a change of caste. The larger boys had all won great distinction, devastating Indians materially, and they wished the war to go on as planned. They explained vociferously that it was proper for the soldiers always to thrash the Indians. The little boys did not pretend to deny the truth of this argument; they confined themselves to the simple statement that, in that case, they wished to be soldiers. Each little boy willingly appealed to the others to remain Indians, but as for himself he reiterated his desire to enlist as a soldier. The larger boys were in despair over this dearth of enthusiasm in the small Indians. They alternately wheedled and bullied, but they could not persuade the little boys, who were really suffering dreadful humiliation rather than submit to another onslaught of soldiers. They were called all the baby names that had the power of stinging deep into their pride, but they remained firm. Then a formidable lad, a leader of reputation, one who could whip many boys that wore long trousers, suddenly blew out his checks and shouted, "Well, all right then. I'll be an Indian myself. Now." The little boys greeted with cheers this addition to their wearied ranks, and seemed then content. But matters were not mended in the least, because all of the personal following of the formidable lad, with the addition of every outsider, spontaneously forsook the flag and declared themselves Indians. There were now no soldiers. The Indians had carried everything unanimously. The formidable lad used his influence, but his influence could not shake the loyalty of his friends, who refused to fight under any colors but his colors. Plainly there was nothing for it but to coerce the little ones. The formidable lad again became a soldier, and then graciously permitted to join him all the real fighting strength of the crowd, leaving behind a most forlorn band of little Indians. Then the soldiers attacked the Indians, exhorting them to opposition at the same time. The Indians at first adopted a policy of hurried surrender, but this had no success, as none of the surrenders were accepted. They then turned to flee, bawling out protests. The ferocious soldiers pursued them amid shouts. The battle widened, developing all manner of marvellous detail. Horace had turned towards home several times, but, as a matter of fact, this scene held him in a spell. It was fascinating beyond anything which the grown man understands. He had always in the back of his head a sense of guilt, even a sense of impending punishment for disobedience, but they could not weigh with the delirium of this snow-battle. II One of the raiding soldiers, espying Horace, called out in passing, "A-fray-ed of his mit-tens!" Horace flinched at this renewal, and the other lad paused to taunt him again. Horace scooped some snow, moulded it into a ball, and flung it at the other. "Ho!" cried the boy, "you're an Indian, are you? Hey, fellers, here's an Indian that ain't been killed yet." He and Horace engaged in a duel in which both were in such haste to mould snowballs that they had little time for aiming. Horace once struck his opponent squarely in the chest. "Hey," he shouted, "you're dead. You can't fight any more, Pete. I killed you. You're dead." The other boy flushed red, but he continued frantically to make ammunition. "You never touched me!" he retorted, glowering. "You never touched me! Where, now?" he added, defiantly. "Where did you hit me?" "On the coat! Right on your breast! You can't fight any more! You're dead!" "You never!" "I did, too! Hey, fellers, ain't he dead? I hit 'im square!" "He never!" Nobody had seen the affair, but some of the boys took sides in absolute accordance with their friendship for one of the concerned parties. Horace's opponent went about contending, "He never touched me! He never came near me! He never came near me!" The formidable leader now came forward and accosted Horace. "What was you? An Indian? Well, then, you're dead--that's all. He hit you. I saw him." "Me?" shrieked Horace. "He never came within a mile of me----" At that moment he heard his name called in a certain familiar tune of two notes, with the last note shrill and prolonged. He looked towards the sidewalk, and saw his mother standing there in her widow's weeds, with two brown paper parcels under her arm. A silence had fallen upon all the boys. Horace moved slowly towards his mother. She did not seem to note his approach; she was gazing austerely off through the naked branches of the maples where two crimson sunset bars lay on the deep blue sky. At a distance of ten paces Horace made a desperate venture. "Oh, ma," he whined, "can't I stay out for a while?" "No," she answered solemnly, "you come with me." Horace knew that profile; it was the inexorable profile. But he continued to plead, because it was not beyond his mind that a great show of suffering now might diminish his suffering later. He did not dare to look back at his playmates. It was already a public scandal that he could not stay out as late as other boys, and he could imagine his standing now that he had been again dragged off by his mother in sight of the whole world. He was a profoundly miserable human being. Aunt Martha opened the door for them. Light streamed about her straight skirt. "Oh," she said, "so you found him on the road, eh? Well, I declare! It was about time!" Horace slunk into the kitchen. The stove, straddling out on its four iron legs, was gently humming. Aunt Martha had evidently just lighted the lamp, for she went to it and began to twist the wick experimentally. [Illustration: "Let's See Them Mittens."] "Now," said the mother, "let's see them mittens." Horace's chin sank. The aspiration of the criminal, the passionate desire for an asylum from retribution, from justice, was aflame in his heart. "I--I--don't--don't know where they are." he gasped finally, as he passed his hand over his pockets. "Horace," intoned his mother, "you are tellin' me a story!" "'Tain't a story," he answered, just above his breath. He looked like a sheep-stealer. His mother held him by the arm, and began to search his pockets. Almost at once she was able to bring forth a pair of very wet mittens. "Well, I declare!" cried Aunt Martha. The two women went close to the lamp, and minutely examined the mittens, turning them over and over. Afterwards, when Horace looked up, his mother's sad-lined, homely face was turned towards him. He burst into tears. His mother drew a chair near the stove. "Just you sit there now, until I tell you to git off." He sidled meekly into the chair. His mother and his aunt went briskly about the business of preparing supper. They did not display a knowledge of his existence; they carried an effect of oblivion so far that they even did not speak to each other. Presently they went into the dining and living room; Horace could hear the dishes rattling. His Aunt Martha brought a plate of food, placed it on a chair near him, and went away without a word. [Illustration: "Brought a Plate of Food"] Horace instantly decided that he would not touch a morsel of the food. He had often used this ruse in dealing with his mother. He did not know why it brought her to terms, but certainly it sometimes did. The mother looked up when the aunt returned to the other room. "Is he eatin' his supper?" she asked. The maiden aunt, fortified in ignorance, gazed with pity and contempt upon this interest. "Well, now, Emily, how do I know?" she queried. "Was I goin' to stand over 'im? Of all the worryin' you do about that child! It's a shame the way you're bringin' up that child." "Well, he ought to eat somethin'. It won't do fer him to go without eatin'," the mother retorted, weakly. Aunt Martha, profoundly scorning the policy of concession which these words meant, uttered a long, contemptuous sigh. III Alone in the kitchen, Horace stared with sombre eyes at the plate of food. For a long time he betrayed no sign of yielding. His mood was adamantine. He was resolved not to sell his vengeance for bread, cold ham, and a pickle, and yet it must be known that the sight of them affected him powerfully. The pickle in particular was notable for its seductive charm. He surveyed it darkly. [Illustration: "Horace Stared with Sombre Eyes at the Plate of Food"] But at last, unable to longer endure his state, his attitude in the presence of the pickle, he put out an inquisitive finger and touched it, and it was cool and green and plump. Then a full conception of the cruel woe of his situation swept upon him suddenly, and his eyes filled with tears, which began to move down his cheeks. He sniffled. His heart was black with hatred. He painted in his mind scenes of deadly retribution. His mother would be taught that he was not one to endure persecution meekly, without raising an arm in his defence. And so his dreams were of a slaughter of feelings, and near the end of them his mother was pictured as coming, bowed with pain, to his feet. Weeping, she implored his charity. Would he forgive her? No; his once tender heart had been turned to stone by her injustice. He could not forgive her. She must pay the inexorable penalty. The first item in this horrible plan was the refusal of the food. This he knew by experience would work havoc in his mother's heart. And so he grimly waited. But suddenly it occurred to him that the first part of his revenge was in danger of failing. The thought struck him that his mother might not capitulate in the usual way. According to his recollection, the time was more than due when she should come in, worried, sadly affectionate, and ask him if he was ill. It had then been his custom to hint in a resigned voice that he was the victim of secret disease, but that he preferred to suffer in silence and alone. If she was obdurate in her anxiety, he always asked her in a gloomy, low voice to go away and leave him to suffer in silence and alone in the darkness without food. He had known this maneuvering to result even in pie. But what was the meaning of the long pause and the stillness? Had his old and valued ruse betrayed him? As the truth sank into his mind, he supremely loathed life, the world, his mother. Her heart was beating back the besiegers; he was a defeated child. He wept for a time before deciding upon the final stroke. He would run away. In a remote corner of the world he would become some sort of bloody-handed person driven to a life of crime by the barbarity of his mother. She should never know his fate. He would torture her for years with doubts and doubts, and drive her implacably to a repentant grave. Nor would Aunt Martha escape. Some day, a century hence, when his mother was dead, he would write to his Aunt Martha, and point out her part in the blighting of his life. For one blow against him now he would, in time, deal back a thousand--aye, ten thousand. [Illustration: "Some Sort of Bloody-Handed Person"] He arose and took his coat and cap. As he moved stealthily towards the door he cast a glance backward at the pickle. He was tempted to take it, but he knew that if he left the plate inviolate his mother would feel even worse. A blue snow was falling. People, bowed forward, were moving briskly along the walks. The electric lamps hummed amid showers of flakes. As Horace emerged from the kitchen, a shrill squall drove the flakes around the corner of the house. He cowered away from it, and its violence illumined his mind vaguely in new directions. He deliberated upon a choice of remote corners of the globe. He found that he had no plans which were definite enough in a geographical way, but without much loss of time he decided upon California. He moved briskly as far as his mother's front gate on the road to California. He was off at last. His success was a trifle dreadful; his throat choked. [Illustration: "People, Bowed Forward"] But at the gate he paused. He did not know if his journey to California would be shorter if he went down Niagara Avenue or off through Hogan Street. As the storm was very cold and the point was very important, he decided to withdraw for reflection to the wood-shed. He entered the dark shanty, and took seat upon the old chopping-block upon which he was supposed to perform for a few minutes every afternoon when he returned from school. The wind screamed and shouted at the loose boards, and there was a rift of snow on the floor to leeward of a crack. Here the idea of starting for California on such a night departed from his mind, leaving him ruminating miserably upon his martyrdom. He saw nothing for it but to sleep all night in the wood-shed and start for California in the morning bright and early. Thinking of his bed, he kicked over the floor and found that the innumerable chips were all frozen tightly, bedded in ice. Later he viewed with joy some signs of excitement in the house. The flare of a lamp moved rapidly from window to window. Then the kitchen door slammed loudly and a shawled figure sped towards the gate. At last he was making them feel his power. The shivering child's face was lit with saturnine glee as in the darkness of the wood-shed he gloated over the evidences of consternation in his home. The shawled figure had been his Aunt Martha dashing with the alarm to the neighbors. The cold of the wood-shed was tormenting him. He endured only because of the terror he was causing. But then it occurred to him that, if they instituted a search for him, they would probably examine the wood-shed. He knew that it would not be manful to be caught so soon. He was not positive now that he was going to remain away forever, but at any rate he was bound to inflict some more damage before allowing himself to be captured. If he merely succeeded in making his mother angry, she would thrash him on sight. He must prolong the time in order to be safe. If he held out properly, he was sure of a welcome of love, even though he should drip with crimes. Evidently the storm had increased, for when he went out it swung him violently with its rough and merciless strength. Panting, stung, half blinded with the driving flakes, he was now a waif, exiled, friendless, and poor. With a bursting heart, he thought of his home and his mother. To his forlorn vision they were as far away as heaven. IV Horace was undergoing changes of feeling so rapidly that he was merely moved hither and then thither like a kite. He was now aghast at the merciless ferocity of his mother. It was she who had thrust him into this wild storm, and she was perfectly indifferent to his fate, perfectly indifferent. The forlorn wanderer could no longer weep. The strong sobs caught at his throat, making his breath come in short, quick snuffles. All in him was conquered save the enigmatical childish ideal of form, manner. This principle still held out, and it was the only thing between him and submission. When he surrendered, he must surrender in a way that deferred to the undefined code. He longed simply to go to the kitchen and stumble in, but his unfathomable sense of fitness forbade him. Presently he found himself at the head of Niagara Avenue, staring through the snow into the blazing windows of Stickney's butcher-shop. Stickney was the family butcher, not so much because of a superiority to other Whilomville butchers as because he lived next door and had been an intimate friend of the father of Horace. Rows of glowing pigs hung head downward back of the tables, which bore huge pieces of red beef. Clumps of attenuated turkeys were suspended here and there. Stickney, hale and smiling, was bantering with a woman in a cloak, who, with a monster basket on her arm, was dickering for eight cents' worth of some thing. Horace watched them through a crusted pane. When the woman came out and passed him, he went towards the door. He touched the latch with his finger, but withdrew again suddenly to the sidewalk. Inside Stickney was whistling cheerily and assorting his knives. [Illustration: "Eight Cents Worth of Something"] Finally Horace went desperately forward, opened the door, and entered the shop. His head hung low. Stickney stopped whistling. "Hello, young man," he cried, "what brings you here?" [Illustration: "His Head Hung Low"] Horace halted, but said nothing. He swung one foot to and fro over the saw-dust floor. Stickney had placed his two fat hands palms downward and wide apart on the table, in the attitude of a butcher facing a customer, but now he straightened. "Here," he said, "what's wrong? What's wrong, kid?" "Nothin'," answered Horace, huskily. He labored for a moment with something in his throat, and afterwards added, "O'ny----I've----I've run away, and--" "Run away!" shouted Stickney. "Run away from what? Who?" "From----home," answered Horace. "I don't like it there any more. I----" He had arranged an oration to win the sympathy of the butcher; he had prepared a table setting forth the merits of his case in the most logical fashion, but it was as if the wind had been knocked out of his mind. "I've run away. I----" Stickney reached an enormous hand over the array of beef, and firmly grappled the emigrant. Then he swung himself to Horace's side. His face was stretched with laughter, and he playfully shook his prisoner. "Come----come----come. What dashed nonsense is this? Run away, hey? Run away?" Whereupon the child's long-tried spirit found vent in howls. "Come, come," said Stickney, busily. "Never mind now, never mind. You just come along with me. It'll be all right. I'll fix it. Never you mind." Five minutes later the butcher, with a great ulster over his apron, was leading the boy homeward. At the very threshold, Horace raised his last flag of pride. "No----no," he sobbed. "I don't want to. I don't want to go in there." He braced his foot against the step and made a very respectable resistance. "Now, Horace," cried the butcher. He thrust open the door with a bang. "Hello there!" Across the dark kitchen the door to the living-room opened and Aunt Martha appeared. "You've found him!" she screamed. "We've come to make a call," roared the butcher. At the entrance to the living-room a silence fell upon them all. Upon a couch Horace saw his mother lying limp, pale as death, her eyes gleaming with pain. There was an electric pause before she swung a waxen hand towards Horace. "My child," she murmured, tremulously. Whereupon the sinister person addressed, with a prolonged wail of grief and joy, ran to her with speed. "Mam-ma! Mam-ma! Oh, mam-ma!" She was not able to speak in a known tongue as she folded him in her weak arms. [Illustration: "'Mam-ma! Mam-ma! Oh, mam-ma!'"] Aunt Martha turned defiantly upon the butcher because her face betrayed her. She was crying. She made a gesture half military, half feminine. "Won't you have a glass of our root-beer, Mr. Stickney? We make it ourselves." 
717	----	CHITA: A Memory of Last Island by Lafcadio Hearn "But Nature whistled with all her winds, Did as she pleased, and went her way." --Emerson To my friend Dr. Rodolfo Matas of New Orleans Contents The Legend of L'Ile Derniere Out of the Sea's Strength The Shadow of the Tide The Legend of L'Ile Derniere I. Travelling south from New Orleans to the Islands, you pass through a strange land into a strange sea, by various winding waterways. You can journey to the Gulf by lugger if you please; but the trip may be made much more rapidly and agreeably on some one of those light, narrow steamers, built especially for bayou-travel, which usually receive passengers at a point not far from the foot of old Saint-Louis Street, hard by the sugar-landing, where there is ever a pushing and flocking of steam craft--all striving for place to rest their white breasts against the levee, side by side,--like great weary swans. But the miniature steamboat on which you engage passage to the Gulf never lingers long in the Mississippi: she crosses the river, slips into some canal-mouth, labors along the artificial channel awhile, and then leaves it with a scream of joy, to puff her free way down many a league of heavily shadowed bayou. Perhaps thereafter she may bear you through the immense silence of drenched rice-fields, where the yellow-green level is broken at long intervals by the black silhouette of some irrigating machine;--but, whichever of the five different routes be pursued, you will find yourself more than once floating through sombre mazes of swamp-forest,--past assemblages of cypresses all hoary with the parasitic tillandsia, and grotesque as gatherings of fetich-gods. Ever from river or from lakelet the steamer glides again into canal or bayou,--from bayou or canal once more into lake or bay; and sometimes the swamp-forest visibly thins away from these shores into wastes of reedy morass where, even of breathless nights, the quaggy soil trembles to a sound like thunder of breakers on a coast: the storm-roar of billions of reptile voices chanting in cadence,--rhythmically surging in stupendous crescendo and diminuendo,--a monstrous and appalling chorus of frogs! .... Panting, screaming, scraping her bottom over the sand-bars,--all day the little steamer strives to reach the grand blaze of blue open water below the marsh-lands; and perhaps she may be fortunate enough to enter the Gulf about the time of sunset. For the sake of passengers, she travels by day only; but there are other vessels which make the journey also by night--threading the bayou-labyrinths winter and summer: sometimes steering by the North Star,--sometimes feeling the way with poles in the white season of fogs,--sometimes, again, steering by that Star of Evening which in our sky glows like another moon, and drops over the silent lakes as she passes a quivering trail of silver fire. Shadows lengthen; and at last the woods dwindle away behind you into thin bluish lines;--land and water alike take more luminous color;--bayous open into broad passes;--lakes link themselves with sea-bays;--and the ocean-wind bursts upon you,--keen, cool, and full of light. For the first time the vessel begins to swing,--rocking to the great living pulse of the tides. And gazing from the deck around you, with no forest walls to break the view, it will seem to you that the low land must have once been rent asunder by the sea, and strewn about the Gulf in fantastic tatters.... Sometimes above a waste of wind-blown prairie-cane you see an oasis emerging,--a ridge or hillock heavily umbraged with the rounded foliage of evergreen oaks:--a cheniere. And from the shining flood also kindred green knolls arise,--pretty islets, each with its beach-girdle of dazzling sand and shells, yellow-white,--and all radiant with semi-tropical foliage, myrtle and palmetto, orange and magnolia. Under their emerald shadows curious little villages of palmetto huts are drowsing, where dwell a swarthy population of Orientals,--Malay fishermen, who speak the Spanish-Creole of the Philippines as well as their own Tagal, and perpetuate in Louisiana the Catholic traditions of the Indies. There are girls in those unfamiliar villages worthy to inspire any statuary,--beautiful with the beauty of ruddy bronze,--gracile as the palmettoes that sway above them.... Further seaward you may also pass a Chinese settlement: some queer camp of wooden dwellings clustering around a vast platform that stands above the water upon a thousand piles;--over the miniature wharf you can scarcely fail to observe a white sign-board painted with crimson ideographs. The great platform is used for drying fish in the sun; and the fantastic characters of the sign, literally translated, mean: "Heap--Shrimp--Plenty." ... And finally all the land melts down into desolations of sea-marsh, whose stillness is seldom broken, except by the melancholy cry of long-legged birds, and in wild seasons by that sound which shakes all shores when the weird Musician of the Sea touches the bass keys of his mighty organ.... II. Beyond the sea-marshes a curious archipelago lies. If you travel by steamer to the sea-islands to-day, you are tolerably certain to enter the Gulf by Grande Pass--skirting Grande Terre, the most familiar island of all, not so much because of its proximity as because of its great crumbling fort and its graceful pharos: the stationary White-Light of Barataria. Otherwise the place is bleakly uninteresting: a wilderness of wind-swept grasses and sinewy weeds waving away from a thin beach ever speckled with drift and decaying things,--worm-riddled timbers, dead porpoises. Eastward the russet level is broken by the columnar silhouette of the light house, and again, beyond it, by some puny scrub timber, above which rises the angular ruddy mass of the old brick fort, whose ditches swarm with crabs, and whose sluiceways are half choked by obsolete cannon-shot, now thickly covered with incrustation of oyster shells.... Around all the gray circling of a shark-haunted sea... Sometimes of autumn evenings there, when the hollow of heaven flames like the interior of a chalice, and waves and clouds are flying in one wild rout of broken gold,--you may see the tawny grasses all covered with something like husks,--wheat-colored husks,--large, flat, and disposed evenly along the lee-side of each swaying stalk, so as to present only their edges to the wind. But, if you approach, those pale husks all break open to display strange splendors of scarlet and seal-brown, with arabesque mottlings in white and black: they change into wondrous living blossoms, which detach themselves before your eyes and rise in air, and flutter away by thousands to settle down farther off, and turn into wheat-colored husks once more ... a whirling flower-drift of sleepy butterflies! Southwest, across the pass, gleams beautiful Grande Isle: primitively a wilderness of palmetto (latanier);--then drained, diked, and cultivated by Spanish sugar-planters; and now familiar chiefly as a bathing-resort. Since the war the ocean reclaimed its own;--the cane-fields have degenerated into sandy plains, over which tramways wind to the smooth beach;--the plantation-residences have been converted into rustic hotels, and the negro-quarters remodelled into villages of cozy cottages for the reception of guests. But with its imposing groves of oak, its golden wealth of orange-trees, its odorous lanes of oleander. its broad grazing-meadows yellow-starred with wild camomile, Grande Isle remains the prettiest island of the Gulf; and its loveliness is exceptional. For the bleakness of Grand Terre is reiterated by most of the other islands,--Caillou, Cassetete, Calumet, Wine Island, the twin Timbaliers, Gull Island, and the many islets haunted by the gray pelican,--all of which are little more than sand-bars covered with wiry grasses, prairie-cane, and scrub-timber. Last Island (L'Ile Derniere),--well worthy a long visit in other years, in spite of its remoteness, is now a ghastly desolation twenty-five miles long. Lying nearly forty miles west of Grande Isle, it was nevertheless far more populated a generation ago: it was not only the most celebrated island of the group, but also the most fashionable watering-place of the aristocratic South;--to-day it is visited by fishermen only, at long intervals. Its admirable beach in many respects resembled that of Grande Isle to-day; the accommodations also were much similar, although finer: a charming village of cottages facing the Gulf near the western end. The hotel itself was a massive two-story construction of timber, containing many apartments, together with a large dining-room and dancing-hall. In rear of the hotel was a bayou, where passengers landed--"Village Bayou" it is still called by seamen;--but the deep channel which now cuts the island in two a little eastwardly did not exist while the village remained. The sea tore it out in one night--the same night when trees, fields, dwellings, all vanished into the Gulf, leaving no vestige of former human habitation except a few of those strong brick props and foundations upon which the frame houses and cisterns had been raised. One living creature was found there after the cataclysm--a cow! But how that solitary cow survived the fury of a storm-flood that actually rent the island in twain has ever remained a mystery ... III. On the Gulf side of these islands you may observe that the trees--when there are any trees--all bend away from the sea; and, even of bright, hot days when the wind sleeps, there is something grotesquely pathetic in their look of agonized terror. A group of oaks at Grande Isle I remember as especially suggestive: five stooping silhouettes in line against the horizon, like fleeing women with streaming garments and wind-blown hair,--bowing grievously and thrusting out arms desperately northward as to save themselves from falling. And they are being pursued indeed;--for the sea is devouring the land. Many and many a mile of ground has yielded to the tireless charging of Ocean's cavalry: far out you can see, through a good glass, the porpoises at play where of old the sugar-cane shook out its million bannerets; and shark-fins now seam deep water above a site where pigeons used to coo. Men build dikes; but the besieging tides bring up their battering-rams--whole forests of drift--huge trunks of water-oak and weighty cypress. Forever the yellow Mississippi strives to build; forever the sea struggles to destroy;--and amid their eternal strife the islands and the promontories change shape, more slowly, but not less fantastically, than the clouds of heaven. And worthy of study are those wan battle-grounds where the woods made their last brave stand against the irresistible invasion,--usually at some long point of sea-marsh, widely fringed with billowing sand. Just where the waves curl beyond such a point you may discern a multitude of blackened, snaggy shapes protruding above the water,--some high enough to resemble ruined chimneys, others bearing a startling likeness to enormous skeleton-feet and skeleton-hands,--with crustaceous white growths clinging to them here and there like remnants of integument. These are bodies and limbs of drowned oaks,--so long drowned that the shell-scurf is inch-thick upon parts of them. Farther in upon the beach immense trunks lie overthrown. Some look like vast broken columns; some suggest colossal torsos imbedded, and seem to reach out mutilated stumps in despair from their deepening graves;--and beside these are others which have kept their feet with astounding obstinacy, although the barbarian tides have been charging them for twenty years, and gradually torn away the soil above and beneath their roots. The sand around,--soft beneath and thinly crusted upon the surface,--is everywhere pierced with holes made by a beautifully mottled and semi-diaphanous crab, with hairy legs, big staring eyes, and milk-white claws;--while in the green sedges beyond there is a perpetual rustling, as of some strong wind beating among reeds: a marvellous creeping of "fiddlers," which the inexperienced visitor might at first mistake for so many peculiar beetles, as they run about sideways, each with his huge single claw folded upon his body like a wing-case. Year by year that rustling strip of green land grows narrower; the sand spreads and sinks, shuddering and wrinkling like a living brown skin; and the last standing corpses of the oaks, ever clinging with naked, dead feet to the sliding beach, lean more and more out of the perpendicular. As the sands subside, the stumps appear to creep; their intertwisted masses of snakish roots seem to crawl, to writhe,--like the reaching arms of cephalopods.... ... Grande Terre is going: the sea mines her fort, and will before many years carry the ramparts by storm. Grande Isle is going,--slowly but surely: the Gulf has eaten three miles into her meadowed land. Last Island has gone! How it went I first heard from the lips of a veteran pilot, while we sat one evening together on the trunk of a drifted cypress which some high tide had pressed deeply into the Grande Isle beach. The day had been tropically warm; we had sought the shore for a breath of living air. Sunset came, and with it the ponderous heat lifted,--a sudden breeze blew,--lightnings flickered in the darkening horizon,--wind and water began to strive together,--and soon all the low coast boomed. Then my companion began his story; perhaps the coming of the storm inspired him to speak! And as I listened to him, listening also to the clamoring of the coast, there flashed back to me recollection of a singular Breton fancy: that the Voice of the Sea is never one voice, but a tumult of many voices--voices of drowned men,--the muttering of multitudinous dead,--the moaning of innumerable ghosts, all rising, to rage against the living, at the great Witch call of storms.... IV. The charm of a single summer day on these island shores is something impossible to express, never to be forgotten. Rarely, in the paler zones, do earth and heaven take such luminosity: those will best understand me who have seen the splendor of a West Indian sky. And yet there is a tenderness of tint, a caress of color, in these Gulf-days which is not of the Antilles,--a spirituality, as of eternal tropical spring. It must have been to even such a sky that Xenophanes lifted up his eyes of old when he vowed the Infinite Blue was God;--it was indeed under such a sky that De Soto named the vastest and grandest of Southern havens Espiritu Santo,--the Bay of the Holy Ghost. There is a something unutterable in this bright Gulf-air that compels awe,--something vital, something holy, something pantheistic: and reverentially the mind asks itself if what the eye beholds is not the Pneuma indeed, the Infinite Breath, the Divine Ghost, the great Blue Soul of the Unknown. All, all is blue in the calm,--save the low land under your feet, which you almost forget, since it seems only as a tiny green flake afloat in the liquid eternity of day. Then slowly, caressingly, irresistibly, the witchery of the Infinite grows upon you: out of Time and Space you begin to dream with open eyes,--to drift into delicious oblivion of facts,--to forget the past, the present, the substantial,--to comprehend nothing but the existence of that infinite Blue Ghost as something into which you would wish to melt utterly away forever.... And this day-magic of azure endures sometimes for months together. Cloudlessly the dawn reddens up through a violet east: there is no speck upon the blossoming of its Mystical Rose,--unless it be the silhouette of some passing gull, whirling his sickle-wings against the crimsoning. Ever, as the sun floats higher, the flood shifts its color. Sometimes smooth and gray, yet flickering with the morning gold, it is the vision of John,--the apocalyptic Sea of Glass mixed with fire;--again, with the growing breeze, it takes that incredible purple tint familiar mostly to painters of West Indian scenery;--once more, under the blaze of noon, it changes to a waste of broken emerald. With evening, the horizon assumes tints of inexpressible sweetness,--pearl-lights, opaline colors of milk and fire; and in the west are topaz-glowings and wondrous flushings as of nacre. Then, if the sea sleeps, it dreams of all these,--faintly, weirdly,--shadowing them even to the verge of heaven. Beautiful, too, are those white phantasmagoria which, at the approach of equinoctial days, mark the coming of the winds. Over the rim of the sea a bright cloud gently pushes up its head. It rises; and others rise with it, to right and left--slowly at first; then more swiftly. All are brilliantly white and flocculent, like loose new cotton. Gradually they mount in enormous line high above the Gulf, rolling and wreathing into an arch that expands and advances,--bending from horizon to horizon. A clear, cold breath accompanies its coming. Reaching the zenith, it seems there to hang poised awhile,--a ghostly bridge arching the empyrean,--upreaching its measureless span from either underside of the world. Then the colossal phantom begins to turn, as on a pivot of air,--always preserving its curvilinear symmetry, but moving its unseen ends beyond and below the sky-circle. And at last it floats away unbroken beyond the blue sweep of the world, with a wind following after. Day after day, almost at the same hour, the white arc rises, wheels, and passes... ... Never a glimpse of rock on these low shores;--only long sloping beaches and bars of smooth tawny sand. Sand and sea teem with vitality;--over all the dunes there is a constant susurration, a blattering and swarming of crustacea;--through all the sea there is a ceaseless play of silver lightning,--flashing of myriad fish. Sometimes the shallows are thickened with minute, transparent, crab-like organisms,--all colorless as gelatine. There are days also when countless medusae drift in--beautiful veined creatures that throb like hearts, with perpetual systole and diastole of their diaphanous envelops: some, of translucent azure or rose, seem in the flood the shadows or ghosts of huge campanulate flowers;--others have the semblance of strange living vegetables,--great milky tubers, just beginning to sprout. But woe to the human skin grazed by those shadowy sproutings and spectral stamens!--the touch of glowing iron is not more painful... Within an hour or two after their appearance all these tremulous jellies vanish mysteriously as they came. Perhaps, if a bold swimmer, you may venture out alone a long way--once! Not twice!--even in company. As the water deepens beneath you, and you feel those ascending wave-currents of coldness arising which bespeak profundity, you will also begin to feel innumerable touches, as of groping fingers--touches of the bodies of fish, innumerable fish, fleeing towards shore. The farther you advance, the more thickly you will feel them come; and above you and around you, to right and left, others will leap and fall so swiftly as to daze the sight, like intercrossing fountain-jets of fluid silver. The gulls fly lower about you, circling with sinister squeaking cries;--perhaps for an instant your feet touch in the deep something heavy, swift, lithe, that rushes past with a swirling shock. Then the fear of the Abyss, the vast and voiceless Nightmare of the Sea, will come upon you; the silent panic of all those opaline millions that flee glimmering by will enter into you also... From what do they flee thus perpetually? Is it from the giant sawfish or the ravening shark?--from the herds of the porpoises, or from the grande-ecaille,--that splendid monster whom no net may hold,--all helmed and armored in argent plate-mail?--or from the hideous devilfish of the Gulf,--gigantic, flat-bodied, black, with immense side-fins ever outspread like the pinions of a bat,--the terror of luggermen, the uprooter of anchors? From all these, perhaps, and from other monsters likewise--goblin shapes evolved by Nature as destroyers, as equilibrists, as counterchecks to that prodigious fecundity, which, unhindered, would thicken the deep into one measureless and waveless ferment of being... But when there are many bathers these perils are forgotten,--numbers give courage,--one can abandon one's self, without fear of the invisible, to the long, quivering, electrical caresses of the sea ... V. Thirty years ago, Last Island lay steeped in the enormous light of even such magical days. July was dying;--for weeks no fleck of cloud had broken the heaven's blue dream of eternity; winds held their breath; slow waveless caressed the bland brown beach with a sound as of kisses and whispers. To one who found himself alone, beyond the limits of the village and beyond the hearing of its voices,--the vast silence, the vast light, seemed full of weirdness. And these hushes, these transparencies, do not always inspire a causeless apprehension: they are omens sometimes--omens of coming tempest. Nature,--incomprehensible Sphinx!--before her mightiest bursts of rage, ever puts forth her divinest witchery, makes more manifest her awful beauty ... But in that forgotten summer the witchery lasted many long days,--days born in rose-light, buried in gold. It was the height of the season. The long myrtle-shadowed village was thronged with its summer population;--the big hotel could hardly accommodate all its guests;--the bathing-houses were too few for the crowds who flocked to the water morning and evening. There were diversions for all,--hunting and fishing parties, yachting excursions, rides, music, games, promenades. Carriage wheels whirled flickering along the beach, seaming its smoothness noiselessly, as if muffled. Love wrote its dreams upon the sand... ... Then one great noon, when the blue abyss of day seemed to yawn over the world more deeply than ever before, a sudden change touched the quicksilver smoothness of the waters--the swaying shadow of a vast motion. First the whole sea-circle appeared to rise up bodily at the sky; the horizon-curve lifted to a straight line; the line darkened and approached,--a monstrous wrinkle, an immeasurable fold of green water, moving swift as a cloud-shadow pursued by sunlight. But it had looked formidable only by startling contrast with the previous placidity of the open: it was scarcely two feet high;--it curled slowly as it neared the beach, and combed itself out in sheets of woolly foam with a low, rich roll of whispered thunder. Swift in pursuit another followed--a third--a feebler fourth; then the sea only swayed a little, and stilled again. Minutes passed, and the immeasurable heaving recommenced--one, two, three, four ... seven long swells this time;--and the Gulf smoothed itself once more. Irregularly the phenomenon continued to repeat itself, each time with heavier billowing and briefer intervals of quiet--until at last the whole sea grew restless and shifted color and flickered green;--the swells became shorter and changed form. Then from horizon to shore ran one uninterrupted heaving--one vast green swarming of snaky shapes, rolling in to hiss and flatten upon the sand. Yet no single cirrus-speck revealed itself through all the violet heights: there was no wind!--you might have fancied the sea had been upheaved from beneath ... And indeed the fancy of a seismic origin for a windless surge would not appear in these latitudes to be utterly without foundation. On the fairest days a southeast breeze may bear you an odor singular enough to startle you from sleep,--a strong, sharp smell as of fish-oil; and gazing at the sea you might be still more startled at the sudden apparition of great oleaginous patches spreading over the water, sheeting over the swells. That is, if you had never heard of the mysterious submarine oil-wells, the volcanic fountains, unexplored, that well up with the eternal pulsing of the Gulf-Stream ... But the pleasure-seekers of Last Island knew there must have been a "great blow" somewhere that day. Still the sea swelled; and a splendid surf made the evening bath delightful. Then, just at sundown, a beautiful cloud-bridge grew up and arched the sky with a single span of cottony pink vapor, that changed and deepened color with the dying of the iridescent day. And the cloud-bridge approached, stretched, strained, and swung round at last to make way for the coming of the gale,--even as the light bridges that traverse the dreamy Teche swing open when luggermen sound through their conch-shells the long, bellowing signal of approach. Then the wind began to blow, with the passing of July. It blew from the northeast, clear, cool. It blew in enormous sighs, dying away at regular intervals, as if pausing to draw breath. All night it blew; and in each pause could be heard the answering moan of the rising surf,--as if the rhythm of the sea moulded itself after the rhythm of the air,--as if the waving of the water responded precisely to the waving of the wind,--a billow for every puff, a surge for every sigh. The August morning broke in a bright sky;--the breeze still came cool and clear from the northeast. The waves were running now at a sharp angle to the shore: they began to carry fleeces, an innumerable flock of vague green shapes, wind-driven to be despoiled of their ghostly wool. Far as the eye could follow the line of the beach, all the slope was white with the great shearing of them. Clouds came, flew as in a panic against the face of the sun, and passed. All that day and through the night and into the morning again the breeze continued from the north. east, blowing like an equinoctial gale ... Then day by day the vast breath freshened steadily, and the waters heightened. A week later sea-bathing had become perilous: colossal breakers were herding in, like moving leviathan-backs, twice the height of a man. Still the gale grew, and the billowing waxed mightier, and faster and faster overhead flew the tatters of torn cloud. The gray morning of the 9th wanly lighted a surf that appalled the best swimmers: the sea was one wild agony of foam, the gale was rending off the heads of the waves and veiling the horizon with a fog of salt spray. Shadowless and gray the day remained; there were mad bursts of lashing rain. Evening brought with it a sinister apparition, looming through a cloud-rent in the west--a scarlet sun in a green sky. His sanguine disk, enormously magnified, seemed barred like the body of a belted planet. A moment, and the crimson spectre vanished; and the moonless night came. Then the Wind grew weird. It ceased being a breath; it became a Voice moaning across the world,--hooting,--uttering nightmare sounds,--Whoo!--whoo!--whoo!--and with each stupendous owl-cry the mooing of the waters seemed to deepen, more and more abysmally, through all the hours of darkness. From the northwest the breakers of the bay began to roll high over the sandy slope, into the salines;--the village bayou broadened to a bellowing flood ... So the tumult swelled and the turmoil heightened until morning,--a morning of gray gloom and whistling rain. Rain of bursting clouds and rain of wind-blown brine from the great spuming agony of the sea. The steamer Star was due from St. Mary's that fearful morning. Could she come? No one really believed it,--no one. And nevertheless men struggled to the roaring beach to look for her, because hope is stronger than reason ... Even today, in these Creole islands, the advent of the steamer is the great event of the week. There are no telegraph lines, no telephones: the mail-packet is the only trustworthy medium of communication with the outer world, bringing friends, news, letters. The magic of steam has placed New Orleans nearer to New York than to the Timbaliers, nearer to Washington than to Wine Island, nearer to Chicago than to Barataria Bay. And even during the deepest sleep of waves and winds there will come betimes to sojourners in this unfamiliar archipelago a feeling of lonesomeness that is a fear, a feeling of isolation from the world of men,--totally unlike that sense of solitude which haunts one in the silence of mountain-heights, or amid the eternal tumult of lofty granitic coasts: a sense of helpless insecurity. The land seems but an undulation of the sea-bed: its highest ridges do not rise more than the height of a man above the salines on either side;--the salines themselves lie almost level with the level of the flood-tides;--the tides are variable, treacherous, mysterious. But when all around and above these ever-changing shores the twin vastnesses of heaven and sea begin to utter the tremendous revelation of themselves as infinite forces in contention, then indeed this sense of separation from humanity appalls ... Perhaps it was such a feeling which forced men, on the tenth day of August, eighteen hundred and fifty-six, to hope against hope for the coming of the Star, and to strain their eyes towards far-off Terrebonne. "It was a wind you could lie down on," said my friend the pilot. ... "Great God!" shrieked a voice above the shouting of the storm,--"she is coming!" ... It was true. Down the Atchafalaya, and thence through strange mazes of bayou, lakelet, and pass, by a rear route familiar only to the best of pilots, the frail river-craft had toiled into Caillou Bay, running close to the main shore;--and now she was heading right for the island, with the wind aft, over the monstrous sea. On she came, swaying, rocking, plunging,--with a great whiteness wrapping her about like a cloud, and moving with her moving,--a tempest-whirl of spray;--ghost-white and like a ghost she came, for her smoke-stacks exhaled no visible smoke--the wind devoured it! The excitement on shore became wild;--men shouted themselves hoarse; women laughed and cried. Every telescope and opera-glass was directed upon the coming apparition; all wondered how the pilot kept his feet; all marvelled at the madness of the captain. But Captain Abraham Smith was not mad. A veteran American sailor, he had learned to know the great Gulf as scholars know deep books by heart: he knew the birthplace of its tempests, the mystery of its tides, the omens of its hurricanes. While lying at Brashear City he felt the storm had not yet reached its highest, vaguely foresaw a mighty peril, and resolved to wait no longer for a lull. "Boys," he said, "we've got to take her out in spite of Hell!" And they "took her out." Through all the peril, his men stayed by him and obeyed him. By midmorning the wind had deepened to a roar,--lowering sometimes to a rumble, sometimes bursting upon the ears like a measureless and deafening crash. Then the captain knew the Star was running a race with Death. "She'll win it," he muttered;--"she'll stand it ... Perhaps they'll have need of me to-night." She won! With a sonorous steam-chant of triumph the brave little vessel rode at last into the bayou, and anchored hard by her accustomed resting-place, in full view of the hotel, though not near enough to shore to lower her gang-plank.... But she had sung her swan-song. Gathering in from the northeast, the waters of the bay were already marbling over the salines and half across the island; and still the wind increased its paroxysmal power. Cottages began to rock. Some slid away from the solid props upon which they rested. A chimney fumbled. Shutters were wrenched off; verandas demolished. Light roofs lifted, dropped again, and flapped into ruin. Trees bent their heads to the earth. And still the storm grew louder and blacker with every passing hour. The Star rose with the rising of the waters, dragging her anchor. Two more anchors were put out, and still she dragged--dragged in with the flood,--twisting, shuddering, careening in her agony. Evening fell; the sand began to move with the wind, stinging faces like a continuous fire of fine shot; and frenzied blasts came to buffet the steamer forward, sideward. Then one of her hog-chains parted with a clang like the boom of a big bell. Then another! ... Then the captain bade his men to cut away all her upper works, clean to the deck. Overboard into the seething went her stacks, her pilot-house, her cabins,--and whirled away. And the naked hull of the Star, still dragging her three anchors, labored on through the darkness, nearer and nearer to the immense silhouette of the hotel, whose hundred windows were now all aflame. The vast timber building seemed to defy the storm. The wind, roaring round its broad verandas,--hissing through every crevice with the sound and force of steam,--appeared to waste its rage. And in the half-lull between two terrible gusts there came to the captain's ears a sound that seemed strange in that night of multitudinous terrors ... a sound of music! VI. ... Almost every evening throughout the season there had been dancing in the great hall;--there was dancing that night also. The population of the hotel had been augmented by the advent of families from other parts of the island, who found their summer cottages insecure places of shelter: there were nearly four hundred guests assembled. Perhaps it was for this reason that the entertainment had been prepared upon a grander plan than usual, that it assumed the form of a fashionable ball. And all those pleasure seekers,--representing the wealth and beauty of the Creole parishes,--whether from Ascension or Assumption, St. Mary's or St. Landry's, Iberville or Terrebonne, whether inhabitants of the multi-colored and many-balconied Creole quarter of the quaint metropolis, or dwellers in the dreamy paradises of the Teche,--mingled joyously, knowing each other, feeling in some sort akin--whether affiliated by blood, connaturalized by caste, or simply interassociated by traditional sympathies of class sentiment and class interest. Perhaps in the more than ordinary merriment of that evening something of nervous exaltation might have been discerned,--something like a feverish resolve to oppose apprehension with gayety, to combat uneasiness by diversion. But the hours passed in mirthfulness; the first general feeling of depression began to weigh less and less upon the guests; they had found reason to confide in the solidity of the massive building; there were no positive terrors, no outspoken fears; and the new conviction of all had found expression in the words of the host himself,--"Il n'y a rien de mieux a faire que de s'amuser!" Of what avail to lament the prospective devastation of cane-fields,--to discuss the possible ruin of crops? Better to seek solace in choregraphic harmonies, in the rhythm of gracious motion and of perfect melody, than hearken to the discords of the wild orchestra of storms;--wiser to admire the grace of Parisian toilets, the eddy of trailing robes with its fairy-foam of lace, the ivorine loveliness of glossy shoulders and jewelled throats, the glimmering of satin-slippered feet,--than to watch the raging of the flood without, or the flying of the wrack ... So the music and the mirth went on: they made joy for themselves--those elegant guests;--they jested and sipped rich wines;--they pledged, and hoped, and loved, and promised, with never a thought of the morrow, on the night of the tenth of August, eighteen hundred and fifty-six. Observant parents were there, planning for the future bliss of their nearest and dearest;--mothers and fathers of handsome lads, lithe and elegant as young pines, and fresh from the polish of foreign university training;--mothers and fathers of splendid girls whose simplest attitudes were witcheries. Young cheeks flushed, young hearts fluttered with an emotion more puissant than the excitement of the dance;--young eyes betrayed the happy secret discreeter lips would have preserved. Slave-servants circled through the aristocratic press, bearing dainties and wines, praying permission to pass in terms at once humble and officious,--always in the excellent French which well-trained house-servants were taught to use on such occasions. ... Night wore on: still the shining floor palpitated to the feet of the dancers; still the piano-forte pealed, and still the violins sang,--and the sound of their singing shrilled through the darkness, in gasps of the gale, to the ears of Captain Smith, as he strove to keep his footing on the spray-drenched deck of the Star. --"Christ!" he muttered,--"a dance! If that wind whips round south, there'll be another dance! ... But I guess the Star will stay." ... Half an hour might have passed; still the lights flamed calmly, and the violins trilled, and the perfumed whirl went on ... And suddenly the wind veered! Again the Star reeled, and shuddered, and turned, and began to drag all her anchors. But she now dragged away from the great building and its lights,--away from the voluptuous thunder of the grand piano, even at that moment outpouring the great joy of Weber's melody orchestrated by Berlioz: l'Invitation a la Valse,--with its marvellous musical swing! --"Waltzing!" cried the captain. "God help them!--God help us all now! ... The Wind waltzes to-night, with the Sea for his partner!" ... O the stupendous Valse-Tourbillon! O the mighty Dancer! One--two--three! From northeast to east, from east to southeast, from southeast to south: then from the south he came, whirling the Sea in his arms ... ... Some one shrieked in the midst of the revels;--some girl who found her pretty slippers wet. What could it be? Thin streams of water were spreading over the level planking,--curling about the feet of the dancers ... What could it be? All the land had begun to quake, even as, but a moment before, the polished floor was trembling to the pressure of circling steps;--all the building shook now; every beam uttered its groan. What could it be? ... There was a clamor, a panic, a rush to the windy night. Infinite darkness above and beyond; but the lantern-beams danced far out over an unbroken circle of heaving and swirling black water. Stealthily, swiftly, the measureless sea-flood was rising. --"Messieurs--mesdames, ce n'est rien. Nothing serious, ladies, I assure you ... Mais nous en avons vu bien souvent, les inondations comme celle-ci; ca passe vite! The water will go down in a few hours, ladies;--it never rises higher than this; il n'y a pas le moindre danger, je vous dis! Allons! il n'y a--My God! what is that?" ... For a moment there was a ghastly hush of voices. And through that hush there burst upon the ears of all a fearful and unfamiliar sound, as of a colossal cannonade rolling up from the south, with volleying lightnings. Vastly and swiftly, nearer and nearer it came,--a ponderous and unbroken thunder-roll, terrible as the long muttering of an earthquake. The nearest mainland,--across mad Caillou Bay to the sea-marshes,--lay twelve miles north; west, by the Gulf, the nearest solid ground was twenty miles distant. There were boats, yes!--but the stoutest swimmer might never reach them now! Then rose a frightful cry,--the hoarse, hideous, indescribable cry of hopeless fear,--the despairing animal-cry man utters when suddenly brought face to face with Nothingness, without preparation, without consolation, without possibility of respite ... Sauve qui peut! Some wrenched down the doors; some clung to the heavy banquet-tables, to the sofas, to the billiard-tables:--during one terrible instant,--against fruitless heroisms, against futile generosities,--raged all the frenzy of selfishness, all the brutalities of panic. And then--then came, thundering through the blackness, the giant swells, boom on boom! ... One crash!--the huge frame building rocks like a cradle, seesaws, crackles. What are human shrieks now?--the tornado is shrieking! Another!--chandeliers splinter; lights are dashed out; a sweeping cataract hurls in: the immense hall rises,--oscillates,--twirls as upon a pivot,--crepitates,--crumbles into ruin. Crash again!--the swirling wreck dissolves into the wallowing of another monster billow; and a hundred cottages overturn, spin in sudden eddies, quiver, disjoint, and melt into the seething. ... So the hurricane passed,--tearing off the heads of the prodigious waves, to hurl them a hundred feet in air,--heaping up the ocean against the land,--upturning the woods. Bays and passes were swollen to abysses; rivers regorged; the sea-marshes were changed to raging wastes of water. Before New Orleans the flood of the mile-broad Mississippi rose six feet above highest water-mark. One hundred and ten miles away, Donaldsonville trembled at the towering tide of the Lafourche. Lakes strove to burst their boundaries. Far-off river steamers tugged wildly at their cables,--shivering like tethered creatures that hear by night the approaching howl of destroyers. Smoke-stacks were hurled overboard, pilot-houses torn away, cabins blown to fragments. And over roaring Kaimbuck Pass,--over the agony of Caillou Bay,--the billowing tide rushed unresisted from the Gulf,--tearing and swallowing the land in its course,--ploughing out deep-sea channels where sleek herds had been grazing but a few hours before,--rending islands in twain,--and ever bearing with it, through the night, enormous vortex of wreck and vast wan drift of corpses ... But the Star remained. And Captain Abraham Smith, with a long, good rope about his waist, dashed again and again into that awful surging to snatch victims from death,--clutching at passing hands, heads, garments, in the cataract-sweep of the seas,--saving, aiding, cheering, though blinded by spray and battered by drifting wreck, until his strength failed in the unequal struggle at last, and his men drew him aboard senseless, with some beautiful half-drowned girl safe in his arms. But well-nigh twoscore souls had been rescued by him; and the Star stayed on through it all. Long years after, the weed-grown ribs of her graceful skeleton could still be seen, curving up from the sand-dunes of Last Island, in valiant witness of how well she stayed. VII. Day breaks through the flying wrack, over the infinite heaving of the sea, over the low land made vast with desolation. It is a spectral dawn: a wan light, like the light of a dying sun. The wind has waned and veered; the flood sinks slowly back to its abysses--abandoning its plunder,--scattering its piteous waifs over bar and dune, over shoal and marsh, among the silences of the mango-swamps, over the long low reaches of sand-grasses and drowned weeds, for more than a hundred miles. From the shell-reefs of Pointe-au-Fer to the shallows of Pelto Bay the dead lie mingled with the high-heaped drift;--from their cypress groves the vultures rise to dispute a share of the feast with the shrieking frigate-birds and squeaking gulls. And as the tremendous tide withdraws its plunging waters, all the pirates of air follow the great white-gleaming retreat: a storm of billowing wings and screaming throats. And swift in the wake of gull and frigate-bird the Wreckers come, the Spoilers of the dead,--savage skimmers of the sea,--hurricane-riders wont to spread their canvas-pinions in the face of storms; Sicilian and Corsican outlaws, Manila-men from the marshes, deserters from many navies, Lascars, marooners, refugees of a hundred nationalities,--fishers and shrimpers by name, smugglers by opportunity,--wild channel-finders from obscure bayous and unfamiliar chenieres, all skilled in the mysteries of these mysterious waters beyond the comprehension of the oldest licensed pilot ... There is plunder for all--birds and men. There are drowned sheep in multitude, heaped carcasses of kine. There are casks of claret and kegs of brandy and legions of bottles bobbing in the surf. There are billiard-tables overturned upon the sand;--there are sofas, pianos, footstools and music-stools, luxurious chairs, lounges of bamboo. There are chests of cedar, and toilet-tables of rosewood, and trunks of fine stamped leather stored with precious apparel. There are objets de luxe innumerable. There are children's playthings: French dolls in marvellous toilets, and toy carts, and wooden horses, and wooden spades, and brave little wooden ships that rode out the gale in which the great Nautilus went down. There is money in notes and in coin--in purses, in pocketbooks, and in pockets: plenty of it! There are silks, satins, laces, and fine linen to be stripped from the bodies of the drowned,--and necklaces, bracelets, watches, finger-rings and fine chains, brooches and trinkets ... "Chi bidizza!--Oh! chi bedda mughieri! Eccu, la bidizza!" That ball-dress was made in Paris by--But you never heard of him, Sicilian Vicenzu ... "Che bella sposina!" Her betrothal ring will not come off, Giuseppe; but the delicate bone snaps easily: your oyster-knife can sever the tendon ... "Guardate! chi bedda picciota!" Over her heart you will find it, Valentino--the locket held by that fine Swiss chain of woven hair--"Caya manan!" And it is not your quadroon bondsmaid, sweet lady, who now disrobes you so roughly; those Malay hands are less deft than hers,--but she slumbers very far away from you, and may not be aroused from her sleep. "Na quita mo! dalaga!--na quita maganda!" ... Juan, the fastenings of those diamond ear-drops are much too complicated for your peon fingers: tear them out!--"Dispense, chulita!" ... ... Suddenly a long, mighty silver trilling fills the ears of all: there is a wild hurrying and scurrying; swiftly, one after another, the overburdened luggers spread wings and flutter away. Thrice the great cry rings rippling through the gray air, and over the green sea, and over the far-flooded shell-reefs, where the huge white flashes are,--sheet-lightning of breakers,--and over the weird wash of corpses coming in. It is the steam-call of the relief-boat, hastening to rescue the living, to gather in the dead. The tremendous tragedy is over! Out of the Sea's Strength I. There are regions of Louisiana coast whose aspect seems not of the present, but of the immemorial past--of that epoch when low flat reaches of primordial continent first rose into form above a Silurian Sea. To indulge this geologic dream, any fervid and breezeless day there, it is only necessary to ignore the evolutional protests of a few blue asters or a few composite flowers of the coryopsis sort, which contrive to display their rare flashes of color through the general waving of cat-heads, blood-weeds, wild cane, and marsh grasses. For, at a hasty glance, the general appearance of this marsh verdure is vague enough, as it ranges away towards the sand, to convey the idea of amphibious vegetation,--a primitive flora as yet undecided whether to retain marine habits and forms, or to assume terrestrial ones;--and the occasional inspection of surprising shapes might strengthen this fancy. Queer flat-lying and many-branching things, which resemble sea-weeds in juiciness and color and consistency, crackle under your feet from time to time; the moist and weighty air seems heated rather from below than from above,--less by the sun than by the radiation of a cooling world; and the mists of morning or evening appear to simulate the vapory exhalation of volcanic forces,--latent, but only dozing, and uncomfortably close to the surface. And indeed geologists have actually averred that those rare elevations of the soil,--which, with their heavy coronets of evergreen foliage, not only look like islands, but are so called in the French nomenclature of the coast,--have been prominences created by ancient mud volcanoes. The family of a Spanish fisherman, Feliu Viosca, once occupied and gave its name to such an islet, quite close to the Gulf-shore,--the loftiest bit of land along fourteen miles of just such marshy coast as I have spoken of. Landward, it dominated a desolation that wearied the eye to look at, a wilderness of reedy sloughs, patched at intervals with ranges of bitter-weed, tufts of elbow-bushes, and broad reaches of saw-grass, stretching away to a bluish-green line of woods that closed the horizon, and imperfectly drained in the driest season by a slimy little bayou that continually vomited foul water into the sea. The point had been much discussed by geologists; it proved a godsend to United States surveyors weary of attempting to take observations among quagmires, moccasins, and arborescent weeds from fifteen to twenty feet high. Savage fishermen, at some unrecorded time, had heaped upon the eminence a hill of clam-shells,--refuse of a million feasts; earth again had been formed over these, perhaps by the blind agency of worms working through centuries unnumbered; and the new soil had given birth to a luxuriant vegetation. Millennial oaks interknotted their roots below its surface, and vouchsafed protection to many a frailer growth of shrub or tree,--wild orange, water-willow, palmetto, locust, pomegranate, and many trailing tendrilled things, both green and gray. Then,--perhaps about half a century ago,--a few white fishermen cleared a place for themselves in this grove, and built a few palmetto cottages, with boat-houses and a wharf, facing the bayou. Later on this temporary fishing station became a permanent settlement: homes constructed of heavy timber and plaster mixed with the trailing moss of the oaks and cypresses took the places of the frail and fragrant huts of palmetto. Still the population itself retained a floating character: it ebbed and came, according to season and circumstances, according to luck or loss in the tilling of the sea. Viosca, the founder of the settlement, always remained; he always managed to do well. He owned several luggers and sloops, which were hired out upon excellent terms; he could make large and profitable contracts with New Orleans fish-dealers; and he was vaguely suspected of possessing more occult resources. There were some confused stories current about his having once been a daring smuggler, and having only been reformed by the pleadings of his wife Carmen,--a little brown woman who had followed him from Barcelona to share his fortunes in the western world. On hot days, when the shade was full of thin sweet scents, the place had a tropical charm, a drowsy peace. Nothing except the peculiar appearance of the line of oaks facing the Gulf could have conveyed to the visitor any suggestion of days in which the trilling of crickets and the fluting of birds had ceased, of nights when the voices of the marsh had been hushed for fear. In one enormous rank the veteran trees stood shoulder to shoulder, but in the attitude of giants over mastered,--forced backward towards the marsh,--made to recoil by the might of the ghostly enemy with whom they had striven a thousand years,--the Shrieker, the Sky-Sweeper, the awful Sea-Wind! Never had he given them so terrible a wrestle as on the night of the tenth of August, eighteen hundred and fifty-six. All the waves of the excited Gulf thronged in as if to see, and lifted up their voices, and pushed, and roared, until the cheniere was islanded by such a billowing as no white man's eyes had ever looked upon before. Grandly the oaks bore themselves, but every fibre of their knotted thews was strained in the unequal contest, and two of the giants were overthrown, upturning, as they fell, roots coiled and huge as the serpent-limbs of Titans. Moved to its entrails, all the islet trembled, while the sea magnified its menace, and reached out whitely to the prostrate trees; but the rest of the oaks stood on, and strove in line, and saved the habitations defended by them ... II. Before a little waxen image of the Mother and Child,--an odd little Virgin with an Indian face, brought home by Feliu as a gift after one of his Mexican voyages,--Carmen Viosca had burned candles and prayed; sometimes telling her beads; sometimes murmuring the litanies she knew by heart; sometimes also reading from a prayer-book worn and greasy as a long-used pack of cards. It was particularly stained at one page, a page on which her tears had fallen many a lonely night--a page with a clumsy wood cut representing a celestial lamp, a symbolic radiance, shining through darkness, and on either side a kneeling angel with folded wings. And beneath this rudely wrought symbol of the Perpetual Calm appeared in big, coarse type the title of a prayer that has been offered up through many a century, doubtless, by wives of Spanish mariners,--Contra las Tempestades. Once she became very much frightened. After a partial lull the storm had suddenly redoubled its force: the ground shook; the house quivered and creaked; the wind brayed and screamed and pushed and scuffled at the door; and the water, which had been whipping in through every crevice, all at once rose over the threshold and flooded the dwelling. Carmen dipped her finger in the water and tasted it. It was salt! And none of Feliu's boats had yet come in;--doubtless they had been driven into some far-away bayous by the storm. The only boat at the settlement, the Carmencita, had been almost wrecked by running upon a snag three days before;--there was at least a fortnight's work for the ship-carpenter of Dead Cypress Point. And Feliu was sleeping as if nothing unusual had happened--the heavy sleep of a sailor, heedless of commotions and voices. And his men, Miguel and Mateo, were at the other end of the cheniere. With a scream Carmen aroused Feliu. He raised himself upon his elbow, rubbed his eyes, and asked her, with exasperating calmness, "Que tienes? que tienes?" (What ails thee?) --"Oh, Feliu! the sea is coming upon us!" she answered, in the same tongue. But she screamed out a word inspired by her fear: she did not cry, "Se nos viene el mar encima!" but "Se nos viene LA ALTURA!"--the name that conveys the terrible thought of depth swallowed up in height,--the height of the high sea. "No lo creo!" muttered Feliu, looking at the floor; then in a quiet, deep voice he said, pointing to an oar in the corner of the room, "Echame ese remo." She gave it to him. Still reclining upon one elbow, Feliu measured the depth of the water with his thumb nail upon the blade of the oar, and then bade Carmen light his pipe for him. His calmness reassured her. For half an hour more, undismayed by the clamoring of the wind or the calling of the sea, Feliu silently smoked his pipe and watched his oar. The water rose a little higher, and he made another mark;--then it climbed a little more, but not so rapidly; and he smiled at Carmen as he made a third mark. "Como creia!" he exclaimed, "no hay porque asustarse: el agua baja!" And as Carmen would have continued to pray, he rebuked her fears, and bade her try to obtain some rest: "Basta ya de plegarios, querida!--vete y duerme." His tone, though kindly, was imperative; and Carmen, accustomed to obey him, laid herself down by his side, and soon, for very weariness, slept. It was a feverish sleep, nevertheless, shattered at brief intervals by terrible sounds, sounds magnified by her nervous condition--a sleep visited by dreams that mingled in a strange way with the impressions of the storm, and more than once made her heart stop, and start again at its own stopping. One of these fancies she never could forget--a dream about little Concha,--Conchita, her firstborn, who now slept far away in the old churchyard at Barcelona. She had tried to become resigned,--not to think. But the child would come back night after night, though the earth lay heavy upon her--night after night, through long distances of Time and Space. Oh! the fancied clinging of infant-lips!--the thrilling touch of little ghostly hands!--those phantom-caresses that torture mothers' hearts! ... Night after night, through many a month of pain. Then for a time the gentle presence ceased to haunt her,--seemed to have lain down to sleep forever under the high bright grass and yellow flowers. Why did it return, that night of all nights, to kiss her, to cling to her, to nestle in her arms? For in her dream she thought herself still kneeling before the waxen Image, while the terrors of the tempest were ever deepening about her,--raving of winds and booming of waters and a shaking of the land. And before her, even as she prayed her dream-prayer, the waxen Virgin became tall as a woman, and taller,--rising to the roof and smiling as she grew. Then Carmen would have cried out for fear, but that something smothered her voice,--paralyzed her tongue. And the Virgin silently stooped above her, and placed in her arms the Child,--the brown Child with the Indian face. And the Child whitened in her hands and changed,--seeming as it changed to send a sharp pain through her heart: an old pain linked somehow with memories of bright windy Spanish hills, and summer scent of olive groves, and all the luminous Past;--it looked into her face with the soft dark gaze, with the unforgotten smile of ... dead Conchita! And Carmen wished to thank; the smiling Virgin for that priceless bliss, and lifted up her eyes, but the sickness of ghostly fear returned upon her when she looked; for now the Mother seemed as a woman long dead, and the smile was the smile of fleshlessness, and the places of the eyes were voids and darknesses ... And the sea sent up so vast a roar that the dwelling rocked. Carmen started from sleep to find her heart throbbing so that the couch shook with it. Night was growing gray; the door had just been opened and slammed again. Through the rain-whipped panes she discerned the passing shape of Feliu, making for the beach--a broad and bearded silhouette, bending against the wind. Still the waxen Virgin smiled her Mexican smile,--but now she was only seven inches high; and her bead-glass eyes seemed to twinkle with kindliness while the flame of the last expiring taper struggled for life in the earthen socket at her feet. III. Rain and a blind sky and a bursting sea Feliu and his men, Miguel and Mateo, looked out upon the thundering and flashing of the monstrous tide. The wind had fallen, and the gray air was full of gulls. Behind the cheniere, back to the cloudy line of low woods many miles away, stretched a wash of lead-colored water, with a green point piercing it here and there--elbow-bushes or wild cane tall enough to keep their heads above the flood. But the inundation was visibly decreasing;--with the passing of each hour more and more green patches and points had been showing themselves: by degrees the course of the bayou had become defined--two parallel winding lines of dwarf-timber and bushy shrubs traversing the water toward the distant cypress-swamps. Before the cheniere all the shell-beach slope was piled with wreck--uptorn trees with the foliage still fresh upon them, splintered timbers of mysterious origin, and logs in multitude, scarred with gashes of the axe. Feliu and his comrades had saved wood enough to build a little town,--working up to their waists in the surf, with ropes, poles, and boat-hooks. The whole sea was full of flotsam. Voto a Cristo!--what a wrecking there must have been! And to think the Carmencita could not be taken out! They had seen other luggers making eastward during the morning--could recognize some by their sails, others by their gait,--exaggerated in their struggle with the pitching of the sea: the San Pablo, the Gasparina, the Enriqueta, the Agueda, the Constanza. Ugly water, yes!--but what a chance for wreckers! ... Some great ship must have gone to pieces;--scores of casks were rolling in the trough,--casks of wine. Perhaps it was the Manila,--perhaps the Nautilus! A dead cow floated near enough for Mateo to throw his rope over one horn; and they all helped to get it out. It was a milch cow of some expensive breed; and the owner's brand had been burned upon the horns:--a monographic combination of the letters A and P. Feliu said he knew that brand: Old-man Preaulx, of Belle-Isle, who kept a sort of dairy at Last Island during the summer season, used to mark all his cows that way. Strange! But, as they worked on, they began to see stranger things,--white dead faces and dead hands, which did not look like the hands or the faces of drowned sailors: the ebb was beginning to run strongly, and these were passing out with it on the other side of the mouth of the bayou;--perhaps they had been washed into the marsh during the night, when the great rush of the sea came. Then the three men left the water, and retired to higher ground to scan the furrowed Gulf;--their practiced eyes began to search the courses of the sea-currents,--keen as the gaze of birds that watch the wake of the plough. And soon the casks and the drift were forgotten; for it seemed to them that the tide was heavy with human dead--passing out, processionally, to the great open. Very far, where the huge pitching of the swells was diminished by distance into a mere fluttering of ripples, the water appeared as if sprinkled with them;--they vanished and became visible again at irregular intervals, here and there--floating most thickly eastward!--tossing, swaying patches of white or pink or blue or black each with its tiny speck of flesh-color showing as the sea lifted or lowered the body. Nearer to shore there were few; but of these two were close enough to be almost recognizable: Miguel first discerned them. They were rising and falling where the water was deepest--well out in front of the mouth of the bayou, beyond the flooded sand-bars, and moving toward the shell-reef westward. They were drifting almost side by side. One was that of a negro, apparently well attired, and wearing a white apron;--the other seemed to be a young colored girl, clad in a blue dress; she was floating upon her face; they could observe that she had nearly straight hair, braided and tied with a red ribbon. These were evidently house-servants,--slaves. But from whence? Nothing could be learned until the luggers should return; and none of them was yet in sight. Still Feliu was not anxious as to the fate of his boats, manned by the best sailors of the coast. Rarely are these Louisiana fishermen lost in sudden storms; even when to other eyes the appearances are most pacific and the skies most splendidly blue, they divine some far-off danger, like the gulls; and like the gulls also, you see their light vessels fleeing landward. These men seem living barometers, exquisitely sensitive to all the invisible changes of atmospheric expansion and compression; they are not easily caught in those awful dead calms which suddenly paralyze the wings of a bark, and hold her helpless in their charmed circle, as in a nightmare, until the blackness overtakes her, and the long-sleeping sea leaps up foaming to devour her. --"Carajo!" The word all at once bursts from Feliu's mouth, with that peculiar guttural snarl of the "r" betokening strong excitement,--while he points to something rocking in the ebb, beyond the foaming of the shell-reef, under a circling of gulls. More dead? Yes--but something too that lives and moves, like a quivering speck of gold; and Mateo also perceives it, a gleam of bright hair,--and Miguel likewise, after a moment's gazing. A living child;--a lifeless mother. Pobrecita! No boat within reach, and only a mighty surf-wrestler could hope to swim thither and return! But already, without a word, brown Feliu has stripped for the struggle;--another second, and he is shooting through the surf, head and hands tunnelling the foam hills.... One--two--three lines passed!--four!--that is where they first begin to crumble white from the summit,--five!--that he can ride fearlessly! ... Then swiftly, easily, he advances, with a long, powerful breast-stroke,--keeping his bearded head well up to watch for drift,--seeming to slide with a swing from swell to swell,--ascending, sinking,--alternately presenting breast or shoulder to the wave; always diminishing more and more to the eyes of Mateo and Miguel,--till he becomes a moving speck, occasionally hard to follow through the confusion of heaping waters ... You are not afraid of the sharks, Feliu!--no: they are afraid of you; right and left they slunk away from your coming that morning you swam for life in West-Indian waters, with your knife in your teeth, while the balls of the Cuban coast-guard were purring all around you. That day the swarming sea was warm,--warm like soup--and clear, with an emerald flash in every ripple,--not opaque and clamorous like the Gulf today ... Miguel and his comrade are anxious. Ropes are unrolled and inter-knotted into a line. Miguel remains on the beach; but Mateo, bearing the end of the line, fights his way out,--swimming and wading by turns, to the further sandbar, where the water is shallow enough to stand in,--if you know how to jump when the breaker comes. But Feliu, nearing the flooded shell-bank, watches the white flashings,--knows when the time comes to keep flat and take a long, long breath. One heavy volleying of foam,--darkness and hissing as of a steam-burst; a vibrant lifting up; a rush into light,--and again the volleying and the seething darkness. Once more,--and the fight is won! He feels the upcoming chill of deeper water,--sees before him the green quaking of unbroken swells,--and far beyond him Mateo leaping on the bar,--and beside him, almost within arm's reach, a great billiard-table swaying, and a dead woman clinging there, and ... the child. A moment more, and Feliu has lifted himself beside the waifs ... How fast the dead woman clings, as if with the one power which is strong as death,--the desperate force of love! Not in vain; for the frail creature bound to the mother's corpse with a silken scarf has still the strength to cry out:--"Maman! maman!" But time is life now; and the tiny hands must be pulled away from the fair dead neck, and the scarf taken to bind the infant firmly to Feliu's broad shoulders,--quickly, roughly; for the ebb will not wait ... And now Feliu has a burden; but his style of swimming has totally changed;--he rises from the water like a Triton, and his powerful arms seem to spin in circles, like the spokes of a flying wheel. For now is the wrestle indeed!--after each passing swell comes a prodigious pulling from beneath,--the sea clutching for its prey. But the reef is gained, is passed;--the wild horses of the deep seem to know the swimmer who has learned to ride them so well. And still the brown arms spin in an ever-nearing mist of spray; and the outer sand-bar is not far off,--and there is shouting Mateo, leaping in the surf, swinging something about his head, as a vaquero swings his noose! ... Sough! splash!--it struggles in the trough beside Feliu, and the sinewy hand descends upon it. Tiene!--tira, Miguel! And their feet touch land again! ... She is very cold, the child, and very still, with eyes closed. --"Esta muerta, Feliu?" asks Mateo. --"No!" the panting swimmer makes answer, emerging, while the waves reach whitely up the sand as in pursuit,--"no; vive! respira todavia!" Behind him the deep lifts up its million hands, and thunders as in acclaim. IV. --"Madre de Dios!--mi sueno!" screamed Carmen, abandoning her preparations for the morning meal, as Feliu, nude, like a marine god, rushed in and held out to her a dripping and gasping baby-girl,--"Mother of God! my dream!" But there was no time then to tell of dreams; the child might die. In one instant Carmen's quick, deft hands had stripped the slender little body; and while Mateo and Feliu were finding dry clothing and stimulants, and Miguel telling how it all happened--quickly, passionately, with furious gesture,--the kind and vigorous woman exerted all her skill to revive the flickering life. Soon Feliu came to aid her, while his men set to work completing the interrupted preparation of the breakfast. Flannels were heated for the friction of the frail limbs; and brandy-and-water warmed, which Carmen administered by the spoonful, skilfully as any physician,--until, at last, the little creature opened her eyes and began to sob. Sobbing still, she was laid in Carmen's warm feather-bed, well swathed in woollen wrappings. The immediate danger, at least, was over; and Feliu smiled with pride and pleasure. Then Carmen first ventured to relate her dream; and his face became grave again. Husband and wife gazed a moment into each other's eyes, feeling together the same strange thrill--that mysterious faint creeping, as of a wind passing, which is the awe of the Unknowable. Then they looked at the child, lying there, pink checked with the flush of the blood returning; and such a sudden tenderness touched them as they had known long years before, while together bending above the slumbering loveliness of lost Conchita. --"Que ojos!" murmured Feliu, as he turned away,--feigning hunger ... (He was not hungry; but his sight had grown a little dim, as with a mist.) Que ojos! They were singular eyes, large, dark, and wonderfully fringed. The child's hair was yellow--it was the flash of it that had saved her; yet her eyes and brows were beautifully black. She was comely, but with such a curious, delicate comeliness--totally unlike the robust beauty of Concha ... At intervals she would moan a little between her sobs; and at last cried out, with a thin, shrill cry: "Maman!--oh! maman!" Then Carmen lifted her from the bed to her lap, and caressed her, and rocked her gently to and fro, as she had done many a night for Concha,--murmuring,--"Yo sere tu madre, angel mio, dulzura mia;--sere tu madrecita, palomita mia!" (I will be thy mother, my angel, my sweet;--I will be thy little mother, my doveling.) And the long silk fringes of the child's eyes overlapped, shadowed her little cheeks; and she slept--just as Conchita had slept long ago,--with her head on Carmen's bosom. Feliu re-appeared at the inner door: at a sign, he approached cautiously, without noise, and looked. --"She can talk," whispered Carmen in Spanish: "she called her mother"--ha llamado a su madre. --"Y Dios tambien la ha llamado," responded Feliu, with rude pathos;--"And God also called her." --"But the Virgin sent us the child, Feliu,--sent us the child for Concha's sake." He did not answer at once; he seemed to be thinking very deeply;--Carmen anxiously scanned his impassive face. --"Who knows?" he answered, at last;--"who knows? Perhaps she has ceased to belong to any one else." One after another, Feliu's luggers fluttered in,--bearing with them news of the immense calamity. And all the fishermen, in turn, looked at the child. Not one had ever seen her before. V. Ten days later, a lugger full of armed men entered the bayou, and moored at Viosca's wharf. The visitors were, for the most part, country gentlemen,--residents of Franklin and neighboring towns, or planters from the Teche country,--forming one of the numerous expeditions organized for the purpose of finding the bodies of relatives or friends lost in the great hurricane, and of punishing the robbers of the dead. They had searched numberless nooks of the coast, had given sepulture to many corpses, had recovered a large amount of jewelry, and--as Feliu afterward learned,--had summarily tried and executed several of the most abandoned class of wreckers found with ill-gotten valuables in their possession, and convicted of having mutilated the drowned. But they came to Viosca's landing only to obtain information;--he was too well known and liked to be a subject for suspicion; and, moreover, he had one good friend in the crowd,--Captain Harris of New Orleans, a veteran steamboat man and a market contractor, to whom he had disposed of many a cargo of fresh pompano, sheep's-head, and Spanish-mackerel ... Harris was the first to step to land;--some ten of the party followed him. Nearly all had lost some relative or friend in the great catastrophe;--the gathering was serious, silent,--almost grim,--which formed about Feliu. Mateo, who had come to the country while a boy, spoke English better than the rest of the cheniere people;--he acted as interpreter whenever Feliu found any difficulty in comprehending or answering questions; and he told them of the child rescued that wild morning, and of Feliu's swim. His recital evoked a murmur of interest and excitement, followed by a confusion of questions. Well, they could see for themselves, Feliu said; but he hoped they would have a little patience;--the child was still weak;--it might be dangerous to startle her. "We'll arrange it just as you like," responded the captain;--"go ahead, Feliu!" ... All proceeded to the house, under the great trees; Feliu and Captain Harris leading the way. It was sultry and bright;--even the sea-breeze was warm; there were pleasant odors in the shade, and a soporific murmur made of leaf-speech and the hum of gnats. Only the captain entered the house with Feliu; the rest remained without--some taking seats on a rude plank bench under the oaks--others flinging themselves down upon the weeds--a few stood still, leaning upon their rifles. Then Carmen came out to them with gourds and a bucket of fresh water, which all were glad to drink. They waited many minutes. Perhaps it was the cool peace of the place that made them all feel how hot and tired they were: conversation flagged; and the general languor finally betrayed itself in a silence so absolute that every leaf-whisper seemed to become separately audible. It was broken at last by the guttural voice of the old captain emerging from the cottage, leading the child by the hand, and followed by Carmen and Feliu. All who had been resting rose up and looked at the child. Standing in a lighted space, with one tiny hand enveloped by the captain's great brown fist, she looked so lovely that a general exclamation of surprise went up. Her bright hair, loose and steeped in the sun-flame, illuminated her like a halo; and her large dark eyes, gentle and melancholy as a deer's, watched the strange faces before her with shy curiosity. She wore the same dress in which Feliu had found her--a soft white fabric of muslin, with trimmings of ribbon that had once been blue; and the now discolored silken scarf, which had twice done her such brave service, was thrown over her shoulders. Carmen had washed and repaired the dress very creditably; but the tiny slim feet were bare,--the brine-soaked shoes she wore that fearful night had fallen into shreds at the first attempt to remove them. --"Gentlemen," said Captain Harris,--"we can find no clew to the identity of this child. There is no mark upon her clothing; and she wore nothing in the shape of jewelry--except this string of coral beads. We are nearly all Americans here; and she does not speak any English ... Does any one here know anything about her?" Carmen felt a great sinking at her heart: was her new-found darling to be taken so soon from her? But no answer came to the captain's query. No one of the expedition had ever seen that child before. The coral beads were passed from hand to hand; the scarf was minutely scrutinized without avail. Somebody asked if the child could not talk German or Italian. --"Italiano? No!" said Feliu, shaking his head.... One of his luggermen, Gioachino Sparicio, who, though a Sicilian, could speak several Italian idioms besides his own, had already essayed. --"She speaks something or other," answered the captain--"but no English. I couldn't make her understand me; and Feliu, who talks nearly all the infernal languages spoken down this way, says he can't make her understand him. Suppose some of you who know French talk to her a bit ... Laroussel, why don't you try?" The young man addressed did not at first seem to notice the captain's suggestion. He was a tall, lithe fellow, with a dark, positive face: he had never removed his black gaze from the child since the moment of her appearance. Her eyes, too, seemed to be all for him--to return his scrutiny with a sort of vague pleasure, a half savage confidence ... Was it the first embryonic feeling of race-affinity quickening in the little brain?--some intuitive, inexplicable sense of kindred? She shrank from Doctor Hecker, who addressed her in German, shook her head at Lawyer Solari, who tried to make her answer in Italian; and her look always went back plaintively to the dark, sinister face of Laroussel,--Laroussel who had calmly taken a human life, a wicked human life, only the evening before. --"Laroussel, you're the only Creole in this crowd," said the captain; "talk to her! Talk gumbo to her! ... I've no doubt this child knows German very well, and Italian too,"--he added, maliciously--"but not in the way you gentlemen pronounce it!" Laroussel handed his rifle to a friend, crouched down before the little girl, and looked into her face, and smiled. Her great sweet orbs shone into his one moment, seriously, as if searching; and then ... she returned his smile. It seemed to touch something latent within the man, something rare; for his whole expression changed; and there was a caress in his look and voice none of the men could have believed possible--as he exclaimed:-- --"Fais moin bo, piti." She pouted up her pretty lips and kissed his black moustache. He spoke to her again:-- --"Dis moin to nom, piti;--dis moin to nom, chere." Then, for the first time, she spoke, answering in her argent treble: --"Zouzoune." All held their breath. Captain Harris lifted his finger to his lips to command silence. --"Zouzoune? Zouzoune qui, chere?" --"Zouzoune, a c'est moin, Lili!" --"C'est pas tout to nom, Lili;--dis moin, chere, to laut nom." --"Mo pas connin laut nom." --"Comment ye te pele to maman, piti?" --"Maman,--Maman 'Dele." --"Et comment ye te pele to papa, chere?" --"Papa Zulien." --"Bon! Et comment to maman te pele to papa?--dis ca a moin, chere?" The child looked down, put a finger in her mouth, thought a moment, and replied:-- --"Li pele li, 'Cheri'; li pele li, 'Papoute.'" --"Aie, aie!--c'est tout, ca?--to maman te jamain pele li daut' chose?" --"Mo pas connin, moin." She began to play with some trinkets attached to his watch chain;--a very small gold compass especially impressed her fancy by the trembling and flashing of its tiny needle, and she murmured, coaxingly:-- --"Mo oule ca! Donnin ca a moin." He took all possible advantage of the situation, and replied at once:-- --"Oui! mo va donnin toi ca si to di moin to laut nom." The splendid bribe evidently impressed her greatly; for tears rose to the brown eyes as she answered: --"Mo pas capab di' ca;--mo pas capab di' laut nom ... Mo oule; mo pas capab!" Laroussel explained. The child's name was Lili,--perhaps a contraction of Eulalie; and her pet Creole name Zouzoune. He thought she must be the daughter of wealthy people; but she could not, for some reason or other, tell her family name. Perhaps she could not pronounce it well, and was afraid of being laughed at: some of the old French names were very hard for Creole children to pronounce, so long as the little ones were indulged in the habit of talking the patois; and after a certain age their mispronunciations would be made fun of in order to accustom them to abandon the idiom of the slave-nurses, and to speak only French. Perhaps, again, she was really unable to recall the name: certain memories might have been blurred in the delicate brain by the shock of that terrible night. She said her mother's name was Adele, and her father's Julien; but these were very common names in Louisiana,--and could afford scarcely any better clew than the innocent statement that her mother used to address her father as "dear" (Cheri),--or with the Creole diminutive "little papa" (Papoute). Then Laroussel tried to reach a clew in other ways, without success. He asked her about where she lived,--what the place was like; and she told him about fig-trees in a court, and galleries, and banquettes, and spoke of a faubou',--without being able to name any street. He asked her what her father used to do, and was assured that he did everything--that there was nothing he could not do. Divine absurdity of childish faith!--infinite artlessness of childish love! ... Probably the little girl's parents had been residents of New Orleans--dwellers of the old colonial quarter,--the faubourg, the faubou'. --"Well, gentlemen," said Captain Harris, as Laroussel abandoned his cross-examination in despair,--"all we can do now is to make inquiries. I suppose we'd better leave the child here. She is very weak yet, and in no condition to be taken to the city, right in the middle of the hot season; and nobody could care for her any better than she's being cared for here. Then, again, seems to me that as Feliu saved her life,--and that at the risk of his own,--he's got the prior claim, anyhow; and his wife is just crazy about the child--wants to adopt her. If we can find her relatives so much the better; but I say, gentlemen, let them come right here to Feliu, themselves, and thank him as he ought to be thanked, by God! That's just what I think about it." Carmen understood the little speech;--all the Spanish charm of her youth had faded out years before; but in the one swift look of gratitude she turned upon the captain, it seemed to blossom again;--for that quick moment, she was beautiful. "The captain is quite right," observed Dr. Hecker: "it would be very dangerous to take the child away just now." There was no dissent. --"All correct, boys?" asked the captain ... "Well, we've got to be going. By-by, Zouzoune!" But Zouzoune burst into tears. Laroussel was going too! --"Give her the thing, Laroussel! she gave you a kiss, anyhow--more than she'd do for me," cried the captain. Laroussel turned, detached the little compass from his watch chain, and gave it to her. She held up her pretty face for his farewell kiss ... VI. But it seemed fated that Feliu's waif should never be identified;--diligent inquiry and printed announcements alike proved fruitless. Sea and sand had either hidden or effaced all the records of the little world they had engulfed: the annihilation of whole families, the extinction of races, had, in more than one instance, rendered vain all efforts to recognize the dead. It required the subtle perception of long intimacy to name remains tumefied and discolored by corruption and exposure, mangled and gnawed by fishes, by reptiles, and by birds;--it demanded the great courage of love to look upon the eyeless faces found sweltering in the blackness of cypress-shadows, under the low palmettoes of the swamps,--where gorged buzzards started from sleep, or cottonmouths uncoiled, hissing, at the coming of the searchers. And sometimes all who had loved the lost were themselves among the missing. The full roll call of names could never be made out; extraordinary mistakes were committed. Men whom the world deemed dead and buried came back, like ghosts,--to read their own epitaphs. ... Almost at the same hour that Laroussel was questioning the child in Creole patois, another expedition, searching for bodies along the coast, discovered on the beach of a low islet famed as a haunt of pelicans, the corpse of a child. Some locks of bright hair still adhering to the skull, a string of red beads, a white muslin dress, a handkerchief broidered with the initials "A.L.B.,"--were secured as clews; and the little body was interred where it had been found. And, several days before, Captain Hotard, of the relief-boat Estelle Brousseaux, had found, drifting in the open Gulf (latitude 26 degrees 43 minutes; longitude 88 degrees 17 minutes),--the corpse of a fair-haired woman, clinging to a table. The body was disfigured beyond recognition: even the slender bones of the hands had been stripped by the nibs of the sea-birds-except one finger, the third of the left, which seemed to have been protected by a ring of gold, as by a charm. Graven within the plain yellow circlet was a date,--"JUILLET--1851"; and the names,--"ADELE + JULIEN,"--separated by a cross. The Estelle carried coffins that day: most of them were already full; but there was one for Adele. Who was she?--who was her Julien? ... When the Estelle and many other vessels had discharged their ghastly cargoes;--when the bereaved of the land had assembled as hastily as they might for the du y of identification;--when memories were strained almost to madness in research of names, dates, incidents--for the evocation of dead words, resurrection of vanished days, recollection of dear promises,--then, in the confusion, it was believed and declared that the little corpse found on the pelican island was the daughter of the wearer of the wedding ring: Adele La Brierre, nee Florane, wife of Dr. Julien La Brierre, of New Orleans, who was numbered among the missing. And they brought dead Adele back,--up shadowy river windings, over linked brightnesses of lake and lakelet, through many a green glimmering bayou,--to the Creole city, and laid her to rest somewhere in the old Saint-Louis Cemetery. And upon the tablet recording her name were also graven the words-- ..................... Aussi a la memoire de son mari; JULIEN RAYMOND LA BRIERRE, ne a la paroisse St. Landry, le 29 Mai; MDCCCXXVIII; et de leur fille, EULALIE, agee de 4 as et 5 mois,-- Qui tous perirent dans la grande tempete qui balaya L'Ile Derniere, le 10 Aout, MDCCCLVI ..... + ..... Priez pour eux! VII. Yet six months afterward the face of Julien La Brierre was seen again upon the streets of New Orleans. Men started at the sight of him, as at a spectre standing in the sun. And nevertheless the apparition cast a shadow. People paused, approached, half extended a hand through old habit, suddenly checked themselves and passed on,--wondering they should have forgotten, asking themselves why they had so nearly made an absurd mistake. It was a February day,--one of those crystalline days of our snowless Southern winter, when the air is clear and cool, and outlines sharpen in the light as if viewed through the focus of a diamond glass;--and in that brightness Julien La Brierre perused his own brief epitaph, and gazed upon the sculptured name of drowned Adele. Only half a year had passed since she was laid away in the high wall of tombs,--in that strange colonial columbarium where the dead slept in rows, behind squared marbles lettered in black or bronze. Yet her resting-place,--in the highest range,--already seemed old. Under our Southern sun, the vegetation of cemeteries seems to spring into being spontaneously--to leap all suddenly into luxuriant life! Microscopic mossy growths had begun to mottle the slab that closed her in;--over its face some singular creeper was crawling, planting tiny reptile-feet into the chiselled letters of the inscription; and from the moist soil below speckled euphorbias were growing up to her,--and morning glories,--and beautiful green tangled things of which he did not know the name. And the sight of the pretty lizards, puffing their crimson pouches in the sun, or undulating athwart epitaphs, and shifting their color when approached, from emerald to ashen-gray;--the caravans of the ants, journeying to and from tiny chinks in the masonry;--the bees gathering honey from the crimson blossoms of the crete-de-coq, whose radicles sought sustenance, perhaps from human dust, in the decay of generations:--all that rich life of graves summoned up fancies of Resurrection, Nature's resurrection-work--wondrous transformations of flesh, marvellous bans migration of souls! ... From some forgotten crevice of that tomb roof, which alone intervened between her and the vast light, a sturdy weed was growing. He knew that plant, as it quivered against the blue,--the chou-gras, as Creole children call it: its dark berries form the mockingbird's favorite food ... Might not its roots, exploring darkness, have found some unfamiliar nutriment within?--might it not be that something of the dead heart had risen to purple and emerald life--in the sap of translucent leaves, in the wine of the savage berries,--to blend with the blood of the Wizard Singer,--to lend a strange sweetness to the melody of his wooing? ... ... Seldom, indeed, does it happen that a man in the prime of youth, in the possession of wealth, habituated to comforts and the elegances of life, discovers in one brief week how minute his true relation to the human aggregate,--how insignificant his part as one living atom of the social organism. Seldom, at the age of twenty-eight, has one been made able to comprehend, through experience alone, that in the vast and complex Stream of Being he counts for less than a drop; and that, even as the blood loses and replaces its corpuscles, without a variance in the volume and vigor of its current, so are individual existences eliminated and replaced in the pulsing of a people's life, with never a pause in its mighty murmur. But all this, and much more, Julien had learned in seven merciless days--seven successive and terrible shocks of experience. The enormous world had not missed him; and his place therein was not void--society had simply forgotten him. So long as he had moved among them, all he knew for friends had performed their petty altruistic roles,--had discharged their small human obligations,--had kept turned toward him the least selfish side of their natures,--had made with him a tolerably equitable exchange of ideas and of favors; and after his disappearance from their midst, they had duly mourned for his loss--to themselves! They had played out the final act in the unimportant drama of his life: it was really asking too much to demand a repetition ... Impossible to deceive himself as to the feeling his unanticipated return had aroused:--feigned pity where he had looked for sympathetic welcome; dismay where he had expected surprised delight; and, oftener, airs of resignation, or disappointment ill disguised,--always insincerity, politely masked or coldly bare. He had come back to find strangers in his home, relatives at law concerning his estate, and himself regarded as an intruder among the living,--an unlucky guest, a revenant ... How hollow and selfish a world it seemed! And yet there was love in it; he had been loved in it, unselfishly, passionately, with the love of father and of mother, of wife and child ... All buried!--all lost forever! ... Oh! would to God the story of that stone were not a lie!--would to kind God he also were dead! ... Evening shadowed: the violet deepened and prickled itself with stars;--the sun passed below the west, leaving in his wake a momentary splendor of vermilion ... our Southern day is not prolonged by gloaming. And Julien's thoughts darkened with the darkening, and as swiftly. For while there was yet light to see, he read another name that he used to know--the name of RAMIREZ ... Nacio en Cienfuegos, isla de Cuba ... Wherefore born?--for what eternal purpose, Ramirez,--in the City of a Hundred Fires? He had blown out his brains before the sepulchre of his young wife ... It was a detached double vault, shaped like a huge chest, and much dilapidated already:--under the continuous burrowing of the crawfish it had sunk greatly on one side, tilting as if about to fall. Out from its zigzag fissurings of brick and plaster, a sinister voice seemed to come:--"Go thou and do likewise! ... Earth groans with her burthen even now,--the burthen of Man: she holds no place for thee!" VIII. ... That voice pursued him into the darkness of his chilly room,--haunted him in the silence of his lodging. And then began within the man that ghostly struggle between courage and despair, between patient reason and mad revolt, between weakness and force, between darkness and light, which all sensitive and generous natures must wage in their own souls at least once--perhaps many times--in their lives. Memory, in such moments, plays like an electric storm;--all involuntarily he found himself reviewing his life. Incidents long forgotten came back with singular vividness: he saw the Past as he had not seen it while it was the Present;--remembrances of home, recollections of infancy, recurred to him with terrible intensity,--the artless pleasures and the trifling griefs, the little hurts and the tender pettings, the hopes and the anxieties of those who loved him, the smiles and tears of slaves ... And his first Creole pony, a present from his father the day after he had proved himself able to recite his prayers correctly in French, without one mispronunciation--without saying crasse for grace,--and yellow Michel, who taught him to swim and to fish and to paddle a pirogue;--and the bayou, with its wonder-world of turtles and birds and creeping things;--and his German tutor, who could not pronounce the j;--and the songs of the cane-fields,--strangely pleasing, full of quaverings and long plaintive notes, like the call of the cranes ... Tou', tou' pays blanc! ... Afterward Camaniere had leased the place;--everything must have been changed; even the songs could not be the same. Tou', tou' pays blare!--Danie qui commande ... And then Paris; and the university, with its wild under-life,--some debts, some follies; and the frequent fond letters from home to which he might have replied so much oftener;--Paris, where talent is mediocrity; Paris, with its thunders and its splendors and its seething of passion;--Paris, supreme focus of human endeavor, with its madnesses of art, its frenzied striving to express the Inexpressible, its spasmodic strainings to clutch the Unattainable, its soarings of soul-fire to the heaven of the Impossible ... What a rejoicing there was at his return!--how radiant and level the long Road of the Future seemed to open before him!--everywhere friends, prospects, felicitations. Then his first serious love;--and the night of the ball at St. Martinsville,--the vision of light! Gracile as a palm, and robed at once so simply, so exquisitely in white, she had seemed to him the supreme realization of all possible dreams of beauty ... And his passionate jealousy; and the slap from Laroussel; and the humiliating two-minute duel with rapiers in which he learned that he had found his master. The scar was deep. Why had not Laroussel killed him then? ... Not evil-hearted, Laroussel,--they used to salute each other afterward when they met; and Laroussel's smile was kindly. Why had he refrained from returning it? Where was Laroussel now? For the death of his generous father, who had sacrificed so much to reform him; for the death, only a short while after, of his all-forgiving mother, he had found one sweet woman to console him with her tender words, her loving lips, her delicious caress. She had given him Zouzoune, the darling link between their lives,--Zouzoune, who waited each evening with black Eglantine at the gate to watch for his coming, and to cry through all the house like a bird, "Papa, lape vini!--papa Zulien ape vini!" ... And once that she had made him very angry by upsetting the ink over a mass of business papers, and he had slapped her (could he ever forgive himself?)--she had cried, through her sobs of astonishment and pain:--"To laimin moin?--to batte moin!" (Thou lovest me?--thou beatest me!) Next month she would have been five years old. To laimin moin?--to batte moin! ... A furious paroxysm of grief convulsed him, suffocated him; it seemed to him that something within must burst, must break. He flung himself down upon his bed, biting the coverings in order to stifle his outcry, to smother the sounds of his despair. What crime had he ever done, oh God! that he should be made to suffer thus?--was it for this he had been permitted to live? had been rescued from the sea and carried round all the world unscathed? Why should he live to remember, to suffer, to agonize? Was not Ramirez wiser? How long the contest within him lasted, he never knew; but ere it was done, he had become, in more ways than one, a changed man. For the first,--though not indeed for the last time,--something of the deeper and nobler comprehension of human weakness and of human suffering had been revealed to him,--something of that larger knowledge without which the sense of duty can never be fully acquired, nor the understanding of unselfish goodness, nor the spirit of tenderness. The suicide is not a coward; he is an egotist. A ray of sunlight touched his wet pillow,--awoke him. He rushed to the window, flung the latticed shutters apart, and looked out. Something beautiful and ghostly filled all the vistas,--frost-haze; and in some queer way the mist had momentarily caught and held the very color of the sky. An azure fog! Through it the quaint and checkered street--as yet but half illumined by the sun,--took tones of impossible color; the view paled away through faint bluish tints into transparent purples;--all the shadows were indigo. How sweet the morning!--how well life seemed worth living! Because the sun had shown his face through a fairy veil of frost! ... Who was the ancient thinker?--was it Hermes?--who said:-- "The Sun is Laughter; for 'tis He who maketh joyous the thoughts of men, and gladdeneth the infinite world." ... The Shadow of the Tide. I. Carmen found that her little pet had been taught how to pray; for each night and morning when the devout woman began to make her orisons, the child would kneel beside her, with little hands joined, and in a voice sweet and clear murmur something she had learned by heart. Much as this pleased Carmen, it seemed to her that the child's prayers could not be wholly valid unless uttered in Spanish;--for Spanish was heaven's own tongue,--la lengua de Dios, el idioma de Dios; and she resolved to teach her to say the Salve Maria and the Padre Nuestro in Castilian--also, her own favorite prayer to the Virgin, beginning with the words, "Madre santisima, toda dulce y hermosa." . . . So Conchita--for a new name had been given to her with that terrible sea christening--received her first lessons in Spanish; and she proved a most intelligent pupil. Before long she could prattle to Feliu;--she would watch for his return of evenings, and announce his coming with "Aqui viene mi papacito?"--she learned, too, from Carmen, many little caresses of speech to greet him with. Feliu's was not a joyous nature; he had his dark hours, his sombre days; yet it was rarely that he felt too sullen to yield to the little one's petting, when she would leap up to reach his neck and to coax his kiss, with--"Dame un beso, papa!--asi;--y otro! otro! otro!" He grew to love her like his own;--was she not indeed his own, since he had won her from death? And none had yet come to dispute his claim. More and more, with the passing of weeks, months, seasons, she became a portion of his life--a part of all that he wrought for. At the first, he had had a half-formed hope that the little one might be reclaimed by relatives generous and rich enough to insist upon his acceptance of a handsome compensation; and that Carmen could find some solace in a pleasant visit to Barceloneta. But now he felt that no possible generosity could requite him for her loss; and with the unconscious selfishness of affection, he commenced to dread her identification as a great calamity. It was evident that she had been brought up nicely. She had pretty prim ways of drinking and eating, queer little fashions of sitting in company, and of addressing people. She had peculiar notions about colors in dress, about wearing her hair; and she seemed to have already imbibed a small stock of social prejudices not altogether in harmony with the republicanism of Viosca's Point. Occasional swarthy visitors,--men of the Manilla settlements,--she spoke of contemptuously as negues-marrons; and once she shocked Carmen inexpressibly by stopping in the middle of her evening prayer, declaring that she wanted to say her prayers to a white Virgin; Carmen's Senora de Guadalupe was only a negra! Then, for the first time, Carmen spoke so crossly to the child as to frighten her. But the pious woman's heart smote her the next moment for that first harsh word;--and she caressed the motherless one, consoled her, cheered her, and at last explained to her--I know not how--something very wonderful about the little figurine, something that made Chita's eyes big with awe. Thereafter she always regarded the Virgin of Wax as an object mysterious and holy. And, one by one, most of Chita's little eccentricities were gradually eliminated from her developing life and thought. More rapidly than ordinary children, because singularly intelligent, she learned to adapt herself to all the changes of her new environment,--retaining only that indescribable something which to an experienced eye tells of hereditary refinement of habit and of mind:--a natural grace, a thorough-bred ease and elegance of movement, a quickness and delicacy of perception. She became strong again and active--active enough to play a great deal on the beach, when the sun was not too fierce; and Carmen made a canvas bonnet to shield her head and face. Never had she been allowed to play so much in the sun before; and it seemed to do her good, though her little bare feet and hands became brown as copper. At first, it must be confessed, she worried her foster-mother a great deal by various queer misfortunes and extraordinary freaks;--getting bitten by crabs, falling into the bayou while in pursuit of "fiddlers," or losing herself at the conclusion of desperate efforts to run races at night with the moon, or to walk to the "end of the world." If she could only once get to the edge of the sky, she said, she "could climb up." She wanted to see the stars, which were the souls of good little children; and she knew that God would let her climb up. "Just what I am afraid of!"--thought Carmen to herself;--"He might let her climb up,--a little ghost!" But one day naughty Chita received a terrible lesson,--a lasting lesson,--which taught her the value of obedience. She had been particularly cautioned not to venture into a certain part of the swamp in the rear of the grove, where the weeds were very tall; for Carmen was afraid some snake might bite the child. But Chita's bird-bright eye had discerned a gleam of white in that direction; and she wanted to know what it was. The white could only be seen from one point, behind the furthest house, where the ground was high. "Never go there," said Carmen; "there is a Dead Man there,--will bite you!" And yet, one day, while Carmen was unusually busy, Chita went there. In the early days of the settlement, a Spanish fisherman had died; and his comrades had built him a little tomb with the surplus of the same bricks and other material brought down the bayou for the construction of Viosca's cottages. But no one, except perhaps some wandering duck hunter, had approached the sepulchre for years. High weeds and grasses wrestled together all about it, and rendered it totally invisible from the surrounding level of the marsh. Fiddlers swarmed away as Chita advanced over the moist soil, each uplifting its single huge claw as it sidled off;--then frogs began to leap before her as she reached the thicker grass;--and long-legged brown insects sprang showering to right and left as she parted the tufts of the thickening verdure. As she went on, the bitter-weeds disappeared;--jointed grasses and sinewy dark plants of a taller growth rose above her head: she was almost deafened by the storm of insect shrilling, and the mosquitoes became very wicked. All at once something long and black and heavy wriggled almost from under her naked feet,--squirming so horribly that for a minute or two she could not move for fright. But it slunk away somewhere, and hid itself; the weeds it had shaken ceased to tremble in its wake; and her courage returned. She felt such an exquisite and fearful pleasure in the gratification of that naughty curiosity! Then, quite unexpectedly--oh! what a start it gave her!--the solitary white object burst upon her view, leprous and ghastly as the yawn of a cotton-mouth. Tombs ruin soon in Louisiana;--the one Chita looked upon seemed ready to topple down. There was a great ragged hole at one end, where wind and rain, and perhaps also the burrowing of crawfish and of worms, had loosened the bricks, and caused them to slide out of place. It seemed very black inside; but Chita wanted to know what was there. She pushed her way through a gap in the thin and rotten line of pickets, and through some tall weeds with big coarse pink flowers;--then she crouched down on hands and knees before the black hole, and peered in. It was not so black inside as she had thought; for a sunbeam slanted down through a chink in the roof; and she could see! A brown head--without hair, without eyes, but with teeth, ever so many teeth!--seemed to laugh at her; and close to it sat a Toad, the hugest she had ever seen; and the white skin of his throat kept puffing out and going in. And Chita screamed and screamed, and fled in wild terror,--screaming all the way, till Carmen ran out to meet her and carry her home. Even when safe in her adopted mother's arms, she sobbed with fright. To the vivid fancy of the child there seemed to be some hideous relation between the staring reptile and the brown death's-head, with its empty eyes, and its nightmare-smile. The shock brought on a fever,--a fever that lasted several days, and left her very weak. But the experience taught her to obey, taught her that Carmen knew best what was for her good. It also caused her to think a great deal. Carmen had told her that the dead people never frightened good little girls who stayed at home. --"Madrecita Carmen," she asked, "is my mamma dead?" --"Pobrecita! .... Yes, my angel. God called her to Him,--your darling mother." --"Madrecita," she asked again,--her young eyes growing vast with horror,--"is my own mamma now like That?" ... She pointed toward the place of the white gleam, behind the great trees. --"No, no, no! my darling!" cried Carmen, appalled herself by the ghastly question,--"your mamma is with the dear, good, loving God, who lives in the beautiful sky, above the clouds, my darling, beyond the sun!" But Carmen's kind eyes were full of tears; and the child read their meaning. He who teareth off the Mask of the Flesh had looked into her face one unutterable moment:--she had seen the brutal Truth, naked to the bone! Yet there came to her a little thrill of consolation, caused by the words of the tender falsehood; for that which she had discerned by day could not explain to her that which she saw almost nightly in her slumber. The face, the voice, the form of her loving mother still lived somewhere,--could not have utterly passed away; since the sweet presence came to her in dreams, bending and smiling over her, caressing her, speaking to her,--sometimes gently chiding, but always chiding with a kiss. And then the child would laugh in her sleep, and prattle in Creole,--talking to the luminous shadow, telling the dead mother all the little deeds and thoughts of the day.... Why would God only let her come at night? ... Her idea of God had been first defined by the sight of a quaint French picture of the Creation,--an engraving which represented a shoreless sea under a black sky, and out of the blackness a solemn and bearded gray head emerging, and a cloudy hand through which stars glimmered. God was like old Doctor de Coulanges, who used to visit the house, and talk in a voice like a low roll of thunder.... At a later day, when Chita had been told that God was "everywhere at the same time "--without and within, beneath and above all things,--this idea became somewhat changed. The awful bearded face, the huge shadowy hand, did not fade from her thought; but they became fantastically blended with the larger and vaguer notion of something that filled the world and reached to the stars,--something diaphanous and incomprehensible like the invisible air, omnipresent and everlasting like the high blue of heaven .... II. ... She began to learn the life of the coast. With her acquisition of another tongue, there came to her also the understanding of many things relating to the world of the sea She memorized with novel delight much that was told her day by day concerning the nature surrounding her,--many secrets of the air, many of those signs of heaven which the dwellers in cities cannot comprehend because the atmosphere is thickened and made stagnant above them--cannot even watch because the horizon is hidden from their eyes by walls, and by weary avenues of trees with whitewashed trunks. She learned, by listening, by asking, by observing also, how to know the signs that foretell wild weather:--tremendous sunsets, scuddings and bridgings of cloud,--sharpening and darkening of the sea-line,--and the shriek of gulls flashing to land in level flight, out of a still transparent sky,--and halos about the moon. She learned where the sea-birds, with white bosoms and brown wings, made their hidden nests of sand,--and where the cranes waded for their prey,--and where the beautiful wild-ducks, plumaged in satiny lilac and silken green, found their food,--and where the best reeds grew to furnish stems for Feliu's red-clay pipe,--and where the ruddy sea-beans were most often tossed upon the shore,--and how the gray pelicans fished all together, like men--moving in far-extending semicircles, beating the flood with their wings to drive the fish before them. And from Carmen she learned the fables and the sayings of the sea,--the proverbs about its deafness, its avarice, its treachery, its terrific power,--especially one that haunted her for all time thereafter: Si quieres aprender a orar, entra en el mar (If thou wouldst learn to pray, go to the sea). She learned why the sea is salt,--how "the tears of women made the waves of the sea,"--and how the sea has ii no friends,--and how the cat's eyes change with the tides. What had she lost of life by her swift translation from the dusty existence of cities to the open immensity of nature's freedom? What did she gain? Doubtless she was saved from many of those little bitternesses and restraints and disappointments which all well-bred city children must suffer in the course of their training for the more or less factitious life of society:--obligations to remain very still with every nimble nerve quivering in dumb revolt;--the injustice of being found troublesome and being sent to bed early for the comfort of her elders;--the cruel necessity of straining her pretty eyes, for many long hours at a time, over grimy desks in gloomy school-rooms, though birds might twitter and bright winds flutter in the trees without;--the austere constrains and heavy drowsiness of warm churches, filled with the droning echoes of a voice preaching incomprehensible things;--the progressively augmenting weariness of lessons in deportment, in dancing, in music, in the impossible art of keeping her dresses unruffled and unsoiled. Perhaps she never had any reason to regret all these. She went to sleep and awakened with the wild birds;--her life remained as unfettered by formalities as her fine feet by shoes. Excepting Carmen's old prayer-book,--in which she learned to read a little,--her childhood passed without books,--also without pictures, without dainties, without music, without theatrical amusements. But she saw and heard and felt much of that which, though old as the heavens and the earth, is yet eternally new and eternally young with the holiness of beauty,--eternally mystical and divine,--eternally weird: the unveiled magnificence of Nature's moods,--the perpetual poem hymned by wind and surge,--the everlasting splendor of the sky. She saw the quivering pinkness of waters curled by the breath of the morning--under the deepening of the dawn--like a far fluttering and scattering of rose-leaves of fire;-- Saw the shoreless, cloudless, marvellous double-circling azure of perfect summer days--twin glories of infinite deeps inter-reflected, while the Soul of the World lay still, suffused with a jewel-light, as of vaporized sapphire;-- Saw the Sea shift color,--"change sheets,"--when the viewless Wizard of the Wind breathed upon its face, and made it green;-- Saw the immeasurable panics,--noiseless, scintillant,--which silver, summer after summer, curved leagues of beach with bodies of little fish--the yearly massacre of migrating populations, nations of sea-trout, driven from their element by terror;--and the winnowing of shark-fins,--and the rushing of porpoises,--and the rising of the grande-ecaille, like a pillar of flame,--and the diving and pitching and fighting of the frigates and the gulls,--and the armored hordes of crabs swarming out to clear the slope after the carnage and the gorging had been done;-- Saw the Dreams of the Sky,--scudding mockeries of ridged foam,--and shadowy stratification of capes and coasts and promontories long-drawn out,--and imageries, multicolored, of mountain frondage, and sierras whitening above sierras,--and phantom islands ringed around with lagoons of glory;-- Saw the toppling and smouldering of cloud-worlds after the enormous conflagration of sunsets,--incandescence ruining into darkness; and after it a moving and climbing of stars among the blacknesses,--like searching lamps;-- Saw the deep kindle countless ghostly candles as for mysterious night-festival,--and a luminous billowing under a black sky, and effervescences of fire, and the twirling and crawling of phosphoric foam;-- Saw the mesmerism of the Moon;--saw the enchanted tides self-heaped in muttering obeisance before her. Often she heard the Music of the Marsh through the night: an infinity of flutings and tinklings made by tiny amphibia,--like the low blowing of numberless little tin horns, the clanking of billions of little bells;--and, at intervals, profound tones, vibrant and heavy, as of a bass viol--the orchestra of the great frogs! And interweaving with it all, one continuous shrilling,--keen as the steel speech of a saw,--the stridulous telegraphy of crickets. But always,--always, dreaming or awake, she heard the huge blind Sea chanting that mystic and eternal hymn, which none may hear without awe, which no musician can learn,-- Heard the hoary Preacher,--El Pregonador,--preaching the ancient Word, the word "as a fire, and as a hammer that breaketh the rock in pieces,"--the Elohim--Word of the Sea! ... Unknowingly she came to know the immemorial sympathy of the mind with the Soul of the World,--the melancholy wrought by its moods of gray, the reverie responsive to its vagaries of mist, the exhilaration of its vast exultings--days of windy joy, hours of transfigured light. She felt,--even without knowing it,--the weight of the Silences, the solemnities of sky and sea in these low regions where all things seem to dream--waters and grasses with their momentary wavings,--woods gray-webbed with mosses that drip and drool,--horizons with their delusions of vapor,--cranes meditating in their marshes,--kites floating in the high blue.... Even the children were singularly quiet; and their play less noisy--though she could not have learned the difference--than the play of city children. Hour after hour, the women sewed or wove in silence. And the brown men,--always barefooted, always wearing rough blue shirts,--seemed, when they lounged about the wharf on idle days, as if they had told each other long ago all they knew or could ever know, and had nothing more to say. They would stare at the flickering of the current, at the drifting of clouds and buzzard:--seldom looking at each other, and always turning their black eyes again, in a weary way, to sky or sea. Even thus one sees the horses and the cattle of the coast, seeking the beach to escape the whizzing flies;--all watch the long waves rolling in, and sometimes turn their heads a moment to look at one another, but always look back to the waves again, as if wondering at a mystery.... How often she herself had wondered--wondered at the multiform changes of each swell as it came in--transformations of tint, of shape, of motion, that seemed to betoken a life infinitely more subtle than the strange cold life of lizards and of fishes,--and sinister, and spectral. Then they all appeared to move in order,--according to one law or impulse;--each had its own voice, yet all sang one and the same everlasting song. Vaguely, as she watched them and listened to them, there came to her the idea of a unity of will in their motion, a unity of menace in their utterance--the idea of one monstrous and complex life! The sea lived: it could crawl backward and forward; it could speak!--it only feigned deafness and sightlessness for some malevolent end. Thenceforward she feared to find herself alone with it. Was it not at her that it strove to rush, muttering, and showing its white teeth, ... just because it knew that she was all by herself? ... Si quieres aprender a orar, entra en el mar! And Concha had well learned to pray. But the sea seemed to her the one Power which God could not make to obey Him as He pleased. Saying the creed one day, she repeated very slowly the opening words,--"Creo en un Dios, padre todopoderoso, Criador de cielo y de la tierra,"--and paused and thought. Creator of Heaven and Earth? "Madrecita Carmen," she asked,--"quien entonces hizo el mar?" (who then made the sea?). --"Dios, mi querida," answered Carmen.--"God, my darling.... All things were made by Him" (todas las cosas fueron hechas por El). Even the wicked Sea! And He had said unto it: "Thus far, and no farther." ... Was that why it had not overtaken and devoured her when she ran back in fear from the sudden reaching out of its waves? Thus far....? But there were times when it disobeyed--when it rushed further, shaking the world! Was it because God was then asleep--could not hear, did not see, until too late? And the tumultuous ocean terrified her more and more: it filled her sleep with enormous nightmare;--it came upon her in dreams, mountain-shadowing,--holding her with its spell, smothering her power of outcry, heaping itself to the stars. Carmen became alarmed;--she feared that the nervous and delicate child might die in one of those moaning dreams out of which she had to arouse her, night after night. But Feliu, answering her anxiety with one of his favorite proverbs, suggested a heroic remedy:-- --"The world is like the sea: those who do not know how to swim in it are drowned;--and the sea is like the world," he added.... "Chita must learn to swim!" And he found the time to teach her. Each morning, at sunrise, he took her into the water. She was less terrified the first time than Carmen thought she would be;--she seemed to feel confidence in Feliu; although she screamed piteously before her first ducking at his hands. His teaching was not gentle. He would carry her out, perched upon his shoulder, until the water rose to his own neck; and there he would throw her from him, and let her struggle to reach him again as best she could. The first few mornings she had to be pulled out almost at once; but after that Feliu showed her less mercy, and helped her only when he saw she was really in danger. He attempted no other instruction until she had learned that in order to save herself from being half choked by the salt water, she must not scream; and by the time she became habituated to these austere experiences, she had already learned by instinct alone how to keep herself afloat for a while, how to paddle a little with her hands. Then he commenced to train her to use them,--to lift them well out and throw them forward as if reaching, to dip them as the blade of an oar is dipped at an angle, without loud splashing;--and he showed her also how to use her feet. She learned rapidly and astonishingly well. In less than two months Feliu felt really proud at the progress made by his tiny pupil: it was a delight to watch her lifting her slender arms above the water in swift, easy curves, with the same fine grace that marked all her other natural motions. Later on he taught her not to fear the sea even when it growled a little,--how to ride a swell, how to face a breaker, how to dive. She only needed practice thereafter; and Carmen, who could also swim, finding the child's health improving marvellously under this new discipline, took good care that Chita should practice whenever the mornings were not too cold, or the water too rough. With the first thrill of delight at finding herself able to glide over the water unassisted, the child's superstitious terror of the sea passed away. Even for the adult there are few physical joys keener than the exultation of the swimmer;--how much greater the same glee as newly felt by an imaginative child,--a child, whose vivid fancy can lend unutterable value to the most insignificant trifles, can transform a weed-patch to an Eden! ... Of her own accord she would ask for her morning bath, as soon as she opened her eyes;--it even required some severity to prevent her from remaining in the water too long. The sea appeared to her as something that had become tame for her sake, something that loved her in a huge rough way; a tremendous playmate, whom she no longer feared to see come bounding and barking to lick her feet. And, little by little, she also learned the wonderful healing and caressing power of the monster, whose cool embrace at once dispelled all drowsiness, feverishness, weariness,--even after the sultriest nights when the air had seemed to burn, and the mosquitoes had filled the chamber with a sound as of water boiling in many kettles. And on mornings when the sea was in too wicked a humor to be played with, how she felt the loss of her loved sport, and prayed for calm! Her delicate constitution changed;--the soft, pale flesh became firm and brown, the meagre limbs rounded into robust symmetry, the thin cheeks grew peachy with richer life; for the strength of the sea had entered into her; the sharp breath of the sea had renewed and brightened her young blood.... ... Thou primordial Sea, the awfulness of whose antiquity hath stricken all mythology dumb;--thou most wrinkled diving Sea, the millions of whose years outnumber even the multitude of thy hoary motions;--thou omniform and most mysterious Sea, mother of the monsters and the gods,--whence shine eternal youth? Still do thy waters hold the infinite thrill of that Spirit which brooded above their face in the Beginning!--still is thy quickening breath an elixir unto them that flee to thee for life,--like the breath of young girls, like the breath of children, prescribed for the senescent by magicians of old,--prescribed unto weazened elders in the books of the Wizards. III ... Eighteen hundred and sixty-seven;--midsummer in the pest-smitten city of New Orleans. Heat motionless and ponderous. The steel-blue of the sky bleached from the furnace-circle of the horizon;--the lukewarm river ran yellow and noiseless as a torrent of fluid wax. Even sounds seemed blunted by the heaviness of the air;--the rumbling of wheels, the reverberation of footsteps, fell half-toned upon the ear, like sounds that visit a dozing brain. Daily, almost at the same hour, the continuous sense of atmospheric oppression became thickened;--a packed herd of low-bellying clouds lumbered up from the Gulf; crowded blackly against the sun; flickered, thundered, and burst in torrential rain--tepid, perpendicular--and vanished utterly away. Then, more furiously than before, the sun flamed down;--roofs and pavements steamed; the streets seemed to smoke; the air grew suffocating with vapor; and the luminous city filled with a faint, sickly odor,--a stale smell, as of dead leaves suddenly disinterred from wet mould,--as of grasses decomposing after a flood. Something saffron speckled the slimy water of the gutters; sulphur some called it; others feared even to give it a name! Was it only the wind-blown pollen of some innocuous plant? I do not know; but to many it seemed as if the Invisible Destruction were scattering visible seed! ... Such were the days; and each day the terror-stricken city offered up its hecatomb to death; and the faces of all the dead were yellow as flame! "DECEDE--"; "DECEDEE--"; "FALLECIO;"--"DIED." ... On the door-posts, the telegraph-poles, the pillars of verandas, the lamps,--over the government letter-boxes,--everywhere glimmered the white annunciations of death. All the city was spotted with them. And lime was poured into the gutters; and huge purifying fires were kindled after sunset. The nights began with a black heat;--there were hours when the acrid air seemed to ferment for stagnation, and to burn the bronchial tubing;--then, toward morning, it would grow chill with venomous vapors, with morbific dews,--till the sun came up to lift the torpid moisture, and to fill the buildings with oven-glow. And the interminable procession of mourners and hearses and carriages again began to circulate between the centres of life and of death;--and long trains and steamships rushed from the port, with heavy burden of fugitives. Wealth might flee; yet even in flight there was peril. Men, who might have been saved by the craft of experienced nurses at home, hurriedly departed in apparent health, unconsciously carrying in their blood the toxic principle of a malady unfamiliar to physicians of the West and North;--and they died upon their way, by the road-side, by the river-banks, in woods, in deserted stations, on the cots of quarantine hospitals. Wiser those who sought refuge in the purity of the pine forests, or in those near Gulf Islands, whence the bright sea-breath kept ever sweeping back the expanding poison into the funereal swamps, into the misty lowlands. The watering-resorts became overcrowded;--then the fishing villages were thronged,--at least all which were easy to reach by steamboat or by lugger. And at last, even Viosca's Point,--remote and unfamiliar as it was,--had a stranger to shelter: a good old gentleman named Edwards, rather broken down in health--who came as much for quiet as for sea-air, and who had been warmly recommended to Feliu by Captain Harris. For some years he had been troubled by a disease of the heart. Certainly the old invalid could not have found a more suitable place so far as rest and quiet were concerned. The season had early given such little promise that several men of the Point betook themselves elsewhere; and the aged visitor had two or three vacant cabins from among which to select a dwelling-place. He chose to occupy the most remote of all, which Carmen furnished for him with a cool moss bed and some necessary furniture,--including a big wooden rocking-chair. It seemed to him very comfortable thus. He took his meals with the family, spent most of the day in his own quarters, spoke very little, and lived so unobtrusively and inconspicuously that his presence in the settlement was felt scarcely more than that of some dumb creature,--some domestic animal,--some humble pet whose relation to the family is only fully comprehended after it has failed to appear for several days in its accustomed place of patient waiting,--and we know that it is dead. IV. Persistently and furiously, at half-past two o'clock of an August morning, Sparicio rang Dr. La Brierre's night-bell. He had fifty dollars in his pocket, and a letter to deliver. He was to earn another fifty dollars--deposited in Feliu's hands,--by bringing the Doctor to Viosca's Point. He had risked his life for that money,--and was terribly in earnest. Julien descended in his under-clothing, and opened the letter by the light of the hall lamp. It enclosed a check for a larger fee than he had ever before received, and contained an urgent request that he would at once accompany Sparicio to Viosca's Point,--as the sender was in hourly danger of death. The letter, penned in a long, quavering hand, was signed,--"Henry Edwards." His father's dear old friend! Julien could not refuse to go,--though he feared it was a hopeless case. Angina pectoris,--and a third attack at seventy years of age! Would it even be possible to reach the sufferer's bedside in time? "Due giorno,--con vento,"--said Sparicio. Still, he must go; and at once. It was Friday morning;--might reach the Point Saturday night, with a good wind ... He roused his housekeeper, gave all needful instructions, prepared his little medicine-chest;--and long before the first rose-gold fire of day had flashed to the city spires, he was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion in the tiny cabin of a fishing-sloop. ... For eleven years Julien had devoted himself, heart and soul, to the exercise of that profession he had first studied rather as a polite accomplishment than as a future calling. In the unselfish pursuit of duty he had found the only possible consolation for his irreparable loss; and when the war came to sweep away his wealth, he entered the struggle valorously, not to strive against men, but to use his science against death. After the passing of that huge shock, which left all the imposing and splendid fabric of Southern feudalism wrecked forever, his profession stood him in good stead;--he found himself not only able to supply those personal wants he cared to satisfy, but also to alleviate the misery of many whom he had known in days of opulence;--the princely misery that never doffed its smiling mask, though living in secret, from week to week, on bread and orange-leaf tea;--the misery that affected condescension in accepting an invitation to dine,--staring at the face of a watch (refused by the Mont-de-Piete) with eyes half blinded by starvation;--the misery which could afford but one robe for three marriageable daughters,--one plain dress to be worn in turn by each of them, on visiting days;--the pretty misery--young, brave, sweet,--asking for a "treat" of cakes too jocosely to have its asking answered,--laughing and coquetting with its well-fed wooers, and crying for hunger after they were gone. Often and often, his heart had pleaded against his purse for such as these, and won its case in the silent courts of Self. But ever mysteriously the gift came,--sometimes as if from the hand of a former slave; sometimes as from a remorseful creditor, ashamed to write his name. Only yellow Victorine knew; but the Doctor's housekeeper never opened those sphinx-lips of hers, until years after the Doctor's name had disappeared from the City Directory... He had grown quite thin,--a little gray. The epidemic had burthened him with responsibilities too multifarious and ponderous for his slender strength to bear. The continual nervous strain of abnormally protracted duty, the perpetual interruption of sleep, had almost prostrated even his will. Now he only hoped that, during this brief absence from the city, he might find renewed strength to do his terrible task. Mosquitoes bit savagely; and the heat became thicker;--and there was yet no wind. Sparicio and his hired boy Carmelo had been walking backward and forward for hours overhead,--urging the vessel yard by yard, with long poles, through the slime of canals and bayous. With every heavy push, the weary boy would sigh out,--"Santo Antonio!--Santo Antonio!" Sullen Sparicio himself at last burst into vociferations of ill-humor:--"Santo Antonio?--Ah! santissimu e santu diavulu! ... Sacramentu paescite vegnu un asidente!--malidittu lu Signuri!" All through the morning they walked and pushed, trudged and sighed and swore; and the minutes dragged by more wearily than the shuffling of their feet. "Managgia Cristo co tutta a croce!" ... "Santissimu e santu diavulu!" ... But as they reached at last the first of the broad bright lakes, the heat lifted, the breeze leaped up, the loose sail flapped and filled; and, bending graciously as a skater, the old San Marco began to shoot in a straight line over the blue flood. Then, while the boy sat at the tiller, Sparicio lighted his tiny charcoal furnace below, and prepared a simple meal,--delicious yellow macaroni, flavored with goats' cheese; some fried fish, that smelled appetizingly; and rich black coffee, of Oriental fragrance and thickness. Julien ate a little, and lay down to sleep again. This time his rest was undisturbed by the mosquitoes; and when he woke, in the cooling evening, he felt almost refreshed. The San Marco was flying into Barataria Bay. Already the lantern in the lighthouse tower had begun to glow like a little moon; and right on the rim of the sea, a vast and vermilion sun seemed to rest his chin. Gray pelicans came flapping around the mast;--sea-birds sped hurtling by, their white bosoms rose-flushed by the western glow ... Again Sparicio's little furnace was at work,--more fish, more macaroni, more black coffee; also a square-shouldered bottle of gin made its appearance. Julien ate less sparingly at this second meal; and smoked a long time on deck with Sparicio, who suddenly became very good-humored, and chatted volubly in bad Spanish, and in much worse English. Then while the boy took a few hours' sleep, the Doctor helped delightedly in maneuvering the little vessel. He had been a good yachtsman in other years; and Sparicio declared he would make a good fisherman. By midnight the San Marco began to run with a long, swinging gait;--she had reached deep water. Julien slept soundly; the steady rocking of the sloop seemed to soothe his nerves. --"After all," he thought to himself, as he rose from his little bunk next morning,--"something like this is just what I needed." ... The pleasant scent of hot coffee greeted him;--Carmelo was handing him the tin cup containing it, down through the hatchway. After drinking it he felt really hungry;--he ate more macaroni than he had ever eaten before. Then, while Sparicio slept, he aided Carmelo; and during the middle of the day he rested again. He had not had so much uninterrupted repose for many a week. He fancied he could feel himself getting strong. At supper-time it seemed to him he could not get enough to eat,--although there was plenty for everybody. All day long there had been exactly the same wave-crease distorting the white shadow of the San Marco's sail upon the blue water;--all day long they had been skimming over the liquid level of a world so jewel-blue that the low green ribbon-strips of marsh land, the far-off fleeing lines of pine-yellow sand beach, seemed flaws or breaks in the perfected color of the universe;--all day long had the cloudless sky revealed through all its exquisite transparency that inexpressible tenderness which no painter and no poet can ever reimage,--that unutterable sweetness which no art of man may ever shadow forth, and which none may ever comprehend,--though we feel it to be in some strange way akin to the luminous and unspeakable charm that makes us wonder at the eyes of a woman when she loves. Evening came; and the great dominant celestial tone deepened;--the circling horizon filled with ghostly tints,--spectral greens and grays, and pearl-lights and fish-colors ... Carmelo, as he crouched at the tiller, was singing, in a low, clear alto, some tristful little melody. Over the sea, behind them, lay, black-stretching, a long low arm of island-shore;--before them flamed the splendor of sun-death; they were sailing into a mighty glory,--into a vast and awful light of gold. Shading his vision with his fingers, Sparicio pointed to the long lean limb of land from which they were fleeing, and said to La Brierre:-- --"Look-a, Doct-a! Last-a Islan'!" Julien knew it;--he only nodded his head in reply, and looked the other way,--into the glory of God. Then, wishing to divert the fisherman's attention to another theme, he asked what was Carmelo singing. Sparicio at once shouted to the lad:-- --"Ha! ... ho! Carmelo!--Santu diavulu! ... Sing-a loud-a! Doct-a lik-a! Sing-a! sing!" .... "He sing-a nicee,"--added the boatman, with his peculiar dark smile. And then Carmelo sang, loud and clearly, the song he had been singing before,--one of those artless Mediterranean ballads, full of caressing vowel-sounds, and young passion, and melancholy beauty:-- "M'ama ancor, belta fulgente, Come tu m'amasti allor;-- Ascoltar non dei gente, Solo interroga il tuo cor." ... --"He sing-a nicee,--mucha bueno!" murmured the fisherman. And then, suddenly,--with a rich and splendid basso that seemed to thrill every fibre of the planking,--Sparicio joined in the song:-- "M'ama pur d'amore eterno, Ne deilitto sembri a te; T'assicuro che l'inferno Una favola sol e." ... All the roughness of the man was gone! To Julien's startled fancy, the fishers had ceased to be;--lo! Carmelo was a princely page; Sparicio, a king! How perfectly their voices married together!--they sang with passion, with power, with truth, with that wondrous natural art which is the birthright of the rudest Italian soul. And the stars throbbed out in the heaven; and the glory died in the west; and the night opened its heart; and the splendor of the eternities fell all about them. Still they sang; and the San Marco sped on through the soft gloom, ever slightly swerved by the steady blowing of the southeast wind in her sail;--always wearing the same crimpling-frill of wave-spray about her prow,--always accompanied by the same smooth-backed swells,--always spinning out behind her the same long trail of interwoven foam. And Julien looked up. Ever the night thrilled more and more with silent twinklings;--more and more multitudinously lights pointed in the eternities;--the Evening Star quivered like a great drop of liquid white fire ready to fall;--Vega flamed as a pharos lighting the courses ethereal,--to guide the sailing of the suns, and the swarming of fleets of worlds. Then the vast sweetness of that violet night entered into his blood,--filled him with that awful joy, so near akin to sadness, which the sense of the Infinite brings,--when one feels the poetry of the Most Ancient and Most Excellent of Poets, and then is smitten at once with the contrast-thought of the sickliness and selfishness of Man,--of the blindness and brutality of cities, whereinto the divine blue light never purely comes, and the sanctification of the Silences never descends ... furious cities, walled away from heaven ... Oh! if one could only sail on thus always, always through such a night--through such a star-sprinkled violet light, and hear Sparicio and Carmelo sing, even though it were the same melody always, always the same song! ... "Scuza, Doct-a!--look-a out!" Julien bent down, as the big boom, loosened, swung over his head. The San Marco was rounding into shore,--heading for her home. Sparicio lifted a huge conch-shell from the deck, put it to his lips, filled his deep lungs, and flung out into the night--thrice--a profound, mellifluent, booming horn-tone. A minute passed. Then, ghostly faint, as an echo from very far away, a triple blowing responded... And a long purple mass loomed and swelled into sight, heightened, approached--land and trees black-shadowing, and lights that swung ... The San Marco glided into a bayou,--under a high wharfing of timbers, where a bearded fisherman waited, and a woman. Sparicio flung up a rope. The bearded man caught it by the lantern-light, and tethered the San Marco to her place. Then he asked, in a deep voice: --"Has traido al Doctor?" --"Si, si!" answered Sparicio... "Y el viejo?" --"Aye! pobre!" responded Feliu,--"hace tres dias que esta muerto." Henry Edwards was dead! He had died very suddenly, without a cry or a word, while resting in his rocking-chair,--the very day after Sparicio had sailed. They had made him a grave in the marsh,--among the high weeds, not far from the ruined tomb of the Spanish fisherman. But Sparicio had fairly earned his hundred dollars. V. So there was nothing to do at Viosca's Point except to rest. Feliu and all his men were going to Barataria in the morning on business;--the Doctor could accompany them there, and take the Grand Island steamer Monday for New Orleans. With this intention Julien retired,--not sorry for being able to stretch himself at full length on the good bed prepared for him, in one of the unoccupied cabins. But he woke before day with a feeling of intense prostration, a violent headache, and such an aversion for the mere idea of food that Feliu's invitation to breakfast at five o'clock gave him an internal qualm. Perhaps a touch of malaria. In any case he felt it would be both dangerous and useless to return to town unwell; and Feliu, observing his condition, himself advised against the journey. Wednesday he would have another opportunity to leave; and in the meanwhile Carmen would take good care of him ... The boats departed, and Julien slept again. The sun was high when he rose up and dressed himself, feeling no better. He would have liked to walk about the place, but felt nervously afraid of the sun. He did not remember having ever felt so broken down before. He pulled a rocking-chair to the window, tried to smoke a cigar. It commenced to make him feel still sicker, and he flung it away. It seemed to him the cabin was swaying, as the San Marco swayed when she first reached the deep water. A light rustling sound approached,--a sound of quick feet treading the grass: then a shadow slanted over the threshold. In the glow of the open doorway stood a young girl,--gracile, tall,--with singularly splendid eyes,--brown eyes peeping at him from beneath a golden riot of loose hair. --"M'sieu-le-Docteur, maman d'mande si vous n'avez besoin d'que'que chose?" ... She spoke the rude French of the fishing villages, where the language lives chiefly as a baragouin, mingled often with words and forms belonging to many other tongues. She wore a loose-falling dress of some light stuff, steel-gray in color;--boys' shoes were on her feet. He did not reply;--and her large eyes grew larger for wonder at the strange fixed gaze of the physician, whose face had visibly bleached,--blanched to corpse-pallor. Silent seconds passed; and still the eyes stared--flamed as if the life of the man had centralized and focussed within them. His voice had risen to a cry in his throat, quivered and swelled one passionate instant, and failed--as in a dream when one strives to call, and yet can only moan ... She! Her unforgotten eyes, her brows, her lips!--the oval of her face!--the dawn-light of her hair! ... Adele's own poise,--her own grace!--even the very turn of her neck, even the bird-tone of her speech! ... Had the grave sent forth a Shadow to haunt him?--could the perfidious Sea have yielded up its dead? For one terrible fraction of a minute, memories, doubts, fears, mad fancies, went pulsing through his brain with a rush like the rhythmic throbbing of an electric stream;--then the shock passed, the Reason spoke:--"Fool!--count the long years since you first saw her thus!--count the years that have gone since you looked upon her last! And Time has never halted, silly heart!--neither has Death stood still!" ... "Plait-il?"--the clear voice of the young girl asked. She thought he had made some response she could not distinctly hear. Mastering himself an instant, as the heart faltered back to its duty, and the color remounted to his lips, he answered her in French:-- "Pardon me!--I did not hear ... you gave me such a start!" ... But even then another extraordinary fancy flashed through his thought;--and with the tutoiement of a parent to a child, with an irresistible outburst of such tenderness as almost frightened her, he cried: "Oh! merciful God!--how like her! ... Tell me, darling, your name; ... tell me who you are?" (Dis-moi qui tu es, mignonne;--dis-moi ton nom.) ... Who was it had asked her the same question, in another idiom ever so long ago? The man with the black eyes and nose like an eagle's beak,--the one who gave her the compass. Not this man--no! She answered, with the timid gravity of surprise:-- --"Chita Viosca" He still watched her face, and repeated the name slowly,--reiterated it in a tone of wonderment:--"Chita Viosca?--Chita Viosca!" --"C'est a dire ..." she said, looking down at her feet,--"Concha--Conchita." His strange solemnity made her smile,--the smile of shyness that knows not what else to do. But it was the smile of dead Adele. --"Thanks, my child," he exclaimed of a sudden,--in a quick, hoarse, changed tone. (He felt that his emotion would break loose in some wild way, if he looked upon her longer.) "I would like to see your mother this evening; but I now feel too ill to go out. I am going to try to rest a little." --"Nothing I can bring you?" she asked,--"some fresh milk?" --"Nothing now, dear: if I need anything later, I will tell your mother when she comes." --"Mamma does not understand French very well." --"No importa, Conchita;--le hablare en Espanol." --"Bien, entonces!" she responded, with the same exquisite smile. "Adios, senor!" ... But as she turned in going, his piercing eye discerned a little brown speck below the pretty lobe of her right ear,--just in the peachy curve between neck and cheek.... His own little Zouzoune had a birthmark like that!--he remembered the faint pink trace left by his fingers above and below it the day he had slapped her for overturning his ink bottle ... "To laimin moin?--to batte moin!" "Chita!--Chita!" She did not hear ... After all, what a mistake he might have made! Were not Nature's coincidences more wonderful than fiction? Better to wait,--to question the mother first, and thus make sure. Still--there were so many coincidences! The face, the smile, the eyes, the voice, the whole charm;--then that mark,--and the fair hair. Zouzoune had always resembled Adele so strangely! That golden hair was a Scandinavian bequest to the Florane family;--the tall daughter of a Norwegian sea captain had once become the wife of a Florane. Viosca?--who ever knew a Viosca with such hair? Yet again, these Spanish emigrants sometimes married blonde German girls ... Might be a case of atavism, too. Who was this Viosca? If that was his wife,--the little brown Carmen,--whence Chita's sunny hair? ... And this was part of that same desolate shore whither the Last Island dead had been drifted by that tremendous surge! On a clear day, with a good glass, one might discern from here the long blue streak of that ghastly coast ... Somewhere--between here and there ... Merciful God! ... ... But again! That bivouac-night before the fight at Chancellorsville, Laroussel had begun to tell him such a singular story ... Chance had brought them,--the old enemies,--together; made them dear friends in the face of Death. How little he had comprehended the man!--what a brave, true, simple soul went up that day to the Lord of Battles! ... What was it--that story about the little Creole girl saved from Last Island,--that story which was never finished? ... Eh! what a pain! Evidently he had worked too much, slept too little. A decided case of nervous prostration. He must lie down, and try to sleep. These pains in the head and back were becoming unbearable. Nothing but rest could avail him now. He stretched himself under the mosquito curtain. It was very still, breathless, hot! The venomous insects were thick;--they filled the room with a continuous ebullient sound, as if invisible kettles were boiling overhead. A sign of storm.... Still, it was strange!--he could not perspire ... Then it seemed to him that Laroussel was bending over him--Laroussel in his cavalry uniform. "Bon jour, camarade!--nous allons avoir un bien mauvais temps, mon pauvre Julien." How! bad weather?--"Comment un mauvais temps?" ... He looked in Laroussel's face. There was something so singular in his smile. Ah! yes,--he remembered now: it was the wound! ... "Un vilain temps!" whispered Laroussel. Then he was gone ... Whither? --"Cheri!" ... The whisper roused him with a fearful start ... Adele's whisper! So she was wont to rouse him sometimes in the old sweet nights,--to crave some little attention for ailing Eulalie,--to make some little confidence she had forgotten to utter during the happy evening ... No, no! It was only the trees. The sky was clouding over. The wind was rising ... How his heart beat! how his temples pulsed! Why, this was fever! Such pains in the back and head! Still his skin was dry,--dry as parchment,--burning. He rose up; and a bursting weight of pain at the base of the skull made him reel like a drunken man. He staggered to the little mirror nailed upon the wall, and looked. How his eyes glowed;--and there was blood in his mouth! He felt his pulse spasmodic, terribly rapid. Could it possibly--? ... No: this must be some pernicious malarial fever! The Creole does not easily fall a prey to the great tropical malady,--unless after a long absence in other climates. True! he had been four years in the army! But this was 1867 ... He hesitated a moment; then,--opening his medicine chest, he measured out and swallowed thirty grains of quinine. Then he lay down again. His head pained more and more;--it seemed as if the cervical vertebrae were filled with fluid iron. And still his skin remained dry as if tanned. Then the anguish grew so intense as to force a groan with almost every aspiration ... Nausea,--and the stinging bitterness of quinine rising in his throat;--dizziness, and a brutal wrenching within his stomach. Everything began to look pink;--the light was rose-colored. It darkened more,--kindled with deepening tint. Something kept sparkling and spinning before his sight, like a firework ... Then a burst of blood mixed with chemical bitterness filled his mouth; the light became scarlet as claret ... This--this was ... not malaria ... VI. ... Carmen knew what it was; but the brave little woman was not afraid of it. Many a time before she had met it face to face, in Havanese summers; she knew how to wrestle with it; she had torn Feliu's life away from its yellow clutch, after one of those long struggles that strain even the strength of love. Now she feared mostly for Chita. She had ordered the girl under no circumstances to approach the cabin. Julien felt that blankets had been heaped upon him,--that some gentle hand was bathing his scorching face with vinegar and water. Vaguely also there came to him the idea that it was night. He saw the shadow-shape of a woman moving against the red light upon the wall;--he saw there was a lamp burning. Then the delirium seized him: he moaned, sobbed, cried like a child,--talked wildly at intervals in French, in English, in Spanish. --"Mentira!--you could not be her mother ... Still, if you were--And she must not come in here,--jamais! ... Carmen, did you know Adele,--Adele Florane? So like her,--so like,--God only knows how like! ... Perhaps I think I know;--but I do not--do not know justly, fully--how like! ... Si! si!--es el vomito!--yo lo conozco, Carmen! ... She must not die twice ... I died twice ... I am going to die again. She only once. Till the heavens be no more she will not rise ... Moi, au contraire, il faut que je me leve toujours! They need me so much;--the slate is always full; the bell will never stop. They will ring that bell for me when I am dead ... So will I rise again!--resurgam! ... How could I save him?--could not save myself. It was a bad case,--at seventy years! ... There! Qui ca?" ... He saw Laroussel again,--reaching out a hand to him through a whirl of red smoke. He tried to grasp it, and could not ... "N'importe, mon ami," said Laroussel,--"tu vas la voir bientot." Who was he to see soon?--"qui done, Laroussel?" But Laroussel did not answer. Through the red mist he seemed to smile;--then passed. For some hours Carmen had trusted she could save her patient,--desperate as the case appeared to be. His was one of those rapid and violent attacks, such as often despatch their victims in a single day. In the Cuban hospitals she had seen many and many terrible examples: strong young men,--soldiers fresh from Spain,--carried panting to the fever wards at sunrise; carried to the cemeteries at sunset. Even troopers riddled with revolutionary bullets had lingered longer ... Still, she had believed she might save Julien's life: the burning forehead once began to bead, the burning hands grew moist. But now the wind was moaning;--the air had become lighter, thinner, cooler. A stone was gathering in the east; and to the fever-stricken man the change meant death ... Impossible to bring the priest of the Caminada now; and there was no other within a day's sail. She could only pray; she had lost all hope in her own power to save. Still the sick man raved; but he talked to himself at longer intervals, and with longer pauses between his words;--his voice was growing more feeble, his speech more incoherent. His thought vacillated and distorted, like flame in a wind. Weirdly the past became confounded with the present; impressions of sight and of sound interlinked in fastastic affinity,--the face of Chita Viosca, the murmur of the rising storm. Then flickers of spectral lightning passed through his eyes, through his brain, with every throb of the burning arteries; then utter darkness came,--a darkness that surged and moaned, as the circumfluence of a shadowed sea. And through and over the moaning pealed one multitudinous human cry, one hideous interblending of shoutings and shriekings ... A woman's hand was locked in his own ... "Tighter," he muttered, "tighter still, darling! hold as long as you can!" It was the tenth night of August, eighteen hundred and fifty-six ... --"Cheri!" Again the mysterious whisper startled him to consciousness,--the dim knowledge of a room filled with ruby colored light,--and the sharp odor of vinegar. The house swung round slowly;--the crimson flame of the lamp lengthened and broadened by turns;--then everything turned dizzily fast,--whirled as if spinning in a vortex ... Nausea unutterable; and a frightful anguish as of teeth devouring him within,--tearing more and more furiously at his breast. Then one atrocious wrenching, rending, burning,--and the gush of blood burst from lips and nostrils in a smothering deluge. Again the vision of lightnings, the swaying, and the darkness of long ago. "Quick!--quick!--hold fast to the table, Adele!--never let go!" ... ... Up,--up,--up!--what! higher yet? Up to the red sky! Red--black-red ... heated iron when its vermilion dies. So, too, the frightful flood! And noiseless. Noiseless because heavy, clammy,--thick, warm, sickening--blood? Well might the land quake for the weight of such a tide!--Why did Adele speak Spanish? Who prayed for him? ... --"Alma de Cristo santisima santificame! "Sangre de Cristo, embriagame! "O buen Jesus, oye me!" ... Out of the darkness into--such a light! An azure haze! Ah!--the delicious frost! ... All the streets were filled with the sweet blue mist ... Voiceless the City and white;--crooked and weed grown its narrow ways! ... Old streets of tombs, these ... Eh! How odd a custom!--a Night-bell at every door. Yes, of course!--a night-bell!--the Dead are Physicians of Souls: they may be summoned only by night,--called up from the darkness and silence ... Yet she?--might he not dare to ring for her even by day? ........ Strange he had deemed it day!--why, it was black, starless ... And it was growing queerly cold ...... How should he ever find her now? It was so black ... so cold! ... --"Cheri!" All the dwelling quivered with the mighty whisper. Outside, the great oaks were trembling to their roots;--all the shore shook and blanched before the calling of the sea. And Carmen, kneeling at the feet of the dead, cried out, alone in the night:-- --"O Jesus misericordioso!--tened compasion de el!" 
46386	----	produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) THE CASTAWAYS OF PETE'S PATCH _by_ Carroll Watson Rankin _Illustrated by_ ADA C. WILLIAMSON _Frontispiece and jacket illustrations by_ MIRIAM SELSS How many girls have wished to spend a summer in a real camp on the shores of a lake, with soft grass, kind to bare feet, comfortable camp beds of fragrant balsam tips and plenty of real adventure. Here are our friends of the Dandelion Cottage marooned on a point of land. Indian boys, a castaway sailor lad, and many other happenings fill this book full of delight for the girls, who, having read the earlier volumes of the series, will be glad to meet again these cheery little lassies of the justly famous Dandelion Cottage Series. [Illustration: IT SEEMED TO MABEL THAT SHE COULD DETECT A SOUND OF BREATHING] Dandelion Series THE CASTAWAYS OF PETE'S PATCH (_A Sequel to The Adopting of Rosa Marie_) BY CARROLL WATSON RANKIN Author of "Dandelion Cottage," "The Girls of Gardenville," etc. _With Illustrations by_ ADA C. WILLIAMSON [Illustration] NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY August, 1937 PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY RAHWAY, N. J. TO ERNEST AND BERWICK AND ALL OTHER GOOD CAMPERS CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE INTRODUCTION xi I. AN INNOCENT PLAN 1 II. THE TROUBLED WHALE 12 III. A PREDICAMENT 24 IV. A NIGHT OUT 36 V. THE MISSING WHALE 49 VI. THE COMING OF DAVE 59 VII. DELIVERED BY DAVE 68 VIII. THE PANGS OF HUNGER 78 IX. AN EXCITING AFTERNOON 87 X. A STORMY NIGHT 100 XI. DRY CLOTHES FOR FIVE 110 XII. MABEL'S ASTONISHING DISCOVERY 118 XIII. BREAKING THE NEWS 127 XIV. A MISSING MESSENGER 136 XV. DOCTOR DAVE 147 XVI. A VALUABLE INSECT 158 XVII. THE GAME WARDEN'S VISIT 168 XVIII. THE BOY'S NAME 179 XIX. A BELATED TRAVELER 188 XX. A SURPRISE PARTY 199 XXI. DAVE MAKES HIMSELF USEFUL 213 XXII. A TWISTED CONSCIENCE 225 XXIII. BILLY'S MEMORY 234 XXIV. A MUTUAL FRIEND 241 XXV. A CAPTURED FISHERMAN 252 XXVI. IN FAIRYLAND 264 XXVII. A VISITOR FOR LADDIE 274 XXVIII. BREAKING CAMP 285 THE PERSONS OF THE STORY BETTIE TUCKER} JEANIE MAPES } Once of Dandelion Cottage, now MARJORY VALE } of Pete's Patch. MABEL BENNETT} HENRIETTA BEDFORD: Their Chum. MR. BLACK: A Childless but Fatherly Man. MRS. CRANE: His Warm-hearted Sister. DAVE GURNEAU: A Good and Bad Half-breed. MAHJIGEEZIGOQUA: An Old Acquaintance. MR. WILLIAM SAUNDERS: Mr. Black's Right-hand. MISS BLOSSOM: A Timely Visitor. ROSA MARIE: A Very Young Old Friend. TERRIBLE TIM: Always to the Point. BILLY BLUE-EYES: The Most Cast-away of all the Cast-aways. A Number of Parents and Other Necessary Grown-ups. ILLUSTRATIONS FACING PAGE IT SEEMED TO MABEL THAT SHE COULD DETECT A SOUND OF BREATHING _Frontispiece_ THE SPACE BEHIND THE LOG WAS ALREADY OCCUPIED 124 SEATED ON THE DRY END WAS A STOUT, PLACID MAN 256 "MOTHER!" HE CRIED. "MOTHER! IT'S MY MOTHER!" 276 INTRODUCTION WHEN the biggest lake there is chooses to go on one of her very best rampages, even the bravest of mariners make as speedily as possible for safe harbors. At midnight, therefore, following a certain blustery day in early summer, it was not strange that the huge, storm-tossed lake appeared, for as far as eye could reach, absolutely deserted. Somewhere, however, on that fearfully tumultuous sea, one direly threatened craft was still abroad, and, what is a greater marvel, still afloat. At best, the ancient yawl was but a poor excuse for a ship; now, at her worst, she was little more than a raft. Driven before the wind, tossed here and there by the buffeting waves, she carried a solitary passenger and only a little one at that. Indeed, he wasn't at all the kind of sailor that one would _expect_ to find sailing dangerous seas all alone at midnight, for the solitary mariner, adrift in all that wilderness of tumbling water, was a twelve-year-old boy. There was no sail to the little boat--that had been torn away in the furious gale--but a short, stumpy mast remained. To that the boy, happily unconscious of his plight, was firmly but rather clumsily bound by means of many folds of stout fish-net wrapped tightly about his slender body. Also about his waist hung a battered life-preserver. The lad had been fastened there by other hands than his own, for most of the knots were out of his reach. The little chap's head hung forward; his eyes were closed; he no longer heard the roar of the sea or felt the cold or suffered from hunger; but in spite of this merciful oblivion, he still had a life to lose--and was in very grave danger of losing it. It isn't fair, of course, to leave a really attractive little lad in a plight like this; with darkness and an angry sea all about him; with, seemingly no possible help at hand, since the nearest coast was still many miles distant and supposedly uninhabited. Yet, in this truly terrible predicament, this poor boy--strange little hero of a girls' story--must remain until you've learned just how a certain "Whale" (you must admit that it isn't usual to find whales near fresh water) contributed to his rescue. To discover exactly how it all happened we must go way back to the very beginning; and the beginning of it all was Bettie. THE CASTAWAYS OF PETE'S PATCH CHAPTER I An Innocent Plan "THIS," said Bettie Tucker, one morning, with approving glances at the offerings heaped about her, "is certainly a pretty fine world. I'm glad I stayed in it, even if I haven't feet enough for eleven pairs of pink bed socks." For an alarming number of weeks, Bettie's friends had feared that this most lovable of little girls might _not_ remain in it; but now that all danger was past, she was able to sit for long hours by the window that afforded the best view of the Tuckers' front gate. Ordinarily it was not much of a gate. So many little Tuckers had climbed upon it and tumbled off that it had grown shaky as to hinges and bald as to paint; though, if one used rope enough, it was still useful as a barrier between the world and the adventuresome Tucker babies. But now this gate--or rather this gateway--had become a most interesting spot. Through it, at delightfully frequent intervals, came baskets, boxes, and bundles. Most of them contained offerings, more or less enjoyable, for convalescent Bettie; for all the members of Doctor Tucker's church loved the gentle, kindly, absent-minded clergyman. Now that a member of his household was recovering from a serious illness, it seemed, as Doctor Bennett, the family physician said, as if the parish were bent on making her ill again by sending her more things to eat than any one small Bettie-girl could possibly hold. Everything from soup to dessert flowed in at that gate, for Lakeville was a kindly town and everybody knew that overworked Mrs. Tucker had quite enough to do without the extra work of preparing dainty food. Moreover, to add very seriously to Bettie's danger from promiscuous donations, Doctor Bennett's own warm-hearted but decidedly inexperienced young daughter Mabel was laboriously cooking things out of a large number of cook-books to carry triumphantly or despondently, according to her degree of success, to her very dearest friend Bettie. "This," explained Mabel, one morning, displaying a dull purple, most uninviting object that quivered uncannily when one shook the bowl, "is 'Ambrosial Delight.'" "Where--where did you get it?" asked Bettie, eying the strange mixture distrustfully. "Out of an advertising cook-book that somebody left on our doorstep. It said 'Ambrosial Delight' under the picture, but someway the pudding looks--different." "What makes it such a very queer color?" demanded interested Bettie. "Grape juice and eggs," explained Mabel, tenderly clasping her handiwork to her breast. "You see, according to the picture, it ought to be in even purple and yellow stripes and standing up in a stiff para--parachute--those things in Egypt----" "Pyramid. Go on," assisted Bettie, accustomed to Mabel's difficulties of speech. "Pyramid, but someway the custard part and the jelly part all ran together and sat down. But it tastes a lot better than it looks." "Bettie mustn't eat anything more for two hours," interposed Mrs. Tucker. "She's just had a big piece of strawberry shortcake. I'll set this pudding in the ice-box--that'll harden the jelly." "I'm ever so much obliged," beamed Bettie, suspecting that Mabel would have enjoyed seeing her eat the "Ambrosial Delight." "It's nice of you to cook things for me." "Even if they do turn out wrong most every time," supplemented Mabel. "Yes, I think it is nice, because I sort of hate to cook anyway, and everybody in our house just hates to have me. I'm so untidy, they say. I always have to do it when Bridget isn't looking and it makes me nervous to have to hurry. Can you think of anything else you'd like me to make?" continued this martyr. "Because I'd _do_ it, if I had to get up before daylight." "I don't know of anything unless somebody invents a dish that will go right straight to my knees. They wabble. I feel as if I'd like to run a mile, but by the time I've tottered to the gate I'm glad it isn't more than a dozen steps. There's your father coming--I'm going to ask him why my knees wabble so awfully." Impulsive Mabel, at this news, instinctively scrambled under the bed. Then, remembering that she had really been pretty good all day, she sheepishly crawled out, to Bettie's amusement, to greet her surprised father. "I'm on my way home," said she. "So I notice," returned Doctor Bennett, his mouth stern, his eyes twinkling. "Don't let me detain you." "I want to know," demanded Bettie, "why I haven't any knees?" "I think," replied Doctor Bennett, "that we ought to get you outdoors a great deal more than we do. You're not getting air enough. Where's your jacket? I'll take you for a drive this minute--I'm going to South Lakeville by the shore road to see a patient. Think you're good for a buggy ride?" "I'm sure of it," laughed Bettie, "but I'm afraid my bones will scratch all the varnish off your nice bright buggy. I've twice as many ribs as I used to have--perhaps my knees have turned into ribs!" Bettie returned an hour later; none the worse for her drive and hungry enough to eat even Mabel's unsightly pudding, after finishing a large bowl of broth. "It tastes fine," she confided to Doctor Bennett, who had insisted on carrying the slender invalid upstairs, "if you eat it with your eyes shut. My! I'm hungry as a bear--wasn't it lucky that mother had my lunch ready?" "I guess you'll have to have another ride to-morrow," laughed the pleased doctor. "Fresh air is all the medicine you need--you ought to _live_ outdoors." There was danger, however, of Bettie's getting more fresh air than any one little maid could ever hope to breathe, for, the next morning, there was an item in Lakeville's daily paper that brought curious and almost instantaneous results. The paragraph read: "Miss Bettie Tucker, who has been seriously ill for several weeks, enjoyed her first outing yesterday." It wasn't a very big item, Bettie thought, for so momentous an event, but it was quite large enough for kind-hearted Lakeville. Immediately, everybody with anything one _could_ ride in wanted to take Bettie driving. Mr. Black placed his automobile at her disposal. Henrietta Bedford's grandmother, Mrs. Slater, laid her horses, the grandest of her carriages, and her only coachman at Bettie's bedroom-slippered feet; Jean and Marjory laboriously collected sufficient money to hire a sad old horse, more or less attached to a dilapidated cab, from the very cheapest livery stable for a whole expensive hour. Nearly all the members of Doctor Tucker's congregation took turns inviting Bettie to ride in anything from a buckboard to an omnibus. Even Julius Muhlhauser, the milkman, insisted on carrying her, in his flaming scarlet cart, over three-fourths of his milk-route, one morning. "That," laughed Bettie, after the milkman had delivered her safely at her own door, "was something different. It isn't everybody who has a chance to drive down the milky way." "Are you hungry?" asked her mother, meeting her at the door, with a bowl of broth. "Not so very," returned Bettie, nevertheless accepting the broth and eating it eagerly. "I drank a whole pint of the milk-wagon milk." Next, all Bettie's friends began to invite the little girl to visit them. She had to spend whole days or pieces of days with Jean, with Marjory, with Henrietta, with Mabel (who nursed her so devotedly that she almost suffered a relapse), and with Mrs. Crane and Mr. Black. But, as yet, she had not returned to her old footing with her comrades; she was not yet sufficiently strong for the old rough-and-tumble play, the happy-go-lucky hours in Dandelion Cottage. She was a new variety of Bettie, a fragile Bettie, to be handled with the utmost tenderness. Mr. Black and his stout sister, Mrs. Crane, than whom Bettie had no stauncher friends, had swung the largest and most gorgeous hammock that Lakeville could furnish, under their trees for her--they were only sorry that she couldn't use _two_ hammocks. "Peter," said Mrs. Crane (they were sitting on the porch to keep an eye on Bettie, who, in spite of the gorgeousness of her swaying couch, had fallen asleep), "that child ought to stay outdoors all the time. That rectory is a stuffy place, crowded up against the church and right in the smoke of two factories. As soon as she's strong enough to stand it, she ought to go camping--some place on the lake shore where the air is pure." "Of course she ought," agreed Mr. Black, heartily. "It's the best tonic in the world for growing children--there's nothing like it in bottles." "Isn't there any way we could manage it? If we only had a camp----" "We'll have one," promised Mr. Black, promptly. "But we haven't any land----" "Yes, we have; a lot of it. About four years ago I bought forty acres from an Indian, forty more from his brother, and then, just to be obliging, forty more from his friend, all for a few dollars an acre. Afterwards somebody suggested that it was all the same forty, but it wasn't; I looked it up to see. It's seventeen miles from here on the shore of the biggest and wettest lake there is, with the cleanest, sweetest air that ever was made. Just the finest spot in the world for a camp--I saw it once. "When? Oh, six or seven years ago. I tell you what, Sarah! Suppose we take a run up there in the automobile and have a look at it. There used to be a road--it's probably there yet." "Why couldn't we make a picnic of it and take Bettie and the girls?" asked good Mrs. Crane, instantly falling in with her brother's plan. "Seventeen miles is no distance at all for the car--I'm sure Bettie could stand it because she could get a nap there as well as at home." "We could," agreed Mr. Black, "and I guess there'd be room for Henrietta, too--she'll want to go." "I always did enjoy a picnic," confessed Mrs. Crane, a little sheepishly. "I guess I haven't quite grown up, in some ways." "I like 'em myself," owned Mr. Black. "Besides, I've been thinking for some time that I'd like a look at that land--haven't seen it since I bought it. This is Monday, isn't it? Suppose we go there day after to-morrow if the weather stays right--that'll give us a day to cook in. We'll ask the girls to-night." So, in this commonplace fashion, was planned the picnic that proved utterly unlike any picnic that this good, elderly couple had ever attended; for this particular outing behaved in a most extraordinary way. Mr. Black supposed that this innocent excursion was his, that it belonged to him, that it was subservient to his will; instead of which--but you shall hear what happened. CHAPTER II The Troubled Whale MR. BLACK, his fine dark eyes sparkling with pleasure; his crisp hair, plentifully sprinkled with white, standing upright from his broad, benevolent brow, looked with approval at his party as he packed his merry guests very carefully into his big touring car. Jean, who was tall and not particularly wide for her fourteen and a half years, was attractive because of the serene loveliness of her expression; one knew at a glance that she was a _good_ child. One guessed, just as quickly, that Henrietta was sometimes naughty, for an impish light danced in her long-lashed black eyes and there was a mischievous dimple in the dusky crimson of her cheek. Next to Jean in height and age, she seemed older and yet less responsible--one couldn't be quite sure of spirited Henrietta Bedford. Marjory, two years younger, was both short and narrow for her age; and so very fair that one had to guess at her eyebrows. But she, too, was a pretty child, for her small features were pleasing and her pale golden hair was quite wonderful. Like Henrietta, she was quick and graceful in all her movements. Bettie, also between twelve and thirteen, was now mostly eyes; big, velvety brown ones that played pranks with one's heart-strings; particularly with those of Mr. Black and Mrs. Crane. She had lost all her short, curly brown hair during her illness; it was now coming in, shorter and curlier than ever. Mabel, the youngest of the group, was also the broadest. But her undeniable plumpness did not detract from her looks. One couldn't help liking her honest brown eyes, the wholesome red and white of her rounded countenance, her sturdy, childlike figure, and the rich bronze of her abundant--and frequently untidy--hair. Mrs. Crane, brown as to skin, black as to eyes, stout, elderly, and warm-hearted, was very like her brother, except that she sometimes worried. Mr. Black never did. Finally all these good people, with a coat or sweater for each girl, with two big hampers of food from Mr. Black's home, with several baskets of picnic lunch from the other houses, were stowed away in the capacious car. Mr. Black called his automobile the "Whale," because once, for a few weeks, it had been driven by Jonah Higginsworth, who, however, was so frequently cast forth by this modern whale, owing to dangerously reckless driving, that Mr. Black had been obliged to discharge him. "We are seven," said Mr. Black, taking the chauffeur's seat. "I'm going to drive this car myself; they say the road's a bit rough--isn't used much. Seven's a good number." "Eight's better," retorted Henrietta, diving into a silk bag and dragging forth a queer bundle of mottled fur. "What's that?" demanded Mr. Black. "I didn't invite anybody like that to _my_ picnic." "Just a kitten," explained Henrietta, waving him for all to see. "I adopted him yesterday, but nobody in our house likes him, so I have to _wear_ him--he's very tame." "He looks," laughed Bettie, "just like the pudding Mabel made for me two weeks ago; purple, yellow, and white, all jumbled together--let's name him Ambrosial Delight." "No," objected Henrietta, "he's already named Anthony Fitz-Hubert." "Because he has fits?" asked Marjory. "He _doesn't_. Just see how calm he is." Doctor Bennett, Doctor Tucker, Marjory's Aunty Jane, and all the mothers stood on the sidewalk to see the merry party started on its way. Henrietta's dignified little grandmother sat in her carriage. "Don't worry if we're late," said Mr. Black, turning to this trusting assemblage and not guessing how very late he was going to be. "The other end of our road may prove a trifle heavy; the day's so fine that we're not going to hurry, anyhow. Good-by till you see us again--we'll take the very best care of all your precious girls. Good-by, good-by----" "Just where are you going?" shrieked Aunty Jane, a moment too late. For the picnic, kitten and all, was already spinning joyously away; and never was there a happier party. At first the inviting road was all that road should be, for constant use kept it in excellent condition. After the first two miles, however, the going was only fair, as it was necessary to proceed rather slowly because spring rains had uncovered big boulders that it seemed best to avoid. Also there were chickens--never had the Whale's way been so beset by loitering hens. When these had finally been left behind, the Whale came to a pleasant stretch of country road partly overgrown with short, fragrant grass. "If it's all like this," said Mrs. Crane, sniffing contentedly, "it won't take long to travel seventeen miles." Unfortunately, it wasn't like that for any great distance. Soon the Whale was panting laboriously up a long, stony hill; down which a foolish little creek that had strayed from its proper bed was meandering aimlessly but with most disastrous results. It had made deep, jagged, treacherous furrows that had to be skilfully avoided; so it took considerable time to climb the damaged hill. After that, the road was sandy. The sand in northern Michigan seems sandier than any other sand. Mr. Black was certain that it was at least a mile deep along that dreadful road, skirted by a dreary stretch of small poplars. But far ahead, this dauntless man could see the beckoning green of lofty trees--he fixed hopeful eyes on that and coaxed the groaning Whale to nobler efforts. Where the sand was deepest, everybody but Bettie and Mr. Black got out and walked--or waded along the dusty roadside; and sometimes they pushed the Whale when that weary leviathan threatened to stick. At length, however, the dusty car lurched heavily into the grateful shade of a fine forest road, carpeted smoothly with pine needles and the decaying leaves of oak, maple, and elm trees, whose branches, green and lovely with spring foliage, met overhead. "Oh," breathed Bettie, lying back luxuriously among her cushions, "isn't this just beautiful!" "Let's go slowly," pleaded Mrs. Crane. "It's years since I've seen such woods. I declare! I'd like to stay right here." "I guess the mosquitoes 'd be glad to have you," said Mr. Black. "Are all those girls aboard? They won't need to do any walking as long as this lasts--it was _made_ for the Whale!" Unfortunately, the beautifully smooth ground stretched before them for only a few precious moments, though the forest itself grew wilder and more interesting at every turn of the wheels. After a time, the road began to dip steadily downward. Presently the Whale was sliding over clay, pushing through deep, clinging mire, splashing through puddles of stagnant water, or bumping over stretches of half-submerged corduroy. "Peter," said Mrs. Crane, rather nervously, when her patient, elderly brother had climbed out for the fourth time to pull long ropes of tangled weeds out of the wheels, "don't you think we'd better give up and turn back? It's getting worse and worse." "No," returned Mr. Black, "I don't. I started out to look at that land and I'm going to find it. Besides, Timothy Burbank drove over this road this spring and he says it's open all the way to Barclay's Point--my place is a mile this side of Barclay's." "But Timothy rode in a buckboard." "He said he guessed the Whale could make it and I've no reason to doubt his word. Anyhow, we're going on--we're so muddy now that a little more won't hurt us; and there's one comfort; there are no steep precipices on this road for us to tumble from." It was fortunate, too, that Mr. Black carried a hatchet, because several times it became necessary to chop fallen trees--luckily they were small ones--out of the road; and once it was necessary to repair a broken bridge; but the girls, who helped with that, thoroughly enjoyed the task. Occasionally, the Whale was obliged to ford a certain small river that crossed the road an astonishing number of times. Also, with increasing frequency, Mr. Black was obliged to crawl under the car to see what was the matter with the machinery; but, on the whole, the Whale behaved surprisingly well. Presently the road which, up to that moment, had stretched mainly toward the north, turned sharply toward the east. "Ah!" breathed Mr. Black, with a deep sigh of satisfaction. "Timothy says our place is just three miles from this turn. Does anybody want to go back _now_?" Nobody did, so the Whale pushed on; and, wonder of wonders! For a whole delightful mile the road was good, alluringly good. The big car fairly pranced with pleasure, and all the passengers settled back comfortably against the cushions. But after that one deceiving mile! Never was there a more discouraging stretch of road--if it _were_ road. Sunken boulders, slime-covered water, deep black mud, rotting corduroy, jutting logs, weed-grown swamp. The Whale's passengers were jounced and jolted, spattered and scratched. Low-growing branches slapped their faces and reached maliciously for unguarded tresses. Altogether, this final two miles of wilderness surpassed all the rest--suppose there were no bottom to that mud! Even Henrietta was too frightened for speech. Finally the Whale, with a last despairing gasp that died away to an alarming silence, refused to go a single inch farther. "It's all out for everybody," said Mr. Black, who now looked as concerned as the others. "Something's given out--it's not surprising." "But," objected Mrs. Crane, "how are we to get home?" "Hush, woman," returned Mr. Black, whimsically, "folks on their way _to_ a picnic don't talk about going home. Let's get there first." "Why!" cried light-footed Marjory, who had darted ahead and back again with her news, "we're out of that swamp, anyway. This road goes right uphill and it's sandy." "Good!" exclaimed Mr. Black. "That means that we're almost there. Come back, Marjory, and get your share of the load; everybody must carry something. Bettie, can you walk half a mile if you're helped over the rough places?" "A whole mile if I have to--I'm not tired." "The air," remarked Jean, sniffing curiously, when the party had reached the top of the brief ascent, "smells different. My! Isn't it good! I feel it way down inside of me." "It's the lake," explained Mr. Black. "In less than ten minutes you're going to see something." The prediction proved true. In a very few moments the road branched, the right fork led them north, then swerved again toward the east, the forest stopped with a suddenness that was startling, and the picnic found itself in a wide, grassy clearing at the very edge of the big, blue lake. The bigness and the blueness were dazzling. The curved beach stretched like a broad golden ribbon in either direction. "This," said Mr. Black, "is the place." "Oh, Peter!" cried Mrs. Crane, dropping her end of the heaviest hamper. "How much of it is ours?" "Every scrap. All that you can see." "What! Down to that rocky point?" "Yes, and up the other way to that other rocky point--a whole mile of shore line." "And the island off that little projection--is _that_ ours?" "Every inch of it." "Why, Peter!" "Fine, isn't it? We own a river, too--there's the mouth of it down the shore. What do you think of it all, Sarah?" "Peter, it's--it's heaven!" "And uninhabited," declared Mr. Black, supposing that he was speaking the exact truth, "except for our seven selves." There was, however, an eighth inhabitant; and a human one at that. But for the time being no one suspected it. CHAPTER III A Predicament "PETER," queried Mrs. Crane, "what time is it? I'm starved." Mr. Black looked at his watch, at first expectantly, then ruefully. "The thing's stopped," said he, shaking it. "I dropped it out a couple of times when I was under the Whale, and once it struck a boulder. It stopped at half-past twelve." "An hour ago?" "It _might_ be two hours--or even three! Girls, did you bring a watch--any of you?" "I did," said Henrietta, "but I wound it to practise by without setting it, so it's probably wrong--it usually is. It says quarter to nine!" "It certainly _is_ wrong. I _know_ it's dinner time--or worse. Sarah----" "Build a fire, Peter--there's plenty of wood on the beach. I brought a coffee pot and you'll find a box of matches in it. Jean, spread the cloth that's in one of those hampers--the ground's nice and smooth right there at your feet. You'll find wooden plates and tin cups under the cloth. Marjory, you can fish for the sugar and cream and the salad. Mabel, you--no, I'll cut the bread myself; you can pick up bits of wood for the fire." "There are two big apple pies and some cheese in my basket," said Jean, "and--yes, a bag of cookies!" "Here are my sandwiches," said Henrietta. "Just loads of them; and a big veal loaf---- Oh! It smells so good!" "Aunty Jane sent a huge crock of beans and some cold ham," said Marjory, "and here's a jar of something--pickles, I guess." "There's a box of things," said Mr. Black, "fruit, cookies, crackers, sardines, peanut butter, and a thing or two in cans still aboard the Whale, but I guess, with all this good home cooking, we won't need it just yet--anyway, I'd rather look at the lake than go after it." "Can't I take off my shoes and wade out for the coffee water?" pleaded Mabel. "I love to wade." "Of course you can," replied Mrs. Crane. "Here's the pail--I'll take the doughnuts out of it." "What's this?" asked Mr. Black, holding up a flat, heavy parcel. "A piece of bacon--I thought we might need bacon and eggs in addition to our salad--I brought a flat pan to fry them in. And here are salt and pepper." "Well!" laughed Mr. Black, as parcel after parcel came out of the tightly packed hampers, "I guess we'll have to set up a grocery store and sell stuff to the squirrels--we can't possibly eat all this at _one_ meal." "Don't be too sure," warned Bettie. "I'm pretty hungry. Mother put in a can of cocoa and a little saucepan to cook it in--and here's a pint of milk." "We'll make the cocoa and coffee," decided Mrs. Crane, "and eat the sandwiches and other ready-made things. We won't bother to do any other cooking; and, I must say, I'm glad we don't need to. I _never_ was so hungry." Everybody it seemed was on the verge of starvation. The Whale's passengers ate and ate and ate. Even Ambrosial Delight, the three-colored cat, drank milk as if he had always lived on the lake shore and dined from wooden plates. After dinner, every one, except Bettie, who was compelled by solicitous Mrs. Crane to curl up with the kitten under a tree for a nap, went exploring. That was great fun, for exploring is interesting, anyway, even if you haven't anything bigger to explore than your own back yard. But when you have a whole wilderness, with a little of every kind of landscape there is dotted about, here and there; and always so unexpectedly that you don't know what you're coming to next, exploring becomes just the very jolliest pursuit there is. In the first place, there was the large, grassy clearing where they had eaten dinner. This place was almost circular in shape and as big, Bettie said, as a whole city block. In it were a few scattered trees; but, for the greater part, it was open and almost perfectly level. On one side was the lake; the other three sides were walled in by most attractive forest. A number of little trails led from the clearing into the woods. Each one, they found, pointed toward some definite object. One, for instance, carried them to a tiny spring of clear, gurgling water. Another led them to what was evidently a good fishing spot on the river. A third brought them to a tiny unsuspected lake, dotted with lily pads. "This," said quick-eyed Marjory, pointing northwestward, when the explorers had returned for the third time to the sunny clearing, "is the widest trail of all." "For my part," said Mr. Black, "I don't know why there should be any trails here at all. No one has lived here for four years. Sometimes fishermen come here in gasoline launches for a few days in the spring, or hunters for a week or two in the fall, but never in sufficient numbers to make as marked a trail as this--we must certainly investigate _this_ one." This wider trail led them for perhaps a hundred feet through a dense thicket of shrubbery; then, with a suddenness that was startling, the explorers found themselves in another clearing, about half the size of the first. In it stood a curious structure with a rounded top. It was built of bent strips of wood, covered with large sheets of rough birch bark, bound in place with willow withes, and sewed in spots with buckskin thongs. It was blackened with age and smoke. "It looks," said Henrietta, "like the top half of a big balloon. And mercy! How horrible it smells." "What _is_ it?" asked Mabel. "Is it a bear's den? Ugh! I hope Mr. Bear isn't home." "It's a birch-bark wigwam," replied Mr. Black, "and somebody has occupied it recently. See the bed in the corner?" Sure enough, there _was_ a bed--some balsam boughs covered with a dingy blanket and some rags that had once been a quilt. On an upturned box was a burlap bag containing potatoes and a few perfectly sound onions. A deer-skin was stretched to dry against one rounded side of the wigwam and just opposite the doorway of the queer hut were a number of blackened stones, evidently a rude fireplace. Hanging against a convenient tree-trunk were some sooty and most uninviting cooking utensils; a camp kettle, a frying-pan, a lard pail or two, a big iron pot, a long-handled spoon. "It isn't a great while," said Mr. Black, frowning perplexedly, "since these things were used. But who, I'd like to know, used them?" "Wild Indians," offered Marjory, glancing fearfully over her shoulder. "Pirates," shuddered Mabel. "A wild man of the jungle," suggested imaginative Henrietta. "Perhaps you're all partly right," admitted Mr. Black. "I believe these things belong to a filthy half-breed, trapping game out of season. If _I_ catch him at it, it will be some time before he has a chance to try it again. Perhaps he'll come back this afternoon. Now, girls, let's go back to the lake--this place certainly does smell 'injun-y'--there's no other smell quite like it." "Can't we all go in wading?" demanded Mabel. "The water's pretty cold, but it's nice--makes your toes all pink." "Of course you can. There isn't any danger, because the water is shallow for a long, long distance; and the sand is as hard and clean as the very cleanest thing you can think of." "Marble!" cried Mabel. "Aunty Jane's house!" shouted Marjory. "Yes," laughed Mr. Black, "even as clean as that. Now, away with you all. But keep within hearing distance. I'm going to rest awhile under this pleasant tree." "And I," murmured Mrs. Crane, drowsily, "am going to take a nap under _this_ tree--I can't stay awake a moment longer." Presently Bettie, the kitten, and Mrs. Crane were all sound asleep; and, from Mr. Black's leafy shelter, a sound closely resembling gentle snores proved most interesting to a puzzled chipmunk, who had a pantry in that tree. The chipmunk even perched on Mr. Black's toe to listen; but the good, weary gentleman slumbered unheedingly. Jean, Marjory, Mabel, and Henrietta were having a glorious time in the rippling blue lake. When they were tired of splashing about to scare the abundant minnows, they built wonderful castles in the sand. Mabel's were square and solid, like Mabel herself; Jean's were lofty with aspiring towers and turrets, and Henrietta's were honeycombed with fearsome dungeons. Marjory built long streets of tiny, modern, and excessively neat dwellings. After that, they discovered that the beach near the river's mouth was strewn with pebbles of every hue known to pebbles. There were agates, bits of glittering quartz and granite, and many brown, green, or yellow stones threaded prettily with a network of white. They wanted to gather them all to carry back to Bettie, but contented themselves with about a bushel--all that their four skirts would hold. But they found to their surprise that they were anchored to the ground; that it wasn't possible to rise with the heavy burden. As for carrying the glittering hoard, that was clearly impossible, too; so they heaped their treasure on the sand and ran to look at the river where it joined the lake. Never was there a more companionable river. At the mouth it was only a yard wide and just deep enough to cover one's ankles. A little way up, it spread out as wide as a street, but there it barely covered one's toes. Farther up, there were big, moss-covered stones and the water grew perceptibly deeper--up to one's knees. Still further, and the river grew wide and deep and darkly mysterious, where great trees cast brown and green shadows over the russet surface. "Ugh!" shuddered Henrietta, at this point, "let's go back--I like it better where it's narrow." "So do I," agreed Jean. "If there _were_ crocodiles in this part of the country, that's where they'd live." "Let's build a bridge across the narrowest place," proposed Marjory. All about were stones and driftwood. The girls built a beautiful bridge and sat afterwards on the beach to admire their handiwork; but very soon the quiet water stealthily washed the sand away from the foundation stones and in a little while the river's mouth was twice as wide as it had been before the bridge, now floating lakeward, was built. "I could stay here forever," said Henrietta, "there are so many things to do--nice, foolish things, like sand-castles, bridges that float away, and stones that look like diamonds when they're wet and like just stones when they're dry. I'd like to _live_ here." "So would I," agreed Jean. "Wouldn't it be nice," asked Marjory, "if we _could_ come here to camp?" "We're here now," returned matter-of-fact Mabel. "Let's pretend we really _are_ camping." "Look at the lake!" exclaimed Jean, suddenly. "It isn't blue any more--it's all gray and silver." "And all the ripples are gone," observed Henrietta. "See how flat and smooth it is and how _lazy_ it is along the edges. And the sand is turning pink!" "Hush!" warned quick-eared Marjory. "I think Mr. Black's calling us--yes, he's waving the tablecloth!" After they had picked their way rather painfully over the bed of sharp pebbles, the barefooted girls ran gaily along the hard, smooth beach--they were surprised to find themselves so far from their foot-gear. "Mr. Black seems excited," remarked Jean. "I wonder if anything has happened." "Perhaps," said Henrietta, soberly, "it's time to go home." "It _can't_ be," protested Mabel. "We've only just come--anyway, it seems so." "That," explained Jean, sagely, "is because this is the very nicest spot that ever grew." "Hurry!" shouted Mr. Black; "don't wait to put on your shoes--just bring them along." CHAPTER IV A Night Out "JEAN," queried Mr. Black, when the four rather disheveled youngsters had scrambled up the bank, "have you girls seen anything of a boat?" "No," replied Jean. "Have you been on the shore all the time?" "Every minute." "I didn't _see_ a boat," offered Henrietta, "but about half an hour ago--or perhaps an hour--I heard something that made a noise like this: 'chug-chug, chuggity-chug, chug-chug-chuggity-chug'"--Henrietta gave a very fair imitation of a naptha launch. "I heard it, too," admitted Margery. "That was the boat," said Mr. Blank, scanning the forsaken lake anxiously. "It's Hillitt's fish-tug and it goes down to Lakeville at sundown every day when the weather's fair. The tug runs to Bear Bay. I expected to go home on that boat; but, unfortunately, I went to sleep and didn't wake up in time to signal her." "She was very far out," volunteered Jean. "You couldn't have seen her from here--I looked in every direction when I heard that noise, but I couldn't see what was making it." "_I_ thought," confessed Marjory, "that it was some sort of an animal breathing queerly--I didn't exactly like it." "Evidently," said Mr. Black, "that boat stayed a long way from shore--sound carries a great distance over water. Anyway, that eases my conscience a little. I ought not to have fallen asleep, but I didn't suspect that it was so late. You see, girls, our time is all off. Goodness only knows how long it took us to get here; and I'm sure I don't know whether it was one, two, or three when we ate our dinner. Now, what do you think that big, golden sun's doing--over there behind those trees?" "I think," said Henrietta, eying it, sagely, "that it's either going down or coming up. And I _know_ it can't be time for it to come up." "And it can't possibly be time," protested Mabel, "for it to go down." "I fear it is," said Mr. Black. "I ought never to have taken that nap." "Peter," demanded Mrs. Crane, suddenly joining the group, "how are we ever going to get home?" "Sarah," replied Mr. Black, with one of his sweet, whimsical smiles, "I'm blest if I know." "But, Peter, it's too far to walk; and the Whale----" "But, Sarah, I fully intended to go home by boat. I was told that that boat passed here every day. Well, it has passed, hasn't it?" "Yes," admitted Mrs. Crane, dryly, "it _passed_ all right." "When the Whale broke down," continued Mr. Black, soothingly, "I said to myself, 'Never mind, old chap, there's Hillitt's launch--we'll hail that and ride home.'" "And when you assured us that you knew of a safe and easy way to get home, you were depending on that boat!" "Sarah, don't rebuke me. I was. But, having committed that fatal error, I'm willing to atone for it. Hi there, girls! We'll all have to work for our living for the next hour or so. You see, good people, we'll probably have to stay here all night unless somebody sees our fire on the shore. Jean, I'm going to take you and Henrietta to the Whale so you can help me rob him of his lanterns and cushions. Sarah, I want you and the girls to take this hatchet, my knife, the bread-knife, and anything else that is sharp, and cut as many balsam boughs as you can from that grove of evergreens over there--I want a whole wagon load. Bettie, you can sit here on this log and fill these two hamper-covers with chips--we'll need a lot of firewood." Presently Mr. Black and his two companions were back with all the comforts that could be stripped from the Whale. Dropping them near the baskets of wood and the growing pile of evergreen boughs, he went down to the beach, to select several tall poles from the half-buried driftwood that past storms had heaped behind the numerous big logs framing the upper edge of the beach. Having dug holes with a sharp stick, Mr. Black planted the poles in an upright position; and the sand, fortunately, held them firmly. More poles were fastened securely across the top; luckily Jean remembered seeing a tangle of buckskin thongs hanging in the birch-bark wigwam; Mr. Black appropriated those. Along the beach were many odd lengths of lumber cast up by a long series of storms; these, too, were tied to the poles or securely braced against them; for the castaways had no nails. The tablecloth--fortunately a generous one as to size--was fastened on top for a roof. This curious shack, when completed, was six feet wide by about seventeen feet long. Three sides were inclosed, but the fourth, the long side facing the south, was left open. "We'll build a fire outside," said Mr. Black, "to keep our toes warm." The entire floor space inside the shack was covered with balsam boughs. Mr. Black showed the girls how to make them stand upright like a forest of tiny trees--the twigs were about fourteen inches long. "It'll be almost like a mattress and springs," assured he, "when you have it finished. The Whale has provided three light dust-covers and three fairly heavy robes--we'll use those for bedding." "But," objected Marjory, who was not at all sure that she was going to like the queer bed that Mr. Black was making, "we haven't any pillows." "I guess," teased Mr. Black, "you'll have to use your shoes--campers always do." "The woods are full of pillows," assured Bettie, who was helping with the balsam twigs. "There's running pine on the ground under the trees, a lot of nice green moss on the logs, all sorts of big, soft ferns; and whole bushels of leaves on the trees." "That's right," commented Mr. Black. "Suppose you girls gather about seven pillows--good big ones because the stuff will pack down--off the nearest pillow-tree; and I'll see if I can't find another wide board or two." "Where," asked thoughtful Jean, "do all the pieces of lumber come from?" "There's a sawmill at Big Bear Harbor, some fifteen miles north of here. I suppose a good many boards get lost through careless handling. None of this is first-class lumber, however. This plank, you see, is full of knot-holes. This one is hemlock and has two long splits in it." "I guess there's a shingle-mill somewhere, too," said Bettie. "Mabel picked up a whole basketful of pieces of brand-new shingles." "Sarah," said Mr. Black, turning to his sister, who still seemed rather stunned at the idea of spending a night in the woods, "you'd better fix some supper for us before it gets too dark. Now that we have a house to live in, we must have regular meals." "What's that lean-to at the side for?" asked Mrs. Crane, pointing to the row of boards that rested against one end of the shack, forming a triangular space about four feet wide by six feet long. "For me and the provisions," explained Mr. Black. "I never _did_ like sleeping seven in a bed. And, in case it should rain, we must keep our food dry." "It's lucky," said Mrs. Crane, touching a match to the neat fire that she had laid, "that we all brought more of everything to eat than we needed. And I'm glad I brought my old gray shawl; it's as warm as a blanket." "If it turns cold," said Mr. Black, "we'll build a big fire just outside the open end of our house. But I think it's going to be a comfortably warm night---- There, I've got that plank fastened at last and our palatial home is finished. And bless me! Here comes the pillow brigade with all its petticoats turned into pillow-cases; and the brigade all giggling. They're certainly a happy lot, Sarah." "Mine's for Mr. Black," shouted Mabel. "Mine's for Mrs. Crane," shrieked Marjory. "And mine," said extravagant Henrietta, dropping to her knees before Bettie, and proffering her lace-trimmed burden, "is for the Lady Bettina, with the devotion of her humblest slave." "I guess," said Mr. Black, eying the roof of his house, ruefully, "that we'll have to eat without a tablecloth. Sarah, how's that supper?" "Just about ready," said Mrs. Crane, stirring the cocoa with a long, clean stick. "The water will boil in a moment or two and Jean is cutting the bread." The sun, red and glorious at the last, had gone down; but, while the campers, seated in a circle about the two dish-towels that Mrs. Crane had spread for a cloth, were eating their ample and delicious meal, the sky was so wonderful and the lake so marvelous with its calm surface touched lightly to burnished copper, that the castaways all but forgot that they were castaways, until Mr. Black brought them back to earth. "There's only one thing that troubles me," said he, "and that's the mothers and grandmothers and Aunty Janes that we left in Lakeville." "Yes," agreed Mrs. Crane, pouring a second cup of cocoa for Bettie, "they're sure to worry. No matter how far we've gone in the Whale, we've always been home by bedtime." "And I can't recall," said Mr. Black, running his fingers through his thick, iron-gray hair, "that I told a single soul exactly where I was going." "And none of the rest of us _knew_," retorted his sister. "I've said, a great many times, that your fondness for surprising us would get us into trouble some day, and it _has_." "But it's pretty _nice_ trouble," offered Bettie, the peacemaker. "Of course all our grown-ups will worry, because grown-ups always do, anyway. But I'm sure they'll remember that you've never lost any of us yet, or starved us, or let us freeze." "Granny will think," assured Henrietta, giggling at the thought, "that we're staying at a hotel, waiting for repairs on the Whale. She _always_ thinks of hotels as a safe refuge for the homeless--she couldn't imagine a spot _without_ a convenient hotel." "Well, if nothing rescues us to-night," promised Mr. Black, "I'll walk to Barclay's Point at six to-morrow morning and hail that fish-boat. It leaves Lakeville six times a week at daybreak." Their meal ended, the castaways sat in a circle about the big driftwood fire that Mr. Black built on the beach. Even Ambrosial Delight enjoyed the unusual evening. He ran round and round the group, just at the edge of the darkness, chasing nocturnal insects or the shadows cast by the flickering firelight; and once, greatly to his own surprise and to the campers' amusement, he leaped from a jutting log into the smooth, glassy lake. After that surprising experience, he was willing to lie cuddled in Henrietta's lap. When it became evident that nobody could stay awake any longer, Mrs. Crane tucked all her little charges--even to the kitten--away for the night. "I'm so sleepy," yawned Mabel, "that I could sleep on cobblestones." "We'll leave a big place for you, Mrs. Crane," promised Jean, thoughtfully, "and we'll remember not to lean too hard against the walls." "Ugh!" exclaimed Marjory, "isn't it queer without sheets!" "This bed feels good to _me_," murmured Bettie, drowsily. "Not a word more from anybody," said Mr. Black, who had donned his fur automobile coat and was crawling like a big shaggy bear into his triangular den. "It's time all honest people were asleep." "I just wish," murmured Mrs. Crane, stretching herself luxuriously upon her fragrant balsam bed, "that all those mothers could see how safe and comfortable we are. They'll surely worry." "They surely will," agreed Mr. Black, drowsily, "for it's an unheard-of thing, in Lakeville, for a picnic to stay out all night. It's a calamity, but it can't be helped." And then, never guessing that to a certain about-to-be-shipwrecked boy their going home at the proper time would have proved a far greater calamity, the castaways closed their eyes. CHAPTER V The Missing Whale UNFORTUNATELY, the three mothers, Henrietta's grandmother, and Aunty Jane could not look into that queer chicken-coop of a house to see their precious chickens sleeping the sound, sweet sleep that life in the open induces. Still, the evening was so very fine that no one was surprised because of the prolonged outing--that is, at first. But when nine o'clock came and the Whale failed to appear, Mrs. Slater, Henrietta's grandmother, telephoned to Mr. Black's unresponsive house, and then to Jean's mother, Mrs. Mapes. Mrs. Mapes obligingly ran in to ask Marjory's Aunty Jane if anything had been seen of the delayed Whale; and then both ladies scurried to the rectory to ask Doctor Tucker if _he_ knew the whereabouts of the Whale--or the Whale's passengers. Of course he didn't; so he and Mrs. Tucker went with the inquiring pair to Doctor Bennett's to ask if Mabel had returned. Naturally, she hadn't, so, joined by Mabel's now mildly anxious parents, they all went--just like persons in a moving-picture show, Doctor Bennett said afterwards--to Mrs. Slater's house to ask what _she_ thought about it. They found her anxiously watching the clock. Mrs. Slater promptly sent Simmons, the butler, to order her carriage, in which the entire party, somewhat crowded it is true, was speedily transported to Mr. Black's home, where they found Martin waiting in the lighted garage. "Where," asked Doctor Bennett, "is your master?" "Sure," returned Martin, pulling politely at a long lock of sandy hair, "that's what _I'd_ like to know. 'Tis a lonely evenin' I'm spendin' without even a horse for company." "Does his automobile ever break down?" queried Aunty Jane, a thin woman with very sharp eyes and other features to match. "It never has, mum; but most of 'em does, sooner or later. Still, Mr. Black is always careful--he'd be likely to choose a safe spot to break down in." "He said," offered Doctor Tucker, "that he was going to look at some land of his--where is his land?" "Sure," returned Martin, with a gesture that included the entire horizon, "he has land anywhere you'd want to look--he owns a pile of rale estate, they say. When annybody wants a little money, he just sells his land, back taxes and all, to that aisy-going man. _He_ don't know where his land is; it's iv'rywhere. But wheriver he's gone he can't starve, for Mrs. Crane and Bridget cooked all day yesterday; and he can't freeze because there's three big robes and a fur coat." "But what can be keeping him?" asked Mrs. Tucker. "He knows that Bettie ought to be in bed by nine." "Most like it's a busted tire--'tis time wan was givin' out. If he wasn't smart enough to put the new one on--and belike he isn't, him not bein' used to the job--why, there he is, laid out in the road." "But all our girls are with him," protested Mrs. Bennett. "There's seven in the party. Our five children----" "The more the merrier," consoled Martin, comfortably. "Even if two or three was spilled overboard, there'd be four left to spread the tale. Depind on it, ladies--and your Riverince--they're safe somewhere, or we'd hear the bad news. That's the kind that travels fastest." "I think Martin is right," agreed Doctor Tucker, mildly. "I'm quite sure that they're all safe, _somewhere_; at some farm, perhaps, where there's no telephone. Even if those girls were alone they'd manage to make themselves comfortable somehow--just remember what they did to Dandelion Cottage." "They're smart enough," agreed Mrs. Mapes, "and they are all resourceful. And Mrs. Crane is with them. If they haven't all plunged over some embankment----" "Not Mr. Black, mum," assured Martin. "He's that careful and slow that I'm ashamed to be seen ridin' with him. Why, mum, whin I'm in the Whale I feel just like a baby in a go-cart." Their fears somewhat allayed by optimistic Martin, the parents and guardians of the castaways, after waiting hopefully until midnight, finally dispersed and went to bed, for there was really nothing else to do; but the passengers of the missing Whale spent a far happier and more peaceful night than did their anxious relatives; for the castaways, at least, knew that they were alive and unharmed. The morning sun was shining brightly when Ambrosial Delight, who had escaped at dawn, chased a frightened chipmunk into Mr. Black's triangular den and roused that recumbent gentleman from the soundest sleep he had had in years. "Great Scott!" exclaimed the surprised man, sitting up under his bias roof, "the stars were shining when I looked out last! It must be seven or eight o'clock. Hi there, Sarah! Jean! Girls! Has that fish-boat gone up the lake?" "Yes, yes, Bridget," murmured Mrs. Crane, sleepily. "We'll have creamed shrimps and----" "Sarah!" shouted Mr. Black, "wake up! You've made me miss that boat again." So Mrs. Crane woke up, and presently the girls, with sleepy eyes and tousled heads, crawled out, one by one, to blink in the dazzling sunshine. "Run down to the lake," advised Mr. Black, "and wash your faces--that'll wake you up." So the girls waded out and washed in the finest basin in the world, made friends with a courageous squirrel who was also bathing his face, and combed their tangled locks with Henrietta's side-combs. "If you hadn't brought these," observed Jean, "we'd have been in a fine fix." "Anyhow," giggled Marjory, wiggling her pink toes, delightedly, "there's water enough." "Bettie," cried Mrs. Crane, from the bank, "come out of that lake! You're a sick girl----" "I'm not, either," contradicted Bettie, indignantly. "I feel just fine." "I'm glad to hear it," returned motherly Mrs. Crane, "but I don't want you to take any risks. You've been in long enough." "All right," agreed Bettie, regretfully. "I'll come out, just to be good, but I don't want to one bit." "Isn't this just heaven!" breathed Jean, ecstatically, extending her arms as if she would embrace the whole beautiful universe. "Look at that water--pearl-gray, with pink and gold sparkles all spangled over the top! It's a different color every time you look at it. I love it." "So do I," said Bettie, from the beach. "I wish I were a fish and could _live_ in it." "But then," objected Henrietta, "you couldn't _see_ it--I'd rather be a sea-gull." "She's making puns," groaned Marjory. "Hurry up with that comb, Mabel; it's my turn next." "Hi there!" called Mr. Black; "who's setting the table for breakfast?" As the tablecloth was still serving as a roof, Mr. Black found a couple of clean boards that served very nicely in its stead. This was not difficult, since all the driftwood was most beautifully clean. So, too, was the sand. Even the soil under the trees, being free from clay, was clean, dry, and pleasant. One could sit on the ground without fear of dampness, dirt, or snakes. It was _pleasant_ ground. "This place," said Mrs. Crane, who was boiling the coffee water, "is absolutely dust-proof, I believe. I'd like to live here all the time, if only to breathe this air." "Let's stay," pleaded Bettie. "_I_ don't want to go home." "Neither do I," said Mabel. "Nor I," said Henrietta. "Nor I," echoed Marjory, who had finally succeeded in braiding her long, fair hair. "I guess," said Mr. Black, "we'll _have_ to stay for awhile, whether we want to or not. But, if we don't turn up to-day, they'll begin to hunt for us." "Oh," groaned Henrietta, "I _hope_ not." "Peter," said Mrs. Crane, "we didn't meet a single soul on that road after we took the turn-off just out of Lakeville." "I don't wonder," returned Mr. Black. "Nobody that could possibly travel by any other road would ever think of taking that one. I suspect that it hasn't been used very much since Randall stopped lumbering at Barclay's Point, six years ago. But, never fear, they'll find us all right--we're only seventeen miles from Lakeville." "But _such_ miles," breathed Mrs. Crane. "Nobody 'd think of trying that road--they'd think we had more sense." "Perhaps we should have had--perhaps I ought to have doubted Timothy. Anyway, we left tracks. If they look for us at all thoroughly, they'll surely find those." "That Timothy man," suggested Jean. "Wouldn't _he_ know?" "Ye--es," admitted Mr. Black, "but when I asked him about that road he was just boarding a train for Boston. But don't worry. We're not half as lost as we might be. In fact, _we_ know exactly where we are." The castaways had barely finished breakfast when sharp-eyed Marjory spied a small, dark object on the water, not far from Barclay's Point. "That wasn't there yesterday," said she, pointing it out to the others. "It's moving!" cried Jean. "Perhaps it's more driftwood for our house," suggested Bettie. "Or a bear coming to eat us," offered Mabel. "It's long and slim with a bump at one end," explained Marjory. "Something like a dead tree with one branch sticking up. Just a log, perhaps, but----" "Anyway," interrupted Jean, "it's coming this way and coming _fast_." CHAPTER VI The Coming of Dave THE castaways, forgetting that there were dishes to be washed, stood in an eager row on the bank above the beach. The floating object continued to approach. Soon they could see why it moved; the blade of a broad paddle gleamed in the sunlight. "It's a boat!" cried Marjory. "A canoe," announced Mr. Black. "See, one end is low, the other fairly out of the water. Let's stand behind these bushes, girls--the shack is so far back that the man in the canoe won't notice it if he doesn't see the tablecloth. I'll take it down, I guess. You see, there's just a chance that that fellow might not land if he saw people here--and we need him in our business. We'll be quiet, too. He seems to be making for this little bay." The boat and its occupant were an even shade of dark brown, but the paddle gleamed golden in the sunshine. The canoe, skilfully propelled by a practised hand, shot rapidly toward the strip of sand at the very feet of the almost breathless watchers and, in a very few seconds more, was safely beached. A snarling, stealthy dog leaped ashore and began to sniff suspiciously at the sand; but his owner, fortunately, paid no attention to him. The paddler proved to be an Indian half-breed, bareheaded and clad only in shirt and trousers. His clothes were old and greasy, his bare brown feet far from clean. He flung from the canoe a fish-net, two dead muskrats, and, although it was out of season, a small saddle of venison. He spread the net on the sand to dry, threw the venison upon his shoulder, and climbed the bank. Mr. Black, stepping from the sheltering bush, met him when he reached the top. "Good-morning," said he. The startled Indian almost dropped his burden. "Goo'-morn'," he grunted, surlily. "Why!" exclaimed Mr. Black, closely scrutinizing the half-breed's not very prepossessing countenance, "I think I've met you before. You're Dave Gurneau, the man I bought this land from." "Yass, I guess, mebbe-so," returned Dave. "You ol' Pete Black, I t'ank so?" "Yes," admitted the gentleman, "I'm old Pete Black. But what are _you_ doing here? I thought I bought this land with the understanding that you were to vacate it--leave it--get off of it? How long have you lived here?" The culprit wriggled his toes in the sand. "Ever since Ah'm sell heem," returned Dave, whose small black eyes were shifty. "Well!" gasped Mr. Black, "that's nerve for you--stayed right here, did you?" "Yass, Ah'm stay hon dose plass. Me, I must sell dese lan' to you so I can buy proveesion enough for leeve hon heem--som' leetle onion, som' potate, som' flour----" "You--you sold me the land so you could live on it!" "Yass--Ah'm got to buy proveesion sometam'. You good, easy man, Ah'm tole." "He means easy mark," breathed Mrs. Crane. "Well, I'll be--switched," declared Mr. Black, endeavoring to frown at guilty Dave; but, meeting Bettie's dancing eyes, he laughed instead. "Dave," said he, "you're an unprecedented rascal. You've caught my fish, picked my berries, killed my game; but I'll forgive you if you'll do an errand for me. Do you think you could walk to Lakeville?" "Sure t'ing," replied Dave, whose shifty eyes had traveled speculatively from one to another of the group. "Ah'm walk dere plantee tam'. Got to sleep two-t'ree hour, den go." "Very well," returned Mr. Black; "I'd _rather_ you'd start at once, but if you need sleep, you'd better get it now than on the way. I'll write Saunders (Saunders was Mr. Black's trusted secretary) to send a launch or a wagon for us and horses for the automobile." "Peter," queried Mrs. Crane, wistfully, "do we _have_ to go home? You know we talked of coming here to camp, anyway. Now that we're here, why can't we stay? I suppose it's a crazy scheme; but that road is too rough to travel over very often, and you know I never did like the water--I'm always seasick. Saunders could send us all the things we need--tents and everything else. And all the parents would be willing--they were all in favor of a camping trip _sometime_. We'd write and explain----" "Oh, _do_ stay," cried Jean. "Oh, _do_," implored Bettie, flinging her arms about Mr. Black's neck. "_Please_ do," begged Henrietta, impulsively seizing a hand. "Oh, do, do, _do_," shrieked Marjory, seizing the other hand. "I'll wash all the dishes," promised Mabel, throwing her arms about Mr. Black's stout waist, "and everybody knows that that's a job I hate." "I'll get fat," promised Bettie. Now, Mr. Black was ever a warm-hearted and obliging man, with a wonderful love for children in general--his own little dark-eyed daughter had died in infancy--and for Bettie in particular. Even if the plan did seem a bit wild and venturesome (and Mr. Black himself was something of an adventurer, in the best sense of that word), it was not easy to say no with all those clinging arms about him, those eager, pleading young faces upturned expectantly to his. Moreover, few persons, Mr. Black least of all, were able to resist the appeal in Bettie's big, black, always rather pathetic eyes. And already, best argument of all, the slender little maid seemed to be improving under these new conditions. "Well," capitulated Mr. Black, "it will take Dave some hours to get to Lakeville, and it may take considerable time for Saunders to find a boat or horses to come up here--we'll have to leave all that part of it to his discretion. It may be to-morrow morning before we are rescued. Now, I'll agree to this. We'll send him a list of everything we need. If we are still desirous of staying when the things come, and if there's nothing in my mail to call me to town, we'll stay. If we're tired of it, we'll just cart the stuff home again. We'll each make out a list----" "On what, I'd like to know?" interrupted Mrs. Crane. "I've used all the wrapping paper to start fires." Mr. Black, shaking off the clinging children, searched in the pockets of his clothes. "Nothing doing," said he. "The only scrap of paper I can spare is already covered with memoranda." Dave, who had been silently waiting, laughed appreciatively. It was an unexpectedly pleasant sound, too; for the half-breed's voice was soft and deep. "Lots of paper on top of som' tree," he said. "Ah br-r-reeng som'." "I can see leaves," laughed Henrietta, squinting upward, "but no pages." "He means birch bark," explained quick-witted Marjory. "See, he's cutting big squares of it." When the squares were peeled into many thin sheets (the girls thought that great sport) Mr. Black distributed them among the other castaways. "Here are two pencils," said he. "I'll use my fountain pen." "And I always have pencils in my bag," said Mrs. Crane. "I'll tend to the provisions, Peter, if you'll look out for the other things. Be sure, girls, to ask for extra shoes and stockings; you'll need those and something warm to sleep in." Noting that one more pencil was needed, Dave began to fumble in an apparently bottomless pocket. From the depths he finally produced a grimy, greasy stub, which he offered to pencil-less Marjory. But Marjory, fastidious little maid that she was, drew back from it, loathingly, and declined. Gentle-mannered Jean, promptly surmising that Dave's feelings might be hurt, handed her own clean, long pencil to Marjory and accepted Dave's offering, with a sweet-voiced "thank you." From that moment, Dave was Jean's abject slave; and, if the proofs of his devotion were not always welcome, they at least proved numerous. CHAPTER VII Delivered by Dave BY this time, of course, the mothers, Aunty Jane, the solitary grandmother, and even the fathers, were decidedly alarmed; for morning disclosed the disquieting fact that the Whale was still missing. Mrs. Slater thought that somebody ought to call up the police; Mrs. Tucker suggested sending the militia forth on horseback to scour the surrounding country. Aunty Jane advised ringing the fire bell. "All nonsense," blustered Doctor Bennett, more worried than he was willing to admit; but, since all the alarmed ladies, singly and collectively, had appealed to him for advice, it was necessary of course to appear as unconcerned as possible. "All nonsense, I say. If Mr. Black has had an accident with his car he probably doesn't care to have the fact advertised. Nor do we want the whole town worrying about our children. Be reasonable. There isn't a road in the country that crosses a railroad track; there isn't an inch of road anywhere about that skirts any dangerous declivity. The Whale _might_ get stuck in some swamp or stalled in the sand or lose a tire or run short of gasoline. In any of those cases, they'd take refuge _somewhere_, while waiting for repairs. Folks with automobiles often get held up for a night. There's just one thing for us to do. That is, to wait. Go home, everybody, and _wait_." So, only partly relieved of their fears, though frequently upheld by encouraging Doctor Bennett, these good people waited throughout the long, dreary day. * * * * * To return to the castaways, it required nearly every minute of the two hours that Dave spent in slumber to prepare those lists and various letters, for they all needed a great deal of revising. Henrietta's was the last note to be finished, because that ingenious maid added a miraculous number of postscripts. All the other missives were tied together with a stout string; when Henrietta, who had seized hers at the last moment to add a request for marshmallows, discovered that Dave, with the large packet inside his shirt, was already making for the path out of the clearing. Henrietta flew after him with the note, which was addressed very clearly to Mrs. Slater. Dave laughed, thrust the note lightly into the pocket of his shirt, and vanished--Dave had a curious way of melting, with surprising suddenness, from one's sight. "He'll lose that," declared Henrietta, returning to the group sheltered under a big pine tree--the June sun was bright in the clearing. "I wish it were tied up with the others." It was fortunate, however, that it was not; for the Indian proved an erratic postman. It took Dave less time than Mr. Black had supposed it would to reach Lakeville--and a Lakeville friend, dwelling on the outskirts of the town. This hospitable friend considered it necessary to refresh his visitor with the contents of a large, flat bottle. Now, Dave was very easily affected by strong drink. After he had parted from his generous host, he remembered hazily that he had something to deliver to somebody--he cherished a dim recollection of a flying, girlish figure, a bright, youthful countenance, and a letter. That was it, a letter. He groped in his trousers pockets. Nothing there. In his loose belt. Nothing there. In the pocket of his dingy shirt. Yes, there it was. Clutching it firmly, the staggering Indian searched the sky above him with bleared but inquiring eyes. "What ye lookin' for?" asked Pat Mulligan, the policeman. "Pos'--pos' office," replied Dave, with a wide, friendly smile. "Let--letters s'mail." "Give it here," said Pat, "I'm goin' right there myself." With that, he escorted trusting Dave to the village lockup. This safely accomplished, he studied the address on the birch-bark note. "Sure," observed Pat, "there's no stamp on this. 'Twas plainly meant to be delivered by hand. On the Avenoo, is it? I'm knowin' the house--I'll take it there." Which the good-natured officer did, to the great relief of Mrs. Slater, who, in spite of Doctor Bennett's assurances, was almost wild, by this time, with anxiety. "Dear Granny," extravagant Henrietta had written. "I'm a wild Indian in the loveliest woods in the world. We're all safe and comfortable and we're going to stay _forever_, so send me a nightie and a toothbrush, some stockings, my tennis shoes, my oldest dress, some underwear; and, if you love me, a clean towel--a fuzzy one. Affectionately, Henrietta. "P.S.--I'd like a pillow-case, _if_ you please. And a sheet. "P.S.--Oh, yes--I need my hairbrush and my bathing suit. "P.S.--And a lot of things to eat; bread, pie, cake, cookies, fruit, and fish-hooks. "P.S.--Please can I have a red bandanna handkerchief and a button to sew on my petticoat. Also, a pair of shoe strings. "P.S.--Peanuts and everything else you can thing of to eat and wear. "P.S.--Please send the bundle to Mr. Black's office to Mr. Saunders. "P.S.--A can of condensed milk for Anthony Fitz-Hubert, if they _do_ call the poor dear 'Ambrosial Delight.' "P.S.--A whole bushel of marshmallows for _me_. I love you." Mrs. Slater, a bright old lady with sparkling black eyes, not unlike Henrietta's own, read this letter with very evident enjoyment. Then she went to the telephone. "Is this Doctor Tucker?" she asked. "Have you heard from Bettie? Oh, haven't you? Well, I have--that is, from Henrietta. They are safe and comfortable; and, I should judge from Henrietta's note, uproariously happy. If you'll call up the Bennetts and Marjory's Aunt Jane, I'll tell Mrs. Mapes. Then I'll drive round, presently, and let you see the note--no, she didn't mention the Whale--I fancy your girls will want as many things as Henrietta does. Don't forget to tell the others--good-by." This, of course, relieved the anxious minds of the parents; and Doctor Bennett was thoughtful enough to inform Martin that the party was safe. At ten o'clock the next morning, Dave was given an opportunity to appear before Judge Wilson and tell his story. The delayed notes came to light, and by noon were properly distributed, whereupon there was a grand scurrying in several households; and in Mr. Black's office as well. "What," asked puzzled Mrs. Bennett, running into Mrs. Tucker's conveniently near house, "did Bettie ask for? This is every word Mabel wrote." Mrs. Bennett drew a scrap of bark from her blouse. Mrs. Tucker laughed when she read it. "Dear Mother:" wrote Mabel. "Please send about a thousand bananas. We are going to stay here." All around this was an elaborate border of drawings--attempts at squirrels. Mabel had left no room for further writing. "I hope," Mrs. Tucker said, eying the drawings, apprehensively, "that that place isn't infested with rats." "They're _rabbits_," explained Mrs. Bennett, with conviction. "Mabel has quite a talent for drawing. But I wish she'd _written_ a little more." "She probably needs all the articles that Bettie asks for," said Mrs. Tucker. "Bettie says she's feeling fine. I suppose they found an empty farmhouse and took possession of it." "Yes," agreed Mrs. Bennett, "I can just _see_ them moving into those empty rooms and making them as homelike as possible." It was a good thing, perhaps, that Mrs. Bennett _couldn't_ see the house that her daughter was living in; for it certainly wasn't much of a house, even with the extra touches that Mr. Black was adding at that very moment. But of course it was better than none. The good lady, re-enforced by Bettie's really useful list, went home to hunt up as many as she could locate of Mabel's scattered belongings; for Mabel, ever the untidiest of mortals, kept her wardrobe in the unlikeliest of places. Poor Mr. Saunders certainly had his hands full collecting all the things for which Mr. Black and his good sister had asked--these hospitable souls were bent on providing their guests with every possible comfort. It was not easy, either, to find a boatman willing or able to go so far--the distance was greater by water than by land. When all else was packed in Captain Berry's gasoline launch, Mr. Saunders paid Dave's fine and secured his release from the jail, for Mr. Black had written that Dave was to ride with the motley cargo. This cargo was all aboard, even to Mabel's bananas, but it was the morning of the following day before the boat was able to start, because Captain Berry, the launch-man, had discovered at dusk that his gasoline barrel was empty. By that time Dave was missing. But dauntless Mr. Saunders employed Mulligan, the policeman, to find him; and Dave, very much the worse for the liquid portion of his breakfast, was finally loaded, with his snarling dog, aboard the launch. Dave, it was only too plainly evident, was unable to resist the temptations of town life. At last, however, to the great relief of Mr. Saunders, the launch was started on its way. "I feel," said the weary bachelor, turning away from the wharf, "just like the father of a whole orphan asylum." CHAPTER VIII The Pangs of Hunger BY this time, the castaways were on the brink of starvation. They had feasted all the first day, and, with the prospect of more provisions coming, had eaten all they could hold on the second; that was no small amount, for the fresh air had quickened all their appetites. On the third they ate about all there was left for breakfast. "We might as well," said Mrs. Crane, "for the boat or the wagon will surely be here by noon, or, at worst, by night." But, thanks to unreliable Dave, the castaways' calculations were all wrong. Not a crumb arrived that day. For their noon meal, they drank some very weak cocoa, some broken crackers, and some crusts that Mabel had left at breakfast time. Mabel always left her crusts; though now that she had nothing else to eat, they tasted, as Mabel said, almost as good as cake. "This won't do," said Mr. Black, putting his share of the fragments on Bettie's wooden plate. "I'm going to rob that Indian's wigwam and we'll have a real meal just as soon as we can cook it." "If we were toads," offered Mabel, disconsolately eying her empty plate, "we could eat toadstools. I saw a lot of awfully queer ones along the road that leads to Barclay's Point." "Toadstools?" questioned Mr. Black, pausing in his flight. "What were they like?" "Very pointed at the top," returned Mabel. "Some of them were shaped just like big, smooth eggs and some were spread out flat like a parasol." "What color were they?" "Gray--sort of silvery. One of the big ones was all wet on the edges with shoeblacking--all drippy." "Inky mushrooms!" exclaimed Mr. Black and Mrs. Crane, in one breath. "Sarah," continued Mr. Black, "you go with Mabel and look at those 'toadstools' while I burglarize Dave's wigwam. Then we'll have a meal even if it doesn't happen to be mealtime." "I guess," mourned Bettie, "we fed too many scraps to the squirrels." The toadstools proved to be a very fine variety of "inky" mushrooms (long afterwards Jean learned that the proper name for this mushroom was _coprinus atramentarius_). They grew in generous clusters and it was great fun to gather the queer, slippery objects and pack them carefully in Mrs. Crane's basket, which was soon filled. Mr. Black returned with a number of potatoes, a saucepan, part of the Indian's venison, some salt, and a little flour. "That," explained Mr. Black, "is to thicken the gravy. Here, Jean, hand me that frying-pan for my venison cutlets. Marjory, you may run to the beach with these potatoes and wash them. Take this saucepan with you and scour that, too--use sand. I'll build a good fire and get a pail of water. Here come the mushroom gatherers. What luck, Sarah? Phew! You _have_ made a haul!" "Are they really good to eat?" queried Bettie, distrustfully. "One of the very best kinds that grow." "And you're sure that these are that kind?" "Perfectly sure. Sarah and I used to gather them when we were children, didn't we, Sarah? I'm glad there's a tiny corner of butter left to fry them in." By the middle of the afternoon, this curiously acquired meal was ready; and, although the potatoes were plain boiled with their jackets on and the gravy was pretty lumpy, it all tasted very good indeed to the hungry castaways. "I guess," said Mabel, taking most of the credit for the mushrooms to herself, "that I just about saved your lives." "Or poisoned us," remarked Marjory, who wasn't quite sure that she liked mushrooms. "I'm glad, anyway, that we've enough meat and potatoes and gravy left for another meal." "That venison," said Mr. Black, beaming at his satisfied family, "was certainly good." "Mr. Black," queried Henrietta, her black eyes twinkling saucily, "didn't I hear you say that you were going to have Dave arrested for getting game out of season? What happens to people that _eat_ it out of season?" "They get arrested, imprisoned, and fined," said Mr. Black, "provided the game warden catches them. I'm glad you asked that question, Henrietta. Girls, you are not to mention this venison in town or to any chance visitor that may come this way. And don't point out that wigwam to any stranger--there are too many evidences of Dave's crimes about the place. Besides, they're on my property--they _might_ hold me responsible." "Particularly if they caught you with the bones on your plate," remarked Mrs. Crane, dryly. "And, in any case, you stole that venison." "Dave owes me a lot more than this for rent," returned Mr. Black. "But we won't have to break any game laws if Saunders sends the fishing tackle I ordered. There are three good meals a day swimming about in our own river." "What," asked Bettie, "is that net for--the one that Dave left on the beach? Why can't you fish with that?" "By Jove!" exclaimed Mr. Black, "that _is_ fishing tackle. But that's against the law, too. It's to stretch across the river for trout; but that form of sport isn't permitted. Still----" "Peter, you _wouldn't_!" protested Mrs. Crane. "Sarah, I _would_--if it were necessary to keep us from hunger. But if I ever do--girls, _whatever_ I do, you must remember about that game warden." "We will," promised Henrietta. "We will," chorused the others. And when the time came, they did; but you shall hear about that after awhile. The castaways were up bright and early the next morning. For one thing the mosquitoes troubled them; hitherto the light breeze blowing across their camp ground had kept these pests away; but the night had been unusually still and the tantalizing insects had discovered the sleeping campers. For another thing, everybody wanted to be up and as much dressed as possible when the boat or the wagon should come. This uncertainty as to whether relief would arrive by land or approach by water added very considerably to the excitement. It wasn't possible for the girls to do much of anything except to run by turns to the spot whence one could look down the road and to that other spot from which one could view the lake. Unfortunately there was no one spot that commanded both these avenues of approach. Just at noon, a shrill screech from Marjory, prancing precariously on the edge of the bank, announced that relief was in sight. "A ship--a ship!" shrieked keen-sighted Marjory. "Where away?" demanded Mr. Black. "There she blows!" quoted Marjory, employing the only other nautical term she could call to mind and pointing with an extended forefinger. "That's not a whale--that's a boat," scoffed Henrietta, who had traveled. "It's whales that blow." "I don't care," returned Marjory. "And boats do too, when they have whistles. Anyhow, I saw it first---- Look out, Mabel!" But the frail edge of the bank had already crumbled under weighty Mabel, who, unexpectedly, shot downward to the beach. No harm was done, however, for the sand was clean and soft. "Mabel," laughed Mr. Black, "you'll have my whole hundred-and-twenty acres in the lake if you don't stop tumbling off the edge of my property. This isn't the first time you've taken a large slice off the landscape." "It's about the ninth," admitted Mabel, scrambling back to the grassy top. "I'm always forgetting how easily it breaks away." "That's because it sticks out a little over the top," explained sage Jean. "In very stormy weather the waves wash against the bank and scoop it out." "I suppose that _is_ our boat," said Mr. Black, rubbing his chin, "and I hope my razor's on it--I must look like a pirate by this time, or a tramp." Coatless Mr. Black, without his daily shave and with his broken suspenders mended with odd bits of twine, certainly did look rather unlike his usually neat self. "That boat isn't coming very fast," complained Marjory. "It's a very clear day," explained Mrs. Crane, "so you can see a long distance. That boat is probably several miles away." In spite of their impatience, the boat remained several miles away for a long, long time. "If that _is_ a boat," said Mr. Black, "it's the very slowest one on Lake Superior." "Perhaps," suggested Jean, "it's going the other way." But the boat was neither going nor coming. The engine had balked; and Captain Berry, for it really _was_ Captain Berry, was waiting, as he had often waited before, for his defective electrical apparatus to get good and ready to work. CHAPTER IX An Exciting Afternoon IT was three o'clock before the speck on the water began to show signs of life. "Hurrah!" cried Bettie, who spent much time lying on her stomach on the beach with her heels in the air, since she was not permitted to use them recklessly for walking purposes. "I hear something 'chugging.' Listen, everybody." "I do believe it's really coming," announced Marjory, who was perched on a fallen pine tree, whose upturned root rested edgewise on the bank while its trunk, firmly upheld by the stout stubs of its broken branches, extended far out over the shallow water. Light-footed Marjory delighted in running the length of that log, or in perching at its outer end. Henrietta enjoyed it, too. Sometimes all the girls sat on it in a giggling row, with their feet dangling over the water. "Yes," said Mr. Black, rolling up his sleeves (there would be plenty of work for all hands when the boat should arrive), "that craft is certainly headed this way." "By the way," said Mr. Black, with a comprehensive glance that swept the entire group, "how many of you would like to go home when that boat goes back?" "Not I," cried Bettie. "Not I," echoed Jean. "Nor I," said Marjory. "I'm going to stay forever," declared Henrietta. "As for me," said Mabel, "I feel as if I'd only just got here!" "You don't look it," said Henrietta; "there's a suspiciously dark ring about your neck, your wrists are black, and you're fairly bursting out between your buttons." "Well," retorted Mabel, "there isn't much use in taking a bath when you haven't any soap or towels or clean clothes. You just wait till my--gracious!" "What's the matter?" asked Jean; for over Mabel's plump and not over-clean countenance had spread a look of blank dismay. "I never asked for a thing but bananas," groaned the youngest member of Mr. Black's flock. "You can string the skins and wear those," suggested Henrietta, wickedly, for she delighted in teasing Mabel. "You've seen pictures of Fiji Islanders, haven't you? Well, no doubt you'll come to that." "Never mind," soothed Jean, the peacemaker. "Mother always sends a lot more of everything than anybody needs; so perhaps I'll be able to lend you a thing or two. I'd do anything to stay." "How is it with you, Sarah?" asked Mr. Black. "Do _you_ want to go home?" "Peter," replied Mrs. Crane, "this _is_ home." "I'm beginning to think," said Mr. Black, "that we were all born wild Indians. I don't want to go home myself; and I hope that Saunders won't send any news that will make me feel that I ought to. How about you, Ambrosial Delight? Do _you_ like the woods, little cat?" The frisky kitten, always responsive to attention, scrambled up Mr. Black's leg, leaped to his broad shoulder, and began running in a circle round and round Mr. Black's neck. "He says," interpreted Henrietta, "that he wouldn't go home for the best cow's milk in the country." At last the boat, headed straight for the shore, was so near that the campers could see that every available inch of the craft was filled with boxes, bundles, and baskets. The excited little girls pranced so recklessly on the edge of the bank that a lot more of it crumbled and rolled to the beach, a youngster or two with it. Mabel, anxious to obtain a closer view of the boat's cargo, as Captain Berry dropped anchor, rushed recklessly toward the end of the long, prostrate pine. "Oh!" shrieked Marjory, "you're shaking the whole log! Oh! Oh! Don't touch _me_!" But Marjory's admonition came too late. Plump, clumsy Mabel, feeling the need of some other support than the log afforded, flung her arms about her slender comrade. There was another alarmed shriek from Marjory, two wildly scrambling figures clutching at empty air--and a prodigious splash. The water at this point was just knee deep; enough of it, fortunately, to break the girls' fall and not enough to drown them. Dave and his dog plunged overboard from the launch and waded rapidly to the rescue. That is, Dave waded and Onota swam. Mr. Black, too, waded hurriedly to the spot where Mabel, on all-fours, was endeavoring to stand upright and where Marjory was thrashing about like a frenzied trout. Dave seized one, Mr. Black the other, and, in another moment the girls were safe on their feet, gasping, sputtering, and trying to wipe their wet faces on their wetter skirts. "It's a good thing," said Mr. Black, leading his half of the rescued victims ashore, "that your dry clothes are in sight." "I only hope they are," breathed Mabel. "I didn't _ask_ for any." As there was no dock, the launch could not be taken very close to shore, so her cargo was carefully unloaded by Captain Berry into one of the three small boats that he was towing. Dave, already so wet that a little more moisture did not matter, pushed this smaller craft ashore. The boat's nose was drawn up on a strip of wet sand, perhaps three feet across. Next to this came about twenty feet of dry, white sand. After that a sand bank eight feet high led by a steep path to the grassy plateau above. "All hands unload," shouted Mr. Black, seizing some of the lighter parcels and tossing them up to Mrs. Crane, who carried them back a few yards from the edge and piled them under a tree. The girls grabbed baskets and bundles, too, and scrambled up the steep bank with them and scurried down again for more. Mabel and Marjory worked also, which was better than sitting still in wet clothes; and Dave, Captain Berry, and Mr. Black toiled up the bank with the heavier articles. When the first boat load was cared for, the little craft was rowed back to the launch for another cargo--it made four trips. Two of the small boats that Captain Berry had towed behind the launch were pulled high on the beach, with oars and oar-locks laid carefully inside. The girls were delighted when they learned that they were to be left at the camp. Some of the baskets and bundles were addressed to the little girls and you may be certain that it wasn't long before those eager children had the wrappings torn from their many parcels. "Hey!" shrieked Mabel, prancing heavily on one foot and waving aloft a pair of stockings and a freshly laundered petticoat, "they _did_ send my clothes, and my bananas, too. Now I can dress up." Everybody laughed, because, if ever a human being looked in need of clean garments, Mabel did. Her tumble into the lake, followed by sundry other tumbles up and down the sand bank, had certainly not improved the appearance of Mabel's pink gingham frock. "I've two clean dresses, too," added Mabel, after another excursion into her basket, "and a cake of soap." At sight of the soap, the girls fairly shrieked with mirth. "For goodness' sake," advised Marjory, "go use it." Mr. Black found the hammer he had sent for (fortunately Saunders had marked the outside of all the parcels that he had packed, so that one could be reasonably certain as to the nature of the contents) and knocked the covers off all the boxes in order to ascertain if everything he had ordered had been sent. When he and Mrs. Crane were satisfied as to this matter, they told Captain Berry that everything was all right. "But," suggested Mrs. Crane, "hadn't he better come back in about a week to see if we need anything? And there's the Whale----" "We can send Dave to town again if we find we need provisions. And Saunders writes that he couldn't tell from Dave's directions how to reach us with horses and would await further orders concerning the car. Now that I have tools I can build a temporary shelter over the Whale." "I'll have to be starting homeward pretty soon," said Captain Berry, who had been casting anxious glances at the sky. "Those clouds are traveling pretty fast and there's considerable ripple on the water. There'll be something doing before morning." "Rain?" asked Mrs. Crane, anxiously. "Wind," said the Captain, "but there may be rain, too." "If that's the case, we'd better get those tents up at once," said Mr. Black, "and then we shan't care if it does rain. We have five tents and plenty of blankets." "Well," offered Captain Berry, "if you've five tents to put up, I guess I'd better help you; but you mustn't keep me too long." Fortunately, poles and stakes came with the tents and the ground in the grassy clearing was level. Soon, with valuable assistance from Dave, a large octagonal tent of gaily striped canvas was in place. "This," said Mr. Black, viewing it with satisfaction, "is our dining-room." Next, the three men hurriedly put up a large, straight-walled sleeping tent that looked very clean and new. "This," said Mr. Black, wiping the perspiration from his brow, "is for you five girls--you'll have room for your bed and space enough to dress in." Of the remaining tents, one was for Mrs. Crane, another for Mr. Black, and the third was for the provisions. As soon as the tents were up, and good Captain Berry was chug-chugging away as fast as he could in his very much lightened launch, there was plenty of work for all hands to do. Provisions were placed under cover, fresh balsam beds were arranged in the three sleeping tents--Dave brought the boughs and made the beds--and the girls stored their bundles of clothing in their big bedroom. In addition to garments for their charges, the three mothers, Marjory's Aunty Jane, and Henrietta's grandmother had sent large baskets of delightful things to eat. Mrs. Slater had sent two roasted chickens, some bread, a huge frosted cake, and some oranges; besides all the things for which Henrietta had asked. Mrs. Mapes had dispatched bread, doughnuts, and three gigantic apple pies. Mrs. Bennett's contributions were some fine home-made rolls, a large veal loaf, a big box of cookies, besides a huge basket of bananas for her daughter Mabel. Aunty Jane had sent four kinds of pickles, four kinds of jelly, four kinds of jam, and a large beefsteak. Mrs. Tucker had added a large jar of baked beans, a generous salad, and two big pans of gingerbread. "I guess," said Mrs. Crane, almost overwhelmed with these contributions to her pantry, "we won't have to use the flour, the yeast cakes, and the tin oven I sent for, just yet awhile." "Nor the potatoes, canned things, and other provisions that _I_ ordered," said Mr. Black. "We're certainly bountifully supplied with food." "We'll have a ready-made supper to-night," promised Mrs. Crane. "If you'll wait half an hour," said Mr. Black, "we'll have a table to eat it on. Now that I have nails and a saw, we can have real furniture." Dave and Mr. Black made not only a table but four benches, each long enough to hold four persons. The table had to have a hole in the center to accommodate the tent pole; but Mr. Black managed that. Then he fastened two lamps with reflectors to the pole, Mrs. Crane spread a big sheet of white oil-cloth over the table, and the dining-room was complete. Jean begged a number of wooden boxes from which the contents had been removed. "We can put our extra clothes in them," said she, "and keep our toilet articles on top. I'm so glad to have a hairbrush that I feel as if I ought to frame it." "Anything more to build?" asked Mr. Black. "I'd like a cupboard for my dishes," said Mrs. Crane, who was setting the attractive table. "But you needn't make it to-night. It's a good thing the plates came--our wooden ones wouldn't have stood another washing. And I'm glad to have a dishpan." "Wasn't the lake big enough?" "It wasn't in the right place. Where's Dave? He seems to think he belongs to us. Hadn't we better give him some supper?" "Yes. If you'll put something on a plate I'll carry it to him--he's gone to his wigwam. I want to tell him that we took his venison and potatoes. Here, that's enough--I can't carry _three_ plates." CHAPTER X A Stormy Night EVERY one had been too busy to think about the weather. But, when supper was on the table, Mrs. Crane noticed that Jean's dark hair had been blown about her face, that Henrietta's, too, was flying about in loose locks, and that the loose canvas at the doorway of the big tent was flapping noisily. "Look at the lake!" cried Marjory. "It's all mussed up and queer, like something _boiling_. I hope Captain Berry got home safely." "The wind is in his favor and he has had sufficient time. But that's a pretty angry sea--I guess Dave and I had better pull those boats to the top of the bank, after supper. We're going to have some waves that _are_ waves before morning." The lake, at that hour, however, was not so rough as it was threatening. Its surface was of a dark, dull slate-color, marked with long lines of deep blue and blackish purple. Some hidden force seemed to be lifting it from underneath as if, as Marjory said, it were boiling, or at least getting ready to boil. The sun had dropped behind the distant hills without leaving the usual rose-pink afterglow. Overhead, dark clouds were scurrying toward the southwest; but as yet the waves had not gathered sufficient strength to be very noisy. The air was colder; and that, too, seemed filled with hidden threats and half-whispered warnings. "I'm thankful," said Mr. Black, carving more roasted chicken for Bettie, who said that all fowls _should_ have had eight legs apiece, "that we have good, sound tents to sleep in to-night and that Captain Berry knew how to put them up so they'd stay. After we've pulled the boat up, Dave and I will see if any of the ropes need tightening. There is one thing that everybody must remember. If it rains, you must not touch the canvas--that makes it leak." It was too windy for a fire on the beach that night, so the castaways, in their warm sweaters, sat round the dining-room table, and, by the light of the big lamps enjoyed the magazines that Mr. Saunders had thoughtfully included. They were particularly interested in the advertisements of tents, boats, and other camp-y things. Just as Bettie was certain that her eyes would not stay open a single moment longer, there was a loud crash near at hand. "Now what?" cried startled Mrs. Crane, who was hemming some of the queer dish-toweling that inexperienced Mr. Saunders had been obliged to select, "is that? Not thunder, I hope." "Our late residence, I suspect," returned Mr. Black. "It's a good thing we moved out when we did--I guess I'd better rescue that tablecloth." By this time the waves were running high and dashing savagely against the bank. Usually the hurrying clouds obscured the moon; but, whenever it gleamed forth for a moment, it showed a foaming, furious sea--their calm, beautiful, softly tinted lake was gone. "I'm glad," shuddered Bettie, "that I'm not out there in a boat." "I hope," said Jean, "that nobody is. A little boat would be smashed to bits." "Wouldn't it be dreadful," suggested Henrietta, "if a ship were wrecked right down there on the beach? Anyway, I guess we'd find it pretty exciting." "Or the ship would," offered Marjory. "Let's hope _hard_," said Bettie, "that all the ships and sailors are in snug, safe harbors--When I go to bed to-night I'm going to make a little prayer about it." But, in spite of Bettie's little prayer, if, indeed, she remembered to make it, there were several ships abroad that night; and a passenger on one of the smallest and least significant was probably, at that very moment, sailing into this story; but many other things happened before he was unceremoniously tumbled into the tale; and you must have them in their turn. All night long the heavy surf pounded and thundered on the beach. All night long the wind howled and shrieked. But the castaways, snug in their strong new tents and their warm, red blankets, slept through all the turmoil. They were obliged, next morning, to forego the pleasure of washing their faces in the lake; but the river, with some help from the bright new dishpan, served as well. Dave's ice-cold spring provided them with excellent drinking water. "This storm," said Mr. Black, arranging a temporary shelter for the fire, "will bring us plenty of driftwood. We can have benches under the trees and an extra table or two--I expect to get thin, building things." "Well, it won't hurt you," returned Mrs. Crane. "You can begin by building that fire--I'm ready to cook." Previously to this time, the days had been warm and comparatively quiet; but to-day it was decidedly cold. The wind, sweeping through the clearing, carried off all the bits of paper and string that the eager girls had torn from their parcels the night before and thoughtlessly scattered about. It was necessary to fasten things down to keep them from swirling out of sight. The big waves still thundered in and their white spray dashed high above the edge of the battered bank. But, for all that, it proved a delightful day, because the clear air was wonderfully bracing, the campers were really camping, and one could escape the buffeting of the wind and the continuous roar of the waves by taking long walks in the sheltered trails and roads. "This," said Mr. Black, when the morning's work was done, "would be a good time to walk to Barclay's Point to see the waves. These are just tiny wavelets beside what we'll see over there--they'll be perfectly terrific on the north side of that peninsula. I _was_ going to fish in the river with those nice angleworms that Saunders sent; but I can take you there first and do my fishing afterwards." There were two ways of getting to Barclay's Point. In ordinary weather, one walked up the beach. In stormy weather, there was a very roundabout way by the road and a more direct route by a woodsy trail that wasn't exactly visible--one _felt_ rather than saw it. Some persons have an instinct for following trails. Jean had it, Marjory had it to a lesser degree; but Mabel and Henrietta were without it; while Dave, Indian that he was, could see trails where none existed for any one else. Since Jean possessed the trail-instinct, she walked ahead, while Mr. Black, in order to keep Mabel and Henrietta from straying from the path, marched behind. Mrs. Crane remained in camp with Bettie, who was not yet permitted to take long walks. To reach Barclay's, one crossed the river twice. The first crossing was easy, for there was a rude bridge built of heavy timber. But the second was a different matter. Nature had provided a bridge by conveniently dropping a huge tree across the stream, which was wide and about three feet deep at this point. The log--the branches had long ago been chopped away--was very wide at one end but tapered somewhat toward the other. When the water was low, there was room for a canoe to pass under this log. Jean walked steadily across it, Marjory flitted over it like a bird, Henrietta, with fancy steps that would have been impossible for the others even on solid ground, danced across; but Mabel, wavering and wabbling, had to be assisted by Mr. Black, who stretched forth a helping hand the moment she began to falter. "I guess," declared Mabel, indignantly, "that old tree was a slippery elm." "No," returned Mr. Black, "it was pine, and a big fellow at that. It's been here for many years." "How can you tell?" queried Henrietta. "See that birch tree growing from the upper side of its root? That birch has had time to grow from a seed into a good-sized tree since some mighty tornado or some unusual freshet uprooted this great pine--pine does not rot as quickly as some of the harder woods." "I see one reason why it fell," asserted Jean. "There's water bubbling out down there, under the root." "So there is," said Mr. Black. "I'm glad I brought my cup--that's a spring. We'll have a drink." So everybody drank some of the clear, cold water before proceeding to Barclay's. There was no sign of civilization at Barclay's Point; just a long, rocky promontory that ran out into the lake and, in fair weather, furnished a fine place to fish from. Its north coast was particularly rough and jagged. Here, as Mr. Blank had prophesied, the waves, roaring and booming like ceaseless artillery, struck with tremendous force against the rocks and dashed to prodigious heights--a grand and unforgettable sight. But Mabel's sweater was not unforgettable. She had taken it off because she was too warm after the steep climb to the spot from which the waves presented the finest spectacle (nobody wanted to get _too_ close to all that mountain of water) and anchored the garment firmly to the ground by means of a heavy stone. She returned to camp without missing it--she had something more exciting to think of, for Henrietta had mentioned that one of the contributions from her grandmother was a large box of candy. "We'll have some," promised Henrietta, "as soon as we get back to camp." Naturally Mabel, who was inordinately fond of sweet things and who had had no candy for a week, forgot all about her gray sweater, so near the color of the rocks that nobody else noticed it. But, notwithstanding the discomfort she endured without it, she was glad afterwards that she _had_ forgotten it. CHAPTER XI Dry Clothes for Five INSPIRED by the prospect of candy, Mabel was eager for the campward trail. This trail was wide and clearly marked near Barclay's, so Mabel ran gaily ahead; but the others followed closely at her heels--it was too windy for much lingering on that exposed shore. Mabel, with just one thought in her head, started heedlessly to run across the log that spanned the river. If a squirrel hadn't started at the same moment from the other end, Mabel might have rushed safely across. But, startled by the sudden, affrighted chattering of the surprised squirrel, Mabel stopped, staggered, swayed, and began to clutch wildly for support. She found it in the scarlet necktie of Henrietta's blouse. Henrietta, clutched by the throat, as it were, seized Mabel with one hand and Marjory with the other in order to sustain her own suddenly disturbed balance. For a moment, all three swayed uncertainly. Then, there was a mighty splash. All three were gone! The disturbed river bottom sent up bubbles of mud, a hand, a foot, then a bedraggled hair ribbon. Mr. Black, followed by courageous Jean, plunged to the rescue. In a moment, they had all three of the struggling, half-strangled girls on their feet. As the river bottom was of the softest of mud, no one was hurt; but the rescuers as well as the rescued were completely drenched. "Now, see here, Mabel," said Mr. Black, wiping that subdued young person's dripping countenance with his own wet handkerchief, "you'll have this whole camp drowned if you don't look out. After this, you're to stick to solid earth. I'm in earnest about this, Mabel. You're not to attempt to cross this log again, unless I'm with you." "You were here _this_ time," complained the dripping culprit. "It's a good thing I was. Jean would have had a fine time fishing the three of you out of that mud. Now, we'll just wade across here where it isn't so deep--we can't get any wetter than we are--and race home before we begin to feel cold." They raced as well as they could, in clinging garments and water-soaked shoes; but they presented a curious sight as they trailed into the clearing. Mrs. Crane and Bettie advanced eagerly to greet them. "Company!" warned Bettie, running ahead. "Two young men that drove up in a buckboard to spend the day fishing in our river--Mr. Saunders sent some letters by them. Thought I'd tell you so you could prink a little, Henrietta--my goodness! What's happened?" "I've been fishing in the river myself," explained Mr. Black, "and this is what I caught--three very much speckled trout." "My land!" exclaimed Mrs. Crane. "What an awful mess!" "It's just mud," said Marjory. "A few of us landed head first in several inches of it. It was Mabel, of course, that pulled us in--she fell off the big log on the trail to Barclay's." "Well, you're certainly a sight," laughed Bettie, turning back with her friends. "I don't know which of you looks worst." "They _all_ do," groaned Mrs. Crane. "And here was I just telling those two young men that we had with us as pretty a lot of children as they'd find in the state!" The young men, seated on one of the benches, looked at the "pretty lot of children." Then, throwing back their heads, they laughed uproariously. "We knew there were fish in the river," said one of the visitors, "but we hadn't been told about your mermaids." "I've caught two lots this spring," said Mr. Black, "but this is my largest--and, I hope, my last--haul. This sort of fishing is hard on my limited wardrobe." "Dear me," said Mrs. Crane, "these shivering scarecrows must get out of their wet garments at once. Here, Jean, you and Henrietta may dress in my tent--I'll bring your clothes. And, girls, throw all your wet garments outside--don't drop them on the blankets." The visitors declined an invitation to dinner, as they had brought an ample lunch; but before departing they helped Mrs. Crane stretch a long clothesline between two trees in the clearing. "These things _should_ be washed," said Mrs. Crane, fastening the garments to the line with all the safety pins the camp afforded, "but we can't use the lake just now and it's a little too far to a place that is just the right depth in the river." "Perhaps," suggested Bettie, helpfully, "most of the mud will brush off when the things are dry." "The sand will, anyway. I hope those girls can find enough clothes to put on." "They have the ones they came in," said Bettie, "and Jean's bundle was extra large." The active castaways, clothed in dry garments, spent a busy if not particularly exciting afternoon exploring the trails that led from the clearing. They gathered flowers, mushrooms, firewood, birch bark, moss, ferns, and even a few wild strawberries. Dave, who was mysterious in his comings and goings, taught them how to make willow whistles and promised to show them some day how to catch chipmunks. "I think," said Jean, when the campers had assembled for supper, "that this camp should have a name. We might call it 'Camp Comfort.'" "Everybody that _has_ a camp," objected Mr. Black, "calls it that. Let's have something truly poetic." "We might," suggested Henrietta, "name it the Black Basin." "That," demurred Bettie, "seems awfully pirate-y. Bob has a book about pirates that used to hide in a cave called the 'Black Basin'--I'd be afraid to go to bed nights in a Black Basin." "Perhaps," offered Henrietta, "'The Crane's Cove' would sound safer." "That doesn't work right," protested Marjory, wiggling her small pink tongue comically. "I'd always be saying 'Crane's Crove.'" "Besides," said Jean, "that isn't romantic enough. We want something like 'Lover's Leap,' or 'Breezy Bluff,' or 'River's Rest.'" Just then Dave approached with an offering for Jean--he had already given her his best willow whistle and a partridge wing. This time it was a fine speckled trout, bigger than any that Mr. Black had been able to hook. "Where'd you catch him?" asked Mr. Black. Dave shrugged his shoulders and replied evasively: "Pretty goo' fishin' groun' here at 'Pete's Patch.'" "Where's Pete's Patch?" demanded Mr. Black, suspiciously. "Right here," replied Dave, with a gesture that included Mr. Black's entire property. "He name after you--Ah name heem maself." "That's nerve for you," breathed Henrietta. "Pete's Patch!" murmured Mr. Black, who seemed decidedly taken aback. "Pete's Patch!" Then the surprised gentleman caught Bettie's dancing eye and suddenly choked. "What a lovely name," teased impish Henrietta. "So romantic! So poetic! I'm glad I came to Pete's Patch--I think I'll have to write some verses about it--something like this, for instance: "If a trout or two you'd catch, Or of mushrooms like a batch-- If a taste of heaven you'd snatch, Hie away unto Pete's Patch." "That's pretty bad," laughed Bettie, "but it goes pretty well with the name." Of course the name stuck. Mr. Black tried a number of times to think of a more suitable or finer sounding name for his beautiful lakeside camp, but Dave's title was there to stay, so the amused castaways had to make the best of "Pete's Patch." "Never mind, Peter," Mrs. Crane would say, "it's a nice place, anyway; and the name goes very well with our birch-bark stationery." CHAPTER XII Mabel's Astonishing Discovery THE campers rose the next morning without suspecting that a very strange thing was about to happen; or that Mabel, who was still in disgrace because of her habit of half drowning her trusting companions, was, on that never-to-be-forgotten day, as they say in books, to cover herself with glory--instead of mud. The inhabitants of Pete's Patch rose to find the sun shining, the wind gone, the lake settled back in its proper place. "The sea began to subside before I turned in last night," said Mr. Black. "It's as gentle as a lamb to-day." "Look at the shore!" cried Marjory. "It's different. The beach that was sandy before the storm is all pebbly now; and down there where the cobblestones were it's all beautiful, smooth sand." "And look," supplemented Jean, "at the mouth of that surprising river. It's a lot wider than it was when we came." "Some time to-day," said Mr. Black, "I want to go to the little cove about halfway between here and Barclay's Point. That seems to be the spot that catches everything that is cast up by the sea. I need some thin boards for your cupboard, Sarah. I noticed the other day that the sharp cleft in the rocks back of that cove was filled with boards." "That's an awfully interesting spot," said Jean. "If sailors threw bottles overboard with letters in them, that's where you'd find them--everything washes in at that spot." "Or," said Henrietta, "if the captain lashed his only daughter to the mast and threw her overboard, that's where she'd land." "Oh, I _hope_ not," breathed tender-hearted Bettie. "So do I," laughed Henrietta, with an impish glance at Mr. Black. "Think of being wrecked on the reef of Pete's Patch!" "Norman's Woe certainly sounds better," agreed Mr. Black, "but let us hope that no one got wrecked _any_ place. Now I must take a look at the Whale--I'm wondering how she weathered the storm." "It's my turn to wash dishes," announced Jean. "And mine to wipe," said Henrietta. "Then Bettie and I will do the beds," said Marjory, quickly. Mabel, left out in the cold, scowled darkly for a moment. Then she sat up very stiffly indeed. "I shall go all by myself and pick up two big baskets of driftwood," said she. "To-morrow morning," offered sympathetic Jean, "you're invited to do dishes with me, Mabel." "And beds with me," added impish Henrietta. "And to wash potatoes with me," teased Marjory. "Why not let me do _all_ the work?" queried Mabel, huffily. "But I _will_ do dishes with you, Jean. I know _you_ meant to be polite." Presently Mabel, with two of the big baskets that had come with the provisions, slid down the sand bank to the beach. It was certainly a fine morning. Within two minutes, sturdy Mabel had forgotten that the others were paired off and that she was the odd one. "The sky is blue, blue, blue," sang Mabel, marching up the smooth, hard beach; "the water is blue, blue, blue with golden sparkles; and the air is warm enough and cool enough and clean, clean, cle--ow!" A leisurely wave had crept in and made a playful dash for Mabel's heedless feet. "You got me that time," beamed friendly Mabel. "I guess you wanted to remind me that I was out after wood. All right, Mr. Lake, I'll walk closer to the bank. My! What nice little blocks for our fire. I _love_ to find things." Soon both baskets were filled; but by this time Mabel was well out of sight of the camp, having passed two of the little rocky points that extended into the lake, north of Pete's Patch. "I wish I had a hundred baskets to fill," sighed Mabel. "I guess I'll leave these right here and go a little farther; it's such a nice day and I _love_ to go adventuring. Oh! I know what I'll do; I'll go to Barclay's Point after my sweater--I hope it hasn't blown away." So Mabel, with a definite object in view, started at a brisker pace toward Barclay's. Presently she reached the cove mentioned by Mr. Black as a catch-all for floating timber. The water was deeper at this place and a strong current carried quantities of driftwood to this wide, bowl-shaped cove. In severe storms, some of it was tossed high among the rocks and gnarled roots in a ravine-like cleft at the back. Nearer the water, many great logs, partially embedded in the sand, caught and held the lighter material tossed in by the waves. "Oh!" cried Mabel, "I wish I had a _million_ baskets! I know what I'll do. I'll just toss a lot of those go-in-a-basket pieces into a big pile way up there where the waves can't get them." Gathering up the edges of her skirt, sturdy Mabel filled it with the clean, if not particularly dry, bits of wood, worn satin-smooth and white by long buffetings against graveled shores. "I'll throw them behind that log," decided Mabel, toiling inland with her heavy burden. "They'll be perfectly safe up there--My! But they're pretty heavy. I guess there's room back of that big log for a whole wag--wow! ow!" Mabel's final syllable was a curious, startled sound. While not precisely a gasp, a shriek, or a shout, it was a queer combination of all three. Mabel was startled, and with good reason. The space behind the log was already occupied; and by something that looked human. The surprised little girl saw first a pair of water-soaked shoes attached to two very thin, boyish legs in black stockings. Beyond the stockings was a gray mass of tangled fish-net wound about something bulky and white that Mabel concluded was a life-preserver. Beyond that, an extended arm was partly buried in the sand. A thin, white hand was firmly closed over a sharply projecting point of rock. Very close against the huge log, so close as to be almost under it, was a shining, golden ball, the back of a boy's close-cropped head. [Illustration: THE SPACE BEHIND THE LOG WAS ALREADY OCCUPIED] For a long moment Mabel, who had unconsciously dropped her load on her own toes, stood still and gazed questioningly at her unexpected find. Then the astonished little adventurer climbed over the wood she had dropped, bent down, and, with one finger, touched the boy's stocking, gingerly. "If--if he'd been here very long," she said, sagely, "his stockings would have been faded. Things fade pretty fast on the lake shore. Perhaps if I poke him he'll wake up." Mabel prodded the unfaded legs very gently with a pointed stick. There was no response. "I guess he's dead," she sighed. "But I s'pose I ought to feel his pulse to find out for sure--ugh! I sort of hate to--suppose he _is_ dead!" But, bravely overcoming her distaste for this obvious duty, Mabel laid a trembling finger on the slim white hand. It was not as cold and clammy as she had feared to find it. Mabel touched it again, this time with several fingers. Yes, the hand was actually a little bit warm. As she bent closer to the golden head, it seemed to Mabel that she could detect a sound of breathing, rather heavy breathing, Mabel thought; a little like Mrs. Crane's, when that good lady snored. Mabel crouched patiently near the prostrate lad and listened. The labored breathing certainly came from that recumbent boy. "But," argued Mabel, "if he's only taking a nap, why is he all tangled up in that net? And there's that life-preserver. He's been wrecked and tossed up, I believe. And he's still all wet underneath. Perhaps I ought to wake him up--he ought not to sleep in such wet clothes." So Mabel grasped her discovery very firmly by one thin shoulder and shook him quite vigorously; but he still slept. Then, clutching him by both shoulders, she succeeded in dragging the heavy sleeper a few inches from the log; but he seemed rather too firmly anchored to his resting-place for this method to work successfully. Still, she had gained something, for now one ear and a bit of one cheek were visible. They were not white like the extended hand, but darkly red and very hot to the touch. "Boy!" called Mabel. "Why don't you wake up? Don't you know that you're not drowned? Wake up, I say! Whoo! Whoo! _Whoo!_" But the boy, in spite of what should have proved alarming sounds, made, as they were, in his very ear, still slumbered on in a strange, baffling fashion; and Mabel, after watching him in a puzzled way for several moments longer, found a broad shingle, which she balanced neatly on the boy's unconscious head. "That'll keep the sun off," said she, "while I'm gone for help." CHAPTER XIII Breaking the News "I WONDER," said Marjory, who, perched on the edge of the bank, was shaking the sand from a dried bathing suit, "what's happened to Mabel. She's running down the beach like mad. And calling! I guess she wants somebody." "If _you'd_ keep quiet," suggested Henrietta, "perhaps you could hear what she says." "It's 'Mr. Bla-a-a-a-a-ack!'" mimicked Marjory. Mabel was breathless by the time she reached the foot of the steep sand bank, just below the camp. "Oh," she panted. "Mr. Black--get him, quick. And, Jean, _you_ come. And, Mrs. Crane--scissors! I _must_ have scissors. Phew!" "Be quiet a moment," advised motherly Mrs. Crane, from the bank. "Sit right down where you are and rest till you get your breath. Marjory, you're the quickest--you run for Mr. Black; he's just started for the wigwam to see if he can find Dave. Jean, I'll trust _you_ with my scissors; but I'm going to tie them to you with a piece of string. There! Now we'll go down to Mabel. "Now," said Mrs. Crane, when that stout lady had made a careful descent of the sandy bank, "tell us exactly what's happened, Mabel." "It's a boy!" panted Mabel, "and he isn't dead." "Most boys aren't," encouraged Bettie, who had a large number of lively brothers. "Go on, Mabel." "I found him on the beach." "Well," scoffed Henrietta, "I guess a boy on a beach isn't anything so wonderful." "How did he get there?" queried Mrs. Crane. "Washed up, I guess. I thought he was drowned. He's _most_ dead." "Where? Where?" shrieked Henrietta, with sudden interest. "Where? Where?" echoed Bettie. Just then Marjory flung herself breathlessly over the edge of the bank with Mr. Black, also short of breath, close at her heels. "What's it all about?" demanded Mr. Black. "Has Mabel fallen in again?" "Get the bread-knife, somebody," ordered Mabel, now sufficiently recovered to scramble to her feet, "and follow me." "I have a knife," said Mr. Black, displaying as bloodthirsty a bit of cutlery as one would want to see. "Saunders thought I might need a hunting knife. If you've caught a deer I'll skin him for you." "I guess," laughed Bettie, "she doesn't want her game _skinned_. She's found a boy." Presently the procession, headed proudly by Mabel, who now felt very important indeed and would allow none of her impatient followers to pass her, was marching up the beach. She was, however, too breathless for speed. "Couldn't you go a _little_ faster?" pleaded Marjory. "No, I couldn't," panted Mabel. "And, if you run ahead of me, you won't know where to turn off--so there." "Tell us more about it," begged Henrietta. "I've always been crazy to rescue a shipwrecked crew!" "No," said Mabel, "I want my breath to walk with." Fortunately, the beach was smooth and hard; the excited campers soon reached the cove. Mabel, thoughtfully pausing long enough for Mrs. Crane and Bettie to catch up, led them to the big, half-buried log. "There!" said she, pointing to what was behind it. "That's the boy." Bettie, Marjory, and Henrietta peered eagerly over the log. Jean, Mrs. Crane, and Mr. Black hurried behind it. Mr. Black whipped out his knife, dropped to his knees, and began to cut at the mesh of the stout net. After a moment Jean assisted with the scissors. Mrs. Crane patted the boy's hand and laid her own motherly palm against his cheek. "Poor lamb! Poor lamb!" she murmured. Presently the lad was freed from the net and the life-preserver and gently lifted from the wet wreckage to the warm, dry sand. His eyes were closed, his breathing jerky and strange, his whole countenance deeply flushed. Big tears rolled down Mabel's cheeks as she looked at the limp, pathetic figure. "That boy," said Mrs. Crane, "is terribly ill with a fever. Goodness only knows how long he's been imprisoned here, chilled and shivering, before this fever came on." "Or just when the waves flung him behind that log," said Mr. Black. "It might have been early last night, any time yesterday, or even during the previous night. He was lashed to something with that net--yes, here it is; a piece of rotten pole as thick as my arm--possibly a mast or part of a raft. But what concerns us just now is what we're to do for him." "He's certainly a sick boy," agreed Mrs. Crane, "and there's nobody but us to help him." "Mabel," said Mr. Black, "you'd better take off his shoes--he'll be lighter without them. Sarah, you'd better hurry back to camp and fix a bed for him in your tent. Jean, you go with her, build a fire, and put some water on to boil--a little hot broth might help. If you other girls will boost him a little, when I say the word, I think I can carry him." The girls boosted. Mr. Black, with the long, thin boy hanging limply over his shoulder, started toward camp. Mabel, a wet shoe dangling from each hand, plodded after. "Isn't it exciting?" breathed bright-eyed Henrietta, falling into line. "A boy right out of the skies." "I guess you mean right out of the lake," corrected Marjory. "I hope he'll wake up pretty soon--I'm dying to know how he got behind that log." "Perhaps it was a good thing," said Bettie, "that the log was there. The end of that pole swung under the log and held him right there, or the waves might have carried him out again or hurled him against the rocks--ugh!" "His father," declared Henrietta, dreamily, "was the captain of a gallant ship. When the vessel was about to sink he said: 'Men! Save yourselves. As for me, I perish with her.' Then he lashed his only son to the mast of the sinking ship----" "What for?" demanded practical Marjory. "I guess maybe he didn't," amended Henrietta, reflectively. "He made a raft out of one of the hatches and tied him to that with the only thing he had at hand--a fish-net." "But first," added Marjory, "he fastened a life-preserver about him." "If I could run the way I used to," said thoughtful little Betty (this was the longest walk she had taken since her arrival at Pete's Patch), "I'd rush ahead and help Mrs. Crane with that bed. As it is, I'm willing to help with one of the baskets we're coming to--I guess Mabel's forgotten all about them." "I'll help Mrs. Crane," promised nimble-footed Marjory, "if you and Henrietta will bring the wood--they may need it for the fire that Jean is to build." Mr. Black undressed the thin, still-unconscious lad, wrapped him in a warm blanket (his feet, Mrs. Crane said, were like lumps of ice), and tucked him into bed. "If we were in town," declared Mrs. Crane, "I'd send for the doctor." "Just what I'm going to do, as soon as Dave turns up. I'll go to his wigwam now--perhaps he's back. Too bad there isn't any medicine----" "But there is," said Mrs. Crane. "Mrs. Tucker sent a bottle to Bettie to be used in case her fever should return. She sent a tonic, too, but neither bottle has been opened. If you think it's safe----" "Good for Mrs. Tucker! Give that boy a dose of the fever medicine--he certainly needs that. Now for Dave--I'd like to get him started for Lakeville at once." Dave, however, was not to be found. His ways were strange and mysterious; he had an inconvenient habit of disappearing without warning for hours at a stretch. No one would see him go. He would set out, ostensibly for his wigwam; but if Mr. Black followed him to that habitation, as he sometimes did, no sign would he find of Dave. This time, the canoe was gone, also, and, of course, Dave's dog. "He hasn't shown up," said Mr. Black, returning from the wigwam. "I suppose he rose at daybreak and took to the lake; for his canoe isn't in the river. And here I am _paying_ him to bring water and wood for us and help with the boats." "Paying him!" gasped Mrs. Crane, "when he lived on your land for four years without paying rent? _Peter!_" "Well," returned Mr. Black, "it's only a dollar a day. Perhaps that isn't enough--I'll raise his wages!" "But that poor boy----" "We'll just have to wait until Dave gets back, I suppose. But you can dose the boy with Bettie's fever medicine--not the tonic--and perhaps we can pull him through." "Anyway, we'll try," assured Mrs. Crane. CHAPTER XIV A Missing Messenger IT was Thursday when Mabel discovered the boy. Friday morning Dave was still missing and the lad was still unconscious. "He must have been a pretty tough little chap to start with," declared Mrs. Crane, when all the members of her always-hungry family had been bountifully served with steaming breakfast food, "or he never would have lasted as long as this with such a fever. I wish Dave was here. He ought to have a doctor; and, if the boy's people live in Lakeville, they'll surely want to know that he's alive." "We've been talking about that," said Jean, "and we don't think he _is_ a Lakeville boy." "You see," explained Marjory, "he must be about twelve or thirteen years old--somewhere between Mabel's age and Henrietta's. If he'd been in school one or another of us would have seen him--we're scattered all over, you know." "And I," said Henrietta, "am scattered about in _all_ the grades, because I'm so smart and so stupid in spots." "But perhaps," suggested Mr. Black, "this illness has altered his appearance." "It couldn't change his hair," asserted Mabel. "It's a very queer color." "Yes," agreed Mrs. Crane, "it's a most unusual shade--very bright and glistening like ruddy gold. There's a tinge of copper to it and yet it's golden. If only Dave were here----" "I could walk to Lakeville myself," began Mr. Black, reflectively, "but----" "But you're not going to," protested his sister. "We can't stay here without a man. Besides, if anything happened to you on the way down, where should _we_ be?" "At Pete's Patch, I suspect," twinkled Mr. Black. "Suppose you give that boy some hot sponge baths--that may help a little." "But, goodness!" objected Mabel, "he must be perfectly soaked with water--his clothes were drenched." "Still," said Mr. Black, "baths are beneficial to fever patients." "I've been putting mild mustard plasters on his chest," confessed anxious Mrs. Crane. "I didn't like his breathing--it sounded too much like pneumonia yesterday; but it's a bit better to-day. And I'll try those baths." "I haven't much faith in your mustard plasters," asserted Mr. Black, teasingly. "You're too tender-hearted to make one strong enough to do any good." "I'm not," retorted Mrs. Crane; "but there's no sense in blistering folks." "I'm glad there's a really sick person in this camp," said Bettie, "because now, perhaps, I can persuade you to believe that I'm most as well as ever. I had two long walks yesterday and I feel just fine to-day." "Did you sleep well?" queried Mrs. Crane, anxiously. "I declare, with all this excitement, I forgot to ask you." "Only five minutes," said Bettie, in a sorrowful tone. "I shut my eyes at eight o'clock last night and when I opened them it was only five minutes after eight." "Last night?" pursued Mrs. Crane, anxiously. "No, this morning," replied Bettie, demurely, "but the clock _said_ five minutes, and it didn't _seem_ like any more than that." Among the many things that Mrs. Crane had ordered from town was a truly alarming alarm clock. Although it went off faithfully and with astonishing vigor at seven every morning, no one ever heard it after the first day except Mrs. Crane. The campers, never very early risers, grew lazier every day--and fatter! Mabel, always exceedingly plump, was now so rotund that Mrs. Crane was obliged to tie loops of twine in all her buttonholes. Bettie's cheeks and the calves of her legs were certainly rounding into new and pleasing curves. Tall Jean was casting a wider shadow, shapely Henrietta had punched two new holes in her tight leather belt; and it was now possible to pinch the hitherto unpinchable Marjory. Their complexions, too, had undergone curious changes. Mabel had gained a generous sprinkling of very fine, very dark freckles. Marjory's blue-white skin was dotted with a limited number of very large, pale tan-colored freckles. Henrietta was tinged a rich even brown, except where a fine red glowed in her dark cheeks. Most of the time Jean was a brilliant scarlet; for her tender skin burned easily and her nose, as Bettie said, was disreputably ragged, for it peeled every day or two. So did the edges of her ears. As for Bettie, her yellowish pallor was gone and a fine, rose-colored flush now tinged her lips and her cheeks. Her big, dark eyes were brighter and merrier than the girls had ever seen them. "Another ten days in camp," asserted Mr. Black, pinching Bettie's firm cheek, "and you'll all be wearing Mrs. Crane's clothes. Your own mothers won't know you by the time we're ready to go home." "They won't want to," laughed Marjory, "if we all gain as Mabel has. Look at her back!" It was really a shockingly untidy back, because bits of Mabel and Mabel's underwear stuck out between the loops. "She drinks so much water," complained Henrietta, "that my arm just aches from filling her cup." "Put the pail beside her," suggested Mr. Black. "Water's the one thing that can't give out." "That reminds me," said Mrs. Crane, "we'll need a lot of things by the time Dave goes to town again. My list is growing bigger every minute." "Like Mabel," breathed Marjory, teasingly. "Well," sighed Mabel--and the sigh burst two of her loops--"I shall ask for a very wide sailor-jumper to pull on over my head. The knots in those loops are pretty bumpy. If I were to sneeze, they'd _all_ go, I guess." Mrs. Crane, of course, appropriated most of the care of the newest castaway. But the willing girls helped in many ways. "They are my feet," said slow-moving, stiff-jointed Mrs. Crane. "They bring me everything I need and save me hundreds of steps every day. They're all as good as gold, Peter." "They're _better_," declared Mr. Black. "I wish they all belonged to _me_--anyway, we'll enjoy 'em while we can." Sometimes one or another of the girls was permitted to sit beside the sleeping boy for half an hour, while Mrs. Crane busied herself with the camp cooking--no one else, the good lady was certain, could plan the meals; but nursing proved rather an uninteresting task, because there was really nothing that one could do. The girls found cooking rather more to their taste and were able to relieve Mrs. Crane of many of her culinary burdens. Jean, however, was the only one who could fry the fine brook trout that Mr. Black sometimes caught in the attractive river. "They're all right after they're cooked," shuddered Marjory, that afternoon, when Mr. Black brought in a pretty string of fish, cleaned and ready to fry, "but I _couldn't_ touch a raw one--ugh!" "Neither could I," said Henrietta, "but Anthony Fitz-Hubert could--see, he's just crazy for one this minute." "Here's one with his name on it," said Mr. Black, presenting the little cat with a small specimen. "That one is under-sized, so it wouldn't do for _us_ to be caught with it; but they couldn't arrest or fine Anthony, because he's too active and too poor. How would you girls like to try fishing?" "We'd like it," responded Henrietta. "Once, when I was very small, I went fishing in Scotland, in a little rushing river; and once, in France, a little peasant boy let me hold his rod for a few minutes." "Well," promised Mr. Black, "some day I'll take you all fishing. After you've caught a trout or two you won't mind handling them. But just now I can't afford to be reckless with the bait--we'll get a bigger supply next time." "I've heard it said," laughed Mrs. Crane, "that there's a stingy streak in everybody, if you know just where to look for it; we've found yours, Peter; it's fish-worms." "Well, they're mighty scarce in this part of the country. I dug for nearly an hour along the river bank and found only one. I'll send word to Martin, next time, and have him dig a pailful in our garden." "He'll dig up everything else, too," sighed Mrs. Crane, "but never mind. But that reminds me of Dave. Marjory, I wish you and Henrietta would see if that rascal has slipped in by some back way to his wigwam. I declare I never thought that I'd _want_ to set eyes on that homely half-breed, but I'd give a dollar, this very minute, to see him." Mrs. Crane, however, was not called on to part with her dollar. The messengers returned without Dave. "Not a single sign of him," said Henrietta, "and we called until all the little squirrels sat up and scolded us for making such a noise." "He's out for venison, I fear," said Mr. Black, who was counting his seven precious fish-worms. "He has no regard whatever for the game laws. I shall give him a good talking to when he returns." "You'd better wait," suggested Mrs. Crane, "until after he's been to Lakeville." "You'd better wait," laughed saucy Henrietta, "until you see him." "Anyway," said Mr. Black, "we must all remember to stand between Dave and the game warden, if that officer ever visits Pete's Patch." "No really respectable game warden," laughed Henrietta, "would ever visit a camp with a name like that." "That's a nice name," championed Mabel. "It's plain and sensible like Mr. Black. I _like_ things that are plain and sort of--homely." At this, everybody (including Mr. Black, who might easily have been much homelier than he was) laughed merrily; for Mabel, cheerful little blunderer, usually managed to give a queer twist to her compliments. "Anyhow," said Mabel, rather huffily, "I _meant_ to be polite." "You _were_," assured Mr. Black, patting the hunched shoulder, "because it's our meaning that counts; and we all know that you meant well." "I wonder," queried Jean, "if Dave does?" "I fear," returned Mr. Black, "that the workings of that rascal's mind would be pretty hard to follow--let's see if his boat is in sight." But it wasn't, so Mr. Black got the wood and the water that he was paying Dave to bring and arranged the evening bonfire. And the sick boy, in spite of the young campers' impatience to learn his story, still slept. Mrs. Crane, by this time, was almost sure that he would never waken. CHAPTER XV Doctor Dave AT daybreak the next morning the barking of a dog wakened the sleeping camp. Mr. Black pulled on his clothes and went sleepily down to the water's edge, where Onota, Dave's yellow dog, was running madly about, uttering excited yelps. "Heem glad for got home," explained Dave, who had beached his canoe and was gathering up its contents. "What have you got?" asked Mr. Black. Dave displayed a small doe, not yet skinned. "Dose bigges' one--som' beeg buck, Ah'm t'ink--she ees bus' up ma trap," Dave complained, "so Ah'm snare dose li'le doe. He ees good meat, all right." "Dave, you scalawag, you ought to be in jail. I'll wager there isn't a game law that you haven't broken." "He ees mos' all for you," assured Dave, ingratiatingly. "You got fine dinner off heem ver' soon--I skeen heem for you, bam-bye. She's good meat, dose young-lady deer." "I _ought_ to tell the game warden on you. Don't you _know_ that you're breaking game laws?" "Ah'm t'ink maybe Ah'm crack dose law som'," admitted Dave; "but me, Ah mus' eat li'le deer meat som' tam', halso dose par_tridge_, maybe som' duck, too." "Well," warned Mr. Black, helplessly, "don't expect me to help you out if you get caught. And now, Dave, I wish you'd stay right here for awhile; I've got a job for you. I want you to go to Lakeville to-day--we've a sick boy up there and we need a doctor." "Seeck boy?" queried Dave. "W'ere you got her from? W'at she ees seeck on herself wit'?" Mr. Black explained. "Dat's all right," Dave said. "Bad cold on her long (lung). Ah cook you som't'ing w'at feex her pooty good." "No, no," protested Mr. Black, "we want a doctor and a lot of other things. You _must_ go to Lakeville. I'll--yes, I'll give you two dollars." "Maybe Ah go behind dinner," promised Dave, uncertainly. "Ah mus' sleep, me, for two-t'ree hour--Ah'm chase dose deer hall night. Tell dose Jean, dose Bet_tee_, dose Mabelle, and dose Henriette, eef he ees com' roun' pooty soon, Ah show heem how to skeen dose deer." Notwithstanding the fact that his medical services had been declined, Dave began almost at once to search for herbs, dig for roots, and gather certain pungent leaves and twigs. These he covered carefully with water and placed over a slow fire in a most repulsive saucepan. By half-past eight o'clock, by which time the castaways were eating breakfast, Dave had obtained about half a pint of a queer-smelling, most unattractive-looking, greenish-black fluid. He carried this strange brew carefully to the clearing, peered cautiously into Mrs. Crane's unguarded tent, entered noiselessly, and dropped the flap. Then, kneeling beside the helpless lad, the half-breed raised him gently and poured the contents of his blackened tin cup, a little at a time, down the boy's throat. This accomplished successfully, Dave, much pleased with himself, emerged just in time to meet startled Mrs. Crane, returning to look at her charge. "Dave," she shrieked, noting the empty, not over-clean cup, "what _have_ you done?" "Das all right, Mees Crane," assured Dave. "Dose boy, she swallow good. Ev'rybody wait fi--seex hour. Dose boy sweat lak' horse bam-bye--wake up weak like babee--open hees eye. Maybe she's dead then, maybe she's get well. You geeve her queek som' brot'--bouillon--w'at you call heem--soup, hey?--behin' dos beeg sweat. For mak' her strong, dose seeck boy." "Dave," moaned Mrs. Crane, who had seized the cup and was smelling it, "you've surely killed that poor child!" "Nong, nong," protested Dave. "Dose ees ver' goo' medicine--Ah'm got her off ma gran'modder." "Well," growled Mr. Black, finding it difficult to be stern, with five amused little girls giggling at his back. "If you get any more medicine off your grandmother I'll throw you into the lake." "Hee ees been dead long tam'--dose gran'modder." "Took her own medicine, I suppose," said Mr. Black. "Was she French or Indian?" "Ojibway; som' squaw--som' Injun lady; ma fadaire, he French, from Canadaw--speak no Englise. Ma modder Injun, sam' lak ma gran'modder; he mak' dose medicine, too. Bot' dead, dose fadaire, dose modder." "No wonder," breathed Henrietta. "Mees Bet_tee_," said Dave, turning to go, "you breeng dose odder girl--Ah show you how to skeen som' deer. Maybe Ah'm geeve you dose tail. Dose liver--vaire fine meat, dose liver--ees for Jean." At this the girls found it hard not to laugh outright, because, as they very well knew, Jean heartily disliked liver of any kind. But gentle-mannered Jean, who was always careful not to hurt any other person's feelings, managed to say, prettily: "Thank you, Dave; you're very good to me." "You pooty nice girl," returned Dave. "Ah mak' som' med'cine for dose sunburn hon your face." "Thank you," faltered Jean, "but I--but I _like_ to be sunburned. I'll be such a fine color after I've lost _all_ my skin." "Dear me," groaned Mrs. Crane, when the girls had trooped away at Dave's heels, "I was almost sure, this morning, that that boy was better. I put my hand on his forehead very early--when Dave's dog barked, and it felt cool and even a little damp--as if the fever had left him for just a moment or two. And now Dave has probably finished him. That boy must have had a fine constitution to start with or that fever would have ended him yesterday. That horrible medicine on top of everything else he's gone through----" "Well," returned Mr. Black, "we won't gain anything by worrying about it. We'll get Dave started after a real doctor as soon as possible--I'll write a note to Doctor Bennett, so he can bring the proper medicines with him. Make out your list and put the girls at theirs as soon as they return--I'll go after them presently. That rascal said he'd start 'behind dinner.'" It was considerably "behind" the noon meal when Dave was ready to begin his long walk; but at last, with a little food tied in a soiled red handkerchief that dangled from a stick resting on his shoulder, he departed. Although Dave never looked particularly clean, although he was not especially handsome, there were moments when, because of his picturesqueness, he decidedly pleased the eye. Now, with the touch of dangling scarlet at his back, all the rest of him except his rather long black hair an even, woodsy brown, Dave and the landscape, harmoniously combined, made a truly attractive picture. But not for long. The leaves at the edge of the grassy clearing closed suddenly behind him; the castaways could not discover his trail; but Dave must have guessed that they were trying to find it, for his laugh, always an unexpectedly musical sound, floated back to the searchers. "I hope," said Jean, "that he won't be gone as long _this_ time. Mrs. Crane is almost as worried about this boy as she was about Rosa Marie with the measles--perhaps more, because she had the doctor to help her then." "Dave helped her this time," said Marjory. "_I_ hope he'll hurry, too," returned Henrietta. "It seems a _year_ since I ate the last crumb of candy out of my box." "And we can't make any," mourned Marjory, "because the sugar's all but gone." "There's only a little butter," added Bettie, "and less than half a loaf of rye bread; but luckily we've plenty of flour and cornmeal. Biscuits and johnny-cake help a lot." "It's a good thing," said Mabel, "that Mrs. Crane thought of sending for that old tin oven. I'd hate to be obliged to go hungry with the kind of appetite I've got _now_. I believe I could eat raw potatoes this minute." "You won't have to," assured Jean. "There's plenty of oatmeal and rice and a lot of things in packages. Oh, yes, and _beans_--a great big bag of dried ones." "Wouldn't it be nice," suggested Bettie, "to surprise Mr. Black and Mrs. Crane with baked beans for supper!" "But they'd see us cooking them," objected Jean. "We could build a stone oven, the way Dave showed us, on the beach," said practical Bettie. "Of course, if we used the tin one here in the clearing, they'd see what we were doing. Marjory, you're so small they won't notice you, so you slip into the provision tent and get the beans. How many? Why--I don't know." "Seven hundred," said Henrietta, promptly. "A hundred apiece--Anthony prefers fish-tails." "I guess," protested Marjory, "I'm not going to _count_ those beans--they come in _pounds_, not dozens." "They swell a lot," said Bettie. "I think that about four cupfuls would be enough--bring them down in one of those round pudding pans--we'll bake 'em in that." "It seems to me," said Jean, when Marjory had successfully captured the beans, "that we ought to wash them. But we haven't any colander--one of those things with holes in it." "Never mind," said Henrietta, "we'll use the lake--it's big enough, anyway. I'll wade in with the beans----" "I guess not," retorted Mabel. "Your feet and beans all in together!" "That's so," agreed Henrietta. "Well, we'll dig out a basin in the hard clean sand and wash them in that." The basin grew larger than the girls meant to make it, and the slippery white beans, turned loose in this little pond, proved remarkably elusive. But finally the last one was captured and placed in a pan of water with a pinch of salt; the pan was placed in the oven that the girls had built, and a fire was started under it. "They'll be surprised, won't they?" giggled the happy conspirators, far from suspecting that they themselves were to be the surprised persons; for this was their first experience with cooking dried beans, and of course, since they couldn't consult Mrs. Crane without betraying the secret, there was no one to ask for very necessary instructions. CHAPTER XVI A Valuable Insect MRS. CRANE remained very near her sleeping charge all that day. She didn't see, she said, how anybody _could_ survive the dreadful dose that Dave had poured down the unconscious lad's throat. At four that afternoon one of Dave's predictions came true. Great beads of perspiration broke out on the boy's forehead; and soon the voluminous nightgown in which Mrs. Crane had arrayed the patient was wet through, for he was indeed "sweating like a horse." Remembering Dave's advice concerning broth, yet decidedly fearful of following advice from so doubtful a source, the anxious nurse searched her cupboard for the little jar of beef extract that had been ordered for Bettie (by this time Bettie was clamoring for--and getting--more substantial food) and made a small bowlful of strong _bouillon_. But first, careful Mrs. Crane wrapped her patient in a warm blanket. When she returned with the broth, intending to force it by spoonfuls into the lad's mouth, she realised that a great change had taken place in her patient. The fever flush was gone from his cheeks, leaving him pale and clammy; but now, for the first time since his arrival in Pete's Patch his eyes were open. They were big and very, very blue. "Well," greeted Mrs. Crane, "this is something like! Awake, are you? Don't be frightened, poor lamb--you're as safe here as if you were in your own bed. Open your mouth, there's a good boy. It's some time since you've had a Christian meal." After the first few spoonfuls, the boy's eyes closed wearily; but he still opened his mouth obediently, just like a young robin, his pleased nurse said afterwards. "That's all," announced Mrs. Crane, giving him the last spoonful. "Now go to sleep if you want to." Apparently he did want to, for that is what he did. Mrs. Crane stole softly from the tent. "Girls," said she, to the little group in the shade of the biggest tree, "I want you to be very quiet whenever you come near the tents--tell the others when they come back. I believe that boy has taken a change for the better--he's lost his fever and he's sleeping like a baby." "Was it Dave's awful medicine?" queried Bettie. "I don't know," returned Mrs. Crane. "Your bottle probably helped. I don't suppose we'll _ever_ know just what effect Dave's potion had; but _something_ has certainly brought about a change in that poor child. Anyway, remember not to make a noise near my tent." "My!" giggled Marjory, when Mrs. Crane had returned to her charge, "she never even _looked_ toward the beach. I was _so_ afraid she'd notice the smoke from that fire and ask what Jean and Mabel were doing." "So was I," said Henrietta, who was endeavoring to weave a basket from some long, fragrant grass that she had discovered in a marsh near the river, "but she doesn't think of anything but that boy." "What's Mr. Black doing all this time?" asked Bettie, who was lying at full length on the ground with her head in Marjory's lap. "Fishing with his two and a half worms," replied Henrietta. "There he comes now," said Marjory, "but what in the world ails him?" No wonder she asked, for stout Mr. Black, hatless and coatless, his thick, iron-gray hair standing upright, his oft-mended suspenders broken once more and dangling from his waist, was dashing madly about the further end of the clearing. Now with arms aloft, now with fingers gripping the sod, this usually sedate and dignified gentleman was behaving in a most remarkable manner. "Goodness!" gasped Henrietta. "He must be doing an Indian war-dance!" "He's pounding the ground with his hat," said Marjory. "Now he's trying to fly--mercy! He's tripped right over a stump!" exclaimed Henrietta. "Let's go and see what he's doing." Just then Jean and Mabel clambered up the bank from the beach. On seeing the others fleeing hurriedly in Mr. Black's direction, they, too, scurried after. "He got away," panted Mr. Black, ruefully, as he picked himself up from the grass plot. "What?" inquired Marjory, "a squirrel? a rabbit? a beaver?" "No," returned Mr. Black, rather sheepishly, wiping his perspiring brow, "a grasshopper. But I must have that beast. Girls, I'll give you a dollar apiece for every grasshopper you can catch within the next ten minutes. You see, I accidentally caught one--the thing was down my neck--put it on my hook, and in two seconds it was snatched off by the biggest trout I've seen in six years! Yes, siree! He was a yard long! I'd pay _two_ dollars for another grasshopper this minute; for _I_ can't catch the pesky things." "Easy money," laughed Henrietta. "Come on, girls. Let's see who'll get the two dollars." In another moment all five were hurling themselves recklessly about the sunny clearing, wherever a grasshopper jumped. To an unenlightened observer, it must have seemed as if they, too, were doing an Indian war-dance; certainly they alarmed the grasshoppers. "Oh," gasped Bettie, after five minutes of this strenuous exercise, "I can't try any longer--my poor old legs are all gone." So tired Bettie nestled comfortably against Mr. Black, who, with his broad back against a stump, was resting as peacefully as the thought of that big, uncaught trout would permit. But the other four still chased grasshoppers. Suddenly, a big, bewildered insect hopped right into Bettie's lap; and, in a moment, Bettie's quick, slender fingers had closed over as fine a grasshopper as fisherman would wish to see. "I've got him--I've got him!" she shrieked. "He's right in my hand." Mr. Black placed the captive in his pocket match-safe. Then gravely extracting a two-dollar bill from his trousers pocket, he dropped it in Bettie's lap. "Oh, _no_," breathed Bettie. "Not when you're so good to me--I'd catch a million grasshoppers for you for nothing, if I only could." "If you don't keep it," declared Mr. Black, closing her fingers over the bill, "I'll let that precious insect fly away." "Well," sighed Bettie, stuffing the money down her neck, "I'll sit here with my mouth open and let grasshoppers fly in until I catch a _truly_ two dollars' worth." "Well," laughed Mr. Black, rising with difficulty, "bring all you catch down that left-hand trail to the second bend in the river--that's where I saw that whale." But there was no need of a second grasshopper; for before another was captured, Mr. Black, beaming with pleasure, rushed to the clearing to display his trout. Although the big fish lacked almost two feet of being a yard long, he was a fine specimen. "And Bettie's grasshopper," said Mr. Black, readjusting it on his hook, "is still as good as new, so I'm going back for another fish--with one more, plus the three I caught this morning, we'll have enough for supper." "My goodness!" gasped Jean. "Our surprise--nobody's watching the fire!" With one accord, the five cooks rushed to the beach. "The fire's out," said Jean. "We'll have to build it again." When all the rest of the supper was on the table, including Mr. Black's satisfactory catch of trout, nicely fried by Jean, Marjory slipped quietly away to extract the surprise from the oven. She was not entirely satisfied with its appearance; but, at any rate, the dish was good and hot. She succeeded in getting it safely up the sand bank and into the octagonal tent, where she placed it triumphantly beside the trout. "Why!" exclaimed Mrs. Crane, whose patient was still sleeping, "what have we here?" "A surprise," beamed Mabel. "Boston baked beans," explained Bettie. "Now, that," said Mr. Black, "is a real treat. There's nothing better than beans for camp fare." But when the beans were served they rattled, as they touched the plates, like rain on a tin roof. Instead of being smooth and nicely filled out, each bean was shriveled and as hard as a pebble. "Dear me," mourned Bettie, who had taken the first mouthful, "those are dreadful beans--I can't bite them." "But," said puzzled Jean, "they cooked for hours." "Did you soak them first?" asked Mrs. Crane. "No," replied Jean. "Didn't you boil them?" "No, we didn't do that, either. Just baked 'em." "Dear, dear," laughed Mrs. Crane. "No wonder they're hard. You should have soaked them all night, boiled them for an hour, and _then_ baked them. And I think, my dears, that you forgot the pork, the molasses, and the salt--beans need a great deal of salt. But it was nice and thoughtful of you good little girls to go to all that trouble." "We wanted it to be a lovely surprise," mourned Mabel. "Well," teased Mr. Black, "it's certainly more of a surprise than you meant it to be, therefore more of a success, because we are _all_ surprised." "Cheer up," said Mrs. Crane, touched by the downcast countenances of the disappointed cooks. "We'll feed the surprise to the squirrels. After supper--you see there's plenty this time _without_ the surprise--we'll put some more beans to soak; and to-morrow we'll cook them the other way. Anyway, I'm very glad you thought of cooking those beans--I'd forgotten that we had them." At this the seven gloomy faces brightened. And the beans were not wasted; for the kind squirrels carried away every one. CHAPTER XVII The Game Warden's Visit THE boy was really better; but very, very weak. Every time he opened an eye, that next day, solicitous Mrs. Crane was ready with a bowl of broth. Once he did not fall asleep immediately but followed her with big, questioning blue eyes as she moved about the tent. He remained awake for twenty minutes that time and even moved his hands slightly. "You've been real sick," explained Mrs. Crane, sociably, her soft dark eyes very kind and encouraging. "You're pretty weak yet, but you're twice the boy you were yesterday. Could you eat more broth?" For an instant something that looked like a genuine smile flickered across the boy's lips; and his eyes, Mrs. Crane said afterwards, almost twinkled. Then, in a very thin, weak voice, he said: "Please." After that he again fell into a long, deep sleep. But now his prolonged slumbers were no longer terrifying, for his breathing was natural, his fever entirely gone. "_Can't_ we see him next time his eyes are open?" pleaded Mabel, waylaying Mrs. Crane in the provision tent, "and _couldn't_ I be the first one? I found him, you know, so he's really mostly mine." "Ye--es," replied Mrs. Crane, pondering this matter. "I guess it's only fair that you should be the first. If you'll stay where you can see the door of my tent, I'll wave a towel when the time comes. But it won't be right away, for he's just gone to sleep again." "That boat ought to get here to-day," said Mr. Black, who had been expectantly gazing from time to time at the lake, "but I suppose that rascal Dave stopped all along the way to set traps." Mr. Black was quite right. Dave _had_ stopped to set traps. But first of all, with characteristic stealth, the conscienceless half-breed had begun his journey with a comfortable nap. For almost two hours, within five minutes' walk of Pete's Patch, Dave had slumbered, with no thought of anything but his own comfort. After that, he attended leisurely to the numerous traps along his almost invisible trail. Fortunately--or he might _never_ have reached his destination, he found only a solitary muskrat. The big rat was still living. Dave eyed him reflectively. "Goo'-by, li'le son," said Dave, liberating the bright-eyed prisoner. "You ees more bodder dan you ees wort', to-day. An' w'at for Ah'm eat moskrat! Me, Ah'm go for eat dose bifsteak, dose pork shop, dose baked bean hon top of Lakeveele. Go home, you son of a moskrat--Ah catch you som' more nex' veek." The limping rat splashed into the river, and Dave, after one half-regretful glance at the eddying water, at last started briskly along the trail that led to Lakeville. He spent the night with his cousin on the outskirts of the town, who refreshed him so generously that faithless Dave didn't know, next morning, whether he was headed toward Lakeville or toward camp. So he slept all that day and the next; while his good friend Mabel, at Pete's Patch, made brave efforts to save him from threatened disaster. Mabel and all the other girls knew that Dave had every reason to fear the game warden. The youthful castaways, who were not very clear as to the duties of game wardens in general, considered them the natural enemies of all hunters and fishermen. Dave had once shown the girls a battered, yellowed newspaper containing a full-length picture of a brawny, khaki-clad game warden arresting a lawless sportsman. The half-breed had said, half laughingly, half seriously: "Eef you ees see dose man som' tam', Mees Mabelle, Mees Bet_tee_, don't you go for tole her som't'ing about Dave Gurneau, or maybe, me, Ah'm got maself lock up for sure. Or maybe Ah'm go for pay feefty dollar fine." The idea of a fifty-dollar fine had probably tickled Dave, who, at that poverty-stricken moment would have found it impossible to pay even fifty cents. But the girls had been deeply impressed. They saw clearly that a visit from the game warden would result disastrously to Dave, whom the youngsters liked, in spite of his many irregularities; for the ignorant half-breed was always good to them in his own peculiar way. And then, too, Mr. Black had said that Dave was to be protected from all chance visitors. Very soon after the arrival of the nails, Mr. Black had built a rain-proof shed to shelter the disabled "Whale." As it was possible to reach this spot without tumbling into either the lake or the river, Mabel often strolled that way to look for berries, flowers, mushrooms, or mosses--she was apt to return with specimens of all four jumbled untidily together in the skirt of her dress. This fine morning, Mrs. Crane having suggested that a few mushrooms would add flavor and bulk to the noon meal, Mabel and Henrietta, with the praiseworthy intention of gathering a bushel or two, walked along the swampy, woodsy road that led to Lakeville. It was not often that Mabel and Henrietta paired off together, for Henrietta was the oldest, Mabel the youngest of the five girls. But in some ways pretty, black-eyed Henrietta was more thoughtless, less responsible than Jean, Marjory, or Bettie. After the death of her young mother, various relatives, including an inexperienced father and a too-indulgent grandmother, had done their best to spoil attractive Henrietta. They hadn't exactly succeeded; but the unrestrained little girl, naturally impulsive, naturally a bit daring, and always very high-spirited, was apt to act first and do her thinking afterwards. As for Mabel--why, Mabel simply _plunged_ into trouble. Still, it seemed safe enough to send this pair forth for mushrooms; so, with a basket between them, a smiling sky overhead, they set forth merrily. "It's funny about mushrooms," observed Mabel. "You can gather all there are and the next day you find just as many more. But when you pick berries that's the last of them for a whole year." "I wish," returned Henrietta, "it were just the other way." "So do I," agreed Mabel, her mouth full of big, red wintergreen berries. "It never is," sighed Henrietta, sentimentally. "Every time there's a storm, the sea brings in millions of cobblestones and only one agate. I _love_ to hunt for agates." "If they came in like cobblestones," said practical Mabel, "you wouldn't have the fun of hunting---- Why! There's something coming down the road. See! That way--toward Lakeville." "A man on horseback!" exclaimed Henrietta. "Let's hide----" "What for?" demanded Mabel, bravely. "His clothes!" breathed Henrietta, in an agonized whisper, as she dragged Mabel backward. "Can't you _see_? It's the game warden--I know him by his leggings. Just like that picture. Hurry, Mabel--he's after Dave!" "Oh! do you _think_ so?" gasped Mabel, paralyzed with horror. "And all that venison hanging near Dave's wigwam! And all those partridge feathers on Mr. Black's land! They might arrest him, too! And us! Oh, Henrietta! What'll we do?" "Run," urged Henrietta, tugging at Mabel's dress. "But--but I can't!" gasped Mabel, helplessly. "And, anyway, it's too late--he's looking right this way. But, oh! We mustn't let him go anywhere near Pete's Patch." "Sh!" breathed Henrietta, warningly; but with a quick, decisive nod that seemed vaguely reassuring. "Stop looking scared." The rider, having cautiously and more or less successfully skirted a bad bit of swamp, caught sight of the girls and checked his travel-stained horse. "Is this the way," he asked, politely, "to Barclay's Point?" Henrietta's forefinger promptly pointed toward the north--directly toward the concealed Point. "Just keep going," she advised. "It's quite a long way, but you're headed right for Barclay's." "Yes," assisted Mabel, after a closer scrutiny of the telltale leggings, "you just keep going." "I'm looking," explained the man, "for Mr. Black. He's at Barclay's Point, isn't he?" "Sometimes," replied Henrietta, truthfully. "How's the fishing up there?" "I haven't fished," returned Henrietta, shortly. The game warden, it was plain, would get no incriminating information from Henrietta. "This road, you say, leads to the Point?" "Ye--es," faltered Mabel; "yes, if----" "Never mind the 'if,'" hissed Henrietta, into Mabel's surprised ear. "Yes," she added aloud, and very convincingly, "it _does_ lead to the Point. But you'd better hurry, or Mr. Black may be starting out for some other place." "I'd hate to miss him," said the man, touching his hat. "Thank you, young ladies. I'll go at once--perhaps I'll see you later." Mabel and Henrietta eyed each other in discreet silence until the sound of hoofbeats had gradually died away. "We've been bad," breathed Mabel. "It was necessary," sighed Henrietta. "Goodness knows, I'd _rather_ be good. And that road _does_ lead to Barclay's Point." "Yes--if you're smart enough to find the turn off." "That's why I told him to hurry--if he rides fast, he'll _never_ see it." "Nobody would," agreed Mabel. "Where does this road go, anyway?" "Seventeen miles to an old lumber camp--Dave told me. There's another camp, not so far, but it has a 'blind turn-off'--you'd _never_ find it if you didn't know just exactly where to look. Even then you'd _think_ you were wrong. I guess it'll take him all day to find Pete's Patch. Anyhow, I hope so." "Shall we tell the others?" "N--no," decided Henrietta, contemplatively. "By the time he's reached the end of that swampy road without coming to anything he'll be too tired and discouraged to _want_ to arrest anybody. He'll just make tracks for home. But when Dave comes we'll tell him to hide his venison." "And," said Mabel, not knowing the depths of Dave's depravity, "he'll surely be here soon--he'll hurry right back with my father." "Why, that's so," laughed Henrietta. "Your father _is_ coming. Well, he won't know you--he'll think you're some relative of Dave's, and prescribe soap. But let's get those mushrooms. If that man comes back he mustn't find us here--he _might_ ask questions we couldn't answer. And I think we'd better roll a log across the turn-off to Pete's Patch and throw a little old brush against it so it won't show." CHAPTER XVIII The Boy's Name AN hour later, with a splendid lot of glistening mushrooms, Mabel and Henrietta returned to camp. As they neared the clearing, Mrs. Crane could be seen in the doorway of her tent, frantically waving a large towel. "Oh," cried Mabel, quickening her pace, "the boy's awake! She wants _me_--I'm to be first--I'm to be----" "If you plunge in that way," admonished Henrietta, running lightly beside Mabel, "you'll scare him to death. Do stop long enough to wash your face--he'll think you're a murderous young squaw coming with another dose of Dave's medicine." Five minutes later, when Mabel, very red and very shining from a hasty application of laundry soap and cold water, looked in at the tent door, a pair of big, bright blue eyes smiled at her from the low, balsam bed. "Hello!" said the boy, "are you the kid they call Mabel? They tell me you picked me up on the beach, along with some driftwood, when I was drowned." "Yes," admitted Mabel, bashfully. "And I guess you _were_ drowned, too--almost. I'm glad you've come to, at last. When are you going to get up?" "I tried to just now, but my head's made of lead--it won't come up." "I guess your neck's weak--Bettie's was. What's your name?" The laughter and the light suddenly faded from the boy's eyes. "I don't know," said the boy, blankly. "I--it's queer, isn't it? That lady with the broth asked me once before, I think----" "I asked you yesterday," corroborated Mrs. Crane. "But don't worry, my dear. You've been very ill and your mind is as weak as your body, no doubt. They'll both be stronger in a few days. All you need to remember is that we are your friends." "And your real name doesn't matter, anyway," added Mabel, noting the troubled expression that still clouded the boy's countenance. "I'm going to call you Billy Blue-eyes--I used to know a goat----" The boy's expressive face suddenly brightened, the blue eyes actually twinkled with fun. "The very thing," cried Mrs. Crane. "We'll call him Billy Blue-eyes. I told him this morning that, when he came out of the lake, he must have brought some of the color with him. His eyes are certainly blue. Shall we call you Billy?" "Sounds all right to me," agreed the boy; "but--but I _hope_ I wasn't that goat." "You weren't," assured Mabel, earnestly. "_I_ liked him, but he butted so many people that Grandma Pike--he belonged to her--had to have him chloroformed and stuffed. The stuffed-animal man wanted him. They didn't have any real glass goat eyes to put in him so they used blue glass marbles. But how did you get in the lake--or out of it, Mr. Billy?" Again the boy looked troubled. "I don't know," said he, after a long pause. "Don't ask any more questions," warned Mrs. Crane. "There'll be plenty of time for that later. Mr. Black sent a notice to the Lakeville paper, by Dave, so his folks'll know he's alive--we described him as well as we could. I even measured him with my tape-measure. He isn't as wide as he ought to be for his length, poor lamb." "He'll get fat on camp fare," promised Mabel. "Look at me!" Billy Blue-eyes looked and the troubled expression gave way to one of amusement. "Phew!" said he, "I'd better not be fed so often--I guess I'll wait awhile for that broth--I've only one suit of clothes, the broth lady says. If I outgrow that----" "You can borrow mine," laughed Mabel. "My gray sweater would fit you splendidly." "He'll need it, too," said Mrs. Crane, "when he sits up to-morrow. That is, I _think_ I'll let him sit up to-morrow--he hasn't had a scrap of fever for quite awhile." "Perhaps," suggested Mabel, "Dave's medicine really did cure him. Did you taste it, Billy?" "Once," said Billy, "but I don't know when, I drank something like red-hot coals, flavored with tobacco and vinegar and ink--was that it?" "Yes," laughed Mabel, "that must have been it." "There's a queer taste in my mouth yet," declared the boy. "It's all puckered up--like choke-cherries." "I guess you'd better run along, Mabel," advised Mrs. Crane, noting that the boy's eyes, in spite of his best efforts, were closing wearily. "He doesn't stay awake very long at a time." "Good-by," said Mabel, cheerfully. "Come again," breathed the boy, sleepily. Of course Mabel felt very important indeed when the other youthful castaways, waiting impatiently just outside the tent, seized her and wanted to know all about it. "He's awfully thin," said Mabel, condescending finally to answer some of the eager little girls' questions. "And his eyes are perfectly huge and sort of twinkly. And blue; yes, bluer than Marjory's. I think we're going to like him; but he can't remember his own name." "Can't remember his own name!" exclaimed Henrietta. "Perhaps he doesn't _want_ to. Perhaps he's an escaped convict trying to hide from the police. Perhaps he's a burglar----" "He isn't either," snorted Mabel, indignantly. "Do you s'pose I'd rescue anybody like that? Besides, you can tell. He _wants_ to remember and can't." "But what," demanded sympathetic Bettie, "will that poor child do for a name? Are we to call him 'that boy' forever? And shout 'Say, Boy' when we want him?" "Of course not," said Henrietta, promptly. "We'll name him ourselves. Vincent de Manville Holmes would be nice--or Neptune something, because he came out of the sea." "That was Venus," corrected Jean. "Oh, well," amended Henrietta, cheerfully, "Ulysses might be better. Still, I always did like Reginald. Or Percival--Percival Orlando de Courcy." "You go home," blurted indignant Mabel, no longer able to listen in triumphant silence. "His name's Billy. He's my boy and I named him; and that's enough." "What?" demanded Marjory. "Just Billy?" "Billy Blue-eyes." "My!" teased Marjory. "Just like a paper doll!" "Never mind," soothed tactful Jean, "I think Billy's a beautiful name." "For a goat," scoffed Henrietta. There's no knowing what would have happened if Mr. Black, gently shooing a strange object before him, had not appeared just then, from the woods back of the clearing. "Hi there, girls," he shouted, "I'm bringing you a pet!" At that the girls, all differences forgotten, raced toward Mr. Black. "Stop! Stop!" he shouted. "You'll scare him away. Stand where you are. That's right. Now, Marjory, you run for the clothesline--we'll try to get a noose about his neck." "Goodness!" gasped Henrietta, backing away as the pet waddled toward her; "what is it? It looks just like a bad dream." "I know," laughed Jean. "It's a porcupine. Just see how his quills stick out--Mercy! Look out, Bettie!" "Ouch!" squealed short-skirted Bettie, as the clumsy beast hurtled past her. "My legs!" "Why!" cried Mabel, "there's quills in your stockings!" "In _me_, too," giggled Bettie. "I guess nobody'll pet _that_ pet very much." "Perhaps we don't want him," said Mr. Black, rather apologetically; "but I thought you might enjoy studying a porcupine at close quarters." "Not _too_ close," laughed Bettie, rubbing her shin. "They're easily tamed," said Mr. Black, "and they'll eat most anything. I found this one on the river bank. He seemed willing enough to run, but it took quite a while to get him going in the right direction." Mr. Black succeeded presently in getting a noose fastened about the porcupine's neck. Then, because there happened to be a convenient tree at that point, the other end of the rope was made fast to a sturdy maple near the path that led to the beach. "We'll name _him_ Percival Orlando de Courcy," declared Henrietta. "No," said Mr. Black, "this is Terrible Tim, the watchdog. Stationed at this point, he'll keep all intruders at bay." Terrible Tim, however, looked the mildest of beasts by this time, for with quills lowered, he was cowering bashfully among the shrubbery. CHAPTER XIX A Belated Traveler A BRILLIANT moon had aided Dave in the latter portion of his journey to Lakeville. The following night, a similarly illumined sky was of great assistance to another solitary wayfarer, for the man in leather leggings, misdirected that morning by Mabel and Henrietta, was laboriously making his way back toward Pete's Patch. Before he had _quite_ reached the end of the unspeakable road over which the girls had sent him, he had met a camping fisherman who had given him explicit directions for finding Mr. Black's land. At ten o'clock that night, having at last reached Barclay's Point, he urged his patient horse along the beach until he came to the embers of a dying camp fire, and noted, on the bank above, a number of white tents gleaming like ghosts in the moonlight. Tying his weary steed to a convenient log, the man, very stiff and sore from his long ride, clambered up the sand bank, only to fall prone at the top over a strange and most alarmingly prickly object that stood directly in his path. Rising with considerable difficulty and separating himself as speedily as possible from Terrible Tim, who was emitting queer, frightened grunts, the surprised traveler moved cautiously along the path, shouting, in a voice that quavered persistently in spite of his manly efforts to control it: "Mr. Black! Oh, Mr. Bla--ack!" Mr. Black, only half awake, sat up to listen. The call came again. "Oh, Mr. Bla-a-a-ack!" The owner of the name, wrapped in a blanket, thrust an inquiring head from the doorway of his tent. "What's all the row about?" he demanded. "Oo!" groaned Henrietta, who had wakened at the first call, "it's that game warden! He'll never spare us _now_." Keen-eared Marjory, too, was sitting up to listen; and, at Mr. Black's reply, Jean and Bettie opened their eyes. "Wake up," commanded Henrietta, in a terrifying whisper, as she pummeled Mabel mercilessly. "Wake up, wake up--the game warden's here." The response to this was so surprising that Henrietta, whose teeth were already chattering with fright, almost tumbled over. "Who--oop!" shouted Mabel, doubling up her sturdy fists and hitting out, first with one, then another. "Who--oop! Who--oop! Who--oop!" "Mabel! For goodness' sake, what do you think you're doing!" gasped Henrietta. "Oh, my poor chin!" "Mabel! Stop pounding my ribs!" shrieked Bettie. "You can't sleep next to _me_ again." "I--I killed him," breathed Mabel, subsiding with a deep, satisfied sigh. "Oh, is it breakfast time?" "What did you kill?" demanded Henrietta, rubbing her chin. "The father-bear--Bettie was running away with his cubs. What's the matter with everybody?" "The game warden," whispered Henrietta. "He's outside with Mr. Black--arresting him, I guess. But listen--they're talking." "What!" Mr. Black was exclaiming, excitedly. "Two girls? Two of _my_ girls sent you--why, Saunders! You must be dreaming!" "Saunders!" gasped Henrietta. "Saunders!" echoed Mabel. "Why! Saunders is the man in Mr. Black's office. I've never seen him, but I've heard a lot about him." "Girls!" called Mr. Black, "are you awake?" "Yes," shrieked all five. "Here's a hungry man. Could one of you roll up in a blanket and find him something to eat?" "Sure!" shrieked all five. Then, of course, there followed a lively scramble for shoes and blankets and, in another moment, the five girls, looking like so many disheveled little squaws, were out in the moonlight. "There's some cold johnny-cake," said Jean, rather doubtfully, "and some mushroom soup that I could warm up." "And beans," added Marjory, stalking after her towards the camp cupboard. "I'll get the dishes." "Girls," said Mr. Black, "this is Mr. Saunders--Mr. William Saunders--of Lakeville. Saunders, which of these young women did you see this morning?" "Well, really," stammered the visitor, glancing from one to another of the blanketed maidens, "I couldn't say." "Mabel and me," mumbled Henrietta, half-heartedly. "And you sent him----" "We thought," explained Mabel, balancing unsteadily on the only foot for which she had been able to find a shoe, "that he was the game warden." "Game warden!" gasped Mr. Black. "Do you mean to say that you _meant_ to send him seventeen miles from Barclay's?" The guilty little girls accomplished the difficult feat of nodding and hanging their heads at the same time. "In all that mud!" groaned Saunders, "and on that awful saddle!" "We," faltered Henrietta, whose red blanket was most becoming to her sparkling brunette countenance, "we didn't want the game warden to find out about Dave." "Good gracious!" exclaimed Mr. Black. "That reminds me. Dave is in Lakeville, Saunders is here--he brought up an important paper for me to sign. With Saunders gone, Dave won't know what to do about the doctor. He _may_ start back." "Not if there's anything drinkable left in Lakeville," assured Saunders. "I know mighty well where I'll find him. But I _can't_ go back to-night--I'm not accustomed to riding, and I've been on that poor old nag all day." "I'll fix a bed for you in my tent," said Mr. Black. "There's plenty of room." "I'm awfully sorry for what we did," mumbled Henrietta, contritely, "but we _did_ mistake you for that dreadful game warden." "That looks," said Saunders, with mock severity, "as if you'd been breaking the game laws." "It's that rascal Dave," explained Mr. Black. "He has damaged them all; but please don't mention it in town." Mr. Saunders was fed and escorted to bed; but before he had had time to unlace his shoes, there were wild shrieks from the girls' tent. Mabel, the first to plunge in, had collided with a horribly prickly object that grunted like a frightened pig and scratched like a thousand needles. Then, as girl after girl rubbed against Terrible Tim, who had somehow escaped and was calmly eating their tallow candle, a chorus of shrieks rang forth. This outcry, of course, sent Mr. Black flying to the rescue. And Mrs. Crane, roused at last and puzzled by the presence of Mr. Saunders, joined the relief party. "It's Terrible Tim!" shrieked Marjory. "He's in all our beds!" "We'll let him go," declared Mr. Black. "He's too troublesome a pet." "No, no, no!" shrieked the alarmed girls. "He'll get in here again." "And I'm sure," said Mrs. Crane, "that he isn't wanted in _my_ tent." "Well," agreed Mr. Black, "I guess it _is_ wiser to tie him up than to attempt to chase him away--perhaps he's forgotten the way home." So Terrible Tim, cowering in a corner and quite as frightened as his victims, was fastened to his clothesline and driven to his tree. It was days, however, before the girls' blankets were free from the irritating porcupine quills that Timothy had shed so generously. In the morning Mr. Saunders, still stiff and sore from his long ride, was safely started on his way to Lakeville; but, during his brief stay, he had made friends with all the girls and even conversed for a few moments with Billy Blue-eyes, who was greatly taken with the pleasant young man. "You see," explained Saunders, with a twinkle in his shrewd gray eye as he glanced toward Mabel and Henrietta, "I want to make such a good impression that I'll be recognized a mile away _next_ time." "Well," complained Mabel, "you might have _said_ you weren't that game warden." At that, lame as he was, Saunders threw back his head and roared. When Saunders, bountifully supplied with lists and instructions, had departed, Mrs. Crane told the girls that Billy was clamoring for visitors. "I guess," said she, "we'll let Jean and Bettie in first--they're the quietest." The boy was now visibly gaining in strength; also he seemed sufficiently cheerful and contented until Bettie, forgetting that she was not to trouble him with questions, asked if he lived in Lakeville. "Where's that?" queried the boy. "About fifteen miles from here," returned Bettie. "You could see it on a clear day if it wasn't for Sugar Loaf and a lot of other scenery in the way." "What's Sugar Loaf--sounds like a candy shop?" "A very high hill right on the edge of the lake. Lakeville is a town around several corners in a little bay. Where _did_ you come from?" The boy's eyes clouded. "I don't know," said he. "When I wake up in the night I _almost_ remember things--my bed, for instance, belongs over there--but there's always a piece of everything gone. I--it bothers me. I guess you think I'm pretty queer." "Don't worry," soothed Jean. "You're not strong yet. You'll be all right when you're well." "Think so?" demanded Billy, brightening. "Then I'll eat all the broth Mrs.--some kind of a bird--brings me." "She's making some now," said Bettie, "from a piece of Dave's venison. We'll have all sorts of good things to eat as soon as Mr. Saunders gets to town. He said he'd travel as fast as he _could_--I guess he's pretty lame." "But," groaned Jean, "he can't possibly get anything here before to-morrow and I'm just starved for pie." "Pie!" laughed the boy. "I'd like a piece myself. Why, when I lived in--in---- Now wouldn't that make you tired! I can _see_ a table with pie on it and a whole pitcher full of cream; but, if you offered me a thousand dollars I couldn't tell you where to find that table! Pshaw! It makes me so mad when things float off like that that I want to--cry." Whereupon Jean, noting that big tears blurred the blue eyes, began hastily to tell how Terrible Tim had devoured one of Mabel's shoes, left carelessly within his reach; and presently the lad was again smiling. CHAPTER XX A Surprise Party THE following afternoon, all the castaways except Billy, who, however, was sitting up in bed, crouched in a row on the bank to watch two slowly approaching objects. "Surely we never asked for _two_ boat-loads of food," remarked puzzled Bettie. "Or medicine," added Mrs. Crane. "Or books," said Jean. "Or clothes," supplemented Henrietta. "Perhaps," suggested Mr. Black, "the other boat isn't coming here." "But it _is_," asserted far-sighted Marjory. "It's headed right this way. And the bigger one is Captain Berry's launch, I _know_." Twenty minutes later the boat that was _not_ Captain Berry's dropped anchor in the little bay. "It's people!" Marjory exclaimed, as the smaller launch swung about. "It looks like a picnic." "Dear me," said alarmed Mrs. Crane, "I hope they've brought their own lunch--_we_ couldn't give them much. And I feel like hiding in the woods--we're terribly in need of starch and flatirons." "They're _waving_," cried Bettie. "I do believe they're visitors for us. Oh, I guess they want a boat." Mr. Black, who had hastened to the launch with one of the small boats, was first to recognize the passengers. Jean, who followed with the second boat (by this time all the girls had learned to row in the shallow, usually calm little bay), was second. "Mercy!" exclaimed astonished Jean, almost catching a crab, "it's most of our parents and Aunty Jane--I do hope they're not going to take us home!" Presently the visitors were safely landed. Doctor and Mrs. Bennett, Doctor and Mrs. Tucker, Mrs. Mapes, Henrietta's grandmother, Mrs. Slater, and Marjory's Aunty Jane. "Where's that dreadful boy?" demanded Aunty Jane, the moment she was on shore. "Are you sure he hasn't something catching? I haven't known a moment's peace since I knew that you'd sent for the doctor; for Marjory's never had _anything_. Are you sure it isn't smallpox? Those lumber camps up the lake----" "Dear me," said Mrs. Crane, "didn't we write that the boy was more than half drowned? I'm _sure_ I said so." "It was that Indian--that unspeakably filthy Indian," returned Aunty Jane. "He said the boy had a fever. I went to the jail--to the _jail_, Mrs. Crane--to talk to that--that beast." "Who--Dave?" "I suppose so. From what little I could understand, I gathered that that boy had some malignant illness--typhoid, diphtheria, scarlet fever, smallpox----" "Mr. Black," interposed Doctor Bennett, "I did all I could to keep these women home, but they _would_ come." "I don't blame them," beamed Mr. Black, hospitably. "They wanted to see their girls. We're glad to see you all." Aunty Jane, the neatest housekeeper in Lakeville, cast disapproving glances in every direction as Mr. Black led the way to the campground. Everybody else was busy exclaiming over Bettie. "Are you sure you _are_ Bettie?" demanded Mrs. Tucker, with delighted eyes. "Why, you're _fat_--Doctor Bennett, she hasn't been fat since she was three years old. And brown! And look at the red in her cheeks! And her lips!" "I've certainly lost my patient," laughed Doctor Bennett. "But Mabel seems to be all here." "Just look at my long Jean's brown arms," cried pleased Mrs. Mapes, vainly endeavoring to span the rounded forearm. "Bigger than mine!" "That's muscle," laughed Jean. "Rowing and climbing trees are great for your muscle--but hard on your clothes." "Ugh!" shuddered Aunty Jane, sniffing disgustedly. "How horrible everything smells! Bacon, onions, fish--just like that filthy Indian!" "All camps smell camp-y," explained Doctor Bennett. "_You'll_ smell camp-y after a day in the woods. But where's that boy? Until I've seen him, these anxious mothers won't be satisfied that he hasn't something contagious." Mrs. Mapes, Doctor and Mrs. Tucker, and the Bennetts were delighted with Pete's Patch and went quite wild over the scenery; but it was clear to everybody that Henrietta's decidedly aristocratic little grandmother and Marjory's overwhelmingly neat Aunty Jane had never been intended by nature for camp life. Mrs. Slater, to be sure, enjoyed the fine sky, the wonderful expanse of blue water, the beautiful golden-brown river, and the deep, cool forest. She liked all these in a quiet, understanding way; but one could see, although the tactful gentlewoman was most polite about it all, that the lowly balsam beds, the rough benches, the careless attire of the castaways had proved rather shocking to a lady accustomed always to luxurious ways of living. As for Aunty Jane, she liked nothing and did not hesitate to denounce camp life and all pertaining to it, Terrible Tim included. "Marjory!" she had exclaimed, at first sight of her usually spotless niece, "your dress is a perfect sight! Go this instant and put on a clean one." "Why!" returned surprised Marjory, "this is my clean one--I washed it yesterday." "_Washed_ it!" gasped Aunty Jane. "Well, you couldn't have used much water." "Only the whole lake," returned Marjory, meekly. "But we haven't any flatirons, so we just pull things somewhere near the right shape and dry them on the bushes. It's lovely fun to wash--we go right in with our clothes." "Do you _cook_ in those filthy pans?" next demanded Aunty Jane, inspecting the fruit of the large pine that served, as Mr. Black punned merrily, as a "pan-tree." "They're clean _inside_," defended Jean. "That's smoke from the camp fire." "I wash the _outside_ of my saucepans," sniffed Aunty Jane, with blighting emphasis. "Also my frying-pans." "It isn't considered proper in camp," returned Mr. Black, whose eyes were twinkling wickedly; "but if you'd like a little missionary work, Miss Jane, there's the dishcloth." "Dishcloth!" gasped Aunty Jane, disdainfully, eying the fairly clean rag drying in the sun. "I wouldn't scrub my coal bin with a cloth the color of that." "I wouldn't scrub mine with _anything_," laughed Mrs. Bennett; "but never mind, Aunty Jane, our girls seem to be thriving in spite of torn dresses and unscoured pans. This life is doing them a world of good." "Good!" sniffed Aunty Jane. "Why! The place must be fairly swarming with germs. I shouldn't _think_ of permitting Marjory to remain here--I shall take her home with me to-night." This was lightning from a clear sky. For a moment nobody said a word. Then there was a chorus of protests. "No, no!" shrieked Bettie, hurling herself upon Aunty Jane. "She can't go." "Oh, _please_, Aunty Jane," cried Jean. "We can't spare her--she's our telescope and our ears." "Oh, _no_," stormed Mabel, "we _must_ keep her. _She_ likes it here--and look at her face--all brown----" "With dirt," snapped Auntie Jane. "It'll take me a month to get that child clean--and a year to scour off those disgusting freckles." Marjory groaned. The prospect was certainly dismal. "Never mind," counseled impish Henrietta, whispering in Marjory's ear. "You can run away--I'll help you. You can easily hide in the bushes so she can't find you when the time comes--there's forty good places to hide in--let's find one now." "No," moaned Marjory, "I _can't_ do that--I wouldn't dare to. And it won't do a mite of good to tease. If she says a thing she sticks to it--it's all over for poor me." When things went wrong, Bettie cried easily, Henrietta wept copiously, and Mabel wailed uproariously; but Marjory, restrained little soul that she was, was seldom known to shed tears. But now several large specimens began to roll down Marjory's cheeks, and presently, to Mr. Black's dismay, the little girl was sobbing bitterly, with her head against Jean's flat but motherly bosom. Both Mr. Black and Mrs. Crane pleaded with Aunty Jane. All the parents reasoned with her. Even Mrs. Slater, who was no camper herself, implored Miss Higgins to change her mind. But that was a thing that the poor lady never _could_ do. Some people _can't_ change their minds--Aunty Jane couldn't. Even when she wanted to she couldn't. "Perhaps she'll be more amiable after dinner," suggested gentle Doctor Tucker, whose mild eyes were shining at the prospect of catching a trout with the hook that Mr. Black was baiting for him. "Many persons are." But the splendid noon dinner that hungry Aunty Jane had expected to devour was still nearly a mile from shore in Captain Berry's launch, and the other launch-man couldn't go after it; because, having incautiously ventured too near shore, he was now engaged in half-hearted attempts to dislodge his stranded craft from a troublesome sand bar. He declined all offers of assistance, saying that Captain Berry, whose engine would surely work _sometime_, could easily tow him into deeper water--_he_ wasn't goin' to work hisself to death for nobody, no, not he. As nobody wanted to row a mile or more and then back again with a load of heavy baskets, nobody did; so Mrs. Crane did the best she could with what she had; but the camp-cooked dinner did not appeal to Aunty Jane, who refused to eat venison that Dave had touched and had no appetite for plain beans, boiled potatoes, and cindery johnny-cake. Altogether, poor Aunty Jane, who was never _very_ pleasant, was in her unhappiest mood. "You see," apologized Mrs. Crane, "our provisions are pretty low; we haven't a very large supply of cups and plates, and of course you haven't been here long enough to acquire an appetite for camp fare. Let me give you a piece of this trout, Miss Higgins." "No, thank you," was Aunty Jane's frigid reply. "I never eat fish." "These beans," assured Mrs. Slater, politely, "are very nice indeed." "And I'm sure," said Doctor Bennett, "this is excellent coffee, even if I _do_ have to drink from a cocoa can." But Aunty Jane scorned them both. "Tell us," urged Mr. Black, "about that boy of ours. What do you think of him?" "Why," replied the merry doctor, "the lad's all right, considering what he's been through. But, judging from his extreme thinness, being shipwrecked is only a small part of his unhappy experience." "What _do_ you mean?" demanded Mrs. Mapes, uneasily. "No, my dear woman--_all_ my dear women," Doctor Bennett hastened to add, "he hasn't had smallpox. But I _do_ know that he was a sick boy _before_ he was shipwrecked, because his body shows that he has lost more flesh than a boy _could_ lose in so short a time." "Yes," corroborated Mrs. Crane, "he was _very_ thin when we found him." "Tuberculosis!" breathed Aunty Jane. "Nothing of the kind," declared the doctor. "But he was dreadfully thin," asserted Mabel. "His legs----" "Never mind his legs," said Doctor Bennett. "It's his head that troubles us now. His body is mending with every moment; but there's something seriously wrong with his memory----" "A dangerous lunatic!" gasped excitable Aunty Jane, half rising from her seat. "No, no!" shouted the exasperated doctor, who didn't like Aunty Jane. "Nothing of the sort. Merely a very pitiable boy who has been extremely ill, probably with pneumonia. A boy who is naturally very bright, in all ways but the one. A boy with an excellent constitution or this last experience would have finished him. The best thing we can possibly do for him is to keep him right here, build up his strength in this splendid air, and then, when he's entirely well, take him to a specialist--I'm wiser about bodies than brains." "Could I make him a pudding?" demanded Mabel, unexpectedly. "No," roared the doctor. "We want him to get _well_." "As for me," said Henrietta, "I shan't be able to sleep nights until I know that boy's real name." "Take my word for it," warned Aunty Jane, "he isn't worth saving. He'll prove either a thief or a tramp; or perhaps both. I wouldn't _think_ of taking in a stranger like that." Mabel was about to retort indignantly, and, it is to be feared, impolitely; for this candid child was sometimes too candid; when Henrietta whispered in her ear: "Wouldn't it be terrible if he proved to be just like Aunty Jane!" This thought was so appalling, in spite of its impossibility, that for ten seconds Mabel sat in silence, with her eyes fairly bulging. "Henrietta," she breathed finally, "weren't--weren't you just fooling?" "Listen!" warned Henrietta. "I'd rather be deceived fifty times," Mrs. Crane was saying, "than let even a tramp go hungry; but that's an honest lad or I never saw one. It's quite possible that he's poor, but that's no crime." CHAPTER XXI Dave Makes Himself Useful SHOUTS from the lake now claimed the campers' attention. Captain Berry's obstinate engine had suddenly decided to work and was now making up for lost time by refusing to stop. The captain, as near shore as he dared approach, was spinning round and round in circles. Each time he neared the land he shouted lustily. "He wants something," interpreted Mr. Black, rising from the table. "Marjory--where is Marjory with her sharp ears?" "Crying in our tent," replied Mabel, with a vindictive glance toward Aunty Jane. "If she wasn't a _good_ child, she'd climb a tree and stay there until some folks----" "There, there," squelched Doctor Bennett, "we mustn't criticise our elders. Let's see what that crazy boat is doing." "She's stopped," said Mr. Black, "and Dave's swimming ashore--after the boats, I guess. Let's help him." Presently all sorts of boxes, bundles, and baskets were safely landed; all the campers and most of the visitors helping the good work along. Even Marjory, her face swollen and disfigured from much weeping, assisted a little. "Hullo!" cried Dave, catching sight of the sorrowful countenance. "W'at you ees cry for, li'le gal?" Tactful Jean, seeing that Marjory was unable to speak, replied for her. "Her aunt--she hasn't any mother, you know--is going to take her home. She doesn't want to go; but she can't help herself." "Dat's too bad," sympathized Dave. "W'ich of dose ees hees aunt?" Jean pointed out Aunty Jane--a middle-aged, unattractive lady, who sat bolt upright when everybody else loafed in comfortable, camp-y attitudes. "Yas, Ah'm see dose old gal biffore," admitted disrespectful Dave, eying Aunty Jane's stiff, unconscious back reflectively. "Ah'm not lak' dose kind of lady ver' moch--she ees tole me for take som' _bat'_." Even Marjory smiled forlornly at the idea of Dave's taking a bath. But smiles did not last long that day. In spite of all the good things that came in baskets and bundles, in spite of a big box of candy that Saunders had included for Mabel and Henrietta, and inscribed "With the Game Warden's Compliments," the sympathetic little girls were very unhappy at the thought of losing Marjory. They had _always_ played together; and now they were absolutely certain that they _couldn't_ have good times during the rest of their stay with no Marjory to help enjoy them. As for Marjory, that small maiden was shedding so many tears that Mabel feared there would soon be nothing left of her unhappy little friend. And by afternoon even the grown-ups were thoroughly vexed by Aunty Jane's obstinacy. "Oh, we all know," said Mrs. Bennett to Mrs. Tucker, who sat under a tree, letting down a skirt for Bettie, "that Aunty Jane _means_ well; she'd work her fingers to the bone for Marjory; but a _real_ mother wouldn't be a--a----" "Vinegar cruet," supplied Doctor Bennett. "She has completely spoiled the day," declared Mrs. Tucker, "for all those children; and we _meant_ to give them a pleasant surprise." "Poor Aunty Jane _couldn't_ be a pleasant surprise," protested Mrs. Bennett, "but we mustn't blame her--_she_ didn't pick out her unfortunate disposition. We'll just have to be extra cheerful ourselves this afternoon to make up for her unpleasantness." But no one succeeded in being "extra cheerful," when there was so much gloom to dispel; to the children, especially, the day seemed absolutely spoiled in spite of much unexpected and rather amusing sympathy from Dave, who plainly considered going home with Aunty Jane an unmixed calamity. "I guess," said Jean, shrewdly, "that Dave _likes_ to have us here." "And why not?" demanded Henrietta. "We give him all sorts of good things to eat and Mr. Black pays him besides, for all the work he doesn't do. He's just bought himself a nice new blanket and a fine big quilt--I noticed them on the beach. Why! Something's happening. Let's see what it is." Dave, with a large bundle on his shoulder, was crossing the clearing, in the direction of his wigwam. Aunty Jane, pointing at the bundle and scolding loudly, was scurrying after him. Mrs. Bennett and Mrs. Mapes were scurrying after _her_. Mrs. Slater, under a tree with Mrs. Tucker, seemed greatly amused; for this bright old lady possessed a strong sense of humor. "What _is_ it, Granny?" demanded Henrietta, pausing at sight of the dainty little grandmother's smiling countenance. "Is she trying again to make Dave take a bath?" "No, Honey," laughed Mrs. Slater. "She thinks she recognizes that quilt--she missed one off her clothesline several nights ago." Dave, seeing that Aunty Jane was not to be shaken off, stopped, untied his bundle, separated the quilt from the other articles, and offered it to the pursuing lady. "Yas," grinned Dave, "Ah'm t'ink dose queelt she ees yours, maybe. She's grow on som' clothesline jus' biffore de back part of dose house of madame hon Lakeveele. Me, Ah'm need som' more queelt--som' tam' Ah'm got company. Mus' feex noddaire bed, Ah'm t'ink." "Well," replied Aunty Jane, tartly, as she reached for the guilt, "you'd better think again. Give it to me this instant." Then, catching a whiff of the aroma that was ever a part of Dave, Aunty Jane fairly hurled the restored comforter at the grinning thief. "For goodness' sake!" she gasped. "_Take_ it, you filthy Indian. There isn't water enough in Lake Superior to get the smell out of anything you've touched." "Yas," returned Dave, blandly accepting the quilt, "Ah'm sleep hon dose queelt hall de way from Lakeveele. Night biffore, halso. Ah'm moch obliged for dose present, madame. Dose ver' good queelt, Ah'm t'ink." "A great deal too good for you, you filthy beast." Dave's ill-kept teeth still gleamed in his wide, amiable smile; but his narrowed black eyes suddenly glittered in a cold, snaky way that started an unpleasant chill down Aunty Jane's spine. "That wicked Indian," she said afterwards, "thanked me and looked as if he'd like to murder me, all in the same breath." "Indians," mused Doctor Tucker, "are said to be revengeful." Perhaps, with so many little girls sorrowful on Marjory's account, the sky hadn't the heart to keep on smiling. At any rate, a full hour earlier than the visitors had expected to leave, their launch-man was pointing pessimistically toward gathering clouds--no one else had noticed them. "If you folks want to get home before it rains," said he, "you'd better be climbing aboard--less'n you want to stay here all night." "Mercy!" cried Aunty Jane, springing to her feet, "I wouldn't stay for a million dollars." Mrs. Slater was too polite to _say_ that she wouldn't either; but she, too, rose rather hastily to look about for scattered belongings. Dave assisted everybody with wonderful alacrity. He was here, there, and everywhere. The girls assisted, too--perhaps that was why it took so long to find all Marjory's widely dispersed garments. They were still at this task after most of the mothers had climbed aboard the launch. Marjory, by this time fairly helpless with grief, sat on a log and wept; while Aunty Jane, on her knees under a nearby tree, attempted to roll the accumulated garments into a neat bundle. Somehow--nobody knew exactly how--Terrible Tim, the porcupine, made his presence felt just at this busy moment. One instant the object in Aunty Jane's grasp was an innocent bundle of clothing. The next, the horrified lady was clutching an astonished and most dreadfully prickly porcupine; for Timothy, propelled by some mysterious force, had landed squarely in her arms. Instantly the air was rent with shrieks. No one noticed the extra shriek or two that Marjory added to the chorus as a dark, sinewy arm shot forth and suddenly grasped her. No one saw lithe Dave draw the frightened, dazed little girl into the thicket, toss her across his shoulder, and flee, by a roundabout trail that no civilized foot could have found, toward his own wigwam. "Be still," commanded Dave, clapping his hand gently but effectually over Marjory's mouth. "Don't be scare--Ah'm good frien' to you, li'le gal. Now ron, ron fast hon your own leg." Astonishment prevented further desire to shriek, for, near the doorway of Dave's wigwam and washing a grimy pan with a grimier rag, stood a dark but decidedly attractive young woman. And down in the dirt at her feet, as Marjory had seen her many times previously, groveled the Dandelion Cottage baby, the unforgettable Rosa Marie. Marjory, at sight of the funny little Indian baby that Mabel had once adopted, almost forgot her own troubles. "Ma sistaire," explained Dave, pointing toward the woman. "Hees name ees Mahjigeezigoqua. Can you say dose name?" "Mar-gee-gee-ze-go-qua," repeated Marjory, correctly making the first g soft, the second hard. "But how did you get them here? We didn't see them leave the boat." "Ah'm pack dem wit' dose proveesion," laughed Dave. "Ah'm poot dose two hon shore behin' som' point, w'ile all dose peop' ees too busy for look at Dave. Ma sistaire ees come for pick som' berry. Hey, you know dose kid? W'y you no talk, Rosa Marie? Here ees som' frien' for you." Then Dave spoke rapidly in some strange tongue to his sister, concluding in his broken English, as he turned to go: "Now Ah'm go for help dose ol' Aunt hon top dose boat. You stay here." Nevertheless, conscientious Marjory started to follow him; but Rosa Marie's mother, stepping quickly into the narrow pathway, gently but unmistakably detained her. "You talk som' leetle t'ing to Rosa Marie--she ees remembaire you, ees eet not, Rosa? See, how he ees grow som' hon herself, dose so fat Rosa." So Marjory, seeing no way of immediate escape with the attractive young Indian woman firmly blocking the pathway, renewed her acquaintance with Rosa Marie, who apparently was as stolid and as unemotional as ever. "Hees fadaire lak' dat," explained Mahjigeezigoqua. "He t'ink hon hees inside honly. No talk, no mak' som' smile hon her face, dose man." If Rosa Marie _did_ any thinking, it is certain that the process went on "inside only," for if ever there was a wooden little Indian it was Rosa Marie. But by dint of hard work, Marjory finally extracted a smile. Then Rosa Marie, groping under her brief skirts, produced the very dirtiest and most disreputable doll that Marjory had ever beheld. "Ma-_bel_," said Rosa Marie. "Ma-_bel_." "She ees name for Mees Ma_bel_," explained the Indian baby's mother. "Mabel ought to feel flattered," giggled Marjory. "I'll tell her about her namesake. But mercy! I must go back----" "Wait," said Dave's sister, lightly clasping her slender brown fingers about Marjory's wrist. "Ah show you how to catch som' chipmunk." And Marjory, realizing that she was a prisoner, stayed where she was. CHAPTER XXII A Twisted Conscience BY the time Dave returned, Aunty Jane had been separated from Terrible Tim and a large number of loose quills. All the others had embarked, but Aunty Jane, breathing dire threats, still lingered to look for Marjory. "Are you sure," asked Henrietta, sincerely, "that she didn't go aboard with that last boat-load? I don't think she was here when poor Timothy tumbled out of that tree." "_Did_ he tumble?" snapped Aunty Jane. "_I_ think he jumped." At this moment, Dave--the only person who knew exactly how Terrible Tim happened to land where he did--joined in the search for Marjory. "Ah'm smell pooty good," asserted crafty Dave, crawling about on all-fours and making an elaborate pretense of sniffing at the sand, "and Ah'm sure dose gal ees mak' som' track for dose boat." "Hi there!" shouted Mr. Black, from the beach. "Captain says he can't wait a moment longer--other boat's halfway home by now. Or are you going to stay with us, Miss Higgins? There's plenty of room." "No, I'm _not_," snapped Aunty Jane, fleeing down the bank. "With your dirty Indians and your flying beasts this is no place for a decent woman." It is said that one disagreeable person in camp can spoil the very pleasantest party, and the saying must be true, for with Aunty Jane at Pete's Patch nothing had seemed quite right--the luster was gone from everything--even the sky. But, as Captain Berry's delayed launch began the determined chug-chugging that soon carried the little boat into deeper water, everybody on shore breathed a sigh of relief; and overhead, as Henrietta pointed out, laughingly, a tiny patch of gold glimmered among the clouds. "They say," mused Mr. Black, "that living close to Nature brings out all your traits more strongly." "Yes, Peter," laughed Mrs. Crane, "I've noticed that you're lazier here than you were in town." "I was thinking," returned Mr. Black, with dignity, "that folks with sharp tongues and twisted tempers ought never to venture into the woods." Aunty Jane was a good mile from shore before Dave turned, with his wickedest grin, toward the castaways. "Come wit' me," he invited. "Ah'm fool dose aunt lady, Ah'm t'ink." "What do you mean?" demanded Mr. Black. "Come wit' me," repeated Dave, with the most complacent of smiles. "Ah'm show you som' deer in a trap--Ah'm snare heem just now." Of course Mr. Black and the girls wanted to see so unusual a sight as a trapped deer; but when they discovered that the deer was a dear, their own beloved Marjory, their astonishment was great. And of course they were no less surprised to see Rosa Marie and Mahjigeezigoqua, her almost unspellable mother. "Marjory!" gasped Jean. "We thought you were on the boat!" "Marjory," panted Mabel. "All your clothes _are_ on that boat." "These aren't," returned Marjory, indicating what she had on. "And my skin isn't--I can wear that, if I have to." "Granny brought me loads of things," assured Henrietta. "I guess you won't need to come down to skin." "Marjory," demanded Mr. Black, rather severely for so mild a man, "do you mean to say that you were naughty enough to deliberately hide from Aunty Jane?" Marjory colored, but remained silent. It occurred to her suddenly that telling the truth would seem a good deal like disloyalty to Dave--Dave, who had been her friend. As Marjory was not in the habit of fibbing, she didn't know what to say. "Eef dose gal won't ron away on herself," explained Dave, promptly exonerating Marjory from all blame, "me, Ah'm mus' ron away wit' heem. Ah'm pull heem into de bush and ron, ron lak' de dev' (devil). Hey, li'le gal; Ah'm good frien' to you, hey? An' now dose aunt, w'at smell too strong wit' hees nose, ees gone two-t'ree mile, Ah'm t'ink." "Dave," queried Mr. Black, shaking his head soberly, "is there any way of discovering what you _do_ think? Are you all rascal or are you part angel--with the angel part very much disguised? I can't make you out." But this was too deep for Dave. "Ah'm t'ink," replied Dave, replying to only the first part of Mr. Black's question, "dat dose poor li'le Margy ees don't want to go home wit' hees aunt. Me, Ah'm not care for go home wit' dose aunt maself." At this the delighted girls shrieked with mirth, for the idea of Aunty Jane taking Dave home with her would have amused even Dave's solemn dog. Mr. Black, however, still frowned slightly, for Dave puzzled him. "Dave," said he, "you're altogether too full of tricks. I suppose you don't know what courtesy toward a woman means; but you've certainly been ruder than you should have been to poor Miss Higgins. You'll have to go to Lakeville to-night and tell that poor woman that Marjory is safe--perhaps I'd better write her a note so she won't blame Marjory." "Ah'm go right off," agreed Dave, cheerfully. "Maybe Ah'm find som' more queelt on hees line." "Dave, you incorrigible rascal," stormed Mr. Black, "you let that lady's clothesline alone. Steal one off _my_ line, if you must have a quilt--I'm better able to spare it." "Ah'm good frien' to _you_," protested Dave, earnestly, with the outstretched hand of good-fellowship. "You shake hon dat?" "I hope you are," returned Mr. Black, shaking the proffered hand. "But, Dave, your conscience is like that river--no one could possibly map its windings. And after this, my man, you must be a good friend to my _friends_, as well as to me. Now let's go back to camp and see what our Billy boy is doing." Dave, evidently somewhat troubled, for he still had an unconfessed misdeed on his mind, followed the castaways back to the clearing. They found Mrs. Crane sitting disconsolately on the bench outside her tent. "That boy's so blue," she confided, advancing to meet them, "that I'm staying outside to give him a chance to cry. I guess he thought the doctor was going to cure him right off and he's terribly disappointed." "Couldn't we tell him about Dave and Aunty Jane?" queried Bettie. "That ought to cheer anybody--just think, Mrs. Crane, Dave hid Marjory in his wigwam, with Rosa Marie and her mother." "Rosa Marie! And didn't Marjory go on the boat?" "No, Marjory's back there with Mabel and Rosa Marie--she's Dave's niece." "Dave's niece! Well, well----" "I guess Dave doesn't like Aunty Jane," interrupted Henrietta. "I can't be sure--it was all so exciting just then--but I _think_ Dave slid down the trunk of one of those big trees just after Terrible Tim landed between Aunty Jane and that bundle." "She might have been badly hurt," said Mrs. Crane, indignantly. "Dave, come here a moment--I want to talk to you. Did you drop that porcupine into Miss Higgins' lap?" "Eef som' porkypine ees go for drop," returned Dave, whimsically, "eet ees good dat he ees land on som' sof' plass. Som' tam', Ah'm tole, she's rain cat an' dog; som' tam' she's rain porkypine. W'at for? Me, Ah'm can't tole you. De sky she ees made dose way." "Well," warned Mrs. Crane, "you'd better see to it, Dave, that it doesn't rain any more porcupines--I don't like such tricks." "Ah'm not please nobody," sighed Dave, dolefully, "w'en Ah'm try all day to help all dose body." "But, Dave," remonstrated Mrs. Crane, "you do so many wrong things. You stole that quilt from Miss Higgins' line, didn't you?" "Yas," replied Dave. "Dose blanket, too." "Dave, you poor benighted creature! Don't you know it's wrong to steal?" "Yas," admitted incorrigible Dave, with an unmistakable twinkle in his eye. "Ah'm t'ink so, w'en som'body ees eat up all dose venison of me. She's very bad for stole all dose meat--Me, Ah'm have no dinnaire, me. Halso, Ah'm got no suppaire, Ah'm _sop_pose. Mus' break som' more game law----" "Dave!" cried Mrs. Crane, contritely. "You sit right down at that table and I'll give you the best meal you ever ate." "But," mourned the wily half-breed, seating himself, nevertheless, "Rosa Marie, ma sistaire, too, mus' dose two starve?" "Why--why, no!" gasped Mrs. Crane. "I'll fix something for them, too." "Som' day," promised Dave, sincerely, "Ah'm geeve you som' good fat moskrat." Too polite to say so, Mrs. Crane hoped fervently that Dave would forget that promise; she was quite certain that she wouldn't enjoy eating a "good fat muskrat," or even a very thin one. CHAPTER XXIII Billy's Memory WHILE Mrs. Crane was supplying Dave with a bountiful meal, the girls were telling Billy about Rosa Marie, Marjory, Aunty Jane, the porcupine--in short, all the news of that eventful day. Billy, with brightening eyes, was certainly enjoying it all, particularly the part about Terrible Tim. "Once," began Billy, reminiscently, "when I was a kid I saw----" But what Billy had seen could only be guessed, for the brightness slipped from his eyes and he pulled the corner of his blanket over his face. "I can't remember a blamed thing," he mumbled, with a catch in his throat. "Cheer up," teased Henrietta, gently. "Nobody 'd _want_ to remember anything that looks like Terrible Tim. But when you see him, you'll probably remember what you were going to say. Did they tell you that you're to come outside to-morrow and lie in a hammock with soft-boiled eggs? Oh, I mean you're to _eat_ the eggs. Aren't you glad?" "I like eggs," said the boy, uncovering one eye. "Chicken, too, and roast beef." "Perhaps Dave will get you a partridge--Doctor Bennett said you could eat that. Did you ever eat partridge?" "Yes," returned Billy. "Where?" demanded Bettie and Henrietta, with one voice. "At--at--oh, it's gone!" wailed Billy, "when I had it right at the end of my tongue." "Don't worry," soothed motherly Jean. "You're a _lot_ better than you were yesterday. We can all see that." "Think so? Well, maybe I am. Is that--yes, it _is_ milk toast. Tastes just like food. _Sure_ I'm ready for another bite." "It's the good sweet cream those people brought," said Mrs. Crane. "I hope," murmured Billy, between bites, "they'll come often." "I don't," protested Mabel. "Visitors are a nuisance--they stir things up too much." "Her mother scrubbed her," laughed Henrietta, "and brushed a lot of sand out of her hair--didn't you hear terrible wails? But Mabel was glad to see her mother, just the same." The threatening clouds that had so alarmed the two launch-men passed harmlessly over Pete's Patch; and the next day proved so fine that Billy was moved to a hammock under the trees, where the overlapping leaves of huge maples formed a most attractive roof. The change agreed with him; fortified with fresh eggs and fresh air he grew stronger with astonishing rapidity; a rapidity that proved alarming to Mrs. Crane; for, like Bettie, this new invalid was no sooner on his feet than he made tracks for the alluring lake. "If I had a bathing suit," said Billy, when Mrs. Crane had, for the fourth time, forbidden him to wade in the lake, "I'd go in _swimming_--then you couldn't pull me out so easily." "But, Billy----" "All right, I'll be good," promised Billy, "but that's a mighty fine bunch of water--say, couldn't you _make_ some swimming tights for a chap?" "When you're strong enough to swim," agreed Mrs. Crane. Physically, young Billy improved by leaps and bounds; but the stronger he grew, the more he worried over his strange lapses of memory. "Sometimes I dream things," complained Billy, one day. "And when I wake up I wonder how much of it is true. Last night I thought I was falling down, down out of an airship and I called 'Mother, mother! I can't find my umbrella.'" "Have you a mother?" asked Jean, quickly. "I don't know. But I think so--I dream of some person who says: 'Now don't do that, Lad--Lad----'" "Laddie," supplied Bettie, promptly. "Laddie!" shouted the boy. "That's it--it didn't get away _that_ time." "Sometimes," said Laddie-Billy, another day, "when Dave comes into sight, I _almost_ call him by another name; but the name doesn't quite come--I think I've known somebody--in a boat, perhaps--that looked like him." There were many things, fortunately, that the boy had not forgotten. He handled his knife and fork properly, ate his soup daintily, and proved later that he had once been able to row a boat; though at first, of course, his strength had been unequal to very strenuous efforts with the oars. In spite of his unhappy experience with the lake, he seemed, strangely enough, to be exceedingly fond of the water and to feel not the slightest fear of it. Mrs. Crane, indeed, would have been glad to find him more cowardly; for, long before the purposely delayed bathing suit was ready, Billy had gone in swimming in his only clothes. Also, it was next to impossible to keep him out of the boats. Time proved, too, that the water-loving castaway was a bright lad. He could read and write very readily in English, knew a little French, and was rather clever at figures. Often, when glancing through the advertising pages of magazines, his expressive face would light up and Laddie-Billy (as the girls now called him to please Mabel) would exclaim, joyfully: "I've seen _that_ picture before." But the things that the curiously afflicted boy _wanted_ to remember refused obstinately to come; and this grieved him sorely. "I suppose," said Billy, one balmy evening, when all the youngsters were roasting potatoes between two glowing logs, "I'm really well enough to go home, but--but where _is_ my home?" "You needn't worry about that," assured Mrs. Crane. "We're more than willing to keep you right here--as long as you don't tumble out of those boats." "Yes," added Mr. Black, heartily, "we really need a boy to help us when Dave is busy breaking the game laws. I'm only afraid that Saunders will come along some day with an answer to that advertisement. You're well worth keeping, my lad." "I'm glad of that," smiled Billy, cheered by these kindly assurances. "I'll try to be, anyway." "We _all_ like you," declared Mabel, "even if you _are_ getting fat." "Am I?" queried Laddie-Billy, anxiously. "Gracious! If I do, these clothes--can it be that I'll come to wearing a blue plaid bathing suit _all_ the time?" For Mrs. Crane, for want of other material, was slowly converting her biggest and most gorgeous gingham apron into a decidedly queer bathing costume for her lively charge. "The bagginess," Mrs. Crane explained, when the castaway suggested mildly that part of the cloth might be saved for other purposes, "will fill up with air and keep you from sinking." And naughty Henrietta had added, under her breath: "Behold Billy Blue-eyes, the Human Balloon." CHAPTER XXIV A Mutual Friend DURING the blissful summer that Jean, Bettie, Mabel, and Marjory had spent in Dandelion Cottage, and before the coming of Henrietta, the little girls had frequently found themselves in need of real money for their make-believe housekeeping. In order to procure the needed funds, they had rented a room to a charming young woman named Miss Blossom. Miss Blossom's father, an organ tuner by profession, visited many towns in the course of a year. In July, while the castaways were still in camp, some portion of the Presbyterian organ in Lakeville went wrong; and skilful Mr. Blossom, summoned to that town to repair it, was accompanied by his very pleasant daughter. Of course the very first thing she did was to ask for her young friends. "We've only three days to spend here," said she, "but I _should_ like to see those darling girls--I've thought of them so many, many times." "Suppose," said Mrs. Bennett, to whom Miss Blossom had appealed, "you go to Mr. Saunders--he may be sending things up." "Mr. William Saunders?" queried the young woman, with interest. "Oh--I met him when I was here last summer. Thank you--I'll get father to take me to his office this noon." So that is how it happened that the ever-useful Saunders, who had been commissioned to supply Laddie-Billy with a wardrobe, loaded Miss Blossom aboard Captain Berry's launch that very afternoon. And then, feeling certain that the pleasant and very pretty young woman would be lonely with no one but the captain for company, Mr. Saunders added himself to the load. The castaways, always eager for the arrival of parcels from home, were all on the beach to welcome the unexpected visitors. Even Billy, who declared that he had never felt better in his life, was part of the sunburnt group. "I know," lamented Billy, "that those clothes'll be too small--I've grown a foot since Mr. Black measured me three days ago." "Oh, not a whole foot," protested Mrs. Crane, eying her patient with pride. "But I do think you're a credit to my nursing." "It isn't everybody," beamed Billy, "that has such a fine nurse--shall I help with that boat, Mr. Black?" "No, Dave'll take her out." "Why!" cried Marjory, "there are _people_ getting into Captain Berry's skiff." "I think," said Jean, a moment later, "that the man is Mr. Saunders; but I don't know the lady--I can't see her face." "She looks young," said Marjory, with a sigh of relief. "Too young to be Aunty Jane. Just at first--Ugh! I was scared--Oh! It's----" "Why!" cried Billy, springing suddenly to his feet and rushing straight toward the landing place, "it's Miss Blossom!" "Miss Blossom!" gasped Jean, gazing in open-eyed amazement at the others. "Miss Blossom!" echoed Mabel. "Miss Blossom!" breathed Bettie. "Oh! Look at Billy! It really _is_ Miss Blossom, and he knows her!" It certainly looked as if Billy, the unknown castaway, had found a friend; for, not waiting for the boat to land, he had rushed into the water (it was shallow, you remember, for a long distance) and had seized the surprised young woman in a bearlike hug. "Miss Blossom! Miss Blossom!" he cried, hopefully. "What _is_ my name?" "Why, my dear Laddie," returned the overwhelmed (and almost overturned) young woman, "what does all this mean? Never before was I so warmly greeted by any young man. Is this--Oh, I _see_. You're the sick and shipwrecked boy that Mr. Saunders--but _you're_ not sick!" "Not any more," gasped excited Billy, still with an arm about Miss Blossom, as if fearful she might escape. "But I can't remember anything. Tell me, quick--where did I come from?--who am I? I know _you_. I pumped the organ for you--a big church--you played--Oh, tell me, _tell_ me." "Wait," pleaded Miss Blossom, "until we're on shore--you'll surely tip us over." "All right," agreed Billy, reluctantly. But so great was his eagerness to get his friend ashore that he got behind the boat and pushed. "Now," demanded excited Billy, the moment Miss Blossom was out of the boat, "what's the rest of my name? Laddie--Laddie _what_?" "I don't know," confessed Miss Blossom, coloring with chagrin. "Honestly I don't, Laddie. You see, so many boys have pumped organs for us that I don't always remember even their _first_ names." "But," panted Billy, with a catch in his throat, "surely you'll remember the name of the town?" "No--o," faltered Miss Blossom, "I'm afraid I don't. I remember your face and your very bright hair--I can _see_ that bright head bobbing up and down in the light of a stained glass window--but I _don't_ know which town or even which state I saw you in. But don't worry, Laddie-boy. My father has a list of all the organs he has ever mended. Now, it must be some time within the last two years that you pumped for us; and it is probable that we stayed with that particular organ for a number of days, else I wouldn't have had time to learn that you were 'Laddie'--I usually call the organ-pumper 'Boy.' Now, when I've looked at father's list, I'll pick out all the _long_ jobs, discover what towns they were in, and perhaps Mr. Saunders, here, will write a notice to insert in the papers that are published in those towns. Don't worry. One of them will certainly be your town. And here are all my precious girls patiently waiting to be hugged!" Miss Blossom proved a most delightful visitor. The girls wanted to keep her, Mrs. Crane urged her to stay; but Miss Blossom declared that she owed it to Laddie-Billy to get back to Lakeville as speedily as possible. Captain Berry, also, would remain for only two hours; but everybody visited fast and furiously for that precious interval of time--it went all too quickly. "I'm quite sure," declared Miss Blossom, at parting, "that father's list will help." "Let me know," pleaded Billy, who had donned his becoming new clothes without delay and happily found them sufficiently large, "if you find anything." "I surely will," promised Miss Blossom. Three days later, Mr. Saunders, this time on horseback, rode into camp. "I'm commissioned," he explained, "to say a certain word in Billy's hearing. Where is he?" "Getting washed for dinner," replied Henrietta, flourishing the bread-knife toward the river. "Don't mention my errand," said Saunders. "I'll spring it on Billy when we're all at table--I've invited myself to dinner." "We'll let everybody get seated before we call Billy," agreed Henrietta. "And I'll warn the girls. You might tie your horse behind those bushes and perhaps he won't know you're here until you speak." Sure enough, hungry Billy plunged to his place without observing the visitor; but when the plates were filled, Mr. Saunders suddenly leaned forward, looked at Billy, and remarked casually: "The last time I was in Pittsburg----" "Pittsburg!" gasped Billy, with widening eyes. "Were you ever in Pittsburg?" "No," admitted Saunders, rather sheepishly. "Were you?" "Yes!" yelled Billy, joyously waving his slice of bread. "Two-twenty-four Jefferson Street, Pittsburg, Pennsylvania; population three hundred and twenty-one thousand. _Sure!_ I was _born_ there! That's where I _live_." "But how," queried Henrietta, strong in all matters geographical, "could a person set sail from Pittsburg and be wrecked at Pete's Patch, Upper Michigan?" "He couldn't," replied Mr. Black. "Nevertheless," said Saunders, "I've sent notices to all the Pittsburg papers--what's that street number again?" "I--I don't know," stammered Billy. "It's gone again. I guess it's easier to think when you're not trying to." "Jefferson Street," supplied Marjory, who had remembered. Billy nodded. "Yes," said he, "that sounds right. But how did you guess Pittsburg, Mr. Saunders?" "In Mr. Blossom's note-book there was an item, under the heading 'Pittsburg,' that read: 'Paid Laddie one dollar.'" "Wonder where it went?" said the boy, turning his empty pockets inside out. "By this time to-morrow," promised Saunders, "all Pittsburg will know that a Pittsburg boy name Laddie, wrecked on Lake Superior, is alive and well in--or near--Lakeville." "Lost:" murmured Laddie, "a brindle pup; answers to the name of Billy. Well, I'm awfully obliged, Mr. Saunders; and my folks--I wonder if my folks _want_ to find me? Do you s'pose they do?" "I'm sure of it," declared Mrs. Crane. "But if they don't, _I'll_ keep you." "Nobody'd ever think," sniffed Mabel, overcome with emotion, "that _I'd_ found that boy--everybody adopting him all the time." "You found Rosa Marie, too, didn't you?" teased Billy. "Well, I refuse to be a twin sister to Rosa Marie." "Who," asked Saunders, "is Rosa Marie?" "She's a relative," remarked Mr. Black, dryly, "that Dave imported for the express purpose of eating our berries. Dave, it seems, not only lives here himself but entertains his relatives at our expense." "And Peter encourages Dave in all his iniquity," added Mrs. Crane. "And," laughed Bettie, "Mrs. Crane cooks for Dave and all his visitors." "Well," admitted Mrs. Crane, "they'd either starve or steal if I didn't." "Dave," said Marjory, who had learned much of the Gurneau family history from the friendly Indian, "has nine brothers and seven sisters--his mother had seventeen children." "Good gracious!" exclaimed Mr. Black, "do they _all_ live here at times?" "No," laughed Marjory. "Most of them are in Canada." "Dear me," breathed Mrs. Crane, fervently, "I hope they'll stay there." CHAPTER XXV A Captured Fisherman NOW that there was hope of learning more about Billy Blue-eyes, the young campers found it hard to wait patiently for possible tidings from Pittsburg. They were all restless and excited; Laddie in particular could settle down to nothing. "We'll all go fishing," declared Mr. Black. "That'll keep Billy's mind off his troubles. Dave says he knows a trail that will lead us to the finest fishing spot in the country; so we'll take a lunch and stay all day." "Laddie," queried Mrs. Crane, anxiously, "are you strong enough for such a long trip?" "Sure," asserted her fidgety patient, "I could pull in a _whale_." "Then," declared Mrs. Crane, "I'll get Mahjigeezigoqua to wash the dishes and make the beds, and I'll go, too. I don't care if I do get rheumatism--I haven't been fishing for _years_. And that young woman loves to do things for us." "No wonder," said Jean, "after all you did for Rosa Marie last winter." "Put on your very oldest shoes," ordered Mr. Black. "You're to wade the river--Dave says it's shallow all the way down, except in a few spots where we can follow a trail along the bank. He's cutting poles for everybody." For perhaps half an hour, sure-footed Dave, carrying the lunch in a bag on his back, led the fishing party through thickets that Mr. Black had supposed impenetrable, to come out at last on the river bank. It was their own many-curved river, but so wildly beautiful at this seldom visited spot that even quiet Mrs. Crane exclaimed loudly. Then, their hooks baited, they waded into the shallow, winding stream, and fished. "Go _down_ dose stream," commanded Dave. "Bam-bye she's take you back to Pete's Patch." "Here, Bettie," said Mr. Black, "I'll show you how to cast your hook--Phew! Here's a fish for you already--must have been ready for breakfast!" Sure enough, a wriggling, silvery trout dangled from Mr. Black's pole. "There's something running away with my line," complained inexperienced Jean, a little frightened by this uncanny sensation. "It feels as big as a rabbit!" "Pull it in," commanded Mr. Black, "you've got a bite." So she had, but the fish that had felt "as big as a rabbit" proved so tiny that Mr. Black put him back to grow; and the apparently unconcerned little trout made a dart for Marjory's hook. He seemed so determined to be caught by _somebody_--it didn't matter who--that Dave dug a little pool in the sand for him. "Stay dere," ordered Dave, "till dose beeg brodder of you ees have som' chance for got caught." "I don't think I want to fish," said tender-hearted Jean. "I'd rather _look_. Every time I take a step I see a new picture--I'd like to keep all my eyes for the scenery." "So would I," declared Bettie, pulling in her line. "Let's just dawdle along together somewhere out of reach of Mabel's hook--Goodness! Look at Henrietta putting on her own bait!" "I did it, too," bragged Marjory. "I couldn't wait for Dave--it's _such_ fun to see a trout dart out from under the bank and grab your worm and run away with it." "You must give a little jerk," instructed Mr. Black. "Just like that." "Just like this," added Mabel. But Mabel's fish proved to be a log, so amid much laughter, Dave provided her with a fresh hook. For several wonderful hours, the happy castaways waded and fished. Never in all their wanderings had they encountered anything as beautiful as the overhanging trees, the fern-fringed banks, the softly gurgling water. And never had fish seemed more willing to bite. Even Dave was surprised at their voracity. In spite of Mrs. Crane's heavy floundering, in spite of the number of times that Mabel slipped from slimy stones to land "kersplash" on her sturdy back, in spite of the delighted shrieks that came from Marjory and Henrietta at every bite, the hungry fish flocked to the feast of angleworms. [Illustration: SEATED ON THE DRY END WAS A STOUT, PLACID MAN] "Dose worms she's taste lak' pie to dose feesh," explained Dave. "I'd like it better," grumbled Mabel, whose hook was continually catching in the trees, "if there wasn't so much underbrush overhead." "That's certainly a queer place," laughed Billy, stringing his eleventh trout on the branch provided by Dave, "for _under_brush. Here, I'll pull it out for you." The wonderfully happy morning passed all too quickly--there should be some way of prolonging summer mornings in a trout stream. They had eaten their wholesome lunch, and Mr. Black, his fine dark eyes aglow with eagerness, his thick, almost-white hair standing up all over his head, had fished in a dozen perfectly marvelous holes that Dave had pointed out, when the castaways reached in their wanderings a point crossed by a broken-down bridge. One end was still in place; the other sagged until it was partly submerged. Seated on the dry end of this flimsy structure, fish-pole in hand, was a stout, placid man, whose mild, serene blue eyes invited confidence. Sociable Mr. Black, still aglow with the joy of his unusual luck and glad of a chance to display his splendid catch, proudly disclosed the contents of his basket--also of the basket that Dave carried. Billy, too, and the girls flocked nearer to display _their_ respective catches. It was certainly a fine showing. Mr. Black, however, had the lion's share. "How many did you say?" drawled the comfortable stranger, seemingly only mildly interested in the count. His apparent indifference, indeed, proved quite galling to Mr. Black, who had introduced himself and his party. "Seventy-two for mine," beamed Mr. Black. "For once we'll have all the trout we can eat." "Well, Mr. Black," returned the man, in his leisurely, indifferent way, "I'm sorry for you; but I guess you'll have to ride to Lakeville in my buckboard to-night. I'm the game warden; and fifty fish is the limit." "The game warden!" gasped Mabel. "The game warden!" gasped Henrietta. "The game warden!" gasped all the others. "The penalty," drawled the leisurely officer, "is either imprisonment or a fine--seein' it's you, you'll probably have to pay a fine." "I _will_!" exclaimed Mr. Black. "What's that about a limit? I didn't know----" "New law," explained the man, lazily. "And some of these here trout that your kids have caught are undersized; they ain't seven inches--'nother new law; you'll have to pay for those, too." "Why, the limit is _six_ inches." "Used to be, ain't any more," returned the placid person, fumbling in his pocket for a battered copy of the game laws. "See, here's what it says." "I guess you're right," admitted Mr. Black, scanning the pages. "I'm real sorry," stated the game warden for the second time. "But you see, Mr. Black, I've got to arrest _somebody_ this week or they'll think I'm not earning my salary. And I guess you can stand it lots better'n some." "Well," said Mr. Black, "I certainly supposed I was a law-abiding citizen; but I'm willing to pay the piper--it isn't often that I dance to such a merry tune. Those fish are worth any fine that I shall have to pay. I'll go down with you to-night if you'll tell me where to meet you; but I'm going to eat my share of those fish first--I assure you of that!" Mabel, who had edged closer to the game warden, now relieved her mind. "Say," she queried, "you won't put him in jail, will you?" "Not if he's able to pay his fine," smiled the stout officer. "Where," she next demanded, severely, "are your leggings?" "Leggings!" exclaimed the puzzled man. "Why! They don't make any big enough to go round my fatted calves." "I don't believe you _are_ the game warden," declared Mabel. "You're just pretending." The complacent officer, however, proved his right to the title by showing certain documents to Mr. Black. But, as Mabel leaned closer to inspect them, too, her weight upon the rotten log on which the bulky game warden sat proved too much for the time-worn timber. Down it crashed, taking Mabel and the astonished officer with it. Fortunately, the water at this point was sufficiently deep to break their fall, for the river bottom near the bridge was of solid sandstone, and therefore pretty hard. Dave plunged in after Mabel, but permitted the gasping game warden to flounder out by himself. By way of atonement, Mr. Black invited the victim to supper and later loaned him some dry clothing. After this accident, the campers, somewhat subdued but fully alive to the wonderful charm of the day, proceeded toward home. It was five o'clock when the castaways, hungry but otherwise none the worse for their long day in the river, finally reached Pete's Patch; for the point in the pretty stream that was only three-quarters of a mile away by land was almost a day's journey by water, owing to the numerous twists and turns of the winding river that was so like Dave's queer conscience. "Say, M'sieu Black," said Dave, lingering after the others had turned toward camp, and speaking in a dreadful whisper very close to Mr. Black's ear. "Ah'm good frien' to you. Eet ees ver' bad, Ah'm tole (here Dave's black eye glittered humorously), to broke dose game law; but eef you ees weesh for hide you'self, me, Ah'm show you som' pooty good plass. Dose game ward' hunt for feefty year biffore she ees fin' dose ol' Pete Black. Hey, Pete? You lak for hide on yourself?" "Thank you, Dave," returned Mr. Black, "but I guess I'd better take my medicine like a man--a man doesn't hide." His first plan failing, Dave kindly offered to set the game warden hopelessly astray, to steal his horse, and finally, as a last resort, to murder the unsuspecting officer in a variety of ingenious ways. But Mr. Black declined all these kindly offers and finally convinced Dave that he didn't mind going to Lakeville, with a good fish supper inside of him. The castaways found Mr. Saunders in possession of the camp at Pete's Patch. He had whittled a shingle doll for Rosa Marie, who sat in rapt devotion at his feet. "She hasn't taken her eyes off me since I arrived, three hours ago," declared Saunders, rising to hand some papers to Mr. Black. "She's immensely taken with either my auburn hair or my new tan shoes--I don't know which. I didn't know, Mr. Black, what you wanted done about this insurance matter, so I brought the letters to you." "Mighty glad to see you," returned Mr. Black, "for I'm going to town to-night. You'll have to stay here till I get back and be a father to my family. I'm under arrest for breaking the game laws--but wait till you see what I broke 'em with. Those fish----" "Any news from Pittsburg?" interrupted Mrs. Crane. "Not a word. But I've brought letters for all those girls. Their mothers, aunts, and so forth want to know how they're going to get them ready to go away to school next fall if you keep them in the woods all summer. They want to make clothes for them." "It isn't polite," giggled lively Henrietta, "to answer letters the moment you get them. And anyhow, who wants clothes?" "There's just one thing that we do want," said Mrs. Crane, "and that's news for our Billy-boy. He's so uneasy that he can't rest. In fact, we're _all_ uneasy--in a state of suspense----" "Well," returned Mr. Black, "worrying won't hurry matters, so you'd better amuse yourselves with other things--perhaps Saunders will help." Saunders _did_ help; nevertheless, it was hard to wait; for by this time Laddie-Billy was quite certain that he was a friendless waif, a homeless orphan, or, at best, a hopelessly lost youngster with only half a mind. "I'd rather be dead," mourned Billy, bitterly, "than a blithering idiot." CHAPTER XXVI In Fairyland MR. BLACK, hearing nothing from Billy's people and knowing that Saunders was an able guard for his precious family, remained away for three days; for he found a number of matters in Lakeville that claimed his attention. He paid his fine cheerfully, and declared ever afterwards that the day's sport was worth all that it had cost him. Mr. Saunders proved a most delightful companion, in spite of his misfit clothing; for the tall, slender young man had borrowed stout Mr. Black's camping costume. Wherever he went he was followed by devoted Billy and the no less devoted girls. Dave liked him, too. Even Rosa Marie waddled at his heels and grunted happily when he condescended to pat her black head or her fat brown hands. It may have been his undeniably red hair that charmed Rosa Marie, but it was his voice that pleased the girls; for he proved a decidedly eloquent person. He told them the most wonderful of fairy tales, recited miles and miles of nonsense rhymes and several yards, as Bettie said, of real poetry. But the fairy tales pleased them most because there were so many spots near Pete's Patch that seemed just like little bits of Fairyland; and sometimes Saunders' tales were cleverly fitted to these suitable surroundings. Before the three days were over, the girls were living in a veritable land of enchantment and went about with such dreamy eyes that Mrs. Crane was certain that they were all bewitched. On the last forenoon of the useful young man's visit, Mabel, pursuing a startled brown rabbit, happened to stumble into the very heart of Fairyland. The rabbit led her out of Pete's Patch, through thicket and marsh, to an unsuspected bayou--a little bay that had once been part of the lively river but was now merely a quiet pond. Mabel found herself on the very muddy edge of a wide circular basin that was bigger than it looked. The banks were a tangled, seemingly impenetrable mass of green foliage, showing occasionally the vivid pink of a late wild rose or the dazzling white of Queen Anne's lace and meadow-sweet. More inviting than all were quantities of strange water flowers of shining white that spangled the glinting surface of the pond. These were new to Mabel and all hers for the gathering. "Oh!" gasped the little girl, quite overcome with the surprising beauty of this hitherto undiscovered treasure, "I guess I've found the Witch's Pool where the pale Princess was turned into a--Oh! I _must_ get those flowers for Mrs. Crane; she'd _love_ 'em." A long, partly submerged log extended toward the center of the pond. Mabel very cautiously at first, then with more confidence, trusted her weight to this. If she could reach just one of those elusive flowers---- Suddenly there was a horrible "giving way" under her feet. She clutched wildly at unsubstantial air; there was a wild shriek followed by a violent splash. Millions of golden bubbles floated to the surface. For a long moment that was all that the brown rabbit, safe among the ferns, could see. Then, a dozen feet away from the broken log, a queer green object, a most unpleasant-looking object, caught at the slimy branches of a water-logged, barkless tree that had stood in the pool for goodness only knows how many years; and, freeing one wet hand, wiped a veil of emerald slime from its mouth and eyes. The green object was Mabel; and tumbling right into Fairyland was not an entirely pleasant process. Fortunately, a few short stumps of branches still remained firmly attached to the upright trunk. The plump "Princess" was able, happily, to find a firm foothold on one of these. Then, with her knees under water, her arms clasped about the slippery tree trunk, she stood more or less securely anchored in the treacherous pool, looking not unlike a green marble statue in the center of a fountain. Fortunately the water was not at all cold. Fortunately, too, it harbored none of the horrible things that Mabel imagined might be lurking beneath its verdant surface. It was because of her fear of possible--or rather impossible--alligators, snakes, and hippopotami that the little girl's voice proved unusually feeble when she attempted to shout for the help that she so sorely needed. At any rate, no one responded. Although the wonderfully tinted bayou was a lovely spot to look at, with its green and golden browns in the sunlight, its deep sepia tones in the shadows, and its marvelous reflections of objects along the edge, poor Mabel found it hard to be compelled to gaze at it for so long a time. After the first half-hour, even with blue king-fishers and many-hued dragon-flies darting down after water bugs, or lightly skimming the jeweled surface, it seemed a lonely place. As for the frostlike blossoms that had lured her into the pool Mabel no longer admired them; and she hated the brown rabbit. When noon arrived without bringing always hungry Mabel back to Pete's Patch--never before had she missed a meal--the other campers began to grow alarmed. By two o'clock the entire camp was scouring forest, lakeshore, and river banks for Mabel or traces of Mabel. Mr. Saunders had even loaded Mr. Black's gun and was firing it, at intervals, thus providing Mabel with a new cause for alarm, since she didn't know that the gun was pointed toward the open lake. Laddie was searching the rocks at Barclay's Point, Jean and Henrietta were examining the roads that Mabel sometimes explored for mushrooms, Dave and Marjory were following all the more or less familiar trails. "She's fallen in, somewhere," declared Mrs. Crane, pale with anxiety, "and is drowned. Nothing else would have kept her away from lunch." "And she can't get near water _without_ falling in," agreed Bettie. "But, so far, she's always gotten out again." Sometimes the hateful brown rabbit, safe on dry land, bobbed up to look at Mabel. Sometimes a saucy squirrel ran along an overhanging branch to scold loudly at the little girl. Once a big mud-hen waded into sight, then, suddenly discovering the discouraged "Princess," fled with an alarmed--and alarming squawk. "I suppose," groaned Mabel, "I'm missing a million things. Most likely Mr. Black is back with splendid news for Billy--I'm sure he'll turn out to be somebody perfectly grand, like a young duke or the only son of a mayor. Or Mr. Saunders is telling that loveliest-of-all fairy tale that he promised to save for the very last. And I _know_ they'll eat every crumb of those splendid huckleberry pies that Mrs. Crane was making when I left camp. And, oh! What'll I do when it gets dark?" But Mabel, happily, was spared this last horror. At three o'clock Mahjigeezigoqua, Rosa Marie's really beautiful mother, parted the branches that fringed the pool and peered at the strange object upright in the water. "Oh!" cried weary Mabel, in sudden excitement, "do come and get me--a rope, a boat, anything----" "Can you hol' on som' more?" demanded the young woman, testing the ground with a cautious foot. "Yes, yes," cried Mabel, almost letting go in her joy. "Only please save me soon--I'm awfully tired of this place--I've been here for _years_." "Ah'll breeng ma brodder," promised the dusky beauty, slipping noiselessly away. It seemed another year before Dave finally came, bounding like a deer through the thicket, with his sister at his heels. Dave plunged in--he had learned by this time exactly how to rescue Mabel from all sorts of watery graves--and soon that relieved young person was safe on some very black, oozy mud that, ordinarily, wouldn't have seemed so pleasant underfoot. There was great rejoicing when this frequently cast away castaway, still well besmeared with green slime, was escorted by Dave and his pretty sister to Pete's Patch. "Geeve her som' bat' hon de lake," advised Dave, before disappearing in search of certain herbs for which he had found a use. Mrs. Crane, feeling that Mabel had been sufficiently punished for her thoughtlessness without being scolded, hastily prepared a hot meal--after all, she _had_ saved Mabel's share of the pie. Then, while Mrs. Crane was setting a place for her, the culprit, escorted to the lake by Jean and Henrietta, was thoroughly scrubbed, rubbed dry, and hustled into clean clothing. "Hurry!" cried Mrs. Crane, "or the stew will get cold again." Just as Mabel was opening her mouth for the first delicious bite, a brown, sinewy hand deftly placed a dingy tin cup at her lips, her head was unexpectedly twitched backward, and before Mabel could realize what was happening, Dave had poured a generous dose of his evil-smelling herb tea down her unresisting throat. "Ah'm learn dose good trick off ma gran'modder," explained Dave, evidently much elated at his success. "Ma gran'modder ver' smart ol' squaw." "I wish," choked Mabel, crimson with indignation, "your horrid old grandmother 'd never been _born_." "Som' tam'," smiled Dave, sympathetically, "Ah'm used for weesh dat, too. But dose medicine ees ver' good--mak' you feel all bully hon top your inside, bam-bye. Maybe you lak' som' more, hey?" "You go home!" snapped Mabel. "I'll taste that stuff for a _year_." Dave chuckled as he slipped away. And, however dreadful it looked and smelled and tasted, the medicine at any rate did no harm; for Mabel awoke next morning none the worse for either the prolonged soaking, Dave's unpalatable remedy, or even an unusually large portion of Mrs. Crane's famous pie. CHAPTER XXVII A Visitor for Laddie THE campers had barely finished breakfast when Captain Berry's launch chug-chugged into the little harbor; and the girls, still at the table, were laughing so heartily over one of Mr. Saunders' amusing tales that they had no suspicion of the launch's presence, at that unusual hour, until Mr. Black's hearty "Hi there, folks! Isn't anybody up?" made them all jump. "Oh," breathed Mabel, evidently much relieved. "They didn't put him in prison, after all." "I guess I'd better be getting into my own clothes," said Saunders. "I'll be going back with Captain Berry, I suppose. I'd _much_ rather stay." "There's no need for you to hurry," returned Mrs. Crane. "Captain Berry always stops for quite awhile; so finish your breakfast in peace." Mr. Black, now plainly visible from the open door of the dining tent, was coming up the path from the beach. Behind him walked another person--a small woman in widow's garb. Her thin, white face wore an anxious, strained expression; her blue eyes beamed with eager expectancy, her hands twitched. As the pair approached all the campers regarded them wonderingly. Suddenly Billy's cup dropped with a crash. In another moment he had leaped over the bench and was racing down the pathway. "Mother!" he cried. "Mother! It's my mother!" The little woman, laughing and crying together, was seized by this big whirlwind of a boy and hugged until she gasped for mercy. "Oh, Laddie Lombard!" she cried. "I--I'm so glad--Oh, do let me cry just a minute! I thought--oh, _Laddie_!" Saunders, with a delicacy that still further endeared him to the adoring girls, silently reached forth a long arm and dropped the tent flap. Mr. Black, his kindly face beaming with sympathy, pushed his way in; Laddie, rather close to tears himself, led his weeping mother to a bench under the trees. "Her name," explained Mr. Black, seating himself at the breakfast table between Bettie and Jean, "is Mrs. Tracy Lombard. She wasn't in Pittsburg; but a friend of hers saw the notice in the paper and telegraphed her, and she came as fast as she could." [Illustration: "MOTHER!" HE CRIED. "MOTHER! IT'S MY MOTHER!"] "Of _course_ she did," breathed Mrs. Crane. "But how did the boy----" "Billy--Laddie, I mean--wasn't well this spring. It happened that he was coming down with typhoid; but his mother didn't know that--thought it was overwork in school. Hoping to benefit him by a change of climate, Mrs. Lombard, always rather fussy, I imagine, over this one precious infant, started West with him, over the Canadian Pacific route. She had relatives in Seattle or Portland--I've forgotten which. But that part of it doesn't matter. "The second day after leaving Pittsburg, Laddie became so alarmingly ill that Mrs. Lombard was glad to accept the invitation of a fellow-traveler, a motherly, middle-aged woman, who lived in a small village on the north shore of Lake Superior." "In Canada?" queried Marjory. "Yes," returned Mr. Black. "In, as nearly as I could make out from Mrs. Lombard's description, a very quiet little place across the lake from Pete's Patch, if not exactly opposite. But so far away that one wouldn't expect small boats to make the journey. In that village, however, Laddie was seriously ill; because, by this time, he had pneumonia in addition to typhoid. For weeks he was a very sick boy. Then, when he began to mend, his mother found it difficult to hold him down, headstrong little rascal that he was, with no father to control him--his father died when Laddie was two years old, and I guess the boy has had his own way most of the time." "He isn't a bit spoiled," defended Mrs. Crane. "But go on with your story." "Long before he was well enough to walk he was begging to be taken on the water--he was always crazy about the water, his mother says; perhaps because most of his ancestors were sailors. On pleasant days--our spring was unusually mild, you remember--they allowed him to sit on the sunny veranda of Mrs. Brown's cottage, from which the lake, only two hundred feet distant, was plainly visible. At first they merely rolled him up in a blanket; but for the last three days of his sojourn in that place he had worn his clothes, shoes and all, since it galled his proud young spirit to be considered an invalid in the sight of the villagers. "One day, during the half-hour or so that Mrs. Lombard was busy changing her dress, straightening her son's room, and so forth, Laddie disappeared." "Before he could walk?" demanded Mrs. Crane. "No, he was able to go from room to room by that time. You've noticed, haven't you, how quickly he recovers, once he is started? Well, as soon as he was better he disappeared." "Where did he go?" asked Bettie. The girls, of course, were all nearly breathless with interest--no tale told by Saunders had held them so closely. "Nobody knows," returned Mr. Black. "Probably nobody ever _will_ know precisely what happened. However, there was a sociable half-breed fisherman, sort of a half-witted chap, who had leaned over the fence almost daily to talk to the boy. The theory is that he asked Laddie to go out in his boat. The landing was only a short distance away and almost directly in front of Mrs. Brown's house; but, owing to jutting rocks at the east side of the little bay, one could easily embark and very speedily get entirely out of sight of any of the houses. Now, the chances are that Laddie, or any other boy, invited by Indian Charlie to go out for a brief sail, would have considered it rather smart to accept the invitation. Would have thought it a good joke on his mother, perhaps--the best of boys make such mistakes, sometimes. "Anyway, Laddie disappeared, and several days later Indian Charlie was found drowned near a rocky point several miles from the village; pieces of timber that _might_ have been part of his boat were picked up after the storm--that same storm that brought Laddie to us. Moreover, another fisherman remembered noticing a boy with very bright hair in Charlie's boat, which he happened to pass that afternoon a mile or two down the shore. The wind was pretty fresh that day, and by night it was blowing a gale. "Mrs. Lombard was forced to conclude, when no further word was heard of Laddie, that her boy had shared poor Charlie's fate--several far more seaworthy boats were wrecked that night and more than one unfortunate sailor lost his life. But Mrs. Lombard is now blaming herself for giving up hope so easily, though she did offer a reward, through the Canadian papers, for the finding of Laddie's body; and afterwards the Canadian shore was searched quite thoroughly. It didn't occur to anybody that Laddie, probably lashed to the mast by Indian Charlie, probably ill again and possibly delirious, as a result of exposure to wind and waves, could have been carried across Lake Superior in so frail a craft as that poor half-breed's boat. But the wind was in the right direction. How long the boat held together we shall never know. "Mrs. Lombard learned afterwards that Indian Charlie was considered far too reckless in his handling of sailboats, and that he hadn't any better judgment than to take a sick boy out to sea if the boy showed the faintest inclination to go--and you know how wild that Billy-boy is about the water. Bless me, Sarah! That poor woman wouldn't wait for any breakfast----" "I'll make some fresh coffee this minute," said Mrs. Crane, "but do save the rest of the story until I get back." "There isn't any more," returned Mr. Black, taking a drink of water, "except that Mrs. Lombard reached town at four o'clock this morning, routed me out at half-past--the advertisement read 'apply to Peter Black'--and we came here as fast as gasoline could bring us." "Then _you_ didn't have any breakfast, either," guessed Mrs. Crane, shrewdly. "I suspect I didn't," admitted Mr. Black. And then Laddie Billy Blue-eyes, otherwise William Tracy Lombard, introduced his pretty little blond mother to all the campers. "I'm remembering things so fast," said he, "that it makes me dizzy. Mother seems to be the missing link that connects me with Pittsburg and everything else. You know I always said that Dave reminded me of somebody? Well, when mother spoke of Indian Charlie, I _knew_. For a moment I could feel a boat heave up and down; and in a flash I saw a dark face something like Dave's, and some rather long, very black hair, also like Dave's. I could see the face _two_ ways. Once it was laughing, over a fence top. Then it was all twisted up with fright--bending over me and scared blue. And while the face looked like that, there were hands fumbling about my waist----" "As if," queried Bettie, "somebody were tying a life-preserver----" "Yes, yes," declared Laddie. "And that dreadful face said things in a dreadful voice; but I couldn't hear--everything whirled and roared. Sometimes there was a horrible going-down feeling. Perhaps, after all, I just dreamed all that, but--but I _think_ it happened." "And you don't remember getting into any boat?" asked Mrs. Lombard. "No, I don't," replied Laddie, whose always responsive eyes twinkled suddenly. "But if it were poor Charlie's fault, it wouldn't be polite to remember; if it were mine, I'd rather forget it; but I really don't remember one thing about those days in Canada, except that face like Dave's." "No wonder," said Mrs. Lombard. "You were delirious when we took you off the train and so hazy when you were sitting up that you didn't know whether you were in Oregon or Pittsburg. You'd been _terribly_ sick. The doctor said that your splendid constitution was all that saved you. And to think that you survived that storm----" "Pooh!" scoffed Billy, "that boat probably lasted till I was tossed up on this shore. And anyhow, a bath does a fellow good. See how husky Mabel is--she's forever taking 'em. Say! That girl would fall into an ink bottle, if you left it uncorked--she just naturally tumbles into things." CHAPTER XXVIII Breaking Camp "GIRLS," said Mr. Black, when he had finished his delayed breakfast, "I have a very sorrowful confession to make. I've got to lose you." "Oh, _no_," protested Mrs. Crane, "not so soon." "I don't like it myself, Sarah, but all those mothers, grandmothers, and Aunty Janes came and sat around my office and reminded me that their precious girls were all going away to school, told me that the school was _almost_ picked out--they've narrowed down to four--and dragged from me a promise that I just hated to make. As far as I can discover, they've bought all the cloth in Lakeville, engaged all the dressmakers, and are in a fever to try things on. And I promised----" "To send us all home?" guessed Bettie. "Yes. A lot of men are coming this afternoon with a tug and a big flat scow to take the Whale home--I suspect she'll have to go to the factory for repairs. There'll be room on the scow for us and all our belongings besides. But cheer up. We won't need to start until along toward night." "So this is our last day," mourned Jean. "Dear me," sighed Bettie, "we'll _never_ have so splendid a time again." "We'll come again next summer," promised Mr. Black, "unless you get so young-ladyfied at your boarding school that you won't _want_ to camp." "You just wait and see," said Marjory. "No danger," declared Henrietta. "But," mourned Mabel, "we won't have any Billy Blue-eyes." "Perhaps I'll get wrecked again," consoled Laddie, "and you can pick me up some more. But you'll forget all about me before next summer." "I will not," contradicted Mabel. "I'm going to write to you." "That's good," declared Laddie; "let's _all_ write to each other." "Mrs. Lombard," offered Bettie, rather shyly, "we've always wondered who Laddie would turn out to be. When he asked for a toothbrush we were quite sure that he was a young duke, or a prince, or--or----" "No," laughed Mrs. Lombard, "he isn't even a youthful millionaire. He's just a plain boy. We have enough to live on, to be sure; but after awhile Billy will have to work like any other man for his living. I hope you're not disappointed." "No," said Mabel, magnanimously, "we'd like him, just the same, even if he were just a coal-heaver." That last day was spent in visiting all the spots that were dear to the young campers and in showing many of them to Mrs. Lombard, who proved a very pleasant little woman, even if she did cling rather tightly to Laddie when he suggested going out in the boat for a pail of water. "Well," laughed Billy, "I can just as easily _walk_ out, if you consider that safer; but it's rather drier to go by boat." Dave, of course, had to hear all about Billy Blue-eyes' experience. "Ah'm have som' brudder Charlie wan tam'," remarked Dave, thoughtfully. "Ah'm scare for go out on som' boat wit' dose fellow maself, w'en Ah'm leeve hon Canadaw." "Do you think he _was_ your brother?" pursued Laddie. "Ah don't know," returned Dave, who evidently was not greatly concerned by the news of a possible relative's death. "Me, Ah'm got eight-nine brodder som' plass. Not moch good hon herself, dose brodder, hey?" But when Dave learned that the campers were about to depart for Lakeville he was far more distressed. "Me, Ah'm find eet lonesom' widout dose Jean, dose Margy, dose Mabelle, dose petite Bet_tee_, dose good Mees Crane, dose good Pete Black, dose fine Bil_lee_--maybe dose good dinnaire, too." Even numerous gifts of food, clothing, and cooking utensils; even the bestowal of Terrible Tim and Anthony Fitz-Hubert (the kitten was now so wild that only the half-breed could catch him) did not serve to raise Dave's drooping spirits. Although he assisted in breaking camp, it was easy to see that he hated the task. He sighed heavily as each tent fell. The campers, already looking far ahead, as happy children always do, toward new scenes and new experiences, trooped merrily aboard the big scow just at sunset that evening, eager for the picnic supper that was to be eaten on the deck of the safe, clumsy craft; eager, too, though they did not realize it, for a sight of home. The evening was peaceful, the pale lake calm and softly tinted like a big shining opal. The homeward trip, with so much to relate at the end of it to the dear home people, promised so much enjoyment that no actual tears were shed as the tug began slowly to move her heavy burden seaward. Still, the backward glances were sufficiently regretful; for Pete's Patch was not a spot to be lightly deserted, and never had the place seemed more beautiful than it appeared now from the slowly departing boat. Dave stood alone on the bank, for his sister was already eagerly examining the ample store of provisions left for their use. For as long as they could see him, the girls waved to the solitary watcher. But long after that Dave strained his eyes after the boat that was carrying away the dearest friends that he had ever known. "Ah'm lak' dose peop'," said Dave, with a catch in his throat, as he turned away at last. "Ver' moch, Ah'm lak' dose good peop'. Me, Ah'm good frien' to hall dose; until Ah'm go for die hon maself." At nine o'clock that night the castaways landed safely in Lakeville, and the picnic that had lasted for weeks instead of hours and proved so much more than a mere picnic was at an end. THE END * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Page 140, "sprinling" changed to "sprinkling" (a generous sprinkling) Page 141, "beween" changed "between" (stuck out between the loops) Page 171, "half-breeed" changed to "half-breed" (The half-breed had) Page 199, "is" changed to "it" (But it _is_) Page 238, "Ofter" changed "Often" (Often, when glancing) Page 241, "namd" changed to "named" (young woman named Miss) 
45547	----	HAL KENYON DISAPPEARS By GORDON STUART [Illustration] THE REILLY & LEE CO. Publishers . . . . Chicago ------------------------------------------------------------------------ COPYRIGHT, BY THE REILLY & LEE CO. Printed in the U.S.A.--1936 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS I MUMMY CAÑON II SOMETHING ABOUT DR. BYRD III A FALL FROM THE AIR IV THE WRECK AND THE AVIATOR V LOST! VI THE SCREAM IN THE WATERFALL VII A BADLY FRIGHTENED BOY VIII HAL'S DISCOVERY IX HAL A PRISONER X THE MYSTERY OF THE LEATHER BAG XI CONVINCING BAD XII AIRSHIP PLANS XIII THE "PAINTER" XIV BUILDING THE AIRSHIP XV STOLEN WEALTH XVI FLIGHT XVII EXPLORING THE CAVE XVIII THE ISLAND IN THE AIR XIX THE RESCUING AIRSHIP XX THE PANTHER AND THE CAVE XXI TO FLATHEAD BY AIRSHIP AGAIN XXII CLEARING HAL XXIII THE BOY SCOUTS OF THE AIR XXIV MOUNTAIN LION BRIDGE ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER I MUMMY CAÑON "Mountain, pine tree, cañon, gulch, Cookies, bacon!--like 'em much. Canteen, hike-stick! Hi-hi-hike-stick! Lakefarm! mummy! Flathead!--Ra-a-a!" Thirty lusty juvenile throats, strong with frequent exercise, caused Mummy Cañon to ring with this school-yell. It was almost evening, and the boys of Lakefarm School were on their return from a day's outing in the mountains. Clad in Boy Scout uniforms and wearing Rough Rider hats, they presented a picturesque appearance in that wild, rocky, mountain country, while their school-yell echoed among the hills, bright in the setting sun. It was midsummer, yet thirty of the forty-four regular students were in attendance during the summer term, evidence of the popularity of the school, for they were all boys of the age that welcomes vacation time with cheers. In spring this cañon was a beautiful place; in summer it lost some of its freshness, but was still beautiful; in fall it lost more of life, but beauty still clung to it; in winter, it was a picture that called for deep admiration. It also might well have been named Echo Cañon; indeed many in that part of Colorado often called it that. But Mummy Cañon it had been christened, and this was the only name by which it was known on the maps and in the guide books. Interesting stories were told about this great mountain gorge. They had to do with the ancient inhabitants of the country, the cliff-dwellers, ruins of whose homes were to be found here and there high up in steep places. The boys of Lakefarm knew these stories by heart. They had been told over and over and added to until enough new and interesting details had been gathered around the original stories to fill a book. Dr. Regulus Byrd, head master, Chief Scout, and owner of Lakefarm, was as peculiar as his name. Some called him eccentric, but the boys of the school and the friends of the doctor did not agree. The boys loved him as few schoolmasters ever are loved; the older people of the district declared that when it came to a pinch, Dr. Byrd never lacked judgment. The doctor and the two instructors of the school, Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter, were with the boys on the outing from which they were now returning. Mr. Frankland was a short, brisk, wide-awake man, who smiled frequently and shrewdly. Mr. Porter was an odd personage, dignified and very positive in all things, but an excellent instructor in manual training. After the procession had advanced well toward the heart of the gully and given two or three school-yells that raised the echoes, Mr. Porter said: "Dr. Byrd, we're only three miles from home. Why not stop here, build a fire, and sit around and talk a while?" "That's the stuff," came from several of the boys at the same time. Dr. Byrd had a boy's heart, and as there was no good reason for opposing the suggestion, he gave his consent. In a jiffy the boys scattered in all directions in search of firewood; up the side of the hill and along the near bank of a noisy mountain stream, and soon were returning with armfuls of dead wood. Most of them were experienced in building camp fires in true frontier style, and the work progressed rapidly. Two of the boys, Hal Kenyon and Byron Bowler, were delegated to the work of starting the fire. This was not done by striking a match and touching it to some dry leaves. The method employed was one more suited to the romantic scene. First, Hal and Byron searched until they found two serviceable pieces of dry cottonwood root. Having good, strong, sharp pocketknives, they proceeded to whittle and shave the roots. One was made flat and about three-fourths of an inch thick; the other was cut slim and round and sharpened at both ends. In one edge of the flat piece was cut a notch, and close to the notch was sunk a hole to fit one end of the slim piece. Then a small hand-piece with a socket for the other end of the drill was prepared by Byron, while Hal cut a section of a small green limb, two feet long, which with a thong made a bow. All the material needed for starting a fire was now ready save a supply of tinder. This was obtained by rubbing a piece of dry cedar on a rough boulder, producing a handful of easily lighted shreds. The notched piece of wood was now placed on a flat rock, the drill was inserted in place and the string of the bow looped tightly over it. Then the top-socket-piece was set on the other end for a handle, and the bow was drawn back and forth, the notched piece being held in place under the foot of the operator. Hal Kenyon operated the device. The drill revolved rapidly in the socket, and presently a fine brown powder was flowing into the notch. In a few seconds this powder was smoking densely and slight fanning with a hat brought a flame. Some of the tinder was now applied and after a little blowing, a tiny flame leaped up. The rest of the tinder was then applied, followed by some cedar bark and small wood. Pretty soon the fire was roaring and crackling, while the boys piled on more fuel. "Now for our camp-fire yell," cried Hal when the last armful of fuel had been deposited on the burning heap. Immediately the cañon rang and echoed with thirty young voices chanting the following: "Camp-fire, rah! Smoke-punk, ha! Tinder, Lakefarm! Rah--rah--rah!" This yell was repeated several times until it seemed as if the rocks poised aloft would be shaken loose and come crashing down on the reckless Boy Scouts. Then the boys scattered again, each returning presently with another load of fuel, which was deposited near the blazing pile. "Well done, my lads, well done," announced Dr. Byrd as the last load was dropped. "Now what are we going to do next?" "Eat supper," replied Allie Atkins, with a slap of his hand on his hungry region. "Of course; I almost forgot that," laughed the doctor. "I'm always forgetting my stomach. That's the reason I haven't dyspepsia. Always forget your stomachs, boys, until they remind you of their existence and you'll be all right in that spot. But what are we going to eat? Nothing left, is there?" "How about the fish?" inquired Walter Hurst, commonly known as "Pickles" because of his fondness for that table delicacy. "That's right. This is just the time and place to cook them." The suggestion was followed accordingly. The fish--two score of mountain trout--had been caught by the boys in the Rio Grande several miles to the east early in the morning. As they had enough other food for breakfast and dinner, their catch had been saved for the next morning's meal at the school. Of course the doctor had not forgotten the fish when he asked the boys what they would eat for supper. But he always appeared to have a poor memory and few ideas when on a trip with his Scouts. He made it a rule to compel the boys to suggest and do every useful thing within their power. So they prepared the meal on this occasion, as they had done on others. Fireplaces were constructed with stones, frying-pans were placed over them, and the fish were soon sputtering appetizingly. Fortunately, they still had a moderate supply of bread, butter, jam and coffee, so that all appetites were fairly well satisfied. The pans and coffee pots and cups were washed in the dashing stream, the remains of the meal were cleared away, more fuel was thrown on the camp fire, and all gathered before it for the next number of the unprepared program. For a few minutes the boys chatted on the incidents of their three days' hike and exploration. Then one of them suggested: "Let's tell stories." A proposal of this kind under such circumstances is always favorably received by true Boy Scouts. There was a general note of approval, and Dr. Byrd inquired: "Well, what shall it be first?" "Flathead Mountain," suggested Pickles. "Good!" exclaimed Frank Bowler. "And have somebody slam somebody in the face," proposed Clayton White, the joker of the school. "That'll suit 'Bad.'" Frank Bowler had been nicknamed "Bad" because he was continually talking about "clipping somebody on the jaw," or "slamming some one in the face," or "putting somebody to the bad." "I'll push you one on the chin if you don't close your face," growled "Bad" in an undertone to the last speaker. Clayton only grinned. He was not at all afraid, as he was a year older than Frank and thought himself stronger. "Well, who has something more to add to the story of Flathead?" inquired the owner of Lakefarm. "I have," replied Hal Kenyon. "Very well, Hal, we'll listen to you first," announced the doctor, and all became attentive with a readiness that indicated almost military training. CHAPTER II SOMETHING ABOUT DR. BYRD It was well known how Mummy Cañon obtained its name. High up on the face of a bluff was a large rock, almost human in shape, in wrappings like a mummy. Mummy Cañon had not yet attracted the attention of sight-seers. No railroad ran near it, and only a rattling stage-coach line carried visitors between the nearest depot and the small settlement of Jamestown, or "Jimtown," as it was popularly called, near which Dr. Byrd had located his boys' school. Dr. Byrd had served many years as a physician on English ships visiting the Orient, and, by both inheritance and good fortune, had become wealthy. When about fifty years old he found that the heat and dampness of the tropical climate were undermining his health and that he must heed the warnings of nature. So he returned home, but in London found that his throat still troubled him, and he decided that he most move elsewhere. His children being grown and married, he and his wife sold part of their personal effects and came to America. Then they traveled about a good deal, trying to find a climate that would promote better health for the doctor, but every place they visited proved unsatisfactory until they reached Colorado. The altitude of this state, second highest of all the states of the Union, together with the atmospheric conditions, proved "just the thing." But where should they make their home? Denver was delightful as to climate, but the doctor was not contented there. He loved nature, to be out of doors; he had no patience with clanging street cars, smoking engines, and houses huddled together. So they began their search anew. One day they stopped at Lake City and took a stage-coach ride over the La Garita Mountains. The vehicle was only a rattling two-seated open buggy, drawn by four horses that might have pulled a plow over any American field, but it was dignified with the name stage-coach. The driver was a young man who had a contract with the government for transporting mail to and from various mining points along the way, and he added to his profits by carrying passengers and all manner of light freight. Along the foot of the mountains they rode for several miles, then up a grade and around a spur of a perpendicular hill, up, up, up, winding here and there, overlooking deep gullies, dashing downgrade into a ragged valley, with its noisy brook; then up again and on and around they wound to where the pines stuck in the mountain sides like toothpicks. In the course of this journey they passed through Mummy Cañon. But this gorge had not yet received its name, and when the imaginative Dr. Byrd beheld the "swathed form" on the face of a lofty bluff, he called attention to it. "That's the mummy," said the driver in a matter-of-fact way. "It looks just like an Egyptian mummy," declared the doctor. "Does everybody call it that?" "Everybody around here does." "What's the name of this cañon?" "'Tain't got none. I s'pose it'll get a name one o'these days when more people settle 'round here." "It's going to have one right now," announced the doctor. "Its name is Mummy Cañon. I call you two as witnesses of the christening." "You'll have to stay here a while and tell everybody or the name won't stick," laughed Mrs. Byrd. "And that's just what I'm going to do," was the surprising answer. "I'm going to make my home right near here--with your permission, of course, my dear. This is just the country I want to live in. It's good for my health. It's good for my eyes; I like to look at it." That settled it. Mrs. Byrd was amiable and happy to live in any place where her husband's health could improve. Moreover, she, too, was delighted with the scenery and praised it almost as much as did the doctor. But there were other features of special interest in the cañon. This part of the state had once been inhabited by the cliff-dwellers, prehistoric Pueblo Indians. Ruins of their early dwellings and defenses were to be found here and there, although usually they were in such dilapidated condition that it was difficult to make out their character except at close range. The "mummy bluff" stood out high on the side of a most remarkable mountain, especially noticeable because of its shape. The sides looked unscalable and the top appeared to have been cut off clean and level with a monster knife, a few hundred feet lower than the neighboring lofty peaks. Before leaving the cañon, Dr. Byrd gave a name also to this mountain. He called it Flathead. The doctor was well pleased with "Jimtown." In fact, he was pleased with everything now. The mining settlement was booming when he and Mrs. Byrd arrived. It was located close to the side of a mountain; a few of the houses, in fact, stood a short distance up on the steep slope. The place was so busy that nobody seemed to have time to notice the arrival of so humble a pair as a London physician and his wife, and they selected a site and built a home without attracting any particular attention. The site was located near a pretty mountain-spring lake that fed a tributary of the Rio Grande. It was about three miles from Mummy Cañon. The scenery of course was beautiful, as it is in all of mountainous Colorado. The lake was clear and cold. It rested in a pocket more than a hundred feet above a delightful valley and behind it was a range of tall, steep, snow-capped mountains. The outlet was down several natural terraces that converted the little river into a succession of dashing cascades before it reached the valley. This place was several miles from "Jimtown," the nearest settlement. Dr. Byrd engaged servants and began the cultivation of a considerable farm. The beauty of the spot and the personality of the settlers soon attracted attention, and several others moved there and began the cultivation of farms. Before long a post office branch was opened and the stage-coach line ran two miles out of its way to deliver mail, groceries and general supplies. Meanwhile the doctor made acquaintances rapidly. He was a most entertaining person to meet. He had traveled extensively and seemed to know the world. He had an excellent library and a magnificent collection of curios from many countries. Moreover, he had a delightful personality, tall, straight, athletic figure, kindly intelligent face, and a shock of curly iron-gray hair that commanded the admiration of all who saw it. But the doctor's best friends were boys. And there was a reason for this. The boys whom he met always found in him a best friend. He knew all about them, their likes and dislikes, their sports and their hardships. He had a vivid recollection of his own boyhood days, and he could reel off yarns by the hour. Just put him into a company of youngsters and let him begin: "When I was a boy," and everybody was all attention in an instant. Of course there were not many boys living in the neighborhood of the new mountain home, but there were a good many in Jimtown, where the doctor soon became a familiar figure. And there was always company at "Lakefarm," as he had named the place, and the "company" always was urged to bring the boys along. Frequently they would remain at Lakefarm after the grown-ups had departed, and every summer the place became "a regular boy ranch," as one visitor called it. Finally the doctor got so interested in "boy-ology" that he resolved to open a boys' school. Manual training had become quite the fashion in the making of young men all over the country and this appealed to the owner of Lakefarm. So he let his ideas become known and was astonished as well as pleased at the indorsement they received. Five years after settling at Lakefarm Dr. Byrd built a schoolhouse and a shop and a dormitory on his farm, engaged instructors and servants, and then announced that he was ready to receive pupils. It was surprising how rapidly the school was filled. In two weeks Dr. Byrd announced that he could receive no more, and the registry list was closed. Most of the boys were of either wealthy or well-to-do parents. Naturally this was an almost necessary condition, as the tuition and living expenses at an institution of this kind were not the lowest. But to offset this, the doctor made arrangements for receiving a few pupils on nominal payments or free of charge. One of these poor boys was Hal Kenyon, whom Dr. Byrd found selling newspapers on a street corner in Denver. Hal proved to be such a bright lad that the owner of Lakefarm decided at once to do something for him. Hal's parents were willing and he went to school in the mountains. Three successful and happy years had passed since the opening of the school on Lakefarm. Meanwhile the settlement around the school grew until the census enumerator reported fifty families. Previously the town had been known as Byrd's Place, or just Byrd's, but now the subject of a permanent name arose and a meeting was called to settle the matter. Flathead was the name selected. After this the name of the school was changed in the popular mind. Officially it bore the title of Lakefarm Institute, but soon it was spoken of frequently as Flathead School, while some humorously played on the idea suggested in the name and styled it the "School for Level-headed Boys." This latter pleased Dr. Byrd very well, for it expressed his purpose in a few words, to develop in his pupils a liberal supply of common sense. CHAPTER III A FALL FROM THE AIR That was the history of Mummy Cañon, Flathead Mountain and Lakefarm Institute. The mountain was partly visible from the school. On their return to the farm from Mummy Cañon the Boy Scouts would have to walk on through the cañon, past old Flathead, and up the stream that came dashing noisily down from Lakefarm and joined Flathead River north of the big gorge. The peakless mountain was located near the lower end of the cañon, and it was from a bluff on the mountain side that the "mummy" stood forth. Before the sun went down the Scouts could see the outlines of this freak of nature from their position at the camp fire, but as it sank beneath the high horizon and the cañon grew dark, both the bluff and the "mummy" were lost to view. But presently the moon rose over Old Flathead. Under such circumstances Hal Kenyon began his legend of the cañon, relating it as follows: "Flathead Mountain was once a giant. He was the biggest giant that ever lived. His name wasn't Flathead then. His head ran up to a peak, and the people called him Sugar Loaf. "But his heart was made of stone, the hardest kind, and his brains were all up in the peak of his head. And those brains didn't amount to much, for they had such a small place to rest in that they were squeezed into half their natural size. "And since he didn't have much brains and his heart was made of stone, he was a cruel giant. He did all kinds of mean things. He killed and ate all the boys he could lay his hands on. There weren't any Boy Scouts in those days, or they'd have gone out and killed him." "I'd have clouted him in the jaw," interrupted Frank Bowler energetically. "Just one good swift punch on the chin--" "Yes, you would, Bad," jeered Pickles; "you're all the time talking about clouting somebody--but you never do." "I don't, eh?" "Come, come, boys," warned the doctor. "That's not very dignified talk for a Boy Scout, Frank. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. It's silly. Go ahead, Harry. We'll let Frank tell us how he would have licked the giant after you've finished." "Well," continued Hal, "I was going to tell how a boy like Bad did clout the giant in the face, or something worse, but he interrupted me. You see it was this way. A good many years ago, a boy called Smash lived near here. That was before the giant lost his peak. Smash went around smashing everybody in the face. The giant met him in the woods one day and nodded his head at him and said hello. "'Come off the heap; don't talk to me,'" jeered Smash. 'I'll lay my mit on your mouth.' "'Ho, ho, ho!' laughed the giant. 'You're the conceitedest kid that ever came to this cañon.' "'Where's the best place to hit you?' asked Smash. "'Right here on my ankle,' replied the giant. 'You can't reach any higher.' "'Let me stand on your ear, and I'll give you a nailer,' said Smash. "The giant picked Smash up with two fingers and stood him on his ear. "'Now, let me have your axe,' said Smash. "'What!' roared the giant. "'Let me have your axe.' "'Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!' laughed the giant. 'You couldn't get your arms around the handle.' "'I can't, eh? Just give it to me and I'll knock your brains out.' "'All right, you conceited kid,' said the giant. 'Here it is. Bust away.' "He always carried his axe with him to cut firewood, and he gave it to the boy. Smash's fingers seemed suddenly to grow very long and very strong, for they seized the handle and lifted it up. Then, before the giant realized what was happening, Smash gave the axe a mighty swing and cut the top of his head off." "Hurrah for Smash!" exclaimed Bad. "Wait a minute," said Hal. "There's more coming and you won't be so happy over it." "Did Smash fall off his ear?" inquired one of the boys. "Good guess," replied Hal. "That's just what happened." "Did he break his neck?" asked another. "I don't know; but it was just as bad. He fell faster than the top of the giant's head and the giant's brains spilt on top of him and drownded him." "_Drowned_ him, you mean," corrected Mr. Porter. But the correction was not noticed. The boys were loudly expressing their opinions of the story. Some liked it; others were displeased. "Served him right for having the big-head," declared Joe Moffett wisely. "You bet it did," agreed Vincent Pyle. "Didn't either," shouted Frank Bowler. "That's a crazy story. You can't tell me. Why, do you think a boy who could stand on a giant's ear and cut off the top of his head with a axe as big as forty trees would get in such a scrape?" "No," replied several. "Yes," declared others. "You're crazy," said Bad, addressing the latter. "Why, he'd 'a' fell in the giant's pocket, or caught hold o' one of his whiskers, or hung onto his watch chain." "That's a good argument," pronounced Dr. Byrd. "What have you to say to it, Hal?" "Bad's wrong," replied the story teller. "I want you boys to quit calling Frank 'Bad,'" said the doctor sternly. "He isn't bad at all. He's just extravagant in his talk." "I don't care what they call me," declared Frank, who was rather proud of his nickname. "Just so we don't call you down, eh?" Pickles amended. "If you do, I'll clean you up." Pickles was smaller than Bad and did not resent this threat. The doctor did not regard Frank's talk very seriously and so did not remonstrate. He remembered similar experiences of his own and believed that hard knocks are a much better cure than constant preaching for the brag and bluff of a boy. "Where'd you get that story?" inquired Byron Bowler, Bad's one-year-older brother. "Make it up yourself?" "No, Pepper helped me," replied Hal. Pepperill Humphrey was an old servant of the doctor's who had traveled with him much and followed his employer soon after the latter settled in Colorado. He was an interesting character, one of those old-style family servants who had grown up with the families for whom they worked. "We worked it out together," continued Hal. "Did you put me in it or did Pepper?" inquired Frank. "I didn't know you were in it," replied Hal with a mischievous grin plainly visible in the firelight. "Oh, Smarty! You know what I mean. You meant Smash for me." "I put Smash in the story, yes; but you never did any such things as he did." Hal and Frank were very good friends, and Hal knew better than to take seriously Bad's "fierce" attitude. He liked his warlike friend best when he was threatening to "clean somebody up." There was something amusing about him when he was making one of his idle threats. "Now, who's going to tell us a story about the mummy?" inquired Mr. Frankland. "I have one on _that_ if nobody else has," announced Dr. Byrd. "Tell it," cried several of the boys eagerly. "It isn't very long," said the doctor; "but it fits in well with Hal's story. The giant, by the way, had water on the brain: that's why Smash was drowned. "Well, Smash, by the way, was an Indian. And he had a brother whose name was Rash. This brother was continually doing the most outlandish things and performing the most wonderful feats. After the top of the giant's head was cut off and his brains gone, the giant died. But as he was very stockily built, he did not fall over, but continued to stand there. Trees and bushes and grass and flowers grew all over and he became a mountain. "Now, Rash was a witness of the death of Smash. He was sailing above in an airship--" "What!" "In an airship!" "Yes, why not?" he replied. "Who ever heard of Indians having airships!" said Bad in tones of disgust. "This Indian was a real inventor," explained Dr. Byrd. "But he kept the secrets of all his inventions to himself, so that when he died all his work died with him. When he saw the fearful accident that had befallen his brother, he glided down to offer assistance. The giant was dead, although standing erect; but Smash had disappeared, all but one foot. That was sticking out from under the hollow peak of the giant's head, which had fallen over the boy and caged him in. "Rash alighted and attempted to turn the peak over; but although he was very strong, he was unable to do this. So he flew away, and a few days later he returned with several other Indians. With the aid of some tree trunks for levers they elevated one side of the peak-prison and pulled out the body of the prisoner. "The brain of the giant proved to have been a most remarkable substance. It had a strong odor of spices and chemicals and had converted Smash's body into a mummy. The flesh was becoming hard as stone and it was evident that no decay could follow. "Although Rash was a reckless and daring fellow, he had not the great fault that had brought Smash to a sad end. He appreciated the danger of such a nature and desired to warn all others against a like fate. So he wrapped the body in cloths, as some of the Indian tribes have done, and saturated the cloths with diluted giant's brain to preserve them. Then he put the body on his airship and arose to the giant's forehead, and landed with his burden on a beetling eyebrow. There he hewed out a shallow niche, into which, he set the mummified Smash and cemented him fast; and on the giant's forehead he remains to-day as a warning not only to boys who are continually threatening to clean some one up, but also to giants who may be so foolish as to put great power into the hands of boastful youths." Everybody except Frank applauded this story. After the hand-clapping and shouts of glee had subsided, Bad remarked disdainfully: "That story's all bunk. The mummy on the mountain's as big as a elephant. How could it have been a boy?" "Oh, those Indians were giants themselves, though they weren't anything like as big as Flathead," exclaimed Dr. Byrd. At this moment all were startled by a most remarkable noise. It was a heavy whirring sound and came from overhead. Instinctively they all looked up and beheld in the moonlight a very strange object. But, strange though it was, every one of the boys recognized its nature almost immediately. "It's an airship," cried one. "An aeroplane," shouted another. "He's volplaning," exclaimed Dr. Byrd in startled tones. "I wonder what he means. He can't be going to land here." "He seems to be in trouble," said Mr. Frankland. "Yes, he's coming down." "Look out, everybody!" shouted Dr. Byrd. "No telling where he'll land." There was no need of a second warning. Evidently the aviator was losing control of his machine. It acted as if one wing had been clipped. Suddenly, within fifty feet of the ground, the aeroplane plunged and fell with a crash and a thud less than a hundred feet from the camp fire. CHAPTER IV THE WRECK AND THE AVIATOR For some moments all was commotion. The appearance of the aeroplane in that out-of-the-way place and at such a time had been so unexpected as to create no little confusion, but when it plunged to earth almost in the very midst of the camping Scouts, there was general panic, accompanied by a few screams of fright. Every boy, as well as the doctor and the two instructors, ran for cover as the warning was sounded, but few of them found a satisfactory place before the aeroplane struck. Luckily nobody was hit, and soon they gathered around the wreck in true Boy Scout readiness to help the injured. Fortunately the aviator had not been caught under the wreckage. He had managed to jump clear of his machine before it struck the earth, so that his body was not mangled. But he lay still as death, and there was little doubt in the minds of the campers that the fall had been fatal. Dr. Byrd was soon kneeling over the unconscious form and examining it for signs of life. Two of the boys pulled burning brands from the fire and held them close to afford him light. The examination occupied several minutes, and finally the doctor announced: "He's alive, but he's got some broken bones. One of you boys get some water. Some of you make some splints, and some make a coat litter." In a moment all was activity. Thirty boys cannot work together to great advantage under ordinary circumstances, but these boys were well trained and well managed. They were organized in Patrols with Patrol Leaders, while the two instructors acted as Scout Masters. All of them, even Bad, had learned to obey orders, and the work moved along quickly. Pickles went to the stream and got some water in a coffee pot, and Hal led a company into a clump of cottonwood near by to cut some splints, while others busied themselves with the preparing of the litter. The splints were made of small green limbs cut from some of the trees and shaved flat on two sides with the boys' strong jackknives. In a short time Hal and his followers were back on the scene of the accident, watching proceedings eagerly and waiting for further orders. Meanwhile the work on the litter progressed with equal rapidity. Two strong poles were cut, trimmed and thrust through the arms of two of the boys' coats. Then the fronts were drawn around over the poles and buttoned, and the task was finished. Dr. Byrd was a surgeon as well as a physician and he worked rapidly. He laid the injured man flat on his back, with head low, opened his clothing to aid respiration, then bared the injured parts and bathed them with water. In a few minutes the man groaned, and it was evident that he was in great pain. A further examination disclosed the fact that his right leg and two ribs on his right side were broken. Dr. Byrd did not set the leg at once. He merely straightened the limb and bound it with handkerchiefs and pieces of torn garments so as to make it firm at the broken point. Around the broken ribs he pinned a wide bandage. "You boys are now having your first lesson in the treatment of a victim of a serious accident," remarked the doctor after he had finished his work. "Sometime one of you may be in a position where you'll have to set a broken bone, and it will be well for you all to make note of everything connected with this case. First, never set a bone when the flesh around the fracture is swollen. Treat it to reduce the swelling, and then set it. This man's wounds are badly swollen because of the violence of his fall. I have bound them so that they will not be irritated while he is being carried to Lakefarm. Now, we'll put him on the litter and start. But first put out the fire." The boys quickly obeyed, for they had been taught never to leave a camp fire unattended in a place where there was a possibility of the blaze reaching woods or prairie grass. There was little danger in this instance, but the doctor insisted on following the rule. Water was carried in pails and pots and pans from the stream and poured on the fire until the last spark was gone. Then the camping utensils were gathered up and the journey toward the school was resumed. Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter carried the injured man, and Dr. Byrd walked beside the litter and kept watch over the patient. The latter had said little thus far, for the doctor had instructed him to lie still and not try to tell his story, as he evidently wished to do. The aviator was about thirty years old, and one look into his pain-drawn face was enough to inspire confidence and deep sympathy. He was not particularly handsome but he looked pleasant and straightforward. His body seemed well-knit and powerful. "I'll give you boys a half holiday to-morrow morning," announced the doctor as they started up the cañon toward Flat Head Pass. "You may come back here and get the wreck of the airship and bring it back to the school." This announcement delighted the young Scouts, who expressed their glee variously. The prospect of making a thorough examination of an aeroplane with such a history as this, was enough to excite their imaginations. As they proceeded, the doctor gave the boys further instructions regarding the care of an injured person. He called their attention to the manner in which the man on the stretcher was being carried in order that he might ride with the greatest possible care and comfort. "Notice how Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter are walking," he said. "They break their step so that while one moves his right leg the other moves his left and vice versa. This makes an easy pace. By walking in this manner, Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter carry the patient along gently and without jarring." It was after ten o'clock when they arrived at the school. The aviator was taken into the "Hospital," put into bed and made as comfortable as possible. The boys went to their dormitory, visited the shower baths and then turned in. Next morning, in spite of their late retirement, the boys were up bright and early. Several of them had dreamed of airships and awoke in the midst of various tragic situations. Hal Kenyon narrowly escaped being hit by the wing of a falling biplane and awoke as the machine struck the ground with a crash. Those who were slow at waking were pulled out of bed by their more eager schoolmates or were driven out of slumberland with showers of pillows. But they were not angry in the least at this rough awakening and made all possible haste to prepare for breakfast. There were few servants at the "Level-Headed School." Dr. Byrd did not permit any of the boys to wear expensive clothes, even on Sunday. For the week days he had selected the Boy Scout uniforms, which were worn constantly. This uniform, in fact, was what attracted him to the Boy Scout idea. In the absence of a corps of servants, the young Scouts learned to perform many useful duties. They aired their own rooms and made their own beds, sewed on their own buttons, and, in shifts, helped the cook to prepare their meals. So they had various "chores" to perform both before and after breakfast on the morning following their "hike" in the mountains. For an hour and a half they were busy, sandwiching their breakfast between the tidying of the dormitory and the washing and wiping of dishes. But finally all such duties were done, and the boys were free to go to Mummy Cañon for the wrecked aeroplane. Meanwhile they had been told that the victim of the accident was not fatally injured. Aside from his broken ribs and leg he had suffered only a severe shaking up. A thorough examination had convinced the doctor that he would recover as soon as his broken bones could mend. The swelling on his leg was rapidly going down, and the doctor announced that he would probably set the limb in the afternoon. A team of horses was hitched to a wagon, and one of the boys got in and drove, while the rest walked ahead or behind. Mr. Frankland accompanied them. The journey was uneventful and in less than an hour they were in the cañon. The aeroplane was so thoroughly a wreck as to require almost an expert to determine what it had been originally. It had struck on a level grassy spot and had torn up the sod as if to make the earth as much a wreck as itself. A misshapen mass of splintered wood and bent struts and braces was about all that the Scouts could make out. "It's hardly worth while to take that junk back with us," said Mr. Frankland as he gazed on the sorry-looking heap. "But since we came after it we may as well obey orders. Perhaps he'll want to hold a funeral and bury his dead pet." "Who is he?" inquired Ferdinand Sharer, commonly known as "Fes" because of his fondness of carving or inking his initials, "F. E. S.," on all his personal property. "What's his name?" "I don't know," Mr. Frankland replied. "He hasn't done much talking yet." "Gee! such a fall as that's enough to shut anybody up," exclaimed Frank Bowler. "Yes, anybody except you," answered "Fes" wisely. "You never close your face till after the chickens go to roost." "I don't, eh!" began Frank; but Mr. Frankland put a stop to this sort of dispute by saying: "Tut, tut, boys. None of that. That isn't clever." Several of the boys now took hold of the wreck and lifted it into the wagon. It was a strange looking sight as they carted it over the rock road. They arrived back at Lakefarm earlier than they had expected, but the boys were not required to return to their class work until afternoon. The wreck of the aeroplane was stored away in an empty shed, and the incident was closed pending an explanation from the injured aviator. CHAPTER V LOST! Next day Dr. Byrd related an aeroplane story to the boys in the assembly room. It was the story of Mr. Johnson Miles, the aviator who lay on a bed in the "Hospital" striving to help mend his broken bones by thinking hopeful thoughts. It was a story of absorbing interest to the young Scouts and afforded material for much excited conversation for several days thereafter. Mr. Miles had related his experiences in detail. He said that his home was in Indianapolis and that he had flown all the way from that city in his aeroplane. He had already spent several weeks among and over the mountains, his purpose being to visit the Rockies as a bird would visit them, and to collect specimens. "I was on my way to Flathead Mountain when I fell almost at its base," he told the doctor. "It was moonlight and I thought I would fly awhile, as it is really mighty pleasant to sail through the air with the moon and stars overhead. It's like racing along a lonely road in an automobile and seeing a ghost behind every post." "You have an odd idea of enjoyment," remarked the doctor. "Oh, it's thrilling," declared the aviator. "The ghosts can't catch you in an automobile, and you just cut right through them in the air. "But I was forced to stay up longer than I wanted to. The country was so rough that I could find no place to land. Then I found my gasoline almost gone and I knew I must glide and take my chances. The engine began to jerk and sputter and gasp, warning me of immediate danger. "That was a bad miscalculation I made regarding my gasoline. I thought I had enough to last me several hours. I had intended to fly only an hour or two by moonlight. I was right over the mountains when I discovered the condition of my gasoline, and you can imagine the state of mind it threw me into. All the ghosts I had cut through in the air hadn't begun to chill me the way this did. Fifty thousand icicles stuck down my back wouldn't have been a circumstance to this. "It was so dark down on the earth, in spite of the moon, that I could hardly distinguish mountains from valleys. I was flying five hundred feet over the highest peaks, and began to glide as soon as I discovered my predicament. "Presently I saw a large gulch that you call Mummy Cañon right below me. So I banked and circled around without realizing that I was so near the mountain I was searching for. But when about fifty feet from the ground a couple of my stay wires broke and warped the left wing. I worked my ailerons in an endeavor to balance the machine, but it was no use. Down she flopped, and I leaped. I don't know how I managed to get clear of the struts and the planes, but I did, and--well, it was mighty lucky you folks were near, or I'd have died a lonely death. Probably nobody would've come that way until I was food for the crows." "What became of your specimens?" inquired the doctor. "Didn't you have any with you, or hadn't you gathered any yet?" "Oh, my, yes!" replied Miles. "I'd been in the mountains several weeks. Didn't you find them?" "No. Where did you drop them?" "They were in a leather bag tied to one of the struts near my seat. It's mighty funny you didn't find them." "Maybe the bag was broken loose when the machine struck the ground, and was thrown some distance away," suggested the doctor. "That might be, but I should think one of all those boys would have found it when they went after the aeroplane." "Yes, I should think so, too, unless it fell into a hole or behind a big rock. Were the contents of the bag valuable?" "I wouldn't have taken one thousand dollars for them," said the aviator sadly. "In fact, I regret their loss more than the wreck of the biplane." "We'll make a thorough search for them," assured the doctor as he left his patient. This conversation took place shortly before noon. After dinner the boys were instructed to meet in the assembly room. There the doctor retold Mr. Miles' story in detail and then said: "I'm going to give you another half holiday, boys--" "Hooray!" exclaimed Ferdinand Sharer in a loud whisper. "Hold on, Ferdinand. Shut off your enthusiasm, for this isn't going to be an occasion of play. You have a very serious duty to perform, and I want you to go about it seriously." "We will," assured several of the boys. "Yes, I know you intend to be serious," said the owner of Lakefarm, with a wise shake of his iron-gray locks. "But I want you to be more than serious. I want you to use your wits, too, a little. A treasure has been lost and I want you to go in search of it; and if you don't find it, I want you to furnish a clew as to what has become of it." Dr. Byrd's Boy Scouts could no longer contain themselves. Most of them just had to give vent to their feelings with loud-whispered "hoorays!" or other characteristic expressions of glee. "Remember, now," insisted the master of the school just before he instructed the troop of Scouts to file out; "I want you to use your heads and do some good work. That bag of relics is valuable and must be found. If it isn't lying on the ground near the place where the aeroplane struck, I want to know why. Mr. Porter will go with you." This was rather a large task to impose on any number of boys. To be sure, if the bag were lying near the spot in question, they ought to find it, or rather they should have discovered it already; but if it had mysteriously disappeared, how were thirty boys to conjure an explanation of the mystery? Naturally this question, variously phrased, occurred to a number of the Scouts as they listened to the doctor's latest words, but they were too young to ponder very deeply over the difficulty of any problem and soon dismissed this one from their minds. "You may stay until dark if it takes that long to find it," concluded Dr. Byrd. "Now, everybody go to the kitchen and get some sandwiches that you'll find all ready. You'll all be hungry before you get back." There was no need of further urging. The boys filed eagerly out of the room, hastened to their lockers and got their drab coats, drill hats, haversacks, and hike-sticks, and then went to the kitchen for their sandwiches. In twenty minutes they were on their way. The course from the school to Mummy Cañon is pretty and interesting. It follows the bed of the river most of the way. This stream, named Lake River by Dr. Byrd, varies from thirty to forty feet wide and carries considerable volume of water. It runs southward a mile and a half along the foothills, then turns westward after receiving the water of Flathead River from Mummy Cañon. The rest of the way is up-hill, along the bank of the latter river or near it. Mummy Cañon is more than two miles long, its greatest width, near the center, being nearly half a mile. It is almost entirely hemmed in by mountains, there being a narrow pass at either end, north and south. Flathead River has its source, or sources, high up in the mountains, and dashes down in a series of noisy cascades and cataracts, making a graceful curve for a quarter of a mile along the base of Flathead Mountain, from there leaping down a very rocky course to and through the northern pass. The young Scouts and Mr. Porter walked halfway through the cañon before they reached the place where the aeroplane struck the earth. To the west arose Flathead Mountain, considerably lower than the other mountains bordering the cañon. From the "forehead" of Flathead the mummy stood forth conspicuously. The bottom of the cañon was strewn with bowlders of every size and description. On the east, exactly opposite Flathead, was a steep ascent so rocky as to permit of little vegetation save a pine or fir here and there growing from a crevice that seemed not to contain a trace of soil. High up on the ascent were poised several huge bowlders, and hence its name of Bowlder Mountain. On a level and treeless spot several acres in extent between Flathead and Bowlder Mountain, the Boy Scouts and Mr. Porter began their search for the missing bag of specimens. Almost in the middle of the grassy plot, the sod had been torn and rooted up by the plunging machine, and it did not take the searchers long to decide that the object they sought was not there in the open. "Well, what do you think of it, boys?" inquired Mr. Porter. "Remember, you're to do all the work and furnish all the ideas. Who has an idea now?" "I have," announced Fes Sharer. "All right. We'll listen to Ferdinand first." "I think this is all a pipe dream of the airship man's," declared Fes, who was an extremely practical youth and always demanded evidence before he would believe anything. "I think he struck his head on a rock and hasn't come to his senses yet." "Don't you believe he had a bag of souvenirs?" inquired the instructor. "Naw," was the skeptical answer. "If he did, what became of it? It'd had to fall with the airship." "Yes, if it was tied to it," conditioned Juan Del Mar. "He says it was tied to the aeroplane," reminded Mr. Porter. "I think he's dreaming," insisted Fes. "If he had a bag of specimens with him, it wasn't tied to the airship; or if it was, it broke loose or came untied while it was falling." "I think it came untied," declared Pickles. "What do the rest of you think?" inquired Mr. Porter. As any thought on the subject must be largely a matter of guess, none of the boys besides Fes and Pickles were inclined to be very positive. All, however, were willing to accept Ferdinand's explanation. "Then it's up to us to search the whole cañon, or a good piece of it, around here," declared Hal Kenyon. Several others agreed with him, although a few of the more doubtful said they were just as ready to believe that the bag had been dropped outside of the cañon. "I bet it dropped right on the peak of Bowlder Mountain, or maybe on the top of Flathead," one boy even declared. It was now half past three o'clock, and as it would be dark early in the cañon, the boys set to work diligently to cover as much ground as possible before daylight failed them. They divided up the territory, and each boy tried to confine his search to his assignment. Hal had a stretch of several acres along the creek at the base of Flathead Mountain. In the course of an hour he went over it thoroughly, without finding the treasured bag and hearing no joyful cry of discovery from any of the other boys. Meanwhile it occurred to him that the bag might just as well have fallen into the river as any other place, and he determined to search in the water also. This required a good deal of time. In some of the wider places the stream was shallow and he could see the stony or pebbly bottom. But in other places he found it necessary to exercise greater care. He took off his shoes and stockings and rolled up his trousers as high as he could; then he waded in and began a thorough search. Where the water was too deep for wading, he used his hike-stick to feel the bottom. In the meantime other boys, to whom had been assigned other sections along the creek, observed what Hal was doing and followed his example. The search went along quietly, for all of the Scouts were too widely separated to engage in much conversation. When they became hungry, they ate their sandwiches and drank spring water and then returned to their work. But at last it grew too dark for further hunting among the rocks, trees and bushes, or even in the open, and Mr. Porter called them together. The search seemed to have been in vain. The leather bag of the aviator was still lost, and nobody believed that it would ever be found, unless by accident. "Well, we did our best anyway," said Byron Bowler. "You bet we did, Bun," agreed Pickles, following the general boy habit of shortening Byron to "Bun." "I'm tired." "So'm I," declared several others. "We'll start home now," announced Mr. Porter. "Everybody here?" "All here," replied one of the boys, assuming that everybody had answered Mr. Porter's whistle. The walk back to Lakefarm was quiet. The boys were all tired and found little of interest to discuss in their fruitless search. On the campus they were met by Dr. Byrd and Mr. Frankland, who inquired as to their success. "Nothing doing," replied Roy Hendricks. "We searched pretty near the whole cañon and come back with empty hands." "Yes, and we searched the river, too," repeated Bun. "Hal Kenyon started that. We waded through the shallow places." "Where is Hal?" inquired Pickles. "I ain't seen him all the way back." There was no answer. "What's that?" inquired the doctor. "Kenyon missing? Hal, step forward." There was no answer and no stepping forward. All was excitement soon. Hal's name was called, then shouted by a dozen throats, and still no reply. Young Kenyon had disappeared as mysteriously as had the bag of specimens of the injured aviator. CHAPTER VI THE SCREAM IN THE WATERFALL "How did this happen, Mr. Porter?" demanded Dr. Byrd sternly, yet with an unmistakable quaver in his voice. "I--I don't know, sir," stammered the manual training instructor. "I thought I heard his voice among the others on the way home." The fact was, Mr. Porter thought no such thing. He was merely frightened lest he be held responsible if anything serious had happened to Kenyon while the boy was in his charge. He felt guilty. He knew that he ought to have called the roll to determine if all were present before starting back for the school. "Did anybody see Hal or hear his voice on the way back?" called out the doctor addressing the crowd of boys now gathered closely around him. No one had. "Maybe he's gone into the dining-room," suggested Mr. Porter in an unnatural tone. "No, he didn't do anything of the sort," returned the doctor. "I've been sitting out here for ten minutes waiting for you. Not a boy has entered this building in that time." There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments, and then the doctor continued: "If anything has happened to that boy I'm going to find out who's responsible." "He was working in the river some o' the time and it's over his head, lots of places," piped one small boy in fearful accents. "Oh, it's impossible for him to have been drowned," declared Mr. Porter. "I kept my eyes on the boys in the river all the time they were there." Dr. Byrd offered no reply to this assurance. He merely said: "All you boys go in and get your supper; then go to bed early." "Can't we go with you and hunt for Hal?" pleaded Charley Mason. "No. I'm not going to run any risk of losing any more of you. Besides, you've done enough for one day. I know you're all tired." "No we're not," responded several. The fact is, they were well tired from their afternoon's work, but love for their lost schoolmate had a refreshing effect. But the master of the school would not yield and they were forced to do as he said. By this time Mr. Frankland had appeared, and as the boys filed into the wash room to prepare for supper, he was informed of the situation that had caused such a commotion. "We've got to go and look for that boy and stick to the hunt until we find him--dead or alive," almost sobbed the doctor. "Oh, it can't be as bad as that," reassured the hopeful Mr. Frankland. "Hal's a pretty level-headed boy and will be showing up with an explanation before long. I haven't known him to get into trouble yet, and nearly every other boy in the school has been in one sort of scrape or another." "I hope you're right, Frankland, but I very much fear otherwise. I can't conceive of an explanation of his disappearance unless some serious accident has befallen him. But you go and find Pepper and have him get the auto ready, Mr. Porter; and, Mr. Frankland, you get a couple of long-handled rakes and some lanterns. I'll get my medical and surgical cases and we'll be prepared for any emergency." Pepper was soon found and instructed. A few words of explanation served to put speed in his actions, and in fifteen minutes the large touring car was backed out of the garage. No unnecessary delay was permitted by the doctor. The medical and surgical cases were put aboard and all climbed in. Mr. Frankland, with two rakes in hand, sat behind with Mr. Porter, who had charge of the lanterns, and Dr. Byrd took a seat in front with the chauffeur. Pepperill Humphrey served as chauffeur as well as janitor at Lakefarm Institute. He was a wise old man, always ready with "home-remedy" advice and droll humor. He could tell "bad boys" what was going to become of them more forebodingly, some said, than could any other forecaster of human events. He was peculiarly quiet on the present occasion. After receiving a twenty-word explanation from Mr. Frankland, he asked one or two questions and then said nothing more. His silence might have been construed variously. He was fond of Hal, as was everybody else at the school, and possibly he was stunned at the news received. But he was observed several times to nod his head vigorously and to mutter in a very positive manner. The other members of the search party, however, were too much occupied with their own thoughts to ask for an explanation from the janitor-chauffeur. They rode along in silence for most of the way. The doctor had gained all the information that seemed obtainable. Mr. Porter, because of the criticism he had received, wished to draw as little attention to himself as possible, and Mr. Frankland appreciated the embarrassment of the situation. There was a fairly good road from the school to the northern pass of the cañon, including a bridge over Lake River near its junction with Flathead River, which ran through the cañon, and along this they advanced close to the spot where the airship had struck. Here they stopped, and the search for Hal was started. First they shouted his name again and again, permitting the echoes to die away after each shout; but no reply came. Then they lighted their lanterns, one for each, and started in pairs up and down the bank of the river. Mr. Porter indicated the section of the stream along which Hal had conducted his hunt for Mr. Miles' bag of souvenirs, and it was from a middle point in this section that search for the missing boy began. For a few hundred feet here the water was deep and comparatively quiet; but above this calmer stretch was a succession of falls so noisy as to make it necessary to shout in order to be heard. The largest and noisiest of these falls was the lowest one. Dr. Byrd and Mr. Porter went upstream as far as this cataract, and stood a short time gazing into the water. There was little comfort in the feelings that possessed them as they gazed. The falling water glittered in the yellow moonlight, seeming to shine forth with a million ghost eyes, and in the noise of that tumbling flood every now and then they heard a strange sharp sound that seemed to pierce them through. Mr. Porter took hold of the doctor's sleeve and drew him away. They walked some distance down stream until their ordinary voices could be heard, and then Mr. Porter said: "Let's not begin by raking the river. If he's drowned, we can't do anything for him; but if he's injured, he needs our aid." "Well, where would you suggest that we hunt first?" inquired the doctor. "In the timber and thickets near the falls. He may have gone in there and got hurt." "All right. We'll search every place you suggest before we rake the river." Mr. Frankland and Pepper were now observed coming up along the shore, and the doctor and Mr. Porter waited for them. After the four were reunited, Mr. Frankland said: "We've covered the ground pretty well down there. Everything's open and fairly level. We measured the water with our rake, too, and it isn't over a boy's head any place, although it is swift as a millrace." "If he's drowned, his body's probably in this deeper part near the falls," said Dr. Byrd. "We're going up in the timber and hunt there first, and then come back here if we don't find him." "It might be just possible that he waded over to the other side and was hunting along the steep base of old Flathead and fell in there," suggested Mr. Frankland. "We'll hope not," returned the doctor; "but we'll follow that up after we've tried everything else." The timber they now proceeded to search consisted principally of spruce, pines and cottonwood growing on a slope that ascended with the bed of the stream. The soil was fairly good here, being comparatively free from small stones and gravel, but there were numerous large bowlders and rocky projections that the search-party had to climb over or around. They spent an hour and a half, walking, crawling and climbing over this difficult ground, flashing their lanterns into every hole or depression, and stopping every now and then to call Hal's name. At last, considerably disheartened, they returned to the bank of the river below the falls. "Let's go down to the rapids and work up," suggested Mr. Porter. "He was working that way most of the time I think. I saw him down there and didn't see him up here." This proposal was agreed upon, so they walked down stream two hundred yards from the largest and lowest fall and began to work up. Two of the men held the lanterns, while the others thrust the long-handled rakes into the water and felt along the bank. They pushed the rakes out as far as they could and drew them in many times. On several occasions they were almost certain they had found the body of the missing boy, but their discovery proved to be only a log or a tangled mass of sticks and weeds. Finally they worked up to the lower waterfall and then moved away from the roaring noise to a distance where they could hear each other talk. "The only thing that seems to be left to do is to go to the other side and rake the river bed over there," remarked Mr. Frankland. "Yes, and if he was drowned even on that side, it'll be just our luck not to find him," said Mr. Porter. "The body's probably drifted into midstream and may be down past the rapids." "If we don't find him to-night, we'll come back again to-morrow and drag the river to its junction with Lake River," the doctor announced determinedly. "There's something funny about them falls," remarked Pepper, who had been strangely silent during the whole of the search thus far. "What's that?" inquired Mr. Porter, who was still nervous and easily drawn into almost any meaningless conversation. "Don't you hear it?" explained the chauffeur. "That noise every little bit. Sounds like a scream coming right out of the water." "Oh, that's natural enough," declared the manual training instructor. "It's a twist or eddy sucking into some crevice in the rocks." "I don't believe it," insisted Pepper. "Many a time I've been here on Sunday afternoon and set here listenin' to them falls, an' never before heard that noise." "What do you think it is--a ghost?" inquired Mr. Porter with an uneasy laugh. "No, sir," replied the other indignantly. "But it's something 'at ought to be looked into. We're huntin' for a missin' boy, you know." "There _is_ something strange in that sound," put in Dr. Byrd at this point. "I wonder what it can be. Mr. Porter, your explanation doesn't satisfy me." "Nor me either," said Mr. Frankland. Just then another and louder scream came seemingly right out of the tumbling flood, thrilling fearfully every member of the boy-hunting party. For a few moments everybody present stood as if frozen to the ground; then Dr. Byrd sprang forward exclaiming: "Come on; we've got to find out what that means." CHAPTER VII A BADLY FRIGHTENED BOY "I told 'em so. I told 'em something would happen. I warned those boys they'd get into trouble if they didn't quit gettin' so gay. Hal isn't a gay one, but he can easy be a victim of a trick of one o' those careless, dare-devil kids." Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter both heard Pepper mutter thus to himself as they followed the doctor toward the waterfall whence the scream of a human voice seemed to come, but they paid little attention to his words, for they knew his peculiarities and attached little importance to his grumbling. Nevertheless, Pepper believed all he said, and more. Only a few days earlier he had observed some of the boys engaged in tying the long grass across the path that led from the stables to the west timberland on Lakefarm. Then he lectured them, promising that they would come to no happy end. "You boys will be the death of somebody one o' these fine days, and then you'll begin to do some thinkin'," he declared, as he strode along, breaking with a strong kick each of the "trips" that the mischievous youngsters had prepared. "And you, Frank Bowler, are well nicknamed 'Bad.' If you don't end on the gallows, I'm dreamin'." Frank seemed to be the leader in this escapade. He would have liked to have made a smart reply to this direful prophecy, but for once in his life he thought twice. This was only one of many occasions of which the old Englishman took advantage to hand out his advice. He was really a good-hearted and well-intending fellow, and no doubt did some of the boys considerable good. But there were a few of the latter who couldn't "go the old geezer," and Frank Bowler was one of them. Why it was, he could never tell; but Mr. Humphrey had a "feeling in his bones" that one of the mischief makers of the school was connected with the disappearance of Hal Kenyon. And this was what he meant when he muttered the words overheard by Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter. Although he was the one who called particular attention to the strange sound that seemed to issue from the waterfall, he did not regard it as seriously as did the others. He was thinking more of certain boys back at the school than of the mystery close at hand. True, his wonder was aroused at the sound issuing from the cataract, but his reason would not permit him to connect that with the disappearance of Hal. He was wishing that he were now back at Lakefarm closeted with "some of those bad boys and sweating the truth out o' them." "I'd get it out o' them, I'd get it out o' them," he told himself over and over again after the first thrill of awe at the shrill sound from the waterfall. "Whether there's anything serious happened to Hal or not, I believe some o' those boys know something about it. Wait till to-morrow morning, and I'll find out." Pepper nodded his head and shook his fist determinedly as he spoke. He was talking vehemently now, articulating his words without reserve, for they had approached so near the noisy falls that he could not hear himself speak. But he was interrupted by another scream from the cataract. This was no louder than the last preceding, but it was more thrilling, for they were closer. Every member of the searching party would have declared that only a human throat could send forth such a sound. They approached close to the cataract and gazed helplessly into the water. What could they do? It was a most astonishing and unfathomable mystery. All they could do was stand and look and listen. Presently Dr. Byrd pulled a sleeve of each of his companions and motioned them to follow him. They started down the stream again, but soon they were halted involuntarily by another wailing cry from the same source. Dr. Byrd did not turn back, however, but went on after a moment's hesitation. The others followed. Beyond the reach of the deafening noise of the waterfall, the doctor stopped and began to discuss the affair with trembling, hollow voice, his face showing white in the rays of the lanterns. He was not frightened, but the circumstances were unusual enough to unstring his nerves. The rest were similarly affected, even Pepper experiencing a weakening of his knees as a result of the last two screams. "What in the world does that mean?" gasped the doctor. "There it goes again," as another scream, somewhat fainter than the last two, reached their ears. "Can't one of you offer a possible explanation?" "Maybe it's a mountain lion or a lynx," suggested Pepper. "You know there's said to be a few in the mountains around here." "That's a brilliant idea," exclaimed Dr. Byrd enthusiastically, "or rather, it's a commonsense explanation that ought to have occurred to any blockhead. Hence, what are the rest of us? I feel better all of a sudden. But no! If it is a panther--" He hesitated. "What then?" inquired Mr. Frankland. "It may explain, may it not, what became of Hal?" replied the doctor slowly. "You mean that the beast killed him?" inquired Mr. Porter. "Yes." "No, no, that would have been impossible. Such a tragedy could not have escaped the notice of some of us. Moreover, there'd have been some traces left--blood, broken bushes, and maybe torn-up sod." "Yes, that's true," admitted the doctor. "But what's become of the boy? I'd face a hundred panthers to get Hal back safe. My! there's that scream again. It doesn't sound like a wild animal. It's almost human." "If it's a panther or a lynx, where do you suppose it is?" inquired Mr. Frankland, addressing Pepper. "In the rocks near the waterfall somewhere," replied Pepper. "I should think we'd have seen him or have been able to locate him when we were up close," reasoned the doctor. "It's too dark up there--the fall's right in the shadow of the mountain. And the noise o' the water confuses things so you can't tell just where the scream comes from." "I can't believe any wild animal makes that noise, and I'm in favor of making further investigation," said Dr. Byrd. "I'm with you on that," Mr. Frankland announced; "but before we proceed, I propose we arm ourselves against a possible encounter." "How?" Mr. Porter asked. "With clubs. Four of us ought to beat off a panther with good strong heavy sticks." "It's a wise precaution," the doctor approved. "Let's get busy." They proceeded to a near-by thicket and there found a number of young trees that suited their purpose admirably. Like the Boy Scouts, they too were supplied with large sharp jackknives, and in ten minutes each was armed with a club that seemed formidable enough to break the skull of a lion. Then they turned again toward the cataract, advancing close to it and flashing their lanterns over the big tumble of water and the adjoining piles of rocks. But they discovered nothing that suggested an explanation of the mystery. The screams continued to come, seemingly from the fall, but it was ridiculous to believe that any living being, human or beast, could exist in that flood and, with clear, strong lungs, emit such wailing sounds of distress. For fifteen minutes they watched and listened, while the cries continued to come at intervals of a minute or two. Finally, since the examination of the fall and the rocks near it produced no result, Dr. Byrd began to give all his attention to the cries themselves. After close and careful listening he was certain he could distinguish a feature in the cries that had not attracted his notice before. He strained every nerve in order to catch the sounds more distinctly. Observing his attitude as he leaned forward and put his hand cup-shaped behind his ear, the other men followed his example and soon they too were certain they could make out a single word uttered by a human voice. "Help!" It seemed to come more clearly now and was repeated several times in rapid succession. The eager listeners turned to each other and nodded their heads significantly; then they listened again as the call was repeated. But only the one word could they make out. "Where are you, Hal?" Dr. Byrd shouted this answer to the appeal, but his voice was heavy, attuned almost to the noise of the waterfall, and could hardly have been heard by the person in distress. Then Mr. Frankland and Pepper measured the strength of their vocal organs against the noise of the cataract with little better result. But Mr. Porter had a high, shrill voice, and when he sang out with all his strength "Oh, Hal, where are you?" there was a general feeling among them that the boy must have heard it. Then they listened again. A reply was surely coming. It was not a single word, but several that issued from the waterfall this time. They seemed to come in the form of a sentence, but only one was heard distinctly enough to be recognized. That word was understood by all. It was "behind." "Behind what?" was the question that naturally came to the minds of the listeners. But before they could conjecture an answer, there came a startling interruption that drove all thought of the mystery of the cataract momentarily from their minds. Happening to turn his face away from the waterfall, the doctor beheld the dim outlines of a small human figure twenty feet away. Believing it to be Hal, he ran joyfully toward the boy and was followed by the other men. The object of their interest did not move. In a moment they were close to him and holding their lanterns before his face. But the boy was not Hal. It was Frank Bowler, supposed to be back at Lakefarm and fast asleep in the dormitory. And his countenance could hardly have been whiter if it had been coated with white enamel. Moreover, he was trembling as if he had seen a ghost. "Frank, Frank, what is the matter? What does this mean?" cried Dr. Byrd; but he forgot that he was too near the cataract to carry on a conversation, and the boy did not understand him. Just then there came another scream out of the roar of the waterfall, and Frank, the boastful, fell on his knees, shaking with terror. CHAPTER VIII HAL'S DISCOVERY Meanwhile, what had become of Hal Kenyon? He had had a most remarkable adventure, and connected with it was an equally remarkable discovery. During the search for the missing bag of specimens Hal and Frank Bowler worked in adjoining divisions of the territory that was being covered. As they finished the search on their divisions they met at the lower waterfall. They gazed a short while into the tumbling water and then moved down stream until they could hear each other's voices. "I don't believe we'll find the bag," were Frank's first words. "I don't believe anybody'll ever find it. I bet it's in the deep part o' the river where you couldn't wade." "Maybe it's on the other side," suggested Hal. "There's quite a little piece of ground over there along the river bank. It's pretty steep, but we could walk on it if we're careful." "Let's go over there and hunt," Frank proposed. "All right. Come on." They continued on down the river to a wide shallow stony place, and there took off their shoes and waded over. Arrived on the opposite side, they put on their shoes again, and as they were doing this Hal said: "It'll be getting dark before long and we don't want to have to walk along this steep place when we can't see plain. Let's go up to the other end, at the fall, and work down this way." "All right," agreed Frank. So they picked their way over stones and through bushes and patches of stunted fir trees, sometimes finding it necessary to hold onto a bush or a rock in order to keep from slipping or losing their balance and plunging into the river. But they reached the cataract and then halted again to look around them. There was little more than standing-room for them at this point. This standing-room, however, was level and comfortable. It was close to the fall, which proved even more magnificent from this side than from the other. The rocks were piled high and wonderfully poised, and the water fell from a lofty height and roared thunderously on the rocky bed in the deep basin below. Both of the boys had a great desire to talk as they gazed on the beauty of this scenery, but the noise of the falls drowned out their voices. So they had to content themselves with gazing and pointing their fingers and nodding their heads eagerly. As they stood there they made a new and interesting discovery that caused them to forget their purpose in crossing the river. At the near edge of the cataract the downpour of water was extremely thin, so that the boys could look behind. Hal's notice was first to be attracted to this peculiarity. Soon he was standing as close to the fall as he could get with safety and was gazing wonderingly into a cavernous space beyond. Observing his attitude, Frank stepped near and looked over his shoulder. Then Hal put his lips close to his companion's ear and shouted: "Bad, there's a cave back there!" Frank nodded understandingly, and Hal continued in the same manner as before: "Do you see that thing on the floor of the cave? It looks like a leather bag. Maybe it's the one we're looking for." "It can't be," Frank shouted in Hal's ear. "How would it get there?" Kenyon pointed to a huge projecting rock just over their heads. "It might have struck that and glanced off through the water," he replied. Hal was now convinced that they had discovered the object of their search. His first impulse was to run back and inform Dr. Byrd, but a boyish ambition made him hesitate, and that hesitation was perhaps to be blamed for much of the trouble that followed. As he lingered, this thought came to him: "Wouldn't it be glorious if we could get behind the waterfall, explore the cave, and come out and report our double discovery to the owner of Lakefarm and all the boys?" The idea was so tempting that he was unable to give it up. The ledge behind the fall was about nine feet from the edge of the flat rocky precipice on which they stood. Now, if he only had a plank nine or ten feet long, he could easily bridge the chasm and walk through the thin spray of water right into this wonderful cave. Instinctively he looked about him for something that would serve as a bridge, and what was his astonishment to discover the very article he was wishing for. Projecting from a thicket near by was the end of a piece of lumber. He went over and pulled and found it loose. It was a plank twelve inches wide and ten feet long. "My!" was his exclamation, drowned by the waterfall. "We're not the first to find this place. Somebody else is using that cave for something and he's had this plank here to cross over on." This certainly seemed to be the natural and only logical explanation of the presence of the heavy piece of lumber in the bushes. At least it would serve the desired purpose, and Hal prepared to thrust it across the chasm so that an end would rest on each ledge of rock. Frank understood quickly what his companion had in mind and stood ready to help him. The plank was heavy, but Hal was strong, and with a well-calculated effort he placed it in position and kept his balance. "Now you hold this end while I cross over," he screamed into Frank's ear. "But don't you try to come over." Frank nodded eagerly. He had no intention of obeying, but said nothing. He got down on his knees and placed his hands on the plank. There really was no need of this, but it was a natural request for Hal to make, as he would feel safer with a pair of hands steadying the unanchored bridge. It was now dusk in the cañon and rapidly growing dark. Probably this is one reason why the doings of these two boys were not observed by any of the other members of the searching company. However, the view of most of them was shut off by the high bluffs and rocks near the waterfall and the rest were at a considerable distance away or in hollows or depressions or beyond growths of timber. Hal stepped onto the plank and moved out over the chasm toward the thin spray and the cave beyond. Meanwhile Frank's brain was working rapidly. He was thinking of the glory that Hal was winning and he was losing. Why should they not share the glory alike? As soon as his companion reached the cave he also would cross on the plank, walk right through the roaring waterfall and maybe carry back the coveted treasure in his own hands. "Oh, wouldn't that be great!" he exclaimed exultingly. "How the other kids'd look at me. And if any of 'em got too fresh, I'd just clout 'em on the jaw." Frank actually executed the vicious swing of "clouting" some youngster as he spoke. The result was thrilling, but not what the youthful terrorizer would have wished. He was half kneeling, half sitting in an awkward and cramping position, and as he swung his fist on an imaginary jaw, he lost his balance, and his feet slipped from under him. One heel struck the plank violently, and over it tipped, then with a swing, slipped under the waterfall and was shot down into the chasm. And Bad almost went with it, but he caught himself at the edge of the precipice. For a moment he lay there and looked over. Then he remembered Hal. He was gone. He must have followed the plank into the whirling pool below. In an ague of horror he crawled back a few yards and staggered to his feet; then with one terrified look behind him, he started on a wild run along the steep shore, sobbing hysterically as he ran: "Oh, my! Oh, my! I've killed Hal! I've killed Hal! Oh, what will I do? What will I do? I'll be hung, I know!" He arrived at the place where they had crossed and dropped down and pulled off his shoes and stockings. As he was thus occupied he continued his fearful forebodings: "Pepper said some of us bad boys'd end on the gallows, and I know he meant me. He could look right through me. I always felt it. He's the first one to call me 'Bad,' and then the kids did. "Yes, I know I'll be hung if--no, I won't either. Nobody saw us. I won't tell. I'll keep it to myself, and nobody'll ever find out." He crossed back to the other side and in the dusk saw the boys gathering a few hundred feet away. Mr. Porter had called them a few minutes before with a whistle blast, but Frank had not heard it. Still resolved to guard his terrible secret, Frank hastened to join the other Scouts. Fortunately it was now almost dark and none of them could see his face plainly, or they would have noticed how pale he was. As a rule he was talkative, but now he did not speak at all, except to give the shortest possible answers when addressed. One or two of the boys, observing his unusual manner, asked him what was the matter and he made no reply. All the way back to the school he walked by himself, lagging a little behind much of the time, as if tired, in order that he might not be forced to talk. He was afraid to talk. It was all he could do to keep from crying. By the time they reached the school he had lost his nerve and decided that he must tell somebody all about it. He could not bear to keep the secret any longer. But no suitable opportunity offered itself to speak to the doctor or Mr. Frankland. He might have taken one of the boys aside and told his story to him, but Frank could not remember one of his schoolmates whom he had not threatened to "clean up" or "clout in the jaw" at one time or another. Even Bun his brother, whom he had threatened with a "paste on the blinker" only the day before, might censure him and tell him he ought to be hanged or be sent to jail. So Frank did not tell his story when his strongest impulse to sob it out possessed him. He went with the rest of the boys into the wash room and then into the dining room and ate his supper in silence. His face was not so pale now, but his peculiar manner was observed by several. However, it was thought that he was dejected, as were many others, over the fate of Hal Kenyon, and nobody embarrassed him with questions. After supper the boys were sent off to bed. Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter usually had charge of this "good night" watch and slept in the dormitory, but on this occasion Mrs. Byrd and the matronly cook superintended affairs. Once or twice Frank almost yielded to an impulse to confide in the doctor's wife, but his general dislike for both girls and women held him back. Frank and Byron slept together. Dr. Byrd had not spared his money in constructing the buildings of this mountain school, and for every two boys there was a separate room, neatly and comfortably fitted. They were all outside rooms, with a window for each, all on the first floor, so that it would be easy for the boys to escape in case of fire. Byron was tired and could hardly keep his eyes open until he got into bed. He was so tired that he hardly noticed the unusual silence of his brother; or if he did, he attributed it to the same cause that made him sleepy. As for Frank, he never was more wide awake and had no idea of sleeping. He sat down on a chair and began to undress slowly, but there was a reason in his slowness. He was watching Bun constantly out of the corner of his eye and his nervousness was greatly relieved when he saw his brother fall into bed and to sleep almost instantly. Then Frank stopped undressing and sat quietly for a few minutes watching the boy in bed. Soon the latter's heavy breathing announced that he was fast asleep, and the young watcher drew on his trousers again. He worked rapidly now, drawing on his stockings and shoes, and putting on his coat and hat. Then he moved toward the window, which was open in accordance with the health ideas of Dr. Byrd. With another hasty glance at his slumbering brother, Frank put both legs over the window sill and dropped to the ground, a distance of only a few feet. Then, like a flash, he straightened up and ran over the lawn toward the road. The moon was shining and the boy concealed his flight as much as possible by keeping under a row of balsam poplars along the east edge of the campus. After leaving the shadow of these, he found it necessary to break into the open, and he ran down the road toward the river with all his speed. It was a wild-looking figure that raced along the trail toward Mummy Cañon that night. Half a mile from the school a small animal shot out from a clump of junipers and darted across his path just behind him. Believing it to be a wildcat, he doubled his speed, too much frightened to think of stopping, although his hat was whiffed off by the wind. His hair was rather long and it was blown in disorder. Like a scary horse he shied at every large rock, dark hollow, or ghost-like stunted spruce or fir. Up hill and down he ran, through ravine and along the precipice of a hollow known as "Baby Gorge." Colorado nights are cool, even in the summer, and he did not become overheated. A few times he was forced to stop and walk for want of breath, but as soon as he recovered, on he went at the best speed he could make. He was a sturdy youngster and stood the test. At last he reached Flathead Pass and hastened through, over a ledge of rock along the bank of the river. Another quarter of a mile, and he was able to see the lights of the lanterns of the hunters for the lost boy. On he ran, and as he neared the party ahead, he realized tremblingly that they were near the fatal waterfall. Now he began to wonder what he should do. He had had no plan in mind when he started out; all he could say to himself was that he must be present and watch the search. He did not intend to reveal himself, but wanted to be near when the body of Hal was taken out of the water. Frank approached as near to the men by the waterfall as he thought safe. He stopped behind a clump of bushes and peered around to watch proceedings. Presently the doctor and his companions moved away from the cataract and stopped within a few feet of the bushes, and there the boy heard their excited discussion regarding the cries that seemed to issue from the falling water. Then he saw them cut a club for each and advance again toward the place of mystery. The watching boy was intensely thrilled by what he had heard. The suggestion that possibly the screams were those of a panther or a lynx added a new element of fear to the situation. But as he heard the strange sound repeated again and again, he dismissed all thought of a wild animal. "It's Hal's ghost, I know; it can't be anything else," he chattered; and without knowing why, he left his place of concealment and started toward the waterfall. A dozen paces from the men he stopped, fearful of announcing his presence, yet half hoping he would be discovered. Just then Dr. Byrd turned and saw him. CHAPTER IX HAL A PRISONER "Oh, he's dead! Hal's dead, and that's his ghost screaming!" moaned Frank Bowler as he writhed in mental agony at the feet of Dr. Byrd. The latter stooped and lifted the boy gently to his feet. Then he took him by the hand and led him down stream beyond the noise of the waterfall. "Nonsense, Frank. If that's his voice, he's alive and very lusty, and we're going to get him out as soon as we find out where he is. But what does all this mean?" "No, no, that's his ghost; I know it is," insisted the boy still wildly. "Don't let them hang me, Dr. Byrd! Don't let them hang me! I won't do it any more." "Won't do what any more?" "Threaten to clout anybody on the jaw," sobbed Frank, who now for the first time that evening found it possible to shed tears, and they came in a flood. But at last he found his voice between sobs and continued. "I kicked the plank and he fell down in the waterfall. He's drownded; I know it. I saw him fall. Please, doctor, don't let 'em hang me." "Get that out of your mind, my boy," reassured Dr. Byrd. "Nobody's going to hang you, whatever you did. They don't hang boys of your age. But I don't understand you." This reassurance that he was not in danger of the gallows gave the boy better control of himself and he was able to tell his story less hysterically. Through a series of pointed questions the doctor finally drew from him all the details regarding the discovery of the cave behind the cataract and Hal's attempt to get into it, and then he announced: "Well, the mystery is explained at last. Don't worry, Frank. Hal isn't drowned. He's safe behind the waterfall and we'll get him out as soon as we can." "But I saw him fall," insisted the boy, his eyes staring wide with wonder. "No you didn't," replied the doctor. "It was your imagination that caused you to think you saw him fall. He was probably on the ledge beyond the cataract and staggered as he stepped from the plank." This was the true explanation, and takes us back to Hal when he was entrapped. He saw what his companion had done and attempted to reassure him that no serious damage, beyond the loss of the plank, had resulted; but Frank darted away in terror almost instantly. Hal watched the fleeing boy with puzzled amusement at first. He could not understand why he should have run away so hurriedly. He did not know that Frank believed he had killed his friend, but supposed the impetuous lad was hastening away for assistance. However, it seemed strange that he should not have tried to tell Hal his intentions. Having no fear as to the outcome of his adventure, Hal began to look about him. But the cave was dark, except close to the roaring water, and he was able to see but little. He was afraid to venture far back lest he step into a pit or over an underground precipice. So he decided to wait where he was until help arrived. Presently his eyes fell again on the supposed bag of souvenirs, and he stooped over and picked it up. Yes, there was no mistake about it; the object was a bag of soft leather and contained half a peck, seemingly of small stones or quartz. The string, run through a dozen eyes near the opening, was tied, and as it was too dark to see, he did not open it. Help would come to him in a few minutes and he would turn the bag over to Dr. Byrd for further inspection. But help did not come in a few minutes. Half an hour passed and Hal began to wonder a little. He had reasoned out an explanation of Frank's sudden departure, so that had ceased to puzzle him. Frank was very impetuous, and undoubtedly had realized at once that it would be useless, on account of the noise of the waterfall, to attempt to talk with the prisoner, so he must have decided instantly that the only thing for him to do was to run for assistance before it became too dark. But as the shades of the cañon grew heavy and no rescuers appeared, Hal became uneasy. Probably an hour had elapsed since he was trapped in this place, and he was becoming alarmed. What could have happened to Frank? Had he fallen into the river and--no, that could not be. Hal had watched him until he passed the deep part and sat down near the fording place to pull off his shoes and stockings. Frank had crossed the river, no doubt. Another half hour elapsed and the prisoner was ready to give up hope for the night. Something had happened to prevent Frank from carrying the news to Mr. Porter, or else it was deemed too dark to attempt a rescue at once. The west shore was pretty steep and a single misstep in the dark might plunge one into the water or onto the rocks, ten, fifteen or twenty feet below. Possibly some one had been sent back to the school for lanterns. Several times he wished he had some matches in order that he might explore the cave and examine the contents of the leather bag, but Dr. Byrd never permitted his boys to carry any. The buildings of the school were lighted by a small electric plant connected with the shops, and they were heated with steam pipes and radiators, so that there was little call for the use of matches on the part of anybody at the school. Moreover, the doctor had absolutely forbidden the use of cigarettes at Lakefarm, and matches are very necessary to the habit. The waterfall was almost as effective as a stone wall would have been in shutting from view the light of the moon in the cañon. However, from the point where he had crossed over on the plank he could look out and see dimly the shadowy contour of the mountain. Then, gazing upward at an angle, he could see a few stars shining dimly. Hal spent some time gazing out through this opening. At first he looked for the approach of rescuers, but as time grew into more than an hour and nobody appeared, he continued to gaze because it was more pleasant to do so than to rest his eyes on the darkness of the cave. Once only he yielded to an impulse to make an exploration of his prison. This he did because he had become extremely tired of standing in one position so long. Indeed, he was almost ready to pitch over into the falling water when he finally dropped to his hands and knees and began to feel about him. The floor of the cave was fairly smooth, but so damp that his trousers and underclothing became wet to the skin at the knees in a short time. This, however, did not bother him, and he continued his exploration for several feet back. Satisfied with this he arose to his feet and went through a few simple calisthenic exercises that he had learned at Lakefarm. This warmed him up and he returned to the edge of the cave. He would have been glad to lie down and sleep until morning, but the uncomfortable dampness of the floor and the fear of catching a bad cold caused him to remain erect. How much longer he continued to stand and look out, principally at a handful of stars, he did not know. It was a monotonous occupation, and he found it wise to stand back several feet for fear lest, in a moment of dizziness or drowsiness, he lose his balance and pitch forward and down with the falling water. Suddenly, however, he became very wide awake and attentive, for several lights were approaching some distance down stream on the right shore. Apparently they were lanterns. At once Hal surmised correctly who carried them and was certain that they were coming to his rescue. Probably Frank was with them, he further reasoned. But when he saw the lights separate, two coming upstream and two going down, he was puzzled. What could this mean? Why did they not ford the river at once and come up on the other side? Here was the only place to help him out of his prison. He could see the lights of Dr. Byrd and Mr. Porter until they approached close to the cataract, when the falling water shut off his view of them. They remained out of his sight, however, for presently they walked down stream again, stopping near the rapids. The light of their lanterns made their forms fairly distinct. Presently Hal saw the other two men from down stream rejoin them. He looked closely for a fifth member of the party, a boy, but was disappointed. As he observed the four now engaged in a seemingly puzzled discussion, the waterfall prisoner decided that it was time for him to do something to attract attention. Was it possible that they did not know where he was? The idea seemed ridiculous; and yet what other explanation of their manner and actions could be given? So he let out a lusty scream, and then watched for its effect. Apparently it had none, so he gave another and another. The men continued their discussion, paying no attention to his cries. Hal guessed that the sound of his voice was drowned in the noise of the waterfall. This conclusion threw him into despair. All sorts of direful forebodings now crowded his brain. Maybe Frank was drowned after all, and the searching party was looking for both of them. If this was true, they would drag Frank's body from the river, while he, Hal, would be left to starve to death behind the cataract because he was unable to make his presence known. This fear set him almost wild, and he continued to utter scream after scream, until his throat became so irritated that he had to quit. Then he caught some of the falling water in his hand and drank it and his throat felt more comfortable. Meanwhile the entire search party came upstream again and disappeared, remaining out of Hal's sight a long time. During the entire hour and a half that they spent in the timber, the boy kept up a succession of screams and cries for help. Naturally the uncertainty of the situation had a depressing effect on him, but he set his teeth and would not give up. Daylight surely would bring hope. But daylight was many hours off. Finally Dr. Byrd and his companions returned within Hal's range of vision. He saw the lights and the men move down the river, and watched them as they raked the bed of the stream along the shore, but could not make out what they were doing. He continued his cries for help; he pitched his voice in every possible key, instinctively realizing that certain keys were more readily drowned in the roar of the waterfall than others. Then followed the puzzled discussion over these cries, and it was not long before the boy knew that he had attracted attention. He saw them approach the cataract again, then go back, engage in another discussion, cut some clubs in a thicket, and return once more to the waterfall. They passed beyond his vision, as on former occasions, and before long he caught Mr. Porter's shrill "Oh, Hal, where are you?" "Behind the waterfall," replied the boy in his highest pitch. But he put most stress on the first word, which was the only one caught distinctly by the rescuers. Then Hal witnessed the discovery of Frank, who was standing just within his range of vision. As the light of the lanterns was thrown on that frightened youth's face, Hal saw him fall down before the doctor, who picked him up and led him down stream, while the others followed. From this moment he watched proceedings with new sensations of wonder. He could see that Frank seemed to be telling something to the men. But they did not listen long to his story. They seemed suddenly to decide on a course of action; they walked farther down the stream to the fording place where two of them pulled off their shoes and waded across, still carrying the lanterns. One of them also took with him one of the rakes, which Hal supposed to be merely a long pole. They reached the western bank and climbed up on the steep shore. Then they picked their way carefully toward the cataract. Hal was certain now he was about to be rescued. His cries for help were no longer needed, and he waited in silence. The two men's progress along the difficult shore was slow, but finally they reached the flat rock close to the waterfall. By this time Hal could distinguish the features of the two men in the light of their lanterns and also observed that the "pole" carried by Pepper was a rake. The man with Pepper was Dr. Byrd. On reaching the rock, the janitor-chauffeur hooked his lantern onto the rake and extended it toward the fall. Finding the thin section of the cataract, he thrust it through and Hal seized both lantern and rake eagerly. Disengaging the light from the garden implement, Hal was about to pass the latter back when he caught sight of a piece of paper tied to it. He set the lantern down, broke the string around the paper, and spread out the latter close to the lantern, taking care lest he tear the wet note-book leaf. Then he read the following: "Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter have gone back in the automobile for some planks to make a bridge. Can you make yourself comfortable in there until morning? Answer. Dr. Byrd." CHAPTER X THE MYSTERY OF THE LEATHER BAG After reading the doctor's note, Hal picked up the lantern and swung it around so as to get a wider view of the cave. He was able to see the wall at the other edge of the cataract, but was not sure of the depth of the cavern. Then he set the lantern down again and searched his pockets until he found a piece of white paper and a pencil. For a few moments he cast about him for a hard, smooth surface on which to lay the paper, but the best he could find was the plain flat handle of his pocketknife. With this on his knee and bending close to the light of the lantern, Hal laboriously inscribed the following: "I'm all right till morning. I'm going to explore the cave." He tied this note to the rake and reached it back to Pepper. Then he waited for the answer he saw the doctor preparing. It came presently and was as follows: "Be careful and don't fall into another trap. We're going back to the other side. Maybe we'll try to get you before morning." Hal saw the two men depart and then turned his attention to the dark depths of the cavern. The floor was smooth, though irregular. The mouth opening upon the waterfall was about ten feet wide, but the passage narrowed somewhat further in. Here it made a sharp turn to the right, and Hal followed the passage a hundred feet, when he was stopped by a wall of earth and rocks. There was no further exploration to make, for this was the end of the cave. Hal flashed his lantern all around and above, but could find nothing more of particular interest, except the general formation of the cave. He was not certain that he could see the ceiling. At one place particularly there seemed to be a black void above. The right wall of this part of the cave slanted upward like the side of a steep hill. Moreover, this side was jagged and irregular, so that Hal was certain he could climb up some distance. The other side hung over like a huge cliff, slanting at the same angle. "This looks like a big crevice in the rocks," mused the boy as he gazed up and around him. "I wish some more of the boys were here with lanterns. I'd like to hunt till I found something worth coming here for. It looks like a shame to have such an adventure as this and find nothing. "Oh, yes," he suddenly remembered; "there's the bag of souvenirs. I haven't examined them yet. I'll go back and see what they are." So he turned to the mouth of the cave and set the lantern down on the floor, while he stooped over and untied the string around the opening of the leather bag. Pulling it apart, Hal was soon fingering a curious collection of many sorts of stones and quartz, some of which shone brilliantly in the light of the lantern. "My! they look as if they might be worth a fortune," exclaimed the boy as he picked up one after another and examined them eagerly, "for Mr. Miles said he wouldn't take a thousand dollars for them." As he had nothing else to do, Hal continued to examine the curios for some time, becoming more and more impressed with their novelty. Some of them evidently had been altered in shape by the hand of man, particularly a few that looked like Indian amulets, and Hal was convinced that the collector had visited some deserted pueblos or cliff houses. "Dr. Byrd said Mr. Miles had spent some time in the mountains," he mused: "and I bet he can tell some interesting stories of the places he's been in. When he gets well enough to be around, I'm going to ask him to tell us all about his adventures. He must have had some with that airship in the mountains." Hal's meditations and his interest in the contents of the leather bag were interrupted finally by the reappearance of lights approaching along the river bank. He drew the string tight around the receptacle and tied it. Then he awaited the approach of his rescuers. As they came near, he saw that they were bearing two wide planks, one man at either end of each, the leaders carrying the lanterns. Evidently they had decided not to wait until morning before attempting to release the boy from his strange prison. Finally they reached the flat rock near the waterfall and the two planks were laid across the intervening space between the shore and the cave. Hal adjusted his end of the planks so that they rested firmly; then he picked up the leather bag and his lantern and walked across the bridge. Without further delay, they turned and walked down the stream again. No attempt was made to discuss the affair until they had forded the river and returned to the stage road near which the automobile had been left. Hal was then the first to speak. "Where's Frank?" he inquired. "We took him back to the school and put him in bed," replied Mr. Frankland. "Evidently you could see and recognize him from behind the waterfall." "Yes," answered the boy. Then he continued: "It wasn't his fault that I was trapped behind the fall. It was all an accident. He slipped and hit the board with his foot." Hal's companions were amused at this unconscious charity toward Frank. If there had been light enough they probably would have winked at each other. In his fear of the gallows, the former youthful terrorizer had confessed just how he happened to kick the plank into the waterfall and, as he thought, dropped Hal to a fearful fate. With little delay, except to crank the machine, they all got into the automobile and soon were bowling along the stage road. As they were leaving the cañon, Dr. Byrd inquired: "What kind of place is that cave, Hal?" The boy gave a brief description of it; then he added: "It's a dandy. It isn't so awfully big, but it's big enough; and it's so different from most caves." "You didn't find any rubies or garnets or streaks of gold there, did you?" inquired Mr. Frankland, nudging the boy, who sat beside him in the back seat. "No, but there might be something of the kind. I wish we could go back with lots of lanterns and examine the place carefully." "I think we'll forget all about that cave for a while at least," announced the doctor with an air of decision. "It came near proving a fatal discovery, and I feel like waiting until I've had time to get over this scare." Hal had offered his suggestion rather doubtfully, for he felt that a scolding was due him and Frank for their boldness in crossing the river and continuing their search along the steep shore on the west side. However, the adventure had proved successful, for the lost bag of specimens had been found; so the boy did not feel nearly so much like a culprit as he would have felt in the face of failure. But the doctor said nothing more that might sound like criticism. He was too thankful for the discovery and rescue of the lost boy for that. Presently the talk was changed to the bag of specimens. Naturally much wonder was felt because of the place where it had been found. Hal explained his theory that in falling from the aeroplane it had struck a slanting projection of rock and bounded into the cave. "Of course that's barely possible," said Dr. Byrd; "but it's hardly probable. I can't get away from the belief that the bag did not break loose in the air." "You think it fell to the ground with the aeroplane?" Hal inquired. "Yes. Why not? I can't conceive what force could have broken or pulled it loose before the machine hit the ground. Did it just happen to come untied from the strut at that time? Barely possible." "How did it get into the cave then?" asked Mr. Porter. "Somebody put it there if it didn't fall there," volunteered Pepper. "Of course," said the doctor. "Somebody _might_ have put it in the cave," agreed Hal reflectively. "We weren't the first ones to discover the place." "How do you know?" inquired Dr. Byrd quickly. "By the plank we found in the bushes. It was there for a bridge, that was plain. Somebody's been using the cave for something." Exclamations of surprise greeted this information. "Did you find anything in the cave that tended to prove your suspicion?" asked Mr. Frankland. "Nothing except the leather bag." Hal hoped that his suggestions would arouse the interest of Dr. Byrd to such an extent that he would decide upon further investigation, but he was disappointed. If the owner of Lakefarm felt any such desire, he failed to express it. On their arrival at the school, the automobile was run into the garage, and then a general move was made for their bedrooms. While the doctor explained matters to his wife, Hal and the two instructors had gone to bed. The noise Hal made in entering the dormitory and walking along the hall awakened Bun Bowler, who was sleeping with his brother Frank. Eagerly Bun slipped out of bed and peeped through the slightly opened doorway. "Oh, they've brought Hal back," he said to himself. "I wonder where they found him." Had it been Frank he would have yelled out a congratulation, in spite of the lateness of the hour and the rule requiring quiet in the dormitory, but Byron crept quietly back into the bed. As he crawled over his brother--Frank always insisted on sleeping in front--the latter gave a start and a jerk and cried in a voice of terror: "I won't do it any more! I won't do it any more! I won't threaten to clout anybody in the jaw--never, never again!" CHAPTER XI CONVINCING BAD. The next day was one of rejoicing among the Boy Scouts of Lakefarm. If there had been any doubt concerning the popularity of Hal Kenyon, that doubt surely was gone now. The fact that his parents were poor made no difference with any of his schoolmates. Indeed, Dr. Byrd would not have permitted any feeling against Hal on this account. There would have been trouble instantly. The news of Hal's return spread rapidly soon after sun-up. It was communicated principally in the wash room, accompanied by a wild rumor of the manner in which he had been entrapped. Some one started a story that Hal had been a prisoner in a robbers' cave and was rescued only with much daring and danger. Frank's connection with the real adventure remained in darkness. Nobody, except Hal, Dr. Byrd, Mrs. Byrd, the two instructors, Pepper, and Frank himself, knew anything about it, and there had been a general agreement that it was wisest to keep the matter secret. Hal and Frank both slept late that morning. The doctor gave orders that they should not be awakened until they had "had their sleep out." While the others were eating breakfast, Mr. Frankland went to Frank's room and found the latter dressing. The boy's eyes were red and swollen from weeping. He searched the face of the instructor carefully, and then inquired, with trembling voice: "Did you find him, Mr. Frankland?" "Certainly," replied the latter reassuringly. "And did you get him out?" "You bet we did." "Alive?" "Alive." "And is he here--alive?" "He surely is," declared Mr. Frankland, the smile on his face broadening. Frank was so overcome with relief that for several minutes he was unable to continue his dressing. A stocking that he had been in the act of putting on dropped to the floor, and it seemed that he could not reach down and pick it up again. He had been ready for this announcement, and yet it was hard for him to believe that it was true. He could not get rid of that picture of Hal falling with the water onto the rocks at the foot of the cataract. It was so real that only the sight of his friend standing before him would convince him that his eyes had not fooled him. "Come, Frank; hurry up and get dressed, and I'll take you to Hal and show him to you," urged Mr. Frankland, still with a smile of amusement. This promise renewed Frank's energy, and he picked up the stocking and pulled it on. Then he slipped on his shoes and announced that he was ready to call on his rescued schoolmate. They stepped out into the hall and walked several doors toward the farther end. Hal's door was slightly ajar, and Mr. Frankland pushed it wide open and they walked in. Hal was still asleep. Frank stepped forward, like one in a trance, and placed one hand on the face of the sleeper. Suddenly Hal's eyes opened wide and he sat up in bed. He recalled everything immediately, as his first words indicated: "Hello, Bad; I'm all right. Why, what's the matter?" And no wonder! Frank had fallen forward on the bed and buried his face in the counterpane. The relief of the truth was too much for him. Mr. Frankland had not realized the tenseness of the nervous strain under which the boy was laboring, or he would have proceeded more carefully. "Frank, what _is_ the matter?" repeated Hal, himself half alarmed. The other boy sobbed on for a minute or two, and Hal threw off the bed clothes and sat on the edge of the bed. Then he shifted his gaze from Frank to the instructor and back to the boy again. But finally Frank got sufficient control of himself to choke down his sobs, and he arose and wiped his eyes with his fists and said: "I----I thought sure you was dead, Hal. How--in the world did you get out?" "Out o' where--the cave?" inquired the older boy. "No, out o' the water." "Out o' the water? I wasn't in the water." "You wasn't?" Frank's eyes opened very wide again. He had been assured of this before, but it was as incredible from Hal. Still with a wondering look in his eyes and disbelief in his voice, he continued, putting one hand on his friend's left arm: "Hal, I saw you fall. You went down, down. I saw you, oh, I did." The other laughed outright. The laugh was so merry and hearty that presently Frank wasn't so sure of what he had seen as he thought he had been. Then Hal gave his delusion a further jar by saying: "No you didn't do any such thing, Frank. I didn't fall at all. Is that what made you run away so fast? It was getting dark, you know, and maybe there was a shadow in the water that looked like me falling." "That must have been it," declared Frank with a big sigh of relief. Then he laughed hysterically, for the picture in his memory had changed. Instead of a falling boy, he saw a shadow, or a dark-colored patch of water, in the tumbling flood. That settled it. Frank recovered his nerve, but he was a much quieter boy for several days after. He was fourteen years old, his voice had already "changed," and he was begging permission from his parents to wear long trousers on "dress" occasions; hence, it was no wonder that such an experience as he had recently gone through should convince him that it was about time for him to mend his ways. Lakefarm was a comparatively tame place for several days following the happenings in Mummy Cañon. After the affair had been thoroughly discussed by the boys and nothing more of interest could be found, the subject was laid aside and picked up only now and then. The bag of specimens was returned to its owner and little more was heard concerning that for some time. But the aviator, Mr. Miles, continued to be of interest, for the boys looked eagerly forward to the time when his broken bones would be sufficiently mended to enable him to be among them and tell them stories of his adventures. The summer program in the school was more of a vacation series of doings than anything else. Some book work and shop duties were required each week, but these were really a relief from the long succession of outings and excursions that filled the greater part of the summer program. Among the favorite sports at the school were baseball and swimming. The campus and the lake were therefore scenes of much activity in the warmer months. All things considered, it was a lively time the boys at Lakefarm school had the year round. Because of these activities, the young Scouts looked forward with little interest toward vacation-time. Most of them spent the Christmas holidays at home, but few remained away from the school during the whole summer season. At the time of the beginning of these events, the vacation weeks were more than half gone, and the absentees were fast returning. A special program, including an excursion to the Grand Cañon of the Colorado River, was scheduled for the latter part of August and the early part of September, and most of the Scouts were expected to be present for this. The boys of Lakefarm were skilled in mountain climbing. It was their experience in this line that emboldened Hal and Frank to hunt along the steep bank of Flathead River for the lost bag of specimens. However, Dr. Byrd's policy on all mountain-climbing excursions was to avoid steep and dangerous places, and he felt that he had good reason to scold them for taking such a chance. On the day following the imprisonment of Hal in the waterfall cave, the doctor summoned all the boys into the assembly room and lectured them. He told them he had thought his instructions from time to time in mountain climbing had impressed upon them sufficiently the importance of judgment in their excursions among the hills. Finally he wound up by saying: "It seems that some of you boys need another lesson on this subject. So our next outing will be a mountain climb. We'll have to give you some more advice as to where to go and what places to avoid. As soon as the other boys get back we will go over and climb Porcupine Hill." "And see Aunt Sarah Jane," whispered Pickles to Ferdinand loudly enough to be heard by all in the room. Dr. Byrd smiled. He expected some such eager demonstration. Aunt Sarah Jane Turman was an aged woman who lived with her husband on the very peak of the mountain. Porcupine Hill was one of the lower mountains of the neighborhood, being just west of Flathead and affording the best view of the top of the latter. Aunt Sarah was an interesting character, a kind-hearted nurse, ever thoughtful of the welfare of her friends and acquaintances. Most of the boys had been up there several times and every one of them adopted Mrs. Turman as his aunt on beholding her pleasant face and hearing her cheery voice and eating some of her "dandy" bread covered with a liberal supply of homemade jam. So the doctor's lecture closed with anything but an unpleasant announcement, the fulfillment of which was to prove of considerable importance in the chain of events that made notable that summer at Lakefarm, Mummy Cañon and Flathead Mountain. CHAPTER XII AIRSHIP PLANS The climb up Porcupine Hill was not made as soon as most of the boys had hoped. Several weeks elapsed and the program that had been mapped out by the doctor was too full for any additions. Meanwhile all the absent boys of the school returned, and the trip to Grand Cañon was taken. Only one-fourth of the boys took this trip this year, it always being reserved for the fourth-year, or senior, pupils. Hal Kenyon was one of the eleven boys who visited these wonders of the Colorado River on this occasion. And on his return he was so full of the delights of the scenery that Mummy Cañon and Flathead were for a time of minor interest. But in time their old fascination returned. The cave behind the waterfall at no time ceased to be an object of much interest to him, and he was continually wishing that something would put it into Dr. Byrd's head to make a thorough inspection of the cavern. And if this were done, Hal naturally hoped that he would be one of the inspectors. Meanwhile the broken bones of Aviator Miles mended rapidly. As soon as it was deemed safe, he was permitted to leave his bed and hobble around on crutches, his leg still in a cast, however. From the time of his first exit from the Hospital, he was an object of much interest to the boys. They gathered around him at every opportunity and begged for stories of his experiences, and he usually had something of absorbing interest to tell. He told them that he had been among the Rockies from Yellowstone National Park to the Grand Cañon for two months before his accident, and he exhibited before their eager eyes his collection of stones and quartz that Hal had discovered in the waterfall cave. "But they're not all here," he remarked as he poured them out on a newspaper that he had spread on the lawn in front of Dr. Byrd's home. He was seated on the grass while a score of boys stood around in eager attention. "Where are the others?" inquired Fes. "I don't know," replied the aviator slowly. "There were six pretty fair sized gold nuggets in the bag when I fell; or they were there a few hours before, and I don't see how they could have disappeared." "I didn't see any when I opened the bag in the cave." Hal volunteered this information, but the sentence was finished with a different tone of voice from the tone at the beginning. In the midst of his statement he suddenly realized the importance to him of the disappearance of the nuggets, and a lump arose in his throat, so that he could hardly finish what he started to say. Everybody noticed the change in Kenyon's voice, and all looked at him as if for an explanation. Conscious of his seeming self-betrayal and of the inquiring glances directed at him, he blushed with confusion. The aviator suspected at once that these were signs of guilt. But Hal knew better and flashed back a look of scorn and indignation at his silent accusers. Recovering his natural tone, he said in a cool, measured voice: "I don't know what became of those nuggets. They certainly were not in the bag when I opened it." Most of the boys believed in Hal and were convinced by this sturdy statement. Mr. Miles, however, was not convinced, although he did not like to hold any suspicion against a boy who had impressed him so well. But he saw nothing to be gained by embarrassing Kenyon at present. "Well," he said; "this isn't the only mystery connected with the affair. I'm just as curious to know how the bag ever got into that cave." "You think somebody put it there?" Hal inquired. "Being an invalid and unable to get around very conveniently, I haven't been able to inspect the place yet. But from all descriptions received, I'm in need of more evidence to convince me that it bounced in there by accident. In the first place, I'm dead certain it fell to the ground with the aeroplane." "Maybe the strut it was tied to was what broke and made you fall," suggested Hal. "It wasn't a strut at all that broke. It was a couple of stay wires. The struts couldn't break under any but the most extraordinary circumstances." "Are you goin' to fix up your aeroplane again, or get a new one?" asked Hugh Messinger. "Oh, nothing can be done with that pile of junk. You boys might as well burn the wood and tote the steel framework into your blacksmith shop." "Are you going to quit flying?" asked Byron Bowler. Mr. Miles looked with keen amusement at the last questioner and replied with a wink: "Do I look like a quitter?" He surely didn't, although forced to stop for several weeks with some broken bones. Miles was a sturdy, determined-looking man, with firm-set jaw and clear bright eye that gave no hint of hesitation. "What you going to do? Buy another airship?" Byron persisted. "I've bought one already." "You have!" eagerly exclaimed several of the boys. "Where is it?" one of them continued. "It's on its way out here." "Out here!" This exclamation also came in chorus from half a dozen astonished Boy Scouts. "Yes," answered the crippled aviator; "it's on its way out here. But it isn't put together ready to fly. It's in the knock-down. I'm going to give you boys the job of putting it together." "Oh!--when will it be here?" asked one enthusiastic youngster. "In a week. Dr. Byrd and I had several talks about the matter, and he's decided to let you boys have the job. I won't be strong enough to do much on it myself, but I'll be on hand and boss." "What kind is it going to be?" asked Pickles. "Like the one you fell in?" "Not exactly. It'll be a biplane, but a much better one than the Ozone." "What's the Ozone?" inquired Ferdinand. "That's the name of the biplane I fell in. The new one will carry two passengers besides the operator." "Oh, ain't that fine!" cried Glen Juza. "It's just swell. And can we all have a ride?" "Oh-ho," laughed Miles. "I thought it would come to that. But it really isn't up to me to decide. I might say yes, and Dr. Byrd might say no. He probably would." Disappointed looks and expressions followed this prophecy. The doctor's pupils could just as well have predicted such an outlook without the assistance of older heads, but they were naturally optimistic. "But don't be discouraged, boys," added the aviator. "Your time will come sooner or later. Maybe you'll be afraid to go up with me when you see the airship all finished. It--" "Yes we will!" "I wouldn't!" "You don't know me!" were some of the brave interruptions. "It won't look very safe," was the aviator's warning. "Pretty thin and flimsy." "I don't care; I'll go up in anything you will," cried Frank Bowler, who had listened to the conversation in silence up to this time. He was gradually regaining his former nerve and bluster, but his voice did not yet have a natural ring. "What will the new aeroplane look like?" asked Hal Kenyon. Most of the boys by this time had spent their enthusiasm and settled down to quieter attention. Seated on the grass, they waited eagerly for the answer to Kenyon's question. By this time a good crowd of boys had joined the audience. "I may as well give you your first lesson in aeroplane building right now," began the aviator, shifting slightly to ease his crippled limb. "First, do you all know what a biplane is?" "It's an airship," said one. "No, it's an aeroplane," corrected another. "What's the difference between a biplane and a monoplane?" interposed Mr. Miles. This was a puzzler for most of the boys. After several had answered and flunked, Hal Kenyon spoke up: "A monoplane has one plane, and a biplane has two planes." "What is a plane?" "A flat surface." "Good," complimented Mr. Miles. "You know a little geometry. The planes are the wings of an aeroplane. "Now, the aeroplane will be built on this plan: The part that will interest you boys most will be the cabin. As I said, it will carry two passengers comfortably besides the operator. And it is to be so arranged with an automatically shifting weight that these passengers can move about without disturbing the balance of the ship. "This will really be an airship. The ordinary aeroplane is not entitled to such a name, for it is merely a skeleton without any body. This vessel will have a real body, made mostly of aluminum, except the glass windows and ports. The front, or prow, will be blunt in accord with the latest ideas of air friction. The front and rear of this cabin will be supplied with flexible slides that may be slipped around to the sides, leaving the front and rear open. This will remove practically all resistance, except for perpendicular rods six inches apart, giving the cabin something of the appearance of a cage. "In cold weather, or in high altitudes, these slides can be closed and the cabin warmed with a small alcohol stove. Otherwise there will be little remarkable about the ship. You will all be interested in such details as the motor and the steering and weather apparatus. You will learn all about the altitude barometer and the anemometer, or speed measurer. In other words, you will absorb a lot of information on air navigation while putting this airship together." "How about that weight?" Hal questioned as the instructor in aeronautics paused. "You say it shifts automatically. Can you explain that so we can understand how it keeps the ship from turning over?" "I'll try. The floor is of a flexible material. As one walks here and there, it is pressed downward and by means of a delicate mechanical device, shifts a weight on a rod. The shifting of this weight alters the angle of the ailerons at the ends of the wings and prevents the machine from tipping out of balance. Understand?" Blank looks on every face before him advised Mr. Miles that he had been too technical for the boys, so he added: "You'll understand easily as you advance in the construction of the vessel. But possibly this may give you a hint of what I am driving at: Changing the angles of the ailerons has the same effect in an up-and-down direction, as turning a boat's rudder has from side to side." Still few of the boys understood what he meant, although Hal Kenyon and one or two others believed they did. Later, when he found an opportunity, Hal, with pencil and paper, made some drawings and studied over them and altered them until he was certain that he had a clear idea of the plan. Then he took his last drawing to Mr. Miles and explained it to him, and the aviator told him he was right. CHAPTER XIII THE "PAINTER" A few days later the promised trip up Porcupine Hill was taken. An early start was made, the forty-four boys of the school, clad in semi-warlike uniforms, looking like a company of young soldiers as they marched over the hills to the south and west toward the mountains on the right of Mummy Cañon. Meanwhile Hal, by his frank and straightforward manner, established himself in the confidence of Miles so well as to remove all doubt as to his innocence regarding the disappearance of the nuggets. The mystery remained still unsolved, but it seemed certain that any suspicion directed toward Hal was entirely unjust. Porcupine Hill was four miles from Lakefarm. The easiest ascent was on the southern side, but to reach this it would be necessary to travel an additional two miles around the base. On that side it was more than two miles to the peak, and this was the course generally used by those dwelling on the peak and the side of the mountain. On the opposite side the ascent was shorter and much steeper, and this was the route taken by the boys whenever they went up to see Aunt Sarah Jane. Mr. and Mrs. Turman were real uncle and aunt of two of the boys of the school, Byron and Frank Bowler. The aged couple were always glad to receive their two nephews and their friends, and took pains to make them feel welcome. Fifteen years before, while prospecting, they had discovered a vein of gold near the peak and had staked out claims. But finding gold on a mountain peak and mining it profitably are two different propositions, and they found it necessary to do some sharp engineering of various sorts. A company was formed and incorporation papers taken out. Then followed negotiations with various moneyed interests and an entanglement that tied matters up. Since then nothing of importance had been done. When he found that he was not going to make his fortune in the mine, "Uncle Sam," as Mr. Turman was familiarly known for miles around, desired to move to Jimtown or some other settlement in the valley; but Aunt Sarah Jane had been cured of rheumatism in this high and dry altitude, and she was afraid it would come back if they moved below. So they continued to live on the mountain peak in their cabin of slabs and rude timbers made warmer in winter with banks of sod and straw heaped close and high around the foundation. It was a picturesque place, with everything crude but neat, clean, and comfortable. The boys always enjoyed going up there. The view was wide and magnificent. Several towns were visible, nestled here and there in the valleys or on the hillsides. At night their lights shone prettily in the deep-down distance. On one occasion while some of the boys were on the peak, they witnessed a storm several hundred feet below them and marveled at the novelty of looking down upon banks of clouds with lightning flashing among them. So the Boy Scouts had much of interest before them when one fine morning early in September they set out in a body to climb Porcupine Hill. The ascent began over a slowly rising ridge of ground that ran along the base of the mountain, then led directly up the steep incline for some distance, and finally lost itself in a winding trail that curved among and about rocks and bushes and projecting cliffs. The climb, because of its winding nature, was much longer than a straight course would have been, so that nearly two hours were spent between the base and peak. The boys were equipped with luncheons, water canteens, hike-sticks, a few cameras and field-glasses. For climbing footgear, they wore heavy Swiss hob-nailed shoes and gaiters. Their clothes were of strong, coarse material that would stand much wear and resist the tearing pulls of shrubbery and briars. Aunt Sarah Jane was delighted to see them. It was the first time all the Scouts of the school had been up there together. At noon she brought out some tablecloths and spread them on the grass and invited the boys to prepare their dinner picnic style. Hal and Byron took the burro belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Turman and rode halfway down the southern side to a neighbor's well and filled two large canvas bottles with water. These they hung over the burro's shoulders by a strap connecting them and then began their journey back up to the peak. The mountain was thickly wooded on this side, but the surface was rough, and the trail consequently very winding. Only one of the boys rode at a time on the return trip; when one became tired, the one on the burro dismounted and permitted the other to ride. In this manner they had gone half of the return distance, when suddenly something happened that added a new sensation to their mountain experiences. Just as they were rounding a bluff in a sparsely wooded spot, a dark object darted across their path, causing the burro to give a jump so sudden as to throw Byron from its back. Like an arrow from a bow, the slow and sleepy beast shot up the side of the mountain, leaving the boys to the tender mercies of the cause of its fright. At first the two Scouts were only astonished, for they could not imagine any more dangerous animal in that locality than a wildcat. There were said to be a few of these in the mountains, but they were shy and fled at the sight of man. This beast, however, was larger than a wildcat and did not seem to be disposed to run at the sight of the boys. It was a slender long-limbed, cat-like animal, with reddish-gray fur. After springing across the path, the beast turned and seemed to hesitate, as if not knowing whether to pursue the burro or to direct its attention toward the boys. "What is it?" Byron asked as he clung tremblingly to his companion. He had been severely shaken by his fall, but not seriously injured. "It's a mountain lion," replied Hal with all the steadiness of voice he could command. Being older and larger than Byron, he felt that the responsibility of the situation rested on him. "Let's run," proposed the smaller boy, tugging at Hal's sleeve. "No, we mustn't do that," replied the latter. "If we stand still and don't seem to be afraid, he may go away and leave us alone." Hal now had good reason to congratulate himself on his industry during his three years at Lakefarm. He had found much of interest in the doctor's library, reading everything that appealed to his taste. Among the books that he most enjoyed were illustrated natural histories, and it is little wonder that he recognized now the kind of beast before him, although he had never before seen one. He remembered also that these books had informed him that mountain lions are not so fierce as commonly thought, that they usually hunt at night and are cowardly and little to be feared unless cornered. The puma was only a few rods away from Hal and Byron, who stood close to the bluff that formed a turning point in the path. For more than a minute boys and beast stood facing each other, neither moving. Byron wished to run and continued to pull at his companion's coat-sleeve, but Hal, relying on his book information, stood firm. Presently the beast backed away. "See? What did I tell you?" exclaimed the older boy gleefully. But his exultation was somewhat hysterical, indicating the strain he had undergone. The puma backed slowly at first, but presently his retreat became more rapid. Then suddenly he turned and, with a few bounds, disappeared among the pine trees. Hal was now willing to run, and both boys started out at their best pace up the trail. The ascent was not very steep here, so they ran some distance before they were too tired to go farther. Then they stopped and looked back, and, seeing no sign of the lion, they rested a while. Then they took things a little easier, but they went faster than they would have under ordinary circumstances. A short distance from the top of the mountain, they were met by all the other boys, Dr. Byrd, Mr. Frankland, Mr. Porter, and Mr. and Mrs. Turman, who were much excited. The burro had returned alone and with more speed than it had ever been known to make before. Naturally this caused alarm, and a general rush was made to investigate. Hal and Byron excitedly explained what had happened. Then followed a rapid succession of questions and answers until all the details of the adventure were told. Finally Aunt Sarah Jane added a new element of interest by saying: "Maybe it was the painter I saw over on Flathead one day. It was early in the morning and I saw some kind of animal moving about over there. But it was so far away I couldn't make out what it was. I thought at first it was a man." CHAPTER XIV BUILDING THE AIRSHIP Fortunately the waterbottles had been well saddled on the burro, and it carried them safely to the top of the mountain, in spite of its wild flight from the lion. Everything now being ready, the troop of Scouts returned to where the luncheon had been spread and sat around and ate. Of course the lion was the chief subject of conversation at the dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Turman both declared they were surprised at its appearance, as they had not heard of any of its kind in that part of the country for several years. Naturally, too, the statement of Mrs. Turman that she had seen a moving object that might have been a man on top of Flathead directed some interest toward that mountain. "It seemed to be walking erect like a man," she said in reply to further questions; "but it might 'ave been the painter. I couldn't make sure what it was. I wish I'd had a pair of glasses like some of you boys have." "I've heard it said that there's some cliff-dwellers' houses over on that mountain," volunteered Uncle Sam. "I don't know where the story came from, for there's nobody around here now that's ever been up there. I don't see how anybody could climb that mountain." "Let's examine it with our glasses," suggested Byron, who had a pair slung over his shoulder. Half a dozen binoculars were quickly unslung, and the holders were soon searching the singular upheaval of stones and earth more than a mile to the east. "I see something that looks like some houses right in the side of the mountain," announced Byron. "Oh, yes, there are some cliff houses," replied Mr. Turman. "There's a big hollow place right in the side of the mountain about thirty feet up. There's a regular cliff there, and you can see where pieces of wood were driven in to make a ladder to climb up." "Is that so?" Dr. Byrd exclaimed in surprise. "I never knew that." "Yes; there's no road or trail along that side of the mountain and hardly anybody ever goes near it." "Well! This is a surprise to me," declared the doctor. "I thought I knew this country pretty thoroughly, but it seems that a very important feature has escaped me." Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter knew just as little, and the faculty of the school at once decided that a trip of investigation should be made in the near future. A search of the plateau, or mesa, on Flathead, with the aid of the glasses, produced little result of special interest. The doctor expressed considerable surprise on finding it so large. There was a patch of timber on the farther half, while the nearer half was made up of several hills and ravines and a few rocky elevations and bluffs. "I'd give a good deal to get up there and examine that mesa," said Dr. Byrd. "We might find something interesting. There's a glittering spot near the middle that looks as if it might be water shining in the sunlight." "I know how we can get up there," Hal announced with sudden eagerness. Everybody turned toward him. "How?" asked Pickles. "In Mr. Miles' airship when it's finished." "That's a brilliant idea," laughed the doctor. "Well, Hal, if anybody besides Mr. Miles himself makes that trip, you ought to be allowed to." "Can I?" Kenyon asked eagerly. "No, of course not. I was only joking. Really, I'd like to see you all make the trip, but you know it's out of the question." Three hours were spent by the Scout company on the top of the mountain. They visited the shafts that had been sunk by the aged miner and heard him tell of how wealthy he might have become had it not been for people who schemed against him. They traveled over every foot of the wooded peak, making note of curious formations and conditions and gaining much information. Then they set out on their return, making the descent a little to the west of their ascent. During all their stay on the mountain and their return to Lakefarm they kept a keen lookout for the panther, but saw nothing of it. "When Mr. Miles gets well and his new airship is finished, maybe he'll hunt the mountain lion like an eagle," suggested Hal to several of the boys on the way down. "My! wouldn't it be great if we could go with him," said Lee Huff with explosive enthusiasm. "If they don't chain me to the earth, I don't see how I'll keep from running off with the airship," said Frank Bowler. "Yes, you'd do wonders, you would," Pickles sniffed. "He'd likely turn acrobat and tumble into the cañon," Hal suggested. "Then he'd he stuck up on Flathead for another mummy," chuckled Ferdinand. "Aw! close your face or I'll clip you one," Frank snapped, a little provoked. He was forgetting his voluntary promise not to make any more such rash threats. If Dr. Byrd had heard this threat, doubtless Bad would have been reminded of his resolution. They arrived at the school without further incident, and next day the aviator listened to a chorus of stories of their experiences on the mountain. When the suggestion was repeated that he hunt the mountain lion in his new airship as soon as it was finished, Mr. Miles replied: "That's a good idea and I promise you I'll follow it." But the sportsmen of the town were not content to sit idly by and wait for an injured stranger to recover, build an aeroplane, and carry off such rare game, together with all honors. No sooner did they hear of the presence of a puma in the neighborhood than hunting parties began to form and to scour the mountains in search of the big cat. Several days went by but the results were uniformly unsatisfactory, for no trace of the puma was discovered. The boys of the school desired to take part in the search, but Dr. Byrd would not grant permission. He did not regard it safe for so many boys to be at large in the mountains with guns, and no guns were kept at the school. They would have been glad to take part in the hunt with clubs and bows and arrows, for they were skilled in the use of the latter, but the doctor did not take kindly to this suggestion either. Meanwhile the parts of the new airship arrived at the school. They were carefully crated and were conveyed over the government road from the nearest railroad station in two wagons. It was a day of much excitement when they arrived, interest in the mountain lion being almost entirely eclipsed. Then the work of putting together the parts of the novel aeroplane began. Perhaps forty-four boys never before worked so industriously. There was little use of expecting them to do much of anything else during the period and consequently Dr. Byrd wisely suspended temporarily the ordinary routine of the school. The institution was transformed into an airship factory for several days, the work progressing slowly in order that a thorough study of aviation might be made along with the mechanical construction. Finally the task was completed, and a temporary hangar was put up at one corner of the campus. In fact this structure was the last, or finishing shop of the factory, for it was here that the final preparations for flying were made. Mr. Miles was able to walk with the leg that had been broken, but he still used a crutch, and did little but superintend the job. One morning the new air vessel was wheeled out of the hangar and onto the campus, and as the forty-four Boy Scouts circled around and gazed upon the result of their work, a ringing cheer of triumph awoke the echoes of the distant hills. "Fly, Mr. Miles, fly!" yelled one youthful enthusiast. "Not yet," replied the convalescent aviator. "Wait until these bones mend good and solid, and then I'll soar around those mountains like an eagle. I'll explore Flathead and I'll find the mountain lion too, if he hasn't left this part of the country." CHAPTER XV STOLEN WEALTH There was special reason why Dr. Byrd should feel more than ordinary interest in Mr. Miles. Both of them had long been enthusiastic collectors of souvenirs and curios of many kinds, and it was not long after their first meeting that each of them discovered the similarity of their hobbies. They were together frequently thereafter, both in the hospital and out of it. They talked of the places they had visited and the sights they had seen and the curios they had collected until it seemed almost that they must have been companions in all their travels and all their hunts. Then Dr. Byrd pulled out some of his trunks, opened them and disclosed a wealth of treasures such as caused the eyes of the aviator to stand out big with astonishment. This treasure was not so remarkable in money value, perhaps; but it was indeed wonderful in novelty and abundance. An idea of the nature of this collection may be presented by a description of a few samples. One of them was an oriental jewel casket of engraved rock and crystal mounted in enameled silver. Two other articles of special interest, because of their rarity, were a set of checkers made of sharks' vertebrae and an "eye" from an Egyptian mummy case. This eye was made of bronze and black and white marble. A long chapter could be devoted to a description of the doctor's collection. As he exhibited them to Mr. Miles he handed over for inspection some Abalone pearls of California, blister pearls of Ceylon, a necklace of fluorescent amber from Sicily, jade ornaments, smoky quartz, Brazilian crystal balls, topaz from the Ural mountains, petrified wood, moss agate, rainbow agate, bloodstone from India, sardonyx from Uruguay, a Texan jasperized wood ornament, a jasper tray from the Ural mountains, fire opals, Norwegian sunstone, and an enameled talisman necklace. Undoubtedly Dr. Byrd valued this collection much higher than a disinterested authority would have valued it, but there is little doubt also that it would have brought a considerable sum even at an auction sale. Nevertheless, the owner of Lakefarm could not throw off something of an air of sadness as he was exhibiting his treasured gems and curios. "Two years ago," he remarked to the aviator, "I could have shown you a collection that would have opened your eyes much wider. I then had a dozen other stones that were worth several times as much as all of these together, but they were stolen." "Did a burglar break in?" asked Mr. Miles. "No, I wouldn't feel so badly if they had gone in such manner. But it was a trusted employe that took them. He had been a teacher at the school for a year and I grew to like him exceedingly. He was really a brilliant fellow and I admired him. In fact, I gave him my full confidence. At the end of his year he resigned, and a few days later I discovered my loss." "Couldn't you find him?" inquired Mr. Miles. "Certainly. That's what made it so hard to prove anything against him. He was the smoothest kind, all nerve and calculation." "How do you know he took them?" "Didn't you ever know anything you couldn't prove?" replied the doctor slowly. "I knew who stole those gems the instant I found them missing. Immediately I saw his excellent qualities in a new light. He was an extremely clever hypocrite." "Did you meet him afterward?" "No, I never saw him again. I put it up to the police. I told them of my suspicions, but couldn't give them any information that tended to fasten guilt on Maxwell any more than on anybody else." "Maxwell was his name?" "Yes. The police worked a while on the case, but gradually gave it up. Then I wrote to Maxwell and informed him plainly where my suspicion rested. "He wrote a reply full of indignation and reproach, but it didn't ring true. I've noticed the smartest rascals seem to be unable to seem entirely innocent when they know they are suspected. It's a remarkable study, criminology. And yet, it's as simple as A-B-C." "In what way?" "Everything's simple when you understand it, I'm ready to believe. If we could learn the secret of the universe, we'd be astonished to find out what a simple proposition it is." "You're getting pretty deep," smiled Miles. "Perhaps I am. But I'm confident that the effects of dishonesty on the dishonest person are similar to the effects of the use of an untrue square in the construction of a building. He absolutely can't help growing out of plumb. When you appreciate that rule, you will understand how I knew that Maxwell committed the theft." It was months after the resignation of Rodney Maxwell before the boys of Lakefarm learned of the stealing of the gems, and then the information came to them in a vague manner. Pepperill Humphrey let the first hint drop, and the curiosity of the young Scouts would not let him alone until he revealed some more of his information. Pepper had many good qualities, but he was very talkative, and did not require much pumping to set him going in earnest, and soon the secret ceased to be a secret. The conversations between the doctor and Mr. Miles on the subject of their collections led to a move highly pleasing to the Boy Scouts of Lakefarm. Dr. Byrd had several times expressed a desire to explore the cave behind the waterfall, where the aviator's lost bag of souvenirs had been found. To both of them this cave was a place of some mystery, and naturally they felt considerable interest in a solution. "I'd like to know how that bag got in there," said the doctor one day. "And the first step toward finding out must consist of an inspection of the cave and its immediate vicinity." "I agree with you," returned Miles. "I'd like to go with you when you inspect the place, but it'll be a week or two before I can stand any vigorous exercise." "It seems to me that you're entitled to accompany the first expedition of discovery," continued the doctor slowly. "But, as you say, you won't be able to move about in a lively manner for some time. Now, I have a plan. It's been working in my mind for several days, and I've about decided to put it into execution. "It is this: Mummy Cañon is really a remarkable place. It's a wonder to me that it hasn't been exploited as a resort long before this. I'm seriously considering, Mr. Miles, a plan to purchase the whole of the cañon from the government and to enter on an extensive real estate project. "Of course I'll incorporate, but I propose to retain a controlling interest in the stock company. I'll buy the land, get out my incorporation papers, and then invite some eastern promoters here to look at my proposition. "I'm dead sure the thing could be made a success. The D. and R. G. railroad is about to run a short line this way, and with a little advertising we'd soon have all the people out here we could take care of. A hotel, some cottages, and conveniences for sportsmen and sight-seers ought to start things humming. "And the cave would be an important attraction. But it must be made accessible. So I have planned to give the boys a little experience in bridge and road engineering. I want to construct a foot bridge over the river near the rapids and dig a walk along the steep western bank right up to the cave. I would put up railings to make it safe and a well-protected bridge from the bank through the fall into the cave." "That's a great idea!" exclaimed Miles, enthusiastically slapping his sound leg. "When are you going to begin work?" "In a day or two. I've so nearly decided to put the big scheme into operation that I've already begun action on the smaller one. The lumber for the bridges and railing will be delivered at the cañon to-morrow." "Good! I'm heartily in sympathy with the work. The boys will like it too." "Oh, I've had the boys in mind all the time," declared the doctor warmly. "The young Scouts of Lakefarm, I intend, shall have much to do in the building up of Mummy Cañon. The work will be full of lessons in engineering, construction and business." Of course the boys were delighted when they were informed of this plan. The doctor did not tell them of the larger scheme he had in view, as that was not yet fully decided upon. A few days later work was begun. The lumber had been delivered at the shallow place near the head of the rapids, which was the place selected for bridge number one. The stream was wide at this place, but this width suited the purpose of Dr. Byrd the better, for he desired a task worthy of the efforts of forty-four energetic boys. First, it was necessary to put in foundations for the abutments and supports of the bridge. This was done by gathering stones and bowlders and wedging them in place as securely as possible. Then followed the task of sawing the timbers into proper lengths, according to plans that had been prepared under the supervision of Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter. This done, the frame work was put up and the planks nailed down and the railings placed. It was really a very satisfactory piece of work. First of all, it was stable and safe to walk upon. Second, it presented a neat appearance. Third, the boys had done it all themselves. The bridge was finished in two working days. The doctor, in mapping out the program, provided for alternate days of work at the river and study at the school, so that three days elapsed before the bridge was completed. Then another day was spent at their books, after which the boys returned to the cañon and began making a level foot-path along the steep western bank of the river. This was done in short shifts in order that the work might be pushed rapidly without fatigue. Half a dozen picks and shovels were kept swinging vigorously and the way the earth and stones went flying into the river said the work would soon be done. Two weeks after the starting of the work on the larger bridge the entire work was finished. There was a strong railing on the river side of the path and a narrow well-protected bridge through the waterfall to the cave behind. It was nearly night when the last nail was driven, and as they had no lanterns with them, it was decided not to explore the cave on this occasion, but to reserve this inspection for a special excursion on a later day. That evening at Lakefarm, however, something happened that was destined to bring about a decided change in the program with reference to this plan. The person most affected was Hal Kenyon. It meant trouble for him and some extremely perilous adventures for some of the boys. In the wash room Hal drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and as he did so something heavy and metallic hit the floor. Several of his schoolmates heard the sound, and Pickles sprang forward and picked up the object. As he did this, Hal also made a spring and attempted to snatch it away from Pickles. The latter, however, with no uncivil intent, edged away, at the same time gazing eagerly at the small, heavy object in his hand. "Oh, Hal, it's gold!" he exclaimed. "Where did you get it?" "What's that?" inquired a voice that chilled Kenyon through, and, looking up, he saw Mr. Miles advancing toward them. He had discarded his crutches and was using a cane. He held out his free hand toward Pickles, who, like one hypnotized, delivered the object of interest to the aviator. The latter looked at it eagerly for a moment, then fastened his eyes on Hal with searching gaze. "Boy," he said sternly after a moment's silence; "this nugget is mine. I thought you said--" He did not finish the sentence, for Hal's face had become so pale that it seemed as if he was going to faint. CHAPTER XVI FLIGHT If Mr. Johnson Miles had charged him of theft with a loud voice, Hal could not have felt the accusation more keenly than he felt it in the aviator's look and tones. And the worst feature of the situation was the fact that the finger of circumstantial proof pointed directly at the boy. At first, almost overcome with dismay, Hal suddenly realized the injustice of the suspicion against him, and stiffening with anger, he blazed forth: "What do you mean, sir? Do you mean to say that I stole it?" Mr. Miles did not answer the question. He merely looked stern and asked another, while a score of boys gathered around, gazing on the two with startled wonder. "Can you tell me where you got it?" inquired Mr. Miles. "Yes, sir, I can," Hal replied defiantly. "I found it in the cave." "Where you found my bag of souvenirs?" "Yes, sir." "Why didn't you turn it over to me with the bag?" "Because I didn't find them at the same time. I found that nugget to-day after we finished the bridge through the waterfall." "Why didn't you say something about it? Why did you hide it in your pocket and keep still? A boy would naturally become pretty excited on finding a gold nugget." "I didn't hide it in my pocket," was Hal's choking reply. "I didn't know what it was and just stuck it in my pocket." "Why didn't you throw it away?" "It wasn't like an ordinary stone. It was heavy, and I wanted to look at it in the light." "Where are the rest of them?" "What do you mean?" "I mean the other nuggets," said the aviator with continued sternness. "There were six in the bag." For a moment Hal's eye blazed with indignation; then his spirit seemed to collapse. The implied charge and the suspicious circumstances were too much for him. "I don't know," he said hoarsely, and with a furtive glance at the boys around him, he walked out of the wash room. Hal was late at supper that evening. In fact, there were only a few left at the tables when he entered the dining room. He took a seat at a table alone and ate in moody silence. He felt bitter and wished he could leave the school never to return, although no experience in his life had ever been more pleasant than his three years at Lakefarm. This was the second time that suspicion had been directed toward him regarding the disappearance of the aviator's nuggets, and now he could see no possible way of proving his innocence. Unluckily, he had had no idea of the real nature of his find until Walter Hurst pronounced it gold and the owner appeared on the scene and claimed it. After supper he went gloomily to his room and sat down and waited to be summoned to the doctor's office. Of course, Mr. Miles had gone straight to Dr. Byrd and informed him of the scene in the wash room, and the owner of Lakefarm would soon call Hal to account. But no call came, and Hal soon found himself imagining all sorts of direful explanations of the seeming inactivity. Probably the doctor had sent for the town marshal to come and take the nugget-thief to jail. Or possibly the owner of the school had decided to have nothing more to do with this bad boy and was even now writing to his father to come and take him away. In a short time Hal had worked himself up to a very nervous and unhappy state. Then he began to plan wildly how he might escape the undeserved punishment that he saw ahead. "If I could run Mr. Miles' airship I'd fly away in it," he said bitterly. "And it'd serve him right, too. He didn't have any business to condemn me without a hearing. He might have given me the benefit of the doubt until I'd had a chance to prove I was innocent. But I couldn't prove anything with him looking at me that way." "Hello, Hal, what's the matter?" Pickles, his roommate, interrupted his unhappy reverie with this cheery interrogation as he entered the room. Pickles was a quiet little fellow who seldom took anything very seriously and had a habit of stealing on one and surprising him with an unexpected "boo!" Hal started visibly on this occasion, much to the glee of Pickles. "What's the matter?" repeated the smaller boy as he observed the glum look on Hal's face. "Nothing," was the half surly reply; "only I'm goin' to run away." "Run away! Hal! What for?" "Don't speak so loud, Pick," cautioned Hal. "Yes, I've really made up my mind. I'm going to-night; and I want you to keep my secret." "Oh, Hal, you mustn't," Pickles gasped under his breath. "What would I do here without you? You're the best friend I've got." Kenyon was surprised. He had had no idea that any of his associates regarded him with such affection, and this manifestation moved him not a little. "Pickles," he said warmly; "you're a peach of a kid. I've never got mad at you since I first met you, and you've never got mad at me. That's sayin' a whole lot. Some kids you've got to get mad at every minute to keep 'em from walking all over you." "Bad, for instance." "Yes--and no. Bad's a bad one unless you know how to handle him. We've always been good friends, and I like him." "So do I, but he's mean sometimes. I like Bun better. But what you going to run away for, Hal? Is it the nugget?" "Yes--and Mr. Miles. He thinks I'm a thief. And so do all the rest." "I don't, Hal, if you say you're not," declared the faithful Walter. "Pickles, you're the best fellow on earth," said Kenyon warmly, stepping close and putting both hands on his friend's shoulders. "You almost make me feel like sticking. But I can't." "Why not, Hal?" "Everybody--excepting you--thinks I'm a thief, and I can't prove I'm not. So I'm just going to cut loose. Some day I'll come back and prove I'm innocent." "I'm sorry I picked up the nugget, Hal. I wish I hadn't told what it was. But I was so surprised I couldn't help it." "That's all right, Pick. It wasn't your fault. I don't blame you a bit." "When you goin', Hal?" "To-night--just as soon as everybody's asleep." "Where you going--home?" "I don't know. Maybe; maybe not. Anyway, I'll write home and tell mother and father I didn't steal." "Let me go with you, Hal." "No, Pickles, you mustn't think of doing such a thing. You must stay here and tell them all I'm not a thief. Oh, Pick, it's terrible to be called such a thing. You don't know how I feel about it. Your father's rich and mine's poor, but I wouldn't steal if I was starving--any more'n you would. Even when I was selling newspapers in Denver and making only half or quarter of a cent on each paper, I couldn't think of stealing. I'd run a block to catch a man if I found I'd given him the wrong change. I'll write to Dr. Byrd and tell him all about it, for I'll have to thank him for what he has done for me." "Hal, I'll do anything you want me to, but I'd rather go along. If you'll wait, I'll write to my father and he'll come here and fix everything up for you." "No, it's all settled what I'm going to do," Hal answered determinedly. "You stay here, and when I get settled in a job somewhere, I'll write you." "Well, it's half an hour till bedtime," said Pickles. "I'm going out till then." "Don't give me away." "I should say not. You'll be here when I come back?" "Yes." Walter slipped softly out of the room, as was his custom. In the library he found Fes Sharer and whispered a few words in his ear. Then the two started out on a hunt and soon rounded up Bun and Bad. The four chums then held a whispered conference out on the lawn. As they separated, Pickles said: "Remember, in an hour, under the big poplar." Half an hour after bedtime, three boys might have been seen to slip out of a window of the dormitory to the ground. It was dark, the stars twinkling sharply in the clear sky. Swiftly they sped away from the building, along the edge of the campus and two hundred yards beyond, until they came to a great tall tree, whose abundant branches and foliage hugged close and tapering to the trunk. There they stopped, sat down, with the tree between themselves and the school, and whispered excitedly to each other. Ten minutes later another dark form emerged from another window of the dormitory and took a similar course. He carried a bundle under one arm. Hardly had he left the shadow of the school buildings and the bordering trees when another youth slipped from the same window and followed him. The three forms under the tree hugged close to the ground as the boy with the bundle passed within twenty feet of them. Presently the fifth boy reached the tree and the three forms under it stood erect. "Come on," beckoned the last youth, and all four started in pursuit of the one ahead. Presently the latter heard a footstep behind and threw a startled look backward. With a half-choked cry of astonishment, he broke into a run and fairly flew along the road that led toward Mummy Cañon. CHAPTER XVII EXPLORING THE CAVE "Hal! Oh, Hal! Stop! This is Pickles." Hal stopped almost as suddenly as he had started to run. He recognized the cautious cry of his friend and waited for the four to overtake him. "What you kids up to?" he inquired, after scanning the faces of the quartet. "I told you not to come, Pickles." "We're not going to run away with you," he replied. "We're just going to walk a ways and then go back." "I'm glad to have you come, but you might get into trouble." "No, we won't," declared Frank with something of his old-time boastfulness. "We can get back any time before morning and nobody'll ever see us." "Where you going to-night?" inquired Ferdinand. "To the cave first." "In the cañon?" "Yes, I want to see if there's any more of those nuggets there." "You haven't any light," reminded Byron. "No, but I've got some matches." "I know where the lanterns are," Frank announced. "They're in the garage, and I can crawl in through the window. Let's get them and explore the cave." "Yes, let's do," Ferdinand said eagerly. "Come on, Bad. You and I'll go an' get the lanterns, while the rest wait here for us." No objection being offered to this plan, Frank and Ferdinand made a dash back toward the garage. They were gone about fifteen minutes and returned with four lanterns. Then the march toward the cañon was taken up. Of course, there was much excited talk on the way. Every one of the self-appointed committee that was "seeing Hal off" expressed confidence in his integrity and all were highly indignant at Mr. Miles' suspicions. "He'd better go take a jump in the lake," said Byron with unwonted vehemence. "He's got no 'preciation of what you did for him." "Yes, if it hadn't been for Hal, he'd probably never have got any of his specimens back at all," observed Ferdinand. "Somebody ought to slip him one," declared Frank savagely. "I don't think he meant to be so hard on me," interposed Hal charitably. "I was pretty sore at first, but when I saw how bad things looked for me, I wanted to get out. I wouldn't have run away, but I don't believe I could ever prove I wasn't a thief. When you get in a fix like that, the best thing to do is to pack up and move." The interest the boys felt in the cave they were about to explore finally resulted in a change of subject, and Hal's troubles were forgotten for the time being. In fact, Hal himself forgot much of the bitterness of his woes in the general eagerness of the conversation. Arrived at the scene of their construction work in the cañon, they lost no time in crossing the river and hastening up the walk to the waterfall cave. Outside the latter they stopped only long enough to light two of the lanterns. The other two they found without oil and set them aside. Then they crossed the second bridge into the cave. Hal now assumed the leadership. He realized that the expedition was not without danger and felt the responsibility for the safety of his friends to be resting on his own shoulders. His first act, therefore, on entering the cave was to drive the other boys back several feet from the precipice and the roaring waterfall. Then he led them beyond the bend in the passage to the farther end of the cave, where the noise of the fall was not so deafening as to prevent conversation. "You kids stay back here and explore this part while I go up in front and see if I can find any more of those nuggets," suggested Hal, concealing by his manner his real motive in assigning them well back from the danger point. He knew that if he told them he was afraid they would get too close to the edge and fall over, some or all of them would be determined to hover close to the cataract. Hal returned to the mouth of the cave with one of the lanterns. He could not help shuddering a little as he approached the edge of the precipice, and being of practical mind, he soon found himself speculating on a method of making this point more safe for visitors. "There ought to be a fence or high railing along here to prevent people from getting too close and falling in," he told himself. "If Dr. Byrd wants to invite people to visit this cave, he ought to make it safe. I think I'll suggest this to him--" His soliloquy was interrupted suddenly when he awoke to the fact that he was running away and did not intend to return to the doctor's school. "My, what a fool I am!" he exclaimed. "I think I'm losing my head. Really, I wish I wasn't running away. I do hate to go. But--but--I've got to." He flashed his lantern about and began his search for the lost nuggets. He examined the floor and several crevices in the walls for fifteen or twenty minutes, but nothing rewarded his search. How the one nugget he had found got there was as big a mystery as the presence of the bag of souvenirs in the cave had been. Finally he gave it up and went back to the farther part of the cave and rejoined the other boys. Byron and Walter were gazing upward at Frank and Ferdinand who were climbing up the wall on the right, which inclined like the side of a mountain. Fes carried the lantern. "Look out, up there; don't fall, or there'll be some broken bones, and maybe necks," warned Hal. "We don't want any such accidents to-night." "We're all right; just watch us," answered Frank with his usual bravado. "Where you going?" inquired Hal. "As high as we can," replied Ferdinand "Come on up. It isn't steep. It's easy climbing. You couldn't fall in the dark." Fes and Frank were by this time fifty or sixty feet from the floor, and the light of their lantern still revealed no sign of a ceiling, or a converging of the walls overhead. This was rather astonishing, and Hal was moved with a desire to take part in the upward exploration. "I'm going up, too," he announced to Byron and Walter. "It doesn't look steep and it's rough enough to give a good foothold." "Let's climb up with 'em, Pick," suggested Byron.' "All right," answered Pickles, suiting the action to the word. In a moment all three were following the two leaders up the almost stair-like ascent. They climbed rapidly, for the success of Fes and Frank had given them confidence. Up, up, they went, Hal leading and Byron and Walter following in respective order. Suddenly they were startled by a succession of cries from above. They stopped and looked upward apprehensively, and were surprised to see Fes and Frank standing on a ledge and looking down upon them. "Come on, come on, kids," yelled Frank. "We're clear through the roof. It's all open up here." Thrilled by this announcement, Hal quickened his steps and those behind him did likewise. In a few moments they had climbed up to where the leaders were waiting for them. Frank had spoken truly. They were standing on a level spot several yards in diameter; on one side arose a perpendicular wall of the mountain and on the other, far below, they looked down into the deep shadows of Mummy Cañon. "My! isn't this great!" Hal exclaimed enthusiastically. "We're real discoverers. Maybe nobody's ever been up here before." "Nobody ever tried to climb Flathead, they say," Byron observed. "I bet nobody ever got as high as this." "I wonder if we couldn't climb higher from here," said Fes, scanning the perpendicular wall. "That doesn't look much like it," said Pickles with a laugh. "I wish the moon'd come out so we could see farther," said Hal. "I hate to come so far as this and stop." With these words, he flashed the rays of his lantern about. At one edge of the wall they found a break that looked like the mouth of a passage, but it was blocked by a large bowlder. "I'm going to climb over it," said Hal. "Here, Fes, give me a boost." Fes did as requested. With his lantern in one hand, Hal was boosted up to the top of the bowlder, which was about five feet through and perfectly round. "Yes, there's a passage here," he announced. "Come on over." By a series of boosts, Byron, Frank, and Fes climbed over the big rock, the latter stopping on top of the bowlder to reach assistance to Walter. After they had passed this barrier, Ferd stopped to examine it more carefully and then said: "Let's try to push the rock over a little. It's balanced here on a little neck. Maybe we can move it so we won't have to climb over it when we come back." Hal had gone on ahead a short distance and paid little attention to this suggestion until he turned his head and saw his four companions with their shoulders to the bowlder. "Hey! Stop! Stop!" he cried out frantically, realizing what would happen if they moved the rock. But his warning was too late. Even as he screamed his command, the balanced rock toppled over and rolled heavily down the slight incline right into the mouth of the roof exit of the cave. "Oh! if it would only go through!" was Hal's wild wish. But it didn't. The runaway sprang past his friends, lantern in hand, and made a hasty examination. The bowlder was wedged fast, effectually blocking their only avenue of escape from the steep-walled mountain. CHAPTER XVIII THE ISLAND IN THE AIR For a minute, perhaps, not a word was uttered. The hopelessness of their situation was all too evident to the five boys. No one dared to suggest that the passage from which they had rolled the bowlder would lead to any possibility of escape. "Now you have done it!" Hal gasped at length. "How in the world are we ever going to get out of this?" Nobody answered. There was no reply to make. The situation was too fearful to permit of excuses or shifting responsibility. Hal was the only member of the party who did not seem to be paralyzed. He advanced toward the bowlder and flashed his lantern over it. The opening in the rocky cliff was not entirely closed, but the rock was wedged in such a position that it was folly to try to make an exit here. The top of the crevice filled by the big stone converged almost to a point, the rest of the opening, eight or ten feet long and three or four feet wide, being over a sheer drop of thirty feet. There was no possibility of creeping around the bowlder and gaining a footing on the slanting cave wall. "C-can't we break the ground here and make the stone fall down?" suggested Ferdinand in chattering accents. "Break the ground?" Hal replied fiercely. "Don't you see we're standing on granite? You could hardly break it with dynamite--and we haven't even a wooden crowbar, to say nothing of a pick. I don't know what we're going to do. We'll starve to death. I guess the only thing we can do is to sit down an' wait till morning," announced Hal gloomily as he finished his inspection. "I wonder what time it is." Byron looked at his watch and announced that it was nearly midnight. Then Hal continued: "I don't see that we can do anything before daylight. Let's all huddle up close together and go to sleep." This seemed to be the most sensible thing to do. The summer nights in Colorado are cool, and the boys found it necessary to huddle together in order to keep warm. Of course, they did not go to sleep at once. There were several reasons why it was difficult for them to drift off into slumber. First, they were in trouble, serious trouble; second, their bed was very hard; third, the place was wild, and the noises were strange. Then the moon arose, giving the scene a most lonesome appearance. But at last all consciousness left the strange camp, and the next thing the boys knew it was morning. Hal awoke first. He suddenly found himself wondering at the hardness of his bed; then, like a flash, the truth came back to him. Quietly he arose, gazed a moment at his sleeping companions and then turned toward the blocked exit. Another examination of the roof-opening of the cave proved that he had judged rightly. Certainly there was no possibility of their escaping this way without a pick or other steel tool. Next he turned his attention toward the passage from which the heavy bowlder had been rolled. It seemed almost as if this way must have been cut by the hand of man. It ran with considerable upward incline between the bulk of the mountain and a huge rocky bluff. Leaving his companions still asleep, Hal started up this pass, which ran a hundred feet through almost solid rock. Underfoot it was rough, with rocky projections and bowlders, but the boy passed over it rapidly until he reached the end. Here he found himself at the foot of a wooded slope, not so very steep, that ran upward for several hundred feet. "Why, I believe we could climb the mountain from this point," he exclaimed half-aloud. "There's a ledge up there that runs right over the Mummy, and there's another slope over that and then some rocks. It doesn't look nearly so steep up here. I'm going back and wake the fellows." He hastened back and found Byron and Walter sitting up and looking around them. Remembering his predicament, Pickles began to sniffle with fright. This awakened Frank and Fes. "Oh, fellows!" exclaimed Hal eagerly, "I've made a wonderful discovery." Pickles ceased to cry. "Have you found a way down?" inquired Ferd. "No, not yet, but maybe we'll find one. But I believe we can climb up to the top." "On top of Flathead!" Byron exclaimed. "Yes, on top of Flathead." "What good will that do us?" inquired Frank. "That won't help us get down." "I don't know--it may," replied Hal hopefully. "Anyway, it's better than staying here. We're a long distance from the road, and the bushes growing along the edge here would keep anybody from seeing us. Maybe we can throw some stones down and attract somebody's attention over near the pass." This suggestion struck the others as a good one, and they were all ready in an instant to begin the climb. They realized that they would soon be hungry and thirsty and that they must do something soon. So they started without further delay. The ascent up the wooded incline was quickly made and in twenty minutes they were standing on the ledge over the Mummy. Here they stopped a short while and rested. They looked eagerly along the government road for travelers, but saw none. Then they started upward again. After passing through a second belt of timber, the boys found it necessary to follow a winding course, along ledges, around steep places, then up a slope less steep, but rocky. From a distance this ascent appeared much steeper than it proved to be in the climbing, and at no time did the boys feel they were in danger of falling. At last they reached the top. The journey upward had seemed much longer than it really was, for they had had no breakfast. Of course they were very hungry, but fortunately they had found a clear spring on the way up and quenched their thirst with deep satisfaction. Ordinarily their interest in this newly discovered country--for the top of the mountain seemed almost extensive enough to be termed a country--would have been eager, but under the present circumstances a vastly more important question occupied their minds. They had come up in order to get down, and they now directed their attention to devising a plan. Immediately they began an exploration of the mountain top in the hope of finding a way to get down. This flat-top area was fairly regular in circumference and half a mile in diameter. On reaching the highest point of their climb, they rested for half an hour and then started to walk around the edge. Their view of the mesa through field-glasses from Porcupine Hill a few weeks before proved to have afforded them a fairly accurate idea of the top of Flathead. The eastern half was covered with a growth of spruce, the western half was rather hilly and craggy, and in the center was a pool of water, occupying a hollow that seemed to be the catch-basin of the whole expanse. The exploration of the plateau was begun at a southeastern point and the boys decided to take a course northward along the eastern edge. This took them through the wooded section. After they had proceeded a quarter of a mile or more they found themselves on a great ledge within a stone's throw, it seemed, of the government road. Eagerly they scanned the highway for passing teams, and they were not disappointed. Two were approaching from the south and one from the north, the latter just entering the cañon through the northern pass. Hal picked up a stone half as big as his fist and hurled it out toward the road. The result was disheartening. He had miscalculated the distance. The stone fell into the river, fifty yards short of the highway. "My goodness!" Hal exclaimed. "We can't attract anybody's attention that way." "Let's holler," suggested Frank. "Maybe they can hear us." All joined in a lusty scream, which, too, was disappointing, for they felt instinctively, after it died away, that it had not penetrated far below. None of the travelers seemed to pay any attention to it. If they heard it, they caught no significance in the sound. "We've got to do something else," Hal announced desperately. He did his best to appear cheerful, but as he looked into the tired faces of his companions, he felt his heart sink heavily. "Let's make some bows and arrows," Pickles suggested. "Pick, you're a peach!" Hal exclaimed. "That's just the thing. We'll tie some notes to arrows and shoot 'em at the people passing." "We'll have to hit them or they probably won't see the arrows," was Byron's advice. "I've got a scheme to make 'em hear the arrows," announced Hal. "How?" asked Fes. "Make whistles on the ends." The boys had done this before by way of amusement. All of them were skilled in making whistles of any twig or small limb from which the bark could be removed in the form of a tube. "We haven't got any string to make a bow," Frank objected. "Yes we have," replied Kenyon, holding up his runaway bundle of clothes, around which was wound a liberal supply of fishline. Realizing that their situation was desperate, the boys set to work with a will. Fes and Byron made a bow, while Hal and the other two boys began a search for arrow wood. They found a patch of shrubbery that contained an abundance of long straight stems, and they cut a score or more of these and made them into arrows. By this time the bow-makers had produced a good mountain-ash bow with a strong string of several fish-cord strands, and Hal and his helpers had three whistle-arrows ready to shriek a novel message through the air. Hal now tore several leaves from a notebook, inscribed messages of distress on them and wrapped one around each of the arrows and tied it fast. Then he took his stand on the ledge overlooking the road in the cañon, while the other boys, seated on the ground, made more whistle-arrows. Presently Kenyon fitted an arrow to the bow, and the shaft-makers sprang to their feet to watch the effect of his first shot. The whistle-tipped stem flew with a sharp, piercing sound that thrilled all with hope. Eagerly they followed its flight, while the shriek died away and the arrow sped far out and down, just beyond the road and the traveler at whom the shaft was aimed. "I'll attract his attention pretty soon if I can keep on makin' as good shots as that," declared Hal as he let fly another arrow. It was impossible to determine whether or not the attention of the driver in the buggy had been attracted by the first two whistling-arrows, but the third certainly had a startling effect. The boys high overhead saw the horse suddenly spring forward and race along the road at a break-neck speed. Around a curve he went, the carriage tipping over and spilling its occupant out. The horse tore loose from the harness fastenings and sped madly along the road, past a team coming from the opposite direction, and out through the northern pass. "Is he killed?" gasped Byron. "No," replied Hal, leaning forward eagerly. "See, he's got up and is running after his horse. I hope he finds the arrow and reads the note." "You hit the horse, didn't you?" Frank inquired. "I must have, unless it was the whistle that scared him." With feelings of deep disappointment, the boys watched the man run, or walk rapidly, along the road until he disappeared through the pass. Meanwhile the work of making more whistle-arrows continued, and several were sent screaming down toward two other teams that had appeared in view. Evidently, the attention of the occupants of these carriages was attracted by the strange sound in the air, but none of the note-bearing shafts were discovered by them. For several hours the boys continued at the work, and more than a score of arrows were sent flying down toward passing vehicles. Meanwhile, they had become very hungry and thirsty and some of them visited the pool of water, but it was stale and brackish and they could not drink it. By the middle of the afternoon all were thoroughly disheartened, although they continued in their attempts to attract the attention of passers on the road below. Finally a new element of expectancy was introduced when Fes called attention to a strange looking object in the air two miles to the north. He was very excited when he beheld it, and exclaimed: "Look! Look! Off there! What's that?" All looked eagerly. They were in a mood to hope for help from any improbable source. For several minutes they gazed silently at the moving object, at first believing it to be a huge bird. Finally Hal electrified his companions by announcing wildly: "It's Mr. Miles in his new airship!" CHAPTER XIX THE RESCUING AIRSHIP "How do you know?" "I bet it is!" "Do you think he's comin' here?" Questions and exclamations such as these came in rapid succession following the announcement from Hal that the object flying toward them high in the air was Johnson Miles' new airship. It was approaching rapidly and seemed to be headed right for the top of Flathead. "Maybe he knows we're here." Pickles made the suggestion, and nobody seemed disposed to take it as a joke. However Hal replied: "I don't believe he does. How could he, unless somebody found one of our arrows? We didn't see anybody pick any of 'em up." "Maybe he's just hunting for us," suggested Fes. "It's more likely he's just taking his first flight," said Hal. "I'd feel more hopeful if I knew that was true." "So would I," said Byron. "He'd probably fly up here the first place. If he's hunting for us, he won't come here at all unless he knows we're here." "Well he's surely makin' for this mountain," Hal declared after a few moments of silence. It certainly seemed true. The biplane was flying at an elevation slightly above that of the plateau, and did not waver in its course. "We've got to get busy and make sure that he sees us," Hal suddenly exclaimed. "He might fly right over this mountain without stopping unless we attract his attention. Take off your coats and wave 'em and make all the noise you can when he gets near." Hal set the example and the others followed. Soon the five mountain-top Crusoes were cutting the wildest capers imaginable and creating a noise with their throats that surely was loud enough to be heard within a hundred yards by the aviator in spite of the vibrations of his propellers. The airship was making remarkable speed and in less than five minutes from the time it was first sighted, Johnson Miles glided gently down to a level spot not far from where the truant Scouts were capering about. They had forgotten their hunger, their tired condition, and their despair. Such a jumble of excited questions as followed the alighting of the airship could hardly be represented without a phonographic record. The boys were eager to know how the aviator discovered them--did he know they were on the mountain?--and Mr. Miles was equally curious to learn how they had come there. Finally he said: "Boys, I've brought you some food and water. You said you were hungry." That settled it. Mr. Miles had read one of the notes on the whistle-arrows. Naturally, they marveled at this, but Hal satisfied himself by concluding that one of the arrows had fallen into one of the vehicles at which he had directed his aim. From the cabin of the airship, the aviator produced a large jug of water and a basket filled with sandwiches and other edibles. Eagerly the boys poured the cool liquid down their throats and then pounced upon the contents of the basket. For a while they did nothing but eat and drink, but at last Pickles inquired: "How did you know we was here?" "He found one of the arrows," laughed Bad. "No, I didn't," replied the aviator. "There! there!" Pickles jeered, pointing his finger at Frank. "You will know it all, will you?" Frank was a little crestfallen, and awaited developments, hoping for an opportunity to vindicate himself. "I didn't find an arrow, but somebody else did," explained the rescuer. "A-ha! What did I tell you?" cried Frank. "He didn't find it," Walter replied stoutly. "Well, what's the difference? I suppose if I said the top of this mountain's flat, you'd say it isn't 'cause there's hills on it." "My, what silly things you boys quarrel over," exclaimed Mr. Miles. "You're as bad as rival politicians. If you've settled the question I'll proceed. The arrow hit Dr. Edwards' horse as he was driving through the cañon." "I bet that was the horse that ran away," interrupted Byron. "Yes, it was," replied Mr. Miles. "He tipped over the carriage, broke loose and ran back to town. There he was caught and the arrow found sticking in his back. The person who found it took your note to Dr. Byrd." "Was Dr. Edwards hurt?" inquired Hal. "Not much. Somebody overtook him just outside the cañon and gave him a lift, so he didn't have to walk all the way home." Hal's note tied to the arrow contained brief information of their predicament and also that they were hungry and thirsty. It did not, however, contain any details as to how they had been trapped over the waterfall cave and later reached the top of the mountain. Hence, they found it necessary to relate their experiences as soon as Mr. Miles had finished his story. Incidentally, the man discovered that Hal was running away, but he made no comment on the subject. Neither did he refer to the nugget episode, which he suspected to have something to do with the boys' escapade. Finally all the food was eaten, all the water was gone, and all the stories were told, and then Mr. Miles suggested that it was time to return to Lakefarm. "How we going to go?" asked Ferdinand. "In the airship?" "Sure. You boys all wanted a ride in it. Now you'll have a chance to prove your nerve." "We can't all ride at once," objected Frank. "Oh, come now, Bad, don't back down," admonished the aviator mischievously. "You know you cried out the loudest that you wouldn't be afraid." "I ain't afraid," protested Frank angrily, "but you know there isn't room enough for all of us." "No. I agree with, you, Frank. I'll take only one with me on the first trip, and that'll be you." "Why me? I don't want to ride alone with you. You'll be busy all the time. I want somebody else to talk with. Let Pickles go the first trip." "All right. I don't care; only I want to try the ship with one passenger before I take two. Pickles, you're not afraid to go first, are you?" "No, I ain't afraid," replied Walter, smiling. He seldom became excited or disturbed. Doubtless he would have watched the moon shoot across the heavens with no more fear than the average boy feels over a burning house or a runaway horse. "I ain't afraid either," insisted Frank, but he did not offer to make the first trip with Mr. Miles. "All right, you'll have a chance to prove your bravery next time," assured the latter. "Come on, Pickles, we must hurry, for it's getting late and I've got to make two more trips before sundown. It's after four o'clock now." "You can make 'em all in half an hour, can't you?" inquired Hal. "Pretty nearly, if everything goes well. But something might happen to delay me." Walter and the aviator now got aboard the aeroplane and Mr. Miles started the engine. The two big propellers turned faster and faster, and the biplane gave a few jerks and tugs, then leaped and bounded forward violently over the uneven ground until the wheels no longer touched the earth. Rapidly now she arose in the air, circling around towards the north. In order to insure safety for Walter while giving his entire attention to the management of the vessel, Miles had closed the front and rear slides, so that they were enclosed in a room, or cabin, twelve feet long, including the tapering forequarter, and five feet wide. The aviator sat at the wheel in the narrow prow, while Walter was free to move about as he wished. The four boys left behind gazed eagerly and admiringly at the airship with her invisible occupants for several minutes, not a word escaping the lips of any of them. Suddenly Frank broke the silence by saying: "Say, fellows, maybe we'll never have a chance to come up here again. Dr. Byrd won't let us come up in the airship, and the passage through the cave's closed. Let's explore this mountain top some before Mr. Miles gets back." "There isn't much to explore," replied Ferd. "We can see pretty near everything standing right here." "We can't see the other side of those big rocks and cliffs over there," Byron answered, pointing to the south through the thin belt of timber: "That's what we were lookin' at through the field-glasses from Uncle Sam's mountain, you know." "Yes, let's go and have a look at it," proposed Hal. There was no need of further urging, and the four boys started off at a brisk rate. Through the timber they ran and then southward along the high ridge of rocks and mounds, until they came to a passage through the rocks. Into this passage they entered and hastened on until near the middle a new discovery brought them to a halt. "My goodness! Look at that!" Hal exclaimed thus as he stopped suddenly and pointed toward something very remarkable fifteen feet ahead. It was the opening of a cave in the clay and stone wall, and slightly ajar was a wooden door of rough-hewn tree trunks. "Why, somebody lives up here!" cried Ferdinand in excited tones. "Let's go and see who it is." "No," Hal cautioned. "We've got to be careful. If anybody does live here, he's probably crazy. Let's pick up some stones to throw at him if he comes at us." The boys all accepted this suggestion and soon they were armed. Then they advanced cautiously past the opening in the left wall. They reached the western end of the passage and turned to the right. Here they found a much more satisfactory view of the rocky and bluff-lined elevation they had observed through the field-glasses from the top of Porcupine Hill. In places the elevation rose two hundred feet above the level of the plateau. Perhaps at no place was it more than one hundred feet in thickness, but it was seven or eight hundred feet long, constituting by far the biggest mole on the pate of Flathead. Near the pass the line of cliffs presented an almost perpendicular face to the south, scooped out here and there in the form of overhanging shelters. And in these shelters, twenty or thirty feet from the Flathead level were a number of openings, cave-like and fronted with ruined outer structures, that thrilled Hal with a realization of an important discovery. But this thrill was quickly replaced by another more intense and immediately important. It was occasioned by the appearance of a live, cat-like form, with burning eyes and crouching, hungry attitude in one of the openings--a panther--and it was looking right down on the boys. CHAPTER XX THE PANTHER AND THE CAVE Exclamations of fear escaped the boys as they saw the threatening attitude of the fierce animal in the cliff cave. Hal, who had had recent experience with a similar animal--perhaps the same one--stood his ground and gazed calmly at the mountain lion. But Ferdinand and Frank were quickly panic-stricken and turned and fled into the passage. Byron hesitated a few moments; then the fright of Bad and Fes proved too much for his nerve, and he turned and followed them as fast as he could run. It would be too much to expect even Hal to stand cool and unmoved under such discouraging circumstances. The support of even a physically weak companion would have tended to strengthen his nerve. As it was, he felt an irresistible power pulling him backward, and he, too, turned and raced after the other Boy Scouts. He expected any moment to hear the panther come hounding after him and to be knocked over by the springing of the heavy body upon his back. In despair he wished he had not lost courage and had stood his ground, but he had no power to turn and await the approach of the animal. It was too late now. His only hope--but was there any hope at all? Yes, there was. In the passage was the cave with the rude timber door. The other boys were just entering it. Hal reached the entrance just as Frank was swinging the door to. Fearfully he looked behind, and saw the mountain lion entering the passage in a half hesitating manner. Doubtless he had had experience with human beings that taught him the wisdom of dealing cautiously with them. Hal stepped inside and pulled the door to; then, finding that it swung easily and fitted the entrance fully, he pushed it open again and stepped outside. The panther had stopped twenty feet away, crouching to spring, yet hesitating as if afraid. It was rather dark in the passage and his eyes blazed like two coals of fire. Hal stood ready to spring back into the cave and pull the door to if he should spring. "Come on in and shut the door," pleaded Frank in trembling tones. Byron and Fred seconded the request, but Hal had good reason for doing otherwise. If he shut himself and his companions in the cave, it would mean a long imprisonment. He would be afraid to open the door again lest he find the panther close to the entrance ready to spring in. Meanwhile Mr. Miles would return and would be unable to find them, and then the mischief would be to pay. Hal must remain outside and watch for the airship and scream for help when the aviator landed. "No, I'm going to stay here as long as he don't spring at me," Hal replied. "If it's too dark in there and you're afraid, here's some matches." He took several matches from his pocket and held them behind him. Byron stepped out gingerly and received them and hastened back into the cave. Meanwhile, Hal was measuring the distance between him and the puma and wondering if he couldn't do something to make the big cat retreat. "If I'd pick up one of these stones and fire it at him, I wonder what he'd do," he mused. "Would he jump at me or would he jump back? Maybe I ought to just try to scare him and not hit him. If I hit him, it may make him mad. "No, I guess I'll throw one right at him. I couldn't hit him if I tried. Nobody could hit a cat; they're too quick." So he picked up a stone half as large as his fist and threw it with all his force right at the animal. The latter sprang nimbly aside and the stone bounded several yards farther on. Encouraged at the failure of the mountain lion to spring at him, Hal picked up another stone and hurled it, then another and another and another. The beast sprang aside and backward each time, snarling angrily, but hardly with an accent of courage. Hal kept up his attack with more and more vigor, and presently the animal turned and bounded out of the passage. Just as he disappeared, Hal's three companions came rushing toward him in a manner so startling that the watcher outside chilled with a fear that the panther's mate had been discovered inside. They stopped at the entrance, thus reassuring Hal somewhat. But this reassurance was dispelled when he turned and saw their white faces and scared attitudes. "What's the matter?" he inquired, for the moment forgetting the panther. "Oh, Hal!" gasped Frank. "There's a man back there, and he's dead!" "A man! Dead!" It was Hal's turn to gasp. "Yes," replied Frank. "We lit some matches and saw him." "There's a gun back there, too," continued Fes, and Hal interrupted him eagerly. "Is that so?" he exclaimed. "Bun, you and Bad stay here and watch, while Fes and I go and have a look. If the panther comes back, holler to me, but don't shut the door unless he comes too close." With these instructions, Hal entered the cave, followed by the trembling Ferdinand. He struck a match to light his way, and held another to substitute as soon as the first should burn out. The hole in the wall was an ordinary cave, eight feet wide beyond the narrow entrance, six or seven feet from floor to ceiling, and fifteen feet deep. At the farther end, Hal discovered evidences that the place had been used as a living room. There was no table and no chair, but he found a lantern, a pine box, a gun, some blankets and several articles of clothing. On the blankets lay the form of a man. His clothes were torn and his face was mangled. Evidently he had been attacked by some wild animal, perhaps the mountain lion. The man must have been dead for two or three days. Realizing that no more time should be spent in this place, Hal picked up the rifle which leaned against the wall, and returned to the entrance. There he examined the weapon, which was a Winchester. He pulled down the lever, which opened the chamber and disclosed five cartridges resting in the magazine. At the same time an empty shell flew out, and as he threw back the lever a fresh cartridge slipped into its place. "Come on, fellows," said Hal, starting for the entrance. "If the panther comes too close, I'll shoot 'im. But I don't think he'll bother us." The boys hastened out of the pass and into the belt of timber. Before they reached the open, they discovered the airship resting on the ground and Mr. Miles looking about him in alarm at the disappearance of the four Scouts. "Where have you been?" he inquired as they came near. Then he added in a tone of astonishment: "And where did you get that gun?" "We've had some adventure, believe me," replied Hal, as he stopped and rested the butt of the rifle on a rock. "We've seen a panther and found a dead man in a cave." The aviator was amazed and demanded further details. The boys told their story in a picturesque manner, with many gestures and some slang. The aviator would have been glad to have made a personal investigation, but it was getting so late that he decided it best not to delay. So he said: "We've got to get a move on us, or we'll find ourselves making a trip through the air in the dark. Come on, now. Who's going on the next trip?" Frank and Ferdinand got aboard, and the ship again jerked and bounded over the rough ground, then arose and circled toward the school. Hal and Byron remained, with the gun for protection in case the mountain lion should appear again. But little fear was felt from that source after the experience they had had with the animal. "I bet it's the same panther we met over on Porcupine," declared Byron soon after they were left alone. "I bet it is too," replied Hal. In a short time after they saw the airship glide down onto the campus, it arose again, and in ten minutes it alighted on Flathead once more. Then Hal and Byron got aboard and experienced their first thrills as aerial passengers. It was not nearly so sensational as they had expected, however. Indeed, it was hardly more thrilling than going up in an elevator, for they were shut in on all sides and could look out only through the windows, and this proved not much different from gazing out of a window of a sky-scraper in the city. CHAPTER XXI TO FLATHEAD BY AIRSHIP AGAIN. Dr. Byrd said little to the boys that evening. He greeted them quietly, but not severely, as they arrived, looked them over to see that they were sound and unhurt by exposure, hustled them to the bath and later to supper, and then sent them to bed. The boys wondered a little over this. Naturally, they all expected to be called on the carpet, lectured, and then punished. But the doctor's tone of voice was almost reassuring. He suspected that they had been punished enough and that if a boy won't think after such an experience, there isn't much hope for him. He understood the motive that had caused Hal to run away, as well as the sentiments that had moved the other boys to accompany him. Next morning, however, Dr. Byrd called the five truants into his office. He asked them to be seated, and then turned to his desk, at which he busied himself ten or fifteen minutes. At the end of this period Mr. Miles entered and took a seat near the doctor, who now wheeled around in his chair and gave attention to his callers. "Well, boys," he said slowly, wiping his glasses with his handkerchief, "what do you think of yourselves? Are you proud of what you have done, or do you agree that such an escapade deserves something of a reckoning?" he added as he squinted with one eye through one of the lenses to see if it was clear. Each of the boys waited for one of the others to answer. As the doctor had addressed none of them individually, now was a good opportunity for them to maintain the silence so often urged upon the young in the presence of older persons. "I see you're not very proud of what you've done," continued the doctor. "And I'm not particularly proud of you either, although you conducted yourselves well after you found yourselves in a bad fix, I understand. Why did you decide to run away, Hal?" Kenyon hung his head. Then he stole a glance at the aviator, who reassured him with a kindly look. "Mr. Miles thought I was a thief, and I couldn't prove I wasn't," Hal answered. "You found a nugget in the cave, did you?" "Yes, but I didn't know what it was till I dropped it in the wash room. I hunted for the others in the cave night before last, but couldn't find any more." "Well, Mr. Miles tells me he has decided that you are honest. He believes your story after being with you and talking with you on the mountain. But don't you think you made a mistake by running away? Shouldn't you have remained here and faced the music?" "Maybe I should," Hal replied dubiously. "But I don't see how I could have proved I was innocent." "Well," concluded the doctor slowly, "I've decided you ought not to be punished; only I want to give you this advice: Don't ever run away from unjust suspicion and don't do anything that will make you liable to just suspicion. As to you other boys, there is no excuse for your running away." "We didn't mean to run away," broke in Pickles. "We were just going a ways with Hal and then come back before morning. But we got caught." "Is that true?" inquired the doctor, addressing the other boys. "Yes, it is," came the reply in chorus. "Well!" exclaimed the owner of Lakefarm. "It came near being a pretty serious trap, didn't it? I'll take the matter under advisement and decide later what I'll do. Meanwhile, there is a more important matter to be looked after. How would you boys like to visit the top of Flathead again?" "In the airship?" inquired Byron eagerly. "That's the only way to get up there, now that the passage through the roof of the cave is closed." All the boys were overjoyed at the prospect. "We are going to visit the cave where you found the dead body of a man," continued Dr. Byrd. "I have notified the coroner and he has expressed the desire to have you all present when he takes the body away. It won't be necessary, but I've decided to let you go if you wish to. I am going myself. I have full confidence in the safety of Mr. Miles' airship." "When are we going?" Hal inquired. "As soon as the coroner gets here--half an hour. Now go and get ready for the trip, if you've decided you want to go." The five Scouts left the doctor's office and went to their rooms. They doffed their class-room clothes and shoes and substituted their coarse, strong mountain-climbing suits and heavy-nailed footgear. Then they hastened out onto the campus, where they found Mr. Miles getting the airship ready to fly. Most of the other boys of the school were gathered around the aeroplane, watching proceedings with interest. Of course the five returned truants were the objects of much interest and questioning when they appeared. The other boys all knew in a general way what had happened to their runaway associates, and they were now hungry for details. But the arrival of the coroner and the announcement that the boy explorers of Flathead were about to make another trip through the air added a new excitement and so much confusion that there was little opportunity for anybody to gain any information. Coroner Huffman and Pickles made the first trip with Mr. Miles to the top of the mountain. This official, who lived in Jimtown, was a great hunter. He had held one and another political office for fifteen years and celebrated each election by going off into the mountains to shoot big game. On this occasion, he had his rifle with him, hoping to get a shot at the mountain lion that Kenyon and his companions had seen the day before. While the first trip was being made, Hal, Frank, Byron, and Ferdinand were surrounded by their eager schoolmates and plied with numerous questions. Then the doctor, in order to simplify matters, asked everybody to keep still and suggested that Hal tell the story from beginning to end. So Kenyon told the story of their adventure in detail. Before he had finished, the aeroplane returned and started on another trip, with Byron, Frank, and Ferdinand as passengers. The aviator had decided that, since the airship was built to carry three men including the operator, it ought to carry one man and three boys at once. The experiment proved that he was right. By the time Mr. Miles returned for the doctor and Hal, the latter had satisfied the curiosity of his schoolmates. Some of them begged for permission to make the trip also, but Dr. Byrd said that since it would be impossible to take all, he must limit his permission to those whom the coroner had asked to be present at the removal of the body from the mountain-top cave. Finally, the entire party of eight men and boys was conveyed to the Flathead plateau. The landing place chosen this time was a level and comparatively smooth spot west of the patch of timber and east of the pool. Hal, with the permission of Dr. Byrd, had brought with him the rifle that had been found in the cave. He, too, hoped to see the mountain lion again and get a shot at it. As they approached the landing place he examined closely the ruins of the homes of the cliff dwellers, where they had seen the panther on the day before, but it was no longer there. "Wasn't that a funny place for cliff dwellers to build their homes?" Hal inquired as they were descending to the plateau. "Yes, it is," replied the doctor. "I can't account for their going up so high, unless there was unusual need of defense against some of their war-like neighbors." "How do you suppose they got up here?" asked the boy. "The same way you did probably--behind the waterfall. I imagine they were afraid to trust that secret passage alone to protect them against their enemies, so they made their homes high up in these cliffs as a second precaution." "Let's go up in some of those caves before we go back," Hal proposed. "I am planning to make as thorough an exploration of this plateau as possible to-day," the doctor replied. "But first we must investigate the death of this man whose body you found." The other members of the party were awaiting the arrival of the last airship-load of passengers, as the coroner desired the presence of all the original witnesses when he removed the body. After all had been landed on the top of the mountain, no further delay was necessary, and they proceeded directly to the cave in the passage through the long ridge. Two lanterns had been brought along, and with the aid of these the coroner made a careful inspection of the cave. He asked numerous questions in order to determine if the boys had destroyed or disarranged any clews that might lead to a clearing up of the mystery surrounding this strange life and death on the mountain top. Meanwhile, not an article of the contents of the cave was moved until the careful examination was finished. Mr. Huffman even caused Hal to lean his gun against the wall as nearly as it had been found as possible. Then he and the doctor picked up the body and carried it out to the open to give it a thorough examination. There seemed to be no doubt that he had been slain by a wild beast. The body was badly mangled, particularly the upper part and the head. The clothes about the chest were ripped in shreds, indicating the savage nature of the slayer. But the clothing proved to be of good quality, indicating that their owner had not been a tramp. "I bet he was a robber hiding from the police," Hal declared as the coroner began to search the dead man's pockets. The next instant the official drew forth several envelopes and pieces of paper and began to examine them. Suddenly Dr. Byrd, who was watching this inspection closely, leaned forward and snatched an envelope from the coroner's hand. "Great heavens!" he exclaimed. "This is Maxwell, the instructor who stole my most valuable gems." CHAPTER XXII CLEARING HAL With nervous haste, Dr. Byrd took a piece of folded paper from the envelope and examined it. The letter was short and had to do with a purchase from a mail order house. It was addressed to Rodney Maxwell, Boulder, Colorado, care of the Miners & Merchants' Bank. "So that's where he was," the doctor muttered, half to himself. "The last I heard of him he was in Denver." Coroner Huffman, meanwhile, was examining the other envelopes. Suddenly, he looked up at the doctor and said: "I think I can give you some interesting information. This Miners & Merchants' Bank was robbed two or three months ago and the police are looking for this fellow Maxwell. He was a teller there, I believe." "You don't say!" exclaimed the owner of Lakefarm. "It's singular that I didn't see it in the papers." "The story was printed all right. You probably read only the headlines and missed his name. You don't read the newspapers the way we politicians do. Maxwell got away with thirty thousand dollars." "I bet the money's in the cave," Hal ventured eagerly. It was a natural suspicion, and they hastened the search through the pockets of the dead man's clothing. But nothing more was discovered and the party returned into the cave. "Let's take everything outside and continue our examination in the sunlight," the doctor proposed. "Good suggestion," said the coroner, picking up the box and starting for the entrance. Dr. Byrd rolled up several blankets, tucked them under his arm and followed Mr. Huffman. The lifting of one of the blankets disclosed several cooking utensils, a bag of salt and half a dozen empty fruit cans. All these and other articles the boys picked up and carried outside beyond the western end of the passage and placed them on the ground. First, the contents of the box were examined, and they proved to be of great interest. On top were two books, then several newspapers and magazines. Next appeared several boxes of matches, two or three hundred cartridges, also in boxes, some collars, neckties and handkerchiefs; two shirts, and finally a small satchel, packed full and heavy. Eagerly the coroner seized the latter and attempted to open it. But the clasp resisted his efforts. It was locked. Remembering a bunch of keys he had found in one of Maxwell's pockets, the coroner produced it and tried several in the lock. The fourth fitted and turned easily, and the satchel fell open. Exclamations of eagerness and satisfaction burst from the lips of the onlookers. The object of their search was found. The little valise was full of paper money, assorted in denominations and done up in small packages with strips of paper pinned around them. On each binding strip was written with pencil some figures representing the amount contained in the package. These made the counting of the money easy. In the bottom of the satchel was more than a thousand dollars in gold coins, the counting of which required more time than the totaling of all the assorted certificates and notes. The coroner made an itemized list of these packages and coins according to denominations and amounts. On footing them, he found that the total was $30,380. The official now drew up a certificate of their discovery at the foot of the itemized list, and, at his request, they all signed it. Then he packed the money back in the valise, with the statement and certificate on top, and snapped the latch and locked it. "There, that's all done," Mr. Huffman announced. "What else have we here?" Boys and men now began to overhaul the other personal effects of the slain robber. They shook out the blankets, inspected the empty fruit cans, looked into the cooking utensils and pushed their hands or fingers into the pockets of the two extra suits of clothing. In one of these pockets, Dr. Byrd found a small metal box about twice the thickness of an ordinary pocket match-safe. With more curiosity than eagerness, he attempted to open the box, but it resisted his efforts. Mr. Huffman, observing what he had found, held out his hand saying: "Let me try it. I've had a good deal of experience breaking secrets." Dr. Byrd gave him the box, and the coroner turned it over several times in an effort to find a clasp or catch. Presently he discovered a tiny button at one end and pressed on it with his thumb nail, but with no result. After considerable manipulation he finally solved the secret by pressing both sides with thumb and fingers of one hand while he "picked" the button with the other thumb nail. Now was the time for a few more gasps of surprise. And they came. Dr. Byrd's right hand shot forward like a "Jack-in-the-box" let loose, to seize the object of interest. The coroner, however, held on with both hands to prevent the eager doctor from spilling the sparkling contents. "Those are mine!" exclaimed the Lakefarm owner. "Those are the rubies and diamonds Maxwell stole from my collection over two years ago." "Whew!" exploded Mr. Huffman. "This sure is a day of discoveries." "It's a week of discoveries, it's a month of discoveries, it's a whole summer of discoveries for Lakefarm and Mummy Cañon," declared Dr. Byrd with excusable excitement. "I tell you, this has been a history making season for Colorado and even the United States. Think of what has happened here this summer! Why it's simply stupendous. When this cañon becomes a popular summer resort it will have a most interesting history for advertising purposes." "Yes, you're right," agreed Mr. Huffman. "And these runaway boys have done about all of it, haven't they?" he added with a mischievous look at the five young Scouts standing around and eagerly listening to the conversation. "Well, I don't know but you're right," admitted the doctor slowly. "Kenyon discovered the cave behind the waterfall, and all of them took a part in the discoveries that followed. In fact, I think every one of their names should be given to some point or feature of interest on this mountain." "Let's call the cave behind the waterfall Kenyon Cave," proposed Byron. "That's a bright idea," declared the doctor. "It sounds well. What shall we call the waterfall itself?" "The Screaming Cataract," Frank proposed with a little reminiscent shudder and a grin. "Good again!" Dr. Byrd exclaimed. "And that cliff where we stood when we shot the arrows into the cañon--let's call that Whistling Arrow Point," suggested Ferdinand. "Keep it up, boys, and you'll soon have everything well named," said the coroner with appreciative cheeriness. Just then all were startled by an interruption from Mr. Miles who had been busy while the others were exclaiming over the discovery of the money and the gems. In one hand he held a coat and in the other several objects the size of small potatoes which he had drawn from one of the pockets. The objects were of a soiled yellow. "I've found my nuggets! I've found my nuggets!" cried the aviator gleefully. "Hal, you're fully exonerated now, and the mystery of the bag of specimens in the cave is solved. Maxwell found them in the cañon, took them behind the waterfall, picked out the nuggets, left the bag in the cave and accidentally dropped one of the lumps of gold!" Before the excitement of this discovery was over, another thriller was added to the rapid succession of events. Suddenly from the very cave in which they had seen the mountain lion on the day before, issued a dark object, which bounded down an incline of stones and earth and sped with swift leaps past the aeroplane and off toward the edge of the mountain-top plateau. CHAPTER XXIII THE BOY SCOUTS OF THE AIR. Coroner Huffman was quickest to act. His rifle was leaning against a rock near by, and he snatched it up and took two shots at the flying animal before it disappeared. Apparently the panther was not hit. But Mr. Miles was scarcely less active. Like a sprinter, he started for his airship, twenty yards away, calling out: "Come on, a couple of you. We'll chase him. Bring the guns." There was a general race toward the aeroplane. The aviator leaped aboard and busied himself rapidly with the motor. As the rest lined up before the machine, Dr. Byrd said: "Coroner, you and Hal get aboard. You have guns." This being a logical suggestion, it was adopted by the two mentioned. They climbed into the cabin, the wicket was closed, and almost instantly came the chug-chug of the engine and the great fan propellers began to revolve. A deep quiver, a few spasmodic jerks, and the airship started forward, bumped over the uneven ground, and rose into the air. The front and rear of the cabin were open except for the aluminum-bar inclosures, and Hal looked back and waved his hand at the doctor and the other boys, who were executing various capers and cheering lustily. The next instant almost, the airship passed beyond the edge of the plateau, and pilot and passengers directed their vision to a search for the mountain lion. Mr. Miles called their attention to a port in the floor of the cabin and advised them to make use of that, as well as of the ports in the sides and the open front and rear. Mr. Huffman slid back a cover of the floor opening, two feet in diameter and protected with aluminum bars. Then they began an inspection of the mountain side as the ship circled around and around as close to the tree tops as was deemed safe. They were not long in finding the fleeing animal. He was leaping with long easy bounds, down the steep and craggy slope--too steep and irregular for a man to climb or descend. The aviator steered the air craft right over him, and the coroner drew a bead on the cat through the floor port. With the discharge of the gun, Hal looked eagerly at the beast, expecting to see him tumble over, but he was disappointed. "Blast the luck!" muttered the coroner, who was ordinarily a good shot. "I don't believe I can hit him from the moving airship." "Let me try it," Hal shouted above the noise of the propellers, having read the meaning of the expression on the face of his companion. The latter moved aside and the boy thrust the muzzle of his gun through the opening. Taking careful aim, he pulled the trigger, but with no better success. Even as the gun was discharged, he felt the difficulty of their hunt. To shoot a rapidly moving animal from a rapidly moving airship is no easy task. Hal's shot, however, seemed to be the signal for an altering of the course of the fleeing panther. The latter evidently saw the source of his danger, and turned suddenly to the left and bounded over crags and through patches of fir and spruce to the southern side of the mountain. The pursuers flew after him, firing at the moving target every now and then. Finally the beast landed on the ledge of the "mummy" from which the cañon took its name. There he halted a moment, looking upward at his flying enemy. Another shot from Hal's rifle caused him to leap so suddenly that the boy believed he had hit him; but if so, the animal was not seriously injured. He bounded on, down the very course by which the boys had ascended the mountain. Finally he stopped and gazed in a puzzled manner at the boulder that blocked his entrance through the roof of Kenyon Cave behind the Screaming Cataract, as recently named. He stuck his head through the fissure beside the bowlder and seemed about to leap when Coroner Huffman fired again. Possibly he was hit; at any rate, he drew his head back and bounded along the steep side of the mountain to the left. Several rods he sprang in this direction; then down, down he went with wonderful swiftness and agility, until he reached the new railing-bordered walk between Flathead and the river. This seemed to puzzle him a little, but he hesitated only a moment. Then the occupants of the airship were astonished to see the animal bound along the walk, over the waterfall bridge and behind the cataract. Quickly the coroner stepped close to the aviator and shouted: "Fly back to the top of the mountain. We've got to have some lanterns." Miles caught the significance of the suggestion and in a very short time the airship had circled upward and over Flathead and alighted near the other boys and Dr. Byrd. The purpose of their return was quickly explained, the lanterns were taken aboard, and away they flew again. In a few minutes they landed near the head of the rapids in Mummy Cañon and then proceeded to cross the first bridge and advance up the walk, with lighted lanterns, toward the Screaming Cataract. Mr. Miles was stationed outside with Hal's gun, to shoot the animal if he should spring past the other two, who crossed the second bridge into the cave. Each of the latter carried a lantern and they advanced carefully, flashing their lights as far ahead as possible. Around the elbow of the cave they proceeded without catching sight of their quarry. Even in the farther chamber they were somewhat puzzled until by flashing their lights over the sloping wall, they perceived two shining eyes high up near the bowlder that choked the upper exit. Mr. Huffman set his lantern down and put the stock of his gun to his shoulder. But even as he sighted along the barrel, the gleaming eyes had disappeared. "Look out!" yelled Hal. A horrible screech came from the blank darkness. Huffman raised his rifle and fired in the direction of the sound. The thundering report of the gun almost deafened them, but shrill above even that came a second scream. The next instant Hal felt a big body catch him between the legs. Down he went, his lantern flying from his hand and shattering against the rocky wall. When he rose to his feet it was to see Mr. Huffman, lantern in hand, careering over the rock-strewn floor toward the mouth of the cave. "Look out there, Miles!" he yelled as he ran. Hal scrambled his way out as well as he could in the dark, expecting every second to hear the report of Mr. Miles' rifle. Instead he heard a shout and then a cry of pain. As he came to the cave entrance he saw the cause. Mr. Miles had been taken unawares. The lion had come hurtling at him at too close range for him to use the rifle. Blinded perhaps by the sudden glare of daylight, the animal had charged full at him, and down Miles had gone. There he lay at the very edge of the bridge, clutching at the railing with one hand, and holding the other over his stomach. "I wouldn't mind, if he'd hit me anywhere else," he gasped, in mingled pain and laughter. "Where's your gun?" asked Mr. Huffman suddenly. "Where's the lion?" Miles asked in return. "Do you think he swallowed it?" asked Hal with a chuckle. At that they all gave way, as both Hal and the coroner had been aching to do, so comical was Mr. Miles' pain-drawn face. "I'm afraid it must have been knocked over the falls," Mr. Miles managed at last to suggest. "He hit me pretty hard, and my game leg isn't any too strong--especially when the pesky animal tried football on me." The gun was undoubtedly gone, and it must have fallen into the water. "We'll have to come back and dive for it," added Hal with a sigh, for in a way he looked upon the rifle as his own. "That'll be fun for us Scouts." "I hate to have that lion get away," said the coroner regretfully; "but I suppose we might as well go back." "Suppose I take you two to Lakefarm and then go back from there for the rest," said Miles as they walked back toward the aeroplane. "It will save time." So it was decided, and the two were soon dropped at Lakefarm, where they were awaited by an eager crowd of boys. Then Mr. Miles whirred back toward the top of Flathead, soon to return with his first load. On the last trip he brought back the body of the dead Maxwell and Dr. Byrd. "Well, boys, we've had a pretty strenuous day--or days. I think that the Boy Scouts of the Air deserve a little holiday." "The Boy Scouts _of the Air_?" asked one of the waiting group. "Yes, the Boy Scouts of the Air, of Flathead Mountain, with a membership of five." "Oh!" came a disappointed murmur from the rest. "But I think we'll make the holiday general, and maybe the Air Patrol can enroll some new members. So to-morrow we'll just scatter and enjoy ourselves our own way." The shout that went up left no doubt that the decision was popular. "Three cheers for the Boy Scouts of the Air!" came from a score of throats as the doctor turned to go in. "Rah for Doctor Byrd!" came from the five Boy Scouts of the Air in return. CHAPTER XXIV MOUNTAIN LION BRIDGE "How you going to spend your holiday?" asked Bad of Hal the next morning when the two chanced to meet on the campus. "Sh! Not so loud," was the reply. "I'm going to explore Kenyon Cave." "But the doctor--" "He said we could do as we pleased to-day. I'm going to see if I can't get that gun again." "And hunt the lion? But it's under the falls." "I don't think it is. That lion hit Mr. Miles hard enough to knock him down. That gun must have gone a-flying. Maybe it dropped in shallow water. And the biggest part of the falls is on the other side anyway. I'll chance it." "And we could take some grapple hooks--" "We?" asked Hal. "Sure. I'm going along. Suppose that lion'd show up--" "Yes, suppose. What'd you do? Save my life by running away and getting the cat to follow you?" "Never mind. You ran from it yourself the other day. You just watch me when we find it again. I'll--" "Clout it in the jaw?" laughed Hal. "I know where there's grapple hooks," Bad suggested. "I'll get them." And away he went, to return in a few minutes with a tangled mass of cords and hooks stuffed under his coat. "Ready to go now?" "Soon as I get a lantern. I hid one inside the hollow elm next to the road. Come on." So the two started out on their three-mile trudge, stopping to pick up the lantern and a lunch that was likewise hidden within the tree. "Divvies," said Hal generously as he shoved this into his pocket. It was not long before Mummy Cañon was in sight. They crossed the bridge and made their way slowly along the path toward the Screaming Cataract. Just before they came to the bridge they stopped. Bad sat down and began to pull off his shoes and stockings, but Hal merely stood looking at the water, that was boiling and foaming even along the shore. "It can't be very deep in there this side the falls," he observed. "The gun could easy have fallen right in next to shore. Of course it could have gone the other way, but that ain't likely, as the lion hit Miles in this direction. If it did go toward the middle we'll never get it--unless we happen to grapple it." "What you going to do? Try to grapple it first or dive?" "Or wade if it isn't too deep. But first of all I'm going to take a look inside the cave. I want to see if that rock is wedged in hard like it looked from above." "What for? Suppose the lion's in there!" Hal laughed. "He got too good a scare in there yesterday to come back right away." "But why not find the gun first? What good'll it do you if the rock isn't tight. Come on, I'm going in." And Bad continued taking off his clothes. "No, I'll cool off first. You go ahead. I'll go up on the bridge and show you where the gun most likely fell." He gathered a handful of small stones and standing on the bridge, began to throw them into the water, marking off a small circle that extended from the edge of the falls to the shore. "It ought to be inside that." "All right. Here goes," called Bad as he began wading away from the bank. "U-u-gh! it's cold. So deep," he added, ducking himself under to the chin, pretending he had found a step-off--to come up to his waist a minute later. "Call me if you find it," Hal said, after lighting his lantern with a match, Boy Scout style being too slow just then. "I'll be with you in a few minutes." He disappeared within the cave, and Bad continued wading out toward the edge of the fall, feeling for the gun with his toes. This was an easy matter, as the bottom was a firm sort of sand-mud, smooth and gently sloping. The water deepened till it was up to his neck, but that was all. Out under the falls it was doubtless many times deeper, but here the thin trickle from above had not worn any hole. "I guess I'll cut in toward the bridge," he said to himself, "and then work over along the bank." As he came under the bridge he stood there a moment, holding to one of the timbers, for at this point the undertow from the falls was rather strong. As he stood there his mischievous spirit prompted him to play a trick on Hal. Wouldn't it be a lark to climb up under the bridge and stretch himself out along the timbers and wait there for Hal? What would he think when he came out and found no Bad in the water? He had laughed at Bad's scare when the plank tipped, that night when Kenyon Cave was discovered. Here was a good chance to get even. So Bad wormed himself up one of the posts, and after a good deal of squirming found himself a firm and fairly comfortable resting place where two bracing timbers formed a V-shaped bed. Right above him was a large knothole, within a few inches of his eyes. He lay there and waited some time, his only view the tumbling water just beneath, and above, a knothole sight of the cliff and a patch of blue sky. Once he was tempted to call, but waited. Then, above him, on the boards of the bridge, he heard a quiet footfall. It sounded like bare feet; perhaps that was why Hal had been so long--he had stopped to undress. The footfalls ceased. Bad fancied he heard a curious sniffing noise, that kept up till it got on his nerves. What could Hal be doing that would make such a funny noise! Bad tried to look through the knothole. Only blue sky and gray cliff could be seen. But still that sniff-sniff kept up. Putting his mouth to the knothole, he drew in his breath and then "Wow!" he shouted. But the answer was not what he expected. A low snarl came in reply, and the snarl was too animal-like to have come from Hal. Bad almost fell from his perch in his sudden fright. Again he put his eye to the hole, but jerked back with a scream. A cold, damp something had touched his face, and that something he knew instinctively was the muzzle of an animal. Perhaps it was this thought that made him lose his balance. At any rate, almost before he realized it, he had toppled out of his seat and into the water. For an instant he floundered, then struck out, under water, to get as far away as he could. He did not stop to reason that the animal, whatever it was, would hardly attack him in the water; he merely wanted to get away. Then suddenly he stopped and came to his feet. His hand had struck something solid. It felt not unlike the branch of a tree or a stick--or a rifle barrel. It was standing straight up in the water. For a second he groped about, then struck it again. With a feeling of triumph he grasped it and gave a tug that freed it from the mud. It was the rifle. Then he looked toward the bridge. There, its teeth bared in a snarl, was the mountain lion of the day before. It was not crouched, but stood there, its head going from side to side in an impatient shake, its tail beating the bridge floor angrily. But for an instant only it remained so. With an alert turn of the head it directed its attention to the cave. It had heard something. Bad heard the same sound; it was Hal coming out, and Bad stood as if paralyzed. "Stay in the cave!" he yelled, suddenly regaining command of his voice. "I'm coming," came the indistinct reply. "Did you find the gun?" "Stay in the cave! The lion's on the bridge!" "I can't understand you." Bad had difficulty in hearing the words, broken by the irregularity of the passage and drowned by the noise of the falls. "I'm coming fast as I can--my lantern's out." "Oh-h--" groaned Bad, "what shall I do? Don't come out!" he shrieked again. There was no reply. The lion had not stirred, crouching expectantly at the opening. When Hal appeared, it would spring--and Bad shuddered at the thought. But the gun! Suddenly he remembered that. He looked at the breech; it was unrusted. He threw a shell into place; then he thought of the barrel. One glance told him it was choked with mud. What could he do? He remembered hearing of a gun that had burst because there was mud in the end of the barrel. True, that was a shotgun. Dared he risk it? He brought the gun to his shoulder--then hesitated. Bad was no coward, but he knew the risk. "Hal!" he yelled for the last time. There was no reply, but the click of footsteps and a loud "Ouch!" told him his call had done no good. He saw the lion crouch still lower, the leg muscles tightened, and then--Bang! Bad had shut his eyes as he pulled the trigger. Furthermore, he had not held the rifle very tight to his shoulder; he picked himself out of the water and gave a frightened look toward the bridge. The lion was still there but no longer crouching. He was whirling round and round, a struggling bundle of rage and scratching claws. His savage whines sent the cold chills up and down Bad's back. Coming too close to the edge of the bridge, the lion rolled off--and Bad hastily scrambled his way toward the bank. "Hello!" called Hal, appearing just then in the cave entrance. "What's up, Bad?" "Nothing," said Bad limply. "Nothing? Is that what makes you look so sick? What you been doing with the gun?" "Nothing." Then he added slyly but shakily: "I just clouted Mr. Lion in the jaw." "The lion! Was it you that shot? Where is he?" came in rapid succession. "I believe he went downstairs there to get a drink," laughed Bad, his voice and legs getting stronger. "If you'll help me to fish him out, we'll lug him back to Lakefarm, and s'prise the natives." And that was certainly what they did, as, a couple of hours later, they arrived, fagged out but proud, at Lakefarm Institute and dropped their trophy at the feet of Mr. Byrd, who, with Mr. Frankland and Mr. Miles and Mr. Porter, as well as all the Boy Scouts, was waiting to receive them. "And who shot him?" asked Dr. Byrd, after the slain beast had been inspected and admired to the full expectations of the two heroes. "It was Frank," Hal replied. "Not _Bad_?" asked Dr. Byrd, quite seriously. "No--Frank. Bad has made _good_, and he's been promoted. From now on he's Frank." 
23577	----	Taking Tales, Instructive and Entertaining Reading, by W.H.G. Kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ This book is a collection of six tales. Originally each of these was published as a separate book, at a low price. Each story was full of interest, and the intention was that the families of England would sit down as a family to read and discuss the story. In this collection we have a story about an English country miller; a boy who goes to sea; a family who settle in Canada; a boy who joins the army and serves in the Crimea and in the Indian Mutiny; an Australian shepherd; and lastly, but far from least, a little boy who has to work down a coal mine. If you read any of these stories you too will find yourself with plenty of new thoughts. Perhaps you are glad that life nowadays does not make such demands on very young boys. ________________________________________________________________________ TAKING TALES, INSTRUCTIVE AND ENTERTAINING READING, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 1. THE MILLER OF HILLBROOK. There are all sorts of mills: some go by water, undershot or overshot; but if the millpond is dry, or the stream runs low, they come to a standstill. They want help, they must have water, to go on. Next there are steam-mills, which make a great noise and do a great deal of work; but they want coals and water too: if both are not brought to them, they stop and can do nothing. And then there are wind-mills; but everybody knows that wind-mills, though they do stand on the tops of hills, in spite of their great long arms stuck out, are of no use if the wind does not blow. So a man may try to do a great deal of work; but if he tries to get on without the help of his neighbours, and without being willing to help them in return, he will soon find that he too has to come to a standstill. Yes, young or old, rich or poor, must all help each other. Once there came on earth a great Person, great though poor, a carpenter's son. He only stayed a short time, but all that time He went about doing good to men, helping His fellows; and He died that He might help all men still more, and in a way no other person could have helped them. He came to die, because all men have sinned. He came also to show men how to live--how to act one towards another. Mark Page, the Miller of Hillbrook, owned a wind-mill on the top of a knoll just above the village. His house and sheds for his carts and horses stood below it, and round it were some fields which were his; so it will be seen that he was well to do in the world. He had a wife and a son and a daughter, and he ought to have been a happy man; but he was not. Things seemed never to go quite right with Mark. Either there was too much wind, or too little wind. If there was little wind he was sure to cry out for more, but once; and then he would have given his mill and his house and fields to have got the wind not to blow. About that I will tell by-and-by. Sometimes the miller sang-- "When the wind blows, Then the mill goes: When the wind drops, Then the mill stops." But he was wont to growl out, "The wind is sure to drop when I have most grist to grind--just to spite me." Hillbrook was a nice spot. There was the brook which ran out of the hill, fresh and pure, right through the village. There was not water enough to turn a mill, but enough to give the people right good water to drink and to cook with. It is a sad thing not to have good water. Bad water, from ponds, or ditches, or wells near drains, makes many people ill, and kills not a few. The people of Hillbrook prized their good water. They said, "we have good water and pure air, and now what we have to do is to keep our cottages clean and we shall be well." They did keep the floors and the walls of their cottages clean, but somehow fevers still came. At times, when the sun was hot, many people were ill: no one could tell how it was. There was a farm to let, called Hillside farm. No one would take it, for it was said that the land was cold and wet, and too open. At last one Farmer Grey came to see it. The rent was low, the terms fair; "I'll take it on a long lease," he said; "and if God wills it, ere many years go by, it will yield good crops." Farmer Grey soon gave work to many hands, he paid good wages too, and was always among his men to see that each man did his proper work. He put deep down in the ground miles and miles of drain pipes, it was said. Hillside was next to the Mill farm. When Mark Page saw the tons and tons of dung of all sorts, chalk, and guano, which comes from over the sea, put on the land, he said that Farmer Grey had put more gold on it than he would ever get out of it. Farmer Grey said, "Bide a bit, neighbour, and we shall see." Farmer Grey heard some people one day talk about their good water and fine air and clean cottages, and yet that fevers came to the place. So he went into the village, and walked from cottage to cottage: "Look here, what is this hole for?" he asked one; "I must hold my nose while I stand near it. Why it's just under the room where some of you sleep!" "Oh, that's just a hole where we empty slops, and throw in cabbage stalks and dirt of all sorts," said the good woman; "we take it out sometimes to spread on the garden." "Now hear me, dame," said Farmer Grey, "that hole is just a nest sure to hatch a fever some day; drain it off, fill it up, and dig a new one at the end of the garden, and take care that none of the drainings run into your brook." "Why is this green ditch close under your window, dame?" he asked of another. "Why you see, farmer, it is there, it has always been there, and it's so handy just to empty the slops and such-like dirt," said the dame; "to be sure it does smell bad sometimes, but that can't be helped." "Hear me, dame," said Farmer Grey, "I have a notion that God lets bad smells come out of such muck just to show us that if we breathe them they will do us harm; the bad air which comes out of the muck mixes with the air we are always taking into our insides, and that makes us ill. You had one child die last summer of fever, and one is now ill. Now just do you get your good man to drain that off when he comes home, and tell him that he need not come to work till after breakfast to-morrow, or noon, if he has not done it." In another cottage a drain full of filth ran right under the floor. A cesspool was close to a fourth cottage. In several the floors were clean; but all sorts of filth had dropped through and stayed there, and when it rained the water ran under the floor. "Just lift up a plank," said Farmer Grey; it was done, and he stuck his stick into a foot or more of black mud. "Bad air--gas it is called--comes out of that stuff. That's what brings fevers and kills the children," he said. "Oh, my friends, you must get rid of all these things if you wish to have health." The people in Hillbrook liked Farmer Grey; they knew that he wished them well, and the wise ones did what he told them. The cholera at last came to England. No one was ill in those cottages near which the cesspools and green ditches and dirt holes had been filled up; but five or six died in the cottages where they were left, and the stuff from them mixed with the water they drank. Then people saw that Farmer Grey was right. Somehow Mark Page did not like him, nor did Mistress Page, his wife, nor his son, young Ben Page; they all spoke an ill word of him when they could. Only Mary Page, of all in the house, would never do so. Mary was not like the rest in the miller's house, she was sweet and kind. She had been to a school where she had learned what was good and right, and what God loved her to do. Mark Page said that the water which ran off Farmer Grey's land came on to his and did it harm. "I can prove it," he said. "Once my crops were as good as any which grew on that land. Now look you here, his crops are as fine as you would wish to see, and mine are not half as good. I'll see if I can't turn the water back again." Farmer Grey wished to make a road through his farm, and over some wild land, where, in winter, the carts often stuck fast. There was no lack of gravel, but he had of course to drain the ground, and then by just making the road round--that is, the middle higher than the sides--the water ran off on both sides, and the road was as hard as stone. "Ah! ah! see, Farmer Grey has sent the water which used to remain quiet on the top of the hill right down over my land, just to make his own road, as if a road was of use up there," said Mark Page. "I'll be revenged on him some day, that I will." These words were told to Farmer Grey. "Will he?" he said; "Then I will heap coals of fire on his head, and try which will win the day." "What can he mean?" asked one or two of those who heard him: "That's not like how Farmer Grey is wont to speak. Does he mean that he will burn his house over his head?" No, no; Farmer Grey did not mean that. He meant that he would do so many kind acts to Mark Page that he would soften his heart. These words are in the Bible. In the land where the Bible was written by God's order, when people want to soften any hard meat, they put it into a pot with a top and put the pot into a hole full of hot coals, and then they pile more hot coals over the top, so that all parts of the pot are hot; so that to heap coals of fire on a man's head has come to mean, to soften his heart by many kind deeds--heaping them upon his head. Mark Page did not know what a kind man Farmer Grey was. The miller had a man to help in the mill, Sam Green by name. There is a saying, "Like master, like man." Sam was very like the miller--may be worse. Sam was a man of few words, the miller did not speak much--young Ben was like his father. One night the talk was about the new road. "Why not go and dig it up?" asked young Ben Page. "Best thing to do," growled out Sam Green. It was moonlight, so they all three went out with spades and picks to the road. "Where shall we dig, father?" asked Ben. The miller looked about; his farm was on the left of the road. "Stop these two or three drains here," he said, as he struck his spade on the left side. "But it seems to me that most of the water runs to the right, off into the brook; still I don't see what cause Farmer Grey had to go and make this road." The next day, Farmer Grey rode by and saw where the drains had been stopped. He might have known who did it. He said not a word, but sent a man to put them to rights. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 2. The more harm the miller tried to do to James Grey, the more he wished to do. When he could, he or Ben or Sam let his cows into the farmer's fields; and much mischief they did. Ben, too, who might often be met with a gun in his hands, shot the farmer's game, and his rabbits and pigeons. One day, a fine dog the farmer was very fond of, came into one of Mark Page's fields. Mark had a gun in his hand, and shot the dog. Farmer Grey met Mark soon after this. "You shot my dog, Trust, I am told," said the farmer. "Your dog came after my rabbits," said Mark. "Friend, did I say one word to man or boy when your son not only came to my fields, but shot well-nigh half a score of my rabbits and my hares?" asked the farmer. "You know he came." "I shoot all dogs that come to my fields," said Mark, walking on, with his eyes on the ground, and a frown on his brow. He did not speak much that day when he got home. In the evening there was a breeze, and the mill went round and round quite rapidly. "I'll not give in," he said to Sam Green, as they sat on the steps of the mill, while the grist they had just put in was grinding. "Hold on to the last; that's what I say. Farmer Grey wants to come it strong over me; but I'll not let him." "All right, master; stick to that," said Sam Green. "So I will. He shan't come it over me; that he shan't," growled the miller. "`When the wind blows Then the mill goes; When the wind drops, Then the mill stops.' "`I care for nobody--no, not I, If nobody cares for me.'" "That's it, master; that's what I call the right thing; just proper pride," said Sam, the miller's man. Poor Ben Page had a poor chance of being well brought up by such a man as Mark Page, with such a friend as Sam Green. Mrs Page, too, his mother, did not know how to teach him what was right, for she did not care to do what was right herself. She just did what she liked best, not what was right. She ought to have known, for she had her Bible, and time to read it; but she did not read it, neither Sundays nor week-days. If we read the Bible only on Sunday, we pass more than three hundred days each year, on which days we do not learn what we ought to do in this life, or how we are to go to heaven. Mary read her Bible every day, and she used to tell Ben what she had read, and to try very hard to get him to give up his bad ways. But though he loved her, yet he went on just the same. Now and then he would stay at home, and not go to the ale-house, or out with his gun at night, and sit and talk to Mary, or hear her read; but next day it was just as bad as ever. Off he would go, and, may be, come home drunk, or with some hares or other game, which showed what he had been about. The miller only said, "Ben, Ben, take care." And Ben laughed, and said, "Don't fear; I'll not be found out." And he packed up the game, and sent it off to London. It seemed sure that Ben would come to a bad end, if he was to go on in this way. Mark Page did not know what the Bible says: "Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old, he will not depart from it." (Proverbs chapter 22, verse 6). But Mark trained up his child in the way he should not go; and what could he think but that, when he was old, he would not depart from it? that is to say, from the way he should not go. Ben Page's mother let him do just, what he liked; she beat him, to be sure, when she was angry, but that was not for his good, and that Ben soon found out. If he was quiet, and did not break any of her things, she did not scold him. Ben was a bad boy, but a worse man. His friends were wild and bad, and he soon broke all the laws of God and man. He was sure to bring grief to the heart of his father and his mother; yet what could they hope for else? Farmer Grey had no wife nor child, but a brother of his died and left his only son to the farmer's care. Young James Grey was quite a young man when he came to Hillside. He was a fine, tall lad, with a kind, good face, and people who saw him said that they were sure they should like him. There was no pride in him, it seemed, for he went about the village and talked to those he met in a pleasant way, which won all hearts. He was to help his uncle on the farm, it was said, though he did not look much like a farmer. His hands were fair, and his cheeks and brow showed that he had not been out much in the sun. James Grey had not been long at Hillside, when one day, as he passed the mill, he saw Mary Page at the door of her house, on her way to hang up some clothes to dry on the green. He passed more than once that day, and each day that he could, and he felt quite sad if he did not see Mary Page. Mary Page soon found out who he was; and one day he stopped and spoke to her, and soon they were great friends. Mistress Page was glad to see him come to the house, for she thought that his uncle was rich, and that he would make a good husband for Mary. The miller, too, thought that he would make a good son-in-law. So James Grey was asked in, and soon found himself quite at home. Ben Page was glad to see James, for he said, "he may some day be a friend in need to me." Ben also found him a good-natured, good-tempered young man, who would not say No to what he was asked to do. The very thing for which Ben liked James was one of James' great faults; he could not say No to what he was asked to do; if it was wrong or if it was right he did not stop to think, it seemed the same to him. If he was asked to do wrong, he did wrong; if he was asked to do right, and it was what he liked, he did right. Still it could not be said that James Grey was a bad young man--not at all--he was what was called a good young man. He was well-behaved, and joined in public worship, and seldom got drunk; he might have been so once or twice, but then he was quiet, it was not known. He did not swear, and was civil to all people. There was one thing James wanted. It was religion. He did not care to please God, though he read the Bible and said his prayers. James knew that his uncle. Farmer Grey, did not think well of Mark Page. So James did not tell the farmer that he went to Mark Page's house, and that he loved Mary Page, and thought that he would ask her to be his wife some day. If he had told his uncle what he wished, the farmer would have said, "If Mary Page is a good girl, though I cannot think well of her father and her mother, she shall be your wife if you wish it and she wishes it." But James did not say a word of Mary to his uncle, and the farmer did not think that James even knew her. Mary thought very well of James. He seemed to her a good young man, and much more steady than Ben. So she was very glad to see him when he could come to the mill, and by-and-by she gave him her whole heart; James, too, gave her his heart. Yes, he loved her, he thought, very much; but, in truth, he did not love her by half so much as she loved him. Mary might have done James much good at this time if she had had him to herself; but he and Ben became great friends, and Ben undid all the good she had done James, and did him much harm. Ben took good care not to show James at first what bad things he did. He talked of others getting drunk, and said there was no great harm in it, and then he said how fine it was to go out with a gun at night and kill game, and what bold chaps did that sort of thing; and then he went on to boast of all sorts of bad things which he did. Now if James had been wise he would not have stopped to hear all this, but would have said, "I am sure that is bad, and harm must come of it," and would have kept out of Ben's way. When a bad person tries to make another do ill, the only safe plan for the other is to keep out of the bad person's way. James did not do that, and more than once he went with Ben to the ale-house and got drunk. From the first day James did this, Ben made him do just what he liked. James went out shooting at night with Ben--that is, poaching; he was often at the ale-house with him, and in bad company, and many other evil things they did together. Poor Mary did not know this, but thought rather that James would do good to Ben, and lead him right. She had to learn the sad truth that all men are prone to do ill, and that the bad are more apt to lead than to be led. Still it must not be said that James was quite lost to all sense of what was right. He often wished that he had not been led to do some of the things that he did do. More than once he said to Ben, "Ben, I know that is bad; I will not go with you." Then Ben would laugh at him and say, "You know that is bad! That's very fine; but you know that there are other things much worse by a long way. Come on; don't go and say No when I ask you." James would stand and think, and say to himself, "Where's the harm, just for this once? I don't like not to please Ben, and when I marry Mary I'll give it up, and all will be right." So James went on from bad to worse, for he had not got in his heart faith in God or love to Christ. Mark Page did not mind James doing the bad things he did with Ben, for he said, "If the two get into a scrape, Farmer Grey must get Ben out of it for the sake of his nephew. Young men must sow their wild oats, and may be he won't make the worse husband to Mary for it." All this time Mark Page did not love Farmer Grey more than at first. Not a day passed that he did not say something against him, or do something to do him harm. Farmer Grey knew this, but did not say an ill word to Mark. If he met him it was always in a kind voice he said, "Good day, Mark Page. Good day, miller. Fine breeze for the mill. No lack of grist, I hope; I shall soon have some for you. Shall be glad to send my corn to your mill." "What can he want of me? I can do him no good;" growled the miller as he walked on. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 3. It would have been a good thing for Mark Page if Sam Green had left him. When Mark thought of doing anything bad, there was Sam at hand to say, "Go on; no harm; you have a right to do what you like. No man should tell me what I ought to do; that I know." Sam was a stupid fellow too, as are many bad people, and it seemed strange that he did not get into more scrapes than he did. He hated Farmer Grey even more than did Mark Page. Why, it would have been hard to say, except just for this cause, that Sam was a bad man and the farmer was a good one. The sails of the mill had been going round and round for many a day, and hundreds of sacks of grist had been ground, when one night Mark was roused from his sleep by the sound of the wind howling round the house. "I made all right and snug at the mill," he thought; "there is no use to get up and look to it." Still the wind went on howling through the windows and doors, and the window-panes shook and rattled, and the doors creaked, and it seemed at times as if the house would come down. "Will the mill stand it?" asked Mark of himself. He tried to go to sleep again, but he could not. He thought and he thought of all sorts of things which he could not drive out of his head. When a good man thinks at night, his thoughts may often be pleasant; but when a bad man thinks, and thinks, as did Mark Page, in spite of himself, his thoughts are very sad and full of pain. Mark thought of the many bad things he had done. There was not one good deed he could think of. "If I was to die where should I go to?" he asked himself. "If my mill was to be blown down, who would pity me? What friends have I? What have I done to gain friends? Not one thing. I am not kind to the poor; I do not give anything to help them. No one loves me; no one cares for me. My son does not; he never does what I ask him. My wife does not, she never cares to please me. Mary does, may be; but then she looks at me as if she wished that I was different to what I am. Oh I do wish the day would come, that I might get up and go about my work and not think of all these things." Still the wind howled and moaned and whistled, and the doors and windows rattled, and the rain came down, pat, pat, pat, on the roof, and the water rushed by the house in torrents, and the walls shook as if they would come down. "Oh if the roof was to fall in and kill me!" thought the miller: "where shall I be to-morrow?" At last the noises ceased, and sleep shut the miller's eyes. When he awoke the storm was over. He looked out to see if any harm had come to his mill. There it stood, the long arms stuck out just as usual. He was soon dressed. On his way to the mill he called Sam Green. When they got near they found that the wind had done harm to some of the sails of the mill, which were stretched on the long arms. "Sam, before the mill can go we must mend these sails," said the miller. "Go to the house and get the tools; you and I can do it." "Yes, master," said Sam. "It would be a rum mill-sail I couldn't tackle." Sam brought the tools, and he and Mark Page went into the mill. They found that the storm had done some harm to the inside of the mill, and that two or three things were out of place. They soon put them right though, as they thought, and then they set to work to mend the sails. They had much grist to grind, and they were in a hurry; so the miller climbed along one of the arms with the tools he wanted, and Sam went along another. There was a nice breeze--not much--but it seemed as if it would get stronger and stronger. So they worked on as fast as they could, that they might soon get the sails mended and the mill going. There they were, the miller and his man, out at the end of those long arms high up in the air. Few people would have wished to have changed places with them. "Make haste, Sam," cried the miller from his perch. "It's a tough job I have got here. I shall want your help." "All right, master, I shall soon be done," said Sam, and he worked on. "Hallo, Sam, what are you about, man?" cried the miller on a sudden. "Nothing, master," said Sam, hammering away. "Nothing! nothing?" cried out the miller, at the top of his voice. "Why the mill is moving. Stop it, man; stop it." "I can't stop it, master, nor any man either," shrieked out Sam, as the long arms of the mill began to move round and round. "Hold on to the last, then," cried the miller; "it is your only chance." "I can't, master; I can't," cried Sam, near dead with fright. The miller clutched round the arm with all his might. Sam went round once. It was more than he could bear; as the arm to which he clung neared the ground, he let go. Of course he was dashed with great force to the ground. Had his head struck it, he would have been killed; but his legs came first. One leg was broken, and there he lay not able to get up and help his master, and almost dead with fear as the long arms swept round and round above his head. Still the miller held on. He shut his eyes, for he dared not look at the ground, which he seemed to be leaving for ever; and he felt that the mill was going faster and faster each moment. He knew too that he was growing weaker and weaker, and that the time would soon come when he could hold on no longer, and that he must be dashed with force on the ground and killed. What could save him? Sam lay helpless on the ground. "Oh, I shall be killed; I shall be killed," he thought. "Help! help!" From whom was help to come? He could not pray; he never prayed when he lay down at night, when he got up in the morning. He could not pray to God now. Who else could help him! No human being was likely to see him, for his wife and son and daughter were still in bed, and few people passed that way. His breath grew short, his heart seemed as if it did not beat. "Oh! oh! my last moment is come, and I must soon stand before that God I have seldom thought of, never prayed to in this life. Where must I go? where must I go? I will lead a better life if I am saved. I will! I will!" Just then he heard a cheerful voice cry out, "Well done, Mark: hold on, hold on; we'll stop the mill soon for you." The words were spoken by the man whom Mark Page said he hated more than any other man on earth,--his neighbour, Farmer Grey. Farmer Grey had been riding round his farm in the cool of the morning, when, looking up towards the mill, he saw Mark Page and his man Sam Green at work on the arms. Then, as he looked, the arms began to go round and round with Mark on them. Farmer Grey, on this, dashed up the hill at a gallop, jumped from his horse and rushed up the steps into the mill to try and stop the arms. He had been a few times in a wind-mill, and knew something about the works. At great risk though of hurting himself, he seized what he thought was the right crank to make the mill stop. His wish was to stop the mill just as the arm to which the miller clung rose above the ground. His heart beat as he watched for the proper moment. It was life or death to the miller. If he stopped it too soon Mark might be dashed to the ground; if he waited till it rose too far he would be thrown up in the air and have a heavy fall. Farmer Grey watched; the right moment came, he stopped the mill, then fast as he could move he ran down the steps, and was in time to receive Mark Page in his arms as he fell without sense from the arm to which he had till that moment clung. Had the miller gone but one round more, he must have dropped, and would surely have been killed. Farmer Grey undid his neckcloth, and got some water and bathed his face; but it was some time before the miller came to himself. When he did, the first words he said, when he opened his eyes, were, "Well; I did not think, Farmer Grey, that you would have done this for me." "Why not, neighbour Page?" asked the farmer, with a smile. "I saw a fellow-man in danger, and of course I ran to help him. I am very glad that God has let me save your life. Give God the praise. Raise your voice to Him for that and all His other mercies." "Yes, farmer, I will try," said Mark Page; "I have been a bad man all my life, and I don't like to think where I should have been by this time if you had not come to save me." "It is the way to amend; the first step I may say, to find out and own that we are bad; so, neighbour, I am truly glad to hear you own that you are bad," said Farmer Grey. "But I must not let you talk now. Come, we must help your man there. He seems to be badly hurt." "He wouldn't hold on to the last, as I told him," said Mark. "Well, Sam; what harm has come to you?" "Broken a leg, to my belief;" growled out Sam. Farmer Grey found that Sam had indeed, as he said, broken a leg. Mark was now able to get up and walk, and he went to the house to call his son. Ben had been out till late, and had come home wet, and did not like to be called up. "Sam Green has broken his leg. Come down quickly I say," cried out Mark. "Let him sit still and mend it, while I put on my clothes," said Ben from the window. Farmer Grey heard him. "That young man will, I fear, not come to a good end," he thought. "When I hear a man laugh at the pain or grief of others, I am sure that his heart is not right towards God or towards his fellow-man." Ben at last came out and got a hurdle, and he and his father, with Farmer Grey, put Sam Green on it, and bore him to the house. Sam cried out that they were killing him; so when Farmer Grey heard this he put his hand under Sam's leg, and spoke to him just as kind and soft as if he had been a little child. Sam did not say anything, but he ceased to growl, or to cry out that he was hurt. Mary had heard her father call out, and she was at the door when they got there. Farmer Grey had not before this spoken to her. He now watched her as she went about the house, making ready the bed in the spare room for poor Sam, and heard her speak so gently and so kind to him. "That is a good girl," he thought. "Can she be the miller's daughter? If so, she seems very unlike Mark and his son. I must see more of her." As soon as Sam was placed on the bed, Ben was sent off to fetch the surgeon to set his leg. "Tell him that I beg he will make haste, for the poor man is in great pain," said Farmer Grey, as Ben got on his horse. "I will just break my fast with you, miller, that I may help poor Sam," said Farmer Grey. "We must get his trousers cut open, and his boots off; and it may be we shall have to cut them off also. It does not do to pull at a broken leg." Sam did not at all like to have his trousers cut open or his boot cut off: "Hold, hold!" he cried out. "Why I gave twelve and sixpence for those boots only the week before last, and I will not have them spoilt." "Which is best, friend Sam, to lose your leg or perhaps your life, or to lose a boot, for it is not a pair? What is a boot compared to a man's leg? A boot will wear out in a few months; his leg is to last him for his life. And let me ask you, what is a man's sin, his favourite sin, which he can retain at best but for his life, compared to his soul, which will last for ever? No man can get rid of his soul. He cannot put it out as he can a light. Do what he can, it will last for ever." "O sir, don't go and talk in that way," cried out Sam; "I don't like it--I can't bear it." "Well, well, friend, I will not talk more to you now on the matter," said Farmer Grey. "Some day you may like to hear more." "May be, may be--oh! oh! oh!" Sam Green groaned with pain. At last the surgeon came, and set Sam's leg. He shook hands with Farmer Grey. "I wish that we had more like you," he said to the farmer. "I knew when it was you sent for me, that some one was really hurt. The man will get well, I hope, and his leg will be of good use to him if he keeps quiet and does not fret." The surgeon said he would call again in the evening, and went away. "Now, Sam, we will let your wife and family know, that they may come and see you," said Farmer Grey. "Much obliged, sir; but I have no wife, and no family, except one daughter; and she is married, and lives with her husband, and has her children to look after, and does not care for me," said Sam. "We won't think that of her," said the farmer. "I will let her know what has happened to you. May be, you would like to have one of her children with you." Sam looked pleased for the first time, and said, "Well, sir, there is a little chap--my grandchild--I should like to have him now and then with me. They call him Paul, Tiny Paul. He is a merry little fellow, and he'd keep me from getting low." "Well, we'll try and send Tiny Paul to you," said the farmer. "What is your daughter's name?" "Susan Dixon, sir," answered Sam. "Dixon is her husband's name. He is a decent, hard-working man, and she's a good wife; but I never cared much for any of them, except Tiny Paul. You'll send Tiny Paul to me then, sir?" "Yes, Sam, yes; I have promised that I will," said Farmer Grey, thinking to himself, "I may win over Sam Green yet. He has a soft part in his heart, and I have found it." Farmer Grey had a good deal of talk with Mary before he went home. He liked all she said, and all he saw her do. "That is a good young woman, I am sure," he said to himself. She, too, was very grateful to him for having saved her father's life by his courage and presence of mind. Then, too, he was the uncle of James Grey, and she was glad that he seemed pleased with her. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 4. It would have seemed that James Grey and Mary Page had now every chance of being made happy. So they might, if James had not got into evil ways. He had not spoken of Mary to his uncle, and he did not know that Farmer Grey had seen her, and was much pleased with her. By this his folly was shown. Had he been frank with his uncle, and told him all the truth, how much better it would have been for him! A few days after the accident at the mill, James came, as usual, to see Mary. He had a long talk with her, and said that he was so glad his uncle now knew her, and that he was sure the farmer would let him marry her. Still he did not say that he had told his uncle he wished to do so. When he at last got up to go away, Ben followed him. "James," said Ben, "I have some work for tonight. You must come. You will never have seen such sport in your life. There are six other chaps will join us, all true as steel." "No, no, Ben; I must go home," said James. "My uncle does not like me to be out late at night, and he has heard of one or two of the things I have done with you." "That is good," said Ben, with a sneer. "Why, I would not let my father order me about as he likes; much less an uncle, I should think. Dear me, `my uncle won't let me do this,' `my uncle won't let me do that'; a nice state of things. Come, James, be a man, and come along with me." James never could stand Ben's sneers; so the next time Ben said, "Come along," he answered, "Very well; but only for this time." "Oh, of course, I know," said Ben. "I don't want you to get into any scrape, of course, lad. Come back into my room. Those clothes won't suit you: you must put on some of mine. We can slip out again, and my sister won't see you." In a short time, Ben and James stole out with their guns and shot-belts and powder-flasks. "It is not near home," whispered Ben. "That's a good thing," answered James; but they spoke very little. They had walked two miles when they fell in with three men, who seemed to know Ben well; and soon after that they met three more. All went on together. James found that they were going into the park of a gentleman who very strictly preserved his game and had several gamekeepers. "Even if they meet us, they won't dare to attack us; and if they do, we can take very good care of ourselves," said Ben. The party of poachers were in search of pheasants, of which there were a great many in the park. They knocked over one after the other, till each man was well loaded. James soon began to take a pleasure in the sport, and killed as many as the rest. They had begun to talk of going home, all well pleased with their night's work, when, as they were within fifty yards of the place where they were to leave the park, they found themselves face to face with four keepers. "Stand back, and let us pass!" cried Ben Page. "We don't want to say anything to you, and you shall not say anything to us." "That won't do, young man," said the principal keeper; "you must give up all the game you have shot, and let us know your names." "That we won't do. Push on, Ben Page," shouted one of the men. The click as of guns being cocked was heard. "If you fire, so do we; and we have three shots to your one," cried Ben. "On, lads, on." "I know you by your voice, Master Page," said one of the keepers. "I see you too, now I am nearer to you." "If you do, take that for your pains," exclaimed Ben, scarcely thinking, in his rage, of what he was about. The report of a gun was heard. One of the gamekeepers fell. The poachers dashed forward. Another keeper was knocked over. The rest ran off to hide in the wood, thinking that they would all be murdered; while the poachers, without stopping to see what harm had been done to the fallen men, hurried out of the wood, leaving them on the ground. Bad men are often cowards; and cowards are careless of what others suffer. The poachers talked very big, but their hearts sunk within them. The most unhappy was James Grey. The others dreaded being found out and punished. With him it was not the fear of being found out and punished, so much as the thought that he had been with those who had caused the death of a fellow-creature; for he made sure, from the groan the keeper uttered when he fell, that he had been killed. His conscience, never quite at rest, even when he went with Ben Page into his worst haunts, was awakened. "I am just as guilty as if I had killed the man with my own hand," he said to himself. "And may be the other man will die too; for the butt end of Turner's gun came down with a fearful blow on his head, and he dropped as if shot. What shall I do? What shall I do? I will go and deliver myself up, and confess all. I shall be hung very likely: but I would sooner be hung than feel that I had killed a fellow-man." Such were James's thoughts as he and his companions hurried towards Hillbrook. Here and there on their way the rest of the men went off to their homes, till Ben and James were left alone. James then told Ben of his sorrow at what had happened, and how he thought he would give himself up. "Nonsense; that will never do," said Ben. "No one knows who fired the shot, or who knocked the other keeper down; you don't, I am sure." Ben knew that James did know well enough that he, Ben himself, had shot the keeper. "I wish from my heart, Ben, that I did not," said James. "If that is it, the only thing is to keep out of the way," said Ben. "Now listen, James, a faint-hearted fellow is sure to peach, and out of the way you must keep. I say _must_--understand me." "I will keep out of the way, Ben, whether I must or not," said James, in a tone of great sorrow. "You have been the ruin of me, Ben; but it was my own fault, I ought to have known better." "Nonsense, James: things are not so bad as you think," said Ben. "Just come in and change your clothes and go home to bed. You can get in as you have done before, and who is to know that you were out of the house all night? I say that you shouldn't be in too great a fright; still you must go away for a time, till the matter has blown over. I'll think of some plan for you before long." James Grey, who had far more education than Ben Page, felt himself completely in his power. James hurried home unseen, and got to bed. He could not sleep. He thought over all sorts of plans. Two or three days before he had been at the market town five miles off. He had there observed a soldier, a sergeant with a number of gay coloured ribbons in his hat, beating up for recruits, for service in India. James had stopped to listen to him as he was speaking to a group of young men who stood round with open mouths, hearing of the wonders of that distant country--the money to be got--the pleasures to be enjoyed. "Every cavalry soldier out there is a gentleman," said the sergeant. "He has at least three servants to attend on him; one to forage, one to groom his horse, and one to attend on him." James at the moment had thought that if it was not for Mary and his uncle he should like to try his fortune in that far-off wonderful country. The idea came back to him, if the sergeant was still there he would enlist at once. No time was to be lost. He must be out of the country before he was suspected of having been one of the party who killed the gamekeeper. He rose and dressed quickly. He put up some shirts and socks and a few other articles, and all the money he had got, and left the house before any one was up. He would much have liked to have seen his kind uncle again, but he dared not wait till he was on foot. There was one other person, however, whom he must see before he went away, Mary Page. She was always an early riser he knew. He ran rather than walked to the mill-house. She opened the door as he reached it, and came out into the garden. "Mary, I am going away," he said in a hurried voice; "something has happened, it can't be helped now though; only, Mary, I want to tell you that I love you now, and shall love you always. Don't think ill of me, don't think me guilty; not more guilty than I am, if you hear anything about me. I cannot tell you more. I must not tell you." Mary turned pale with terror, as much from his looks as from what he said. He took her in his arms and kissed her, and added, "You will think of me, I know you will. I won't ask you not to love any one else; that would be hard on you, for I don't know how long I may be away; but, if I ever do come back, Mary, and I have changed, greatly changed from what I now am, I hope to ask you to be my wife. For your sake, Mary, I will try to grow better, to be firm, to learn to say No when tempted to do ill. That has been my ruin now, may cause my ruin for ever." Before Mary could answer him,--for he was not a minute with her, and she was too much astonished at first to speak,--he had torn himself from her, and was hurrying along the road. "Oh stay, oh stay, and tell me all," she cried out; but he either did not hear her, or would not venture to turn back. As he got out of sight of the mill he ran on as fast as his legs could carry him, though he stopped, and had to walk slowly when he saw any one coming. He had got halfway to the town, when as he was running on he heard the sound of horses' hoofs behind him galloping quickly over the road. "Some one coming after me," he thought. For the first time in his life he felt what abject fear was. His knees trembled under him, and to save his life he could not have run farther. Still James Grey was no coward. In a good cause he could have fought as well as any man. Soon he heard a voice behind him cry out, "Jump up, James; I guessed what you were after. It was my idea you were going to enlist; so will I. Jump up, I say; no time to lose." It was Ben Page who spoke. For some moments James scarcely understood him. Ben had a led horse. He threw himself into the saddle, and they were quickly in the town, where the horses were left at a stable; Ben having told a carter to come for them. The two young men then went out to look for the recruiting-sergeant. He was soon found. He cast his eye up and down over James, asked him a few questions, told him to let him see his handwriting, and at once enlisted him. "If you are steady, as you look, you will be a corporal before many more months are over, and a sergeant soon after," he said, with a nod of approval. A body of recruits were starting that very morning for the depot, whence they were to embark. James was ordered to go with them. The sergeant was uncertain as to what regiment Ben would suit. He was scarcely of sufficient height, and a very different looking sort of man. He promised, however, to give him an answer in the course of a few days. James was very thankful when he found that Ben was not to go with him. He thought, "He has already led me into evil; if he comes now, how shall I be able to withstand him better than I have done?" James's heart was heavy, yet he tried to keep his spirits up among his new comrades. He was anxious, too: every stranger he saw looking about he thought might be a sheriff's officer, come to take him prisoner. Most of the men were hoping that the day they were to go on board the ship might be put off: his great wish was that they might sail sooner than had been expected. He had written a letter to his kind uncle, asking his forgiveness for what he had done, and expressing his love and gratitude to him. He had heard nothing from Ben. This was so far well. He could have gained nothing, if Ben had come. At length the day arrived for the troops to embark. The ship sailed, and bore James Grey far away from the shores of Old England. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 5. When Farmer Grey got up in the morning, and found that his nephew had left the house without saying where he was going, he was somewhat surprised; but, as he thought that he would soon return, he did not give himself much concern about the matter. The farmer went out among his labourers in the fields, and came back to breakfast; but James had not returned. The farmer made inquiries among all his people; no one had seen James. Dinner-time arrived, still he did not appear. It was late in the day that a friend, Farmer Mason, called on Farmer Grey. "Have you heard of the murders in Sir John Carlton's park, last night?" asked Farmer Mason. "Two of his keepers killed, and another wounded, I am told. Daring outrage! The murderers are known, I hear. It will go hard with them if they are taken; for the magistrates are determined to put a stop to poaching, and will show no mercy to poachers. They will do their best to prove them guilty." Farmer Grey's mind was greatly troubled when he heard this. He could not help connecting it, somehow or other, with the disappearance of James. "That wild lad, Ben Page, has had something to do with it; of that I am sure," he said to himself. As soon as his guest was gone, he walked down to the mill. The miller and his wife were out. Mary was alone. He found her crying bitterly. She at once confessed that she had seen James early in the morning, and that he told her he was going away, not to return; but that where he was going to, and what he was going to do she could not tell. She was also anxious about her brother, who had gone away without leaving any message. This was the utmost information she could give. It was enough to confirm Farmer Grey's fears. He did not tell Mary what they were. He thought it would break her heart if he did so. He could give her very little comfort, for there was nothing he could think of to bring comfort to his own heart, as far as his nephew was concerned. He had long seen that he wanted what alone can keep a man right under temptation, that is, good principles. James, when he came to him, had been always respectable and decent in his conduct; but then he had never been tempted. The farmer had been very anxious about him when he first found that he was so often in the company of Ben Page, and he now blamed himself for not having taken pains to separate the two, and still more that he had not tried harder to give James those good principles which he so much wanted. He did not think that he had done any good to James by all he had said, but in truth the words had sunk farther into the young man's heart than he supposed; and often and often, as James walked the deck of the ship at night, or camped out with his comrades on many a hard-fought battle-field in India, those words came to his mind, and helped to keep him on a right course,--not that the words alone did so; for James, who had been taught to pray when he was young, became a man of prayer. Yes; the dark, sun-burnt, fierce-looking soldier prayed every day, morning and night, lying down or marching, and often in the midst of battle, while bullets were flying about, shells were bursting, and round-shot were whistling through the air. He read the Bible, too, and spoke of it to others, and guided his own steps by what it taught. Was he less thought of because he did these things? Was he looked on as a coward? No; there was no man in the regiment more liked, and there were few soldiers braver than he was. Had his uncle and Mary known how changed a man he had become, their hearts would have been saved many a pang. We should not think that because our words do not seem to be listened to, that therefore they are doing no good; more particularly if they are spoken in a prayerful spirit and with an earnest desire to do good. "Well, Mary, I must try and find out what has become of this poor nephew of mine," said Farmer Grey, kindly getting up and taking her hand. "We will hope that he will come back some day. Do not let it be known that he came here to see you this morning; indeed, it will be better if you say nothing about his being absent from home. Only my old housekeeper, Dame Dobbs, knows that he left home this morning, and she is able to say that he slept in his bed last night." These words made poor Mary more unhappy still, for she began to think that James must have done some act which had made him fly for his life, and that he might, perhaps, be taken and punished--she dared not think how. Oh, how much sorrow and pain do those who act ill, cause their friends and those they love best on earth! Nothing that day was heard of James or Ben. On the next day, rumours of the affray between a body of poachers and the gamekeepers reached the mill, but neither Ben's nor James Grey's name was mentioned. Still Mary could not but feel sure that they had had something to do with the matter, though she hoped that they might escape. The miller, on hearing of the fray, and that Ben had disappeared the next morning, sat by himself more gloomy and silent than ever. Perhaps he might have thought, "This comes of my teaching, or rather of my want of teaching, of my bringing up." In the evening, three stout, strong, comfortably clothed men came to the door: Mary let them in, not knowing who they could be; Mark turned pale when he saw them. "Your servant, Mister Page," said one. "Your son, Ben Page, is wanted-- he knows what for." "My son, Ben Page, isn't at home," answered Mark, in a much more quiet tone than he used to speak in. "Where is he, then?" asked the man. Mark could not tell, nor when he would return. "You know then what he is wanted for, Mister Page?" Mark bent his head, and put his fingers to his lips, that the man might not speak before Mary. He then told her to go out of the room and look after Sam Green, whom she had not visited for some time. "Yes; it's about the matter at Snaresborough, with the keepers, I suppose," said the miller. "But I don't know that he had anything to do with it." "Hope not, for his sake; he'll be sooner out of limbo," said the constable. "But you'll excuse me, Mister Page, we must search the house for your son; we have a couple of hands to look out outside, so he'll not escape if he attempts it." Of course Mark could offer no objection to this. The constable and his companions searched the house from top to bottom, looking into and under the beds, and into every cupboard and corner to be found. Then they searched the mill and all the outhouses, but no Ben was to be found. Mistress Page went nearly into fits when she saw them. Mary cried bitterly, her worst fears were become real. When Sam Green saw them, a look not often seen on his face came over it, as he lay on his bed of pain--for his leg hurt him much. "Ah! if the lad had been better taught he wouldn't have been in this trouble," he said to himself. "I might have done him some good, and I never did but harm." These words showed that Sam Green was changing, if not changed. The constables were still in the house, when a horse was heard coming along the road. Mary, looking out, saw that it was Ben. She waved to him to go back, but he did not see her. She tried to cry out, but her voice failed her, and he had entered the court-yard and thrown himself from his saddle before he heard her warning. Then he understood that something was wrong. His horse was dusty, hot, and trembling. He was about to leap into his saddle when one of the constables who had been watching outside and had seen him enter the yard, ran into it and seized his bridle, shouting out to his comrades in the house. Ben struck right and left with a heavy whip, and tried to break away; but the man held him fast. The other constables then coming out, he was secured. Poor Mary felt as if she should die when she saw Ben seized, but she could do nothing to help him. He was brought into the house, and handcuffs were put on his wrists. "Now we have caged our bird we must be off," said the chief constable. "Oh, treat him kindly," said poor Mary, with the tears in her eyes. "He is not as bad as you may think--indeed, indeed he is not." "Never knew one on 'em as was," said the man. "But for your sake, miss, I'll do my best to make my young master comfortable, May be it's the first time he has been had up; and, if he gets off, may be it will be the last." Mary could say nothing to this remark. Her mother, who had come in, wrung her hands, and cried, and then called the constables all sorts of hard names, while the miller looked as if he would have struck them. More than once he glanced up at his gun, which hung over the mantelpiece. The constable looked at him, and observed-- "Say what you like with your tongue, Mistress Page; I'm accustomed to much worse than that; but don't you, Mister Page, touch me--that's all. I'm in the execution of my duty--mind that." The miller had to curb his temper, and to say no thing, while his only son was carried off a prisoner. Mrs Page wrung her hands, and bewailed her hard lot. Whilst out, she had heard of the murder of the gamekeepers, and with good reason feared that Ben was guilty of the crime. Ben did not speak. He could not say, "Rouse up, father; I am not guilty of the crime laid to my charge." With handcuffs on his wrists, as a felon, he was carried off by the officers of justice. When he was gone, the miller sat with his head bowed down, and his hands clasped between his knees. All he could say was, "Has it come to this? has it come to this?" The miller seemed to be really humbled and broken in spirit. The next day Farmer Grey called to tell Mary that he had heard from James, and that he was safe. More he could not tell her. She begged him to see her father. "Rouse up, neighbour," he said in a kind voice; "you have still much to do for your son. Secure a good lawyer to defend him. The use of a lawyer is not to get him off, if he is guilty, but to take care that he is not condemned unless his guilt is clearly proved. The expense will be great. I will share it with you." "You are too good; I don't deserve it, Farmer Grey," answered Mark. "And yet I would not have my son condemned, if he can be got off." "And I would not have him condemned, if he is not guilty," said the farmer. Farmer Grey went into the town to secure legal advice. His satisfaction was very great to find that the gamekeeper who had been shot was not dead, and that the one who had been knocked down was in a fair way of recovery. Still the magistrates had committed Ben and three other men to prison; and even if the man who was shot recovered, if Ben was found guilty, he could not expect less than a sentence of transportation for fourteen years. Still the news he had to take back to Mary was better than he expected. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 6. Neither Mark Page nor his man, Sam Green, had been in the habit of attending public worship. Many years, indeed, had passed since Sam had last attended. Now Mark was ashamed to go, and Sam could not. They had not either had prayers in their families, nor did they pray privately. It seems strange that any men should think that they can get on without prayer. They find out their sad mistake when the day of trial comes. These two men did so; had it not been for Farmer Grey and for Mary, they would have been badly off indeed. Mark Page went about the mill, as usual, and got a man to do Sam's work; but he never went outside the gates; and when he was in his own house, he sat with his head bowed down and his hands between his knees, not speaking a word. Sam Green lay on his bed, and growled and groaned with pain, except when Tiny Paul, his grandchild, was with him; then he cheered up and spoke pleasantly, and even laughed at what the little fellow said or did. Tiny Paul was a bright, merry little chap, with light curling hair and blue eyes. He would sing, and talk, and play, all day, and tell grandfather stories, which no one but Sam himself could understand. Sam smiled when he saw Tiny Paul, but at no other time. "If I had always had Tiny Paul with me, I don't think that I should have been so bad as I am," said Sam to himself; but Sam was wrong. Neither Tiny Paul, nor any other human being, would have made Sam a better man than he was. It was his own evil heart was to blame; that wasn't right with God. The miller was one evening looking out from the window of his mill, when he saw in the distance a bright light in the sky. It grew brighter and brighter, and now flames could be seen darting up out of the dark ground, as it were. "It is a house on fire," said the miller; "whose can it be?" He thought over all the houses in that direction. In the day he would not have gone out, but at night no one would know him. He was curious to learn whose house was burning. It was not his way to think how he might best assist the sufferers. So, saddling his horse, he rode out towards where he saw the fire burning. The flames lessened as he got nearer. It was clearly only a cottage. He thought of turning back; still he went on. He soon after reached a cottage, the walls only of which were standing. A number of people were gathered round it. He heard cries and exclamations of sorrow. A man had been burnt to death, and another had been much hurt. Then he heard his own name mentioned. He went a little nearer. "It was all that wild young Page's fault," said some one. "If he hadn't wounded poor Thomas Harvey, so that he could not help himself, Thomas would have fled from the cottage and not have been burnt to death. And his poor wife, too; they say she'll not recover." The miller durst ask nothing further, but, turning his horse's head, rode back to his home. The day of Ben's trial came at last. He was well defended, but one of those who were with him turned king's evidence, and swore to his having fired the shot which struck Thomas Harvey. It was proved, however, that Thomas Harvey did not die of his wound, as the surgeon was of opinion that he was getting well when the cottage in which he lived had caught fire and he was burned to death. Did he then die of his wound, or was his death caused by the fire? Had he been well, it was argued, he might have escaped, as did the rest of those living in the cottage; but as it was, his wife and a friend nearly lost their lives in trying to save him. The trial took up the whole day. Some were of opinion that Ben Page was guilty, and that he would be condemned to be hung. Still, as it was not quite certain that Thomas Harvey died by his hand, he gained the benefit of the doubt, and was condemned to be transported for fourteen years. Some thought his punishment light, but they little knew what his sentence meant in those days. The miller and his wife were thankful that their son was not to be hung. They were allowed to see Ben before he was sent off. They would not have known him in his yellow dress, and with his hair cropped short, and chains on his arms and legs. This sight caused them more grief than even the thought that he was to be sent away from them for so many years. Poor Mary also went to see him. He shocked her by the way he spoke of those who had tried him, and at James Grey for leaving him in the lurch. Mary was thankful to find that James's name had not once been mentioned during the trial, and that he was not suspected of having been mixed up in the matter. In vain she spoke of religion to her brother. He turned a deaf ear to all she said. With grief at her heart she bade him good-bye, and her grief was greater because he seemed so hardened and indifferent to his fate. So Ben Page was carried on board a convict ship, with nearly three hundred other men convicted of all sorts of crimes. They were placed under strict discipline on board ship. Soldiers with loaded arms stood over them, and if any one broke the rules, he was severely punished. Only a few were allowed to come on deck at a time to enjoy the fresh air and the sight of the sea. They had books, however; and the surgeon, who was a Christian man, taught those who wished to learn to read and write. He also begged them to repent, and to turn to Jesus Christ that their sins might be forgiven. Thus day after day the convict ship sailed on. Once they were in a fearful storm, and the convicts were all kept shut up below. The big ship was tossed about, and lightning struck one of her masts and set her on fire, and the water washed over her and carried away her boats, and a leak was sprung, and all thought that they were going to the bottom. Some got into their beds and shut their eyes, as if they could shut out the death they thought was coming. Others tried to break on deck; a few broke out into loud, wild songs; and some, but very, very few, strove to pray; and even fewer still could pray. Those who put off prayer till death comes close to them, find, when too late, that they cannot pray. Those who had talked the loudest, and boasted of their ill deeds, now showed themselves the greatest cowards. In a short time the fire was got under, and the wind and sea went down, and there was a chance that their lives might be saved. When they were once more safe, most of those who had tried to pray forgot their fears and again hardened their hearts. At last the ship reached the distant land to which she was bound-- Australia. The convicts were put into barracks, and then formed into road-gangs to make new roads through the country. They had first to build their huts, and then to work all day in the hot sun with pick-axes, and spades, and wheelbarrows. They were watched by overlookers, of whom many had themselves been convicts, and were very harsh and savage. When the day's work was done, the men were marched back to the huts, where they had to fetch water and firewood, and to cook their food. Day after day they led the same life; there was no change, no amusement; the sun rose, and the sun set, and the convicts rose to toil, but not for themselves; and lay down again at night, weary with their labour. Often and often Ben Page wished himself dead. "Is this to last for thirteen more long years--all the best of my days?" he asked himself. Another convict asked Ben if he would try to escape. They might be shot, but that was better than living on where they were. Ben agreed. They got off, and took to the woods--the bush it is called. They could only live by robbing. They watched a hut when the hut-keepers were out, stole some guns and powder and shot, and set up as bush-rangers--that is robbers. They lived on for some months in the bush, now in one place, now in another. They stole horses and food and clothes. It was a very hard life though. Every man's hand was against them, and a price was set on their heads. They were afraid of the natives also, and suffered much from hunger and thirst. Ben sometimes wished himself back with the road-gang. They at last did so much mischief that parties were sent out against them. Ben's comrade was taken, and Ben was wounded, but escaped by the speed of his horse. On--on he went. He dared not turn back, for his foes were behind him. Night came on, and he was obliged to stop, for his horse could go no farther. There was no water near; he had no food. He lay down and fell asleep, holding the bridle in his hand. When he awoke his horse was gone. He felt weary and stiff, and his wound pained him. The sun rose, scorching down on his head. In his flight he had lost his hat. His thirst was great. "Water, water," he cried for. Not a drop could he find. He walked on, and on, and on. No water; no signs of water. He sat down under a tree to rest, but he could not rest till he had found water. Again he sat down. He could walk no farther. A mist came over his eyes. He could not think--he could not pray. His throat was dry, his lips parched. He fell back with his arms stretched out, never again to rise. Some months afterwards some travellers, in search of a new sheep run, came in the bush on the bones of a man. A bullet near the side made them guess that he had died of a wound he had just before received. In a pocket-book in his jacket was found the name of Benjamin Page; and a brace of pistols, a gun and powder-flask, were recognised as having been stolen from a hut by two bush-rangers, one of whom had been taken and hung. Not till years afterwards did the Miller of Hillbrook learn how his unhappy son died--Mary never knew. "Oh that I had brought him up to fear God! how different might have been his lot," said the miller. "It was I--I, that let my son be a castaway." STORY ONE, CHAPTER 7. The miller was a changed man in some points after his son had been transported. He seemed to be more morose than ever, but it was observed that he seldom said or did anything to hurt his neighbours, as once was the case. Sam Green, as he began to recover from his broken leg, was much the same man as before, sour and grumpy. He was able to move to his own cottage, but matters did not improve there. Only when Tiny Paul was with him was he seen to smile. He was never tired of watching the little chap, who would get hold of one of his sticks and call it his horse, and ride round and round the room on it. "Grandfather must give Tiny Paul a real horse, and then he will ride like a man," said the child. "Tiny Paul shall have a ride the first day grandfather can find a pony," said Sam. Not long after this Sam hobbled out with the aid of his sticks to a field near his cottage. At the other end of it was a large and deep pond. Sam sat himself down on a bank, and Tiny Paul played about near him. There were several horses and ponies feeding in the field. "Grandfather, let Tiny Paul have his ride," said the child, pointing to an old, blind pony, grazing near. Just then a farmer's boy came by, with a halter in his hand, on his way to catch a horse for his master. "Tom Smith, catch a pony for Tiny Paul to have a ride; do now!" cried the child. Tom Smith was a good-natured lad, and was in no hurry; so he said, "Yes, I'll catch thee a pony, and thou shalt have a ride, little one, that thou shalt." The blind pony was very soon caught, and the halter put over his head. "There, Tiny Paul, jump up now, and thee shalt have a fine ride," said Tom Smith. Tiny Paul caught hold of the long mane, and Tom Smith helped him up by the leg, till he had a firm seat. "Now let Tiny Paul go,--he ride alone," said the child. Tom Smith, thinking no harm could come to the little fellow, let go the halter. "I say, Tom, keep near the pony's head; the child has no notion of guiding him," cried Sam. "Oh yes, grandfather, Tiny Paul ride like huntsman in red coat," cried the child, kicking at the pony's sides, and making him trot by the old man. "Now Tiny Paul make pony gallop," said the child, hitting the animal with its halter, and urging it on by his voice and heels. Off set the pony; Tiny Paul laughed, and waved his hand to his grandfather. Tom Smith, instead of following the pony, stopped to speak to the old man. For an instant Sam's eyes were off the child. "Why where is the pony going?" exclaimed Sam, looking up. The pony was making directly for the big pond. "Stop him, Paul; stop him, tiny Paul. Pull at the halter, child," shrieked the old man. "Run after him, Tom; run for your life. Oh mercy! Oh mercy! he'll be into the water!" Tom ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Tiny Paul, though he did not see his danger, pulled at the halter as he was bid; but the old pony's mouth was too tough to feel the rope in it, and on he went, pleased to have somebody on his back again. It made him think of the days when he had corn to eat, and hay without the trouble of picking it up. Tom Smith ran, and ran, and shouted to the pony to stop; but his foot went into a drain, and down he came. He jumped up, though he had hurt his leg, and ran on. The pony was close to the pond, which was full of weeds. He was ten yards still behind. "Stop! stop!" cried Tom. "Oh stop, stop! mercy! mercy! mercy!" shrieked old Sam, who was hobbling on as fast as his sticks would let him move. The pony reached the edge. In he plunged. Tiny Paul clung to his mane, but cried out with fear. The blind pony waded on, for the water was not at first deep. Tom jumped in, but soon got his legs caught by the weeds; and then the pony began to swim. Tom could not swim, so he dared not follow. "Stick on, Tiny Paul, stick on," he shouted. But Tiny Paul was crying too much to hear him. Just then a stout weed caught the child's foot. Tiny Paul let go the mane. The pony swam on; the weed dragged Tiny Paul off, and the next moment Tom saw only one little hand clutching at the air above the water. Sam Green was still some way off at that sad moment. He hobbled on till he reached the edge of the pond, where he found Tom, who crawled out, sighing and crying bitterly. "Where's the child; where is Tiny Paul?" shrieked out the old man. Tom said nothing, but pointed to the middle of the pond. Sam did not seem to know what Tom meant, but looked to the other side, where the pony was standing shaking his shaggy sides. "Where is Tiny Paul? where is Tiny Paul?" again asked the old man. "Down in there," said Tom, pointing to the middle of the pond. Sam Green fell back as if shot. Tom thought that he was dead, and jumping up, ran off to call for help. He told everybody he met till he reached his master's house. People made out that some one was drowned; but whether it was Sam Green or Tiny Paul, they could not tell. Among those Tom met was Farmer Grey. He at once rode to the pond, where he found poor Sam lying where he had fallen. Sam was carried back to his own cottage by order of the farmer, who sent at once for a doctor. The doctor came and said he would recover if treated with care. "Then I will stay by him till I can find some one to take my place," said Farmer Grey. Meantime the pond was dragged, and Tiny Paul's body was found: not Tiny Paul though; he had gone far away, to the bosom of One who loves little children, and because of that love often takes them to Himself. Tiny Paul's body was taken to the cottage of his father and mother. John Dixon could not speak for sorrow; and Mrs Dixon, bursting into tears, threw herself on the body, and would not be comforted. Some hours passed, and Sam Green awoke, as if out of a deep sleep. The first words he spoke were about Tiny Paul. "Tiny Paul is in the hands of One gentle and kind, who will care for him far more than you or his father and mother can," said the farmer. "Do not grieve for Tiny Paul." "What's that you say, Master Grey?" asked Sam quickly. "That Tiny Paul is better off now than he might have been had you or his father or mother brought him up," said the farmer. "What is the eldest boy doing?" "No good--no good, I fear. He is in prison," growled Sam in his old tone. "And the second?" said the farmer. "An idle dog. He's a great trouble to my poor daughter." "And if I were to ask you, ten or a dozen years hence, what your youngest grandchild was about, might you not have had to say the same of him?" "That's true," said Sam, looking up. "I might--yes, I might." "Now God often takes to Himself those He loves; He loved Tiny Paul, so He took him." "Yes; I see God can take better care of him than I can." "Ay, sure, Sam, that He can and will, and maybe God had another reason for taking Tiny Paul." "What can that be?" asked Sam. "That He might draw you to Himself," said Farmer Grey. "Would you wish to go where Paul is?" "Ay, that I would, sir," said Sam, in an eager tone. "Then, my friend, you must try to become like a little child, as Tiny Paul was, and be like him," said the farmer. "I'll try, I'll try," answered Sam. "But how am I to do it, sir? I feel very weak and foolish and bad; I don't know even how I can try." "Pray that God will send His Holy Spirit to help you. Trust to Him, and He will not fail you." Much more Farmer Grey said in the same style. He came day after day to see Sam. Sam, in the course of time, became a changed man. He not only no longer grumbled and growled, and spoke ill of his neighbours, but he was cheerful and contented, and seemed ready to be kind and do good to all he met. When he got his leg strong, he went back to his work at the mill, and Mark used to say that Sam was twice the man he used to be, and that much more grist was brought to the mill than when he was, as once, crabbed and sour to all who came near him. Still Sam was often sad; but it was not about Tiny Paul. It was when he thought of Ben Page, the miller's son. "Ah," he thought, "how often and often, when he was a boy, I said things to him, and in his hearing, which must have done him harm. I might have led him right, and I led him wrong. Truly my brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground." STORY ONE, CHAPTER 8. The Miller of Hillbrook had a tough spirit and a hard heart, like many other people in the world. It galled him to think that his son was a felon, and that people could point at him as the felon's father. His business went on as usual, or rather better than usual, as he was always at home to attend to it. People knew that if they brought grist to his mill, they would be sure to have it ready ground at the day and hour they had named, if the wind blew to turn the sails. They found also that old Sam Green was always ready to oblige them if he could. "Great change has come over Sam,--can't understand it," said some of those who came to the mill. "Does he think that he is going to die? Can that make him so gentle and willing to oblige?" The miller seemed to be much as he was before. He was even rude to Farmer Grey, when once or twice he came to his house. At last, one day, when the farmer was speaking in a serious tone to Mark, the miller told him plainly that he did not want to hear him or see him. The farmer said nothing, and was just as civil and kind to Mark as before. One day, Mark had gone into the neighbouring town on business; Mary had walked up to see Mrs Dobbs, Farmer Grey's housekeeper; and Mrs Page was the only person in the house. Sam was at the mill, but all the other men were away with the carts. Mrs Page had left a pile of wood to dry near the fire, before which some clothes were hung up to air; some fagots, besides, were placed against the wall, and some wood with which Mark was going to repair some work in the mill. Mistress Page was sitting in her room sewing, when she smelt a smell of fire, and then smoke made its way into the room, for the door was ajar. She began to fear that the house was on fire; and soon she was certain of it, for thick curls of smoke came out from the kitchen. Instead of shutting the door, and going up to the mill to call Sam, she threw open all the windows and doors she could reach, and ran out of the house, screaming "Fire! fire! fire!" After some time Sam heard the poor woman's cries, and looking out of a window in the mill, saw the flames bursting forth from every part of the house. He hurried out of the mill as fast as his lameness would allow; but he soon saw that alone he could do nothing in putting out the fire. In a few minutes, however, several men were seen coming from Farmer Grey's, with buckets in their hands, followed by the farmer on horseback. By the time, however, they reached the spot, the house was in flames, from one end to the other. Still there was work for them to do, to try and save the out-buildings. Even the mill itself was threatened, as the wind blew towards it. The men pulled down the sheds nearest the house, and damped the straw thatch of two or three outhouses, the farmer not only showing them what to do, but working away with his own hands as hard as any one. At last the fire was got under, and the mill was saved; but the house was burnt to the ground. Just then the miller came back. He began to storm and rage, and asked who had burned down his house. "That we have to learn, neighbour," answered Farmer Grey. "It may be found that no one burned it down, and let us be thankful that things are not worse. However, come up to my house; there are rooms and a sup for you till your own house is rebuilt; your wife and daughter are already there." "I wonder you can think of asking me, Farmer Grey," said Mark. "I have not given you much thanks for the good deeds you have already done me." "Don't think of that, just now, neighbour," answered Farmer Grey. "We are bound to do good--or right, call it--and not to think of the return we are to get. If God was only to give His blessings to those who were sure to be grateful for them, He would give us far less than He does. We should get little or nothing, I suspect." So the miller went to Farmer Grey's house with his wife and daughter. It seemed strange to him to find himself there, and stranger still to feel the kind way in which the farmer treated him. Even now he could not understand it. At last his house was finished, and he and his family went into it. Mark had spent a good deal of money in rebuilding his house; and though the mill itself wanted repairing, he said that he must put that off till another year; he and Sam Green would patch it up to last till that time. That year passed by, and another came, and had nearly gone, and still nothing was done to the mill. One evening in autumn, the wind was blowing strong, and making even the new house shake, while it whistled and howled through doors and windows. The arms of the mill had been secured, Sam Green had gone home, and the miller himself, thinking that all was right, went to bed. The wind increased, the house shook more and more; there was a fearful gale blowing. On a sudden he woke with a start. There was a crash,--then another,--and at last another, louder than either of the first. The weather, however, was so rough that he could not get up. Again he went to sleep. As soon as it was daylight he looked out. "Where was the mill?" Instead of seeing it, as he expected, against the cold grey sky of the autumn morning, he saw nothing at all. He rubbed his eyes again and again. At last he cast them towards the ground, and there lay scattered about and broken into small pieces, all that remained of his mill. The wheels and grindstone lay near the base; the roof and sides had been carried almost a hundred yards away, and the long arms still farther. The miller's spirit was fairly broken when he saw the wreck of his mill. He was aroused by Sam's voice. "This is a bad business, master," said Sam. "When I heard it blow so hard last night, I was afraid of something, though I did not think to find it as bad as this; but I said `God's will be done, whatever happens.'" "Well, He has done His will with me at all events," answered the miller sullenly. "I don't think He could do much worse either." "If we got our deserts, He could do very much worse to us," said Sam firmly. "But, master, He is a God of love, and He sends these sort of misfortunes, not because He hates us, but because He loves us, and wishes us to think of Him, and trust to Him." "Such talk as that won't rebuild the mill," exclaimed the miller almost savagely. "May be it won't, master; but it may help to make you turn to God and trust to His mercy, as I try to do," said Sam. "You, Sam! you, a wicked old sinner. How dare you talk of trusting to God?" "Because, master, He asks me to do so, He promises to forgive me my sins," said Sam. "I should be declaring that God is a liar if I wouldn't trust Him." "Then you think that I am a sinner, Sam," said the miller. "I know that you are one, master," answered Sam boldly. The miller made no answer, but walked about the ruins, as if thinking what part would do to go up again. The rotten state of the mill, perhaps, made him think of his own state. Suddenly he stopped and said-- "You are right, Sam; I've been a wicked, hardhearted man all my life, all rotten and bad, and it's a wonder God hasn't struck me down long ago, as the mill was struck down last night." "Master, I say to you what was said a short time ago to me, `I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance,' (Mark chapter 2, verse 17). It's a great thing to feel that we are sinners." "Sam, you speak like a parson, and I'm near sure you speak what is true," said the miller. "I speak what is in the Bible, master, and so I am sure that it is what is true," answered Sam. Just then the miller saw Farmer Grey riding up the hill. "I do not come to condole with you, neighbour Page," he said in his usual kind tone. "What means have you of putting up the mill again, and setting it going?" "Not a shilling, farmer," answered Mark. "I'm a ruined man." "Don't be cast down, neighbour," said Farmer Grey. "People, however, may take their grist to other mills to be ground, if yours is not working; so I want you to send at once for carpenters and mill-wrights, and to let them know that they are to look to me for payment. No words, neighbour, about thanks. Let it be done at once; don't lose time. You'll repay me, some day, I am very sure." Then Mark Page knew the true meaning of having coals of fire heaped on his head. In a short time the mill, rebuilt with sound timbers and strong machinery, was going round as merrily as ever, and grinding as much if not more grist than it did in former days. People had wondered at the change in Sam Green; they wondered still more at the change in his master,--once so sullen and ill-tempered,--now so gentle and kind and obliging. The change in him was even greater than in the mill itself. It is easy enough to rebuild a house: no human power can change a man's heart, as Mark Page's had been changed. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 9. Farmer Grey, as he sat in his large house by himself, often felt sad and lonely. He had lost his wife when young; she had had no children, and he had not married again. His nephew, James, was his only near relative; and he found, whenever he thought of the young man, that, in spite of his faults, he loved him more than he had supposed. For a long time he had not heard from him; and, as several bloody battles had of late been fought in India, he began to fear that he might have been among the killed, and that no one had known his address to write and tell him. Still, Farmer Grey was not a man to sit by himself and brood over his sorrow. He went about as usual, doing all the good he could, not only in his own village but in the neighbourhood; and he never heard of a poor person falling sick or getting into trouble, whom he did not visit and relieve as far as he was able. He thought, too, more of poor Mary Page than of himself. He knew how much she loved James, and that she would spend the best days of her youth waiting for him to come back, as he was sure that she would never marry anybody else. Meantime, though Mary was often sad, still she believed that James was alive, and that he would some day come back to her. She often blamed herself for thinking so much of him, while the fate of her unhappy brother was so uncertain. It was surely through God's kindness that she never learned what his fate had been. Mary's home, in many ways, was far happier than it had ever before been. She soon saw the change in her father, and it did her heart good. Instead of sitting gloomily by himself when he came in from work, or, as he used, reading some bad paper opposed to religion and government, his great pleasure was to listen to her reading the Bible, or to talk with her on religious subjects. Whilst Mary Page was, one evening, sitting at the window of the parlour of the new mill-house, she saw a dark-bearded soldier-like man looking up at the house, as if surprised at its appearance. The stranger passed through the wicket; Mary could sit quiet no longer. She rose and opened the front door: "James, James, is it you?" she cried out, as if yet fearful that she might be mistaken. "Yes, Mary, I am James, but not the James who went away in disgrace a few years back," he said, when she had led him into the parlour. "But tell me, do you forgive me? Does my uncle forgive me?" "Oh, yes; yes--all is forgiven, long, long ago. It will give your kind uncle a new life, to see you back safe and well." Together, in a few minutes, they set off to the farm. Mary was right. No father could give a more hearty welcome to a prodigal son than good Farmer Grey gave to his nephew James. James had gained rank and marks of distinction, and he had a pension for wounds, and a considerable share of prize money. His rank and honour showed that he had been firm in resisting the many temptations to which he must have been exposed, for no soldiers escape them. He got his discharge, but entered a militia regiment that he might be able to defend his country, should she ever be attacked by foreign foes. He and Mary married; and no more happy and prosperous couple were to be found in or near Hillbrook. They were so, because they were "diligent in business, fearing the Lord." STORY TWO, CHAPTER 1. TOM TRUEMAN, THE SAILOR; OR, LIFE AT SEA IN A MERCHANT VESSEL. It was a sad, sad day for poor mother and all of us, when father was brought home on a hurdle, the life crushed out of him by a tree which fell right down where he stood. He never spoke again. We lived in Dorsetshire, not far from the town of Poole. Father was a day labourer; he had never saved a sixpence. His club buried him, and we were left to live as we could, or to go to the workhouse. Mother said that she would never do that, and with God's help she'd try to feed and clothe us. She found it very hard work though. There were ten of us. Jane, who was sixteen, and just going into service, was the eldest, and little Bill, who was in arms, was the youngest. I was the fourth child. Farmer Denn took Sam, who was a strong lad, and Jack went to Mr Sweet, the grocer in the village, who wanted an errand boy. Jane got a place as maid-of-all-work--and very hard work it was. He was the only one besides who had the chance of gaining a penny, except little Ben, and as he was a sharp chap, he used to be set to scare away the birds, with a clapper in his hands, and such-like work; but to be sure he did not make much. So mother had six children to feed and clothe, we may say, and all of us more or less to clothe, for even sister Jane could not do without help. When father was alive we elder ones went to school; so I knew about the sea, and a few things in foreign parts, which I had read of in books. One evening when Sam and Jack came home, I said to them, "This will never do; mother mustn't work as she does, it will kill her. I've made up my mind to go to sea. May be I shall be able to make money, and send her home some. I've read of lands where people, just with a spade and pick, dig up gold as we should potatoes. I'll see what I can do." Sam, who was just a quiet, steady lad, and did his tasks as well as any boy at school, laughed, and said that I might dig a long time before I should get gold enough to fill my pocket. Still I thought and thought over the matter, till at last I told mother that I had made up my mind to go to sea, and hoped soon she would have one mouth less to feed. She looked very sad when she heard me say this, but I told her not to grieve, and that I would soon be back, and that it would be all for the best. That's what father used to say, "It's all for the best,--God knows what's best for us." I've stuck to the same ever since. Blow high or blow low, when the ship has been driven by the wind towards the rocks, and all on board have thought we were going to be lost, I've said the same, "Trust in God, He knows what is best for us." What's more, I've always found it come true. Mother saw things in the same way at last, and gave me her blessing, and told me to go into Poole and see what I could do for myself. I found a number of vessels alongside the quays on the banks of the river. I went on board one and then another and another, but the men I saw laughed at me. Some said that boys were more trouble than use, that they were always in the way when they were not wanted, and out of it when they were wanted, and that I had not a chance of being taken. At last I thought I must go back to mother and see if Farmer Denn can give me work. I had got to the very end of the quay, and was turning back when I met a gentleman, whom I had seen several times as I was coming on shore from the vessels. He asked me in a kind voice what I was looking for. I told him. "Come in here, and we will see what can be done for you, my lad," he said. He took me into an office or sort of shop, full of all sorts of ship's stores. In it were seated three or four men, who were, I found, captains of vessels. My new friend having talked to them about me, one of them asked, "Would you like to go to sea with me, boy?" "Yes, sir," said I, for I liked the look of his face. "You don't ask who I am, nor where I am going," he said. "For that I don't care, sir; but I think you are a good man, and will be a kind master," I answered boldly. "Ah, well; you must not be too sure of that," said the captain. "I do not sail from here, but from a place on the other side of England, called Liverpool, and I am going a long, long voyage, to last two or three years, may be." I said that I should like that, because I should then be a good sailor before I came back again. He then told me that Liverpool, next to London, is the largest place for trade in England, and that thousands and thousands of vessels sail from it every year to all parts of the world. He was going back there in a few days, where his ship was getting ready for a voyage to the Pacific Ocean, and very likely round the world. The Pacific, he told me, is a very large spread of water on the other side of America, many thousands of miles long and wide. First we should have to cross the Atlantic ocean, off there where the sun sets. That is also many thousands of miles long and wide. On the farther side is America. We should have to go round the south point of America, called Cape Horn, to get into the Pacific. The Pacific is full of islands, generally a number of small ones together, then a wide open space, and then more islands. A ship may sail on, though, for days together and not see land. Some of these islands are very low, only just above the water, and are made of coral, and others have high mountains in them. Some of these throw up fire and ashes, and are called volcanoes. I was much taken with all Captain Bolton told me (for that was the gentleman's name), and as he was not to leave Poole for two days, there was time for me to go back and see mother and brothers and sisters. Mother and the rest cried very much when they found I was really going, but when she heard what a nice man Captain Bolton was, she cheered up a bit. One lady sent her three shirts for me, and another a pair of shoes, and Farmer Denn, who had a son who was lost overboard at sea, sent me a whole suit of the lad's clothes. People were very kind. To my mind there are a good many kind people in the world, if we did but know where to find them. I won't tell about the leave-taking. I don't like, even now, to think about it. Captain Bolton took me with him round in a brig to Liverpool. The little vessel was tossed and tumbled about, and as I had nothing to do except to think of myself, I was very sick. If I could have left the ship and gone back home when I once got on shore, I would have done so. Captain Bolton told me that I was only getting my inside to rights, and that I should think nothing of such work when I had been a few weeks at sea. Ships are named after people aid all sort of things. Captain Bolton's ship was called the _Rose_. She had three masts, and a crew of thirty men, with six big guns, for we were going to some curious, out-of-the-way places, and might have to fight the savages, I was told. She had three mates besides the captain, and another officer called a boatswain, who had a good deal to do with managing the men. As soon as I got on board, the captain told me to go to him, and that he would look after me. His name was Alder. The ship was nearly ready for sea, with most of her cargo on board, so that we had not long to wait till we bid good-bye to Old England. I wish that I could make those who have never seen a ship understand what one is like. Sailors call a ship she, and often speak of her as the old girl. Our ship was built of wood, longer than most houses, and covered in by what we call a deck. At the fore end there was a place for the crew to live in, called the fore-peak, and at the after-end rooms or cabins for the captain and officers. All the rest of the ship was filled with cargo and stores. To the masts were hung across spars, or poles, as big as large larches, and on these were stretched the sails, made of stout canvas. It required the strength of all the crew to hoist one of these yards, and that of eight or ten men to roll up, or furl, one of the larger sails. Then there were so many ropes to keep up the masts, and so many more to haul the sails here and there, that I thought I should never learn their names or their uses. From the day the captain put me under charge of Mr Alder, he seemed never so much as even to look at me, but I know that he really did not forget me. I had learned something about sea-life, going round from Poole to Liverpool, so that I was not quite raw when I went on board the _Rose_. There were two other boys who had never before been on board ship, and as I had been a week at sea they looked on me as an old sailor. The rest of the crew did not though, and I was told to run here and there and everywhere by any man who wanted a job done for him. Still I had no cause to complain. The captain was strict but just, made each man do his duty, and the ship was thus kept in good order. I set to work from the first to learn my duty, and found both Mr Alder and many of the men ready to teach me. In a short time I went aloft, that is climbed up the masts, and lay out on the yards to reef sails as well as many older seamen. At first it seemed a fearful thing to be high up on the yards with only a rope to hold on by, or may be only my elbows, when my hands were wanted and to look down and see only the hard deck and the foaming water, and to know that if I fell on the deck I should have my brains knocked out, or into the water that I should be drowned, for at that time I could not swim. Climbing the highest tree you ever saw is nothing to it, for a tree is steady, and there are branches above and below, and if you fall you may drop on the soft ground. Still I did not think very much about it, and soon it was just the same to me, whether I was on deck or aloft. No man can be idle on board ship, and if a man thinks that he can sit on a cask all day at sea, kicking his heels against it, he will soon find out his mistake. There is always work to be done about the masts or spars or rigging, while there is no end of ropeyarn to be spun at all odd hours. The two boys I have spoken of were Toby Potts and Bill Sniggs. Toby was a sharp little chap, Bill a big, stupid fellow, the butt of the crew, Toby made them laugh by his fun, while they laughed at Bill for his stupid mistakes. Bill was stronger than either Toby or me, and could thrash us both together, so that we did not often play him tricks. When we did, the men used to stand our friends against Bill. Sometimes all three of us used to be sent aloft to furl the royals, which are the highest sails on the masts. One evening there was the cry of "All hands shorten sail," which means all the sailors are to help take in the sails. Each man has his proper post, so that all know where to go. We three boys ran up the rigging, up we went in the gloom of coming night, the wind whistling, the sea roaring, the ship pitching. We had rope ladders, shrouds they are called, to help us for most of the way. We could just make out the men hanging on the yards below as we lay out on our yard. As Bill was a strong chap we soon had the sail rolled up and ready to send on deck. Toby and I had done our work, when Bill, who was clinging round the mast, caught hold of us both. "Now, lads, I'm going to have my revenge. You promise never to chaff me again, or I'll let you both drop down on deck, or into the sea, may be. In either case you'll be killed, and no one will know it." His voice did not sound as if he was in joke. "Which is to go first," I asked. "You'll let us say our prayers, Bill," said Toby, who always had a word to say. "Will you chaff me?" cried Bill, in a fierce voice. "Of course we will--only let us go," said Toby. Bill thought that Toby meant that he would not chaff him, for he let us both go, and we lost no time in slipping down the rigging. This was the beginning of a storm, the first I had been in. I did not think that any thing made by man's hands could have stuck together as the big ship did, tossed and tumbled about as she was. We told no one of what Bill had said, but we did not play him any more tricks for some time to come. STORY TWO, CHAPTER 2. You all know what a storm on shore is when it seems as if the windows must be blown in, or the roof taken off, when the walls shake, and big trees are torn up by the roots and thrown down. At sea the wind blows up the water into large hills with foaming tops, which seem to rise and leap on every side, or to come rolling on towards the ship as if they would knock her to pieces, or drive her under them. Instead, she mounts up the hills of water, and a deep valley is seen far below her. All sail was taken in, and our big ship ran before the wind, tossed about as if she were a mere washtub. Above our heads were the dark driving clouds, on every side the rolling, foaming, roaring waves. Not another sail did we see, while the nearest land, we knew, was hundreds of miles away. Often and often I thought that the waves would catch us, and send us all to the bottom. Then I remembered what father used to say, "Trust in God; He knows what is best for us. If he thinks that it is best for us all to be drowned, His will be done." So when I was ordered to turn in, I went into the little narrow cupboard sort of place, which was my berth, and slept as soundly as if the ship was in harbour. Our crew was divided into two watches, that is to say, one half of us were on deck at one time, and one half at another, except when all hands were called. When it was again my watch on deck, I found the ship flying on as before, with the same dark sky above and tossing waves around me. On she drove, rolling from side to side, and pitching into the seas as if she was going down under them. I could not stand on the deck for a moment without holding on to a rope or the bulwarks. Still I liked to watch the big, dark, green waves, as they rose and tumbled about. Even the old sailors could do very little, and it was hard work for the cook to keep the pots on the fire to cook our food. Things had got somewhat worse when Toby crawled up to me. "I say, Tom, don't you think that we be all going to be drowned?" he asked, his teeth chattering with fear and cold. "I hope not, but I do not like the look of matters," I answered. "No, they are very bad, depend on it," he said. "I heard some of the men telling Bill Sniggs that he'd better repent of his sins, for that may be in a few hours he wouldn't have much chance." "Perhaps they were only joking him," said I. "Oh no, they looked too grave for that," said Toby. "It's very awful." While we were speaking a fierce squall struck the ship. There was a loud crash, and a cry of "Stand from under." And down came the fore-topmast and all its rigging; the ropes flying about our heads, and the spars nearly striking us. I thought that it was all over with us, and looked to see if Toby had been carried away, but there he stood clearing himself, as I was doing, from the ropes. The men, led by the mates, had work enough to clear the wreck of the masts, and to get the spars stowed away. I should have thought that we were in a bad state, but the officers and men took matters very coolly, so I hoped that all was right. Not long after this a ship was seen ahead. They said that she was a large ship with some of her masts gone, and that a flag was flying which showed that she was in distress--that is, in a bad way--like to sink. We soon drove down to her. There she lay in the trough of the sea. I heard Mr Alder say that she was twice as big as we were, that there were soldiers on board with their wives and children, but that we could give her no help. As we drew near, we saw a number of men at the pumps, working away for their lives. Some fifty soldiers or more stood ready drawn up to take their places. There were many more people on deck. They stretched out their hands as they saw us come near. It made my heart bleed to think that we could give them no help, but if we had tried to lower a boat, our own people would have been lost. For the first time I saw some of our men change colour. They had good reason to do so, for it seemed as if we should drive right against the ship and send her to the bottom and ourselves also. As it was, we passed so near that we could see the look of fear in the faces of the people, and could hear their piteous cries. She had not a boat remaining, and had a raft been formed, the people would have been swept off in that raging sea. No, there was no hope for a single being on board. Still they might live on in that state for hours. I was thinking how sad it was for them when I heard a cry, and saw on a sudden the big ship lift up her bows out of the water. The people rushed forward; many were caught by the sea and swept away. It mattered little even for those who gained the forecastle,--down, down went the ship; and then I rubbed my eyes. The tops of her masts were seen above the waves; they too sunk, and for some minutes there was not a sign of her left. In those few short moments all the men and women and children who were on board had lost their lives, and were called to stand before God. Here and there a spar, or a plank, or a hencoop, or grating floated up, but not one person could we see. On we flew. We could have given no help; none was wanted. "Many a tall ship has gone down in the same way when no one has been near to see it, many another will thus go down," said Mr Alder, who was standing near me. "It should teach us sailors to be ready to go up to God at a moment's call; ay, and landsmen too, for who knows who may next be called." I often after that thought of Mr Alder's words. The storm lasted six days. After that we got light winds, and soon crossed what sailors call the line. Not that there is any line or mark on the earth or sea; but as the world is round, and turns round and round the sun, as an orange with a stick through it might be made to turn round a candle, it is that part which is nearest the sun. The sun at noon, in that part, all round the world, is overhead, and so it is just the hottest part of the world. It was hot, indeed. The pitch bubbled out of the seams in the decks, one calm day, and we could have fried a beefsteak, if we had had one, on any iron plates on the deck. I was glad when, after running for a thousand miles or so, we got cooler weather, though the sun was still hot enough at noon. Our ship was very well found, the men said, and we had no lack of food--salt beef, and peas, and rice, and flour, and sometimes suet and raisins for puddings. They said we were much better off than many ship's companies; we had enough of good food, and our officers were just, and did not overwork us. I heard tales of what happens on board some ships, where the food is bad and scanty; the men are worked well-nigh to death, often struck by the master and the mates, and treated like dogs. I was thankful that I hadn't gone to sea in one of those ships. At last I found we were going round Cape Horn, which is the south point of America. We had a fair wind, and not much of it; but a gale had been blowing somewhere, for there was a swell, such as I had never thought to see. The water was just like smooth up-and-down chalk downs, only as regular as furrows in a field. The big ship just seemed nothing among them, as she now sunk down in the hollow, and then rose to the top of the smooth hill of water. To our right was seen Cape Horn itself; it is a high head of land, sticking out into the sea, all by itself. Very few people have ever been on shore there, and no one lives there, as there is no ground to grow anything, and the climate is cold and bleak. You know that the two ends of the earth, or poles, as they are called, the north and south, are very cold; ice and snow all the year round, and Cape Horn is near the south end. After we passed it, for some time we steered north, and soon got into warm weather again. You see the hot part of the world is midway between the north and south pole, so sailing north from the south pole we find it hotter and hotter, and so we do sailing south from the north pole. We find our way over the sea, far away from land night or day, just as well as on shore. Besides the sun and stars to guide us, we have the compass. It is a wonderful thing, though it is so simple-looking; just a round card, resting on a spike in a brass basin. In the card is a long steel needle, and the point of it is rubbed with a stuff called loadstone, and it takes the card round and round, and always points to the north. The north, and all the other points, are marked on the card; so when we look at it we see what way the ship's head is. The ship is guided by a rudder, and a compass is placed just before the man who steers, that is, turns the rudder--this way or that--so that he can look at it, and know which way to turn the rudder, and so to keep the ship on her course. Then the shape of all parts of the world is mapped down on paper, and the distances, that is to say, an inch on the paper, maybe, stands for fifty miles, and so the captain knows where he is going, and how far he has to go, though he has never been there before. We have a log line, with marks on it, and by letting that run out astern we judge how fast the ship is going; then the compass tells us the course she is steering, that is, the way she is going, and that we call "dead reckoning." But the captain has besides wonderful instruments of brass and glasses, and he looks through them at the sun, or stars, and moon, and then he makes sums on paper; and then he has some curious watches, which never go wrong, and with them and his sums he can tell just where the ship is, though we haven't seen land for six or eight weeks, or more. It is curious to sail on day after day, and week after week, and not to see land, and yet to know that it is all right, and that we shall reach the very port we are bound for, unless we fall in with a storm, and lose our masts, and get cast away, or spring a leak and founder; but then when we come to think of the thousands of ships at sea, and that not one in a hundred gets lost, we needn't count on that. So you understand, what with the "dead reckoning," and the curious instruments I told you of-- one of them is called a sextant--the captain can take his ship right across the pathless ocean, just as easily as a coachman does his coach along a high-road. You see sailors on shore, and they seem often harum-scarum, idle fellows, but at sea everything is done with the greatest order, and every man and boy has his proper duty, just as the servants in a large country-house. The crew are divided into watches, called the starboard and larboard, or port, watches; the chief mate commands one, the second mate the other. While one watch is on duty the other goes below to sleep, or take their meals, except when all hands are wanted on deck. Every hour a bell is struck to show how time goes. Every four hours the watch is changed, except in the evening, from four to eight o'clock, when there are two watches, called dog-watches, that is to say, from four to six, one; and from six to eight, another. The reason of this is that the people who are on watch at one time one night, may not be on watch the same time the next night, which they would be if there were six instead of seven watches, which you will find there are in the twenty-four hours. I used to be very glad when my first watch was over, and I was able to turn in from twelve to four, when I had to be up again to keep the morning watch. That was no idle time, for as soon as it was daylight we had to scrub and wash down decks, and to put everything in order for the day, just as housemaids put the house in order. Night and day, fine weather or foul, a man is stationed either at the mast-head, or yard-arm, or forward, to keep a look-out ahead for any ship, or land, or shoals, or rocks, which may be near. Many a ship has been lost when a good look-out has not been kept; one ship has run into another, and both have sunk, or the ship has run on rocks not seen till too late. When we get near the land we use a lead and line, to learn the depth of water. This is called heaving the lead, as the lead is swung round with the arm to fall far ahead. There are knots on the line a fathom apart, which we can tell by the feel. When a ship gets in shallow water, she can anchor; but in storms the waves are so high, and the wind so strong, that she may be torn from her anchors and driven ashore. When a ship gets into harbour, the sails are furled, and the anchors dropped, but even then a watch is kept on deck. When we got to the south of the line, we saw that the stars overhead were all different to those we see in England. I marked one set of stars more than all the rest. It is called the Southern Cross. The world is round, and there are thousands of stars and other worlds round us, on every side, all made and kept in their places and governed by God. I often thought of that as I stood on deck at night, and felt that the same great God was loving and caring for me, a poor sailor-boy. STORY TWO, CHAPTER 3. "Land ho! land ho!" I heard the man at the fore-topmast-head shout out. He pointed to the east. There, as the sun rose, we saw quite clear a long line of blue mountains, some of the highest on the face of the globe, so I should think, for we were then well-nigh fifty miles off them. It seemed curious after sailing west so long, to see land on the east; but then you will understand that we had gone also south, and then west, and then north again, round a point--a pretty big point to be sure--I mean Cape Horn. We had had a fresh breeze all day, but it was almost dark before we dropped anchor in the bay of Valparaiso, or the Vale of Paradise, as it is called. It is the chief port in the country of Chili, and some way inland is the capital, called Santiago. As soon as the anchor was down we were divided into three watches, which gave us all a longer time in bed, no small boon to us, who had been watch and watch so long. The next morning I was on deck early, to have a look at the land. It is very hilly and rocky close to the sea; and away inland, the high mountains I spoke of run up towards the sky. This is a very hot country, and so the land looked parched and dry; but I was told that in winter it is green and fresh. The country once belonged to Spain, and all the chief people in it are born of Spanish fathers and mothers. The people all talk Spanish, though the poorer classes have come from the native Indians, and many have had Spanish fathers. They were very civil; and some of the boatmen talked enough English to make us know what they wished to say. They brought us plenty of fruits, which they sold cheap--oranges, and grapes, and figs, and melons, and water-melons. The water-melon they eat a great deal of, and it is very nice in a hot country as theirs is. It is as big as a man's head, with a hard, green rind, and in the inside is what looks like pink snow, with a sweetish taste, and black seeds. The people wear all sorts of curious dresses, but what I remember best were their cloaks, called _ponchos_, which are square pieces of coloured cloth, with a round hole in the middle for the head to go through; and their leggings and their high straw hats. They are Roman Catholics; that is, they call the Pope of Rome the head of their Church. I saw several processions of priests, in gold, and scarlet, and purple, and yellow dresses, and figures as big as life carried on men's shoulders, and flags, and crosses. The priests walked under a piece of coloured silk, stretched out at the ends of four gilt poles, carried by men in red and white dresses. And some rang bells and chanted, and others swung to and fro carved silver baskets, with sweet-smelling stuff burning in them, and others long, wax, lighted candles; and when the people saw the chief priest, who carried what I was told was the Host in his hand, they fell down on their knees, and they did the same when the figures passed, and crossed themselves, and some of them beat their breasts and cried out. There were also a number of boys, dressed up in silk of many colours, with silver wings, to look like angels; but some of the young monkeys made faces at me and Toby, and laughed, and seemed to think the thing a joke. I thought that we had got into a Christian country, but I now found that they were little better than idolaters, for I remembered the commandment, "Thou shalt not make to thyself any graven image... Thou shalt not bow down to them, nor worship them." I read not long ago of what happened in the largest church in the capital city, Santiago, not far from this. Nearly two thousand of the principal ladies, and other women of the place, and many children, and a few men, were collected to worship the Virgin Mary and her image, and the whole church was lighted with paraffine oil--the roof, the pillars, the sides. Suddenly some hangings near the figure of the Virgin took fire, and soon the whole church was in a blaze. Some of the priests ran off through a small side-door with their trumpery ornaments, leaving the poor women and children inside. On the heads of these the burning oil came pouring down. A few, but very few, were got out at the front door; but those trying to get out trampled down each other, and blocked up the door. The greater number were burned to death. I never tell of my visit to Chili, without thinking of the fearful scene in that burning church. The watermen in the bay go out to sea in a curious sort of way. Two skins of seals, or some other large animal, filled full of air, are lashed together at one end, the other ends open like a man's legs stretched out; and the waterman, who sits astride on the ends lashed together, which forms the bow of the boat, works himself on with a paddle, which has a blade at each end. He holds it in the middle, and dips first one end and then the other into the water. These skin boats, if boats they are, are called _balsas_. Sometimes the watermen quarrel, and one sticks his knife into another's _balsa_, and as soon as he does so, the man whose _balsa_ has been cut has to strike out for his life towards the shore, for the wind soon gets out of it. The captain got through the business which took us to Valparaiso, and once more we were at sea, bound for Callao, the chief port in Peru. Near it, inland, is Lima, the capital. Peru reaches nearly all the way from Chili, along the coast, to the north part of South America. All the upper classes are Spaniards; that is, born of Spanish parents, while the rest are native Indians, or children of Indians, of a yellowish-brown colour. The natives had once their own kings and princes, and were a prosperous and wealthy people. They had cities and roads, and tanks for water, and well-cultivated fields. Rather more than three hundred years ago the Spaniards arrived in the country, and cruelly killed most of their chiefs, and enslaved the people, and have ruled the country ever since. At last the Spaniards born in the country, rose on the Spaniards who had come from Spain, and drove them away. It is now free, that is, governed only by people born in the country, and has nothing to do with Spain. We had been three days at sea, when a strong gale from the east drove us off the land some hundred miles. The crew grumbled very much, for it would take us, they said, a fortnight or more to beat up to Callao, and they were eager to have fresh meat and fruit and vegetables, instead of salt beef and hard biscuits, which was now our food. A sailor's food on a long voyage is salt beef and pork, and biscuits, and tea, and cocoa, and sugar, and sometimes flour, with raisins and suet for a pudding, which is called "duff." If, however, they live too long on salt food, they get a dreadful complaint, called scurvy, which fresh vegetables only can cure. I was far better fed than I had ever been on shore, yet often I longed for a cabbage and a dish of potatoes, and would gladly have given up the beef and pork to get them. I had now become a pretty fair seaman, and was placed aloft to keep a look-out for strange vessels, or land, or rocks, or shoals. I had my eyes to the north, when I saw what I first thought was a cask. I hailed the deck, and then the second mate came up and said that it was a boat. The ship was steered towards it. I could see no one moving, and thought that it must be empty; but the mate said that he saw some men's heads above the gunwale. He was right, for suddenly, as if he was just awoke, a man stood up and waved a shirt, and then others lifted up their heads and waved their hats; but the first soon sunk down again, as if too weak to stand. As we drew near they again waved their hats, and we saw their mouths moving, as if they were trying to cheer, but their voices were too weak to reach us. We made out five men, who had just strength to sit up and lean over the side. We hove-to; that is, we placed the sails so as to stop the way of the ship, and lowered a boat, for the waves were too high to make it safe to take the ship alongside of the boat. I jumped into our boat. Never shall I forget the thin, miserable faces of the poor fellows in the boat. Besides the five sitting up, there were three others lying on the bottom, so far gone that they scarcely seemed to know that help had come to them. There was not a morsel of food, nor a drop of water on board. Their boat, too, was so battered and rotten, that it was a wonder it was still afloat. One or two of the strongest tried to speak, but couldn't, and burst into tears as we got alongside; some of the rest groaned, and pointed to their mouths, as if we wanted to be told that they were starving. As we didn't like to try even to tow their boat, we lifted them out gently into ours. Some of them, though pretty big men, were as light as young boys. We left their boat, and pulled back to the ship as fast as we could, for there was no time to lose. Two of these poor fellows, indeed, must have died in the boat, for they were corpses when we got them on deck. If we had been left to ourselves, we should have killed them all with over-feeding; but Captain Bolton would allow them at first only a spoonful or two of weak brandy and water, and then a little arrowroot, and afterwards some soup; but not for some hours would he give them any heavy food, and even then a very little at a time. The result of this wise treatment was that in a few days two of them--the second mate and another man--were able to crawl about the deck, and that they all in time recovered. They were part of the crow of a whaler, the _Helen_, which with nearly a full cargo of oil had caught fire, some six hundred miles to the westward of where we found them. They had remained by the ship to the last, and then taken to the boats. But scarcely had they lost sight of her, when a fearful gale sprang up, and the second mate's boat lost sight of the rest. They had, as soon as the gale was over, steered for a certain island, which they missed, then for another, which they missed also. Then they had tried to reach the coast of Peru, but they had had calms and foul winds, and their water and food came to an end. Four had died before we found them, and the rest would not have lived many hours longer. Such is one of the many dangers to which sailors are exposed. I little thought at that time that I should one day be in the same sad plight. This makes sailors ready to help each other, for they know that some day they may themselves be in a like state. The evening after this we sighted two sail, that is, we saw two vessels just as the sun was going down. The weather at the time looked threatening, but the wind was more fair than it had been for some time, and the captain did not like to shorten sail, as he was in a hurry to get to Callao. Toby Potts and I were in the first watch. The captain was on deck. On a sudden he sang out sharply, "All hands, shorten sail! Two reefs in the topsails. Furl top-gallant sails." This last work was to be done by Toby and me. Up the rigging we ran. "Let's see which will have done it first!" cried Toby. I had given the last turn round my sail, and looked up to try if I could see through the gloom what Toby was doing, and thought I saw something fall from aloft. Toby was not on the yard. Just then I heard the cry from the deck of "A man overboard!" The ship had given a sudden lurch or roll to leeward. I slid down a backstay to the deck. Without a moment's thought I seized a hencoop loose on deck, and threw it overboard. The gale which the captain had seen was coming, at that instant struck the ship. Over she heeled, till it seemed that she would never rise again. Like a mad horse she rushed through the water. Sails were flapping, ropes flying and lashing, and blocks swinging round here and there. It was impossible to heave-to to lower a boat, and poor Toby was left to his fate. I felt very sad when I found this. I wondered why it was that I was not taken instead of Toby, but just then I had not much time for thinking. All on board had work enough to do. The captain gave his orders in a clear voice, and rope after rope was hauled taut, and the sails were furled, that is rolled up, except the fore-topsail, which was closely reefed. With that alone set, we ran before the hurricane. I had heard that it is always smooth in the Pacific Ocean, but I now found out my mistake; though perhaps there is more fine weather there than in any part of the world. I could not tell where we were running to all in the dark, for we could not see ten yards ahead of the ship, but I supposed the captain knew; still, after hearing of the many islands and rocks and shoals in those parts, I couldn't help thinking what would become of us. The truth was that the captain could do nothing else; he could not heave-to, and he could not see the dangers ahead, so he had to trust to God's mercy; and that's what, in many of the affairs of life, not only sailors but people on shore have to do. I heard him say to Mr Marston, the first mate, "We've done our best; we are in God's hands, and He will never desert those who trust in Him." No one went below, that night, for all knew the danger we were in. On we flew, hour after hour, the wind in no way falling. I was thankful when daylight appeared. Day came on quickly. A hand was now sent aloft to look out for dangers; the first mate followed him up. Scarcely had he got to the mast-head than he cried out, "Breakers ahead! breakers on the starboard bow!" The helm was put to starboard, and the mizen-topsail was set close reefed; the yards braced up, and the ship's head turned to port, away from the threatened danger. On she dashed, the sea breaking over the bows and sweeping across the decks, so that we had to lash ourselves to the rigging to prevent being carried away. The breakers seemed terribly close. I could see that if the ship once got among them, she would soon break to pieces, and not one of us could escape. The captain stood by the helm quite calm, watching the masts and spars, and giving a look every now and then at the reef, parts of which we could see between the white foaming breakers. Slowly it seemed we passed the reef. He took a long breath when it was at last seen over our quarter. The helm was put up, the mizen-topsail furled, the yards squared away, and once more we ran before the gale. The wind fell at night, though the sea ran very high and the ship tumbled about more than ever. Not till ten days after this did we enter the bay of Callao, the port of Lima. We could see in the distance, as the sun sank towards the west, the tall spires of the city of Lima high up on the hills, while far above it rose the lofty mountains called the Andes, on the tops of which snow ever rests. More than a hundred years ago, an earthquake threw down a great part of Lima, and a large wave rolling in, swept over Callao and utterly destroyed it. The new town we saw is at a distance from where the old one stood, and has three castles to defend the bay. I heard a great deal of the silver mines of Chili and Peru, and the quantities of silver which used to be sent from them to Spain. Each bar of silver was, however, gained by the tears and groans, and often the death, of the poor natives, who were forced by the cruel Spaniards to toil in those mines. Many hundred thousand Peruvians have died in them since the Spaniards discovered the country. Spain, I have read, has never been the better for her ill-gained wealth, and now she does not own an inch of land in all America. STORY TWO, CHAPTER 4. We had now landed all the goods we had brought from England, and found that we were to sail for Canton, in China, to procure a cargo of tea, which, it was understood, we were to take to Sydney, in New South Wales, and there to receive on board a cargo of wool to carry home. That we might not go empty to Canton, we were to visit some islands, where seals were to be caught, for the sake of their skins; and also some others farther west, where we were to collect sandal-wood. We had no reason to complain of the treatment we received on shore; but, though the climate is a fine one, and food plentiful, I am thankful that Old England is my home. Once more we were steering west, but we went greatly out of our proper course to look for the island where seals were to be procured. It was not exactly marked down in the chart, and we were some time looking for it, having twice passed without seeing it. About three hundred miles away was another island, where a party of men had been left by another ship belonging to our owners, to catch seals, and we had received orders to take all the skins they had prepared, and to carry them to Canton, but the men were to be left another year. The captain, not finding the first island, was about giving up the search, when, as I was aloft, I saw a small blue speck a long way off, just rising out of the water. I shouted out, "Land ho! Land ho!" The first mate, who had charge of the deck, was soon up with me. The ship was steered for it; it was the island we were looking for. We anchored in a bay on the western side, the only one which afforded any shelter. The whole island was surrounded by rocks, with here and there patches of trees and shrubs; but most part of it was barren. It would have been a sad place to be cast away on. As there was no time to be lost, we at once went on shore under charge of the second mate, with the carpenter and his crew, to cut clubs for killing the seals, and stakes on which to hang up their skins to dry. The second mate, Mr Hudson, when a lad before the mast, had been here, and knew the best spot where the seals came on shore. It was a deep sandy bay, with rocks on either side. We went the next day to the nearest spot to the bay at which we could land, and hauled the boats up on the beach. We then hid ourselves among the rocks, half on one side of the bay and half on the other, with our clubs in our hands, ready to rush out among the seals at a sign from our officer. After waiting for an hour or so, the seals began to come on shore; the old males and females on either side, and the young ones in the middle, in ranks as regular as soldiers on parade. The first rank worked their way on nearly forty yards from the water, and the rest followed as close as possible. The sun was very hot, and they soon fell asleep, except the old ones, who were stationed on either side to keep guard. The mate kept us back for half an hour or more, saying that they were not sound enough asleep. A seal is a curious animal, of nearly a black colour, with a head something like a dog, with whiskers; a round, smooth back; flappers, which serve as feet, on either side; and a large tail, like that of a fish, divided in two. By the help of the tail and flappers they move quickly over the ground. At last the mate lifted up his hand as a signal for us to begin the attack. We slid gently down the rocks, and got between the seals and the water. The instant they saw us, the old watchmen roared out a signal of alarm. It was too late. We began dealing blows with our clubs on either side as the seals tried to slip past us into the water. What with the roaring of the old ones and the yelping of the young seals, the shouts of our men, and the sound of our blows, there was a fearful din and uproar. A tap on the head settled the young ones, but the old seals died hard, and there was no little danger, if a man fell, of being torn to pieces by them, as their mouths are as large as lions', with sharp tusks. A seal's eye is like that of a young calf, and looks as gentle and sensible as that of a favourite dog. We kept on killing as long as a seal remained on shore. We then set to work to skin them, and to hang up the skins on the frames we had prepared. We had killed eight hundred seals, which was very smart work. We skinned away till the evening, when we went on board, as the captain would not let the ship be left without us, in case of the weather changing, and being obliged to run out to sea. The next morning we went again on shore and finished the work. As we had some hours to spare before dark, we strolled about the island, our chief object being to search for water. We saw several bays, where the seals were likely to come on shore, and numerous bones of the sea lions, another larger sort of seal. I heard a shout ahead, "Hollo! what have we here?" Looking up, I saw a shipmate pointing to a hut at some little distance. We ran towards it, but drew back as we got near; for there, in the very doorway, were two skeletons, the head of one resting on the lap of the other. So they had died, the one trying to help the other, and too weak, after he died, to get up. By the furniture of the hut, and the implements in it, they were certainly sealers, who had been left there by their vessel, which had been probably lost. They, Mr Hudson thought, had died of scurvy, caused by want of fresh meat and vegetables. Two or three of our men shed tears when they saw the sight. I do not think that the sight of a dozen men scattered about dead would have drawn a tear from their eyes. It was the way these two poor fellows had died that touched us. We had to remain five days, while the skins were drying, and then made sail for the island where we expected to find the sealers. Four days passed before we sighted it. As we drew near, a flag was seen flying from a staff on the highest point. As there was no anchorage ground, we were obliged to heave-to under the lee of the island; that is, on the side opposite to that towards which the wind blows. To heave-to is, as I have said, to place the sails so as to prevent the ship from moving much. As soon as this was done, two boats were lowered, and provisions and stores of all sorts put into them. We pulled in between two rocks, and on the beach found six men ready to welcome us. They looked a savage set, but they gave us a hearty welcome; some almost wrung our hands off, others nearly squeezed the breath out of our bodies, and then they leaped about, and clapped their hands, and laughed and cried like children. The reason was this, that, three days before, they had eaten up the very last morsel of food they had; and as no seals had come to the island for some days, they had had nothing but a few shell-fish to eat. If we had not arrived, they would have been starved. They had made up their minds that such would be their fate, when the topsails of our ship appeared above the horizon. They had been watching our sails all day, hoping that we should come near, yet fearing that we might pass at a distance, and not see them. They were too weak to help unload the boats; but when they had tasted of a good meal, which we quickly prepared for them, they gladly lent a hand to carry the things up to their store. It might be supposed that, having so nearly suffered death from want of food, they would have been eager to get away; but they did not seem to think of that. They were contented to remain, now that they had got a good supply of food, till their ship should call for them. They had prepared four thousand skins, which we spent the whole of the next day in getting on board. A more desolate spot it would be hard to find; and yet these men were content to remain another six months or more on it, with the chance, after all, of their ship being lost, or, for some other cause, not coming in time for them. Two of them could read, but strange it seemed, they had no books, and were very thankful for six or seven volumes which we left them, one of them being a Bible. We felt very sorry to leave the poor fellows all alone, more sorry than they felt for themselves. Our course was now towards some islands in the western Pacific, where we hoped to obtain sandal-wood. This sandal-wood is used by the Chinese, in their temples, to burn as incense before their idols; for they are great idolators. It seemed to me that if we took them wood to burn before their idols, we were, in a way, helping them in their idolatry; but I could not get others to see the matter in that light. STORY TWO, CHAPTER 5. We now passed several coral islands. One we saw quite near was about six miles long, with a large lake in the centre, with an entrance to it from the sea. Outside the island, about a quarter of a mile off, was a narrow reef, just rising above the water. The sea breaking on this was prevented from washing over the island. These coral islands are really made of coral; and made, too, by a little insect. It begins on the top of a rock far down under the water, where it makes a house for itself; then it builds another above that, and so on, till it reaches the surface. It cannot build out of the water; but sea-weed first grows on it, and anything floating is caught by this, and stops; and then birds rest on it, and drop seeds, which take root. Then the sea washes bits of coral up from the outer edge, and thus a firm mass is formed, which rises higher and higher, as more trees grow and decay, and more coral is washed up. A sandy beach is formed of broken coral, and tall cocoa-nut trees grow up and bear fruit, and other fruit-trees and vegetables and roots grow, and people come and live on the island. There are many islands in the Pacific Ocean which have been formed in this way, and which have long had people living on them. Some, however, are rocky, and have high mountains in them. Many of these have been thrown up by the means of fire, and are still burning mountains. Some are very beautiful, and have valleys and streams and fountains and rocks and trees of all sorts, and shrubs, and support a large number of people. We were becalmed near one of them; and as we wanted water and fresh provisions, and the people were said to be well-disposed, the captain determined to send on shore. Two boats were manned and armed, in case of accidents, and with a supply of goods to barter (cotton handkerchiefs and knives and hatchets), we pulled in. There was a reef outside, against which the sea broke, and, rising up, curled back in a mass of foam. We, however, found a passage through it, in which, though it was very narrow, the water was smooth. "Give way, lads," cried Mr Hudson, who was in the leading boat. I was with him. We pulled hard. A large roller came on after us. The water foamed up on either side, and in an instant it seemed we were in smooth water. Numbers of people--men, women, and children--were on the beach to receive us. They were of a light-brown colour, and wore very little clothing. The women had short petticoats, and some of the men wore cloaks, besides cloths round their loins. These clothes, I found, were like thick paper, and are made out of the bark of a tree called the paper-mulberry tree. It is steeped in water, and beat into cloth with wooden mallets by the women, and afterwards dyed of various colours. The men were armed with clubs and spears, but seemed very friendly. There were several houses near the shore, built of as poles made from young cocoa-nut trees, and thatched with large leaves. The sides were made of mats, which are drawn up in the daytime to let the wind blow through them, as the climate is very hot in winter as well as summer. As soon as the goods were landed, they were carried up to a house near the beach, which was the natives' trade-house. Here they brought all sorts of things which they thought we should want, mostly roots and fruits and vegetables and hogs, of which there seemed to be a large supply. Mr Hudson, seeing all things ready, began a brisk trade. While it was going on, Bill Sniggs, who had come in the boat with me, asked me to take a stroll with him, as he was sure that we should be back again to go off in the boat. "But it is against orders for any one to quit the beach without leave," said I. "Oh, not here; the people are friendly, and nothing was said about it," he answered. "True enough, no harm can come of it, and I don't mind going a little way," I said, though I knew well enough that the order stood good for this place and all others. Still I wanted to see the country, it looked so very tempting. We walked on and on; now we climbed up a hill, from which we could see the ship, and then crossed a valley, and went along a clear stream up to a beautiful waterfall. We passed a good many cottages of the sort I have described, and the people came out and offered us fruits and cooked roots, like sweet potatoes and perk. We couldn't help going into some of the houses, the people were so kind; besides, we were tired, as we hadn't taken such a walk since we came aboard the _Rose_. We neither of us had a watch, and never thought how the time went. When we were rested, we got up, and, thanking the people of the house for their kindness, went on our way, the country seeming more and more beautiful. At last I said to Bill that I thought we ought to go back; so we turned our faces, as we fancied, towards the place we had come from. We went on some way, and then I stopped Bill, and said, "Bill, I don't think we are right; we are farther off than ever." We looked about to find a hill to climb, to judge where we were, but the trees were so thick that we could see none. One thing we saw, that the sky was changed, and that clouds were passing quickly across it, and that the tops of the trees were bending to a strong breeze. "Bill," I said, "we ought to be back at the boats, for they'll be going off; we shall taste the end of a rope if we keep them waiting." "Never fear, we shall be in time enough," answered Bill. "Why be put out? we can't help ourselves." That was true enough, then, but I knew that we ought not to have come at all. We went on some way till we came to another house. The people in it were very kind, but we couldn't make out what they said, and they couldn't what we said, though we tried to let them know that we wanted to find our way back to the boats. At last a young man seemed to understand what we wanted, for he took us by the hand and led us on. After some time we found that we were going up a hill, and when we got to the top of it we could see the ocean. We looked, we rubbed our eyes; a heavy sea was rolling in, and far away our ship was beating off shore. For some time I could not speak a word. At last I said, "Bill, I fear we are left ashore, unless one of the boats has stopped for us." "Very likely that we are left, Tom, but not at all likely that one of the boats has stopped for us," he answered. "Worse if she has; for we shall catch it soundly when we get on board. Take my advice, let us keep out of the way and not go back at all. This is a pleasant country to live in, much better than knocking about at sea." "No, no, I'd rather get a dozen floggings than leave the ship, and not go back to Old England and see poor mother and brothers, and sisters again. Haven't you got a mother and brothers and sisters, Bill?" "Yes, but they don't care for me," he answered. "How do you know that?" I asked. "Depend on it, Bill, they love you, and care for you, and may be this moment are praying that you may be kept free from danger. Come, at all events, let us go back to where we landed, if we can find the way." Our new friend stood watching us while we were talking, and when we pointed to the ship he shook his head, to show that we couldn't get aboard her; but when we pointed down to the shore he again took our hands and led us on. We must have wandered by ourselves a long way, for we were some time getting to the beach. There was not a sign of our shipmates; we tried to ask where they had gone, but the natives hung down their heads and looked sorrowful. "Bill, something has happened," I said; "we must try to find out what it is." Our friend seemed to understand us better than the rest, so we asked him to learn from them what had happened. After much talking with his friends, he showed us by signs that the ship had fired a gun, and then another, and another, and that the white men had hurried to the boats and shoved off; that the largest boat with Mr Hudson had got out safe, but that the smaller one was upset; some of the people in her were drowned, and others swam out, and were picked up by the large boat. This was, indeed, sad news. Which of our shipmates have been lost? which of them have been saved? we asked one another. I had felt that if the boats had gone without us, Captain Bolton would not forsake us, but would put back to take us off as soon as he could. Now, however, he would suppose that we had been lost, as very likely no one would have observed that we were not with the rest, when they jumped into the smaller boat to pull on board. "Oh, Bill! Bill! here we are left among savages; may be we shall never get away, but have to spend all the days of our lives with them," I cried out in a mournful tone. Bill began to cry, too. "Why, not long ago you wanted to remain," I could not help saying. "That was when I thought that we should be flogged, and were sure to go away," he answered. "Do you know, Tom, I've heard say that some of these people are cannibals; that is, they eat human flesh. Perhaps when they find that the ship is gone, they'll kill and eat us." I said I hoped not, but still I didn't feel very comfortable; for I knew what he said was true. There was now, however, no help for it. "Captain Bolton will believe that we are lost, and when he gets home let our mothers know, and we shall be mourned for as dead," said I. "They won't mourn for me, and I don't care," said Bill. "They will mourn for me, and I should be very sorry if I thought they wouldn't," said I. "Ay Bill, often at night, when the storm has been raging, and the sea running high, and it seemed as if the ship would go down, or might be cast on some hidden reef, I've gone to sleep quite happy, knowing that mother would be thinking of me, and praying for me, and that there was One who hears our prayers, watching over me." We were sitting down under some trees, on a hillock above the beach, from which we could still see the _Rose_ beating off under close reefed topsails. After some time our friendly native came up and sat down by us. After a time, he signed to us to get up, and led us back to his house. Our friend, we found, was the son of the greatest chief in the island. When we got back to the house we had a supper of fish and pork, and bread-fruit and other vegetables were placed before us. In the middle of the house, as soon as it was dark, a fire of dried cocoa-nut leaves was lighted, and round this the family collected. What was our surprise to see the young chief bring out of a chest a book, and begin to read. I looked at it, but though the letters were English, it was in his own language. Then they all knelt down, and prayed, and sang a psalm. I knew it by the tune. "Why, Bill, I do believe these people are Christians," said I. "So I suppose, Tom, if it is the Bible they are reading," said Bill. "No doubt about it," I said; "that's the reason they treated us so kindly. I've heard that missionaries have been out in these parts, and they must have been here, and taught these people to be Christians." "If they are Christians, Tom, then, maybe they won't kill and eat us as we thought they would," said Bill, in a more cheerful voice than he had spoken in before. I couldn't help almost laughing as I answered, "They would be odd sort of Christians if they did; but I'll tell you what, they'll think us very odd sort of Christians if we don't kneel down, and say our prayers with them. We needn't be afraid that any one will laugh at us, as we might have been aboard the _Rose_." "I can't say prayers, never learned," said Bill; "you never saw me saying them aboard the _Rose_." That was true; but mother had taught me to say mine, and I said them in my berth, or to myself on deck, or wherever I could. I thought Bill might have done the same. I felt that we were put to shame by these poor savages, as we called them. So I begged Bill to try and say a prayer, but he said he couldn't, he didn't know what to say. I asked him if he could say what I did, and so we knelt down, and he said prayers after me. The natives seemed pleased, and the young chief nodded his head to show that we had done what he thought right. I don't say there would have been any use in the form, or if I had done it merely to please the natives, but I really did pray to God as truly as I ever did, but I own that, in a way, the natives shamed me into it. There was an old chief and his wife and two daughters, and three other lads, besides our friend. They had all much more clothing on than the other people we had seen, and were more quiet in their manners. As soon as prayers were over, they hung up large pieces of native cloth from the rafters, reaching to the floor, so as to form a number of little rooms. Mats were laid on the floor to form the bedding, and pieces of cloth served as coverlids. The pillow was a curious affair, being a thick piece of bamboo, about four feet long, on little legs. We were shown into one of these rooms, and a sign made to us to go to sleep. Even the largest houses have not a nail in them, but are fastened together with sennit, which is a line made from the root of a tree. I may say that everything is fastened with sennit--canoes, as well as houses--so that large quantities are used. We slept very soundly, having no longer any fear of being cooked and eaten. In the morning, as soon as it was daylight, the whole family was on foot, and before anything was done they had prayers, as in the evening; the young chief leading and reading more out of the Bible. As soon as that was over, they all set about their daily work. The men and boys went into the fields to cultivate the taro and other roots, on which they live; while some of the women got out their mallets and boards to make the native cloth; others employed themselves in plaiting mats and baskets, which are so fine that they will hold water. Bill thought that he was going to be a gentleman, and do nothing, as he said; but I said that if we didn't work we could not expect to be fed, and made signs to the young chief that we were ready to help him. He smiled; perhaps he thought that we couldn't do much, and certainly we could not hope to do anything as well as the natives did. They seemed to me a very clever people, considering the small means they had. They have now iron tools, but they showed me those they had before the English came to the island, very neatly made of flint and shells and bones. They made fish-hooks and spears, and many other things, of bones. We soon learned from the young chief how to work in the fields, and to do a number of things, and it was a pleasure to work for him, he was always so good-natured and kind. By degrees, too, I learned his language, though Bill could not make much hand of it. I wanted to know how it was that he and his people had become Christians, and where the missionary lived who had taught them. At last I spoke well enough, with the help of signs, to ask him. I should have said that his name was Matua. He told me also, with signs and words, that the missionary lived in an island some way off, and that he, Matua, had been there several times, and was soon going again to fetch a native missionary, or a preaching man; that one had been on the island, but that he was a very old man, and had died some time before we came. He told me that he had a canoe preparing for the voyage. I asked him if he would let us go with him, for that I should like to see the missionary, who was a countryman of mine, and that I might, through him, write home to my friends in England. "Would you like to go to them again, or live on with me?" he asked. "I like you very much, but I love my mother and brothers and sisters much more, and if I have the chance, I shall try to go back to them," I answered. "Very right," he said, "but I shall grieve to lose you." The canoe was, at the time we first saw it, nearly finished. It was built like the houses, without a single nail, but all the planks were sewed together with sennit. It was about forty feet long, and scarcely thirty inches wide. It had a gunwale, and ribs and thwarts to keep it in shape. A thick gum was put at the seams to prevent the water getting through. Being so narrow it would have upset, but it had an outrigger, which is a plank, or log, as long as the boat, pointed at the fore end. This rested on the water five or six feet from the canoe, and was kept there by poles, fastened across the canoe. This was always on the lee side, as the canoes can sail both ways, stem or stern first. At one end there was a deck, under which they kept their provisions, and on the top of which the chief sat. The men to move it had short paddles, like sharp-pointed shovels, and sitting with their faces to the bows, dug the paddles into the water, which they sent flying behind them. We were very sorry to part from many of our friends, but still the thoughts of seeing a white man again, and hearing our native tongue spoken, made us glad; besides which, I hoped that somehow or other I should have the chance of getting home. STORY TWO, CHAPTER 6. We had got a good supply of provisions and water, in the canoe, and I understood that the voyage might take us four or five days, or perhaps more. The island looked very beautiful as we sailed away from it, and I did not wonder that Matua loved it so much. His love for it made him undertake the voyage to fetch a missionary, for what he loved more than its beauty were the souls of the people in it, over whom he ruled. For two days the sea was smooth and the wind fair, though there was very little of it. When it fell calm, we paddled on at a good rate. On the evening of the second day, the sky looked threatening. Soon after the next morning broke it began to blow very hard, and the sea soon got up, and tumbled the canoe about in a way which I thought must upset her, or send her to the bottom. The sail was lowered, and while some paddled lustily, others, helped by Bill and me, baled out the water, of which we shipped a great deal, though none came through the seams. This showed how strongly it was built. The canoe was kept head to the seas, but we made no way, and it was very clear that we were driving before the gale,--not back to Matua's island,--though where we were going we could not tell. Matua sat steering as calm as possible. He said that he put his trust in God, and did not fear the storm. He and his people were doing all that could be done to preserve their lives, and that if it was God's will that they should die, they were ready. I should say that they had prayers and sang psalms morning and evening, and that they prayed and sang now, only of course they could not stop paddling or bailing, or kneel down. Yet many white persons would have called these people savages. It gave me an idea of the good the missionaries have done in these seas. Though I had seen what a storm at sea is on board the _Rose_, I did not think how terrible it was in a narrow canoe of thin planks just sewn together. My wonder was and is that we did not go down, or break to pieces. Five days we drove on before the gale. Twice we saw land in the distance, but did not dare to try and reach it, indeed we could not if we had tried. The wind then fell, and the sea went down, and then we lay floating on the water, but the men were too weary to paddle any more. Our food also had grown very short, though we had eaten only just enough to keep life in us. It seemed a doubt whether we should have enough to reach one of the islands we had seen. After sleeping for some hours, the crew seized their paddles, and we began to paddle back the way we had come. The next day it was a dead calm, and we saw right ahead a large vessel, barque rigged. Bill and I both thought she was English and Matua agreed to go alongside. As we drew near, I saw that she was a whaler from the cut of her sails, from her being high out of the water, and the number of boats shaped stem and stern alike. We were now alongside. I told the captain, who asked us what we wanted, how we had been driven out of our course, and begged him to tell me how we could best reach Matua's island. "As to that, you have been driven three hundred miles to the westward of it, if it's the island I fancy from your account," he answered. "It will take you a pretty long time to get there; but I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll give the canoe a tow for a couple of hundred miles, and then take my advice,--do you ship aboard here; I shall be bound home in six months or so, and you won't have a better chance of getting there. If you wish to serve your friends, you can let your wages go in payment: I can't undertake to help these savages for nothing." The last part of this speech did not please me, but still I did not think we could do better for ourselves or for Matua; so, after talking it over with him, we agreed to Captain Grimes' offer. I first bargained that some food and water might be given to our friends, for had I not done so, I fear that they would have had a scant allowance. To tow is to drag a boat or vessel by a rope through the water. We now went aboard the ship, which was called the _Grampus_. She was a very different looking craft from the _Rose_, and her officers and men were a very rough lot. The wind was fair, and the canoe towed very easily. Still Captain Grimes grumbled at having to take her so far. At last I said that I was ready to go back in the canoe if he wished to be off his bargain. I found that he really wanted us, as one of the ship's boys had died of fever, and another had been washed overboard with two of the men. "No, no; that will not do," was his answer. "I'll take the savages as far as I promised, and you two lads shall stay aboard." On the evening of the third day, Captain Grimes said that he had towed the canoe the distance promised, and that she must be cast off. Matua and our other friends were very sorrowful when they parted from us. Captain Grimes gave them some flour and water and biscuit and bread-fruit, and told them how to steer for their island. The canoe was then cast off. From that day to this, I have never been certain whether the island the captain spoke of was Matua's own island, or whether he reached it at all. I know that numbers of canoes are blown away from the land, and that some reach strange islands far, far-off, where their crews settle, but that others are lost with all on board. The _Grampus_ was a vessel of 350 tons,--much smaller than the _Rose_-- but she carried a larger crew. She had six boats, and each boat had a crew of six men. Often all the boats were away together, so that, besides the thirty-six men, in them, more were required to manage the vessel. The boats are about twenty-seven feet long, and four broad, and sharp at both ends. In each boat are two lines, 200 fathoms long, coiled away in tubs. In the end of one, an harpoon is fastened. This is a short spear, and is shot out of a gun like a blunderbuss. There are several such harpoons, and two or three long lances; besides, a lantern, light-box, some small flags, and two or more "drogues," which are square bits of board to be fastened to the harpoon line, in order to hinder the whale when sinking or swimming away. It was some time before we fell in with a sperm whale. Men were stationed at the mast-head and yardarm, on the look-out for whales, from sunrise to sunset; but it was two weeks before we got to our fishing-ground. One day, at noon, while those on deck had their eyes on the galley, waiting for dinner, we were aroused by a cry from the mast-head, of "There she spouts." "Where away?" asked Captain Grimes. The man pointed to the west, and there, not half a mile off, a thin jet of water was seen rising from a dark object, which we soon saw to be a huge whale, as long as the ship, "There again," cried the crew, as once more the jet rose high. Three boats were lowered; everything was kept ready in them. The crew slid into them. Away they went in chase, singing-- "Away, my boys; away, my boys: 'tis time for us to go." We watched the chase from the deck. "He is going down," cried one. "No; he spouts again, he spouts again," we all cried, as another jet rose in the air. "Yes; but he'll be down again," said an old whaler. Still the boats dashed on, as if it was a matter of life and death. The chief mate was in the leading boat. He had reached the whale just as the monster gave a sign that it was going down. The oars were thrown up; the harpoon, shot with certain aim, sank deep into the monster's side. A cheer rose from the men in the boats--we on board took it up. At the same moment the whale began to strike furiously with its huge tail, right and left, beating the water into foam. One of the boats was struck, and knocked to pieces, and the crew had to swim towards the other boats; another was upset, but the crew hung on to her as if they were accustomed to it, and righted her. One of them got in, and baled her out; the oars and other articles were picked up, and away they pulled in chase. The whale, meantime, had sounded; that is, gone down towards the bottom. A two hundred fathom line was run out, and another fastened on; a third was called for from another boat, and a fourth was about to be added, when the line became slack--the whale was rising. A whale breathes the air like a land animal, and therefore cannot remain under water many minutes at a time. Were it not for this, it could not be caught and used by man. The line was hauled in, and coiled away in the tub. Up came the whale at some distance, and off it darted at a great rate, towing the fast boat, the others following. But he became wearied with loss of blood and the weight of the boat. One of the other boats got up, and a lance was plunged into him; then another, and another. Again he began to lash about furiously--the boats backed away from him. He made one leap, right out of the water, and then lashed his tail more furiously than before. Then he once more went down, but only for a short time. He soon appeared--swam slowly on--then the death-struggle came on. It was fearful to look at. Every part of the monster quivered and shook, and then he lay dead--our prize. The sperm whale we had taken is very different to the Greenland whale of the North. It had a blunt nose, like the bottom of a quart bottle; thin, pointed lower jaw; the eyes very far back, and a hump on its back; the tail or flukes being set on flat with the surface of the water, and not up and down, like the Greenland whale. This one was eighty-four feet long, and thirty-six feet round the body, or, suppose it had been cast ashore, it would have been about fourteen feet high. The head was of great size; it was nearly a third of the length of the whole creature, and about nine feet deep. The head alone contained no less than a ton, or ten large barrels, of spermaceti. The dead whale was towed alongside the ship. The head was cut off, and secured astern, that the oil might be dipped out of it. Hooks were then made fast to each end of the body. Men, with ropes round their waists, and with spades in their hands, go down on the body of the whale. A large blunt hook is then lowered at the end of a tackle. The man near the head begins cutting off a strip of the blubber, or the coating of flesh which covers the body. The hook is put into the end of the strip, and hoisted up; and as the end turns towards the tail, the body of the whale turns round and round, as the strip of blubber is wound off. When this is done, the carcase is cast loose, and the head is emptied, and let go also. On the deck are large cauldrons; the blubber is cut up into small pieces, and boiled in them. Part of the blubber serves as fuel. Taking off the blubber is called "cutting in," and boiling it, "trying out." At night, when "trying out" generally goes on, the deck of a whale-ship has a strange and wild look. The red glare of the fires is thrown on the wild, and I may say, savage-looking crew, as they stand round the cauldrons, stripped to the waist, their faces black with smoke, the large cutting-out knives in their hands, or the prongs with which they hook out the blubber, all working away with might and main; for all are interested in getting the work done. The crew of a whale-ship share in the profits of a voyage, and all therefore are anxious to kill as many whales as possible. There is no bad smell in trying out, and the work is cleaner than might be expected. The ship was very nearly full, that is, our barrels were nearly full of oil, and the crew were beginning to talk of the voyage homeward, and of the pleasures of the shore, when one night as the watch below, to which I belonged, was asleep, we were awakened by the fearful cry of "Breakers ahead!" followed by a grinding noise and a shock which made the whole ship quiver through every timber. We rushed on deck. She was hard and fast on a coral reef. STORY TWO, CHAPTER 7. "Hold on for your lives," shouted the captain as a huge wave, dimly seen through the gloom of night, rolled on towards us. It broke with fearful force against the ship, washed several of our poor fellows overboard whose shrieks were heard as they were carried away to leeward. It threw her on her beam ends, and drove her farther on the reef, and with a crash all the masts fell together. Another and another sea followed and lifted the ship over the reef, where the water was smoother. "Out boats!" was the cry. "The ship is sinking." Three of the boats were launched, not without great difficulty; the rest were stove in by the falling masts. We had barely time to get into the boats before the ship settled down till her weather bulwarks alone were above water. We did not know if we were near land, and if near land whether or not it was inhabited. We stayed in the boats near the vessel, hoping that daylight would soon come to show us where we were, and to enable us to get some provisions, if possible, out of her. It came at last. No land was in sight; only reefs and coral rocks all around, some above, some under the water. We had no food in the boats, no water; our only hope was that the ship would break up and things float out of her. Each sea which rolled in shook her till it seemed that she must break to pieces. At last her deck was burst up, and we thankfully picked up a cask of beef, another of pork, and some flour and biscuit, and, what was of still more consequence, three casks of water. These things were divided among the boats. There was only one small boat-compass in the captain's boat. He told us to keep close to him, and that he would soon take us to a land where we should find all we wanted. With sad hearts the crew of the whaler left the ship, and the product of their labours for so many months. Bill and I were together with the second mate. We were well-nigh ready to cry, for though we had not lost anything, we were sorry for our shipmates, and we began to think that we should never get home. For three days the weather remained fine, but on the fourth, as the sun went down, it came on to blow. The sea too got up, and it became very dark. We kept the captain's boat in sight for some time, but she seemed to be going ahead of us. On a sudden we lost sight of her. We pulled on as hard as the heavy sea would let us to catch her up, but when morning broke, neither of the other boats was to be seen. The sky was overcast, we had no compass to steer by, the sea ran high, our stock of provisions was low, our stock of water still lower. We were in a bad way. There was no one to say, "Trust in God." The mate was ill before the ship was cast away. He now lost all spirit, and thought that his end was coming. He told us that we were still nearly two hundred miles from land to the south-west of us, and described the stars we should steer by. The next day he died, and two other strong-looking men died within two days of him. The rest of them thought that they should never reach land. I said at last, "Let us trust in God. Let us pray that He will send us help." Two of the men answered that God did not care for such poor wretched fellows as they were. I said that I was sure He cared for everybody, and that He would hear us if we prayed to Him, however poor and wretched we were. I only know that I prayed as hard as ever I did, and Bill prayed too. Two days more passed away. At night the stars came out, and we steered the course the mate had given us. I was at the helm looking now at the stars, now ahead, when I saw a dark object right before me. It was a ship sailing across our course. I shouted loudly. The shout roused those who were asleep. They all sprang to their oars, and pulled away as hard as their remaining strength would allow, we all shouting at the top of our voices. I saw the ship heave-to, and I burst into tears. We were soon alongside, but without help we were too weak to get on deck. I heard voices I knew giving orders. Yes, there stood Captain Bolton on the quarter-deck, and Mr Alder seeing to the boat being hoisted up. Another person stood before me, watching the men helping us up, it was Toby Potts. Now I felt sure that I was in a dream. Toby had been lost so many months before on the other side of the Pacific. He did not know either Bill or me. No one knew us. That made it still more like a dream. I forgot how many months had passed by since we were on board the _Rose_, and that we were well-nigh starved to death. The captain came round as we sat on the deck, and spoke very kindly to us, and told us that hammocks should be got ready, and that we should have some food as soon as it could be warmed up. "Don't you know me, Captain Bolton?" I asked as he came up to me. He looked at me hard, as the light of the lantern fell on my face. "What! Tom Trueman! I should say, if I didn't believe that he has long ago been in another world," he exclaimed; "if it is Tom, I am right glad to see you, lad. Tell me how you escaped death." So I told him, and made Bill known, for he was in a fright, thinking that we should be punished for leaving the beach without leave. It did me good to see the pleasure the kind captain felt at finding that we were alive. By this time some warm turtle soup was brought us, and a little weak brandy and water, and then we were carried below and put into hammocks. It was not till the next day that I was certain I was not mistaken about Toby Potts. He had floated on the very hencoop which I had thrown over to him, till the next morning, when one of the ships which we had seen, hove-to, passed close to him, and picked him up. That ship fell in with the _Rose_ two or three weeks after we were supposed to have been lost, and Toby was returned on board. The _Rose_ herself had suffered much damage in a gale, and had put into harbour to repair; she had also been some time in collecting sandal-wood, with which she was now on her way to Canton. This accounted for our falling in with her, for I thought that by this time she would have been far on her way home. We had a fine passage to Canton, or rather to Whampoa, which is as far up the river of Canton as ships go. The mouth of the river is known as the Boca Tigris. The captain kindly took me to Canton; it is a most curious city. On the river are thousands of boats, the greater number not more than fourteen feet long, and twelve broad, and covered over with a bamboo roof. In these whole families live from one end of the year to the other, or rather from their births to their deaths. Then there were junks as big as men of war, with huge, carved, green dragons at their bows, and all sorts of coloured flags. But the most curious sights are on shore. The city is surrounded by walls, and the houses look as if they were cut out of coloured paper; the streets are so narrow that only two sedan chairs can pass, and no wheel carriage enters them. At each end of the street are gates, which are shut at night and guarded by policemen. The shops are all open in front, and all sorts of curious things are sold. The people themselves are odd looking, with their black hair in long tails hanging down their backs, and their yellow or blue silk coats, and wide trousers and slippers. The great men walk about under big coloured umbrellas, or else are carried by two men in a covered chair on poles. They are a very industrious, hard-working people, and every inch of land in the country is cultivated. Though they are so clever and neat-handed, and can do many things as well as the English, yet they are idolaters. In their churches, or pagodas as they are called, there are ugly images, which they worship. They burn sandal-wood and bits of paper before them, which they fancy is like saying their prayers. The chief thing produced in the country is tea. When we had landed the hides, seal-skins, and sandal-wood, which we had brought, we took on board a cargo of tea, in chests. With this we sailed for Sydney, New South Wales, as the captain calculated that we should arrive there about the time that the wool produced in that colony would be ready to ship to England. There are many dangers in the seas between those two places. There are typhoons, which are strong, fierce winds; and there are rocks and shoals; and there are pirates, mostly Chinese or a people like them, who attack vessels, if they can take them unawares, and rob them, and sometimes murder all on board. We escaped all dangers, and arrived safely off Sydney harbour. We entered between two high headlands into a large bay or lake, in which any number of vessels might lie at anchor. The city of Sydney is a fine-looking place, with towers, and churches, and large houses, and wide streets, and carriages in great numbers driving about, and vessels of all sorts lying alongside the quays, two or three landing emigrants just arrived from England; and then there are huge warehouses close to the harbour. Into one of them the tea we had brought was hoisted, and out of another came the wool, in large packages, with which the _Rose_ was to be freighted. What astonished me was to think that eighty years ago not a white man was living in all that vast country, and now there are large towns in all directions, and villages, and farms, and sheep-stations, and thousands upon thousands of sheep, some of the wool from whose backs we were now carrying home to be made up into all sorts of woollen goods in our factories. With cheerful voices we ran round the capstan as we weighed anchor, we hoped to remain at our bows till we dropped it in the Mersey. The whaler's people had left us at Hong Kong, at the mouth of the Canton river. They said that we were too quiet for them. I should like to tell of our voyage home, not that anything wonderful happened. We continued sailing west till we arrived off the Cape of Good Hope, and then we steered north, for Old England. We arrived at Liverpool in two months and a half after leaving Sydney, and a little more than two years from the time we sailed from England. Captain Bolton called me into the cabin, and told me that he was so well pleased with me that he would take me another voyage if I had a mind to go; but that I might first go down into Dorsetshire to see mother and my brothers and sisters, and friends. I thanked him very much, and said that I should be very glad to sail with him, and that I hoped to be back any day he would name. Well, I got home, and there was mother, and Jane come home on purpose to see me, and Sam, and Jack, and little Bill grown quite a big chap, and all of them; and I blessed God, and was so happy. I had brought all sorts of things from China for them, and others from the South Sea Islands; and they were never tired of hearing of the wonders I had seen, nor was I tired of telling of them. Thus ended my first voyage; I have been many others, but this was the happiest coming home of all. STORY THREE, CHAPTER 1. THE FORTUNES OF MICHAEL HALE AND HIS FAMILY. A TALE ABOUT LIFE IN CANADA. The sun shone brightly out of a deep blue sky. His rays glanced on the axes of several sturdy men, who with shirt sleeves tucked up and handkerchiefs round their waists, were hewing away lustily at some tall pine-trees. A few had already fallen before their strokes, making a small clearing in the thick forest. Through the trees the glittering water of a lake could be seen, but on every other side the thick forest alone stood up like a dark wall. Yet all that thick underwood and those tall trees must be cut down and cleared away before the newly arrived settlers would find means of living. It was enough to try the bold hearts of the men as they looked round and saw the work before them. Not an inch of ground turned up, nor a hut built, and winter not so very far-off either. Yet it must be done, and could be done, for like work had been done over and over again in the country. The ground rose at first gently and then steeply from the lake, while the splashing sound of a stream on one side gave promise of good water-power for the new settlement. There were not only firs but many hard-wood trees. Such are those which shed their leaves, maple, birch, oak, beech, and others, all destined soon to fall before the sturdy backwoodsman's axe. The scene I have described was in that fine colony of Old England across the Atlantic Ocean, called Canada, and in a newly opened district of its north-west part between the great river Ottawa and Lake Ontario. Old and young were all at work. There were some women and children of the party. The women were busy in front of some rough huts which had been built Indian fashion, something like gipsy tents in England, and covered with large sheets of birch-bark. They were soon made, with a ridge pole, supported by cross-sticks ten feet long. Other thin poles were placed sloping against the ridge pole, and then the birch-bark was put on. The bark comes off the trees in lengths of eight or more feet, and two and three wide. By the side of the huts casks of provisions, pork, flour, tea, sugar, and such-like things, and household goods, were piled up, covered over with bark or bits of canvas. In front of each hut was a fire, at which some of the women were busy, while others were dressing or looking after the younger children. "Breakfast ready, breakfast ready," cried out the women one after the other, as they placed ready for their husbands and sons savoury dishes of pork, or beef, and fish, with hot cakes of wheaten flour or Indian-corn, baked in the ashes, to be washed down with good tea, sweetened with maple sugar. Of milk and butter of course there was none. The men soon came in, and sat down on the trunks of trees rolled near for the purpose, with appetites sharpened by their morning's work. With one of the families we have most to do. The father, Michael Hale, was a broad-shouldered, fair-haired, blue-eyed man, with a kind, honest look in his face. Following him came his three stout sons, Rob, David, and Small Tony, as he was called, and small he was as to height, but he was broad and strong, and so active that he did as much work as any of the rest. He was such a merry happy little chap, with such a comical face, so full of fun, that he was a favourite everywhere. Two men also sat down to breakfast whom Michael had hired to help him clear his ground. Mrs Hale had two stout girls well able to help her, and three smaller children to look after, while her eldest girl, Susan, had gone out to service, and was getting good wages. "Well, Martha, I hope that we shall have a house ready for you and the little ones in a few days in case rain should come on. We've got stuff enough to build it with," said Michael, pointing to the huge logs he had been felling. "We do very well at present in the hut," answered his wife, smiling. "I have a liking for it--no rent and no taxes to pay; it is ours--the first dwelling we ever had of our own." "Ay, wife; and now we have forty acres of land too of our own: little value, to be sure, as they are; but in a few months, when we have put work into them, they'll yield us a good living," observed Michael, glancing his eye down his allotment, which reached to the lake. "We shall have four acres cleared, and our house up, before the snow sets in; and if the boys and I can chop three more in the winter, we shall have seven to start with in the spring." "You'll do that, master, if you work as you've begun," said Pat Honan, one of the men Hale had engaged to work for him. "Arrah now, if I had the wife and childer myself, maybe I'd be settling on a farm of my own; but, somehow or other, when I go to bed at night, it isn't often that I'm richer than when I got up in the morning." "You won't have the whiskey here, Pat; so maybe you'll have a better chance. Just try what you can do," said Michael, in a kind tone. "Ah, now, that's just what I've thried many a day; and all went right till temptation came in my way, and then, somehow or other, the throat was always so dhry that I couldn't, for the life of me, help moistening it a bit." Pat's companion, another Irishman, Peter Disney, looked very sulky at these remarks, and Michael suspected that he had often proved poor Pat's tempter. Near Michael's tent there was another, owned by an old friend of his, John Kemp. They had come out together from the same place in England, and for the same reason. They had large families, and found work hard to get at fair wages. Michael Hale was a day labourer, as his father was before him. He lived in a wild part of Old England, where schools were scarce. He had very little learning himself; but he was blessed with a good wife, who could read her Bible, and she had not much time to read anything else. Michael fell ill, and so did two of his children (that was in the old country); and when he got better, he found that his old master was dead. For a long time he went about looking for work. One day he called at the house of a gentleman, one Mr Forster, five miles from where he lived. "I cannot give you work, but I can give you advice, and maybe help," said Mr Forster. "If you cannot get work at home, take your family to a British colony. I am sending some people off to Canada, to a brother of mine who is settled there; and, if you wish, you shall go with them." "Where is Canada, and what sort of a country is it, sir?" asked Michael. "It is away to the west, where the sun sets, and across the Atlantic Ocean; and a vessel, sailing at the rate of nine or ten miles an hour, takes between twelve and fourteen days to get there. It is a country full of large rivers and lakes and streams, and has railroads running from one end to the other. There is much forest-land to be sold; and a man working for another for one or two years is generally able to save money and to buy a farm, and set up for himself. The climate is very healthy. The summers are hotter than in England, and the winters much colder. The ground is then covered thickly with snow; but the snow is looked on as a blessing, as, when beaten down, a capital road is made over it, and besides it makes the earth fertile. Everything that grows in England will grow there, and many things besides, such as Indian-corn, or maize. Though the summers are short, they are very hot, and corn is quickly brought to maturity. A man must work there, as everywhere, for a living; but if he keeps from drinking, he is sure to get plenty of work, and to be well paid." "I think, sir, that country will just suit me," said Michael. "I find it a hard matter to get work; and when my boys grow up, it will be still worse." "Well, think it over," said Mr Forster. "If you can get work, stay where you are; if not, remember what I tell you, that Canada is a fine country for a hard-working, strong man; and that if you determine to go there, I will help you." Michael thought over the matter, and talked over it with Martha, and they agreed to go. Michael Hale told his neighbour, John Kemp, what he was thinking of doing. When John heard that Michael was going, he said that he would go too, for much the same reason; he had five children, and might have many more; and the day might come when he could get no work for himself or them either. Michael could not have got out if it had not been for the help given him by Mr Forster; but John Kemp had a cow and calf, two pigs, and some poultry; and, by selling these and the furniture, he had enough to pay his passage, and some money over. They went to Liverpool, where Mr Forster took a passage for them on board a large ship, with nearly three hundred and fifty other persons, also going out to settle in Canada. They felt very strange at first; and when the ship began to roll from side to side, and to dip her head into the big seas, they did not know what was going to happen; but it soon got smooth again, and though they were nearly a month at sea, they were not the worse for the voyage. The ship was some days sailing up a large river, called the Saint Lawrence, which runs right across Canada, from west to east. They only went up part of the way in her, as far as Quebec, a fine city, built on a steep hill. They thought the high mountains very fine on the sides of the river, and wondered at the curious places where settlers had built their houses. Wherever there was a level spot on the side of the mountains, some quite high up, there was sure to be one or more fields, an orchard, and a cottage. They were told that these were the farms of French people, whose fathers had come over to the country many years ago, when it was owned by France; and that a great many French still live in the east part; but that in the west, where they were going, the inhabitants are nearly all English, or Scotch, or Irish. They found that there was an agent at Quebec, a government officer, as well as at every large town, whose business it is to tell newly arrived emigrants all about the country, how to get up to where they want to go, and to help those who want it. Michael and his friends went up to Montreal, another large city, in a big steamer. From Montreal they went on sometimes in a railway; then in a small steamer on a river, then on a canal; then across two or three lakes, and again on a river and canal; and then they landed, and went across country in a wagon, and for some miles over a lake, and along a river, in an open boat, till at last they reached the place where Mr Forster's brother lived. Here Michael and John engaged themselves to serve two settlers, at good wages, for a year; their wives were to cook and wash; their cottages and food were found them; while the children were to go to school, and to help in harvest and other times when they were wanted. Michael and John agreed that they had good reason to be satisfied with the change they had made. For two years Michael and John worked on steadily for their masters, as did their wives and elder children, getting good wages, and spending very little. They were employed in clearing the ground; that is, chopping down trees, under-brushing, cutting the underwood, building log huts, fencing, ploughing, and digging, road making--not as roads are made in England, though, but with logs and planks--and building carts and wagons, and bridges too; indeed, there were few things they did not turn their hands to. Now, with fifty pounds each in their pockets, over and above what they had laid out in provisions and stores for the winter, they had come up to take possession of forty acres apiece of freehold land, for part of which they had paid, the rest was to be paid for by a certain sum each year. They had to lead a rough life, but they did not mind that; they knew what they were to expect. They did not fear the cold of winter; for their log-houses would have thick walls, and they had large iron stoves with flues, and plenty of fuel to be had for the trouble of chopping. After the snow had fallen, the boys would chop enough in a few days to last them all the winter, and pile it up in a great heap near the house. They had plenty of clothing, and they had found the climate, in summer or winter, as healthy as they would wish. They were not long at breakfast, and did not give themselves much time to rest, but up they were again, axes in hand, chopping away at the big giant trees which came crashing quickly down one after the other before their strokes. STORY THREE, CHAPTER 2. It seemed a difficult job to get rid of all the trunks now they were down cumbering the earth, after enough were kept for the log-house, and fencing, and firing. The only way was to burn them. It was done in this manner: the largest tree in a group was felled first, and all round were made to fall across it, others were put above it with handspikes. The boughs and brush-wood were placed under and above it, till a huge heap eight feet high was formed. A number of these heaps were made, and when the day's work was done they were set on fire. It was a curious sight at night to see them all blazing together, lighting up the dark forest, and the faces of the men, and the huts, and those around them. On the first night several new settlers came rushing over to Michael's clearing to learn what was the matter, thinking the forest was on fire. The men had indeed to take care that the flames did not spread to the other trees. The stumps of course remained, and it would take six or eight years before they would rot away. Michael had learned to make potash out of the ashes which he could sell at 7 pounds the barrel. The log-house, or rather hut, was next built. Four logs were first laid down on the ground to mark out the shape of the hut, the ends being notched to fit into each other. The upper sides of the logs were then hollowed out, so that the next tier of logs fitted into them. These were also notched. In the same way others were placed above these till the walls were of the proper height. The front wall was higher than the back one, so that the roof sloped from the front to the back. There were now the four walls, but no door and no windows. These were sawed out and frames fitted into them. The roof was made of smaller logs. A log was split in two and hollowed out so as to form a trough. A row of troughs was then put on side by side, sloping from the front wall to the back, the hollow part up. Over the edges of these were next placed other troughs with the hollow down. It was just as rounded tiles are used for roofs in England. The troughs stuck out some way both before and behind to protect the walls. This sort of roof, from being very thick, keeps out the cold in winter, and the heat in summer. The spaces in the walls between the logs were then filled up with clay. A well-made door and thick shutters being fixed up, and a large stove lighted, Michael found even in the coldest weather, that his log hut could be kept far warmer than had been his cottage in the old country. The hut was divided into three rooms, a large one in the middle to serve for the kitchen, the parlour, store-room, and boys' sleeping room; and one on each side,--one of them was for himself and wife and two youngest children, and the other for the girls. Michael and his boys made all the furniture out of slabs. The slabs were made in this way: they took a clean straight-grained pine-tree and cut it into logs eight feet long. One end of each was lined out into planks, three or four inches thick, and then split with wedges. They then fixed the plank into notches with wedges between two logs, and smoothed them with the axe and plane. Thinner planks were made out of the white cedar, which splits very freely. The fir planks served for the flooring of their bed-rooms, and for shelves and cupboards. As they for the first time sat round the table just finished by Michael, they thanked God heartily who had brought them to a country where steady hard work could gain for them so many comforts. Some of the settlers were not quite so well pleased as Michael. They were not so handy with their tools. John Kemp had more daughters, and had not made or saved so much as Michael. He had no stove, but he made a fire-place after this fashion. Four very wide ladders were placed in a square, a little way from the wall, passing through the roof. In front some of the bars were left out. Clay mixed with straw was then kneaded round the rounds, or steps of the ladders and all the rest of the space between them filled up with clay, so that all the wood was thickly covered. The part where the bars were left out was the front of the fire-place. It drew very well and threw out a great heat. It was a great thing to have all the stuff for building and fencing on the ground. The fences were made of rough logs piled up one on another in a zigzag form. This is called a snake fence. The stumps were still in the ground. It would take some years to get them out, but Michael knew that he could even plough between those farthest apart, and dig in other places, and that wheat and Indian-corn and potatoes were sure to grow well. Some time before, a road to the settlement had been marked out through the forest. This was done by blazing the trees, that is cutting a piece of bark off each with an axe. Choppers were now set to work to cut down the trees, and burn them off, but the stumps were left standing, and the carts and wagons had to wind their way along between them. Where the ground was swampy, trunks of trees were placed close together across the road: this is what is called a corduroy road. Other roads were planked over with fir, and called plank roads; others were of gravel. In all of them the stumps had been grubbed up, or rotted out, or blown up. Michael's settlement, Thornhill, as it was called, was able to get on pretty well without a road, as it could be reached by the lake and river. Michael and John together made a canoe that they might get about the lake. It was formed from a large log, and hollowed out. The boys learned soon to paddle in it almost as fast as the Indians could. When the winter set in, and the snow lay thick on the ground, roads were made on it by beating it down hard. Over these roads sleighs, that is carts on runners, were able to travel faster than those on wheels. So hard had Michael and his sons worked, that before the frost set in and the snow came down, they had been able to sow three acres of their ground with wheat, which they hoped would give them a good supply of flour for the next year. "If the reason is early, I hope that we may get a spring burn of three or four acres more;" said Michael to his boys. "Then we'll plant it with Indian-corn, and pumpkins, and potatoes, and turnips, and carrots, and cabbages, and onions, and other garden stuff. In a short time we shall not have much to buy in the shape of food, as soon as we can raise enough for pigs and fowls, and keep a cow or two." As yet nothing particular had happened to Michael Hale and his family. They had worked on steadily, and were already reaping the reward of their industry. STORY THREE, CHAPTER 3. Before October was over bad weather came on, and the settlers who had only just come to the country began to cry out that the winter would be upon them before they were ready. They were, it is true, much behindhand, for though many of them had far greater means than Michael Hale and John Kemp, they had not their experience, and often threw away much labour and time uselessly. They were wrong as to the weather, too, for the Indian summer came, and this year it lasted nearly three weeks. The air was pure and cool, though there was not a cloud in the sky, but there was a haze which made the sun looker redder than his wont, and did not let his rays strike as hot as they had done in the summer. It was a very fine time, and the new settlers said that they had seen nothing like it in the old country. The leaves on the trees too changed to all sorts of bright colours--orange and yellow and pink and scarlet and blue--till the wood looked like a big flower-garden; the beech turned to a straw colour; the maple on one side was light green, and on the other scarlet and yellow and pink and many other colours; the oak became of a dark, shining copper, but there was more scarlet and yellow on most of the trees than any other colour. Among the settlers was a Mr Samuel Landon. He was a kind-hearted man, and had good means, but had not had the practical experience which Michael possessed, and which was of more value to him than money. Mr Landon often came across to Michael's clearing to ask his advice. He and his family had reached Canada at the same time as the Hales. He had lived at the city of Montreal for some time, and spent much money; then he had travelled about the country and spent more. That money would not have been thrown away, but he bought land which he did not like, and sold it at a loss. Now he had bought a second lot. Anybody looking at his and Michael's lot at the end of the fall would have been able to say which of the two was most likely in the course of a few years to be the most prosperous settler. Still Michael Hale was to have his trials. Few men go through life without them. A letter came from Susan to say that she was ill and wished to come home. She begged that some one would come and meet her. Michael could not leave, and he wanted one big boy to help him, so it was settled that Rob and Tony should go. They had a long journey before them. First the voyage along the lake and down the river, and then a long tramp through the forest of three or four days. There was no road, but the trees were blazed they knew, and they had no doubt about finding the way. "Fanny sends her love to Susan, and is very glad she is coming home," said Mrs Kemp, as Rob went to wish her good-bye. Fanny was Mrs Kemp's eldest girl, and a very pretty, good girl she was. Her next girl, Ann, was not quite right in her mind, though she could do what she was bid. Their next girl was too young to be of much use. There were several boys--Bill, and Tommy, and John, all able to do something to help their father. Just as Rob Hale was shoving off, Tommy Kemp, who, though not so old as Tony, was a great friend of his, came running down to the lake, and begged that he might go with them. They were glad of a companion and took him in. They made very good way along the lake, but the weather began to grow bad before they reached the mouth of the river. Dark clouds gathered, the wind rose, the thunders roared, and the lightning flashed brightly. "Let us get on shore, for we shall have the rain down thick upon us," cried Tony. "We shall keep dry if we get under a tree." As he spoke a flash of lightning struck a tall tree near the shore. It was split in a moment from top to bottom, and a huge branch torn off. "It is well that we were not on shore," said Rob. "Where should we have been now if we had got under that tree? God saved us, for it is the very place I thought of going in for shelter. There is a sandy point farther on, we'll go there." The lads drew their canoe up on the point; then they turned her bottom up and got under her. They had just done this when the clouds seemed to break open and empty their contents down on them. The wind roared, the waves came rolling almost up to the canoe. They could scarcely hold it down. All this time the thunder roared, and the lightning flashed, and the crashing of falling trees was heard. "Oh! oh! we are all going to be washed away!" cried Tommy in a fright. "No fear, Tom," said Tony; "all we've to do is to hold on to the canoe, and to our baskets of grub, and then, if we are washed away, we shall be able to turn the canoe over and get into her." This idea made poor Tommy happier till the wind ceased. When they got out from under the canoe, they found that the wind had blown down the trees right through the forest, just as if a broad road had been cut in it, but it had not touched them either on one side or the other. There were still some hours of daylight, so they paddled on. They passed many canoes with Indians in them. They are made of the birch-bark, and sewed together with thread made from the root of a shrub; the seams are then covered over with gum and resin; the ribs are very thin, and made of white cedar. They look very pretty, and are so light that two men can carry one, which will hold eight or ten persons, a long way over land. It is in this way that people travel in the wild parts where there are many rivers. They paddle along the river till they come to the end of it, and then two of them lift the canoe out of the water, and run along over the ground--it may be a mile or it may be a dozen--till they come to another river or lake, into which they launch it; the rest carry the freight on their backs. In that way they go hundreds of miles across North America, indeed almost from ocean to ocean. The lads were going down the river, when they came near some very strong rapids, with a fall of several feet beyond. When the river in the spring was very full, this fall could be shot. Rob had got close to the rapid before he saw how strong the current was running. To get to land he turned the canoe round, and paddled across the river. There was a small island just below where the canoe was. Rob wished to cross above it. A tree with large branches had fallen, and stuck out into the stream. "Lie down at the bottom of the canoe," said Rob to Tommy, who looked frightened. "Now, Tony, paddle your best." Do all they could, the canoe was carried quickly down by the current, close to the island. At that moment, Tommy, seeing the tree, caught hold of a branch, and swung himself up. As he did so, with a kick he upset the canoe, and both Rob and Tony were thrown out of it. Away it floated, but Rob and his brother had kept hold of their paddles; and Rob, seizing Tony, swam with him to the island. Tommy was too much frightened to know what he was about: and when his weight brought the bough down into the water, instead of dragging himself up he let go, and away he was swept by the current. "Oh save me, Rob! save me! save me!" he cried out. "Swim across the stream, lad, and I'll come to you," answered Rob, who was carrying Tony to the island. Instead of doing that, poor Tommy tried to swim up the stream, and of course was carried lower and lower towards the rapid. Rob found it a hard task to get Tony safe to land. As soon as he had done so, the two scrambled across the island to see what had become of poor Tommy and the canoe. They had not heard his voice for a minute or more. He was not to be seen. An eddy had taken the canoe and carried it nearly over to the other side. "That eddy will help us," said Rob: "we must go and look for Tommy." Tony did not like to go into the water again; but Rob, telling him to hold on by the paddle, took the other end in his mouth, and swam boldly off towards the canoe. Tony held on, striking with his legs, but he could hardly help crying out for fear of sinking. He thought all the time of Tommy, and what had become of him. Rob swam on. He was very thankful to reach the canoe. He then made Tony catch hold of it, and pushed it before them till they reached the bank. They lost no time in drawing it on shore, and they looked round for Tommy. He was not to be seen. Before they could launch the canoe again they had to drag it over the grass a hundred yards or more. Once more in the river below the falls they looked about on every side, shouting Tommy's name. No answer came. It seemed too likely that he was lost. They hunted for him round every rock, and among all the bushes overhanging the stream, and the fallen trees floating in it, and clinging to the bank with their roots. Not a sign was there of Tommy. The evening was coming on; it was yet some way to the log hut, where they proposed to stop for the night. Though they feared that he was lost, they did not like to leave the place without finding his body. They paddled first on one side of the stream, then on the other; then they went up close to the falls. "We must give it up, I fear," said Rob. "Poor, poor Tommy! Oh dear! oh dear!" cried Tony. "Why did he go and do it!" "It will be sad news at home," said Rob. "I am thankful that it wasn't you, Tony; but I had rather it had been anybody but Tommy." "Don't let us give up, then," said Tony. "May be he's farther down the stream. I won't believe that he's dead till I see him dead." Strive to the last. That is a good principle. It was one Tony held to, young as he was. They slowly paddled down the stream, looking about them as before. There was a small island some way down like the one above the falls. They paddled up to it, and were going round it, when a log of timber was seen caught in the branches of a tree, which had been blown down, and hung into the water. On the inner end sat Tommy, clinging to the bough above his head. He still seemed too much scared to know exactly what he was about. When his friends shouted his name, he only answered, "Yes; here I am." Tony, in his joy at getting him back alive, gave him a hug which nearly again upset the canoe. Tommy seemed scarcely to know what had happened, and thought that he was still on the island above the falls. It seemed that he had got hold of the log as it was floating by, and that he was carried with it over the falls, and thus his life was saved. The three lads now paddled on till, just at dark, they reached Roland's shanty, as it was called. Roland, an old Scotchman, was an oddity. He called his shanty the White Stag Hotel; and had, chalked up on a board, a figure, under which he had written "The White Stag. Accommodation for man and beast." Except, however, a gallon of whiskey, a jar of beef-tallow, and some Indian-corn bread, he had nothing to set before his guests. The bread and tallow was washed down with burnt-crust coffee, as they did not touch the whiskey. "I ken ye'd be glad o' that if ye was lost in the woods," he said, when he saw the faces of the lads. "What mair can ye want? Dry your clothes, and then there are your beds for ye." He pointed to a heap of spruce fir tops, in a corner of the hut. Though the food was coarse, and their beds rough, the lads slept soundly. They had food of their own, but they wished to husband that for the woods, where they might get none. Leaving the canoe under charge of Roland, the next morning they began their tramp through the forest. The trees were blazed, and there was a beaten track all the way. They were well-known to Roland, and as they were setting off he offered Rob the loan of his gun, with some shot and powder, he having had one left by a settler, who had not come back for it. With a good supply of food on their shoulders, and axes in their belts, they went on merrily. STORY THREE, CHAPTER 4. Alone a person feels somewhat sad walking on hour after hour through the dark forest, but that is not the case when there are several. The young travellers stopped to dine near a stream, and watched the squirrels busily employed in gathering in their winter stores of butter, hickory, and other nuts. At night they camped out. Cutting a ridge pole, they fastened it between two trees; and then, on the side next the wind, leaned against it other poles with pieces of bark and branches. In front of this rude hut they made up a large fire, and cut a store of wood to last them all night. Their beds were spruce fir tops, and their coverlids their buffalo robes which they carried strapped on their backs. On the second day, about noon, as they were walking along in Indian file, one after the other, Rob leading, a fine deer slowly trotted across his path. He had time to unsling his gun, which he carried at his back, and to fire before the animal was out of sight. He hit it, but the deer bounded on. He and his companions followed in chase, Rob reloading as he ran. The blood on the fallen leaves showed that the deer was ahead. On they went, mile after mile; every moment they thought that they would come up with it. At last more blood was seen on the leaves, and in an open glade there stood the stag. Once more, as the young hunters drew near, he was starting off, when Rob fired, and he fell. Here was a fine supply of venison for the rest of their journey. It was a pity that they could not carry the skin. They cut up the animal, and loaded themselves with as much of the best part of the meat as they could carry. This they secured by thongs cut from the skin. The other joints they hung up by the thongs to a tree, while the carcase remained on the ground. While they were so employed, some flakes of snow began to fall. At first they did not think much of this. The flakes were thin, and did not cover the marks on the grass. "Come, boys, we must hurry on, or we shall not easily find the blaze again," observed Rob. They walked as fast as they could with their fresh loads. As there was no wind, they did not complain of the cold. The flakes fell thicker and thicker. "Where is the track?" cried Rob on a sudden. They could see their footmarks behind them, but in front there was not a trace left. "Go ahead," said Tony. "The stag kept a straight line, and we have only to look behind us and see that ours is straight and we shall soon find the blaze." Rob did not think this. He was sure before they had gone far that they were bending very much, now to one side, now to the other. No sun shone. There was no wind to guide them. Rob, after some time, remembered that he had heard that the moss grew thickest on the north side of the trees. On that side the trunks looked light and cheerful and on the other dark and spotted. They had gone some way before he thought of this. Tony and Tommy cried out that they were very hungry, for they had had no dinner before they saw the deer. Rob wanted to find the blaze first. They walked on and on, looking carefully at the trees. No blaze was to be seen. At last the boys said they could go no farther without eating, and Rob himself was very hungry. So they picked up dry sticks; and soon had a fire blazing, and some bits of venison toasting before it. The snow fell thicker than ever. They scraped some up and put it into their kettle and made some tea. Once more they went on, feeling much stronger. "We must soon find the blaze," Rob said more than once; but he was wrong. Night drew on. No blaze was to be found. "We must make a camp before it is too dark," he said at last. No time was lost. He had his axe soon at work cutting poles and boughs and firewood, the boys helping him. A fallen trunk formed the back. Between two in front they fastened a long pole and rested the other poles and boughs between it and the trunk. They did not wish for better beds than the spruce fir tops gave them. A fire soon blazed up in front of the tent. Tony and Tommy were as merry as crickets. They had plenty to eat and the fir tops made them a soft bed, while the fire kept them warm. It was settled that one of them at a time should keep awake to put wood on the fire. Tommy had the first watch. Then he called Rob when he thought he had watched long enough. Of course Rob got the most watching. At last he called Tony and charged him to keep awake. "Never fear about me; I'll be broad awake till it's time to call Tommy again," said Tony. Rob had built up the fire, so that Tony had not much to do. He sat up for some time, warming his hands and watching the blazing logs. Then he thought that he would sit down rather more inside the tent for a little time. He did nod his head now and then, but that was nothing, he thought. He was sure that he had his eyes wide open. After some time he heard a howl--then another, and another. A number of animals howled together--wild beasts--wolves. He thought, "I hope that they are a long way off." They were not loud enough as yet to awake his sleeping companions, but they were coming slowly nearer and nearer. Tony rubbed his eyes. Was he awake? He looked up. The fire was almost out. There was no doubt about the howl of the wolves. They were much nearer than he had fancied. The flame on a sudden burst out of the embers, and out of the darkness several pairs of fierce eyes glared at him. "Rob! Rob! Tommy! wolves!" he shouted out, at the same time seizing a stick from the fire, and waving it about. Rob and Tommy were on their feet in a moment, and each taking up a burning stick they made a rush towards the wolves. They were not an instant too soon, for the fierce beasts having scented the venison, were just going to rush at them. The fire-sticks kept them off, but they did not go far. There they stood in a circle howling away at the three young travellers. While Tony and Tommy threw more wood on the fire, Rob stepped back and loaded his gun, which he had forgot to reload after the second shot at the deer. The wolves seeing that the fire-sticks did them no harm, and being very hungry, were coming on, when the boys once more shouting at the top of their voices, and stirring up the fire, Rob fired at the biggest of the pack, who seemed to be the leader. Over the creature rolled, and his companions taking flight with fearful yells drew back into the forest. Tony said he was sure they stopped and looked round, every now and then yelling together, and asking each other to turn back and renew the attack. The lads at last lay down, but all night long the wolves kept up their bowlings close to them with snarls and other noises. "I dare say now that those fellows have got some carcase or other, and are making merry over it," said Rob. The watchmen did not fall asleep again during the night. When daylight came back the snow had ceased falling, but it lay an inch thick on the ground. "We must find the blaze before breakfast," said Rob, as they strapped their things on to their backs. In all directions they saw the marks of the wolves' feet on the snow. They followed them up some little way to see what they had been feeding on during the night. "Why if this isn't the very place where we killed the deer and there is our venison still hanging up in the tree, which the brutes couldn't get at, and that made them howl so," cried out Tony, who was a little before the rest. They found then that after all their wanderings in the afternoon they had come back to the _very_ spot they had left at mid-day. They hoped that now, if they made a fresh start, that they might reach the blaze. They more carefully noted the moss on the trees. The sun too shone out brightly. They were stepping out merrily, and they thought that they must be near the blaze, when before them was seen a large cedar swamp. The tree in Canada called the cedar is low, twisted, and knotted, with straggling roots growing in moist ground. It makes a thicket which the wind cannot pass through. Indians often cut a way into a cedar swamp in winter to build their wigwams in it. The travellers knew that they could not pass through the swamp, which was all moist, so they had to find their way round it. They fancied that they could not fail to reach the blaze. At last they got very hungry and had to stop and light a fire and breakfast. They knew that they were fortunate in having plenty of food, for they had heard of people wandering about in the woods for days together without anything to eat. Noon came round again. No blaze yet seen. "When shall we find our way out of this, Rob?" asked Tony. "May be in a day or two, may be in a week," answered Rob. Tony and Tommy looked very black at this. They were getting tired walking about all day in the snow, with heavy loads on their backs. Tommy began to cry. Just then a shot was heard. They ran on in the direction from which the sound came, and Rob fired his gun in return. In a few minutes they met a tall, thin, oldish man, with a gun in his hand and a bag at his back. "Why, youngsters, where have you come from?" he asked. Rob told him. "Not much out, youngsters; why you are scarcely more than two hundred yards from the blaze, and haven't been for some time past," the old man replied. "Come, I'll show you." The old hunter stalked away at a great rate, and they followed as fast as they could. "That's your way," he said; pointing to the blazes on the trees. "Push on as fast as you can, or the snow may be down on you, and you'll not be able to get on without snow-shoes. It wouldn't be pleasant to you to be snowed up here in the woods." "No, indeed, master," said Rob; "especially if we were to have such visitors as came to us last night." The old hunter laughed when Rob told him of the wolves. "They won't hurt anybody who shows a bold front, for they are great cowards," said the old man. "But woe betide the boy who is caught out alone at night, if any of the savage beasts fall in with him. Still, though I've hunted through these parts more than thirty years, I've heard of very few people who ever got any harm from them." Rob thanked the old man, who said that his name was Danby Marks. They all walked on together for some time, chatting pleasantly. The snow began to fall very thickly again. Rob thought that old Marks was going to leave them. "I see that you are young travellers, and I may help you a bit may be," said the old man; "your way shall be mine." He told them much about the birds and beasts and fish of those parts. "The lakes and rivers are full of fish; the salmon are very fine. Then there are sturgeon, and a fish called maskinonge, not known in England; and pike, and pickrel, and white-fish, and trout, and herrings, very like those in salt water; and bass, and sun-fish, and perch, and many others. Anybody may catch them who can. Many are killed with a spear, and others caught with nets of all sorts. Indians catch the white-fish with a scoop-net, like a landing-net, with a long handle. They stand up in their canoes, amid the rapids, and as they see the fish in some more quiet hollow, they, quick as lightning, slip in their nets and scoop him up. They carry torches in their canoes at night, and when the fish swim near, drawn by the light, they dart down their barbed spears and seldom fail to spike. "This is a rich country, indeed," continued old Marks. "Just think of the numbers of deer, the moose, with a heavy head, bigger than the largest horse; and the caribou, rather smaller, but more fleet; and then there's the elk, and other smaller deer. Many and many's the night I've camped out on the snow, with my feet to a blazing fire, wrapped up in a buffalo robe, going after them critters. Then we've black bears, but they don't often attack men, though they are mortal fond of honey, and sheep, or pigs, or poultry, when they can catch them. The wolverine, is the most savage animal we've got, and as cunning as a fox. They can climb trees, and spring down on their prey. I've known a man try to catch one, and very nearly got caught himself. The racoon is a curious critter, with the body of a fox, the head of a dog, and a round, bushy tail. The hind legs are longer than the fore, and both are armed with sharp claws. They live in trees, and leap nimbly from branch to branch. We shoot them sitting on branches, or popping their heads out of some old hollow stump. Then there's the lynx, and the otter, beaver, musk-rat, ground-hog, woodchuck, flying squirrel, skunk, marten, mink, fisher, hedgehog, and many others. Most of them are eatable, and the skins of all of them sell for a good deal of money. We have no lack of birds either: wild turkeys, and geese, and ducks, and pigeons, which fly in flocks so thick as to darken the air. A man with a good gun, and who knows how to set traps, need never starve in this country. Not but what I say a settler's life is the best for most people. I took to the woods when I was young, and now I am old I have no wife or children to care for me, and that's not the fate I would wish for any of you young people." The old man sighed deeply as he finished speaking. Still Rob was so interested with the accounts of the old trapper's adventures, that he begged he would let him go with him some time into the woods to hunt. Old Marks readily promised to take Rob with him. They travelled on cheerily, talking on these subjects, though the snow fell so thickly that at last it became heavy work to walk through it. They had to camp out three nights, so little way did they make. Still they did not mind that, as they had plenty to eat, and old Marks told them no end of amusing stories. At last they reached the town where Susan was at service. She was expecting them, and all ready to start. When, however, her mistress, Mrs Mason, heard that she intended walking, she would not let her go. She said that it was not fit for a young girl who was delicate, and that she must wait till she could get a lift in a sleigh going that way. Rob said that he would not wait, as he ought to be back again to help his father. Still the good lady would not give in. STORY THREE, CHAPTER 5. At last they reached the town where Susan was at service. She was expecting them, and all ready to start. When, however, her mistress, Mrs Mason, heard that she intended walking, she would not let her go. She said that it was not fit for a young girl who was delicate, and that she must wait till she could get a lift in a sleigh going that way. Rob said that he would not wait, as he ought to be back again to help his father. Still the good lady would not give in. Two days passed, and the snow came down again thicker than ever. Then it cleared up. The sky was bright, the wind keen, and there seemed every chance of the frost lasting for some days. It was likely, however, that there would be one or two thaws before the regular frost of winter set in. At last Rob thought that he would hire a sleigh to carry his sister. Just then, who should he meet in the street but his neighbour, Mr Landon. Rob told him of his difficulty. "Just the very thing," said Mr Landon. "I have bought two sleighs, one which I want to send home at once, as it is for the use of my wife and daughters. You shall take Susan in it, if your brother will wait two or three days longer, and drive the luggage-sleigh with my winter stores. By starting early you will be able to get through half the distance to Roland's shanty by night-fall. Take fodder for the horse, and if you cover in the sleigh at night, and keep up a blazing fire, Susan won't be the worse for it." Rob agreed to the proposal. Tony and Tommy were in great glee at the thoughts of driving a sleigh by themselves. Rob had told Mr Landon that Tony was fully up to the work. As there was no time to be lost, Rob set off the next morning by daybreak, with Susan well wrapped up in buffalo robes. Mr Landon had to do some business in a distant town, and would not be back for two weeks or so. It seemed certain that the fine weather would last when Rob set out. At last Tony's turn came. His sleigh was only a large box, on runners. Before day broke, he and Tommy were on foot, ready to start. Mr Landon cautioned them not to delay on the road. "No fear, sir," said Tony. "May be we'll catch up Rob, if he isn't very smart," observed Tommy. Away they drove. There was nothing unusual in giving a sleigh in charge of two such boys as Tony and Tommy. Boys in the colonies are constantly employed in work which men only would undertake in the old country. Tony had often driven sleighs long distances for his former master, so he had no fear about the matter. The horse was a rough animal, well up to bush travelling. If he could not go round a log, he thought nothing of making a leap over it. Away they trotted, the sleigh-bells sounding merrily in the frosty air. Rob's sleigh and several others had passed, so that the snow was beaten pretty hard, while the track was well marked. Tony and Tommy amused themselves by whistling and singing and telling stories, laughing heartily at what each other said. The country looked very different to what it had done ten days before. Everything was white, the boughs hung down with the weight of snow, and where in some places it had melted and frozen again, the trees looked as if they were covered with diamonds and rubies and other precious stones. The horse went well, and they got on famously all day. Before it was dark they reached the spot where Rob and Susan had camped. The boys soon had a fire blazing in front of the hut Rob had built for Susan. They hobbled the horse, and gave him some hay and oats, and then they began to cook their own provisions. It would have been hard to find a couple of more merry and happy fellows; not that they had forgot the wolves, but they did not fear being attacked as long as they kept up a good fire. This time, however, the one on the watch took care not to fall asleep, and to keep the fire burning brightly. Now and then howls were heard from far-off in the depths of the forest, which reminded them of the visitors they might expect if they let the fire out. Daylight came again; they and the horse breakfasted; and they were once more gliding over the smooth snow, the sleigh-bells sounding merrily in the fresh morning air. As the sun rose, the air became warmer and the snow softer, which prevented them from getting on so well as they hoped. As the sun went round, and the trees for a time were cast into shade, long icicles formed on the boughs, which, as a stray beam found its way through the wood, shone like masses of precious stones. The snow had now lasted for some days, and at that early time of the season a thaw might any hour begin. This made the two lads eager to push on; but "too much haste is bad speed," and they almost knocked up their horse before half the day's journey was over. The evening was drawing on, and they were still a long way from Roland's shanty. Tony was driving, and making their tired horse go on as fast as he could, when Tommy, looking over his shoulder, saw a huge wolf following close behind them. "Drive on fast," cried Tommy, pointing at the wolf, "I don't like the looks of that chap." "He's not a beauty, but he won't do us any harm as long as he's alone," said Tony, who was a brave little fellow. "But he isn't alone," cried Tommy, "I see three or four other brutes skulking there among the trees--Push on! push on!" It was high time, indeed, to push on, for the big wolf was drawing nearer and nearer, and his followers seemed only to be waiting his signal to begin the attack. As the horse, knowing his own danger, galloped on faster, the wolves set up a hideous howl, fearful that their prey would escape them. Tommy seized the whip from Tony and began to lash away at them. "If I had Rob's gun I'd pay off those brutes," cried Tony, "slash away Tommy! keep them off! it won't be pleasant if they catch hold of us." On went the horse; he did not think of being tired now. It was hard work to guide him between the stumps and fallen trees. Tommy lashed and lashed away, and shouted at the top of his voice. An overturn would have caused their death, as the wolves would have set on them before they had time to get upon their feet. They were coming to a bad bit of the road where they would have to drive down some steep and rugged places to avoid fallen logs. The wolves seemed to think that this would be their time, for all the pack made a dash at the sleigh. Tommy lashed with his whip with all his might. One big beast was on the point of springing into the sleigh, and the boys, with reason, gave up all for lost. Still, like brave fellows, they strove to the last. "Hit him with the butt end," cried Tony. Tommy struck the brute with all his might between the eyes. The wolf fell back, but others were coming on. A moment afterwards two more sprang up at the sleigh. One of them Tommy treated as he had done the first, but the other was just seizing him by the leg, and a third was flying at Tony, who, having to guide the horse, could not defend himself, when a bullet whistled by and knocked over one of the animals. The others, frightened by the report, stopped short, and Tommy had time to hit the wolf just going to lay hold of Tony. "Well done, youngster, well done," cried a man who just then stepped out of the bush. "If I hadn't come just in the nick of time it would have been the worse for you, though." The boys saw that the man was their friend Danby Marks. Tony had hard work to stop the frightened horse, and could not have done it if the old man had not caught the reins and soothed the animal. A second shot from his rifle, by which another wolf was killed, sent the whole cowardly pack howling back into the forest. "You must let me go as your guard for the rest of the way," said the old hunter, as he stepped into the sleigh and bade Tony drive on, "Don't suppose, though, I came here by chance," he added; "nothing ever does happen by chance, and I am here to-day because I met Rob, and as his mind misgave him, he begged that I would come and look after you." Tony and his friend thanked the old man heartily for the help he had given them. "Yes, indeed, Mr Marks: we should have been made into mince-meat by this time if it hadn't been for you," said Tony. It was, indeed, a good thing for the lads that the old trapper found them when he did, even if there had been no wolves; for the night came on very dark, and without him they could not have found their way to Roland's shanty. In the night the wind changed, the rain came down in torrents, and the remainder of the road along the banks of the river and the shore of the lake was impassable. They had, therefore, to follow Mr Landon's orders, to leave the sleigh under Roland's care, and to go home in the canoe. STORY THREE, CHAPTER 6. Old Marks offered, the next morning, to go with them, telling them that the current in the river was so strong that they would not stem it by themselves. They saw that he spoke the truth, and were very glad to have his help. The rain ceasing, they started soon after breakfast with as much of Mr Landon's goods as the canoe would carry. Tony thought Rob a very good canoe-man, but he found the old trapper a far better; and it was curious to see the way in which he managed the canoe, even among rapids, into which few persons would have ventured. His strength, too, was very great--for he dragged the canoe, heavily laden as it was, all the way along the portage over the snow; for the frost came on again that evening, and in exposed places hardened the ground. They found it much colder camping out by the lake than they had done in the woods. As soon as it was dark, the old trapper lighted a torch, and with a spear went out in the canoe. The fish came up to the light as moths do to a candle, and were seen by the old sportsman's sharp eye; and in the course of a few minutes he had killed more fish than he and his two young companions could eat for their supper and breakfast. With the canoe to keep off the wind, and a blazing fire, they did not complain of the cold. The paddle across the lake, however, exposed to the biting wind, was the coldest part of the journey. They had made some way along the lake, when Tommy, who had nothing to do but to look about him, said that he saw some one walking about on an island, and making signals. "Some Indian just warming himself this cold day," said Tony laughing. "May be, it's no business of ours," said Tommy. "Boys, if a fellow-creature is in distress, it's our business to go and see if we can help him," observed old Marks gravely, and turned the head of the canoe towards the island. "If he's not in distress it is only a little of our time lost, and better lose a great deal than leave a human being to perish, whatever the colour of his skin." Tony and Tommy felt rebuked for their carelessness. On getting near the island, who should they see but Pat Honan, one of the men who had been employed chopping for Michael Hale. He now looked very blue. He could not speak, and could scarcely move his hands. "He'd have been frozen to death in a few more minutes," said Marks. "Light a fire, lads, quick, and we'll warm him up." He threw one of the buffalo robes over the man, and poured a few drops of whiskey down his throat, while the boys made up a blazing fire. Marks turned poor Pat round and round before it, rubbing and beating him. As soon as Pat could speak, he cried out, "Arrah, it was the whiskey, the whiskey did it all; ahone, ahone! if it wasn't for that, Pater Disney might have been alive and well." "What about Peter Disney?" asked Marks. "Oh, ahone, ahone! he lies out there stark and cold," answered Pat, pointing to the other end of the island. As soon as Pat got well enough to be left for a little while, with Tommy to look after him and keep up the fire, Marks and Tony paddled round to where he pointed. There they found a boat knocking against some rocks, and, on landing, not far off was the body of Peter Disney, frozen stiff, though covered up with a blanket. He was sitting upright with his mouth open. A dreadful picture. Nothing could be done for him, so they again covered him up, and towed the boat out from among the rocks. "I should like to write over his head, `Drink did it,'" said the old man: "if I was more of a scholar I would." As the canoe would not hold another passenger, they all got into the big boat and towed her. Marks, Pat, and Tommy took the oars while Tony steered. "Well, Pat, how did it happen?" asked Marks. "Why, do you see, Pater and I was going to do some work for a new settler at the farther end of the lake, and so we hired a boat to make a short cut--a long cut it'll be for Pater, seeing he'll never get there; och, ahone, ahone! Says Pater, `We'll not do without provisions, Pat, and so I'll be after getting _Home_, and jist a drop of whiskey to wash them down.' I axes him if he'd got them all right. `All right,' says he, as we shoved off. All right it wasn't though, for when I came to axe for some bread and cheese and a slice of pork, he hadn't got any. Indeed, faith, he'd forgotten all else but a big bottle of the cratur. `It's a bad bargain,' says I; but I thought we'd make the best of it. We rowed, and we took a pull at the bottle, and we rowed again, and then another pull; but Pater took two pulls for my one--worse luck for him,-- and so we went on till somehow or other we both fell asleep. When we woke up, there we were in the middle of a rice-bed. How to get out was a hard job, when Pater, in trying to shove with the oar, fell overboard. I caught him by one leg just as he was going to be drownded entirely, but he was little better than a mass of ice in a few minutes, in spite of the whiskey inside of him. I at last got him on shore, and covered him up with a blanket, but before long he was as stiff as an icicle, and though I shouted as loud as I could, and bate him with a big stick, I couldn't make him hear or feel. Ahone, ahone! och the whiskey! I'd rather that never a drop should pass my lips again, than to die as Pater Disney." Several families of Irish had lately arrived at the settlement, to some of whom Peter Disney was related. As soon as Pat Honan drew near the shore, where many of them were standing watching the boat, he shouted out that Peter was dead. Forthwith they set up a fearful howl, in which others as they came up joined them, till the whole party were howling away in concert, led by Pat, who cried out, "Ah, it was drink--the cratur,--'twas drink, drink that did it." Rob and Susan had arrived safely with the sleigh. As soon as the ground hardened, Rob set off in the canoe, and brought the luggage-sleigh home by the snow road formed through the woods, along the borders of the lake. STORY THREE, CHAPTER 7. Though most out-of-door work comes to a standstill in winter, chopping can still be carried on, fallen trees cut up and fresh trees cut down. One of the customs of the country is to form a bee when any particular piece of work has to be done in a hurry. Such as a log hut or a barn raised, or some ground cleared. The bees are the neighbours who come from far and near; they receive no wages, but are fed well, and whiskey is served out too well while they are at work. The more industrious among the settlers employed the time in the house in making household furniture, mending their tools, and in many other ways--not forgetting reading the Bible to their families. The winter was already some way advanced when most of the inhabitants of Thornhill were invited to chop trees and to put up a log hut, by a gentleman, a Mr Sudbury, who had bought land about three miles off and wished to get in some crops as soon as the snow was off the ground. Michael Hale, and Rob, and John Kemp, and Mr Landon, and many others went. They expected to clear half an acre of ground, and to get the walls and roof of the log hut up in one day. Most of the settlers in Thornhill were well, in spite of the cold, except Mrs Kemp. She had for some time been ailing, and expected soon to give birth to another child, Mrs Hale had gone in to have a chat with her, and to help her in some household matters, when Tommy came running in breathless. "What's the matter, Tommy; eh boy?" asked Mrs Hale. "A big tree has come down at Mr Sudbury's clearing, and killed, or pretty nigh killed, some one. Nobody knows who it is, but I hope it's not father, nor Mr Hale either." These words frightened both the wives, who wanted to set off at once. "No, no, I'll go," said Mrs Hale. "You stay quiet at home, Mrs Kemp. It's the only fit place for you." Just then, one of the Miss Landon's came in to see Mrs Kemp. She said, if Tony, who had come up with his mother, would go with her, she would set off at once, with such things as were likely to be of use to the sufferer, whoever he might be. "You, Mrs Hale, stay and take care of Mrs Kemp," she said. This Mrs Hale promised to do, for Mrs Kemp was looking very ill. Mary Landon was a young girl of much sense. She hurried home, and collected all the articles she might require. Tony said that he knew a short cut, but as it was not beaten down it could not be passed except on snow-shoes. His own he had brought with him. Mary had lately learned to walk in them, and had a a pair ready. They were wooden frames in shape something like an egg flattened out, only sharp at both ends. The centre part was net-work of leather thongs, like a very coarse sieve. They are fastened to the feet by thongs of leather. From covering so much space, they do not sink into the snow. On their feet, people in winter wear in the country soft leather socks, called mocassins, with one or two pairs of thick worsted socks inside. Mary's were made by an Indian woman, a squaw, as the natives call their wives and daughters. They were worked prettily with coloured porcupine-quills and beads. Quickly putting on her snow-shoes, Mary set off with Tony. Both had long sticks in their hands. They had got about half way, when Tony looked up, and said, "I hope, Miss Landon, that you are not afraid of bears." "Why?" she asked. "Because I see the fresh marks of one on the snow," he answered. "We may meet the gentleman; if we do, we must attack him with our sticks, and shout, and he will go off; but if we attempt to run, he'll gain courage and follow." Mary said that she would follow Tony's advice; but as she walked on, she looked anxiously on one side and on the other, expecting to see the bear appear. As to running away in snow-shoes, that she could not, and she was afraid that, in attacking the bear, she might topple over, and he might set on her. "No fear, Miss Mary," said Tony, as he saw her looking about; "if he does come, I'll give him a taste of the tip of my stick, and he'll soon turn his tail to us; he is not far off, I see by his marks; he'll show himself presently. Now don't run, Miss Mary, but shout out like a man, as if you wasn't afraid." Scarcely had Tony given this advice, than a brown, shaggy-coated bear was seen moving along the snow between the trees. He soon caught sight of the travellers, and sat up, watching them as they passed. "I told you he wouldn't hurt us," said Tony; "we used to see plenty of them where we were last." They had not, however, gone far, when Tony, looking over his shoulder, cried out, "Here he comes though; but don't fear, there's a rise a little farther on, and from the top of it we can see Mr Sudbury's clearing." Still the bear followed, and got closer and closer. Tony kept facing him every now and then. At last he cried out, "Now's our turn, Miss Mary, turn round and shout as you never shouted before." Mary did as she was advised, and Tony at the same time setting up a loud shriek and hallo, and shaking his stick, the bear was so astonished that he turned round and waddled off. Once or twice he looked back, but Tony's shout made him hasten away faster than before. Thus it will be seen, that though there are bears in Canada, they are not much to be dreaded. In a short time Mary and her companion arrived at the clearing. She inquired anxiously who was the sufferer, for she knew that it might be her own father as likely as any one else. "It is John Kemp, he is there in the hut," was the answer. "Bless you, Miss Mary," said Michael Hale, when he saw her come to assist his friend; "but I'm afraid that help comes too late. The best surgeon in the land couldn't cure him." Poor John Kemp lay in a corner of the unfinished hut on a bed of spruce fir tops, a fire lighted near to give him some warmth. He was moaning and complaining of the cold. He had been cut by his axe as the tree fell, which at the same time crushed one of his legs and hurt his side. Mary bound up the wound more carefully than it had been done, and fomented his side; but she saw that she could do no more, and advised his being carried home at once. No surgeon was to be found nearer than forty miles. One had been sent for, but it was very doubtful if he could come. A litter of boughs was at once formed, and poor John, wrapped up in buffalo robes, was at once placed on it, and Michael and Rob Hale, and other members of the bee, undertook to carry him home. He thanked his friends, and Mary in particular, but told them that he was sure he should never get there. He did, however; but those who carried him saw, as they drew near his cottage, that something was wrong. Michael sent Tony on to ask. Tony came back shaking his head: some one had told Mrs Kemp, in a hurry, that her husband was killed. The shock was too great for one in her weak state. Just before her husband was brought home, she had died, giving birth to a tenth child, "God's will be done," whispered John Kemp, when he heard of his wife's death, "He will take care of our poor orphan children." Before the night was over John himself had rejoined his wife in another world. His prayer was heard, and his faith in God's love rewarded. A meeting of all the settlers was called. Mr Landon proposed raising a subscription for the orphans. "That is not wanted," said Michael Hale, "I will take charge of two of them, and more, if the rest do not find homes--Fanny and Tommy shall become my children." "And I will take another girl then," said Mr Landon; "and the poor infant, my daughter will nurse it." "I will take a boy," said Mr Sudbury. Thus the children were quickly disposed of among some of the kindest and best of the people in the settlement. The orphans became really and truly their children, and were treated in no respects differently. There was nothing uncommon in this. The same thing is done in all parts of the province, and those who thus protect the orphans seldom fail to receive a blessing on their homes. Fanny and Tommy soon learned to look on Mr and Mrs Hale as their parents, and to render them the same obedience and affection that they would have done had they really been so. STORY THREE, CHAPTER 8. No one finds settling in a new country all smooth work; and if a man cannot look ahead and think of what his labour is sure to produce, he will often be very much down-hearted. Some people give up when, if they had held on, they would have succeeded at last. Michael Hale was not one of the give-in sort. The winter in Canada lasts a long time, but most people who have plenty to do like it very much. Michael Hale's public room was a good large one, and as soon as the day's work was over, and supper eaten, he set everybody to doing something or other. The girls had always plenty to do to spin and knit and sew. The boys, too, learned to knit, so that they could knit their own stockings. There was a hand-loom weaver among the settlers, and from him David learned to weave what his sisters spun. From this time, except a little calico, there was very little in the way of clothing the family had to buy. Tony learned cobbling, and, in time, to make shoes. Rob was a first-rate carpenter. The younger boys helped their brothers. Those were pleasant evenings, as they sat round the blazing fire which made amends for the poor light of the tallow lamps. One evening Rob and David had to go out to look after one of the cows which was sick. They did not much like leaving the cozy fireside for the freezing night air. "It must be done though," said Rob; "come along, David." No sooner did they open the door than they heard a strange squeaking from the pig-sty, which, they had wisely built at some little distance from the house. It was a bitter night. They stopped an instant to listen, and in that instant their hair and eyebrows and eyelashes were frosted over. The squeaking went on. "Some creature must be among the pigs," cried Rob. "Run back for the gun, David, I'll go and see." While David went in to get the gun, Rob, with a thick stick and a lantern in his hand, hurried down to the pig-sty. One fine porker lay bleeding on the ground, and another was not to be seen. A faint squeak from the forest on one side showed where he was gone. Rob calling on David to follow, ran on in the hopes of catching the thief. He hadn't got far when the light of the lantern fell on the back of a shaggy-haired beast, which he at once knew to be that of a bear. In its fore-paws it carried the missing porker, which still sent forth a piteous cry for help. Rob soon overtook the bear and gave him a no gentle tap on the back of his head. Bruin, not liking this, dropped the pig and turned round to face Rob, while piggie, having still the use of his legs, ran off towards his sty. The bear seemed resolved to vent his rage on Rob, who stood ready to receive him with his thick stick, flourishing it before his face. With a loud growl the angry bear sprang on Rob. "Fire! fire!" cried Rob, "he is biting my shoulder." David was afraid of hitting his brother, he did not therefore fire till he got close up to them, and then, putting the gun to the bear's head, he pulled the trigger. Over rolled the creature, and Rob was set free. He was much hurt, but his thick coat had saved him from a worse wound. The snow was hard, so that they were able to drag the carcase over it to the house. One of the pigs was so much hurt that Rob was obliged to kill it, while the other, which had been carried off, escaped without much damage. After doctoring the cow they appeared at home with their prize. It made more than amends for the loss of the pig; for in Canada, in winter, it matters not how much meat is in store, as once frozen it will keep till the warm weather returns. Often people have a dozen turkeys and twice as many fowls, and small animals, and fish hanging up in their larders, at once. In the markets, fish, flesh, and fowl are also sold in a frozen state. The bear was quickly skinned and cut up, but he was frozen almost hard before the work was finished. The next day Rob's shoulder hurt him so much that he was obliged to stay at home. Susan and his mother doctored it as best they could, but he did not get better. At last they went up to Mr Landon's house, to ask what they ought to do. Though it was one of the coldest days, Mrs and Miss Landon hurried down to the hut. They soon saw that, without great care, the matter might become serious. Having left a lotion and some medicine, with directions how to treat Rob, they were on their way, home when they saw a thick smoke curling up into the sky above where their house stood. Mary hurried on till she could see the house itself. Fire was coming out of the roof. "Oh, mother, do you go back to the Hales and ask for help, and I will run on and see what can be done at once," she exclaimed. As soon as Mrs Landon reached the Hales, Tommy ran to call Michael and his two boys, and Pat Honan, who was working for them. Mr Landon and his only son, George, was away. Mary found Biddy McCosh, the servant-girl, wringing her hands and running about not knowing what to do, while her youngest sister was asleep, and the next was crying, seeing that something was the matter but not knowing what it was, Mary's first thought was to place her little sisters in safety, the next was how to put out the fire and save the furniture. The children she carried, with some bedding, to an outhouse, and wrapped them up warmly. While doing this, she sent Biddy in search of a ladder. By it she bravely mounted to the roof. Biddy had made up too large a fire in the stove and heated the flue. This had set fire to the wooden roof. No water was to be had; every drop around was frozen. "Biddy, a shovel!" cried Mary. With it she shovelled the snow over the roof, but it did little even in checking the flames. While she was so employed, her mother and Mrs Hale and Susan arrived. Rob followed-- nothing would stop him. Susan climbed, up to the roof, with her, and the two girls worked bravely together. Rob said that he must go up and help them, but his mother held him back. "It will be his death if he goes up there," said Mrs Landon. "If you must work, Rob, help us to get out the furniture." While they were thus employed, Michael Hale and his two sons and Honan and other neighbours arrived. The two girls came down from their post of danger and the men took their places, but they could not with the snow alone stop the flames. There seemed every chance of Mr Landon's house being burnt down. "I've seen salt melt snow. If there is in the house a cask of meat in brine that may help us," exclaimed Rob. There was one. It was brought out, the head knocked in, and the brine poured out in small quantities on the snow. Wherever the brine dropped the snow melted, and the fire was put out. It was some time, however, before all danger was passed. A large part of the roof was damaged and the house made unfit to be inhabited. "Oh, Mrs Landon, ma'am, I hope that you will honour us by coming down and taking up your abode with us till the roof is on again," said Mrs Hale in a kind voice. "Susan will take care of Miss Mary and the little ones, and Mr Landon and your son George will be sure to find lodgings with other friends till the house is set to rights again." Mr Landon had suffered so many ups and downs in life that when he arrived he was not very much put out at the injury done to his house. He was only thankful that his wife and children had escaped injury. A bee was formed, and in a couple of days the roof was replaced, and in less than a week the house again habitable. STORY THREE, CHAPTER 9. The winter was drawing to an end. It had not appeared very long, after all--everybody had been so busy. Michael and his sons were now at work cutting-out troughs for sugar making. In Canada the maple yields a sap which, when boiled, turns into sugar. A number of maple-trees together is called a sugar-bush. The troughs are made of pine, black ash, or butter-nut, and each holds three to four gallons of sap. The snow was still on the ground, when early in March, Michael and his sons, and Susan and Fanny and Tommy set off with their sugar kettles, pails, ladles, big store troughs, small troughs, and moulds, to the sugar-bush two miles from the house. They first built huts for the kettles and for themselves; fixed the store trough and cut a supply of fuel for the fires. They next tapped the maple-trees on the south side, with an auger of an inch and a half. Into this hole a hollow spile was driven. Under each spile a trough was placed. As soon as the sun grew warm the sap began to flow and drop into the troughs. The girls and boys had soon work enough to empty the troughs into a large cask on the sleigh. This, when full, was carried to the boiling-sheds and emptied into the store trough. From this the kettles are filled and kept boiling night and day, till the sap becomes a thin molasses. It is then poured into pails or casks, and made clear with eggs or milk stirred well into it. The molasses are now poured again into the boilers over a slow fire, when the dirt rises to the top, and is skimmed off. To know when it has boiled enough, a small quantity is dropped on the snow. If it hardens when cool it has been boiled enough. It is then poured into the moulds, when it quickly hardens and is ready for use. Very good vinegar can be made by boiling three pails of sap into one, and then adding some yeast, still better is made from the sap of the birch; beer is made both from maple and birch sap, and a flavour given by adding essence of spruce or ginger. Boiling the sap and molasses requires constant attention, as there is a danger of their boiling over. While Michael and Rob attended to the boiling, David and Tommy drove the sleigh, and the rest took care of the troughs. They had a large number of troughs, and some were a long way from the boiling-sheds. Michael and his son had filled the kettles, which they did not expect would boil for some little time, when Tommy came running up to say that the sleigh had stuck fast between two stumps, and that he and David could not clear it, while one of the oxen had fallen down and hurt itself against a log. On bearing this, Michael and Rob, thinking that there would be plenty of time to help David, and to get back before the sugar boiled, ran to assist him. They found the sleigh firmly fixed, and it took them longer to clear it than they had expected it would. They had just got it clear, when a loud bellow reached their ears from the direction of the boiling-sheds. Leaving David and Tommy to manage the oxen, Michael and Rob ran back to their charge. They arrived in time to see one of their cows, with her muzzle well covered with molasses, galloping off through the bush, followed by her companions, while the kettle lay upset, the contents streaming out on the fire, and burning away, and threatening to set all the sheds in a blaze. The cows had found their way into the bush, and being fond of sugar, one of them had put her muzzle into the boiling liquid, little expecting to have so warm a greeting. "I hope it will teach her not to steal sugar for the future," observed Michael, as he and his son righted the kettle. They had to pull down some of the shed before they could put the fire out; but such trifling events were too common in the bush to disturb their tempers, and they were thankful that matters were no worse. Just before this, a neighbour's cow had got into his sugar-bush and drank so much cold molasses that she burst and died. Michael determined another year to enclose his sugar-bush to prevent any such accidents. In two weeks enough sugar was made to last the family all the year, to make all sorts of preserves, besides a good supply of beer and vinegar. With the vinegar they could pickle onions, and all sorts of vegetables, for winter use. Vegetables are also preserved during the winter in cellars, dug generally under the fire-place, in a log hut. A trap-door leads to the cellar. Here potatoes, carrots, turnips, and other roots are stored, and kept free from frost. The snow at length melted, and spring came on as it were in a day. From sunrise to sunset every man and boy was now hard at work, chopping, burning, and clearing the ground to put in the spring crops. Not an hour was to be lost, for the sun shone bright and warm, the grass sprang up, the leaves came out, and flowers burst forth, and it seemed as if the summer had begun as soon as the winter had ended. The summer was hot, and soon ripened the crops, and the harvest was good and plentiful. STORY THREE, CHAPTER 10. Four years had passed away, and Michael Hale and his family had began to reap the fruits of their industry. They had forty acres of land cleared, enough to bear crops. Two acres were planted with apple-trees, which already yielded a large supply of fruit. The apples were packed in casks, and were then fit to be sent off to distant markets. Some were peeled, cut in slices, dried in the sun, and hung up for home winter use. They had several cows and oxen, and a flock of sheep, and pigs, and poultry. As they frequently killed oxen, and sheep, and pigs, for their own use, they were able to form a store of fat for making candles and soap at home. Indeed, Michael was rapidly becoming a substantial farmer. He was not, however, without his sorrows and trials. Susan had never completely recovered, and the year after he settled at Thornhill she had died of consumption. Fanny Kemp watched over and attended her as a sister to the last, and now so completely filled her place, that no one would have thought that she was not a daughter. Rob, indeed, hoped to make her one ere long. He had loved her for many years; but, like a good son, felt that he ought not to marry and set up for himself till he had helped his father to settle comfortably. He now opened the matter to his father. "There's one thing, however, I want to do first, that is to see you and mother in a well-plastered house," he said, after he had got Michael's consent to his marriage. "We'll get that put up during the summer, and this old log-house will do for Fanny and me for another year or two. There's only one thing I ask. Don't tell mother what we are about. It will be a pleasant surprise to her. She was saying, only the other day, that she wished that she had a house with another floor." When Mr Landon heard that Rob was going to marry Fanny Kemp, he called him aside one day, and said, "If your father will give you twenty acres of his land, I will give you another twenty acres alongside it, and will, besides, stand the expense of a bee, and have a house put up for you in no time. Your father was kind to me when I was burnt out of my house, and has given me much good advice, by which I have profited. His example made me work in a way I do not think I should have otherwise done." Rob thanked Mr Landon very much, but told him of his wish first to help his father build and settle in a comfortable plastered house. "You set a good example, Rob; and I hope other young men will follow it. A dutiful son will make a good husband, and little Fanny deserves one." The new house was to be in a very different style from the old one. The first thing was to burn the lime. It was found on the top of the hill, and brought down in carts to a piece of ground, the trees on which had just been cut down. These were now piled up in a large heap, and the limestone placed above. By the time the log heap was burned, the lime was made, but it took some time to clear it from the ashes. A wood of fine elm-trees grew near. A number of them were felled to form the walls. In many respects, a well-built log-house, when well-plastered, is better than one of brick or stone in that climate. At the end of the lake a saw-mill had lately been established. Rob, David, and Tommy set out in the canoe to bring home a supply of planks from the mill. Rob took his gun, in the hopes of getting a shot at wild-fowl. On their way, when passing an island, a deer, which seemed to have taken refuge there, started out, and plunging into the water, swam rapidly across the lake. Bob fired, and hit the deer, which made directly for the shore. Just as it neared it, some Indians who had been fishing in a canoe overtook it; and weak from loss of blood, it was killed by a few blows from their paddles. The Indians seemed to think it their prize. "Come shore--you have part," said their chief, in broken English, Rob thought this was better than the risk of a quarrel. Near the spot was an encampment of Indians. Those in the canoe let him know that they would consult their friends as to how much of the deer he ought to have. Bob and his companions climbed up the hill, and watched the Indians, who stood grouped below. They were dark-skinned men, of a dull copper hue. They were in their full war dresses. Their cheeks were mostly painted red, but some had put on other colours. In their heads they wore feathers and bead ornaments. Their coats were of untanned leather, ornamented with beads, as were their leggings and boots, or mocassins. Some, however, were dressed more comfortably, in coats cut out of blankets, making the dark borders come in as ornaments. Their tents, or wigwams, were in the shape of a sugar-loaf. They were formed of long poles, stuck in the ground, about six inches apart; the round being about ten feet across, and the poles fastened together at the top. This was thickly covered with large pieces of birch-bark. Mats were spread on the ground, except in the middle, where a place was left for a fire. On one side a hole was left to serve as a door, with a blanket hung upon a line across it. This is the Indian's house throughout the year, and in winter, when put up in a sheltered spot, can, with the help of a fire inside; be kept quite warm. Bob and David went inside one of them. The women, who were dressed in blanket, petticoats, and cloaks, received them very kindly, and laughed and chatted away as if their visitors could understand what they said. Lines were fastened from side to side across the tent, on which were hung household utensils, clothes, and all sorts of things, and a sort of cradle, with a baby fastened on to it. The little creature could not move hands or feet, but seemed perfectly happy. In a little time the men came back, saying that a haunch and a leg should be theirs. These parts were placed in the canoe; and, after a friendly parting with the Indians, Rob and his companions, paddled off towards the mill. It was late when they reached it; but the weather was fine, there was a bright moon at night, and they determined to start back at once. They bought three thousand feet of boards, with which they formed a raft. Soon after the sun rose they reached the landing place near their home. Mr Landon kept to his promise to call a bee, and in three days a substantial log-house was erected, and the planks laid down of the ground and upper floors. The rest of the work, it was left to Rob and his brothers to finish. Great was the surprise of Mrs Hale, when her sons, with her husband and Fanny, took her to see the house which she had thought was being built for some stranger coming to the settlement. "It's yours and father's, mother, just an offering from your children," said Rob. "If you will let Fanny and me have the old one, we hope to make ourselves happy in it." Mrs Hale thanked her dutiful children, and thanked God for having brought them to a country where their industry and perseverance had been so fully rewarded. STORY FOUR, CHAPTER 1. JOHN ARMSTRONG, THE SOLDIER; OR, BARRACK AND CAMP LIFE, WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. I do not think that any one will care to know why I turned soldier. This much I may say, though; my native village was not far off some barracks within twenty miles of London; I had often watched the soldiers at drill, and had talked to a good many of them, till I fancied that I knew something about a soldier's life. Now I wish to tell you what it really is, not only in comfortable barracks at home, but in camp abroad, in heat and cold, and before the enemy. I had my reasons for wishing not to enlist near home, and so bidding my parents and brothers and sisters good-bye, they not crying out, "Don't go," at break of day, one fine October morning, in the year 1850, started off for London without a penny in my pocket, or any other property than the clothes on my back, good health, and a stout heart. I had walked a fair bit of the way, when I felt very hungry. I had taken nothing before I left home. Food I must have. Before me I saw a public-house, The Rabbits. A number of people were in the bar-room. "I'll tell them I'm going for a soldier, and ask for food. They'll not refuse me," I thought. I stepped in, and told them my tale. They all seemed much pleased. "You must have pluck in you, my lad, to do that," said one; "you deserve a breakfast." "You'll have no want of masters," observed another. "Still somebody must do the work." Most of them had some remark to make. In the end, they ordered me a thorough good breakfast of eggs and ham, and hoped I might never have a worse wherever I might go. This set me up till I reached the Tower of London, near the Thames, where I had been advised to go. The Guards were doing duty there. A sergeant I met asked me if I wished to join them. I said, "Yes." So he at once placed me under a mark to measure my height, but I was not tall enough for the Guards. He then asked me if I would like to join any other regiment. I answered, "Yes; I've no choice." He seemed pleased, and at once marched me off to Westminster, at the other end of London, where a recruiting company was stationed. He there took me to a sergeant of the 44th regiment of foot. After I had wished my old friend good-bye, my new friend asked me should I pass the doctor's examination if I wished to join them. Of course I said "Yes." And after he had asked me whether I was "married" or "a widower," to which I said "No;" with other questions, he put out his hand, and offered me a shilling, in the name of Her Majesty the Queen. I took it, and was from that moment a soldier, provided I passed the usual examination. I felt very tired, and somewhat out of spirits with so many strangers in different uniforms around me, and was very glad when the sergeant told me that he had paid for a bed for me, and that I might go to it whenever I liked. I was very thankful to put my head on the pillow. Thus ended my first day in the army. I had time next morning to think over some good advice given me by an old sergeant at the barracks. "Remember, my lad," said he, "when you get your pay, don't scatter it about as if it would never come to an end. There's nothing you so soon see the last of. When you find one of your new comrades particularly civil, find out what sort of a man he really is before you treat him or lend him cash. If a non-commissioned officer is very polite and slackens the reins of discipline to favour you, stand clear of him. He'll pluck you clean and then eat you up. Keep out of temptation, and show that you are going to be a sober, steady man, by consorting only with those who are sober and steady. Never lose your temper, even when wronged by a superior. Be smart in learning the drills and all your other duties. It is better to be thought well of by your officers and by a few good men, than by all the wild chaps in the regiment. And remember, Jack, my boy, what an old soldier says, that while you do your duty to your Queen and your country, you do not forget your duty to your God. A man may be a good soldier and a good Christian at the same time. He'll be all the better soldier by being a good Christian. To know how to be that, read your Bible, lad, say your prayers, and attend the house of prayer whenever you can." I wish that I had always followed my old friend's advice. I did often remember it, and gained much advantage from having done so. I was down by six o'clock; and in the common room I met a number of young men just enlisted, like myself. There was plenty of talking-- questions asked and answered: "What regiment are you for?" "Where do you come from?" "Why did you enlist?" "Do you think you'll pass the doctor?" This talk was interrupted by the sergeant exclaiming, "Now then, you youngsters, look out, and get ready for the doctor's inspection." "We haven't had any breakfast; we want breakfast," cried several voices. On this the sergeant ordered in breakfast for us, in the shape of a half-quartern loaf and two ounces of butter for every four recruits. That over, we were marched to the bath-rooms. "Now then, young 'uns, strip; get into that bath; scrub and clean yourselves," cried the sergeant; "for it's time that you were at the inspection-room." Having done as we were ordered, we marched off to the inspection-room, where we waited till the doctor arrived, who was to say whether or not we had bodily health and strength to serve Her Majesty. We had been waiting, not a little anxious, when the sergeant cried out-- "Recruit Armstrong, pass at once into the inspection-room." On hearing my name, I ran into the room. The doctor looked at me for a moment, and then said-- "Stand on one leg." I did so. "Now on the other. Bend over until you touch the ground." I had seen the recruits at the barracks do that, and had tried it often; so did it with ease. "Rise again," said the doctor. "Hop on your right leg. Now on your left. Put out your arms at right angles to your body. Cough. Can you see well? Read those dots." "Four, sir," said I. "How many are there now?" "Two." "Pull that machine. Blow that machine. That will do; you can go," said the doctor. "Sergeant-major, send in the next one." There were thirteen of us sent in one after the other; but only two, Dick Marshall, a Suffolk lad, and myself, were passed,--the rest having some defect which made them unfit for soldiers. On our return, the sergeant asked Marshall and me if we would mind being transferred to the 90th regiment, stationed at Manchester. We answered, "Not in the least." On that we handed back our shillings to the sergeant of the 44th regiment; the recruiting-sergeant of the 90th Light Infantry putting fresh shillings in our hands, and thus enlisting us in his regiment. We were then taken to a magistrate, and sworn in to serve Her Majesty for a period of ten years, if at home; or if on foreign service, not to exceed twelve. We finished our day with a dinner, of which I may say that I have eaten many a better; and we then took a stroll about Westminster, and had a look at the fine old abbey and the Houses of Parliament, where the laws are made. I may just remark that a soldier, if he keeps his eyes open, and himself out of the beer-shop, may, wherever he goes, see a number of places and things worth seeing, which will give him something to think about and talk about to the end of his life. The next day, after breakfast, we were marched off to "pass the colonel;" that is, that he might see us, and say whether he would have us. He arrived at noon. "Now, my boy, get under that standard," said he to me. I did so, and found that I measured five feet six and three-quarter inches. "Is he all right, doctor?" he asked. "Perfectly so, sir," was the answer. "That will do, my boy; you can go." The trial I thought so much about was over. Marshall and I had now a few shillings handed over to us, and were fast bound for our agreed-on term of servitude, unless at any time we might be able to buy ourselves out of the army. For the next three days we had nothing to do but eat our meals and walk about till five o'clock, when we had to appear at the rendezvous; that is, the house where the recruiting-officer had his head-quarters. On a dark morning--the 5th of November--we were roused up at half-past four, and, after parade, were marched off to the railway-station to proceed to Manchester, the barracks at which place we reached at ten at night. We were at once sent to a room full of beds, ranged along the two walls. All were occupied except two, which were turned up. These were soon made ready, and Marshall and I crept into them. We did not speak to any of the men, and no one took any notice of us. Though we were both well tired, what with the strangeness of the place, and the sentinel every half-hour calling out the number of his post and "All's well," neither of us could sleep till near morning, when the bugle's sound quickly made us start to our feet. In about five minutes the bedding of each bed was neatly folded up, and the iron bedstead turned up over it, with a pair of trowsers, folded into three parts, placed on each, and a forage-cap and stock above. A line was then stretched along the room to see if all the beds were made up of the exact size. This done, the orderly-sergeant came into the room to see that everything was correctly arranged; and if any bed was not done up properly, it was immediately pulled to pieces, to be done up by the owner afresh. All the men not on duty, except the recruits, turned out for half an hour's drill in undress uniform. The orderly-sergeant having taken down Marshall's name and mine in his memorandum-book, went out to drill his company. They were dismissed at half-past seven, but the recruits were kept a quarter of an hour longer, when the breakfast bugle sounded. The room orderly, I should say, is a man told off to keep the room in order, to draw all rations for the day for his room, to have meat and vegetables weighed, to see that they are correct in quantity and quality, and to take them to the cook of his company. At the sound of the bugle, the orderly-men ran to the cook-house for their coffee, a pint of which was served out to each man in a white basin, with a pound of somewhat brownish bread. Breakfast over, the orderlies cleared away, while the rest of the men commenced cleaning their appointments for parade, which was to be at eleven o'clock. This was in full uniform and light marching order. The recruits were to appear in plain clothes. A sergeant came to Marshall and me, and told us to fall in. He then put us through our facings. "Right dress. Eyes front. Stand at ease," he exclaimed. From having often stood at ease, when watching the men drilling, without thinking of what I was about, I fell into the proper position. "To what regiment did you belong, young man, before you joined the 90th?" asked the sergeant, thinking that he had caught a deserter. "To none," I answered. "Not so sure of that," said he. "A man may have learned to drill without being a soldier," I remarked quietly. He said nothing; but I had better have held my tongue. After the parade, we fell in and proceeded to the orderly-room, where the colonel again inspected us, and asked the usual questions: "Can you read?" "Yes." "Can you write?" "Yes." And so on. "That will do, lad," said the colonel. "Sergeant-major, that recruit will be posted to F Company." The sergeant of that company advanced. "Now, my lad," said he, "come on." I followed him to the room to which I was posted, where he directed an old soldier to look after me and give me all necessary information. My instructor's name was Higgins. He was a good-natured man, and had seen much service, on the strength of which he indulged in the pleasure of grumbling and finding fault with things in general, rather than with people in particular. After he had showed me the bed which I was to consider my own, and other things, the men came about me, and asked me a number of questions, which I answered frankly; and thus the time passed till one o'clock, when dinner was ready. The dinner was a very good one, and all the mess things, plates, basins, knives, forks, and spoons, struck me as being very nice and clean. Higgins asked me to sit down; but, as I cast my eye over my rough not over-clean countrified dress, I felt ashamed of myself among so many fine-looking red jackets, forgetting that every man present had once been much in the same state that I then was. All, however, went pleasantly enough till three o'clock, when the recruits fell in for drill, as did the regiment. The drill of the regiment lasted only half an hour, while ours lasted an hour. Our drill-sergeant, Herbert, a jolly good fellow, called us to the position of attention. After we had been drilling for some time, he asked, as the other sergeant had done, if I had before been in the army; and when I told him that I had not, he ordered me to stand at ease. My comrade kept eyeing me whenever he could, wondering what was going to happen. I now learned what I have since found always to be the case, that every scrap of knowledge which a man can pick up is likely to come into use some day or other. The drilling I had got on W-- Common for my amusement now did me good service. It, in the first place, gained me Sergeant Herbert's favour, and, making me feel superior to the other recruits, gave me self-respect, which helped me much to keep steady. On being dismissed drill, I went to my room, where Higgins began to teach me the "bugle sounds," and another old soldier "the manual drill," and other things; so that I soon found out that, whatever I might think of myself, I had plenty yet to learn. At half-past four we went to tea, each man getting a pint of tea and a quarter of a pound of white bread. After that meal, some in dress and others in undress uniform, went into town; others remained in barracks, playing drafts and other games, until "tattoo," at half-past eight, when the first post sounded, and all men about the town, on hearing it, immediately returned to barracks, or should have done so. In the meantime the orderly-sergeants called the rolls of the respective rooms, noted all the men absent, and gave lists of them to the regimental orderly-sergeant. He again called the roll, and reported all still absent to the officer of the day, who reported them to the adjutant [Note 1]. On receiving the report, the adjutant sent the pickets [Note 2] out to bring them in, when those out without leave were confined to barracks, or received some other punishment the following day. This done, the staff and non-commissioned officers [Note 3] are dismissed to their rooms. Such was my first day in barracks, and such were many days of my life afterwards. Such indeed is a soldier's ordinary day. On the Sunday there is a parade instead of drills, and the men are marched to their respective churches; those of the Church of England to theirs, the Presbyterians to theirs, the Roman Catholics to theirs. On the last day of the month, the regiment falls in for parade generally, in England, in great coats, when every man borne on its strength must answer to his name, or be accounted for as "on duty", "on furlough", "in imprisonment", "deserted", "deceased", "in hospital." Regiments are also marched out of barracks into the country with bands playing and colours flying, and there are reviews and sham fights occasionally. Soldiers, too, are placed as sentries before officers' quarters and other places, and they have many other duties to perform even in the piping times of peace. I shall soon have to show the life they lead in war-time. Theirs is not an idle life, but still they have plenty of time for amusement, and what is more, for improving themselves if they will but wisely take advantage of it. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. The adjutant is chosen from among the lieutenants or captains, for his steadiness and knowledge of military duties. He is the commanding officer's principal assistant. All orders are passed through him, and he has to see that the young officers and non-commissioned officers are perfect in their drill, and many other things. Note 2. A picket is a body of men told off for these and other duties. A camp is guarded by them. An out-lying picket is placed at some distance from it to give notice of the approach of an enemy. Note 3. Non-commissioned officers are chosen from among the men for their superior knowledge and steadiness. They are so called because they are appointed by the colonel, and have not received commissions from the Queen. Many, however, for their bravery and high conduct, have received commissions, and have risen to be captains, and even to higher rank. Those thus promoted frequently become adjutants of their regiments. STORY FOUR, CHAPTER 2. Men enlist for many reasons, the greater number because they are out of work, and do not know how else they are to live. These are the most contented, because they do not expect much, and find themselves, if they are steady, pretty comfortable, well fed, and well clothed. The worst off are lazy fellows, who join, expecting to have an easy, idle life, with little to do. Besides drilling and learning the use of his weapons and the various movements to be performed to get him into a soldier-like shape, with parades and inspections, and field-days, and reviews, and sham fights, and marching out in the winter, and sentinel, fatigue, and picket duties,--he has his appointments and arms to keep in order, and in his turn, his mess things, room, and other places to clean. And often he has heavy work; roads to make, fortifications of various sorts to throw up, and other similar tasks required by an army in the field; still, after all, there is no work harder than most of the men would have had to go through if they had remained at home. About the end of February, the regiment was ordered to proceed to Ireland. A special train took us to the large town of Liverpool, from which ships sail to all parts of the world. Getting out of the train, we formed, and marched down to the quay by the river Mersey, where a large steamer was waiting for us. We went on board, and she soon began to paddle down the river on her way to Dublin. It was the first time I had ever been at sea with water around on every side, as far as the eye could reach. We soon however caught sight of the Irish coast, and very pretty I thought the bay of Dublin as we steamed into it. I now began to find out one of the advantages of a soldier's life; that is, visiting new places. I did not then think how many strange places I should see during my time of service. Going on shore, we formed, and marched to a railway-station, when the train carried us westward to Cork. Here the regiment was stationed. Some of the companies, and mine among them, remained at head-quarters, and others were sent out on detachment duty at various places. Soldiers on detachment often meet with adventures of various sorts, especially in Ireland. They are stationed at different small towns and villages, where the inhabitants, especially the fair sex, are apt to make a great deal of them, from not being so accustomed to see red coats as are those in large places. I must hurry over the events at this period, that I may have space to give accounts of those of more stirring times. I had made up my mind on joining, to be a steady man, and I was glad to remain at head-quarters, because I knew that there my conduct would be observed by my superior officers. There were temptations enough to act differently, but I knew that a few glasses of whiskey or any irregularity would in a minute cloud all my prospects. I had, it must be understood, no advantages above the rest of my comrades. I was but myself a country lad, about the youngest in the regiment, but I had heard an officer remark that there was the making of a good soldier in me; and so I gave my mind and heart to the work, and that made me like it. I have said nothing about Marshall. He was in a different company from mine, and had been on detachment. After some time his company returned to head-quarters. He seemed much changed, and from being a brisk, lively lad, was sad and silent. We were always friends, though he did not take to soldiering as heartily as I did. I asked him what was the matter. He told me at last. He had lost his heart to a farmer's daughter. She was very pretty and young and good. He had met her coming home on a car, with her aunt and a female cousin with three men from a "wake." That is the name given in Ireland, to a burying party. The men, as is generally the case after such meetings, were very drunk. The car broke down. The other women were hurt, and the men could not help them. Marshall arrived at the moment, mended the car, left the drunken men to find their way home as best they could, put the old lady upon it and walked home at its side with Kathleen O'Neil, who had no fancy for again mounting. Kathleen was very grateful, and so was her aunt and cousin, and asked him to come again another day. That of course he did, not only once, but very often. One of the men who had been in the car, Shane McDermot, was, Marshall found, a lover of Kathleen's, but she did not like him. No wonder, for he was a rough, savage-looking fellow. Kathleen at length showed that she liked Marshall, and she warned him to beware of Shane. Dick was a stout-hearted fellow, and said he did not fear him. A man would think twice before he would attempt to shoot a soldier, not but what officers and men too have been shot in Ireland. Marshall continued his visits as usual, and the oftener he went the more in love he grew with Kathleen, and the more, it was clear, she loved him. One evening, after the tattoo had sounded, as he was hurrying home, a shot whistled by his ear, and directly afterwards two men set upon him with their shillalahs. One he knocked over with his fist, and drawing his bayonet, put the other to flight. He was pretty certain that the man he knocked over was Shane, but he could not stop to see; indeed he thought that it was wiser to push on to his quarters. When he told Kathleen the next day, she was very unhappy, and said that she should be the cause of his death. Dick told her not to be afraid, and finished by asking her to marry him. She said that she would with great pleasure, and follow him, like a true good wife, round the world. This made Dick perfectly happy. When he came, however, to speak to the captain of his company, he found that as he was one of the youngest men in the regiment, he had no chance of getting leave; and that if he married without leave, his wife would have none of the privileges of a soldier's wife, and that he would be treated as a single man. The last time he saw her she promised that she would marry no one else, and ever remain faithful to him. My company afterwards went on detachment, and I was stationed at the same place that Marshall had been. He had begged me to go and see Kathleen. When her family knew that I was his friend, they treated me very kindly. I went to the house several times. Shane was there one evening. I was not surprised that she did not like him. There was a scowl on his brow and a glance in his eye, as he turned towards me, which made me think that he was very likely to have a shot at me some dark night, if he could get the chance. I would not accuse any man of wishing to do such a thing, and there are thousands of Irish who would be horrified at the thought of taking the life of a fellow-creature, but such deeds are too common in that country. The reason why this is so I must leave to others who ought to know more about the matter than I do, to say. It must be remembered that Shane had already tried his hand at the work, so that I did not think ill of him without cause. Whenever I had spare time I went to see the O'Neils. When I went away at night, I walked quickly along in the middle of the road, feeling pretty sure that Shane would try to treat me as he did Marshall. I had, I should say, soon after I came to the place, picked a poor boy out of a pond, when more than half drowned, and carried him home; and as I found the family very poor and wretched, I left some money with them. As I never spent any money in liquor or other folly, I had always a few spare shillings in my pocket. Pat Nolan's mother, as far as words went, seemed very grateful, but I never put much trust in them: and though I had several times gone to see the Nolans, I scarcely thought about what first took me to the cottage. One day I had been sent by my captain with a letter to a house three miles off. I was kept there some time, and it was nearly dark when, on my way back, I came to a wild, open place, half common and half bog, with nearly a mile of road across it. Just as I got to a small bush near the road, I heard a voice say, "Hist, hist, soldier; turn back and come with me. It's a long way I'll be after taking ye, but it's better than being shot any how." "Who are you, and where are you?" I asked, seeing no one. "It's me, Pat Nolan, then," answered the ragged little urchin, creeping from under the bush. "May be he's not far off just now, with that thief of the world, Dan Fegan, and one or two others looking out for ye." I was half inclined to go on in spite of Pat's warning. "Why should I be afraid of those Irish chaps?" I thought to myself. But little Pat begged so hard that I would not, that I began to think it would be wise to follow his advice. "Och ahone! ahone! you'll be kilt entirely if you go now!" exclaimed the boy, crying and pulling at me to go in the direction he wanted. I felt that it would be foolish to run into danger for no purpose, and that at all events I should have only rather a longer walk than I had expected. "Well, Pat, I'll go with you," said I. The little chap gave a leap with delight. "Arrah! then there's no time to be lost!" he exclaimed, leading the way down a lane which skirted the edge of the bog. I followed, and had to step out fast to keep up with him. "Ye'll have to lape over some pools may be, but it's all hard below where I'll lead ye, so don't be afraid now," he whispered, putting his finger to his lips. I laughed aloud. "Hist, hist; he'll be after hearing you," he said, in the same tone as before; "but come on now." He turned and led the way across the bog. I leaped when I saw him leap, and kept directly in his footsteps, and often the ground quaked as I passed, or moved up and down like a raft at sea. As we moved on, the water got up to my ankles; then over them. I thought that Pat had lost his way, but he kept on without stopping or turning to one side or the other. The water got deeper and deeper, indeed there seemed to be nothing but water around; then once more it began to shoal, and at last I found that we were walking on dry ground, but still of a very boggy nature. At last we were in something like a path, with peat-holes on either side. It was quite dark before we reached the heath or dry ground I was looking for. Pat even then, I found, kept away from the road I was to have taken. After going a little way I thought that I saw some figures through the gloom. Pat thought so too, for he pulled at my coat-sleeve, and whispered to me to crouch down. I did so for some time, and then again we pushed on. Pat led the way till we got into a road I knew, leading direct to my quarters. He then told me to hurry on, and before I had time to put my hand in my pockets to give him some money, he was off. At muster-roll that evening, one of our men, Jackson, did not answer to his name. He had been sent in the direction I had gone. The next morning he did not appear. A party, of which I formed one, was sent out to look for him. Not far from some bushes, with a hole behind them,--a place made for an ambush,--we came upon some blood in the road. We hunted about. There were the marks of men's feet at the edge of the road. After hunting some time, one of our men cried out, "Here he is!" There, in a hole, half covered with water, lay our comrade. At first it was thought that he might have fallen in, but two dark marks by the side of his head showed where a brace of slugs had entered it. I felt sure that they had been intended for me. It seemed as if I had wronged him. Poor fellow! we bore him sadly homeward. I judged it right to tell my captain what I knew of the matter, and a warrant was issued for the apprehension of Shane McDermot. Parties were sent out to search for him, but he was not to be found. There were plenty among the country people to help him. The only thing some of them seemed to think that he had done wrong was, that he had shot the wrong man. Kathleen was thankful that I had escaped, but glad to be rid of Shane. It was not likely that he would venture back to the neighbourhood while we were there. After some time, my company was ordered back to head-quarters, to be relieved by another. Kathleen bade me tell Marshall that she remained faithful to him, and loving as ever. I gave the message to Marshall. It raised his spirits, and yet he could scarcely believe that so pretty a girl, and one in some respects so superior to himself, should care for a poor soldier. However I told him that it was a good reason why he should attend to his duties more strictly, and try to obtain promotion to be able to support her. The wife of even a non-commissioned officer has a hard time of it; of a man, still worse; but worst off of all is the wife of one who marries without leave. On getting back, I found a notice posted that all men wishing to go on "furlough" must send in their names to the captains of companies at once. I sent in mine, as I had saved enough pay for my expenses, and through the kindness of the sergeant-major and adjutant obtained a furlough for six weeks, to proceed from Cork to B-- in the county of E--, and took my passage in the steamer to London. We had a fine view of the coast from the Land's End in Cornwall, to the North Foreland in Kent. Landing in London, I went to an inn, breakfasted, cleaned myself so as to look as smart as I could, and set off home. How different I felt now to what I did leaving home a year ago. I opened the door and looked in. They were all at dinner. What cries of delight and shrieks and laughter there were, though my sisters vowed they scarcely knew me, I had grown so stout and manly. I was made heartily welcome, and had a very happy time of it. I went to see my old friends at the barracks; I was welcomed by them too, but many had been sent off to India. I must be moving on though with my story. After spending a happy five weeks at home, I returned to Cork at the proper time. I was rather vexed to find the morning after, that all men returned off furlough were to fall in for recruit drill. However, as I was the youngest of any of them, I had no reason to complain. I thought, "I'll just show that I don't require it;" so I pulled myself together, and was dismissed recruit drill next day. Soon after this I gained what it had been my hope from the first to get--that is, promotion,--and was made lance-corporal. I wished that Marshall could have got the same, for Kathleen's sake, but he was not so fortunate. The difference was this,--I had a taste for soldiering, born with me perhaps: he had not. I was soon after sent off on detachment duty to Spike Island, in the Cove of Cork or Queenstown Harbour. Our duty was to guard a prison full of convicts, not the pleasantest in the world, though I well knew that there wasn't a man within those walls who did not richly deserve his lot. I only wish that evil-disposed men knew better than they do what it is to be shut up in a place of the sort; they would take some pains to gain an honest livelihood rather than run the risk of being sent there. The harbour is a very beautiful one, surrounded almost by high hills, many of them well wooded, and so is the whole way up to Cork. While I was there a new batch of convicts came in; among them I saw a face I felt sure I knew. It was that of Shane Mcdermot. He cast a look of surprise at me, as much as to say, "Why, I thought that I had shot you." I could not exchange words with him; but the more I watched his countenance, the more certain I was that it was him. I concluded that he had committed a crime in another part of the country, and had been convicted, and sent on here. There he was, and there I hoped, for the sake of my friends, he would remain. I was not sorry when we were ordered back to head-quarters. Soon afterwards the regiment went to Dublin, where we were stationed, scattered about in different barracks, and doing garrison duty for two years or more. During that time I again went on furlough. If I had been proud of appearing at home before, I was prouder still now to return as a non-commissioned officer, and I felt pretty sure that as I had gained one step I should gain another. I was heartily welcomed, but somehow or other that second going home was not equal to the first, three years before. Many changes had taken place among my friends: some had gone away, some were dead, some married. Still I was very happy, but I had an idea that it might be a long time before I should go back to the old place. On my return to Dublin I had to go on recruit drill for a day, as before, when the sergeant-major gave me and others a hint, which we wisely took, to have our hair cut for the next parade. For another year after this we were kept here on garrison duty, with some pretty hard field-days in the Phoenix Park, and the usual marchings out in winter. STORY FOUR, CHAPTER 3. The sort of life we led in Dublin was all very well in its way, but for my part I wished for something more stirring. There seemed now to be a chance of our getting it. The papers began to talk of war with the Russians. They had been ill-treating the Turks. Now the Turks are our friends. I do not know exactly why, for I cannot say much in their favour. In this case the Russians had behaved very ill. During a thick fog, a large fleet of their ships had sailed into a Turkish port, and blown up and burnt a number of Turkish vessels, killing no less than 5,000 Turks on that day. This made the English very angry. It was clear, too, that the Russians intended getting hold of the chief city, Constantinople, and the country of the Turks. Our hopes of war increased when we heard that the English and French fleets had gone up the Black Sea, and then that the Guards and other regiments were to be sent up the Mediterranean to Malta, and then on to a place called Varna, on the shore of the Black Sea, in the country of the Turks, and near Russia. It was said also that the Russians were collecting an army in a part of the country called the Crimea, in the Black Sea, where there is a strong fortress with a town and harbour called Sebastopol. We, of course, every day looked eagerly into the papers to see what regiments were ordered abroad, but the 90th was not among those named. This greatly vexed both officers and men, and some fretted and fumed very much at it. It was the daily talk at the mess-tables of all ranks. "More regiments ordered for foreign service," exclaimed Marshall; for, strange to say, he was as eager as any one about going. He wanted to be doing something, poor fellow, to keep his mind away from Kathleen. "See, here's a list,--others talked of, but no mention made of the 90th." "Let well alone, lads, and be content," observed Higgins. "Fighting is all very well to talk about, but the reality is precious rough work; and so you'll find it, when your turn comes,--mark my words." Not long after this, on the 14th of March, the regiment was on parade, when the commanding officer read a letter to us which he had just received. It was to the effect that a few men might volunteer for the 42nd Royal Highlanders and 79th Cameronian Highlanders. We all knew what that meant, that the 90th was to be kept at home, and that those two regiments were to fill up their numbers for foreign service. When, therefore, the word "volunteers come to the front," was given, instead of forty, which was the whole number required, forty from each company stepped forward, making four hundred in all. Marshall and I were among them. It was an anxious time with us till it was known who was selected. I was among the first chosen. Marshall's was the last name. I was glad not to be separated from my old comrade. The volunteers being ordered to parade in front of the commanding officer, he in a very kind way gave us some good advice. He then expressed his earnest wishes for our welfare, and hoped that he should never hear of any of those who had served in the 90th, getting into disgrace, but that when next he might see us, instead of privates and corporals, we should have become sergeants. Every word he said I took in greedily, and honestly believe that I profited by his advice. There was no time lost. Not many days after that, on the 28th of March, war was formally declared by Great Britain against Russia. We, with volunteers from other regiments, at once proceeded by passenger steamer from Dublin to Portsmouth. Marshall had barely time to write a short note to Kathleen. He told her of the regiment he had joined, and where he expected to go, and promised to remain faithful to her as long as he lived. It was on Saint Patrick's day, that we landed at the dockyard, to the number of two hundred, in all sorts of uniforms, the men out of a dirty steamer not looking over-clean. We then marched to the barracks at Anglesea, where that "braw" regiment, the well-known "Forty-and-twa" were stationed. The adjutant and captains of companies then came to inspect us, and choose men for their respective companies. The captain of the grenadier company had the first choice, and the captain of the light company the second. I with eight of our men, including Marshall, had the honour of being selected by him. I was posted to a room at once, and ordered to get my kit ready in a quarter of an hour for inspection. It was fortunately nearly a new one, and looked clean. The captain was pleased, and ordered me not to show it for a month. He then inquired how long I had been a non-commissioned officer, and directed me to attend at the orderly-room to copy orders and to take the detail of the company for the next day. After writing it down, he told me to read it to him. "Yes; that will do," he said. "Are you anxious to obtain promotion?" "Yes, sir," I answered, not a little pleased. "Very well; you have come with a good character from your late regiment, maintain it, and you will be sure of promotion in the 42nd. I understand that you can drill very well. I shall see how you get on, and if in a satisfactory manner, I will recommend you to the adjutant." The next Monday I was ordered to drill a squad, while the adjutant stood at a distance watching me. I did my best, and when drill was over he sent for me, and asked if I would like to be struck off duty for the purpose of drilling the second squad of recruits. Of course I said yes, but begged to be allowed a few days first, to get used to the duties of the regiment. I had good reason to be satisfied with the change I had made. I had only been a few days in the regiment, and was already looked upon with consideration and respect. How was this? Had I greater advantages than any other young man? No, except that I had a taste for soldiering. I had simply kept steady and done my duty to the very best of my power. I had not been idle with my books either. I had read a good deal, and practised writing and ciphering, so that I wrote a really good hand, and could keep accounts well. I mention this to show what is required of a young man in the army, who wishes to work his way up to become a non-commissioned officer. It is through the sergeants that the discipline of a regiment is maintained, and they must possess the education I have spoken of, and be intelligent, steady, honest men, or things will go badly in that regiment. For the best part of the next two months we were engaged every day in rifle practice, and I had the satisfaction of making some good hits. Now came the order we had been long eagerly looking for, to embark forthwith for the Crimea. Loud cheers were given by the numerous lookers on as, on the 26th of May, we went on board the transport, and we cheered loudly in return. We little thought then of what we had to go through, or how many of our fine fellows would leave their bones in a foreign land. Everything was well arranged on board. Strict discipline was kept up. Our rations were good, and regularly served out to us; and as the weather was fine, we had as pleasant a voyage as we could wish. We landed at Scutari, a place on the Bosphorus, the strait that leads into the Black Sea, opposite the big city of Constantinople. Here we remained for three weeks hard at work, drilling. Some of the troops were in huge barracks, and we with others were encamped. Fighting was going on at a town called Silistria, between the Turks, who bravely defended it, helped by two or three English officers, and the Russians, who had tried to take it, but could not. A great many Turks were brought into the hospital badly wounded, and one poor fellow had both his arms and legs cut off. He was the subject of conversation for many an evening in our tents. We were in the light division, under Sir Colin Campbell. The first British soldier who lost his life during the war was killed here by his own rifle, which sent a shot through, his leg above the knee. Here also we were supplied with the Minie rifle, having hitherto used the old percussion smooth bore. Scutari is a beautiful spot, with the blue waters of the strait, and the glittering white city, surrounded by dark trees, and vessels and gay boats of all sorts moving about. We should have been content to remain there if we had not thought on the work before us. In July we again embarked, and proceeded to Varna, in company with numerous vessels, crowded with English, French, and Turks. We and the French were allies, helping the Turks, though there were only 7000 of them, while we and the French had each rather more than 26,000 men of all arms. Varna is on the shore of the Black Sea, not far from the Crimea, and belongs to the Turks. We were here encamped with the Guards and other regiments on a dreary plain in different villages some tray out of Varna. We were kept hard at work with frequent drills, getting ready for real fighting. One night we were roused up with the sound of heavy firing in a wood close to us. The bugle sounded to arms. We sprang to our feet, but before we could get under arms the supposed enemy was away. They were a company of the 60th Rifles and Rifle Brigade, supplied with a few rounds of blank ammunition. This sort of work took place frequently, to accustom us to surprises, and not without reason, as we found to our cost at Inkerman. The Rifles seemed to think it good fun, and laughed at the trouble they had given us, making us turn out so often in the middle of the night. We were employed also in making gabions and fascines [Note 1] out of the brush-wood which grew near, and practised in throwing up trenches and fortifications. Work we did not mind, fighting we were eager for, but we had an enemy against which it was hard to contend; that was the cholera. Officers and men were quickly struck down by it. The Guards alone lost nearly a hundred men. It was sad to hear the poor fellows' cries as the terrible cramp seized them. All the troops suffered more or less from sickness-- the French more than all. We were thankful when the order came for us to embark once more for the spot where we hoped to meet the enemy. Yet many a strong man was so weakened by illness that he could scarcely march to the shore. We got on board our transport on the 1st of September and remained thirteen days, hoping to get rid of the dreadful plague which had attacked us. We lost, however, three and sometimes four men each day. Fastened up in their blankets they were sunk overboard. Some, however, floated to the surface, and it was no easy matter to get them down again. It was sad work, and damped the spirits of many. That big fleet, with more than 60,000 men on board, was a fine sight, though, as on the 14th of September we anchored off Old Fort on the coast of the Crimea. The order was joyfully received to land immediately. On all sides were the big transports, the largest East Indiamen, and the men-of-war, and numbers of steamers, all in regular order, each with their proper flags. We of the light division had ours blue and white chequered. Number One company of the 23rd Welsh Fusiliers were the first on shore on a sandy beach. We landed soon after. Sentinels were marched off at once by companies and thrown out in a direct line from the sea far into the country. Parties with rifles loaded, and eager for the honour, as we called it, of firing the first shot at the Russians, were despatched in search of wood and water. Towards the evening it came on to rain very hard, and we had no tents or covering of any sort. We of the light division were pushed on inland, to give space for the other troops to form as they landed. Our orders, issued by Sir Colin Campbell, were to remain quiet, and, above all things, to keep our rifles and ammunition dry. At about eleven at night a shot was fired by one of the enemy's sentinels, which whistled close to us. "Stand to your arms," was the cry, "the Russians are upon us." At the same time our whole line of sentinels opened a brisk fire on, it was supposed, the advancing enemy. What cared we then for the rain and cold! The moment we had been looking for had arrived. The whole force which had as yet landed stood under arms, and thus we were kept till it was found that the surprise had been caused by a patrol of Cossacks, who had come upon us unawares. Wet and chilled as we were the hours passed slowly by, though we kept up our spirits pretty well. So passed our first night of campaigning. The next morning a few companies were marched down to the beach, to assist in landing our tents, and the ammunition, artillery, and stores, the artillerymen laughing at us, and hoping that we had passed a pleasant time on shore. By the night we got our tents pitched, and hoped to have a quiet rest, but the little gnat-like Cossacks were again buzzing about us, and were off before we could get a shot at them. The next four days were passed in landing stores, while the commissariat officers were collecting provisions from the country around, and which the peasants were very ready to supply. Late on the 19th the light division was attacked by a mounted battery of artillery. The infantry was brought to the halt, and the artillery called to the front, with the whole of the cavalry, about a thousand men, who were opposed by 2000 Cossacks. Shortly afterwards a gun carriage was seen coming to the rear with a poor fellow on it, his leg broken and thigh fractured. Several men on both sides were knocked over by the shot. That was the beginning of our campaign. After this Lord Raglan forbad any farther advance. We remained where we halted all that night, our tents being left in the rear. Each man unrolled his blanket and great-coat to make the best of it he could. We were tired, hungry, and thirsty, but at last the ration rum was served out, and a half a bullock distributed to each company to be divided into messes, and cooked ready for next day, as it was expected that we should have a long march and a brush with the enemy. Many a fine fellow slept his last sleep on earth that night, and many a strong man before the next sunset was to be a helpless cripple. A soldier, above all men, may be thankful that he does not know what is before him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Gabions are like large round hampers, without top or bottom, to be filled with earth. Fascines are like long, tight fagots. STORY FOUR, CHAPTER 4. THE DAY OF BATTLE. It was still dark on the morning of that 20th day of September, 1854. The whole army of the allies lay stretched on the damp ground. Three hours after midnight the cry was heard, "Stand to your arms." We rose to our feet, every two comrades wringing their wet blankets, and placing them on their knapsacks. We then fell in, and waited till daylight, when we were ordered to pile arms and fall out, but not to go more than a hundred yards from our regiments, as we might be required at a moment's notice to march to the front. The sun rose brightly, without a cloud in the sky, and at seven o'clock the whole army advanced. The Turks were on the right, next the sea, then the French, next the British second division, followed by the third, and on their left the light division, followed by the first and fourth. On the left of all marched the cavalry. The artillery of each division was on its left. Baggage and ammunition trains kept close behind. The whole country was open, with rise beyond rise, till at length, after marching for two hours, we reached a rise, when we saw before us what was ere long to be the scene of a bloody battle. The ground sloped gently down to the river Alma, which ran directly in front of us, its banks covered with villages and orchards and gardens. It was fordable in most places. On the other side a range of hills, three and four hundred feet high, rose suddenly up from it; on our right, too steep to be climbed; but in front of where we of the light division stood, showing more gradual slopes. On these slopes, earthworks had been thrown up by the Russians. On the top of all, the ground was level; and it was here and on the slopes that the Russians were posted between us and Sebastopol. We had to storm those heights, and to drive the enemy off the level ground on their top, in the face of the heavy artillery and the dense masses of infantry with which they were lined, not forgetting the strong reserve in the rear. We could see the French on the right beginning the action, climbing up the heights, and firing as they advanced; then a strong force of Russians, who were nearly taken by surprise, moved to meet them. With Rifles and skirmishers in front, fighting with the Russian riflemen, the second division of the British then advanced in line. Up the hill they went, right at the enemy. The firing became general along the whole line. A village burst into flames below us. We, with other Highland regiments and the Guards, were formed in line,--a band, I may say, able to meet any enemy in the world in a hand-to-hand fight or charge of bayonets; but the enemy's round-shot and bullets came rattling among us, and picked off many a stout fellow. We were therefore ordered to lie down to avoid the shot, our men grumbling not a little, and asking why we were not led at once against the enemy. We soon saw the reason why. Many young soldiers who had before talked of fighting as good fun, now changed their note, and found what terrible bloody work it is. At last came the welcome order to advance. To show how cool some men are, even at that moment one of my comrades composed some verses, which he repeated to those near him. We sprang to our feet; down the steep we dashed, through orchards of apples and grapes and other fruit. Several of our fellows, stopping to pick the fruit to quench their thirst, were shot dead. We passed quickly across the Alma, which in some places we found so shallow that many of us scarcely wetted our feet. Once more we were ordered to take shelter behind a long stone wall. Then came the welcome order, "Up, Guards and Highlanders, and at them." Up the hill we went, halting but for a moment, to allow the somewhat broken regiments which had hitherto been engaged, to pass between our ranks, and then right at the enemy we dashed, firing as we advanced, and prepared to charge, if he would have stood for us. As we reached the summit, a grand sight met our eyes,--the whole army of Russians spread out on the plain before us; but as we got nearer, we saw their backs instead of their faces; for they had already had a sufficient taste of our quality, and were in full retreat. Now and then they turned and fired, and my right and left-hand men were both killed in that manner. I had marked the Russian who had killed the last; and, dropping on my knee at the moment the bugle sounded cease firing, I took a steady aim, and stopped him from boasting that he had killed an Englishman. We were much disappointed at not being allowed to follow the enemy. Still it was a glorious moment when we found that we had won a great victory, as we cheered and cheered again, and comrades grasped each other's hands, and congratulated ourselves on what we had done. To show what strict discipline is kept up in the army, at this moment I found myself placed under arrest for having fired after the order to cease firing had sounded. On the circumstance being reported to the commanding officer, he directed that I should be brought before him. "Why did you fire?" he asked. I told him. "Then I only wish that every man in the army possessed the same spirit," he answered. "Let him be released. And now let me tell you that I shall have the satisfaction of reporting your cool courage and steadiness before the enemy to the proper authorities." My comrades cheered lustily when they heard this decision. The army remained on the heights we had won till nearly dark, when the regiments were ordered to the positions allotted to them for the night. After we had formed our bivouac, I was much pleased at being sent for by the officers, and complimented by them on the way I had behaved during the day. At last we were ordered to remain quiet, and fresh ammunition was served out to us. We then lay down to rest, but all ready for a surprise; and rest we did on the bare ground, for we were well weary after our day's toil. The Russians, however, had had enough fighting for the present, and let us alone. A little before daylight on the 21st, we fell in, and remained under arms for some time. On its being ascertained that the Russians had retreated to a distance, we were ordered to clean and examine our rifles, and then to pile them. Rations were then served out to us, and we ate them with no small appetite, while waiting for orders. Sir Colin Campbell, soon after this, rode into our midst, and called his brigade of Highlanders to attention. His speech was short, but to the point. He congratulated us all on the success which had been gained the day before, and complimented all--officers and men--on the cool courage they had exhibited under trying circumstances. He reminded us that the fighting was not over, though we had gained a victory; but he was persuaded that we should continue to perform our duty as true soldiers to our queen and country. "To-day and to-morrow the army must remain on the ground to remove the wounded and to bury the dead," he added. "I regret to say that the dead are very numerous, especially among the Guards and Welsh Fusiliers. The wounded must at once be carried down to the shore; and remember, my lads, that a wounded Russian is no longer an enemy, but a fellow-sufferer with our own comrades, and must be treated as such." We listened with attention to our brave general's address. A kinder officer or a better soldier never lived. Pick-axes and shovels were at once served out to some of us, while others were provided with stretchers to carry the wounded down to the beach, I belonged to the party who had to perform the saddest duty a soldier has to go through after a battle, that of burying the dead. Talk of glory, talk of the fun of fighting,--just let a man spend two days on a hard-fought field, as we had to do, and it will be enough to take out of him all love of fighting for fighting's sake. It was an awful sight, to see the number of fine fellows who lay stretched on the ground, never more to move. I had no idea that so many of our own British had been killed. The most dreadful to look at were those who had been struck by round-shot, some with their bodies almost torn to pieces. One moment they had been full of life, rushing on to the fight; the next there they lay, heaps of clay, their spirits far, far-off. I could not help asking myself how it was that I was not in the place of one of them. While some of the parties dug large holes in the ground, others collected the dead, and threw them in--it was no time for ceremony--thirty or forty in one hole; some fine young fellows, others dark- or grey-bearded men, their last fight over. "Ah," I thought, and I dare say others thought too, "if those who set men to fight--the emperors and kings and governments--could but see this sad sight, may be they would stop to think, and try and make up their quarrels some other way." Hundreds and hundreds we buried during those two days, our comrades by themselves, the Russians in pits by themselves. We could tell how the fight had gone by the way in which the bodies lay. In one place the Russians had made a stand, and were piled up in heaps as the British again and again charged them. In other parts the round-shot had torn through whole ranks of men, cutting them down like corn before the reaper's sickle. I afterwards marked the spot where the Highlanders had poured in their fire on the enemy, and made those who escaped our bullets turn and fly. It was my first battle-field; it was the first and last of many poor fellows. And I say again, it is a fearful thing to see God's image defaced as I there saw it in a thousand terrible ways. STORY FOUR, CHAPTER 5. I have heard it said that no army was ever driven from so strong a position as that from which we drove the Russians. We took a number of prisoners, and among other things, the Russian general's carriage, with his letters to the emperor, saying that we could not do just the very thing we did do,--drive him from that hill. The next day the army marched inland, with Sebastopol on our right, our generals wishing to get round to the other side of the town, where there was a good harbour for our ships called Balaclava. We marched on all day, seeing now and then a few Cossacks, who galloped off as we advanced. We bivouacked at night; that is to say, we slept on the ground as we best could, with only our cloaks and blankets round us. We had not much rest, for we were called to arms several times, it being thought that the enemy were on us. At last we heard the approach of cavalry. We sprang to our feet, and fell in ready for action, but it was only our own cavalry, which had been sent up to protect our flanks. The next day we came suddenly on a large body of Russians as it seemed. They, however, did not stop for us, but made off, leaving a quantity of wagons full of provisions and ammunition. We blew up the powder, which we did not want, and helped ourselves to the provisions, which we did. My comrades and I got a quantity of meal to make cakes, and firewood as our share. There was an old fort at Balaclava, on the top of a steep hill. It was defended very bravely by its old commander; but he soon found that he could not hold it, so he and his eighty men marched out and surrendered themselves prisoners of war. We thus gained a good harbour for ships. The part of the army to which I belonged, after remaining a few days at Balaclava, was marched to the front before Sebastopol. We were here employed in digging trenches, and throwing up batteries, and getting our guns into position; that is, into the batteries, pointed towards the town which we were about to attack. We were twenty-four hours on duty, and the same number off duty, when we could rest from our work. Very hard work it was. Thousands of us were employed in it. We had to cut a zigzag road, as it were, deep into the ground, with a bank towards the town, so that the shot from the guns in the town could only strike across the road, and not along it. We toiled away to get all our batteries ready as soon as possible. The French and we were ready at the same time, but the batteries were masked; that is to say, the front was covered up so that the enemy could not see whether we were ready or not. The sun rose in a bright sky on the morning of the 17th of October, and at half-past six o'clock, a hundred and twenty of our guns--some of them the largest ever made, and which had as yet not fired a shot--began firing away as hard as they could. The Russians answered with as many guns of the same size, and thus there were nearly two hundred and fifty guns all firing away together. The noise was awful. We knocked over a good many of the enemy's guns, and they blew up a French magazine; by which a hundred men were killed in a moment. A good many of our men were killed. The smoke was so thick that the gunners could not even see the town at which they were firing. The day after the guns opened, it was made known to us that ten volunteers from each regiment--good shots--were wanted to get as close up as possible to the town, and to shoot the Russian gunners whenever sight could be got of them. I at once volunteered and was accepted. Having been paraded before the Duke of Cambridge, who told us what we were to do, we set off. Shot, shells, and bullets were whizzing and hissing by us as we made our way onwards. We had not got far when one of our party was wounded. One of my comrades, Donald McKenzie, and I halted, dressed his wound as best we could, sent him back to the hospital, and then pushed on, creeping and running, and taking advantage of every bit of cover we could find. We thus got up to within a hundred yards of the Russian guns in a fort they called the Redan, and jumped into a pit which the enemy had themselves dug to shelter their own riflemen, who came there at night to annoy our working parties. Here we were sheltered, and could pick off the Russian gunners without being seen. They soon, however, found us out, and sent doses of cannister and grape shot towards us, knocking the dust and stones about our heads. A grape shot hit the right hand of one of my comrades, and took off the forefinger. "Ah, my boys, I'll pay you off for that, and give you a warm one in return," he exclaimed, as he reloaded his rifle. He was as good as his word, and he picked off many a Russian who appeared in their batteries. Our batteries had different names. One near us was the 21 Gun Battery. Red-hot shot were fired from it, and before long they blew up a Russian magazine. The men in the battery, mostly Jack Tars, seeing this, got up and cheered lustily; and even we who were in the pits so close to the enemy couldn't help doing the same. We had better have been silent, for the enemy sent a shower of rockets and grape shot among us as also at the battery. One of the rockets blew up an ammunition wagon, bringing powder into the battery. This made the Russians jump up and cheer, and as we picked off some of their men as they did so, they sent out a company of their sharpshooters to attack us. Our captain, seeing this, thought it prudent to retire. We therefore each of us took steady aim at a particular man, and in most cases knocking him over, jumped out of the pit and retired towards our camp. The next day we returned to the same place by a different road. It was not well chosen, and several of our men were wounded in going towards the pits. We held them for some hours, when the Russians, not liking the way we treated them, came against us in strong force. We of course had to jump out of our holes and retire, but they almost surrounded us as it was. Fortunately the force of riflemen on outpost duty saw our position, and advanced to our assistance. We then retired towards them, disputing every inch of the ground. The Russians had now got into the pits we had left. Once more, therefore, we advanced to drive them out. They stood their ground, and we had a fierce hand-to-hand fight with them. I found myself engaged with a fellow who fought more desperately than any of his comrades. Having discharged his musket, he rushed at me with his bayonet, a dig from which I had much difficulty in avoiding. Just then his helmet was knocked off, and I saw clearly the features of Shane McDermot. I cried out "Traitor, deserter, scoundrel, I know you! Yield!" On hearing this he seemed as eager to escape as he was before to fight. Calling to his comrades in Russian, several of them sprang back with him. Others, however, stood their ground, and gave us shot for shot. I loaded, and fired at Shane. I thought that I had hit him, for he fell; but he was up again and retreating with his companions. Meantime the rest of our party were actively engaged. Joseph Hartley, a corporal of my party, showed a great deal of spirit. He jumped on to the top of the mound overlooking the pits, and firing rapidly, shot three Russians, one after the other, through their heads. A captain of the Guards jumped right down into the pit, and was wounded through both his wrists. The Russians, however, at last took to flight, leaving three dead and many more wounded. We took their rifles and ammunition from them, and returned into camp, helping along the captain of Guards, whose wounds had been bound up by my comrade Donald McKenzie, who has before been mentioned. We continued the same sort of work till the morning of the 25th of October; while the Duke of Cambridge was instructing us what to do, news was brought that the Russians were attacking Balaclava. We hastened to join our respective regiments, and found the Russians in great force attacking on all points. The Turks, who had charge of the outposts, had been driven in, and the 93rd Highlanders, under Sir Colin Campbell, were formed in line ready to receive the Russian cavalry as they advanced towards the hill. A steady volley, at two hundred yards, sent the Russians flying back, but, to the surprise of the Highlanders, not a man fell from the saddle, when it was found that they were all strapped on to their horses, so that the dead and wounded were carried out of the fight. The Enniskillens and Scots Greys clashed right on the flanks of the retreating cavalry, and cut them up terribly before they could get back to the Russian army, which appeared with a strong force of artillery on the opposite side of the valley. It was shortly after this that the light cavalry, through a mistaken order given by poor Captain Nolan, who was directly afterwards killed, charged across the valley at the enemy's guns, other guns playing on them from either side. If the French cavalry had not charged and helped them, not a man would have escaped; as it was, they were fearfully cut up, the greater number being killed or wounded. Still it was a sight to make a soldier's heart beat quick as with their helmets glittering and their swords flashing in the sunbeams, that gallant band dashed across the valley. But it was sad to watch those who did escape, coming back, many on foot, one wounded man between two others, some scarcely able to sit their horses, very few unhurt; and to think what a gallant band they had looked as they rode down the hill but a few minutes before. We remained on the heights of Balaclava that night, prepared to receive the Russians if they had returned; but they had had enough of us, and had retreated. We of the light division remained stationed at this place all the winter. There was another bloody battle fought not long after this on the 5th of November, called the battle of Inkerman. The allied armies were posted on high ground, with the sea on one side, and deep valleys on the other. Below the British right, where the ground was very steep, were the rivers Chernaya and Inkerman. The Russian general knew that this was our weakest point, and evidently hoped to take us by surprise. The morning was so dark and foggy that the officers who were visiting the outposts could not see twenty yards before them into the valley. Sir Thomas Trowbridge was the first, I have heard, to discover the approach of the enemy. They were close upon our camp with 60,000 men, and were beginning to climb the heights before the bugle sound summoned our troops to stand to their arms. The British during the whole day had not more than 8,000 men engaged. The Russians climbed up the heights, but again and again were driven back, till the French, at last coming up, put them to flight. The Guards, who had a great deal of the fighting, behaved most bravely, and lost a great many officers and men. The British army on that morning had 43 officers and 416 men killed, and 101 officers and 1332 men wounded, while 200 were missing, mostly made prisoners. A very severe winter now set in, and a large steamer _The Prince_, with clothing for the army, sank off Balaclava in a fearful gale, in which many other vessels were lost. The weather was very cold, with snow and wind and rain, and our poor fellows suffered greatly from want of food and clothing and shelter. Our tents were nearly worn out, and were at all events unfit for the winter, and we were obliged to live in hovels and holes in the ground. From what I have heard, many more men die of sickness in war-time than are killed in battle; and from the numbers who died of cholera and other complaints, in the Crimea, I believe that to be true. I have not said anything about Marshall for some time. He did his duty steadily and well, and was always cool under fire. He had not volunteered as I had done for any dangerous work, but he was a man on whom I knew that I could rely, whatever was to be done. He came one day to me in high spirits, with a letter he had received from Kathleen. She prayed that the war would soon be over. She said that her father had just had some money left him, and would, if he was willing, as soon as he returned home, purchase his discharge. "It's a kind, noble offer," said Marshall; "I will accept it and return,--work for him as long as I live." I praised his intention, said that I wished I had the same chance, and wished him a long life and happiness with his pretty Kathleen. Soon after this my old comrade was made a corporal, and I received an honour I little expected. A general parade was ordered for the whole regiment, when a square being formed, in the centre of which the colonel with other officers were posted, several men were called up, I being one of them. He then presented us with a distinguished conduct medal, on which were the words, "For distinguished conduct in the field." On giving me mine, he congratulated me and wished me long life to wear the decoration. He hoped, he said, that many other young men in the regiment would follow my example, and he could assure them that if they did, the same rewards were in store for them. The captains of companies were then ordered to march their respective companies to their private parades, when my captain wished me long life and happiness, and my comrades were so pleased that they lifted me up, and carried me to my hut, and the medal went the rounds of the whole company. "Well done, Jack; I'm glad you've got that. You've earned it, that you have, my boy," was the sort of remark made to me by my comrades, one after the other. Marshall also was commended for his bravery and coolness. "Ah Jack, I'll do something to try and gain that, to carry home to her;" he said to me as he gave the medal back into my hands. That dreadful winter passed away at last. I do not think that British troops ever went through greater trials than did the British army in the Crimea, and never did men submit more patiently, or more nobly do their duty. There is one thing to be said, our officers set us the example. They suffered as much as we did, and never complained. We could not help ourselves; but many of them we knew well were gentlemen of good property, who could have enjoyed life at home, in ease and comfort; and instead of that they stayed out with us at the call of duty, went through the hardships and risked their lives as we did, who had nothing to lose and everything to gain. One young baronet, with many thousand pounds a year, was killed at the battle of the Alma, and his brother who succeeded him fell directly afterwards. Both commissioned and non-commissioned officers and men performed many gallant deeds. Several, when their comrades were wounded, dashed forward, and though the shot, shells, and bullets of the enemy were flying about their heads, lifted them up in their arms or on their backs and took them out of the fight. The Honourable Major Clifford in this way carried off one of his men who had fallen close to him, from among the enemy; so did Sergeant Moynihan, who is now a captain. On the 8th September, Sergeant Moynihan was the first to enter the Redan. One of his officers, Lieutenant Smith, having been killed, he made a gallant attempt to rescue his body, and after being twice bayoneted was made prisoner, but rescued by the advance of the British. John Alexander, a private of the 19th regiment, brought in Captain Buckley and several men after the attack on the Redan. At the battle of Inkerman, Private Beach, seeing Lieutenant-Colonel Carpenter lying on the ground, and several Russians advancing towards him, dashed forward, killed two of them, and protected the colonel against his assailants, till a party of the 41st regiment coming up put them to flight. Private Mcdermot, also at Inkerman, saved the life of Colonel Haly, much in the same way. However, I could fill pages with accounts of the brave deeds done by our men during the war. Many young sergeants not only gained the Victoria Cross, but had their commissions given them, and are now captains and adjutants of their respective regiments. A man, to gain this rank, however, must be steady and sober, have a thorough knowledge of his duty, be brave and cool, and a good scholar. However I must go back to my tale. We remained at Balaclava till June, when we were ordered to the front to take part in a proposed attack on the fortress. The French were to attack the Malakoff battery, and we, under Sir George Brown, the Redan; while another force under General Eyre, was to threaten the works about the dockyard creek. The French began the attack before daybreak, and before long the order was given for us to advance. We could not hold the Redan till the French had taken the Malakoff. We advanced rather too soon. We were met by a tremendous fire, and Sir John Campbell who, calling to the troops to follow, led the way over the parapet right up to the enemy's guns, was shot dead with many other officers and men. Other officers with small parties of men would dash forward, waving their swords, only to meet the same fate. "Come, boys," cried Marshall, who had been for some time under the shelter of the parapet, "I'm resolved to gain my promotion to-day; who'll follow? We'll take those guns." Nearly twenty men sprang out with him and rushed forward. Poor fellows, they were met as the others had been by an iron shower, which left not one unhurt. Only three got back, and Marshall was not among them. I would have tried to bring him off, but the others said he was among the first killed. However, I resolved to go and look for him as soon as I could, without the certainty of losing my own life, as I should have done had I gone then. It was sad to think that so many brave men should have lost their lives to no purpose. A truce was arranged for a few hours that both sides might bury their dead. The instant the white flag was hoisted on the fortifications of Sebastopol, I hurried towards the Redan to look for Marshall, before any of the burying parties should find his body if he was killed. I had some slight hopes that he might still be alive, though unable to move on account of his wounds. It was sad to see the number of the bravest of our men who had fallen under the Redan. The whole way up to the guns was strewed with bodies, and as I got nearer to the guns, there were many corpses of Russians, who had attacked the British as they were retiring. I looked eagerly about. There lay poor Marshall. I took his hand. He would never grasp rifle again. Near him lay a Russian soldier, whose bayonet, it seemed clear to me, had pierced his breast, and who himself had been shot at the same moment by Marshall's rifle, for the weapons lay crossed on the ground as they had fallen from the grasp of the dying men. The Russian soldier had rolled over on his side. I turned him round. Though his face was begrimed with dust and smoke, I at once knew his features. They were those of Shane McDermot. He had at length met the fate he deserved--too good for him, many will say, but he had also been allowed to kill in revenge as honest and brave and simple-hearted a soldier as ever fought for his Queen and country. I felt inclined to kick the body of the seeming Russian, but I did not. I saw at once that such would not be a worthy or a Christian act. "He is in the hands of One who knows how to reward and punish," I thought to myself; and leaving the dead body of my enemy where it lay, I lifted that of my friend on my shoulders, and bore it away towards our lines. I was resolved that it should rest in British ground. Several persons asked why I was taking so much trouble with a dead body. "He was his comrade and friend, poor fellow!" I heard one or two say. I carried him to a quiet spot, and there I dug a grave as deep as I could, and hunted about till I found a stone, which I placed at his head. I should say that before I placed my old comrade in his grave, I searched his pockets that I might send anything I could find in them home. Among them was a pocket-book, and in it was a letter he had written the night before to Kathleen. He told her how he hoped to win fame and a name, and might be win his commission, and make her a lady as she deserved to be. Poor fellow! his ambition, which till then had been asleep, was aroused. How soon was it, with all his earthly hopes, cut short! Such has been many another young soldier's fate. We lost that day alone, 22 officers and 230 men killed, and 71 officers and upwards of 1000 men wounded. Altogether it was about the saddest of the whole war. STORY FOUR, CHAPTER 6. We worked on, making our zigzag approaches, night after night getting nearer to the city. Often during the time I used to go and visit poor Marshall's grave, and I own that I dropped many a tear over it, as I thought of his worth, and the grief the news of his death would cause to poor Kathleen's heart. That would not be dried up so soon as my sorrow. His fate might be mine any day, and I had plenty of things to think about. The poor girl would mourn alone. One day I was thus standing near the grave, when I heard a boy's voice say, "Sure that's yourself, Mr Armstrong." I looked up, and before me I saw a young drummer-boy, in the uniform of the 57th regiment. "Yes, my lad; and who are you?" I asked, not recollecting the features. "Pat Nolan; sure and it's many a day I've been looking for you," answered the lad. "I've come out to see the war, and it's enough I've seen of it any how." I was glad to see poor little Pat. The world had gone ill with him and his family, and an elder brother having enlisted, he also had done so as a drummer-boy. His brother had been killed, and he was, as it were, left alone in the world. I promised to befriend him as far as I could, poor boy. I had no doubt that the men of his regiment would look after him and treat him kindly. A few nights after this I was in the trenches, when I saw a shell coming directly towards our position. I cried out at the very top of my voice, "Close cover," that the men might get close under the embankment of the trench. Some followed my advice, but others stood still, when the shell exploded in the midst of us, wounding twelve of our number, some very severely, and, in addition, a captain of my regiment. I saw him fall, and thought that he was killed. I ran to him and found that he breathed, so I went and brought a stretcher from the end of another trench, and placed him on it. He begged to be allowed to die in peace, as he was mortally wounded, but another man and myself undertook to carry him to the hospital, at the Twenty-one Gun Battery. The shortest way was across the open space between the trenches. As there were fully a hundred shells and rockets in the air at once, there was plenty of light for us to see our way. We agreed to run the risk of being shot, and to carry him across, as it was important to have him looked to at once. We reached the battery without being hit, but our poor captain died within a quarter of an hour of entering the hospital. We afterwards carried his body to his quarters, where his brother officers, when they heard of what had happened, soon came to take a last look at one they all loved so well. The day was coming on, as we well knew by the advance in our trenches, when another attack on the fortress was to be made. The Russians had kept us fully employed, and during July and August several times came out from behind their lines to attack us, and were as often driven back. There is one matter I forgot to talk of. All this time it was pleasant to know that we were thought of by the people at home. Comforts of every sort were sent out to the soldiers--food, and clothes, and books; and missionaries and other ministers of religion came out and preached to those in health, and comforted the sick and dying; but besides this, hospitals were established in the more healthy parts of the country belonging to our allies, the Turks, to which our sick and wounded were sent. What also won the hearts of our wounded men was the gentle care with which they were tended, not by hired nurses, but by many ladies who came out from England on purpose to assist them. Those who had been cured, and came back to the Crimea, told how they had been treated; and I do not believe that there is a soldier of that army but who blesses the ladies of England for the sake of those who acted as nurses in the military hospitals in the East. On the 5th of September the whole of our batteries again opened on the town, and went on firing night and day, till, on the 8th at noon, the French, who were to attack the Malakoff, made the signal to advance. They rushed on, as they always do, very quickly; and before the Russians, who were at dinner, had time to defend the place, they were in it, and their flag was flying on the ramparts. Now came the turn of the British, who had to attack the Redan. On they went; but the Russians were ready for them, and they were met by a hot fire of musketry and artillery. Major Welsford, of the 97th, who led the storming party, was killed, and Colonel Handcock was mortally wounded. There was not a hotter fight during the whole war. We had officers and 356 non-commissioned officers and men killed, and not far from 2000 wounded; and, after all, our men were compelled to retire. It was known that the Highland brigade, under Sir Colin Campbell were to renew the attack the next morning. We made up our minds that it would be a day of bloodshed, but we hoped also of victory, and we were prepared for it. In the night, however, an officer, with some men, went out to look for a friend who had fallen in the works of the Redan. Not seeing him, he went on and found no sign of an enemy. This being told to the engineer officer conducting the works, he sent a corporal of sappers, who also found all still within. Sir Colin, on hearing of the matter, called for ten volunteers from each of the Scotch regiments to learn the truth. They, advancing at a run, crossed the ditch, and a man of the 93rd was the first to scale the rampart. The place was deserted. The Russians, on a bridge of boats and rafts, had crossed over to the other side of the harbour during the night, having set the town on fire in all parts. We took possession of a city of blazing houses and exploding mines. It was some time before we could move about, for fear of being blown up or crushed by falling houses. The whole city was a ruin, and the Russians had also sunk or burnt all the ships in the harbour, so that it seemed that they had left us little worth having. Then came the sad work of burying those who had fallen in the assault on the Redan, as also those who had defended it. The Russians were placed by themselves, at one end of the ditch, and our men at the other, and then we shovelled the earth from the slope over them both. There they lie; the rampart of the fortress the one had fought to defend, the other to gain, their monument. The most terrible sight, however, was in a building which we did not enter for two days, I think, on account of the houses burning round it and the mines exploding. It was a hospital; and in it were two thousand human bodies, and out of the whole scarcely five hundred were alive. The rest had died. For forty-eight hours no one had been near them to give them a drop of water, or dress their aching wounds. I've often thought what those poor fellows must have gone through. Then we had to carry them out, and bury them. It was sickening, terrible work. Those at home little know what a soldier has to go through. It is not all gold and glitter, let me tell them, marching here and there on a fine day, with the sun shining, and band playing, and colours flying. I am not one of those who would tell a young fellow not to go for a soldier. Very far from that; but I wish to let him know that he will have a great deal of hard, trying work to go through, and he will have to face death in all sorts of ways. Still the man who has a fancy for soldiering, and is steady, is sure to get on, and will find it a good profession on the whole. After we entered Sebastopol, the war was over, but it was some time before peace was proclaimed. We were heartily glad when that time came; for we were getting very sick of the place where we had lost so many of our comrades and friends. We sailed back as we had come, in a number of large transports; and thankful we were to see the shores of Old England again. I went out soon afterwards with our regiment to India. That is a large country, a long way off, on the other side of the world nearly; the greater part is very hot, and the natives are of a dark-brown colour. They are mostly heathens, and worship all sorts of ugly idols of wood and stone, but some are of the same religion as the Turks, and believe in the false prophet, Mahomet. The East India Company had a large army of these men, with English officers, but native non-commissioned officers. These native officers, with some of their chiefs, thought that they could take the country from the English. They pretended therefore that the English government were going to make them turn Christians by force, and persuaded the men to revolt. They kept this secret, and on a sudden the greater number of the native regiments rose against their English officers, murdered many of them, as well as many civilians, with their wives and children, and took possession of several fortified places. The most important were Delhi and Lucknow. In one place, Cawnpore, a chief, called Nana Sahib, got General Wheeler and all the English in the garrison into his power, and murdered nearly the whole of them, soldiers and civilians, women and children; the bodies of the latter he threw into a deep well. Three persons alone out of one thousand escaped that dreadful massacre. The accounts of these things made the hearts of British soldiers burn within them. We had a number of native troops from other parts of the country who remained faithful to the British, but still the rebel regiments far outnumbered the English troops. We found ourselves once more under the command of our old general, Sir Colin Campbell. We marched from Calcutta to Cawnpore, from which the wretch, Nana Sahib, had taken flight, and then on to Lucknow, which the rebels still held in great force. We lost a great many men by cholera, and had frequent skirmishes and one or two pitched battles with the enemy--till early in March, 1858, we were before Lucknow. Here we had some severe fighting. We had to storm one large building after another, but at length the rebels were driven out, and numbers cut to pieces. On one occasion I had to climb a tree to see what the enemy were about on the other side of a wall; though hundreds of bullets whistled by me I descended unhurt, but was soon afterwards hit on the breast with a bullet which knocked me over; I was up again, and refusing to go to the rear, assisted to capture a fort, and spiked a gun with my bayonet. While doing this, my kilt was riddled with bullets, though I escaped unhurt. I was not so fortunate a day or two afterwards, when attacking a large block of palaces full of Sepoys, for I received a shot in my neck which laid me low. I was carried out of the fight by my comrades, and my wound was so severe that I had to be invalided home. The fight before Lucknow was my last battle. The English beat the Sepoys wherever they were met, and at length the British rule was once more firmly established in India. It was not till I got home again that I was able to go and see poor Kathleen, and to give her the few things belonging to Marshall. She was still single; and I have good reason to think that for his sake she would remain so. Such as I have described them, are some of the common events of a soldier's life. STORY FIVE, CHAPTER 1. JOSEPH RUDGE, THE AUSTRALIAN SHEPHERD. When God formed the round world we live on, He made some parts very unlike other parts. The climate, the trees and plants, and the animals of some countries altogether differ from those of other countries. If we could go right through the globe just as a darning needle is run through a ball of worsted, we should come out close to a country ten times as large as England, which belongs to our Queen, and is called Australia. To get to it, however, we have really to sail round about over the sea, and the voyage takes about three months. When it is winter in England, it is summer there. The trees do not shed their leaves, and many of the animals carry their young about in bags before them, and like the kangaroo, have long hind legs with which they spring over the ground. It is a fine country for cattle and horses, and still more so for sheep, the wool of which is very fine. About three hundred miles from the sea, up the country, and towards the end of December, a few years back, a busy scene was to be witnessed. The country was not hilly nor flat, but swelling with ups and downs. On one side was a forest, but the trees were wide enough apart to let horsemen gallop between them. Other trees of odd twisted shapes, but large, with the bark often torn off from the stems, were scattered about here and there. Still most of the country was open and covered with grass, long leaved and scanty, very unlike that of meadow land in England, but still affording good feed for sheep. A creek ran out from the forest with a stream of water, which filled a small lake or water-hole. On the higher ground stood a house of one floor, with a verandah round it, a large wool-shed, a stable, three or four smaller cottages, or rather huts, and other outhouses. There was a small garden enclosed, but no other signs of cultivation. There were numerous sheepfolds and two cattle pens, but the rest of the country round was quite open. It was the head sheep station of Moneroo, owned by Mr Ramsay, who managed it himself. It was well managed, too, for the watchful eye of a master who understood the work to be done was everywhere. The sheep-pens were full, and there were a number of men moving about. Some were down at the creek up to their knees in water, busy washing the sheep, which were driven down to them. A still larger number were near the wool-shed, with long shears in their hands taking the soft snowy fleeces off the creatures' backs. One flock was seen coming in from a distant out-station, following the careful shepherd, who, like those we read of in the Holy Land, had taught his flock to know his voice. Another flock, having been shorn, was moving off to its usual run. Towards evening, a dray laden with stores was seen, its wheels and bullocks' hoofs as it drew near the station stirring up the dry earth into clouds of dust. It brought casks of flour, and pork, and hogsheads of sugar, and boxes of tea, and cheeses, and all sorts of cooking and mess things, and saddles, and harness, and ropes, and tobacco, and cattle medicines; indeed, it would be hard to say what it did not bring. By the side of it, besides the usual driver and his mate, strode a sturdy, fresh-looking Englishman, whose cheeks had not yet been burnt by the hot sun of Australia, and two young boys; while on the top of the dray sat his wife--a comely looking woman--a girl of thirteen, and three smaller children. Dick Boyce, the bullock driver, pointed out the master to the new chum he had brought up from the chief port of the colony. The latter stepped forward at once, with one of his boys, while the other stayed with his mother, whom Boyce and his mate, Tom Wells, helped to dismount. The new comer gave a letter to Mr Ramsay, and he and his sons stood watching his face while the master read it. "Very good," said Mr Ramsay, as he folded up the letter, "your name I see is Joseph Rudge, and you have brought your wife and children." "Yes, sir; that is my good woman out there by the dray, and this is our eldest boy, Sam," answered Joseph, touching the arm of one of the stout, fine-looking lads by his side with a look of honest pride. Mr Ramsay smiled, and asked, "Where do you come from?" "Wiltshire, sir," answered Joseph. "You understand sheep?" said Mr Ramsay. "Been accustomed to them all my life," said Joseph. "How many do you think you could shear in a day?" asked the master. "May be three score," answered Rudge, looking with an eye somewhat of contempt at the small breed of sheep he saw before him. "At a pinch, I'd say fourscore, sir; but I don't think a man could do more than that properly, from what I know, and from what I've heard." "You'll do, my man," said Mr Ramsay, looking well pleased, "make my interest yours, and yours shall be mine. Mr Thompson, my agent at Melbourne, tells me that he has engaged you and your family for fifty pounds a year, and all found. Your eldest lads will soon learn how to make themselves useful, and so will that lassie there, while your wife will keep your hut when you are out with the sheep. You will stay here for a few weeks to learn our ways, and then I will send you up in charge of an out-station. To-morrow you will begin work, for we have plenty for you to do." "Thank ye, sir; I'll do my best to serve you, and so will my wife and children," answered Joseph, in a hearty voice which showed that he purposed to do what he said. Joseph and his family were at once placed in possession of a vacant hut. It was a rough-looking place, but served well for that fine climate. The frame was of wood, with slab walls, and was roofed with sheets of bark from a tree called the "stringy-bark tree." It was divided into two parts. The bedsteads were rough frames with hides stretched on them, but there were good beds and pillows stuffed with short wool, of which no one could complain. A table, and some stools and benches, with a cupboard and plenty of shelves and hooks was all the furniture they found in the hut. Joseph and Sam went off to the storekeeper, to get their rations, and came back with a fine supply of everything they wanted. That evening, as Joseph Rudge and his family sat round the table at supper, he thanked God heartily for having brought them into a good country, and placed them in the hands of a kind and just master. This was the character Dick Boyce and his mate had given of Mr Ramsay, as they travelled up with the dray from Melbourne. The next day, Joseph set to work with his shears, with Sam to help him. He did not shear so many sheep as the contract shearers, but he sheared well, leaving none of the bottom wool, and his employer was perfectly satisfied. He got through two score the first day; two and a half the next; and three the next. He observed one man who sheared no less than six score in one day, but Joseph on his way home to dinner observed that much of the bottom wool--the most valuable in a fleece--remained on the sheeps' backs. He told Tom Wells what he had seen, and Tom told Boyce, and soon afterwards Mr Ramsay went to the pens in which the sheep were placed, and sent for the fast shearer, John Butt. John was very angry, but Mr Ramsay was firm, and refused to fulfil his part of the contract unless he sheared the sheep properly. "I'll pay the fellow off who brought the matter before the master's eyes," growled John Butt. "It's that new chum; I saw him looking at the sheep. What business has he to come and interfere with our ways?" Joseph Rudge had thus made an enemy though he did not know it. Even had he known what would happen, he would have done the same, for he was one of those who follow the golden rule, "Do right, whatever you think may come of it, and leave that to be settled by God." The first thing done with the fleece, when off the sheep's back, was to clean it on the folding table, which was a framework through which the dirt fell. After that it was put into the press and packed tightly into large bales fit for sending on board the ship which was to carry it to England. As soon as all the wool was done up into bales, it was packed on the drays to be sent off to the port to be shipped. Each dray carried about twenty bales, and was drawn by ten stout oxen. The drays were low, like those of brewers, had no sides, but upright pins to keep in the bales, those at the corners being of iron. The bales were secured by ropes, with a tarpaulin to be thrown over them in case of wet. Dick Boyce and Tom Wells had to set off again at once. Sam wanted very much to go with them. He had a fancy for the life they led, as many a boy would have, but his father could not spare him. They travelled about fifteen miles each day, and carried everything they wanted on the road. At night, tarpaulins were let down at the sides and ends of the dray. This formed as much shelter as they required when sleeping. The bullocks were turned loose to pick up their food; and while Boyce went to bring them in, Wells lighted the fire, cooked their breakfast, and made the dray ready for starting. From stations far up the country, drays are two months and more on the journey to the sea. The chief drawback to this life is, that people long accustomed to it do not take readily to any other, and this made Joseph not wish that Sam should follow it. STORY FIVE, CHAPTER 2. Joseph Rudge and his family had for some time been living in the new hut, about twenty miles from the head station. He had plenty of hard work too; for Mr Ramsay owned cattle as well as sheep, and he had agreed to take charge of a herd, as well as his flock, with the help of his sons and a mate who had been sent with him. Labour was very scarce just then; indeed, it often is in Australia, and a few hands were obliged to do the work of many. News had just before come to the station that gold had been found in several places, and that a pocket full could be had by digging a little, and oftentimes by looking for it among the rocks. Many people going off to the gold diggings had asked him to go with them. "No," he answered, "I came out here to look after sheep and oxen, and I understand that work, I have a good master and fair wages, and I'll not desert my master, or change my work." "Right, Jos," said Mat Clark, his mate; "I never knew any good come to any one by doing wrong, and we should be doing wrong if we were to leave Mr Ramsay to take care of his sheep and cattle all by himself. It's not the way we should like to be served." Mat had come out to the colony very many years before; how he never said. He was now an old man. Some people called him Silly Mat. He used to answer, "May be I'm silly enough to try and do what is right, and to be sorry for having done what was wrong. I hope to be silly in this wise to the end of my days." Joseph and his family lived a somewhat solitary life, but as they had plenty to do, they did not mind that for themselves, only they knew it was bad for the children to get no education, and they could never visit any place of worship. For weeks together they saw no one except Mat and the keeper of another station about seven miles off, known as Tony Peach. Tony was not a man they liked at all, though they could not exactly tell why. He would put on very soft manners though, and seemed to have taken a great fancy to Joseph and his family. He had lost an arm as a soldier, he said, and he could not manage a spade or pick, or he owned that he would have been off to the diggings. He grumbled much indeed, at not being able to go, for if there was one thing he loved on earth, it was money, and he thought that it would be very pleasant to dig up gold as people do potatoes. He thought, however, that he had found out a way of growing rich without much trouble. Joseph had just come in one afternoon with his flock and folded them, it was then Sam's duty to watch them for the night. For this he had a sort of box on legs, with a hole in the side, into which he could creep and sleep comfortably. The dogs were fastened up at different points round the fold, that should a dingo, or native dog, a sort of fox, come near, their barking might at once arouse him. Joseph was just sitting down to his supper of a dish of stewed mutton and damper, that is wheaten unleavened bread, baked under the ashes, washed down by a few cups of good tea, when Tony Peach rode up. A fresh damper and a bowl of tea was placed before him. He talked on general matters for some time, and he then spoke of what he called the rights of servants. After a little time he began to speak about a plan by which, if Joseph would join him, they should make a good thing, and no one be the worse or the wiser. Tony proposed forming a herd of cattle of their own in a back run. They were to put a brand on the animals of J.B., and John Butt was to stand as the owner. "That is to say, you want _me_ to join you in robbing our good master," said Joseph, fixing his eyes on Tony. "Call it what you like," answered Tony, "a few beasts out of the herd won't be missed every now and then, and we shall get them." "No, I'll have nothing to do with the matter," said Joseph stoutly, "it's robbery, call it what you will; and what is more, Peach, if I thought that you were about such a thing, I'd let Mr Ramsay know, as it would be my duty to do. I warn you." Peach was very angry, for he had already begun the business, and wanted a mate to help him. He tried to hide his anger, though he made up his mind to be revenged. "Well, mate, don't say anything about it. If you don't think it should be, we'll let it alone, and no harm will have been done." Joseph was not satisfied. He made up his mind to keep a good look-out on the cattle under his charge. After Peach was gone, he went in to ask old Mat what he thought about the man. "What has he been saying to you?" asked Mat, looking up from his bed, for he had already turned in. "No good, I'll warrant." Joseph told him. "That's just what he said to me some time back; but he found that he would gain nothing, so he's let me alone since." Joseph said that he hoped he would gain nothing from him either. "Never let him gain an inch, mate, or he'll soon gain an ell," said old Mat. "He is doing Satan's work, and that's what Satan is always trying to do--trying to make us do a little wrong--just to get in the sharp edge of the wedge; he knows that he shall soon be able to drive it home." This talk with old Mat, made Joseph still more determined to have nothing to do with Peach, however friendly he might seem. Joseph was glad to think that Mr Ramsay had settled to muster his stock in a few days, because he should know then better how many he had under his charge, and put a stop to Peach's tricks. Mr Ramsay and several companions arrived at the station the night before, all well mounted, for the work they had to do required good horses. Among them was a Mr Harlow, who owned the next run, and lived about fifteen miles off. He was unmarried, and had two sisters and an old lady, their aunt, living with them. They were very kind people, Joseph heard. Sam, and even Bobby, his second boy had now become very good horsemen, and would gallop after and bring back stray cattle as well as many men. Still their mother had not yet quite got over the fear she had of seeing them, especially Bobby, gallop off into the wild country, on the backs of high horses, all by themselves. At break of day, a dozen or more horsemen started off, dividing, so as to get round the pasture. Each had a stock-whip in his hand: the handle is but a foot long, but the lash is about fifteen. A loud cracking sound can be made with it, and its lash strikes through the thickest skin. The cattle, when roused, as is usual, made for the low ground, where Joseph and his sons, with one or two other men, were ready to collect them. They, however, were very wild, as they will soon get when there are not enough men to look after them. Now a dozen cows would start away, and had to be headed and driven back; now an active young bull would make a rush, and caused no little trouble before he was made to turn. The animals seemed to know that something was to be done with them, and made up their minds to escape it. At last a large part of the herd were brought together, and Mr Ramsay ordered them to be headed off towards the stock-yard, but no sooner did they begin to move than away a dozen or more would go at a time. It was hard work to bring even part of them back. At last, by hard riding and use of the whip, about two-thirds were collected in the yard. But so active were some of the young beasts that even the high fences could not keep them in, and several sprang over them in a way not many horses would have done. It took some time to brand the young beasts, and to count and sort the whole herd. As soon as this was done, Mr Ramsay and his friends and servants started off, on a fine moonlight night, in the hopes of driving in the remainder of the herd; for this purpose they took with them a few tame cattle that the wild ones might join company, and the whole be induced to go back together. Before long the lowing of the decoy-herd was answered from the distant forest, and as they proceeded on, numbers joined them, their large bodies seen amid the trees, and their huge horns glancing in the moonbeams. Orders had been given that not a whip should be cracked, not a word spoken. They had got on some way very well, and many wild animals had joined their ranks, when Joseph observed Tony Peach riding near him. Soon afterwards there was heard the crack of a whip, and a number of animals started off. Mr Ramsay, Mr Harlow, and others did their best to stop them, riding here and there and turning them quickly. Joseph kept his eye on Peach, and observed that whenever he could, without being, as he thought, noticed, he let the beasts gallop off. A good many had escaped in this way, when Joseph determined to try and stop the next that should make the attempt. A large bull was turning off, when Joseph rode to head the animal. Suddenly the beast turned on him. At that moment his horse, putting his fore feet into a hole, fell and rolled over with him. The bull came on. Peach, instead of coming to help him, with a loud laugh rode off, pretending to go after other cattle. Joseph, as he well might, shouted at the top of his voice. Just as the bull was close to him Mr Ramsay, in chase of another beast, passed by. Seeing what had happened, he placed himself before the bull and twined the lash of his whip round its horns. The horse stood stock still, with its fore legs out ready to spring aside, should it be necessary to avoid the bull or to stop the latter in its course. The bull, finding a sudden pull at its head, of course turned towards Mr Ramsay, who, untwisting his lash, galloped round and gave it such a cut on the flank as made it turn back once more towards the herd. This gave Joseph time to remount his horse, and he was soon lashing away at the animals as before. He was much disposed to tell Mr Ramsay what he had observed; but then he thought it was not easy to prove. "It may be thought that I want to curry favour. Still, if I find out more things certain against this man, it will be my duty to inform the master." Mr Ramsay was very much vexed at not getting more of the cattle in. He did not blame Joseph, for he knew that it was not his fault, that Peach had long been in charge of them and ought to have kept them in better order. Of course Peach excused himself, and said that the cattle were always wild, and that it was no fault of his. Joseph began to wish that he had had nothing to do with cattle, but had stuck to his sheep. He had certainly much hard work, for he had to be in the saddle early in the morning and to keep in it most of the day. Sam, though, liked it very much. Bob had now taken Sam's place and helped Mat in taking care of the sheep. One day old Mat came to Joseph and begged him to look at the sheep. He was afraid something was the matter with some of them. Joseph examined narrowly all those which Mat thought were sick. There was no doubt that they had the distemper. It had not spread far yet. A stop must be put to it. He at once sent off Ben on horseback to acquaint Mr Ramsay, and to bring back tobacco and other stuff for making washes. Meantime he separated the diseased animals from the rest, which he told Mat to drive to a fresh part of the run where they had not been for some time. He warned him on no account to go near any other flock. Meantime he rode round to the nearest hut to advise the shepherds to look to their sheep, to see if the distemper had showed itself among them, that they might take steps to stop it. At one of the stations he met Peach. It was one like his own, with three men, one of them having charge of a back run with cattle. Peach was not very friendly. "I should think Ned Marks here would know as soon as a fresh hand whether or not his sheep had the distemper," he remarked with a sneer. "Some people, however, are fond of busying themselves about what doesn't concern them; but I've just to say that they may go too far some day and find that others won't stand it." Joseph made no answer, he was resolved to do his duty, whatever came of it. "Never mind him; I'm not offended," said Marks, giving a wink to Peach, which he fancied Joseph did not observe. "Here, Rudge, to show that there is no ill-will between us, do you take a glass of this good rum. I got a few bottles the last time I was down at the store. There are not many left." "No thank you, mate," answered Joseph. "I made up my mind when I came out to this country never to touch liquor, and I find not only that I can get on without it, but that I am much the better without it. I used to take it in England, and I am ashamed to say how much of my wages went in drink. I wish to be friendly with you, Marks, but I shouldn't show my good feeling by drinking your rum." "As you like," said Marks. "It isn't often you have such a chance in the bush. However, it's liberty hall, and no man is forced to do what he doesn't like." Peach now seemed to take a hint from Marks, and pretended once more to be friendly with Joseph. "I don't bear malice, Rudge," he said, holding out his hand. "May be one of these days you'll see things in a different way, and understand that I wanted only to do you a good turn." "I hope not," answered Joseph, going towards the door. "I think I understand you pretty clearly; and I pray that I may never be brought to call black white." "A canting hypocrite!" exclaimed Peach, as Joseph rode off. Joseph offered up a silent prayer, "Lead us not into temptation." As the stockman rode on he saw by the look of the sky that one of those fierce storms which occasionally visit parts of Australia, was threatening. He had reached his farthest point from home. The country was wild. There was no regular road, only a track which it required sharp eyes to find out in some places. He pushed on, hoping to get home before the storm broke. Presently, however, loud peals of thunder burst from the sky; the lightning darted along the ground and among the trees with a crackling noise, which made his horse start from side to side. Down came the rain like a water-spout, and the wind sprung up and blew in fierce gusts, tearing off huge branches of the trees, and now and then uprooting the trees themselves. Joseph saw that it would be dangerous to take shelter under any of the trees, so he kept as much as he could in the open ground. He had not gone far when he heard a cry. It was from some fellow-creature, he was certain of that. He looked about on every side, and at last saw that a falling tree had struck down a black man, who lay beneath it unable to move. Joseph fastening his horse to a stump, ran towards the poor fellow. He was alive, and his body seemed uninjured, but his foot had been caught by the trunk and held him fast. Had he been alone he must have died a horrible death, for it was clear that he could not have released himself. The black fellow saw Joseph coming, and made signs to show his gratitude, uttering a few words of broken English. When, however, Joseph came to look at the tree, he found that it would be no easy matter to get the poor black from under it. He had an axe in his belt, and with it he cut down a young sapling for a handspike, but when he tried it he found that he could not lift the heavy trunk. Then he set to work to dig under the foot, but the ground was as hard as a rock. The black then made signs that he might drive something under it, and so lift the tree. "He means wedges," thought Joseph, and at once lopping off a thick branch, shaped out several; the black, in spite of the pain he was suffering, watching him with evident satisfaction. With a thick club, which served as a hammer, Joseph drove in the wedges, and in time got the tree lifted enough to draw out the black's leg. He then carried the poor fellow to a bank and examined his foot. It had been caught in a slight hollow, and was not as much hurt as might have been expected. As well as he could with the handkerchief off his neck, he bound up the injured limb, and then placed him on his horse. "I shall be late at home, but I cannot let this poor black lie out here in the woods by himself," he thought; "it is my duty to take him to my hut and tend him till he is well. The black must have been suffering a great deal of pain, but he bore it bravely." "What is your name?" he asked, as he walked by his side. "Troloo, good white man," answered the black, "Troloo lub white man." It was pleasant to Joseph to think that the young black was grateful. For some time the storm continued, but Joseph with his injured companion, pushed on through it. On his way out he had crossed a small creek with the water not much above his horse's fetlocks. As he drew near the spot he saw that instead of the quiet blue pool, where there had been no current, there was now a foaming and roaring torrent, its muddy waters carrying down numerous roots and branches of trees. Still he thought that there could be no difficulty in crossing at that spot, and was leading the horse in, when Troloo made signs that there was much danger in so doing, and pointed higher up the creek, trying to show that they might there cross with greater safety. Joseph, like a wise man, therefore turned back. On calculating the depth of the water by the height of the bank, he judged that it was up to his arm pits, and that had he stepped into any hole, he might have sunk with his head under also. "Ah, if it had not been for the black, I might have tried to cross, and have lost my life," he thought. After going up the creek some way, the black pointed to a spot where the ground was very smooth and hard on either side. "Dere, dere, cross now," he said, and made signs to Joseph to get up on the horse. "No, friend, a wetting won't do me any harm, and if the horse was to stumble, with two on his back, it might be a bad job for you." Joseph walked into the stream boldly, leading the horse. The water rose up to his knees, then to his thighs. He kept his eyes up the stream on the watch for any branches or trunks of trees which might be floating down. Now by stopping, now by pushing on fast, he was able to avoid several, others he turned aside. For some time the water was up to his middle. The black pointed across the creek, and made signs that there was nothing to fear. At last he reached the opposite bank. Scarcely had he got out of the torrent, than the rain came down still harder than before; the wind blew furiously, tearing off branches from the brittle wood trees and sending them flying along before it. The thunder roared and rattled with long continued peals from the sky, and the lightning flashed more brightly than ever, darting, it seemed, from cloud to cloud, and then went hissing along the ground like a number of fiery serpents. The horse started and trembled, now sprang to one side, now to the other, so that Joseph could scarcely keep the black man from falling off. Still, like a true Briton, he pushed on. There was no use looking for shelter, none was to be found nearer than his own hut. Suddenly a flash darted from a cloud just overhead, and seemed to strike the ground directly in front of Joseph. A moment before he had seen clearly. He made a few steps forward expecting again to see his way, but the bright light alone was in his eyes; nothing could he see. He rubbed his hand over his face. "Oh, I am blind," he cried out in his grief. It was some time before the black could understand what had happened. He uttered some expressions showing his sorrow, in his own tongue. "Come, no fear, black fellow show way," he said at last, taking Joseph's hand. Thus they journeyed on, Joseph holding on to the horse, and Troloo guiding it. The storm seemed to have spent its fury. After this the rain ceased, the thunder no longer rattled in the sky, nor did the lightning flash, and the clouds passed away. Joseph had no difficulty in knowing this. He was, however, not at all certain that Troloo was leading him towards his hut. This made him anxious, because, though he could not be very far wrong, it would delay his arrival at home. He tried to talk with the black man, but they could not make out what each other said, so they became silent. On and on they went. In the morning he had galloped quickly over the ground; now, he was creeping along, each moment expecting to fall. Suddenly his dog Trusty started off and gave a cheerful bark, which was answered by Toby, Sam's dog, and by old Mat's dogs, all of which came running out, and he felt them licking his hands. He cried out, "Any one at home?" Presently he heard his wife's voice, and Bobby's and the rest of the children. "Why, Joseph, what is the matter?" exclaimed poor Sarah, running up to her husband. "Why wife, I've a cross to bear, I fancy," answered Joseph, taking Sarah's hand which she put out; "God knows what's best. If I am to remain blind, He has some reason for it. But here is this poor black fellow, his foot is terribly hurt, and he is in great pain; look after him, I can wait, or I'll bathe my eyes in warm water, I can do nothing else." With an aching heart, Sarah placed her husband in a chair, and then helped the black off the horse, and with the aid of Bobby and Mat, who came up, carried him into the hut, and placed him on Sam's bed. She then bathed his foot and bound it up in a wet cloth, and then gave him some food. Troloo was evidently grateful, and took every means to show it. Night came, but Joseph still remained totally blind. STORY FIVE, CHAPTER 3. When the next morning broke, Joseph found himself as blind as before. It was a sad trial to him. "So many things to be done, and I not able to work," sighed Joseph. "The boys and I and Sally will do our best, and may be, in a day or two you will be able to see," answered Sarah. "You've often said, `God's will be done;' we must say it now, husband." "Yes, Sarah, yes, I do say it. And how is the poor black fellow?" asked Joseph. "His foot seems terribly bad. I wish there was a doctor to look to it, or I am afraid that he will never walk again; I've kept on bathing it, and he bears the pain wonderfully." Early in the day, Sam returned with the tobacco and other stuff for washes, and he and old Mat set to work to mix them, and to wash the diseased sheep. While they were at work, a horseman was seen drawing near to the station, but not from the direction the master would come. It proved to be young Mr Harlow. He had heard of the distemper having broken out among his neighbour's sheep, and wished to know what was to be done to prevent its spreading. On learning of the accident which had happened to Rudge, he went in to see him. "I have studied as a surgeon, and may, I hope, be of use to you," he said. "From what I see, I have great hopes that you will soon recover with the help of remedies I will apply." Joseph thanked him, and begged that he would look at Troloo's foot. "This is a more difficult case, but the natives' hurts heal so rapidly, that I have little doubt that he also will soon be well," he observed. It is not necessary to describe the means he employed. He rode over every day, though his time was of great value, and in the course of a few days, Joseph declared that he could once more see light and people moving about. Troloo's foot was also nearly well. "A white man's would have taken twice the time," Mr Harlow observed. Troloo, however, showed no desire to go away; "Black fellow lub Jo, work for Jo," he said. Of course Rudge was very glad to get his assistance, though he knew that he could not depend long on him, and that any moment he might set off again by himself. He could help with the sheep, but cattle have such a dislike to black men that they will not let one come near them. When Mr Ramsay arrived, he highly approved of all Rudge had done, and was much concerned to hear of his blindness, though Mr Harlow assured him that he would soon recover his sight, as he shortly did. Joseph and his wife were very grateful to Mr Harlow. "Do not thank me, I am but making a right use of the talents God has given me," he answered. He brought with him a number of small books and tracts, and told Joseph that he should be glad to have them lent to all the neighbouring shepherds and stockmen. "We will also meet together for prayer and reading God's word, when next I come over," he said. This was done; and not only old Mat but several other shepherds and hut-keepers came to Joseph's hut which he had prepared for them. This was the beginning of a Church in the wilderness, for after this, Mr Harlow often came to the station, and the Miss Harlows rode over and brought books and pictures for the children and work for Sally, and stopped to show her how to do it, and also to teach the children to read. Joseph and Sarah were very grateful. They had long felt that though they were getting good wages and saving money, it was a sad thing not to have their children taught nor be able to go to a place of worship. "Sam is not so bad a scholar, and Bobby and Sally read pretty well, but Nancy and Bill and Mary will have little chance of getting any learning," said Joseph to Mr Harlow. "If we could have a master sometimes, it would help us; and then when there is less work to be done, the elder children can help the younger; but generally they come home so tired that all they can do is to take their suppers and go to bed." Mr Harlow promised that he would talk the matter over with Mr Ramsay, and see what could be done for the children on his and the neighbouring runs. In the meantime, he left some small books and tracts, which could be carried in the pocket and read at spare moments. It was a joyful day to Joseph Rudge and to his wife and children when he was able to say that he could see as well as ever. They did not forget to thank God who had been thus kind to them. "It would have been terrible if you had been struck blind all alone in the forest," said Sarah, "I have often thought of that, and what a mercy it was that you found the black." "Yes indeed, wife," answered Joseph, "I might have been drowned, too, if I had tried to cross the creek by myself. One thing I know, and I often thought of it while I was without sight, that God orders all things for our good, though we do not always see the why and the wherefore things are done." It took a long time before the sheep were quite cured of the distemper and the flocks were allowed to mingle as before. Sam and Bob and old Mat had worked very hard, but they could not have got on alone, if Tom Wells had not been sent to help them. Tom was a first-rate rider, and a fair stockman, so he was sent to look after the cattle. He was lodged in old Mat's house. He had been thus employed only a day or two, when Peach managed to meet him. "Stock keeping better than bullock driving, lad, eh?" were the first words Peach uttered. "I should think so, mate," said Tom. "More profit to be made of it," observed Peach. "Wages is wages," observed Tom. "If I agree for so much, I take it, and must be content; if I take more than that, it's robbery to my mind, and with that I've no business." "Oh those are Rudge's notions, he's been putting you up to that sort of stuff," remarked Peach, with a look of contempt; and then he muttered, "But I'll be even with him and you too." "They are the notions of all decently honest men," said Wells, turning away from the tempter. Peach was not a man to give up a plan he had once formed. As he could not get the help of Rudge and Wells, he tried other means to get possession of his master's cattle. He had always made friends, as far as he could, with the blacks, a tribe of whom often pitched their tents near his hut. He was a sober man, and did not mind parting with his rum. All sober men are not good men, though drunkenness rarely fails to lead to crime and punishment. He had looked out for the blacks, and had told them that they must help him to get the cattle. They had managed from time to time to drive off a few calves. As has been said, cattle have a fear of blacks, and, scenting them at a long distance, scamper off as soon as they draw near. Thus Peach could not get much help from his friends. He now set off again on horseback to pay them a visit; for they were camped some miles away. He took care to go provided with presents, a few coloured handkerchiefs and knives, and a few other things. On his way, his horse put his foot into a hole, and fell. Peach was thrown over his head. He was not much hurt, so he got up, and catching his horse, mounted again. "Now I am on you I will pay you off, you brute," he exclaimed, thrashing the poor animal with his heavy whip. The horse dashed on for some way, then stopped short. He was dead lame. In vain Peach tried to make him move. To return would have taken longer than to go on; so dismounting, he led on the animal, hoping to reach the blacks' camp before night-fall. He went on and on, and it grew darker and darker, till he thought that he should have to camp out. He had no fancy to do that by himself. There were no wild beasts in the country to fear, and he would have told any one who asked him, that he did not believe in ghosts and spirits and such-like gentry; still there was something he did not like when he was all alone in the dark woods at night. His conscience was not at ease. There were strange sounds and sights he could not make out. He had no almighty Friend to whom he could offer up a prayer for protection; no wonder that he was a coward. He still went on, though he could hardly find the way; when on a sudden he stopped, and as he leaned forward, staring with wide open eyes and hair on end, he saw a blazing fire in the midst of an open glade, and on the farther side a hideous band of skeleton forms dancing and twisting and turning in all sorts of ways. Now, after leaping about furiously for a moment, they would on a sudden disappear, and not one was to be seen. For a minute or more all was quiet, and Peach hoped that he had seen the last of them; when like a flash they all came back and jumped about as before. He stood trembling with fear, he would have run away if he could, but where was he to run to? This fearful show went on for some time, when the most fearful shrieks and yells were heard. "Why I do believe it's the black fellows dancing a corroborree," he muttered to himself. "What a fool I was! Now they yell! I make out their voices." Leading his horse, which was more frightened at the shrieks than he had been by the sight of the skeletons, he walked into the middle of a group of blacks. He now saw by the light of the fire, which was made to blaze up brightly, that on the front of each of the men a skeleton was painted with white chalk. These were seen when the light of the fire fell on them, but when they turned round and only their black backs were towards the fire, they seemed to have gone away altogether. He knew that it would not do to show the anger he felt at the fright they had given him. He stood quiet, therefore, with some of the old men looking on till the dance was over. He was known to most of the natives, who welcomed him in the odd jargon in which the white settlers and blacks talk to each other. "He would tell them by-and-by what he had come to see them about, and in the meantime he had some presents to make," he said. The delight of the savages at getting the handkerchiefs and knives was very great. He told them that there were more for them if they would do what he wished. He then called some of the elders round him, and told them what he advised them to do. He told them that he was the black fellows' friend, as they had proof, but that the other white men in those parts were their enemies, and that they should drive them away if they could, or kill them, and that then, they might have all their sheep and cattle for themselves. The poor savages seemed to understand this sort of reasoning, and promised to do as he advised. He sat up till a late hour talking with them. The whole party then lay down in the "gunyio," or camp, with a few boughs or sheets of bark over their heads as their only covering, though most of them had bright fires burning at their feet outside. It was some time before Peach's busy brain would let him go to sleep. At last he went off, and began to snore. Not long after, a black might have been seen passing close to him. "Oh you one white villain!" he exclaimed, shaking his head at him, "you call black man savage, you ten times worse; but black fellow teach you that you no more clever than he." Saying this, the black disappeared among the trees around. STORY FIVE, CHAPTER 4. A short time before this, Troloo, who had learned to be very useful with the sheep, had gone off without giving any warning. It was the way of black fellows, so Joseph could not complain, though he was very sorry to lose him, especially when there was so much work to be done. Joseph did not let any of his family be idle. They had learned to make and to do all sorts of things. They made all their candles and soap. They spun wool when their fingers had nothing else to do, and then knitted it into socks and waistcoats. The boys could knit, and when they were out shepherding, they had plenty of time to make all the socks they could wear. The younger ones, among other things, learned to make baskets out of long reeds, which they gathered near the creek. One day, when they had used up all their reeds, Nancy, with little Bill and Mary, set out to gather a fresh stock. When they got down to the edge of the creek they saw some long reeds growing on the other side. "See, see, how fine and tall they are, Nancy; we must go over and get them," cried little Bill. "I know a place higher up where we can cross easily." Nancy saw no harm in doing as Bill said, for they could get no reeds on that side. They went on and on, and still they did not get to the place he spoke of. "It can only be a little farther; come on, Nancy," he cried out, running on with Mary. Nancy followed. "Here it is," he said, at last, and they began to cross. The water deepened. "No fear; do you, Nancy, lift up Mary, and I can get across easily enough," said Bill. They all got safe over. The creek twisted a good deal, and Bill thought, and Nancy thought also, that they would make a short cut across the country from the place where they then were to that where the rushes grew. A hill rose up close to the creek, and they were certain that if they went round it they should find the water on the other side. The sky was covered with clouds and the sun was not to be seen, so that there were no shadows to guide them. They walked on and on, thinking each moment that they should reach the river. Little Bill was sure that they could not have made a mistake, and ran on before his sisters shouting out, "Come on, Nancy; come on, Mary." The girls followed as fast as they could, but there were no signs of the creek. They began to be puzzled. Nancy fancied that Bill must have made a mistake. "No, no; it's farther off than I thought, that's all," said Bill. "We shan't find it by standing still." Bill was a sturdy little chap, though so young. "Mary bery, bery tired," cried the youngest girl. She couldn't speak plain, she was so young. "Well, sit down, little one, and rest, and we'll see what we've got for you," said Bill, in an encouraging tone--he dearly loved little Mary. He searched in his pockets and brought out some cold damper and cheese, and some biscuit and raisins, and several other articles. The children all sat down and feasted off the food. It revived them. "We must get on now," said Nancy, rising. "O Bill, where can we have got to?" "All right," answered Bill, "we shall find the water in ten minutes; only we must keep moving." They went on again for ten minutes, twenty, thirty, an hour or more. Bill at last began to cry and wring his hands. "Oh dear, oh dear, we have lost our way!" "I was afraid so, long ago," said Nancy. "All we've to do is to try and find it." That was more easily said than done. Nancy felt very anxious, but she kept her thoughts to herself, for fear of frightening Bill and Mary. Bill had kept up bravely till now, but little Mary already looked very tired. Nancy took her hand and led her on. Bill then took her up on his back, but he had not gone far when he had to ask her if she was not rested. His legs and back ached; he put her down. She could run on a little way she thought. She soon, however, again said she was tired, and Nancy took her up; but poor Nancy could not carry her far, for Mary was a fat, heavy child. Where they had got to, Nancy could not tell. Time went by, too, faster than they thought. It got dusk, and there were no signs of the creek. Night was coming on. "We cannot go farther in the dark," said Nancy. "No; I must make a `gunyio' for you and Mary," said Bill, who had tried hard to keep up his courage. He cut down some boughs, and Nancy and Mary collected some long, dry grass, and they built a rude hut, like those the natives use, and made a bed. They then all crept in. They had no fear about being in the forest by themselves at night, only they wished that they were at home, as they knew their father and mother would be frightened. There were no wild beasts to hurt them, and Joseph Rudge had taken care that his children should have no foolish notions about ghosts and spirits. "If such things come on earth it's only because God lets them, and He would not let them come in shapes to frighten people, especially little children and those He loves," he used to say to them. The three children knelt down and said their prayers; then, without fear, they crept into the hut, and were soon asleep. When Joseph and Tom Wells came back from looking after the cattle, the children had not returned. Still Sarah thought that they would come every minute, and was looking out for them. Joseph was very tired. "You stay quiet, mate," said Tom, "I will go and look out for the young ones; I shall find them fast enough." Tom rode off, and not long after Sam and Ben came in with old Mat from herding the sheep. The lads were very eager to set off to look for their little brother and sisters. Taking a sup of tea and a piece of damper in their hands, away they went. Mat promised to herd the sheep till they came back. Joseph and Sarah all this time were very anxious for their little ones. Still she got the supper ready, hoping to have them brought back safe to her. There were several good things--a damper, a dish of stewed mutton, and a parrot pie, made with the birds which Tom Wells had shot that morning and brought to her. Parrots in that country are as common as pigeons in England, and are generally cooked in pies. It was quite dark when Sam and Ben came back. They had found no traces of the children. Tom came in some time after. Not a sign of the children. "God's will be done!" said Joseph. "Oh we shall find them to-morrow, mate, never fear," said Tom Wells. The party eat their supper with sad hearts, but not in silence, for they talked over and over what could have become of the children. They could make no further search that night. Tom went to his hut, promising to be ready to start again at break of day. Ben went out to look after his sheep at night. That must not be neglected. Sarah was up long before daybreak to get the breakfast ready. Often and often she went to the door of the hut, hoping to hear her young ones voices returning home. Joseph mounted his horse, and went off in one direction, Tom in another, and Sam in another. They were to return at noon. Old Mat and Ben had to look after the sheep. Poor Sarah and Sally worked away in and about the hut as hard as possible, but they could not help thinking and talking about the dear little ones, and what had become of them. Some time had passed, when Sally cried out that she heard voices, and, running out, she saw three people on horseback cantering up to the hut. They were Mr Harlow and his two sisters. They had come over about the school. They were very sorry to hear that the children were missing. Mr Harlow said that he would go off at once to look for them. He had given his horse a handful of grain, and was just starting, when a black came running up at full speed towards the hut. Sally, who first saw him, said she was quite sure it was Troloo; so he was. He reached the door of the hut out of breath. "Oh, Missie Rudge, black fellow come, kill you piccaninnies, sheep, old Mat, all, all," he cried out as soon as he could speak. What he said was enough to frighten Sarah. "Then the blacks must have found our poor, dear children, and they have killed them," she said, and burst into tears. "No, black fellow find piccaninnies," said Troloo, looking up from the ground on which he had thrown himself. Mr Harlow, who had dismounted from his horse, cross-questioned the black as to the report he had brought. As far as he could make out, a large party of natives were on their way to the hut, with the purpose of burning it, and killing all the family. Still he thought that they would not dare to do what they threatened, and tried to persuade poor Mrs Rudge not to be frightened. "If it was not for the dear children I wouldn't be frightened; but what I fear is that the cruel black fellows have got hold of them, and will do them a harm." Mr Harlow had now to consider what was best to be done. He wished first to place his sisters in safety, and then to fortify the hut, so that when the natives arrived they might find all things prepared for them. He could do little, however, till Joseph, and Bob, and Tom Wells returned, He learned from Sarah where Mat and Sam were to be found. He begged his sisters who were well accustomed to find their way across the country, to ride home and to send three of their men, well armed, to help drive away the blacks, while he went to warn Mat and Sam, and to get them to come home. Meantime Sarah got ready some food for poor Troloo. Every now and then she went to the door, or sent Sally to see if Joseph or Tom were coming with the children. At last noon came, and soon after Tom appeared, but he had found no traces of the lost ones. The poor mother's heart sank within her. Tom rather laughed at the notion of the blacks daring to attack the station, and said that they would get more than they expected if they came. Mr Harlow and Mat and Bob now arrived, and Sam also returned. He was very downcast at not having found his little brother and sisters. "Now lads, the best thing you can do is to gallop off to Mr Ramsay, to get his help," said Mr Harlow to Sam and Bob. "It is better to be too strong than too weak; and I hope that the blacks, when they find that we are ready for them, will take themselves off again." The lads went off as hard as they could go, Sam catching a fresh horse for the ride. Mr Harlow, with Tom and Mat, helped by Sarah and Sally, set to work to prepare for the attack of the natives. They fastened up the windows, just leaving room for the barrels of their rifles to pass through; then they got up a number of the stakes from the cattle pens and put up a strong paling in front of each of the doors. This done, they put up a strong paling, or palisade in front of the hut, and began to carry it all round, so that none of the natives could get near enough to fire the hut, without a good chance of being shot. This took some time, and the day was drawing to a close before Joseph himself was seen riding homewards. He brought none of his young ones with him. The meeting between him and his wife was very sad. All he could say was, "God's will be done! We will start away to-morrow again, and they cannot have got far from home." He was much astonished at the preparations made for the expected attack of the natives, and thanked Mr Harlow warmly for what he had done. "Why, Rudge, I could not leave your wife and daughters without you, but now that you have returned I must set off to look after my sister-kind. I did not half like letting them go alone," said Mr Harlow. "As the blacks have not appeared as yet, as they never travel at nights, I do not think that they will come till to-morrow, and before that you will have plenty of assistance." The evening came, and the night drew on, and still no natives appeared. Troloo offered to go out and learn if they were near. He thought that they might have encamped not far off, so as to attack the station at break of day. Once he would have been afraid to move about himself in the dark, but now he said that as he was going to help white man, white man's God would take care of him. Mat had gone to look after the sheep, for it was not safe to leave them alone at night, lest the dingoes (the wild dogs of the country) should get among them. Thus only Joseph and Tom Wells remained in the hut with Sarah and Sally. It was a sad time for them, they thought more about the poor children than themselves. Tom was a kind-hearted fellow, and did his best to keep up their spirits. "As you often say, Joseph, I say to you, trust in God, and all will come right at last." "Very hard, in a case like this, to follow out what one knows to be true," answered Rudge. "Yes, Joseph; but this is just a case where we have to show our faith. I know that God loves us and that keeps me up," said Sarah, though her voice trembled as she spoke. All this time her dear little ones might be starving, or dying of thirst, or have been carried off by the blacks, or have fallen into a water-hole. It was near ten at night when Troloo came back. It was some time before he could make his friends understand that the black fellows, to the number of fifty, or more, were camped at a spot, to reach which, from the hut, would take about an hour. They had been having a war dance, he said, and that showed that they were about to attack the place. They were armed with spears and clubs and boomerangs. The last weapon is a moon-shaped piece of hard-wood. The blacks throw it with great force, and can make it whirl back into their own hands. They can also throw their spears to a great distance with good aim. This news made Joseph more than ever anxious for the arrival of Mr Ramsay and Sam and Bob. No one was inclined to go to sleep. Sarah and Sally lay down, but were up every ten minutes looking out of doors, and listening for sounds. Before daybreak Troloo was on foot, and stole out. He was gone some time; Tom thought that he had taken fright, and run away. Joseph said that he was sure he was faithful; so it proved. He came back in half an hour, saying that the blacks were coming on, and would soon be at the station. Joseph and Tom looked out eagerly in all directions for their friends. Even old Mat had not come in. Should they put Sarah and Sally on horseback, and make their escape? "The property here was put under my charge, and I cannot leave it," said Rudge. "As long as I have life I must fight to defend it." "But your wife and Sally," said Tom. "His wife will stay by her husband, as I hope yours will, Tom Wells, when you get one," said Sarah. "Then I will stop," said Tom, looking at Sally. "And I would stay with father and mother, even if I had the chance of going," said Sally. There were three rifles in the hut; Sarah knew how to load them. She was to do so as fast as she could, and Troloo was to hand them to Joseph and Tom. They were to fire as quick as possible, so that the blacks might think that there were many more people in the hut than there were, and so be frightened and go away. All was ready; still no friends had come, but as they looked out, a number of black figures were seen stealing out from among the trees. They collected in a large body, and then came towards the hut flourishing their spears. They stopped when they saw no one, and looked cautiously about. Joseph was very anxious not to fire, or to hurt any one. "To my mind its the white men has often set the bad example to the poor black fellows, from what I have heard, and I don't want to do the same sort of thing," he observed. It was clear that the natives couldn't make out how things stood. They stopped, and talked, and looked about. Then some drew near and ran off again, just as boys run into the water on the sea shore, and out again, fearing some danger. "We will pray to be delivered from these poor black fellows," said Joseph; "It's what God tells us to do when we are in danger." He did as he proposed, and the rest joined him in the prayer. Troloo could not make out exactly what his white friends were about. He expected to see them begin to fire away and kill his black relations. Still he seemed to think that they deserved to be punished. At last the blacks, seeing no one, came on all together. "Now let us shout at the top of our voices, and fire over their heads," whispered Joseph; "may be they'll take fright and run off." The savages drew still nearer, and then Joseph, and Tom, and Sarah, and her daughter, all shouted out, and shrieked at the top of their voices, and the two men at the same moment fired their rifles. The savages, hearing the whistling of the bullets just above their heads, looked about astonished, and then ran off as fast as they could run. They did not go far, however, but, stopping, began to talk to each other, and seeing no one following, took courage. "I am afraid that that trick won't answer again," observed Tom; "the next time we must rush out upon them, and take one or two of them prisoners." "We might as well try to catch eels with our fingers," answered Joseph. "If they come on again we must, I fear, fight it out. We ought not to leave the shelter of our hut as long as it will hold us." "Oh, no, no; let us stay where we are," said Sarah. The blacks, however, did not seem inclined to let them do that. Once more they plucked up courage and came on, whirling their spears. The rifles were again loaded; still Joseph did not wish to fire at the savages. The blacks got quite close, and then sent a shower of spears, which came quivering against the posts which were round the hut, several piercing its thin walls. Fortunately none came through the openings. "We must give it them in earnest next time," said Tom. "Wait a bit, mate; as long as they don't do more than that, they will do us no harm." As soon as the natives had thrown their darts, they ran off again, expecting a volley from the rifles; then back they came and threw more of their spears. As before, a few came partly through the wall, but did no harm, as Sarah and Sally kept on the other side, and the men stood behind the stout posts which supported the roof. The blacks came nearer and nearer, sending their spears still farther through the walls. "I would do anything rather than kill those poor savages," said Rudge. "But if we don't, they'll kill us, mate, and it won't do to fire over their heads again," observed Tom, raising his rifle, and covering one of the black leaders. "I could pick that fellow off if I fired." "Let's try what another shout will do, and if that does not put them to flight, we must fire at last," said Rudge. Again they all shouted together, Troloo joining in the cry. The blacks, as before, looked about them, and some, who were about to throw their spears, stopped with them poised in their hands. Others, however, seemed to be telling them that they were cowards, and at last the whole party whirling round their spears more fiercely than before, rushed towards the hut. Rudge's finger was on the trigger, and so was Tom's, when a faint shout was heard in the distance, like an echo of theirs. It was repeated, and another was heard as if from a different direction. "Don't fire, Mat," cried Rudge; "see, the black fellows are running. Thank God that we have not had to shed man's blood." "And let us thank Him that our lives have mercifully been saved," said Sarah, as they opened the door of the hut, from which not a black was to be seen. In another minute Mr Ramsay and Sam and Bob rode up to the door, and Mr Harlow and several men appeared at a little distance. Mr Ramsay was inclined to follow the blacks, and to kill some of them, but Mr Harlow begged that he would not hurt them, as he was sure that they were set on by some one else, and that at all events they were ignorant savages, and knew no better. STORY FIVE, CHAPTER 5. Mr Ramsay praised Rudge and Tom Wells for the way that they had behaved in defending the hut, and old Mat also for having stuck by his sheep, instead of running away. After listening to the account Troloo had to give, he was sure that they had been set on by others. He determined therefore to ride on and speak to them with some of his men. Mr Harlow was about to offer to accompany him, when Sarah's cry of, "Oh, my children--my children, what are to become of them?" made him turn to her, and promise to set out at once in search of them. Joseph wished to go, but his friends would not let him. "No," said Mr Harlow, "you must stay and take care of your wife and daughter. We will take Sam and Wells, and two of my men, and Troloo. He will be of more help than all the rest of us, I suspect. If the blacks have found them, which I don't think they have, he will get them back; and if they have wandered off into the woods, he will trace them out." Troloo at once understood what was required of him, and the two parties without delay set out, while Joseph and Sarah remained behind. Troloo was the only person on foot, and he went hunting about like a pointer ranging a field, looking out for the tracks of the children. He soon found them, and quickly ran along the edge of the creek till he came to the place where they had crossed. He then went on, pointing out to Mr Harlow the hill which they intended to go round. It did not, however, take the turn they had expected, but ran off from the creek, and this it was that had thrown them out. Troloo now led on quickly till he found the spot where they had slept. He showed how they had got up in the morning, and how the eldest girl had knelt down just outside the hut with the little ones near her, and how they had then set off running. Soon the youngest had got tired and gone slower and slower. For several hours they went on, and then the eldest girl lifted up the youngest and carried her, and then they all sat down. Next, the boy got up and ran about in all directions and climbed a tree to try and find out the way they should take. He thought that he had found it, for he did not sit down again, but they all went on together quickly--sometimes he, and sometimes his sister, carrying the youngest, and sometimes she ran, they holding her hands. All this the black discovered as easily as if it had passed before his eyes, from the look of the grass and shrubs. Were they getting nearer? No. All this time they were going farther and farther from home, and what seemed strange, going upwards towards some high hills in the distance. This is said to be always the case, when people lose themselves in the woods. If there is high land they are certain to go towards it. They came after some time to a marshy spot where some rushes grew. The children had picked some of these and drank a little water from a pool which they had dug with their hands. They had had nothing to eat. Indeed, in few countries does a stranger find it more difficult to exist in the woods than in Australia, though the natives can nearly always obtain a meal from roots, or insects, or slugs, or birds, or small animals which they trap. At length they reached a spot where Troloo said that the children had spent their second night out. Bill had begun to build a hut as before, but he had got tired, and they had all slept close together with only a few boughs over them. The weather was fine, as it is in that country for the greater part of the year, but it was chilly at night. Again the children had started off by daylight, running at first, but soon growing tired, and sturdy Bill had carried little Mary for a long time on his back. Before Mr Harlow's party could reach another of the children's camping places, it grew dark, and they were obliged to camp themselves. There was no longer much fear of their having fallen into the hands of the savages. There was much talk that night round the camp-fire about the poor children, and few of the party expected, after they had been lost so long, to find them alive. "One thing is certain, my friends, that we must push on as fast as we can go, and Troloo can lead us. Without the help of the black we could not have found our way at all, and after this let none of us abuse the natives as stupid fellows. They make good use of the talents they possess. I wish that we could say the same of all white people." So eager was Mr Harlow to push on, that he breakfasted before daybreak, and as soon as Troloo could make out the tracks of the children, the party moved on. It was wonderful how persevering the little creatures had been, and how they had held out. On and on they had gone, stopping to rest only for a short time. Little Mary now was too weak to walk alone. The other two held her up between them or carried her on their backs. Troloo had gone on without faltering as yet, but now they reached some hard, stony ground, and after going backwards and forwards several times he shook his head and said that he could not find the track of the children. They must go across it. Perhaps it might be found on the other side. Mr Harlow and his party went across the stony ground, but they looked up and down in vain. All the day was spent, night came on, and still Troloo was unsuccessful. They had again to camp. "We must try again in the morning," said Mr Harlow, "I will never give up till I find them." "Yes, Troloo find to-morrow," said the black, "Troloo lub Rudge." The rest of the party said also that nothing would make them give in. They scarcely slept, so eager were they to be off, knowing that every minute might make a difference whether the lives of the children were saved or not. The instant they could see, after breakfast, they were on the move, looking in all directions for the tracks. Two hours or more passed, when Troloo was seen capering in the distance, and beckoning them to come on. He had found the tracks, and they were very clear. Now they pushed on faster than ever. The little creatures had toiled on, but they had become very weak, still the elder ones had carried the youngest. Once Bill had fallen, but had got up; Nancy had taken Mary from him, and they had gone on. It was near the evening when Troloo, who kept ahead, was seen to move on fast and beckon to the rest. Mr Harlow followed him fast. He stopped and pointed to a bank overhung by trees. There lay the three children. Were they alive? Mr Harlow's heart sunk within him. He leaped from his horse as he reached the spot, and leaned over the young children. They seemed to be sleeping. "Father, are you come for us?" said a low voice. "We couldn't help it, we tried to get home." It was Nancy who spoke; she had taken off her own outer petticoat and shawl to wrap up little Mary, who lay asleep in her arms by her side. Bill opened his eyes and said, "Father," and then closed them again. "Thank God they are alive," exclaimed Mr Harlow, instantly mixing a little brandy-and-water and pouring it on their lips. Nancy was at once able to swallow a few drops--so could Bill after a little time. Mr Harlow had with forethought put some oranges in his pocket. A few drops helped little Mary to revive. He wisely fed the children very slowly; at first with only a few crumbs of biscuit at a time moistened with water. It seemed probable that they would not have lived another hour had they not been discovered; and certainly, had they been fed as Troloo would have liked to feed them, they would have died immediately. In a short time Nancy recovered enough to give an account of their adventures. It was then proved that Troloo had found out as he followed up their track exactly what had happened. Mr Harlow now had a litter made on which the three children were carried towards his house. Having gone some distance, they camped, and a hut was built in which they were placed, and he and Sam and Tom Wells sat up all night by turns watching them and giving them food as they required it. It made Sam's heart leap with joy when little Mary looked up, and said, "Is dat oo Sam? Tank oo," and then went off to sleep calmly. The next day they reached Mr Harlow's station, where the young ladies took them in charge, and soon, under God's blessing, they were restored to health. STORY FIVE, CHAPTER 6. Mr Ramsay was joined in his pursuit of the blacks by a party of native police, who are just as ready to take up their countrymen as are the whites. As the whole party were well mounted, they soon came up with the runaways. As soon as the blacks saw their pursuers, they set off again, but were quickly overtaken. Several of them, including two of their chief men, were made prisoners. One of the police reported that he had seen a white man galloping away through the woods--that the stranger was very well mounted, and that he could not overtake him. This confirmed Mr Ramsay's suspicions that the blacks had been set on to attack the station by some white man, though as yet he had no idea who that person could be. The black prisoners were brought before him, and he examined them by means of the sergeant of the black police. It was a long business, for it was not always easy to understand the sergeant himself. However, at length Mr Ramsay came to the conclusion that the culprit was a stockman or shepherd living in the neighbourhood. While the prisoners were carried to the station, Mr Ramsay went round to call at the huts of the stockmen. The first he reached was that of Peach. Neither he nor his mate were within. A kettle was on the hearth boiling, and a damper baking below. The provision casks were open, and pork and meal had evidently been taken from them in a hurry. Their guns and ammunition had also been carried off. There were other signs that the occupants of the hut had escaped in a hurry. "We need not search farther," said Mr Ramsay with a sigh. "I thought that Peach was an honest man, but things are much against him at present." Several of the men now spoke out, and said that they had no doubt that Peach was a rogue, that they had long thought him one, and that they were always surprised that the master trusted him. "It would have been doing me a service if you had spoken before," said Mr Ramsay; "I might then have prevented Peach from committing an act for which he will be transported, if he escapes hanging." It is to be hoped that they saw their error. Servants, by not giving warning of the misdeeds of others, often injure their employers and themselves, and do harm rather than good to those they wish to serve. It was a happy day for Joseph Rudge and his wife when their children were restored to them as strong and well as ever; and truly grateful were they to Heaven for the mercy which had been shown them. Rough old Mat shed tears of joy when he took little Mary in his arms. "To think that this little tiny creature should have gone on so many days without eating or drinking, when I have known strong men, who have lost their way, die in less time," he exclaimed as he kissed her again and again. "But God watches over the young and innocent. He watches over us all, mate, and we old ones should know more of His love and care if we could but become like the young and pure," remarked Joseph. "We are told that we must become like little children, that is, in our trust in God's love and our obedience and faith." "Ah yes, but that is a hard matter for the old and hardened," sighed Mat. "Yes, but it is a blessed thought that God's grace is sufficient for even such, if they will but seek it," observed Rudge. Nothing very particular happened at the station for some time. The children, as may be supposed, did not wander out by themselves any more. Joseph and the rest of the men, however, had a great deal more to do in consequence of the flight of Peach and his mate. They also had to help in getting back the cattle he had carried off. Mr Ramsay was very much pleased with the way Joseph had acted, and increased his wages by ten pounds a year, while to Sam and Bob he gave five pounds more each. After this there was a marked change in Mr Ramsay. He was always looked on as a worthy, upright man, but he had been inclined to stand somewhat aloof from his neighbours, Mr Harlow and his sisters, because they were known to be religious. Not a week passed, however, that he did not pay a visit to Upland, Mr Harlow's station, and sometimes he went twice a week, and was often seen riding out with the Misses Harlow. It then became known that he had united with Mr Harlow to send for a missionary minister, who would go about among the out-stations and preach and hold school as best he could. Mr Bolton was his name. He lost no time in coming. His plan was to preach, and then to set lessons to all the learners, many of them grown-up people, and to help those who required it, and then to hear them when next he came that way. When Mr Bolton came to the head station, Mr Ramsay always attended, and after a time formed a class, and taught himself. It was said that he was going to marry one of the Miss Harlows. A word spoken in season may do good; and there can be little doubt that the good example set by Joseph Rudge had a great effect in bringing about an important change in the character of his master. While many of those who went to the gold diggings came back as poor as they started, and with loss of health, Joseph and his family, by remaining at their posts and doing their duty to their employer, prospered, and were well and happy. One afternoon Sarah and Sally and Nancy were at work in the hut. Nancy was able now to do almost as much as Sally. Joseph and his boys were out with the cattle or sheep. Bill was also able to go shepherding. Little Mary was playing in front of the door; she had not learned to do much yet. Her sisters heard her cry, "Man coming, man coming!" They looked out. A man on horseback, with tattered clothes, patched with skins, rode up. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks thin. "I want food. Here, girls, bring me some damper, and tea, and mutton, if you have it, a glass of milk and rum. Quick! I am starving," he said in a hollow voice. His looks showed that he spoke the truth. "Won't you come in and rest?" "No, no; I'm not to be caught so," answered the man, looking about suspiciously. "But quick, girl, with the food." Sally went in and took him out some damper and a slice of mutton, while Nancy was getting some tea. He ate the food like a starving man and then tossed off a large basin of tea. When Sarah saw him first from the window she thought she knew him. His way of speaking made her sure. "Now girls, just bring me out your father's powder-flask and shot belt, and any canister of powder there is in the hut. My flask is empty, and I must have it filled." On hearing these words, Sarah emptied the flask into a jar, which she hid away, and with it the canister of powder, and then sent out Nancy with the empty flask. The man swore fiercely when he found that there was no powder in the flask. "At all events, get me some more food. I don't know when I may be able to find another meal, and if there had been time you should have given me a hot one." "That is Tony Peach," said Sarah, as her daughter came in to get more food. "He has taken to the bush, and that is what his life has brought him to." The girls took out as much food as Peach could eat, but he wanted more, and told them that he must have enough to fill both his saddle-bags. They brought him out all the food they had cooked in the hut. As he was stowing away the food in his bags, he happened to look up, and saw two or three horsemen coming towards the hut. Letting the remainder of the damper and cheese and meat drop, he gathered up his reins and galloped off as hard as he could go. The horsemen were Joseph and Tom and Sam. They rode direct to the hut. When they heard who the stranger was, Tom and Sam were for giving chase. "No," said Joseph, "we have no authority to take him up. Leave him in God's hands. He is welcome to the food the girls gave him." It might have been better if Peach had been seized at that time, for, soon after this, several robberies were committed in different parts of the colony, and always by two men supposed to be Peach and his mate. Travellers from the gold diggings were attacked; huts were entered, and even farm-houses, and arms and ammunition and food and any valuables the thieves could lay hands on were carried off. Another trying time for sheep and cattle owners as well as farmers, now arrived. There had been less rain than usual, and as the summer advanced the heat increased, and the creeks and water-holes dried up. In many spots where there had been for years a pool of pure water, there was nothing now but a bed of hard, cracked mud. Some stations were altogether deserted, and shepherds had often to drive their flocks long distances to water. Joseph Rudge had lately been made overseer, and it was his duty to ride round the country in all directions to search for water-holes. It was sad to watch the water get less and less in a hole, and to know that in a few days it would dry up and that another must be found or that the sheep or cattle would die. Before that time Joseph generally managed by an active search, to secure a fresh water-hole. While other owners were losing their sheep and cattle by thousands, Mr Ramsay found that only a few hundreds of his had died owing to being driven of necessity very fast to fresh water-holes. One day as Joseph was on his way from a distant station, he saw smoke rising out of a wood. While he was looking towards the spot, the smoke grew thicker and thicker, and presently flames burst out. Now they ran up the trees, now along the tall lank grass dried by the heat. They darted from tree to tree--the bush (as the forest is called) was on fire. The flames spread with fearful quickness. He galloped on into the open country where there was thinner grass. The bush reached all the way to his house. As he watched the rapid manner in which the fire extended, he saw that no time was to be lost. Fast as his horse galloped, the flames went faster, leaping as it were from tree to tree with a loud roar and crackle, the thick smoke forming a black cloud overhead, while kangaroos and other animals rushed out of the bush to find safety in the open country. Had Joseph been able to venture through the forest he would soon have reached his hut, but he had to make a long round to avoid it. He galloped on still hoping to get there before the flames reached it. Their property would certainly be destroyed, but he prayed that his family might make their escape to a place of safety. He seemed to be getting ahead of the fire, but as he looked every now and then over his shoulder, he saw it extending as far as the eye could reach, a wall of leaping flames with a roof of dark smoke. In some places it ran along the ground out from the forest where the grass was long enough to feed it, while in others it soon went out for want of fuel. Numbers of the animals and birds must have perished, and many animals rushed past with their hair singed, and several birds fell down dead before him. The ground was uneven and stony, but nothing stopped him, and at last his hut came in sight. The fire was still nearly a mile from it, but it was coming on quickly. He found Sarah and the children standing at the door, much frightened, with the few things of value they had in their hands. "Why, Sarah, I should have thought you knew that flour and pork would be more use to us than those things," he exclaimed with a laugh, which somewhat took away her fear, "but we may save the hut yet. Bring out those three reaping-hooks, and all the axes and knives, and all hands must cut away the grass round the hut. Here come Tom Wells and Sam and Ben and Bill." A large circle was cut, and the grass was cleared round all the palings. It was then set on fire, and the flames went hissing along the ground towards the already burning forest. In this way a large space was cleared, and Joseph and his sons were able to keep watch on his own and Mat's hut, and the out-buildings, and to knock out any sparks as soon as they appeared. In this way, all the pens and other property on the station was preserved. This done, they again mounted their horses and galloped off to look after the cattle which they had reason to fear might have been frightened by the fire. Their search was long, but they found the whole herd collected in a stony valley, where there was little grass, and where the fire had not touched them. Soon after this, Mr Ramsay arrived, fully expecting to hear of the loss of sheep and cattle, if not of the huts and pens. "A diligent servant takes heed of his master's property, and deserves to be rewarded," he observed. "I looked after my wife and children first, sir, though," said Joseph. "I should not have praised you if you had not, and it is time that you should have some cattle of your own, and sheep too, and in a few days I will tell you what proportion of the increase of my flocks and herds I can allow you." Troloo was now more than ever at the station. He came in, while Mr Ramsay was there, with the news that a large number of kangaroos were assembled not far off, driven by the fire from their usual feeding grounds. Hearing this, Mr Ramsay sent over to Mr Harlow, and a party was made up to hunt them. It was well worth doing so, for though their flesh is not as good as mutton, for each kangaroo killed, two sheep would be saved. Both gentlemen had large dogs trained to hunt them. A kangaroo is a curious animal, with short forelegs, and very long hind ones, which it doubles up under itself. With these, and the help of a long, heavy tail, it leaps over the ground almost as fast as a horse can gallop. A female kangaroo has a sort of pouch in front, in which she carries her young. On the approach of danger the young one jumps into it, and off she goes. When very hard pressed, however, to save her own life, she will take it out and drop it, and thus go faster over the ground. Two or three other gentlemen and several stockmen from the neighbouring stations joined the party. After they had ridden several miles, Troloo gave notice that they were near the spot. The rifles were got ready, and the party spread out so as to stop the mob from breaking through. The feeding ground was in a large, open space, on the borders of a part of the bush which had escaped the fire. As the horsemen drew near, the creatures looked up, and seeing their enemies, started off. The dogs were set on and the horsemen followed, firing as they had a chance. Several of the animals were shot, and Sam and Bob boasted that each of them had killed one. They also came upon two emus, to which they gave chase. These are birds with long, thick legs and short wings, which help them along when running before the wind. Their bodies are about half the size of a small Australian sheep. They run at a great rate, so that a horse has hard work to come up with them. Sam's horse was already tired, and they were obliged to give up the chase. As they rode back to join the rest of the party, they saw under the trees what looked like a native hut. On getting nearer they found that a man was inside leaning against the trunk of a tree. They called out, thinking that he was asleep, but he did not answer. Another look showed them that he was dead. The beard and hair were long, and the face like that of a mummy. They turned away from the horrid sight. "Bob, do you know, I believe that the dead man is no other than Tony Peach," said Sam. "We must tell Mr Ramsay, and he'll come and see. The poor wretch has escaped being hung, which they say he would have been if he had been caught." They soon reached their friends, and Mr Ramsay and others came to look at the dead man. They had no doubt who he was. A shallow grave was dug by some of the party, while two others cut out a slab of wood, on which they cut, with their knives, "Here lies Tony Peach, the bushranger." What became of his misguided mate no one knew. Tony Peach had started in life with far more advantages than Joseph Rudge, yet how different was the fate of the two men. Joseph and all his family prospered, and he is now, though connected with Mr Ramsay, the owner of a large flock of sheep and a fine herd of cattle. Tom Wells, who married Sally, has a farm of his own near him. He has bought land for Sam and Bob, on which they both hope to settle before long; and they are looking out for the arrival of a family of old friends from England, with several daughters, from among whom they hope to find good wives for themselves. No more need be said than this--that the honest, hard-working man who goes to Australia with a family, though he may meet with many ups and downs, may be pretty sure of doing well himself, and of settling his children comfortably around him. STORY SIX, CHAPTER 1. LIFE UNDERGROUND; OR, DICK THE COLLIERY BOY. Young Dick Kempson sat all by himself in the dark, with a rope in his hand, at the end of a narrow passage, close to a thick, heavy door. There was a tramway along the passage, for small wagons or cars to run on. It was very low and narrow, and led to a long distance. Young Dick did not like to think how far. It was not built with brick or stone, like a passage in a house, but was cut out; not through rock, but what think you? through coal. Young Dick was down a coal mine, more than one thousand feet below the green fields and trees and roads and houses--not that there were many green fields, by the bye, about there. The way down to the mine was by a shaft, like a round well sunk straight down into the earth to where the coal was known to be. Coal is found by boring, with an iron rod, one piece screwed on above another, with a place in the end to bring up the different sorts of earth it passes through. This shaft was more than a thousand feet deep; some are still deeper. Most people have heard of Saint Paul's, the highest church in England; just place three such buildings one on the top of the other, and we have the depth down which young Dick had to go every day to his work. In the bottom of this shaft, main passages and cross passages ran off for miles and miles to the chambers or places where men were digging out the coal. The door near which Dick sat was called a trap, and Dick was called a "trapper." His business was to open the trap when the little wagons loaded with coal came by; pushed, or put, by boys who are therefore called "putters." They bring the coal from the place where the hewers are at work to the main line, where it is hoisted up on the rolleys, or wagons, to be carried to the foot of the shaft. Dick was eleven years old, but he was small of his age, and he did not know much. How should he? He had passed twelve hours of every six days in the week, for three years of his short life, under ground, in total darkness. He had two candles, but one lasted him only while he passed from the shaft to his trap, and the other to go back again. He had begun to trap at seven years old, and went on for two years, and then the good Lord Shaftesbury got a law made that no little boys under ten years of age should work in mines; and so he got a year above ground. During that time he went to a school, but he did not learn much, as it was a very poor one. When he was ten years old, he had to go into the mine again; he had now been there every day for a year. He had heard talk of ghosts and spirits; and some of the bigger boys had told him that there was a great black creature, big enough to fill up all the passage, and that he had carried off a good many of the little chaps, once upon a time, no one knew where, only they had never come back again. Poor little Dick thought that he too might be carried away some day. Often while he sat there, all alone in the dark, he trembled from head to foot, as he heard strange sounds, cries and groans it seemed. Was it the spirits of the boys carried off, or was it the monster coming to take him away? He dared not run away, he dared not even move. He had been there nine hours, with a short time for meals, when his father had come for him, and he would have to be three more, to earn his tenpence a day. It was Saturday, no wonder that he was sleepy, and, in spite of his fears of ghosts and hobgoblins, that he dropped asleep. He had been dreaming of the black creature he had been told of. He thought he saw him creeping, creeping towards him. He felt a heavy blow on his head. He shrieked out, he thought that it was the long expected monster come to carry him off. It was only Bill Hagger, the putter, with his corve, or basket of coals. An oath came with the blow, and further abuse. Poor little Dick dared not complain. He would only cry and pull open his door, and shut it again directly Bill was through. Bill Hagger was black enough, all covered with coal-dust; but still it was better to have a cuff from him than to be carried off by the big creature, he did not know where, still deeper down into the earth. So he dried the tears which were dropping from his eyes and forming black mud on his cheeks, and tried to keep awake till the next putter and his loaded corve should come by, or Bill Hagger should return with his empty one. Bill had not far to go to reach the crane, where the corve would be hoisted on the rolley, or wagon, to be dragged by a pony along the rolley-way to the foot of the shaft. Dick wished that Bill had farther to go, because he was pretty certain to give him a cuff or kick in passing, just to remind him to look out sharp the next time. There was another thing he wished, that it was time for "kenner," when his father would come and take him home to his mother. What "kenner" means, we shall know by-and-by. I said that there were miles and miles of these rolley or main-tramways. This one was two miles straight, right away from the shaft. As the air in mines gets foul and close, and does not move, it is necessary to send currents of wind into all the passages to blow it away. The first thing is to get the wind to come down the shaft, and then to make it move along certain passages and so up by another shaft. Only a small quantity of wind can come down, and if that was let wander about at pleasure, it would do no good. So these traps or doors are used to stop it from going along some passages, and to make it go along others, till the bad air is blown out of them. To help this, a large furnace is placed at the bottom of the second shaft, called the up-cast shaft, because the foul air is cast up it. There are several ways of working mines. This one was worked in squares, or on the panel system. The main roads are like the frame of a window; the passages like the wood dividing the panes of glass; and the masses of coal which remain at first like the panes themselves. These masses are again cut into, till pillars only remain about twelve feet by twenty-four. These pillars are at last removed, and props of wood placed instead, so that the whole mine is worked-out. The men who do the chief work in the mine, that is, cut out the coal from the bed or seam, are the "hewers." Dick's father was a hewer. They have only two tools--a short pick, and a round-bladed spade; with a big basket, or "corve," into which they put the coal, and a gauze-wire lantern. Suppose a passage first cut; then they hew out chambers on either side, each about twelve feet wide. The roof of them is propped up as the hewer works on, till all the coal likely to fall is hewn away. The hewer's work is very hard; sometimes he kneels, sometimes sits, and sometimes has to lie on his back or side, knocking away with his heavy pick. Often he is bathed in wet from the heat, for it is very hot down in that black chamber, as the wind cannot pass through it. In some places, where there is no fear of bad gas, and open lights can be used, the coal is blasted by gunpowder, as rock often is. This, however, cannot often be done; as the bad gas, called fire-damp, may come up any moment, and if set light to, go off like gunpowder or the gas from coal, and blow the chambers and everybody near to pieces. The cut shows the form of these chambers when the mouth is just being finished. These chambers are in a very wide seam; but some seams are only three feet thick, and the men can in no part stand upright. When all the chambers and passages are cut out in a panel, the pillars of coal are removed, and pillars of wood put in their stead to support the roof. Some of the main passages run on straight ahead for two miles from the foot of the shaft, and the coal has to be brought all this distance on the rolleys, dragged by ponies or horses sometimes. It might puzzle some people to say how the animals are got down and up again. They are let down in a strong net of ropes, and once down, they do not after see daylight. There are regular stables for them cut out of the coal at the bottom of the mine, and they seem to like the life, for they grow sleek and fat. In Wallford mine, in which little Dick worked, there were employed 250 grown men, 75 lads, and 40 young boys. The hewer's dress is generally a flannel shirt and drawers, and a pair of stout trousers, a coarse flannel waistcoat and coat, the last long with pockets, a pair of broggers (worsted stockings without feet), and a leathern cap. These at once get as black as coal-dust can make them. There are different cranes on the rolley-ways, near the side cuttings, and each is under charge of a lad, called a crane-hoister, whose business is to hoist the baskets brought to him by the putters on to the rolleys, and to chalk down the number he cranes on a board. When the train of rolleys reaches the shaft, the full corves are hoisted up, and empty ones let down, which are placed on the rolleys, and carried back for the hewers to fill. No spirits are allowed in mines, but as the heat and the work makes the people thirsty, tubs of water are placed at intervals, at which they can drink. In their long journeys, the putters stop to "bait," and are well supplied with bread and cheese, and bacon, and cold coffee or tea. The miner has not only to fear choke or fire-damp, but sometimes water. A mine has, therefore, to be drained. A well or tank is dug in the lowest level, into which all the springs are made to run. A pump is sunk down to it through a shaft with a steam engine above, by which all the water is pumped out. It may be seen that the working of a mine requires the very greatest care. If this is not taken, the roof may fall in and crush the labourers; or fire-damp may explode and blow them to pieces, and perhaps set fire to the mine itself and destroy it; or black or choke-damp may suffocate them, as the fumes of charcoal do; or water may rush in and drown them. A lamp, invented by a very learned man, Sir Humphrey Davy, is used when there is a risk of fire-damp. It is closely surrounded with very fine wire-gauze, through which neither the flame of the candle nor the gas can pass, yet the light can get out almost as well as through the horn of a common lantern. Before any workmen are allowed to go into the pit in the morning, certain officers, called "over-men" and "deputies," go down through every part that is being worked, to see that all is safe. If anything is wrong, or doubtful, the inspecting deputy places a shovel across the place, or chalks a warning on the blade and sticks it in the ground, that it may be seen by the hewer. As soon as they have found the mine safe, the hewers come down and begin their work; and when they have had time to fill a corve or so, they are followed by the putters and other labourers. Sometimes it is necessary to work all the twenty-four hours, and then the people are divided into three gangs, who each work eight hours; but the poor little trappers are divided only into two parties, who have each to be down in the mine twelve hours together, sitting all alone by the side of their traps, like poor little Dick, in the dark. STORY SIX, CHAPTER 2. Little Dick's father, Samuel Kempson, was a hewer. He had not been brought up to the mining work, like most of the men; but once, when there had been a strike among the colliers, he and others from a distant county, being out of work, had got employed, and tempted by the high wages, had continued at it. While little Dick was sleeping at his trap, and getting a cuff on the head from Bill Hagger, Samuel Kempson was sitting, pick in hand, and hewing in a chamber at the end of a main passage nearly two miles off. The Davy lamp was hung up before him, and the big corve was by his side. There he sat or kneeled, working with his pick, or filling the corve with his spade. Often he thought of the green fields and hedges and woods of his native county. Though his wages had been poor, and his work hedging or ditching, or driving carts, or tending cattle; and though he had been sometimes wet to the skin, and cold enough in winter, yet in summer he had had the blue sky and the warm sun above him, and he had breathed the pure air of heaven, and smelt the sweet flowers and the fresh mown grass, and he sighed for those things which he was never likely to enjoy again. There he was, a hewer of coal, and a hewer of coal he must remain, or run the chance of starving; for he had a large family, and though he had had good wages, three shillings and sometimes four shillings a day, and no rent to pay, and coals for a trifle, he had saved nothing. He had now got into such a way of spending money that he thought he couldn't save. His wife, Susan, thought so too. She was not a bad wife, and she kept the house clean and tidy enough, but she was not thrifty. Both he and she were as sober and industrious as most people, but they had meat most days, and plenty of white bread, and butter and cheese, and good clothes, and other things, which cost money, so that out of twenty-two shillings a week, there was next to nothing to put by. They had, too, a number of children, and some of them were heavy burdens, and were likely to remain so. The eldest boy, Jack, had had a fancy for the sea, and he had gone away when quite a little chap with a captain who had taken a liking to him, and the vessel had never more been heard of. That was before they left their old home in the country and came to live at the coal-pits. Poor Susan often thought of her lost boy, with his laughing blue eyes, and his light hair curling over his fair brow, just as he was when he went away. Mothers are apt to think of their lost young ones. It is well if a parent can feel sure that her child is with God in heaven, that she can say, "I taught it early to love Jesus; I know that he trusted in His cleansing blood, in His all-sufficient sacrifice on the cross." Poor Susan had not that thought to comfort her, but still it did not trouble her. She mourned her lost boy like a loving mother, but not so much for his sake as because she wished again to fold him in her arms, and press once more a kiss on his cheeks. Her next boy, Ben, worked with his father in the pit, as a putter. He was a rough, wildish lad--not worse than his companions, but that was not saying much for him, and it seemed but too likely that he would give his parents trouble. The third boy, Lawrence, was a helpless cripple. He had been hurt in the mine three years before, and it seemed likely he would never walk again. He went by the name of Limping Lawry among the people in the village of Wallford. I was going to say companions--but he had not many companions, for he could not move about without pain. Only on a summer's day he limped out and sat on a bench against the front wall of the cottage. He was a pale-faced lad, with large blue eyes and a broad forehead, and did not look as if he could be long for this world; yet he lived on while others seemingly stronger were taken away. Then there was Nelly. Once she was a bright little thing, but she had fallen on her head, and though she did not seem much hurt at first, she became half-witted, and was now an idiot. As she grew older she was sometimes inclined to be mischievous. Lawry might have watched over her, but she was so active and quick that she could easily get away from him. She knew well that it hurt him to move, so she kept her eye on him, and was off like a shot when he got up to go after her. So poor Lawry could not be of much use, even looking after his idiot sister. He used to hope that he might some day get better, and go to work again in the mine, as a trapper, at all events, which did not require much strength. But the doctor told him that he must not think of it; that the coal-dust and bad air would hurt his lungs, and that he would very soon die if he did. If he ever got strong, he must find work above ground. The Kempsons were decent people, their neighbours could say that of them, but they were not God-fearing and God-loving,--they had no family prayers, no Bible was ever read in their house, and they seldom or never went to a place of worship; to be sure, the nearest was some way off, and that was their excuse--it was hard, if they did, to get back to dinner, at least to a hot dinner, and that is what they always liked to have on Sundays. Such was little Dick's family. He therefore knew very little about God, or God's love to man through Jesus Christ. How should he? He had nothing pleasant to think of as to what was past nor what was to come. He knew nothing of heaven--of a future life where all sin and sorrow, and pain and suffering is to be done away--of its glories, of its joy, its wonders. All he knew was that he had sat there in that dark corner trapping for many, many weary hours, and that he should have to sit there many more till he was big enough to become a putter. Then he should have to fill corves with coal, and push them along the tramways for some years more till he got to be a hewer like his father. He only hoped that he might have to hew in seams not less than five feet thick--not in three feet or less, as some men had to do, obliged to crawl into their work on hands and knees, and crawl out again, and to work all day lying down or sitting. But they had light though--that was pleasant; they could move about, and worked only eight hours. He had to work in the dark for twelve hours, and dared not move, so he thought that he should change for the better, that is to say, when he thought at all, which was not often. Generally he sat, only wishing that it was "kenner" time, that he might go home to supper and bed. The name is given, because, when the time for work is over, the banksman at the mouth of the pit cries out, "Kenner, kenner." Dick did not get much play, even in summer. In the winter he never saw daylight, except on Sundays. When he was thinking of what might happen, he could not help remembering how many men and boys he had known, some his own playmates--or workmates rather--who had been killed in that and the neighbouring pits. Some had been blown to pieces by the fire-damp; others had been stifled by the choke-damp; a still greater number had been killed coming up and down the shaft, either by the rope or chain breaking, or by falling out of the skip or basket, or by the skip itself being rotten and coming to pieces. But even yet more had lost their lives by the roof falling in, or by large masses of coal coming down and crushing them. Many had been run over by the corves, or crushed by them against the sides, like his poor brother Lawry; and others had been killed by the machinery above ground. "I wonder," thought Dick, "whether one of those things will be my lot." Poor little Dick, what between fancied dangers and real dangers, he had an unhappy time of it. Still he was warm and dry, and had plenty of food, and nothing to do but sit and open a door. Some might envy him. Dick had one friend, called David Adams, a quiet, pale-faced, gentle little boy, younger than himself. He had only lately come to the mine, and been made a trapper. His father had been killed by the falling in of the roof, and his widowed mother had hard work to bring up her family; so, much against her will, she had to let little David go and be a trapper. She had never been down a mine, and did not know what sort of a life he would have to lead, or she might not have let him go. Sometimes one man took charge of David and sometimes another, and placed him at his trap,--generally the man who was going to hew in that direction. Miners, though their faces look black on week-days, and their hands are rough, have hearts like other men, and all felt for little David. Often Samuel Kempson took charge of David, and carried him home with him; and Dick and David used to talk to each other and tell their griefs. David could read, and he would tell Dick all about what he had read on Sundays, and Dick at last said that he should like to read too, and David promised to teach him. At last David lent him some books, and used to come in on Sundays, and in the evenings in summer, to help him read them, and that made them all greater friends than before. Well, there sat Dick at his trap, very hungry and very sleepy and very tired, and longing to hear the shout of "Kenner, kenner!" echoing along the passages. He sat on and on; his thoughts went back to the ghosts and spirits he had been told about, and to the tales he had heard of the blowing up of gas, and the sad scenes he had indeed himself witnessed. How dark and silent was all around! Had he dropped asleep? He heard a deep and awful groan. "I am come to take you off, down, down, down," said a voice. Where it came from, Dick could not tell. He trembled from head to foot, trying to see through the darkness in vain, for no cat could have seen down there. Not a ray of the blessed sunlight ever penetrated into those passages. "I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming!" said the voice. "Oh, don't, don't, don't!" cried poor Dick, in a terrible fright. He felt a big hand placed on his shoulder. "I've got you, young one, come along with me," said the voice. Dick shrieked out with fear. He trembled all over, and the next moment, just as a loud, hoarse laugh sounded in his ear, he went off in a faint. "Kenner, kenner, kenner!" was shouted down the pit's mouth, and echoed along the galleries. Samuel Kempson heard it far away, and, crawling out of the hole in which he had been hewing, threw his pick and spade over his shoulder, and took his way homeward, not over pleasant green fields as labourers in the country have to do, but along the dark, black gallery, lighted by his solitary Davy lamp, which was well-nigh burnt out. He did not forget his boy Dick. He called out to him, but got no reply. Again and again he called. His heart sank within him, for he loved the little fellow, though he made him work in a way which, to others, might appear cruel. Could anything have happened to the child? Once more he called, "Dick, Dick!" Still there was no answer. Perhaps some of the other men had taken him home. He went on some way towards the pit's mouth, then his mind misgave him, and he turned back. To a stranger, all the traps would have looked alike, but he well knew the one at which Dick was stationed. He pushed it open, and there, at a little distance from it, he saw a small heap of clothes. He sprang forward. It was Dick. Was his boy dead? He feared so. The child neither moved nor breathed. He snatched him up, and ran on with him to the foot of the shaft, where several men stood waiting to be drawn up. The rough men turned to him with looks of pity in their faces. "Anything fallen on the little chap?" asked one. "Foul air, may be," observed a second. "Did a rolley strike him, think you?" asked a third. "I don't know," answered the father; "I can't find where he's hurt. But do let us get up, he may chance to come to in fresh air." As he spoke, the "skip," or "bowk," used for descending and ascending the shaft, reached the bottom, and Samuel Kempson and his boy were helped into it, and with some of the other men, began their ascent. The father held the boy in his arms, and watched his countenance as they neared the light which came down from the mouth of the pit; first a mere speck, like a star at night, and growing larger and larger as they got up higher. An eyelid moved, the lip quivered: "He's alive, he's alive!" he exclaimed joyfully. As soon as he reached the top, he ran off with Dick in his arms to his cottage. Mrs Kempson saw him coming. "What! another of them hurt?" she cried out: "God help us!" "I don't know," said Kempson; "the child is very ill, if not dead already. Let us put him to bed and send for the doctor. It's more than you or I can do to cure him of ourselves." Poor Dick was breathing, and twitching with his hands, but was quite unconscious. His black clothes were taken off him by his mother, who washed and put him to bed, while Samuel went to fetch the doctor attached to the mines. The doctor at once said that something had shaken his nerves, that he must be kept quiet, but well fed and amused. He had had a fright, that was it. Samuel knew the tricks that were played, and he guessed that some one had frightened Dick, and resolved to find out who it was, if he could. The best thing they could do for Dick just then, after he had taken the doctor's stuff, was to send for David Adams to come and amuse him. David, who had just come up from the pit, very gladly came as soon as he had washed, and brought his most amusing books, and he sat and read by Dick's bedside. This did Dick a great deal of good, and while he listened to David's reading, he almost forgot his fright. The next day, which was Sunday, he was a great deal better, and David came again to spend the day with him. Nobody went from the village to a place of worship, the nearest was some way off, the men were tired, and the women wanted to tidy their houses. The afternoon was very fine, and while the people were sitting at their doors, or standing about in groups in the dirty, unpaved street, a gentleman came among them with a small bundle of printed papers in his hand. "Here comes a schoolmaster," said one. "I wonder now what he wants with us." "May be to teach us something we don't know," observed a second. "If he had come to tell us that our wages had risen, I'd have thanked him," said a third, with a sneer. "Maybe he is a parson of some sort," said Joseph Kempson. "I, for one, should like to hear him, and so would the boys in there. There was a time when never a Sunday passed but what we went to the house of prayer. Now, from one end of the year to the other we are not seen inside one." Joseph sighed, as he spoke. The stranger had observed Kempson, and seeing something pleasant in his face, came up and addressed him, "Perhaps you will give me a chair," he said; "I should like to sit down and read to those who may wish to hear me." "Yes, sir, gladly," answered Kempson, bringing out a chair. "I have a sick boy within; he will hear all you say, as the window is open." The gentleman read for a short time, and a good many people came round and listened, and though! what he was reading very interesting. Then he took out a Bible, and read from that; and, closing the book, told them of God's great love for man, which made Him send His Son Jesus Christ into the world, first to show men how to live, not to fight and quarrel, but to do good to all around them; and then, men being by nature sinful, and justly condemned, that He might offer Himself up as a sacrifice, and take their sins upon Himself. "My dear friends, trust in this merciful loving Jesus," he exclaimed. "He has completed the work of saving you, it is perfect in every way. All you have to do is to repent and trust to Him, and to go and sin no more, intentionally, wilfully that is to say. Oh, my dear friends, think of the love and mercy of God, through Christ Jesus. He never refuses to hear any who come to Him. His love surpasses that of any human being; His ears are ever open to our prayers." "I should like to have a talk with you, sir," said Kempson, when the stranger, having finished speaking, was giving his tracts to the people around. "There are some things which you said, sir, which I haven't heard for a long time, or thought about, but I know that they are true." "Gladly, my friend," was the answer. The stranger had a long talk with Joseph, and promised to come again before long to see him. STORY SIX, CHAPTER 3. Several days passed by. Dick did not seem exactly ill, but he prayed and begged so hard that he might not go back to the pit, that when the doctor came and said also it might do him harm, his father consented not to take him. Still Joseph did not like losing his boy's wages. David had promised, on the next Saturday, as soon as he came back from the pit, to come and read to Dick. When the evening arrived, however, David did not appear. Dick was beginning to complain very much of David, when Mrs Adams came to ask if he was there, as he had never come home. When Joseph came in, he said that he had not seen him all day. He thought that he had not gone down into the pit. Mrs Adams began to get into a great fright. David had left home in the morning to go to his work in the pit, and she was sure that he would not have gone elsewhere. When Joseph came in, he undertook to go to the pit's mouth and learn if David had gone down. He came back, saying that there was no doubt about his having gone down, but no one remembered for certain that he had come up again. "Oh father, let's you and I go down and look for him!" exclaimed Dick; "I feel quite strong and able for it." "Why I thought you'd be afraid of going down the pit again, boy," remarked Joseph. "No, father," answered Dick, "I remember what that missionary gentleman said the other day, if we are doing our duty we shouldn't fear, for God will take care of us; and I am sure that I should be doing my duty looking after David, who has been so kind to me." Joseph could say nothing against it; so as soon as he had had some supper, he, with Dick and Mrs Adams, set out to find the "doggy" of the pit, to learn if he knew for certain that David had come up, and if not, to get his and the "butty's" leave to go down and search for him. [Note 1.] On their way three or four other men offered to go with them. The doggy could not say that David had come up, and the whole party, therefore, were lowered down the pit, except Mrs Adams; she sat down near the mouth, waiting anxiously for their return. While she sat there, a lad dressed as a sailor drew near. He stood still near the mouth of the pit, looking about him. The ground was high; and he could have seen a long way had it not been for the smoke from hundreds of tall chimneys which every now and then sent out thick wreaths, which hung like a black cloud over the scene. In the far distance was the large town of Newcastle, also full of tall chimneys, with a cloud of smoke over it. Close to it flows the river Tyne. All around were tall engine-houses, out of which came all sorts of curious, dreadful sounds,--groans, and hissings, and whistlings, and clankings of iron; while high up in the air, stretching out from them, were huge beams like the arms of great giants working up and down in all sorts of ways; some pumping water out of the mines from the underground streams which run into them, others lifting the baskets of coal out of the shafts, or bringing up or lowering down the miners and other men engaged in the works. The noises proceeded chiefly from the gins, and pulleys, and wheels, and railways; all busy in lifting the coal out of the pit and sending it off towards the river. The whole country looked black and covered with railway lines, each starting away from one of these great engine-houses which are close to the mouths of the pits. There were rows of small wagons or trucks on them, and as the huge arms lifted up a corve, or basket, it was emptied into the wagon till they were filled, and then away they started, some of them without engines, down an inclined plane towards the river. Away they went at a rapid rate, and it seemed as if they would be carried furiously over the cliff, or rather the end of a long, high stage into the river. On a sudden, however, they began to go slower; then they stopped, and one wagon went off by itself from the rest till it got to the end of the pier; then two great iron arms got hold of it, and gently, as if it was a baby, lifted it off the pier and lowered it down till it reached the deck of a vessel lying underneath. When there, the bottom opened and the coals slipped out into the hold of the vessel. Then up the wagon went again, and another came down in the same way, till the whole train was emptied; then off the wagons set, rolling away to be filled again. The sailor lad observed poor Mrs Adams's anxious, eager looks. "What is the matter now, mother?" he asked, going up to her, and speaking in a kind tone. "You seem down-hearted at something." "Yes; well I may be, my lad, when my little son, as good and bright a child as ever lived, has been and got lost down in the pit. He went down at daybreak this morning, and no one has ever seen him since. Such a dreadful place, too, full of dark passages and pits and worked-out panels; and then there is the bad gas, which kills so many; and then there are the rolleys, and many a poor lad has got run over with them. Oh dear, oh dear!" "Well, mother, I hope the lad will be found," said the young stranger. "I didn't think the place was like that; may be you'll tell me something more about it." The poor widow was too glad to have some one to talk to, so she told the lad all about the mine, the number of hours the boys worked, and the wages they got, and the way they were treated generally. The young sailor thanked her heartily. "I thought as how I'd been forced to lead something like a dog's life at sea, and I had a mind to come and have a turn at mining; for thinks I to myself, I'll have a dry jacket and plenty of grub, and a turn in to a quiet bed every night, but now I hear what sort of work it is, I'll go back to the old brig; we've daylight and fresh air and change of scene, and though we are dirty enough at times, I'll own we haven't to lie on our backs and peck away at coal in a hole three feet high, with the chance of being blown to pieces any moment." "I can't say that you are wrong, my lad," said the poor widow, looking up at the sailor. "It has been a fatal calling to those belonging to me, and I would advise no one to enter it who has any other means of living." "Thank ye, mother, thank ye," answered the stranger, "I'll take your advice, but I should like to know if they find that poor boy of yours; I hope they will, that I do." The sailor could not stop any longer, as it was getting late; but he asked the widow where she lived, that he might come back and learn if her son was found. Then off he set, running as hard as he could go, to get back to the high-road, by which he might reach the river before it was dark. Meantime Dick and his father and the other men went down the pit with their lamps, to look for David. "It's like hunting for a needle in a rick of hay, I'm thinking," said one of the men. "If we could learn what way the little fellow was going when he was last seen; you know there are more than sixty miles of road, taking all into account, and it will be a pretty long business to walk over them." "Right, mate, but the poor boy won't have got very far," observed Joseph Kempson. "Come along now." The men hurried on along the dark, low galleries. Dick every now and then shouting out with his young, shrill voice, "David, David Adams!" But there was no answer. It was a work of danger too; for they had to pass along several passages in which the air felt very heavy, and they knew well that if it had not been for their Davy lamps they would all have been blown to pieces. They called and called, and looked into every dark corner, still David was not to be found. The men began to talk of giving up the search as a bad job. "Oh don't let us give up, father," exclaimed Dick, "David must be somewhere." Joseph liked little David, but still he was tired, and he thought, with the other men, that they might hunt on for a week and yet not find him. However, they all agreed to take another long round. The poor widow sat and sat, anxiously waiting the return of her friends. The banksman at the mouth of the pit received the signal from those below that they were ready to be drawn up. It was now quite dark. "Stay quiet, dame, stay quiet," he said, as the poor widow was about to lean over the mouth of the pit to watch for her boy. "May be, after all, the lad isn't there. I've known boys lost for many a day down the pits, and yet found at last." Little Dick with his father and the other men were soon at the top. As they one after the other got out of the basket, the poor widow eagerly advanced with out-stretched arms to clasp her son. "Oh my boy, my boy, where are you? Come, David, come!" she exclaimed. "Very sorry, Mrs Adams, very sorry; but we couldn't find the little chap," said Samuel Kempson, in a tone which showed that he felt what he said. The other men echoed his words. "Still it's better to come without him than to bring him up as many have been brought up, as you well know, without life in him. Don't give way now, we'll try again, and more than likely that he'll find his way back to where people are at work." The widow heard some deep sobs. They came from Dick. "You're a kind, good lad; you loved my boy," she cried, pressing him to her, and giving way to bitter tears. "And I will go down and look for him again, that I will, Mrs Adams; so don't take on so, now," answered Dick, stopping his own sobs. Samuel insisted on the widow coming to his house. She, after some pressing, consented, and the men assisted her along in the dark towards the village. They may have been rough in looks and rough in language, but the widow's grief softened their hearts and made them kind and gentle in their manner. Mrs Kempson received the poor widow with much kindness, and did her best to comfort her. They did little else all the evening but talk of little David and what had become of him. Mrs Kempson recollecting what her own son had done, observed that perhaps he had come up after all, and had gone away to Newcastle, or Shields, to get on board ship. "Oh no, no, my David would never have gone away from me," exclaimed Mrs Adams; yet, as she said this, hope came back to her heart, for he might perhaps have thought that he was going off to make his fortune, and that if he came to her first she might prevent him. "Alack, alack, there's little wisdom in young heads. Maybe he's gone that way, Mrs Kempson," she said at last, and the thought seemed to bring some comfort to her. All appeared to agree with her except Dick. He was sure that David would not have gone away without, at all events, hinting his intention to him. The next day was Sunday, when no mines are worked. Dick, in spite of his fears of bogies, had made up his mind to go and search for his friend alone if he could get no one to go with him. He thought perhaps the butty would let him go down with his Davy lamp. He would fill his pockets with bits of paper and drop them as he went along, so as to find his way back, and to know where he had been over before. He had got several old newspapers to tear up, and he would take a stick with him, and a basket of food, and a bottle of beer, and he would go into every nook and passage of the mine till he had found his friend. Dick's were brave thoughts. He fancied that he should have foes of all sorts to fight with, but for the sake of his friend he made up his mind to meet them. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. The "butty" is the head man over all the works, and indeed everything about the pit; the "doggy" has charge of the underground works, and looks after all the men and boys in the pit. STORY SIX, CHAPTER 4. The next day was Sunday, when the missionary again came to the village, and did not fail to visit Samuel Kempson's cottage. He heard of the disappearance of David Adams. He pointed out the only source from which the sorrowing mother could obtain comfort, and besought all those present to turn at once to the Lord. He reminded them that any moment they might all be hurried into eternity. He asked each man present to say how many friends of his had been cut off on a sudden--how many had died unprepared--and then begged them to tell him if they were ready to leave the world; and if they were not ready, when would they be ready? "Do not delay, do not delay, my friends," he said, in a voice which went to the hearts of many of his hearers. Among them was Samuel Kempson. From that day he became a serious-minded man, while he did his best to show by his life that his heart was changed. Others again listened, but went away and continued in the same bad habits in which they had before indulged. Dick was eager for Monday morning, when the pit would be again at work, that he might go and look for David. Long before daybreak he was on foot on his way to the pit's mouth. He had to wait, however, till the under-viewers and deputy over-men had gone down to see the condition of the pit, whether it was fit for people to work in, or whether any stream of bad air had burst out likely to kill or injure any one. At last the mine was reported safe, and Dick, and the other boys, and several of the men were allowed to descend. Dick eagerly inquired of the deputy over-men if they had seen anything of David. No; they did not even think that he was in the pit, was their reply. Dick remembered that the missionary had said "that those who trust in God and do right need fear no evil." "That's what I am doing," he said to himself, as he took his Davy's lamp from the lamp room, and grasped his stick. "I don't fear the black bogies or any other creatures such as Bill Hagger is so fond of talking about. May be, as the missionary says, there are no such things, and David thinks that it was Bill Hagger himself who frightened me." With such thoughts, brave little Dick strengthened his mind, and braced up his heart as he walked on. From the gate-road, or chief gallery, roads opened off on either side. Dick made up his mind to go to the farthest end, and then to work down one side, shouting as he went along, and then the other, dropping his bits of paper. He walked as fast as he could, but to move along with a mass of rock and earth and coal a thousand feet thick overhead, is not like walking across the green fields with the blue sky above one, and the fresh air blowing, and the sun shining, and the birds singing. Dick had only walls of coal on either side, or pillars of coal, or caves out of which the coal had been hewn, or the mouths of other long passages, some leading upwards, some downwards to other levels. He had a black roof of rock above him, and black ground under his feet. "Anybody seen anything of David Adams?" he asked of the different gangs of pushers, hoisters, or thrusters he met with their trucks of coal as they came out of the passages and holes on all sides, some so low that they had to stoop down till their heads were no higher than the trucks. "No; what, is he not found yet?" was the answer he got generally. It took him nearly half an hour to get to the end of the gate-road. When he reached thus far, he took the first opening to the right, and began dropping his paper, and calling out his friend's name. He went on and on, expecting to get into another gate-road, and in time to reach the main shaft. How long he had been walking he could not tell, when he found himself in a deserted part of the mine. It was like a large, low hall, the roof supported by stout pieces of timber, called "sprags," in some places, and in others by "cogs," or lumps of coal, or by pillars of coal. It was necessary here to be more careful than ever in strewing the paper, or it might be long indeed before he could find his way out again. He thought of poor David; how, if he had got here, he might have wandered about round and round, like a person lost in a wood, and sunk down overcome at last, and not able to rise up again. He could not altogether get over either fears for himself. His lamp shed a very dim light, and that only to a short distance, and he thought he saw dark forms moving about here and there, sometimes stopping and looking at him, and then going on again. He, like a true hero, had braced up his nerves to brave everything he might meet, or he would have shrieked out, and tried to run away. He, however, stoutly kept on his way, uttering a prayer that if they were evil spirits, they might do him no harm. Still he, as before, cried out David's name; but there was no answer. His heart at length began to sink within him; a faintness came over him. He had got a long, long way from the shaft, and he had hoped before this to find his friend. His legs ached, too, for he had been for a long time wandering about. He sat down at last on a block of coal and thought over what he should do. Nothing should make him give up the search; that he was determined on. Then he remembered that his lamp would not last much longer; so he got up, and pushed on. He had need of all his courage, for when he stopped he thought that he heard sighs and groans and distant cries. He had often before trembled at hearing such sounds, thinking that they were made by the evil spirits or hobgoblins of whom Bill Hagger had told him. Now, after a moment's thought, he knew that they were caused by the wind passing through a trap either not well closed or with a slit in it. He could not open his lamp to see how much oil remained in it, and as he could only guess how long he had been walking, he could not tell what moment he might find the light go out. He hurried on; he thought that he was in the right way. He was getting near a gate-road, when a moaning sound reached his ear. He stopped that he might be sure whence it came. Then he walked on cautiously towards the place, stopping every now and then to be sure that he was going in the right way. Again he heard the moaning sound. It was like that uttered by a person in pain. He followed it till he got to the mouth of a narrow passage, which had been begun, but did not seem to run far. Suddenly the idea came on him that these sounds were made by one of the much-dreaded bogies. "If it is one of them creatures, he can't do me any harm, for I'm doing what is right," he said to himself, and boldly went in, holding his lamp before him. He had not gone far, when he saw stretched out before him on the ground the form of his young friend. He had his arms extended, as if he had fallen groping his way. "O David, David, come to life: do now!" cried Dick, kneeling down by his side. David uttered a low groan; that was better than if he had been silent. So, encouraged by this, Dick lifted him up, and poured a few drops of beer down his throat. The liquid revived him; not from its strength, however. "Come out of this place, David, do now; the air is very bad and close, you'll never get well while you stay here." David at last came round enough to know what was said to him, and with Dick's help was able to crawl into the gate-road, which was not far off. Here the fresher air, for fresh it was not, brought him still more round, and he sat up and eat some of the food which Dick had brought. David kept staring at Dick all the time he was eating without saying a word, as if he did not know what had happened. "Come along now, David," said Dick, at last; "there is no time to lose, for the lamp may be going out, and it won't do to have to find our way to the shaft in the dark." "Oh no, no. How did you find me, Dick?" asked David. "Come to look for you," answered Dick. "And how is poor mother? She must have been in a sad way all these days, thinking what had become of me." "Mrs Adams bears up pretty well," said Dick. "But how long do you think I have been down here? A week, or is it longer?" said David. He could scarcely believe that it had been from the Saturday morning till the Monday evening since he was lost. "I thought that I must have been down very many days," he remarked. "I had my day's dinner with me, so I just took a little nibble of food for breakfast, and another for dinner, and a little more for supper. It seemed to me that I stopped five or six hours between each meal, and then I lay down and went to sleep, and when I awoke I thought it was morning, and that the people would be coming down to work; so I got up and walked on, thinking that they would hear me; but I waited and waited, there was not the sound of a pick anywhere near, and I knew that there would be no use shouting. Once I found the air much cooler, and as I looked up I saw the stars shining right overhead, and then I knew that I must be under an air shaft. Now, I thought, I shall find the road to the pit's mouth, but I turned the wrong way, I suppose, and at last, when I could go on no longer, I went right into the hole where you found me. I couldn't have been long there. I tried to cry out as loud as I could, but I had no strength; and if you hadn't come, Dick, I should have died before many minutes." David gave this account of himself by fits and starts, as he and Dick were trying to find their way into the chief gate-road. Dick had to support his friend, who was very weak, and scarcely able to get along. He himself, too, was ready to faint, for he had been walking some hours, and that in a hot mine was very trying. For what they could tell they might still have a long distance to go. They went on for some way, then again they had to sit down and rest. "Now, David, we must go on again," exclaimed Dick, rousing himself; "we shall soon be where the hewers are at work." "Oh, I cannot, I cannot move another step, I fear," answered David, in a voice which showed how weak he had become. Dick made him take a little more food, and then, putting his arm round him, helped him along. Thus they went on for some distance. "Hark!" exclaimed Dick, joyfully, "I hear the sound of a pick. Yes, I'm sure of it. There is some one singing, too. It's a putter. He's coming this way." As he spoke, the dull sound of the pick, "thud, thud, thud," reached their ears. With their spirits raised they were again going on, when out went Dick's lamp. They were in complete darkness. Not a glimmer of light came from where the other men were at work. Dick shouted as loudly as he could to draw attention. As to David, his voice could not help much. No one attended to them. They stumbled on for some time farther. "I know that voice. It's Bill Hagger, I'm sure," said Dick. "I've often heard him sing that song; I would rather it had been any one else, but I don't think he would ill-treat us now." Dick shouted to Bill to come with his light. Just at that moment while they were waiting for Bill's answer, there was a loud, thundering crash, with a fearful shriek and cries for help. "The roof has fallen in, and Bill is buried under it. Oh, let us push on, and see if we cannot help him out," cried Dick. The two boys had groped their way on for some distance, when they saw far-off the glimmer of a light. "That must be Bill's lantern," said Dick. "He must have set it down before the roof fell in on him." Bill had ceased shrieking, but they could hear his groans. They at last reached the spot. A large mass of coal had fallen, and shut him up in a side passage. Part of it must have fallen on him. The boys, weak as they were, in vain tried to lift the big lumps of coal off the young man. They soon saw that they might very likely, in so doing, bring down more on their own heads, and that it would be better to hurry on to get help. Dick entirely forgot all the ill-treatment he had received from Bill, and overcoming the fatigue he had been feeling, ran on, with the help of Bill's lamp, towards the place where he expected to find men at work, dragging poor David along with him. He felt David growing heavier and heavier. At last, without uttering a sound, down he sank by his side. Was he really dead? He held the light to his friend's pale face. He breathed. There was only one thing to be done. He dragged him to the side of the gallery, out of the way of any rolley, which might by chance come by, and ran on to where he thought he heard some men at work. He shouted out. The first man who appeared was his father. He told him that he had found David. "What alive?" asked Samuel. "Yes, father; but he won't be if we don't make haste; and besides him there is Bill Hagger, with a heap of coals over him." On hearing this, Samuel Kempson called all the men near to go to the assistance of David and Bill, while one ran to summon a deputy viewer to direct what was to be done to release Bill. As soon as they reached David, Samuel lifted him up in his arms, and hurried with him to the foot of the shaft, accompanied by Dick. When he got there, he begged that he might be drawn up at once, that he might take the boy to his mother. They got into the corve, and were drawn up, up, up the deep shaft. When they reached the mouth of the pit, the fresh air brought back the colour to David's cheeks, and he opened his eyes for a moment, but quickly shut them, dazzled by the rays of the sun which was trying to pierce the murky atmosphere. This, however, showed that there was some life in the boy; and in better spirits than at first, Samuel hurried along to the widow, that he might restore her son to her. She had been over and over again to the pit's mouth to inquire for her boy, and had to go back to look after her other children. One of them playing in front of the door, saw the Kempsons coming along: "Here comes Dick Kempson and his father with a little dead boy in his arms," cried the child. The poor widow, her heart sinking with dread, ran out of the cottage, expecting to see David's lifeless body. "Here he is, Mrs Adams, all right," exclaimed Samuel, as he drew near. The change from grief to joy, as she saw her boy stretching out his arms towards her, was almost too much for her strength, and she burst into tears as she took him from Kempson and pressed him to her bosom. When she recovered a little, she began to pour out her thanks to Samuel-- "Oh don't thank me, Mrs Adams, it was Dick found your boy, and if it had not been for him, he would have died--no doubt about that," answered Samuel. "And I should have been very, very sorry, if I hadn't found him, that I should Mrs Adams," said Dick quietly. "You know what friends we are. Now I dare say he would like to have a wash and go to bed." "Thank ye, Dick--I would, mother," murmured David, who by this time had been brought into the house and placed in a chair. "I would give him a little broth or tea, Mrs Adams, and he'll come all right soon," said Samuel, as he and his son left the cottage to return to the mine. "Bless you, bless you, my boy," said the widow, as she watched Dick from the window for a moment: and she didn't say those words with her mouth only, but with her whole heart. Samuel would have sent Dick home, but he begged that, though he was tired, he might go back to learn how it had fared with poor Bill Hagger. "But I thought that Bill Hagger was one of your greatest enemies. He seemed always to be ill-treating you," observed Samuel. "So he did, father," answered Dick. "But don't you mind what the missionary said the other day? `We should love our enemies and do good to them that despitefully use us and hate us.'" "So he did, Dick, to be sure; and I've often thought since then, what a hard matter it must be to do it." "He said that we must pray for God's help and grace, father, and that then we shall be able to do what now seems so hard," was Dick's answer. On reaching the bottom of the shaft, and going on a little way, they met some men carrying Bill Hagger, who had been got out from under the coal, but so dreadfully mangled, that it did not seem possible he could live. Samuel now went back to work with his pick, and Dick returned to the charge of his trap. STORY SIX, CHAPTER 5. Day after day Dick sat by the side of his trap, all in the dark and by himself, opening and shutting it, as the corves and rolleys came by, and Samuel worked away as usual with his pick and spade. Though not as strong as many of the other hewers, he made as much as any one else by keeping at his work. The missionary continued to come to the village occasionally on the Sunday, but many of the men were absent that day, or would not come to hear. He was a man very earnest in his work. His great object was so to preach the gospel, that his hearers might understand and accept the offers it makes. He therefore considered how he might best get the ears of all the people in the district. Few men, knowing the dangers of a coal mine, would go down a second time for pleasure; but hearing that all the labourers collected in one place to eat their meals, he got leave to go down to read the Bible and preach to them all that time. They understood from this that he really wished to do them good; and in the course of a week or two there were very few who did not try to attend to what he said. Some few did much more than that, they repented--they turned to Christ--they put their whole trust in Him. Happy was it for those few who did so. Dick was now becoming a biggish boy, and he hoped soon to be made a putter. He did not like the work a bit more than before. He could not help thinking of the green fields he remembered playing in when he was a little boy, and he ofttimes sighed for them; but his parents wanted him to work in the mines, and so it was his duty to stay on where he was. At last he was made a putter, and had, with two other boys, to push and pull along the rolleys. He had been about a week at the work, when one day, as he was going ahead of a laden rolley, he slipped, and before those behind saw what had happened, the rolley went over his foot. He shrieked out, for the pain was very great, and it seemed as if his foot was smashed to pieces. "I shall be a cripple all my life, like poor Lawry; oh dear, oh dear!" was his first thought. His companions put him on the rolley and took him to the foot of the shaft. He was soon drawn up to the pit's mouth, when the banksman got two men to carry him home on a stretcher, and sent for the doctor. "Oh, Dick, Dick, what is the matter? Another of my boys a cripple!" cried poor Mrs Kempson, when the men brought him in and placed him on his bed. Dick could scarcely speak for the pain. "Don't know, mother. Hope not," he could just murmur out. "Was there ever so unfortunate a woman as I am? my poor boy! my poor boy!" she cried, trying to cut off Dick's boot and stocking, which was covered with blood. The doctor came at last, and said that he was afraid it would be a long time before Dick could use his foot; but that, if he took care, he might recover entirely. Samuel, who had been hewing at the end of a long gallery far away from the foot of the shaft, only heard of the accident to his boy on his way home. Once he would have grumbled very much. Now he only thought of poor Dick's pain, and not at all of the loss of his wages, and the additional mouth he would have to feed. Dick was more sorry for his father and mother than for himself. David came, whenever he could, to see him, and he amused himself by cutting-out models, as he did when he was ill before. He could now also read well, but he and David had read through and through all their books and the tracts which the missionary had left them. They were therefore very thankful when he came again; and hearing how much Dick wanted books, left them several nice magazines. Some had beautiful pictures. Neither Dick nor David had ever seen anything which they thought so fine. When Dick heard from the missionary that the pictures were made from carvings on blocks of wood, he said that he should like to learn so curious an art. The missionary, seeing this, explained how it was done; and Dick forthwith drew a rolley on a block, and cut away all the white wood between the lines. Then he rubbed over the raised parts with lamp black, and pressed it down on a piece of white paper. There, to his delight, was the drawing of a rolley. It was not very well done, but Lawry and David thought a great deal of it. The missionary smiled when he saw it. "A very good beginning, my boy. Persevere, and it may be that you may make some use of your talent in this way," he observed. Dick had not, however, learned to do much better before the doctor said that he thought his foot was healed enough to let him go to work in a few days. Dick was eager to go at once, but Samuel said that he must stay at play a few days longer. Dick had no love for his task in the pit, but he felt that as he was fed he ought to work as soon as he could. At last it was arranged that Dick should go to work the next Monday. Samuel kissed his younger children, as he was about to start with his eldest boy to his work. "We'll have you with us, Dick, all right and strong next week. You are to be a half-marrow, I hear. Well, it's better than sitting at a trap all day." He said, as he went out, looking back with a pleasant smile, "Good-bye, all." "He's a kind father, and he is much kinder and gentler than he used to be before the missionary came," thought Dick, as Samuel disappeared round the corner of the street. Samuel Kempson went on his way to the pit's mouth, where a number of other men collected, ready to go down as soon as the banksman called them. It was a fine morning; the sun was just rising in the clear sky out from the far-off sea. Samuel drew a breath of the pure morning air, and gazed round at the blue sky and glorious sun, as he stepped off into the corve, in which, with many others, he was to descend the shaft. Bill Hagger, who had completely recovered from his accident, and was now a hewer, was among his companions. Bill, unhappily, was not among those who willingly listened to the missionary. He was the same rough, coarse being as before, a constant visitor at the ale-house, a fearful swearer, and ready at all times for any mischief. There were too many like him. Samuel and the others having got their picks newly sharpened, and their spades, went to the lamp-house for their lamps. These were handed to them, carefully locked, so that they might not open the lamp and expose the flame to the surrounding air. They were driving a new gallery, and as a good deal of fire-damp was likely to come out, it was necessary to be very careful. Samuel passed David Adams, who was still a trapper, on his way to his trap. David asked after Dick. "He'll be down with us in a few days, I hope," was the answer, in a cheerful tone. Nearly two hundred human beings were toiling away down in those long, narrow passages. Some with pick-axes were getting out the huge lumps of coal from the solid vein, others were breaking them up and shovelling them into the baskets. The putters were dragging or pushing the baskets towards a main road, where they were received by the "crane-hoister," who, with his crane, lifted them on the rolley-wagons. These were dragged along a tramway by sleek, stout ponies to the foot of the shaft, under charge of a wagoner. Other men were engaged at the foot of the shaft, hooking on the corves full of coal to be drawn up by the machinery above. There were three shafts. At the bottom of one was a large furnace kept always burning that it might assist to draw down the pure air from above and send the bad air upwards. Down another shaft was a huge pump, pumping up the water which got into the mine. The third shaft was that by which the men chiefly went up and down, and the coals were drawn up, though the furnace shaft could also be used for that purpose. There were men to tend the furnaces, and stable-men to look after the horses, and lamp-men, and blacksmiths to sharpen the tools and mend the iron-work of the wagons, and rolley-way-men to keep the roads in order, besides several for other sorts of jobs. All these were busy working away at their several posts. Samuel Kempson was among the hewers farthest from the main shaft. Near him was Bill Hagger. They had been working for some hours when the welcome sound of blows on the trap-doors told them that dinner and drink time had arrived. Leaving their tools, they unhooked the lamps, which hung on nails above their heads, and hastened to the drink place, an open space to which their dinners were brought from the shaft on rolleys, chiefly in basins done up in handkerchiefs, each having his proper mark. Some had the first letters of their names, others bits of different coloured cloth, others buttons. Each man having found his dinner, took his seat, when Samuel became aware that his friend the missionary was present. He was standing with his back to the wall, and some candles fixed to a tree, or support, near him. All were silent. Having read a chapter in the Bible, the missionary earnestly entreated them to seek the Lord while He might be found. It was an impressive discourse, and the missionary himself had often cause to think of it afterwards. The dinner-time was soon over, and the labourers hastened back to their work, and the missionary returned to the world above. Kempson had been pecking away for some time, when Bill Hagger, who was next to him, ceased working. "I want my blow of baccy," he said, coming up to Samuel. "That missioner chap put me off it, and that's what I won't stand, so I'm going to have it now." "What can make you think of such a mad thing, Bill?" exclaimed Samuel. "You know it's against orders to light a pipe, and good reason too, for a spark might blow us all to pieces in a moment. I smell the fire-damp at this moment, you haven't got matches, I hope?" "No; but I've got a key to open my lamp," answered Bill, producing a small key from a concealed pocket. "Don't be mad, Bill," cried Kempson. "You know that you've no business to have that key. As sure as you open your lamp you'll blow yourself and me into bits, and may be everybody in the mine, for I never felt it fuller of gas than it is to-day. Just think, Bill, where our souls are to go; for the gas can't blow them to pieces, remember that." "I'm not going to be put off by any of your talk," answered Bill, in a surly tone, filling his pipe. Having done so, before poor Kempson could stop him, he had opened his safety lamp, and put in the bowl of his pipe to light it. In an instant there was a fearful report, a sheet of fire flew along the galleries here, there, and everywhere through the pit, bursting open the traps, tearing off huge fragments of the coal, overthrowing pillars and supports, and sweeping to destruction the helpless human beings it overtook in its course. Those more distant from the first part of the explosion heard it coming, and knew too well its dreadful import. They tried to fly towards the foot of the shaft. There only could they hope for safety; but what hope had they of reaching it with those fiery blasts rushing through every roadway and passage, and the destructive choke-damp rising rapidly on all sides? David Adams was sitting at his trap ready to open it, for he heard a gang of putters coming along, when a loud, deafening roar sounded in his ears. The door was shaken violently, but resisted the shock, though he felt the hot air coming through the crevices. Loud cries arose on every side from the neighbouring passages. The putters rushed on, leaving their wagons, and forced open the trap. David, seizing his lamp, rushed out with them. His first impulse was to cover up his head with his coat, then to draw his comforter over his mouth and nose, for he already smelt the too-well-known stench of the choke-damp. Some of his companions, in their fright, turned the wrong way. He and others pushed on towards the shaft. They had not gone far when they came upon several men, some had fallen, overcome by the choke-damp; others were sitting down, pointing, with looks of terror, at a mass of brick-work which had fallen in, stopping their advance; while through it came a stream of gas, which it was clear would soon fill the passage. The stench was every moment growing stronger and stronger. "We must go back, we must go back," was the cry from those still able to move. There was another way to the shaft, through the passage at which David had been placed. Some of the stronger men led the way, the putters went next, and David was last. Before they could reach the passage, for which they were aiming, the main way was filling rapidly with choke-damp. Now one of the men leading fell, now another, and the rest had to pass over their bodies. To stop to try and help them would have been to give up their own lives without doing any good. David saw several of the putters, strong, hearty lads, drop down by his side, while he was able to keep on from having his mouth covered up, and from attempting to breathe only where the air seemed purest. The survivors, a small party only, now reached the end of the passage, and ran on, driven on by the air, which was rushing along it. There was hope for them in that direction if no fresh explosion should take place. But the danger was still very fearful. The fire-damp might any moment find the broken lamp of a dying man, and explode, causing further destruction on every side. On the men sped; now one, now another dropped. The remainder still pressed on. There were a hundred yards or more between them and the foot of the shaft. It seemed a vast distance to go over, when any moment the whole mine might be a sea of fire. Even there safety might not be found. Hitherto young David had been preserved, but now he felt his strength failing. The hot air was coming up behind. He sprang forward, he thought that he was near the shaft. Cries, and groans, and loud, roaring, hissing sounds were in his ears. All thought and feeling passed from him. Not a human voice was heard throughout the long galleries and passages of the mine, lately so full of active life. The bodies of the men were there charred and withered, and the only sound was the roar of the escaping gas, as it caught fire and exploded in the far-off passages of the mine. STORY SIX, CHAPTER 6. Dick had wandered out in the afternoon to get a little more of the fresh air than he could find in the hot street of the village. Not that there was what would be called fresh air in other parts of the country. Even the purest air was full of smoke and coal-dust and gas. He sat himself down to rest on a stone wall, and his eye wandered over the scene. There were the tall chimneys sending forth wreaths and clouds of smoke, and the odd shaped buildings, and the cranks and the beams moving up and down without ceasing, as if they could never get tired, and the railways in all directions, with train after train of coal wagons moving rapidly over them, some loaded, and others flying back empty from whence they came. He had been sitting there for some time, when he saw, by the way that people were running towards the pit's mouth, that something was wrong. He got up, and as fast as his lame foot would let him, hurried in the same direction. Too soon he learned what had happened. There had been a fearful explosion. The corve, or basket, by which the men went up and down the shaft, had been knocked to pieces, and even the machinery over the pit had been injured. Of all those working below it was believed that not one could have escaped. Dick's heart sickened when he heard this. His father, his eldest brother, and his friend, David Adams, were all below. Besides them, he knew all the people working in the pit; men and boys, they all came before him as he had last seen them, and now not one alive! "Oh yes, yes; surely there must be some who have escaped," he cried out, when he was told that all had been killed. The sad news quickly spread, and numbers of women and children came rushing from the village; wives to ask for their husbands, mothers for their sons, girls for their fathers and brothers, or intended husbands. They kept running about without bonnets or shawls, their hair streaming in the wind, and frantically crying as they stretched out their hands to the banksman and viewers and other officers, "Where are they? where are they? Why don't they come up?" It would have softened the hardest heart to have seen the grief, the agony of the poor women. No one could answer them. It was not the first time such a thing had happened, even in that pit. They all knew too well the effect of the fire-damp, and still more destructive choke-damp. "Is no one going down to bring them up?" was the question next asked. "Yes, some one will go, I dare say, as soon as it's safe; but it would not do to go yet," answered the banksman. "Besides, the gear is knocked to pieces." This reply only increased the alarm of the poor women, but they were obliged to be content with it. Dick pressed forward, and asked if any one had come up. No; no one had come up since the morning. "Then, may I go down?" he asked of one of the viewers. "You are the lad who went by yourself to look for the boy Adams some years ago, when he was lost, I remember," answered the viewer. "Yes, you shall go with me presently, if you wish it." A fresh corve was fitted, and the gear put in order. The viewer stepped in, there were two other volunteers. Dick followed. Each person had a safety lamp in his hand. They went down very slowly, for it was probable that the shaft itself might be injured. They had not got far when a stream of water, which had burst out of the side, came pouring down on them, and almost filled the corve. The rushing sound, and the force with which the water fell, deafened and confused them. Still they persevered. Hot air, and noxious vapours, and steam, and smoke came rushing up. They went down through it all. Some of their fellow-creatures might be below. They would save them if they could. At last they reached the bottom of the shaft. The furnace was still blazing away. Beyond all was darkness and gloom, though the pale light of their lamps showed them the ruin caused by the explosion. The viewer shouted out, "Is any one alive?" They stopped and listened anxiously. There was a faint cry, which came from not far off. "I heard a groan also," said the viewer. "There may be several alive, I hope." The brave little band moved on, knowing well that each step they advanced the danger was increased. "Here is a poor fellow," cried the viewer, who was looking into a hollow cut in the wall. Dick hoped that it might be his father or brother, but it was a man he knew little about. He was alive, but hurt from having been blown into the place where he was found, and appeared to have lost his senses. He was carried to the foot of the shaft and placed in the corve. Two other men crawled up on hearing the shout, but they were very weak, and could only say that they believed all the rest were killed. The overseer told Dick that he might go up with them, but he begged so hard to remain that he might look for his father, that two men were sent instead. While the overseer was securing the men in the corve, Dick once more went along the main gallery. He had not gone far when he saw in a hollow, a figure crouching down. It was that of his friend David Adams. Was he alive? He lifted him up and carried him along in his arms towards the shaft. Already he felt the choke-damp in his throat; he was stumbling, too, with the weight of his burden. He felt that he could not move another yard, for his knees were bending under him. "Run, run to the shaft," he heard a voice say. "I'll take him on." It was the viewer, who, throwing the body of young Adams over his shoulders, seized Dick with the other hand and dragged him on. Their companion had disappeared. In vain they shouted for him, while they anxiously waited for the return of the corve to carry them up. To go back into the passages already full of poisonous air, would have been madness. Dick, notwithstanding, was eager to go back to try and find his father and brother. Had not the viewer prevented him, he would have made the attempt and perished. Even where they were, it was with difficulty they breathed. Dick, as he looked at his friend's face, calm and quiet, was afraid that he had lost him too. At last the corve came down, and the viewer and Dick lifting in David's body, were drawn up. Poor Mrs Adams was among those in the front surrounding the pit. She at once knew her son, and clasping him in her arms, gave way to her grief, calling him to come to life. "Let the doctor see him, dame," said several voices. "May be he is not so far gone as you think." On this the surgeon stepped forward and had David carried out of the crowd, who prevented him from breathing the fresh air, which, if a person is not dead, is more likely than anything else to restore the power of breathing. Meantime Mrs Kempson, among the other women, had come up. "Oh! my husband! my husband! where is he? Dick, my boy, have you found your father and Tom? Where is your brother, boy?" Such were the questions asked by numbers of the unhappy women. Dick could only shake his head and burst into tears. From the report of the viewer, the engineers declared that it would be dangerous to go down the pit again till the ventilation was set to rights, and that all hope of finding any of those below still alive was gone. STORY SIX, CHAPTER 7. There was deep sorrow and tears and groans in the mining village of Wallford that night. Those who had gone forth to their work in the morning in health and spirits, the bread-winners of the family, were never to return. The widows and orphans sorrowed for husbands and fathers, and it was natural that they should sorrow for themselves. Among those who had good cause to look forward with dread to the future, was Mrs Kempson, and yet she did not fear it as once she would have done. She believed that her husband had fully accepted Christ's gracious offer of salvation, and that he was prepared for death; and she also knew that God protects the fatherless and widows who trust in Him. Still she had a good deal to try her faith. Dick was the only one of the family who could work for their support; he could gain but little, and she trembled when she thought that any day he, too, might be cut off. He, like a good son, was doing his best to comfort her. "Don't take on so, mother, don't take on so," he said, putting his arm round her neck. "I shall soon be big enough to work as a hewer, and you shan't want while I can earn good wages, and God will look after us all. Don't fear, mother, don't fear." Dick had not forgotten his friend David, but, while attending to his mother, he had had no time to ask about him. He now said that he would go out to see Mrs Adams, and learn if he had recovered. Dick looked in at Mrs Adams's open window. It was a comfort to him in his own sorrow to see his friend sitting up, though looking very ill. He felt inclined to go away again without speaking, but Mrs Adams saw him, and, coming out, brought him in. "You have saved my boy's life twice, Dick," she exclaimed. "I can't thank you enough, and never can. But David and I and all of us can pray for you. God will reward you. He will bless you." There had been cries and shrieks and tears on the day of the explosion. A still sadder day was that when, the mine being put in order, the bodies were brought up from below, and the poor women came round to claim their husbands and sons. It was difficult to recognise some of the bodies, but the full number of those who had been working in the pit were found, and hope left the hearts of those who had trusted till now that by some means those they loved had escaped. Dick set to work as soon as the pit was open, and toiled on bravely; still all his wages could only just support his mother and brothers and sisters. Bad times came too, made bad by the folly of the people themselves. The men in some of the collieries made up their minds that they would get higher wages. They banded themselves together, and tried to make the people of all the collieries in the district join them. When David and Dick heard of it, they agreed that they were content with their wages, and that all the men about them were well off, and that they would go on working without grumbling. They had not their choice, however. There was a general strike of the labourers underground and above ground throughout the whole district, and the pits were closed. They, and others who had not joined the league, were threatened with severe punishment if they offered to work. Mrs Kempson and Mrs Adams and many other widows were in a sad way. They had saved but little money, so they soon spent all they had. Then they had to pawn some of their things, and then they had to go on credit, hoping that the lads would soon go to work again. Food was running very short. They could barely afford bread and cheese; often they ate nothing but dry bread and drank warm water, for the tea was so weak it was little better. Mrs Kempson, who had for so long lived well, felt as if she was dying of hunger. Dick was pretty nearly starving also. He had not been idle though, as had most of the people, for he had been hard at work making all sorts of models. "I'll take them to Newcastle, to-morrow. May be I'll get something for them, mother, and bring back food for you and the rest; if not, I'll look out for some other sort of work. I'm determined to be at play no longer, to please any set of men." The miners always speak of being at play, when they are not at work. Just then a young man, well dressed in seafaring style, passed the window. "Do any people of the name of Kempson live hereabouts?" Dick heard him say. "Yes, sir," said Dick. "That's our name. What do you want?" The young man made no answer, but walked in and sat down on a chair Mrs Kempson offered him. He looked round for a minute without speaking-- first at Mrs Kempson, then at Limping Lawry, then at little Nelly, and then at the other children, and over and over again at Dick. "I think that I have seen you all before; but it was years ago," he said at last, and his voice trembled. "Some time back, as I was reading an account of a dreadful accident which happened in one of the coal-pits hereabouts, I saw the name of Samuel Kempson and his son Benjamin among the list of sufferers." "Yes, sir; those were my poor husband and son," said Mrs Kempson, with a sigh, and the tears came to her eyes. "Did you ever live in Suffolk?" asked the stranger. "Yes, sir; and I wish that we had never left it," answered Susan. "And had you a son you called Jack?" inquired the visitor. "Yes, I had; I had a fine hearty boy, but he went away to sea, and I fear has long since been drowned," cried Susan, lifting her apron to her eyes. "I don't think so," answered the stranger. "Do you think that you should know him again?" "I'm sure I should, my own bright boy. Oh! speak, young man. Who are you? Don't deceive me," exclaimed Susan, starting up and taking the stranger's hands. "Are you my son Jack?" "Indeed I am, mother," answered Jack Kempson, for the young stranger was her long-lost son. He returned her embrace affectionately, and soon all his young brothers and sisters were clustering round him. He had heard of the strike, and of the state of affairs, and guessing that provisions would be welcome, before he could talk further, went out with Dick and got a good supply for supper. While the family were seated round a better meal than they had had for many a day, he told them how he had gone to sea in a collier running between Newcastle and London; how he then had sailed to far distant lands; how once, when ill-treated by the master, he had made up his mind to quit the sea and had come to look out for work in the mines; how he soon saw that he should not change for the better. "Yes, we know the widow woman you spoke to, and she told us all about the sailor lad, who had come, thinking to get work, and had gone off again." "That is strange," cried Dick, "that we should have been so near, and not have seen each other." "Well, I went back to the ship," continued Jack, "and I made up my mind to stick to the sea. I was soon afterwards made second mate, and then first mate; and a year ago, in a foreign voyage, the captain, who was given to drink, fell overboard, and I brought the ship home, and the owners were so pleased that they made me captain. I am now bound back to London, and though I say it's generally best for every man to stick to the trade he is brought up in; yet as the people here won't let Dick work in it, I want him and you all to come away with me. You cannot be worse off, and you may be much better; and at all events, I have enough wages to keep you all comfortable." Poor Mrs Kempson thankfully accepted her son's offer. A good and affectionate son he proved. Dick was well pleased to change, but he could not make up his mind to part from David Adams. "I will take him and his mother and the rest of them too," said the generous sailor. "I have saved money, and cannot spend it better than in helping the widow and orphan. I dare say we shall find some place in the old county where our mother and Mrs Adams can settle down among green fields, and where you may find work for which you are suited." As soon as supper was over, Mrs Kempson and Jack and Dick set off to visit Mrs Adams. Dick had put up a basket full of provisions--bread and butter, and cheese, and herrings, and tea and sugar, and other things which he well knew from experience would be welcome. "This is doing to others as I would be done by, or indeed as I have been done by," he thought. "Yes, God has been very merciful to us--just when we were well-nigh starved, and now Jack come to life again!" Mrs Adams was very grateful for the good food Dick had brought. She did not at first remember Jack, but he soon convinced her who he was. Great was her joy when the generous young sailor offered to carry her and David and the rest of her children to the neighbourhood of her old home. "But I can never, never repay you, young man," she said. "Never mind that," answered Jack, unconsciously looking upwards, "Some one else will." A happy party sailed down the river Tyne on board the brig, _Good Hope_, bound for the Thames. The young captain was as good as his word. Little Nelly was sent to an institution, where she was very happy, and was taught to do many useful things. Limping Lawry went to another, where he recovered his strength, and learned to gain his daily bread; and Dick and David got employment as engineers; and in a few years Dick rose to be foreman of some extensive works, with his old friend as his assistant. 
36189	----	Transcriber's note: 1. Small cap has been tagged with = sign. 2. When there were inconsistencies in hyphenation, the less frquent variant was replaced with the most frequent, e.g. "ship-board" was changed to "shipboard". [Illustration] =In Search of a Son.= =BY= =UNCLE LAWRENCE,= =AUTHOR OF "YOUNG FOLKS' WHYS AND WHEREFORES," ETC.= [Illustration] =PHILADELPHIA:= =J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.= 1890. Copyright, 1889, by J. B. Lippincott Company. TABLE OF CONTENTS. Page CHAPTER I. The Despatch 9 CHAPTER II. Two Friends 18 CHAPTER III. Monsieur Roger 26 CHAPTER IV. Monsieur Roger's Story 32 CHAPTER V. Fire at Sea 39 CHAPTER VI. Miss Miette's Fortune 46 CHAPTER VII. Vacation 53 CHAPTER VIII. A Drawing Lesson 59 CHAPTER IX. The Tower of Heurtebize 66 CHAPTER X. Physical Science 75 CHAPTER XI. The Smoke Which Falls 84 CHAPTER XII. At the Centre of the Earth 92 CHAPTER XIII. Why Lead Is Heavier Than Cork 99 CHAPTER XIV. The Air-Pump 104 CHAPTER XV. Drops of Rain and Hammer of Water 114 CHAPTER XVI. Amusing Physics 119 CHAPTER XVII. Why the Moon does not Fall 127 CHAPTER XVIII. A Mysterious Resemblance 138 CHAPTER XIX. The Fixed Idea 146 CHAPTER XX. Fire 152 CHAPTER XXI. Saved 161 CHAPTER XXII. George! George! 167 CHAPTER XXIII. A Proof? 178 CHAPTER XXIV. The Air and the Lungs 184 CHAPTER XXV. Oxygen 190 CHAPTER XXVI. Why Water Puts out Fire 200 CHAPTER XXVII. Paul or George? 214 CHAPTER XXVIII. My Father 222 [Illustration] IN SEARCH OF A SON. CHAPTER I. THE DESPATCH. In the great silence of the fields a far-off clock struck seven. The sun, an August sun, had been up for some time, lighting up and warming the left wing of the old French château. The tall old chestnut-trees of the park threw the greater part of the right wing into the shade, and in this pleasant shade was placed a bench of green wood, chairs, and a stone table. The door of the château opened, and a gentleman lightly descended the threshold. He was in his slippers and dressing-robe, and under the dressing-robe you could see his night-gown. After having thrown a satisfied look upon the beauty of nature, he approached the green seat, and seated himself before the stone table. An old servant came up and said,-- "What will you take this morning, sir?" And as the gentleman, who did not seem to be hungry, was thinking what he wanted, the servant added,-- "Coffee, soup, tea?" "No," said the gentleman; "give me a little vermouth and seltzer water." The servant retired, and soon returned with a tray containing the order. The gentleman poured out a little vermouth and seltzer water, then rolled a cigarette, lighted it, and, leaning back upon the rounded seat of the green bench, looked with pleasure at the lovely scene around him. On the left, in a small lake framed in the green lawn, was reflected one wing of the old château, as in a mirror. The bricks, whose colors were lighted up by the sun, seemed to be burning in the midst of the water. The large lawn began at the end of a gravelled walk, and seemed to be without limit, for the park merged into cultivated ground, and verdant hills rose over hills. There was not a cloud in the sky. The gentleman, after gazing for some minutes around him, got up and opened the door of the château. He called out, "Peter!" in a subdued voice, fearing, no doubt, to waken some sleeper. The servant ran out at once. "Well, Peter," said the gentleman, "have the papers come?" "No, sir; they have not yet come. That surprises me. If you wish, sir, I will go and meet the postman." And Peter was soon lost to sight in a little shady alley which descended into the high-road. In a few moments he reappeared, followed by a man. "Sir," said he, "I did not meet the letter-carrier; but here is a man with a telegraphic despatch." The man advanced, and, feeling in a bag suspended at his side, he said,-- "Monsieur Dalize, I believe?" "Yes, my friend." "Well, here is a telegram for you which arrived at Sens last night." "A telegram?" said Monsieur Dalize, knitting his brows, his eyes showing that he was slightly surprised, and almost displeased, as if he had learned that unexpected news was more often bad news than good. Nevertheless, he took the paper, unfolded it, and looked at once at the signature. "Ah, from Roger," he said to himself. And then he began to read the few lines of the telegram. As he read, his face brightened, surprise followed uneasiness, and then a great joy took the place of discontent. He said to the man,-- "You can carry back an answer, can you not?" "Yes, sir." "Well, Peter, bring me pen and ink at once." Peter brought pen, ink, and paper, and Monsieur Dalize wrote his telegram. He gave it to the man, and, feeling through his pockets, pulled out a louis. "Here, my good fellow," said he: "that will pay for the telegram and will pay you for your trouble." The man looked at the coin in the hollow of his hand in an embarrassed way, fearing that he had not exactly understood. "Come, now,--run," said Monsieur Dalize; "good news such as you have brought me cannot be paid for too dearly; only hurry." "Ah, yes, sir, I will hurry," said the man; "and thank you very much, thank you very much." And, in leaving, he said to himself, as he squeezed the money in his hand,-- "I should be very glad to carry to him every day good news at such a price as that." When he was alone, Monsieur Dalize reread the welcome despatch. Then he turned around, and looked towards a window on the second floor of the château, whose blinds were not yet opened. From this window his looks travelled back to the telegram, which seemed to rejoice his heart and to give him cause for thought. He was disturbed in his reverie by the noise of two blinds opening against the wall. He rose hastily, and could not withhold the exclamation,-- "At last!" "Oh, my friend," said the voice of a lady, in good-natured tones. "Are you reproaching me for waking up too late?" "It is no reproach at all, my dear wife," said Monsieur Dalize, "as you were not well yesterday evening." "Ah, but this morning I am entirely well," said Madame Dalize, resting her elbows on the sill of the window. "So much the better," cried Mr. Dalize, joyfully, "and again so much the better." "What light-heartedness!" said Madame Dalize, smiling. "That is because I am happy, do you know, very happy." "And the cause of this joy?" "It all lies in this little bit of paper," answered Monsieur Dalize, pointing to the telegram towards the window. "And what does this paper say?" "It says,--now listen,--it says that my old friend, my best friend, has returned to France, and that in a few hours he will be here with us." Madame Dalize was silent for an instant, then, suddenly remembering, she said,-- "Roger,--are you speaking of Roger?" "The same." "Ah, my friend," said Madame Dalize, "now I understand the joy you expressed." Then she added, as she closed the window, "I will dress myself and be down in a moment." Hardly had the window of Madame Dalize's room closed than a little girl of some ten years, with a bright and pretty face surrounded by black curly hair, came in sight from behind the château. As she caught sight of Monsieur Dalize, she ran towards him. "Good-morning, papa," she said, throwing herself into his open arms. "Good-morning, my child," said Monsieur Dalize, taking the little girl upon his knees and kissing her over and over again. "Ah, papa," said the child, "you seem very happy this morning." "And you have noticed that too, Miette?" "Why, of course, papa; any one can see that in your face." "Well, I am very happy." Miss Mariette Dalize, who was familiarly called Miette, for short, looked at her father without saying anything, awaiting an explanation. Monsieur Dalize understood her silence. "You want to know what it is that makes me so happy?" "Yes, papa." "Well, then, it is because I am going to-day to see one of my friends,--my oldest friend, my most faithful friend,--whom I have not seen for ten long years." [Illustration] Monsieur Dalize stopped for a moment. "Indeed," he continued, "you cannot understand what I feel, my dear little Miette." "And why not, papa?" "Because you do not know the man of whom I speak." Miette looked at her father, and said, in a serious tone,-- "You say that I don't know your best friend. Come! is it not Monsieur Roger?" It was now the father's turn to look at his child, and, with pleased surprise, he said,-- "What? You know?" "Why, papa, I have so often heard you talk to mamma of your friend Roger that I could not be mistaken." "That is true; you are right." "Then," continued Miss Miette, "it is Mr. Roger who is going to arrive here?" "It is he," said Monsieur Dalize, joyously. [Illustration] But Miss Miette did not share her father's joy. She was silent for a moment, as if seeking to remember something very important, then she lowered her eyes, and murmured, sadly,-- "The poor gentleman." [Illustration] CHAPTER II. TWO FRIENDS. The château of Sainte-Gemme, which was some miles from the village of Sens, had belonged to Monsieur Dalize for some years. It was in this old château, which had often been restored, but which still preserved its dignified appearance, that Monsieur Dalize and his family had come to pass the summer. Monsieur Dalize had become the owner of the property of Sainte-Gemme on his retirement from business. He came out at the beginning of every May, and did not return to Paris until November. During August and September the family was complete, for then it included Albert Dalize, who was on vacation from college. With his wife and his children, Albert and Mariette, Monsieur Dalize was happy, but sometimes there was a cloud upon this happiness. The absence of a friend with whom Monsieur Dalize had been brought up, and the terrible sorrows which this friend had experienced, cast an occasional gloom over the heart of the owner of Sainte-Gemme. This friend was called Roger La Morlière. In the Dalize family he was called simply Roger. He was a distinguished chemist. At the beginning of his life he had been employed by a manufacturer of chemicals in Saint-Denis, and the close neighborhood to Paris enabled him frequently to see his friend Dalize, who had succeeded his father in a banking-house. Later, some flattering offers had drawn him off to Northern France, to the town of Lille. In this city Roger had found a charming young girl, whom he loved and whose hand he asked in marriage. Monsieur Dalize was one of the witnesses to this marriage, which seemed to begin most happily, although neither party was wealthy. Monsieur Dalize had already been married at this time, and husband and wife had gone to Lille to be present at the union of their friend Roger. Then a terrible catastrophe had occurred. Roger had left France and gone to America. Ten years had now passed. The two friends wrote each other frequently. Monsieur Dalize's letters were full of kindly counsels, of encouragement, of consolation. Roger's, though they were affectionate, showed that he was tired of life, that his heart was in despair. Still, Monsieur Dalize, in receiving the telegram which announced the return of this well-beloved friend, had only thought of the joy of seeing him again. The idea that this friend, whom he had known once so happy, would return to him broken by grief had not at first presented itself to his mind. Now he began to reflect. An overwhelming sorrow had fallen upon the man, and for ten years he had shrouded himself in the remembrance of this sorrow. What great changes must he have gone through! how different he would look from the Roger he had known! Monsieur Dalize thought over these things, full of anxiety, his eyes fixed upon the shaded alley in front of him. Miette had softly slipped down from her father's knees, and, seating herself by his side upon the bench, she remained silent, knowing that she had better say nothing at such a time. Light steps crunched the gravel, and Madame Dalize approached. Miss Miette had seen her mother coming, but Monsieur Dalize had seen nothing and heard nothing. In great astonishment Madame Dalize asked, addressing herself rather to her daughter than to her husband,-- "What is the matter?" Miss Miette made a slight motion, as if to say that she had better not answer; but this time Monsieur Dalize had heard. He lifted sad eyes to his wife's face. [Illustration] "Now, where has all the joy of the morning fled, my friend?" asked Madame Dalize. "And why this sudden sadness?" "Because this child"--and Monsieur Dalize passed his hand through his daughter's thick curls--"has reminded me of the sorrows of Roger." "Miette?" demanded Madame Dalize. "What has she said to you?" "She simply said, when I spoke to her of Roger, 'The poor gentleman.' And she was right,--the poor gentleman, poor Roger." "Undoubtedly," answered Madame Dalize; "but ten years have passed since that terrible day, and time heals many wounds." "That is true; but I know Roger, and I know that he has forgotten nothing." "Of course, forgetfulness would not be easy to him over there, in that long, solitary exile; but once he has returned here to us, near his family, his wounds will have a chance to heal; and, in any case," added Madame Dalize, taking her husband's hand, "he will have at hand two doctors who are profoundly devoted." "Yes, my dear wife, you are right; and if he can be cured, we will know how to cure him." Madame Dalize took the telegram from her husband's hands, and read this: "=Monsieur Dalize=, Château de Sainte-Gemme, at Sens: "=Friend=,--I am on my way home. Learn at Paris that you are at Sainte-Gemme. May I come there at once?" "=Roger.=" "And you answered him?" "I answered, 'We are awaiting you with the utmost impatience. Take the first train.'" "Will that first train be the eleven-o'clock train?" "No; I think that Roger will not be able to take the express. The man with the telegram will not have reached Sens soon enough, even if he hurried, as he promised he would. Then, the time taken to send the despatch, to receive it in Paris, and to take it to Roger's address would make it more than eleven. So our friend will have to take the next train; and you cannot count upon his being here before five o'clock." "Oh!" cried Miss Miette, in a disappointed tone. "What is the matter, my child?" asked Monsieur Dalize. "Why, I think----" "What do you think?" "Well, papa," Miss Miette at last said, "I think that the railroads and the telegrams are far too slow." Monsieur Dalize could not suppress a smile at hearing this exclamation. He turned to his wife, and said,-- "See, how hurried is this younger generation. They think that steam and electricity are too slow." And, turning around to his daughter, he continued,-- "What would you like to have?" "Why," answered the girl, "I would like to have Monsieur Roger here at once." Her wish was to be fulfilled sooner than she herself could foresee. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER III. MONSIEUR ROGER. Monsieur and Madame Dalize went back into the château, and soon reappeared in walking-costumes. Miette, who was playing in the shadows of the great chestnut-trees, looked up in surprise. "You are going out walking without me?" said she. "No, my child," answered Madame Dalize, "we are not going out to take a walk at all; but we have to go and make our excuses to Monsieur and Madame Sylvestre at the farm, because we shall not be able to dine with them this evening, as we had agreed." "Take me with you," said Miette. "No; the road is too long and too fatiguing for your little legs." "Are you going on foot?" "Certainly," said Monsieur Dalize. "We must keep the horses fresh to send them down to meet Roger at the station." Miss Miette could not help respecting so good a reason, and she resisted no longer. When left alone, she began seriously to wonder what she should do during the absence of her parents, which would certainly last over an hour. An idea came to her. She went into the château, passed into the drawing-room, took down a large album of photographs which was on the table, and carried it into her room. She did not have to search long. On the first page was the portrait of her mother, on the next was that of herself, Miette, and that of her brother Albert. The third page contained two portraits of men. One of these portraits was that of her father, the other was evidently the one that she was in search of, for she looked at it attentively. "It was a long time ago," she said to herself, "that this photograph was made,--ten years ago; but I am sure that I shall recognize Monsieur Roger all the same when he returns." At this very moment Miette heard the sound of a carriage some distance off. Surely the carriage was driving through the park. She listened with all her ears. Soon the gravelled road leading up to the château was crunched under the wheels of the carriage. Miette then saw an old-fashioned cab, which evidently had been hired at some hotel in Sens. The cab stopped before the threshold. Miette could not see so far from her window. She left the album upon her table, and ran down-stairs, full of curiosity. In the vestibule she met old Peter, and asked him who it was. "It is a gentleman whom I don't know," said Peter. "Where is he?" "I asked him into the parlor." Miette approached lightly on tiptoe to the door of the parlor, which was open, wishing to see without being seen. She expected she would find in this visitor some country neighbor. The gentleman was standing, looking out of the glass windows. From where she was Miette could see his profile. She made a gesture, as if to say, "I don't know him;" and she was going to withdraw as slowly as possible, with her curiosity unsatisfied, when the gentleman turned around. Miette now saw him directly in front of her in the full light. His beard and his hair were gray, his forehead was lightly wrinkled on the temples, a sombre expression saddened his features. His dress was elegant. He walked a few steps in the parlor, coming towards the door, but he had not yet seen Miette. In her great surprise she had quickly drawn herself back, but she still followed the visitor with her eyes. At first she had doubted now she was sure; she could not be mistaken. When the gentleman had reached the middle of the parlor, Miette could contain herself no longer. She showed herself in the doorway and advanced towards the visitor. He stopped, surprised at this pretty apparition. Miette came up to him and looked him in the eyes. Then, entirely convinced, holding out her arms towards the visitor, she said, softly,-- "Monsieur Roger!" The gentleman in his turn looked with surprise at the pretty little girl who had saluted him by name. He cast a glance towards the door, and, seeing that she was alone, more surprised than ever, he looked at her long and silently. Miette, abashed by this scrutiny, drew back a little, and said, with hesitation,-- "Tell me: you are surely Monsieur Roger?" "Yes, I am indeed Monsieur Roger," said the visitor, at last, in a voice full of emotion. And, with a kindly smile, he added, "How did you come to recognize me, Miss Miette?" Hearing her own name pronounced in this unexpected manner, Miss Miette was struck dumb with astonishment. At the end of a minute, she stammered,-- "Why, sir, you know me, then, also?" "Yes, my child; I have known and loved you for a long time." And Monsieur Roger caught Miette up in his arms and kissed her tenderly. "Yes," he continued, "I know you, my dear child. Your father has often spoken of you in his letters; and has he not sent me also several of your photographs when I asked for them?" "Why, that is funny!" cried Miette. But she suddenly felt that the word was not dignified enough. "That is very strange," she said: "for I, too, recognized you from your photograph; and it was only five minutes ago, at the very moment when you arrived, that I was looking at it, up-stairs in my room. Shall I go up and find the album?" Monsieur Roger held her back. "No, my child," said he, "remain here by me, and tell me something about your father and your mother." Miette looked up at the clock. "Papa and mamma may return at any moment. They will talk to you themselves a great deal better than I can. All that I can tell you is that they are going to be very, very glad; but they did not expect you until the evening. How does it happen that you are here already?" "Because I took the first train,--the 6.30." "But your telegram?" "Yes, I sent a despatch last night on arriving at Paris, but I did not have the patience to wait for an answer. I departed, hoping they would receive me anyway with pleasure; and I already see that I was not mistaken." "No, Monsieur Roger," answered Miette, "you were not mistaken. You are going to be very happy here, very happy. There, now! I see papa and mamma returning." The door of the vestibule had just been opened. They could see Peter exchanging some words with his master and mistress. Then hurried steps were heard, and in a moment Monsieur Dalize was in the arms of his friend Roger. Miss Miette, who had taken her mamma by the arm, obliged her to bend down, and said in her ear,-- "I love him already, our friend Roger." [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER IV. MONSIEUR ROGER'S STORY. The evening had come, the evening of that happy day when the two friends, after ten years of absence, had come together again. Monsieur Roger had known from the first that he would find loving and faithful hearts just as he had left them. They were all sitting, after dinner, in a large vestibule, whose windows, this beautiful evening in autumn, opened out upon the sleeping park. For some moments the conversation had fallen into an embarrassing silence. Every one looked at Monsieur Roger. They thought that he might speak, that he might recount the terrible event which had broken his life; but they did not like to ask him anything about it. Monsieur Roger was looking at the star-sprinkled sky, and seemed to be dreaming, but in his deeper self he had guessed the thoughts of his friends and understood he ought to speak. He passed his hand over his forehead to chase away a painful impression, and with a resolute, but low and soft voice, he said,-- "I see, my friends, my dear friends, I see that you expect from me the story of my sorrow." Monsieur and Madame Dalize made a sight gesture of negation. "Yes," continued Monsieur Roger, "I know very well that you do not wish it through idle curiosity, that you fear to reawaken my griefs; but to whom can I tell my story, if not to you? I owe it to you as a sacred debt, and, if I held my tongue, it seems to me a dark spot would come upon our friendship. You know what a lovely and charming wife I married. Her only fault--a fault only in the eyes of the world--was that she was poor. I had the same fault. When my son George came into the world I suddenly was filled with new ambitions. I wished, both for his sake and for his mother's, to amass wealth, and I worked feverishly and continuously in my laboratory. I had a problem before me, and at last I succeeded in solving it. I had discovered a new process for treating silver ores. Fear nothing: I am not going to enter into technical details; but it is necessary that I should explain to you the reason which made me"--here Monsieur paused, and then continued, with profound sadness--"which made _us_ go to America. Silver ores in most of the mines of North America offer very complex combinations in the sulphur, bromide, chloride of lime, and iodine, which I found mixed up with the precious metal,--that is to say, with the silver. It is necessary to free the silver from all these various substances. Now, the known processes had not succeeded in freeing the silver in all its purity. There was always a certain quantity of the silver which remained alloyed with foreign matters, and that much silver was consequently lost. The processes which I had discovered made it possible to obtain the entire quantity of silver contained in the ore. Not a fraction of the precious metal escaped. An English company owning some silver-mines in Texas heard of my discovery, and made me an offer. I was to go to Texas for ten years. The enterprise was to be at my own risk, but they would give me ten per cent on all the ore that I saved. I felt certain to succeed. My wife, full of faith in me, urged me to accept. What were we risking? A modest situation in a chemical laboratory, which I should always be able to obtain again. Over there on the other side of the Atlantic there were millions in prospect; and if I did not succeed from the beginning, my wife, who drew and painted better than an amateur,--as well as most painters, indeed,--and who had excellent letters of recommendation, would give drawing-lessons in New Orleans, where the company had its head-quarters. We decided to go; but first we came to Paris. I wished to say good-by to you and to show you my son, my poor little George, of whom I was so proud, and whom you did not know. He was then two and one-half years old. My decision had been taken so suddenly that I could not announce it to you. When we arrived in Paris, we learned that you were in Nice. I wrote to you,--don't you remember?" said Monsieur Roger, turning to Monsieur Dalize. [Illustration] "Yes, my friend; I have carefully kept that letter of farewell, full of hope and of enthusiasm." "We were going to embark from Liverpool on the steamer which would go directly to New Orleans. The steamer was called the Britannic." Monsieur Roger stopped speaking, full of emotion at this recollection. At the end of a long silence he again took up the thread of his story. "The first days of the journey we had had bad weather. And I had passed them almost entirely in our state-room with my poor wife and my little boy, who were very sea-sick. On the tenth day (it was the 14th of December) the weather cleared up, and, notwithstanding a brisk wind from the north-east, we were on the deck after dinner. The night had come; the stars were already out, though every now and then hidden under clouds high up in the sky, which fled quickly out of sight. We were in the archipelago of Bahama, not far from Florida. "'One day more and we shall be in port,' I said to my wife and to George, pointing in the direction of New Orleans. "My wife, full of hope,--too full, alas! poor girl,--said to me, with a smile, as she pointed to George,-- "'And this fortune that we have come so far to find, but which we shall conquer without doubt, this fortune will all be for this little gentleman.' "George, whom I had just taken upon my knees, guessed that we were speaking of him, and he threw his little arms around my neck and touched my face with his lips." [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER V. FIRE AT SEA. "At this moment, a moment that I shall never forget, I heard a sudden crackling noise, strange and unexpected, coming from a point seemingly close to me. I turned around and saw nothing. Nevertheless, I still heard that sound in my ears. It was a strange sound. One might have thought that an immense punch had been lighted in the interior of the ship, and that the liquid, stirred up by invisible hands, was tossed up and down, hissing and crackling. The quick movement of my head had arrested George in the midst of his caresses. Now he looked up at me with astonished eyes. The uneasiness which I felt in spite of the absence of any cause must have appeared upon my face, for my wife, standing beside me, leaned over to ask, in a subdued voice,-- "'What is the matter?' "I think I answered, 'Nothing.' But my mind had dwelt upon an awful danger,--that danger of which the most hardened seamen speak with a beating heart,--fire at sea. Alas! my fears were to be realized. From one of the hatches there suddenly leaped up a tongue of flame. At the same instant we heard the awful cry, 'Fire!' To add to our distress, the wind had increased, and had become so violent that it fanned the flames with terrible rapidity, and had enveloped the state-rooms in the rear, whence the passengers were running, trembling and crying. In a few minutes the back of the ship was all on fire. My wife had snatched George from my arms, and held him closely against her breast, ready to save him or die with him. The captain, in the midst of the panic of the passengers, gave his orders. The boats were being lowered into the sea,--those at least which remained, for two had already been attacked by the fire. Accident threw the captain between me and my wife at the very moment when he was crying out to his men to allow none but the women and children in the boats. He recognized me. I had been introduced to him by a common friend, and he said, in a voice choked with emotion, pointing to my wife and my son,-- "'Embrace them!' [Illustration] "Then he tore them both from my arms and pushed and carried them to the last boat, which was already too full. Night had come. With the rise of the wind, clouds had collected, obscuring the sky. By the light of the fire I saw for the last time--yes, for the last time--my wife and my child in the boat, shaken by an angry sea. Both were looking towards me. Did they see me also for the last time? And in my agony I cried out, 'George! George!' with a voice so loud that my son must surely have heard that last cry. Yes, he must have heard it. I stood rooted to the spot, looking without seeing anything, stupefied by this hopeless sorrow, not even feeling the intense heat of the flames, which were coming towards me. But the captain saw me. He ran towards me, drew me violently back, and threw me in the midst of the men, who were beginning a determined struggle against the fire which threatened to devour them. The instinct of life, the hope to see again my loved ones, gave me courage. I did as the others. Some of the passengers applied themselves to the chain; the pumps set in motion threw masses of water into the fire; but it seemed impossible to combat it, for it was alcohol which was burning. They had been obliged to repack part of the hold, where there were a number of demijohns of alcohol which the bad weather the first days had displaced. During the work one of these vast stone bottles had fallen and broken. As ill luck would have it, the alcohol descended in a rain upon a lamp in the story below, and the alcohol had taken fire. So I had not been mistaken when the first sound had made me think of the crackling of a punch. We worked with an energy which can only be found in moments of this sort. The captain inspired us with confidence. At one time we had hope. The flames had slackened, or at least we supposed so; but in fact they had only gone another way, and reached the powder-magazine. A violent explosion succeeded, and one of the masts was hurled into the sea. Were we lost? No; for the engineer had had a sudden inspiration. He had cut the pipes, and immediately directed upon the flames torrents of steam from the engine. A curtain of vapor lifted itself up between us and the fire, a curtain which the flames could not penetrate. Then the pumps worked still more effectually. We were saved." [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. MISS MIETTE'S FORTUNE. "The rudder no longer guided us. What a night we passed! We made a roll-call: how many were wanting? and the boats which contained our wives, our children,--had those boats found a refuge? had they reached land anywhere? The ocean was still rough, and, notwithstanding the captain's words of hope, I was in despair,--anticipating the sorrow that was to overwhelm me. Every one remained on deck. At daybreak a new feeling of sadness seized us at the sight of our steamer, deformed and blackened by the fire. The deck for more than forty yards was nothing but a vast hole, at the bottom of which were lying, pell-mell, half-consumed planks and beams, windlasses blackened by fire, bits of wood, and formless masses of metal over which the tongues of flame had passed. Notwithstanding all this the steamer was slowly put in motion. We were able to reach Havana. There we hoped we might hear some news. And we did hear news,--but what news! A sailing-vessel had found on the morrow of the catastrophe a capsized boat on the coast of the island of Andros, where the boat had evidently been directed. A sailor who had tied himself to the boat, and whom they at first thought dead, was recalled to life, and told his story of the fire. From Havana, where the sailing-vessel had stopped, a rescuing-party was at once sent out. They found and brought back with them the débris of boats broken against the rocks and also many dead bodies. These were all laid out in a large room, where the remaining passengers of the Britannic were invited. We had to count the dead; we had to identify them. With what agony, with what cruel heart-beats I entered the room. I closed my eyes. I tried to persuade myself that I would not find there the beings that were so dear to me. I wished to believe that they had been saved, my dear ones, while my other companions in misfortune were all crying and sobbing. At last I opened my eyes, and, the strength of my vision being suddenly increased to a wonderful degree, I saw that in this long line of bodies there was no child. That was my first thought. May my poor wife forgive me! She also was not there; but it was not long before she came. That very evening a rescuing-party brought back her corpse with the latest found." Monsieur Roger ceased speaking. He looked at his friends, Monsieur and Madame Dalize, who were silently weeping; then his eyes travelled to Miette. She was not crying; her look, sad but astonished, interested, questioned Monsieur Roger. He thought, "She cannot understand sorrow, this little girl, who has not had any trials." And the eyes of Miette seemed to answer, "But George? George? did they not find him?" At last Monsieur Roger understood this thought in the mind of Miette without any necessity on her part to express it by her lips, and, as if he were answering to a verbal question, he said, shaking his head,-- "No, they never found him." Miette expected this answer; then she too began to weep. Monsieur Dalize repeated the last words of Monsieur Roger. "They did not find him! I do not dare to ask you, my dear friend, if you preserve any hope." "Yes, I hope. I forced myself to hope for a long time. But the ocean kept my child in the same way that it buried in its depths many other victims of this catastrophe, for it was that very hope that made me remain in America. I might have returned to France and given up my engagements; but there I was closer to news, if there were any; and, besides, in work, in hard labor to which I intended to submit my body, I expected to find, if not forgetfulness, at least that weariness which dampens the spirit. I remained ten years in Texas, and I returned to-day without ever having forgotten that terrible night." [Illustration] There was a silence. Then Monsieur Dalize, wishing to create a diversion, asked,-- "How does it happen that you did not announce to me beforehand your return. It was not until I received your telegram this morning that we learned this news which made us so happy. I had no reason to expect that your arrival would be so sudden. Did you not say that you were to remain another six months, and perhaps a year, in Texas?" "Yes; and I did then think that I should be forced to prolong my stay for some months. My contract was ended, my work was done. I was free, but the mining-company wished to retain me. They wanted me to sign a new contract, and to this end they invented all sorts of pretexts to keep me where I was. As I did not wish to go to law against the people through whom I had made my fortune, I determined to wait, hoping that my patience would tire them out; and that, in fact, is what happened. The company bowed before my decision. This good news reached me on the eve of the departure of a steamer. I did not hesitate for a moment; I at once took ship. I might indeed have given you notice on the way, but I wished to reserve to myself the happiness of surprising you. It was not until I reached Paris that I decided to send you a despatch; and even then I did not have the strength to await your reply." "Dear Roger!" said Monsieur Dalize. "And then your process, your discovery, succeeded entirely?" "Yes, I have made a fortune,--a large fortune. I have told you that the enterprise was at my risk, but that the company would give me ten per cent. on all the ore that I would succeed in saving. Now, the mines of Texas used to produce four million dollars' worth a year. Thanks to my process, they produce nearly a million more. In ten years you can well see what was my portion." "Splendid!" said Monsieur Dalize; "it represents a sum of----" Madame Dalize interrupted her husband. "Miette," said she, "cannot you do that little sum for us, my child?" Miette wiped her eyes and ceased crying. Her mother's desire had been reached. The little girl took a pencil, and, after making her mother repeat the question to her, put down some figures upon a sheet of paper. After a moment she said, not without hesitation, for the sum appeared to her enormous,-- "Why! it is a million dollars that Monsieur Roger has made!" "Exactly," said Monsieur Roger; "and, my dear child, you have, without knowing it, calculated pretty closely the fortune which you will receive from me as your wedding portion." Monsieur and Madame Dalize looked up with astonishment. Miette gazed at Monsieur Roger without understanding. "My dear friends," said Roger, turning to Monsieur and Madame Dalize, "you will not refuse me the pleasure of giving my fortune to Miss Miette. I have no one else in the world; and does not Mariette represent both of you? Where would my money be better placed?" And turning towards Miss Miette, he said to her,-- "Yes, my child, that million will be yours on your marriage." Miette looked from her mother to her father, not knowing whether she ought to accept, and seriously embarrassed. With a sweet smile, Monsieur Roger added,-- "And so, you see, you will be able to choose a husband that you like." Then, quietly and without hesitation, Miss Miette said,-- "It will be Paul Solange." [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VII. VACATION. Monsieur and Madame Dalize could not help smiling in listening to this frank declaration of their daughter: "It will be Paul Solange." Monsieur Roger smiled in his turn, and said,-- "What! has Miss Miette already made her choice?" "It is an amusing bit of childishness," answered Madame Dalize, "as you see. But, really, Miss Miette, although she teases him often, has a very kindly feeling for our friend Paul Solange." "And who is this happy little mortal?" asked Monsieur Roger. "A friend of Albert's," said Monsieur Dalize. "Albert, your son?" said Monsieur Roger, to whom this name and this word were always painful. Then he added,-- "I should like very much to see him, your son." "You shall soon see him, my dear Roger," answered Monsieur Dalize. "Vacation begins to-morrow morning, and to-morrow evening Albert will be at Sainte-Gemme." "With Paul?" asked Miss Miette. "Why, certainly," said Madame Dalize, laughing; "with your friend Paul Solange." Monsieur Roger asked,-- "How old is Albert at present?" "In his thirteenth year," said Monsieur Dalize. Monsieur Roger remained silent. He was thinking that his little George, if he had lived, would also be big now, and, like the son of Monsieur Dalize, would be in his thirteenth year. Next day the horses were harnessed, and all four went down to the station to meet the five-o'clock train. When Albert and Paul jumped out from the train, and had kissed Monsieur and Madame Dalize and Miss Miette, they looked with some surprise at Monsieur Roger, whom they did not know. "Albert," said Monsieur Dalize, showing Monsieur Roger to his son, "why don't you salute our friend Roger?" "Is this Monsieur Roger?" cried Albert, and the tone of his voice showed that his father had taught him to know and to love the man who now, with his eyes full of tears, was pressing him to his heart. "And you too, Paul, don't you want to embrace our friend?" said Monsieur Dalize. [Illustration] "Yes, sir," answered Paul Solange, with a sad and respectful gravity, which struck Monsieur Roger and at once called up his affection. On the way, Monsieur Roger, who was looking with emotion upon the two young people, but whose eyes were particularly fixed upon Paul, said, in a low voice, to Monsieur Dalize,-- "They are charming children." "And it is especially Paul whom you think charming; acknowledge it," answered Monsieur Dalize, in the same tone. "Why should Paul please me more than Albert?" asked Monsieur Roger. "Ah, my poor friend," replied Monsieur Dalize, "because the father of Albert is here and the father of Paul is far away." Monsieur Dalize was right. Monsieur Roger, without wishing it, had felt his sympathies attracted more strongly to this child, who was, for the time being, fatherless. He bent over to Monsieur Dalize, and asked,-- "Where is Paul's father?" "In Martinique, where he does a big business in sugar-cane and coffee. Monsieur Solange was born in France, and he decided that his son should come here to study." "I can understand that," replied Monsieur Roger; "but what a sorrow this exile must cause the mother of this child!" "Paul has no mother: she died several years ago." "Poor boy!" murmured Monsieur Roger, and his growing friendship became all the stronger. That evening, after dinner, when coffee was being served, Miss Miette, who was in a very good humor, was seized with the desire to tease her little friend Paul. "Say, Paul," she asked, from one end of the table to the other, "how many prizes did you take this year?" Paul, knowing that an attack was coming, began to smile, and answered, good-naturedly,-- "You know very well, you naughty girl. You have already asked me, and I have told you." "Ah, that is true," said Miette, with affected disdain: "you took one prize,--one poor little prize,--bah!" Then, after a moment, she continued,-- "That is not like my brother: he took several prizes, _he_ did,--a prize for Latin, a prize for history, a prize for mathematics, a prize for physical science, and a prize for chemistry. Well, well! and you,--you only took one prize; and that is the same one you took last year!" "Yes," said Paul, without minding his friend's teasing; "but last year I took only the second prize, and this year I took the first." "You have made some progress," said Miss Miette, sententiously. Monsieur Roger had been interested in the dialogue. "May I ask what prize Master Paul Solange has obtained?" "A poor little first prize for drawing only," answered Miette. "Ah, you love drawing?" said Monsieur Roger, looking at Paul. But it was Miette who answered: "He loves nothing else." Monsieur Dalize now, in his turn, took up the conversation, and said,-- "The truth is that our friend Paul has a passion for drawing. History and Latin please him a little, but for chemistry and the physical sciences he has no taste at all." Monsieur Roger smiled. "You are wrong," replied Monsieur Dalize, "to excuse by your smile Paul's indifference to the sciences.--And as to you, Paul, you would do well to take as your example Monsieur Roger, who would not have his fortune if he had not known chemistry and the physical sciences. In our day the sciences are indispensable." Miss Miette, who had shoved herself a little away from the table, pouting slightly, heard these words, and came to the defence of the one whom she had begun by attacking. She opened a book full of pictures, and advanced with it to her father. "Now, papa," she said, with a look of malice in her eyes, "did the gentleman who made that drawing have to know anything about chemistry or the physical sciences?" [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VIII. A DRAWING LESSON. For a moment Monsieur Dalize was disconcerted, and knew not what to say in answer. Happily, Monsieur Roger came to his aid. He took the book from Miette's hands, looked at the engraving, and said, quietly,-- "Why, certainly, my dear young friend, the gentleman who made that drawing ought to know something about chemistry and physical science." "How so?" said Miette, astonished. "Why, if he did not know the laws of physical science and of chemistry, he has, none the less, and perhaps even without knowing it himself, availed himself of the results of chemistry and physical science." Miette took the book back again, looked at the drawing with care, and said,-- "Still, there are not in this drawing instruments or apparatus, or machines such as I have seen in my brother's books." "But," answered Monsieur Roger, smiling, "it is not necessary that you should see instruments and apparatus and machines, as you say, to be in the presence of physical phenomena; and I assure you, my dear child, that this drawing which is under our eyes is connected with chemistry and physical science." Miette now looked up at Monsieur Roger to see if he was not making fun of her. Monsieur Roger translated this dumb interrogation, and said,-- "Come, now! what does this drawing represent? Tell me yourself." "Why, it represents two peasants,--a man and a woman,--who have returned home wet in the storm, and who are warming and drying themselves before the fire." "It is, in fact, exactly that." "Very well, sir?" asked Miette. And in this concise answer she meant to say, "In all that, what do you see that is connected with chemistry or physical science?" "Very well," continued Monsieur Roger; "do you see this light mist, this vapor, which is rising from the cloak that the peasant is drying before the fire?" "Yes." "Well, that is physical science," said Monsieur Roger. [Illustration] "How do you mean?" asked Miette. "I will explain in a moment. Let us continue to examine the picture. Do you see that a portion of the wood is reduced to ashes?" "Yes." "Do you also remark the flame and the smoke which are rising up the chimney?" "Yes." "That is chemistry." "Ah!" said Miss Miette, at a loss for words. Every one was listening to Monsieur Roger, some of them interested, the others amused. Miette glanced over at her friend Paul. "What do you think of that?" she asked. Paul did not care to reply. Albert wished to speak, but he stopped at a gesture from his father. Monsieur Dalize knew that the real interest of this scene lay with Monsieur Roger, the scientist, who was already loved by all this little world. Miette, as nobody else answered, returned to Monsieur Roger. "But why," she asked, "is that physical science? Why is it chemistry?" "Because it is physical science and chemistry," said Monsieur Roger, simply. "Oh, but you have other reasons to give us!" said Madame Dalize, who understood what Monsieur Roger was thinking of. "Yes," added Miette. And even Paul, with unusual curiosity, nodded his head affirmatively. "The reasons will be very long to explain, and would bore you," said Monsieur Dalize, certain that he would in this way provoke a protest. The protest, in fact, came. Monsieur Roger was obliged to speak. "Well," said he, still addressing himself to Miss Miette, "this drawing is concerned with physical science, because the peasant, in placing his cloak before the heat of the fire, causes the phenomenon of evaporation to take place. The vapor which escapes from the damp cloth is water, is nothing but water, and will always be water under a different form. It is water modified, and modified for a moment, because this vapor, coming against the cold wall or other cold objects, will condense. That is to say, it will become again liquid water,--water similar to that which it was a moment ago; and that is a physical phenomenon,--for physical science aims to study the modifications which alter the form, the color, the appearance of bodies, but only their temporary modifications, which leave intact all the properties of bodies. Our drawing is concerned with chemistry, because the piece of wood which burns disappears, leaving in its place cinders in the hearth and gases which escape through the chimney. Here there is a complete modification, an absolute change of the piece of wood. Do what you will, you would be unable, by collecting together the cinders and gases, to put together again the log of wood which has been burned; and that is a chemical phenomenon,--for the aim of chemistry is to study the durable and permanent modifications, after which bodies retain none of their original properties. Another example may make more easy this distinction between physical science and chemistry. Suppose that you put into the fire a bar of iron. That bar will expand and become red. Its color, its form, its dimensions will be modified, but it will always remain a bar of iron. That is a physical phenomenon. Instead of this bar of iron, put in the fire a bit of sulphur. It will flame up and burn in disengaging a gas of a peculiar odor, which is called sulphuric acid. This sulphuric-acid gas can be condensed and become a liquid, but it no longer contains the properties of sulphur. It is no longer a piece of sulphur, and can never again become a piece of sulphur. The modification of this body is therefore durable, and therefore permanent. Now, that is a chemical phenomenon." Monsieur Roger stopped for a moment; then, paying no apparent attention to Paul, who, however, was listening far more attentively than one could imagine he would, he looked at Miette, and said,-- "I don't know, my child, if I have explained myself clearly enough; but you must certainly understand that in their case the artist has represented, whether he wished to or not, the physical phenomenon and the chemical phenomenon." "Yes, sir," answered Miette, "I have understood quite well." "Well," said Monsieur Dalize, "since you are so good a teacher, don't you think that you could, during vacation, cause a little chemistry and a little physical science to enter into that little head?" And he pointed to Paul Solange. The latter, notwithstanding the sentiment of respectful sympathy which he felt for Monsieur Roger, and although he had listened with interest to his explanations, could not prevent a gesture of fear, so pronounced that everybody began to laugh. Miette, who wished to console her good friend Paul and obtain his pardon for her teasing, came up to him, and said,-- "Come, console yourself, Paul; I will let you take my portrait a dozen times, as you did last year,--although it is very tiresome to pose for a portrait." [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER IX. THE TOWER OF HEURTEBIZE. Next morning at six o'clock Paul Solange opened the door of the château and stepped out on to the lawn. He held a sketch-book in his hand. He directed his steps along a narrow pathway, shaded by young elms, towards one of the gates of the park. At a turning in the alley he found himself face to face with Monsieur Roger, who was walking slowly and thoughtfully. Paul stopped, and in his surprise could not help saying,-- "Monsieur Roger, already up?" Monsieur answered, smiling,-- "But you also, Master Paul, you are, like me, already up. Are you displeased to meet me?" "Oh, no, sir," Paul hastened to say, blushing a little. "Why should I be displeased at meeting you?" "Then, may I ask you where you are going so early in the morning?" "Over there," said Paul, stretching his hand towards a high wooded hill: "over there to Heurtebize." "And what are you going to do over there?" Paul answered by showing his sketch-book. "Ah, you are going to draw?" "Yes, sir; I am going to draw, to take a sketch of the tower; that old tower which you see on the right side of the hill." "Well, Master Paul, will you be so kind," asked Monsieur Roger, "as to allow me to go with you and explore this old tower?" Paul, on hearing this proposal, which he could not refuse, made an involuntary movement of dismay, exactly similar to that he had made the night before. "Oh, fear nothing," said Monsieur Roger, good-naturedly. "I will not bore you either with physical science nor chemistry. I hope you will accept me, therefore, as your companion on the way, without any apprehensions of that kind of annoyance." "Then, let us go, sir," answered Paul, a little ashamed to have had his thoughts so easily guessed. They took a short cut across the fields, passing wide expanses of blossoming clover; they crossed a road, they skirted fields of wheat and of potatoes. At last they arrived upon the wooded hill of Heurtebize, at the foot of the old tower, which still proudly raised its head above the valleys. "What a lovely landscape!" said Monsieur Roger, when he had got his breath. "The view is beautiful," said Paul, softly; "but it is nothing like the view you get up above there." "Up above?" said Monsieur Roger, without understanding. "Yes, from the summit of the tower." "You have climbed up the tower?" "Several times." "But it is falling into ruins, this poor tower; it has only one fault, that of having existed for two or three hundred years." "It is indeed very old," answered Paul; "it is the last vestige of the old château of Sainte-Gemme, which, it is said, was built in the sixteenth century, or possibly even a century or two earlier; nobody is quite certain as to the date; at all events, the former proprietors several years ago determined to preserve it, and they even commenced some repairs upon it. The interior stairway has been put in part into sufficiently good condition to enable you to use it, if you at the same time call a little bit of gymnastics to your aid, as you will have to do at a few places. And I have used it in this way very often; but please now be good enough to----" [Illustration] Paul stopped, hesitating. "Good enough to what? Tell me." Then Paul Solange added,-- "To say nothing of this to Madame Dalize. That would make her uneasy." "Not only will I say nothing, my dear young friend, but I will join you in the ascent,--for I have the greatest desire to do what you are going to do, and to ascend the tower with you." Paul looked at Monsieur Roger, and said, quickly,-- "But, sir, there is danger." "Bah! as there is none for you, why should there be danger for me?" Somewhat embarrassed, Paul replied,-- "I am young, sir; more active than you, perhaps, and----" "If that is your only reason, my friend, do not disturb yourself. Let us try the ascent." "On one condition, sir." "What is that?" "That I go up first." "Yes, my dear friend, I consent. You shall go first," said Monsieur Roger, who would have himself suggested this if the idea had not come to Paul. Both of them, Monsieur Roger and Paul, had at this moment the same idea of self-sacrifice. Paul said to himself, "If any accident happens, it will happen to me, and not to Monsieur Roger." And Monsieur Roger, sure of his own strength, thought, "If Paul should happen to fall, very likely I may be able to catch him and save him." Luckily, the ascent, though somewhat difficult, was accomplished victoriously, and Monsieur Roger was enabled to recognize that the modified admiration which Paul Solange felt for the landscape, as seen from below, was entirely justified. Paul asked,-- "How high is this tower? A hundred feet?" "Less than that, I think," answered Monsieur Roger. "Still, it will be easy to find out exactly in a moment." "In a moment?" asked Paul. "Yes, in a moment." "Without descending?" "No; we will remain where we are." Paul made a gesture which clearly indicated, "I would like to see that." Monsieur Roger understood. "There is no lack of pieces of stone in this tower; take one," said he to Paul. Paul obeyed. "You will let this stone fall to the earth at the very moment that I tell you to do so." Monsieur Roger drew out his watch and looked carefully at the second-hand. "Now, let go," he said. Paul opened his hand; the stone fell. It could be heard striking the soil at the foot of the tower. Monsieur Roger, who during the fall of the stone had had his eyes fixed upon his watch, said,-- "The tower is not very high." Then he added, after a moment of reflection, "The tower is sixty-two and a half feet in height." Paul looked at Monsieur Roger, thinking that he was laughing at him. Monsieur Roger lifted his eyes to Paul; he looked quite serious. Then Paul said, softly,-- "The tower is sixty feet high?" "Sixty-two and a half feet,--for the odd two and a half feet must not be forgotten in our computation." Paul was silent. Then, seeing that Monsieur Roger was ready to smile, and mistaking the cause of this smile, he said,-- "You are joking, are you not? You cannot know that the tower is really sixty feet high?" "Sixty-two feet and six inches," repeated Monsieur Roger again. "That is exact. Do you want to have it proved to you?" "Oh, yes, sir," said Paul Solange, with real curiosity. "Very well. Go back to the château, and bring me a ball of twine and a yard-measure." "I run," said Paul. "Take care!" cried Monsieur Roger, seeing how quickly Paul was hurrying down the tower. When Paul had safely reached the ground, Monsieur Roger said to himself, with an air of satisfaction,-- "Come, come! we will make something out of that boy yet!" [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER X. PHYSICAL SCIENCE. Paul returned to the tower more quickly than Monsieur Roger had expected. Instead of returning to the château, he had taken the shortest cut, had reached the village, and had procured there the two things wanted. He climbed up the tower and arrived beside Monsieur Roger, holding out the ball of twine and the yard-stick. "You are going to see, you little doubter, that I was not wrong," said Monsieur Roger. He tied a stone to the twine, and let it down outside the tower to the ground. "This length of twine," he said, "represents exactly the height of the tower, does it not?" "Yes, sir," answered Paul. Monsieur Roger made a knot in the twine at the place where it rested on the top of the tower. Then he asked Paul to take the yard-stick which he had brought, and to hold it extended between his two hands. Then, drawing up the twine which hung outside the tower, he measured it yard by yard. Paul counted. When he had reached the number sixty, he could not help bending over to see how much remained of the twine. "Ah, sir," he cried, "I think you have won." "Let us finish our count," said Monsieur Roger, quietly. And Paul counted,-- "Sixty-one, sixty-two,--sixty-two feet----" "And?" "And six inches!" cried Paul. "I have won, as you said, my young friend," cried Monsieur Roger, who enjoyed Paul's surprise. "Now let us cautiously descend and return to the château, where the breakfast-bell will soon ring." The descent was made in safety, and they directed their steps towards Sainte-Gemme. Paul walked beside Monsieur Roger without saying anything. He was deep in thought. [Illustration] Monsieur Roger, understanding what was going on in the brain of his friend, took care not to disturb him. He waited, hoping for an answer. His hope was soon realized. As they reached the park, Paul, who, after thinking a great deal, had failed to solve the difficulty, said, all of a sudden,-- "Monsieur Roger!" "What, my friend?" "How did you measure the tower?" Monsieur Roger looked at Paul, and, affecting a serious air, he said,-- "It is impossible, entirely impossible for me to answer." "Impossible?" cried Paul, in surprise. "Yes, impossible." "Why, please?" "Because in answering I will break the promise that I have made you,--the promise to say nothing about chemistry or physical science." "Ah!" said Paul, becoming silent again. Monsieur Roger glanced at his companion from the corner of his eye, knowing that his curiosity would soon awake again. At the end of the narrow, shady pathway they soon saw the red bricks of the château shining in the sun; but Paul had not yet renewed his question, and Monsieur Roger began to be a little uneasy,--for, if Paul held his tongue, it would show that his curiosity had vanished, and another occasion to revive it would be difficult to find. Luckily, Paul decided to speak at the very moment when they reached the château. "Then," said he, expressing the idea which was uppermost,--"Then it is physical science?" Monsieur Roger asked, in an indifferent tone,-- "What is physical science?" "Your method of measuring the tower." "Yes, it is physical science, as you say. Consequently, you see very well that I cannot answer you." "Ah, Monsieur Roger," said Paul, embarrassed, "you are laughing at me." "Not at all, my friend. I made a promise; I must hold to it. I have a great deal of liking for you, and I don't want you to dislike me." "Oh, sir!" Suddenly they heard the voice of Monsieur Dalize, who cried, cheerfully,-- "See, they are already quarrelling!" For some moments Monsieur Dalize, at the door of the vestibule, surrounded by his wife and his children, had been gazing at the two companions. Monsieur Roger and Paul approached. "What is the matter?" asked Monsieur Dalize, shaking hands with his friend. "A very strange thing has happened," answered Monsieur Roger. "And what is that?" "Simply that Master Paul wants me to speak to him of physical science." An astonished silence, soon followed by a general laugh, greeted these words. Miss Miette took a step forward, looked at Paul with an uneasy air, and said,-- "Are you sick, my little Paul?" Paul, confused, kept silent, but he answered by a reproachful look the ironical question of his friend Miette. "But whence could such a change have come?" asked Madame Dalize, addressing Monsieur Roger. "Explain to us what has happened." "Here are the facts," answered Monsieur Roger. "We had climbed up the tower of Heurtebize----" Madame Dalize started, and turned a look of uneasiness towards Paul. "Paul was not at fault," Monsieur Roger hastened to add. "I was the guilty one. Well, we were up there, when Master Paul got the idea of estimating the height of the tower. I answered that nothing was more simple than to know it at once. I asked him to let fall a stone. I looked at my watch while the stone was falling, and I said, 'The tower is sixty-two feet and six inches high.' Master Paul seemed to be astonished. He went after a yard-stick and some twine. We measured the tower, and Master Paul has recognized that the tower is in fact sixty-two feet and six inches high. Now he wants me to tell him how I have been able so simply, with so little trouble, to learn the height. That is a portion of physical science; and, as I made Master Paul a promise this very morning not to speak to him of physical science nor of chemistry, you see it is impossible for me to answer." Monsieur Dalize understood at once what his friend Roger had in view, and, assuming the same air, he answered,-- "Certainly, it is impossible; you are perfectly right. You promised; you must keep your promise." "Unless," said Miss Miette, taking sides with her friend Paul,--"unless Paul releases Monsieur Roger from his promise." "You are entirely right, my child," said Monsieur Roger; "should Paul release me sufficiently to ask me to answer him. But, as I remarked to you a moment ago, I fear that he will repent too quickly, and take a dislike to me. That I should be very sorry for." "No, sir, I will not repent. I promise you that." "Very well," said Miette; "there is another promise. You know that you will have to keep it." "But," answered Monsieur Roger, turning to Paul, "it will be necessary for me to speak to you of weight, of the fall of bodies, of gravitation; and I am very much afraid that that will weary you." "No, sir," answered Paul, very seriously, "that will not weary me. On the contrary, that will interest me, if it teaches me how you managed to calculate the height of the tower." "It will certainly teach you that." "Then I am content," said Paul. "And I also," said Monsieur Roger to himself, happy to have attained his object so soon. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XI. THE SMOKE WHICH FALLS. In the evening, after dinner, Monsieur Roger, to whom Paul recalled his promise, asked Miette to go and find him a pebble in the pathway before the château. When he had the bit of stone in his hand, Monsieur Roger let it fall from the height of about three feet. "As you have just heard and seen," said he, addressing Paul, "this stone in falling from a small height produces only a feeble shock, but if it falls from the height of the house upon the flagstones of the pavement, the shock would be violent enough to break it." Monsieur Roger interrupted himself, and put this question to Paul: "Possibly you may have asked yourself why this stone should fall. Why do bodies fall?" "Goodness knows," said the small voice of Miss Miette in the midst of the silence that followed. "Miette," said Madame Dalize, "be serious, and don't answer for others." "But, mamma, I am sure that Paul would have answered the same as I did:--would you not, Paul?" Paul bent his head slightly as a sign that Miette was not mistaken. "Well," continued Monsieur Roger, "another one before you did ask himself this question. It was a young man of twenty-three years, named Newton. He found himself one fine evening in a garden, sitting under an apple-tree, when an apple fell at his feet. This common fact, whose cause had never awakened the attention of anybody, filled all his thoughts; and, as the moon was shining in the heavens, Newton asked himself why the moon did not fall like the apple." "That is true," said Miette; "why does not the moon fall?" "Listen, and you will hear," said Monsieur Dalize. Monsieur Roger continued: "By much reflection, by hard work and calculation, Newton made an admirable discovery,--that of universal attraction. Yes, he discovered that all bodies, different though they may be, attract each other: they draw towards each other; the bodies which occupy the celestial spaces,--planets and suns,--as well as the bodies which are found upon our earth. The force which attracts bodies towards the earth, which made this stone fall, as Newton's apple fell, has received the name of weight. Weight, therefore, is the attraction of the earth for articles which are on its surface. Why does this table, around which we find ourselves, remain in the same place? Why does it not slide or fly away? Simply because it is retained by the attraction of the earth. I have told you that all bodies attract each other. It is therefore quite true that in the same way as the earth attracts the table, so does the table attract the earth." "Like a loadstone," said Albert Dalize. "Well, you may compare the earth in this instance to a loadstone. The loadstone draws the iron, and iron draws the loadstone, exactly as the earth and the table draw each other; but you can understand that the earth attracts the table with far more force than the table attracts the earth." "Yes," said Miette; "because the earth is bigger than the table." "Exactly so. It has been discovered that bodies attract each other in proportion to their size,--that is to say, the quantity of matter that they contain. On the other hand, the farther bodies are from each other the less they attract each other. I should translate in this fashion the scientific formula which tells us that bodies attract each other in an inverse ratio to the square of the distance. I would remind you that the square of a number is the product obtained by multiplying that number by itself. So all bodies are subject to that force which we call weight; all substances, all matter abandoned to itself, falls to the earth." [Illustration] Just here Miss Miette shifted uneasily on her chair, wishing to make an observation, but not daring. "Come, Miss Miette," said Monsieur Roger, who saw this manoeuvre, "you have something to tell us. Your little tongue is itching to say something. Well, speak; we should all like to hear you." "Monsieur Roger," said Miette, "is not smoke a substance?" "Certainly; the word substance signifies something that exists. Smoke exists. Therefore it is a substance." "Then," replied Miette, with an air of contentment with herself, "as smoke is a substance, there is one substance which does not fall to the earth. Indeed, it does just the opposite." "Ah! Miss Miette wants to catch me," said Monsieur Roger. Miette made a gesture of modest denial, but at heart she was very proud of the effect which she had produced, for every one looked at her with interest. "To the smoke of which you speak," continued Monsieur Roger, "you might add balloons, and even clouds." "Certainly, that is true," answered Miette, näively. "Very well; although smoke and balloons rise in the air instead of falling, although clouds remain suspended above our heads, smoke and balloons and clouds are none the less bodies with weight. What prevents their fall is the fact that they find themselves in the midst of the air, which is heavier than they are. Take away the air and they would fall." "Take away the air?" cried Miette, with an air of doubt, thinking that she was facing an impossibility. "Yes, take away the air," continued Monsieur Roger; "for that can be done. There even exists for this purpose a machine, which is called an air-pump. You place under a glass globe a lighted candle. Then you make a vacuum,--that is to say, by the aid of the air-pump you exhaust the air in the globe; soon the candle is extinguished for want of air, but the wick of the candle continues for some instants to produce smoke. Now, you think, I suppose, that that smoke rises in the globe?" "Certainly," said Miette. "No, no, not at all; it falls." "Ah! I should like to see that!" cried Miette. "And, in order to give you the pleasure of seeing this, I suppose you would like an air-pump?" "Well, papa will buy me one.--Say, papa, won't you do it, so we may see the smoke fall?" "No, indeed!" said Monsieur Dalize; "how can we introduce here instruments of physical science during vacation? What would Paul say?" "Paul would say nothing. I am sure that he is just as anxious as I am to see smoke fall.--Are you not, Paul?" And Paul Solange, already half-conquered, made a sign from the corner of his eye to his little friend that her demand was not at all entirely disagreeable to him. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XII. AT THE CENTRE OF THE EARTH. Monsieur Roger, hiding his satisfaction, seemed to attach no importance to this request of Miette under the assent given by Paul. Wishing to profit by the awakened curiosity of his little friend, he hastened to continue, and said,-- "Who wants to bring me a bit of cork and a glass of water?" "I! I!" cried Miette, running. When Miette had returned with the articles, Monsieur Roger continued: "I told you a moment ago that if balloons and smoke and clouds do not fall, it is because they find themselves in the midst of air which is heavier than they are. I am going to try an experiment which will make you understand what I have said." Monsieur Roger took the cork, raised his hand above his head, and opened his fingers: the cork fell. "Is it a heavy body?" said he. "Did it fall to the ground?" "Yes," cried Paul and Miette together. Then Monsieur Roger placed the glass of water in front of him, took the cork, which Miette had picked up, and forced it with his finger to the bottom of the glass; then he withdrew his finger, and the cork mounted up to the surface again. "Did you see?" asked Monsieur Roger. "Yes," said Miss Miette. "You remarked something?" "Certainly: the cork would not fall, and you were obliged to force it into the water with your finger." "And not only," continued Monsieur Roger, "it would not fall, as you say, but it even hastened to rise again as soon as it was freed from the pressure of my finger. We were wrong, then, when we said that this same cork is a heavy body?" "Ah, I don't know," said Miette, a little confused. "Still, we must know. Did this cork fall just now upon the ground?" "Yes." "Then it was a heavy body?" "Yes." "And now that it remains on the surface of the water, that it no longer precipitates itself towards the earth, it is no longer a heavy body?" This time Miette knew not what to answer. "Well, be very sure," continued Monsieur Roger, "that it is heavy. If it does not fall to the bottom of the water, it is because the water is heavier than it. The water is an obstacle to it. Nevertheless, it is attracted, like all bodies, towards the earth, or, more precisely, towards the centre of the earth." "Towards the centre of the earth?" repeated Miette. "Yes, towards the centre of the earth. Can Miss Miette procure for me two pieces of string and two heavy bodies,--for example, small pieces of lead?" "String, yes; but where can I get lead?" asked Miette. "Look in the box where I keep my fishing-tackle," said Monsieur Dalize to his daughter, "and find two sinkers there." Miette disappeared, and came back in a moment with the articles desired. Monsieur Roger tied the little pieces of lead to the two separate strings. Then he told Miette to hold the end of one of these strings in her fingers. He himself did the same with the other string. The two strings from which the sinkers were suspended swayed to and fro for some seconds, and then stopped in a fixed position. [Illustration] "Is it not evident," said Monsieur Roger, "that the direction of our strings is the same as the direction in which the force which we call weight attracts the bodies of lead? In fact, if you cut the string, the lead would go in that direction. The string which Miss Miette is holding and that which I hold myself seem to us to be parallel,--that is to say, that it seems impossible they should ever meet, however long the distance which they travel. Well, that is an error. For these two strings, if left to themselves, would meet exactly at the centre of the earth." "Then," said Miette, "if we detach the sinkers, they would fall, and would join each other exactly at the centre of the earth?" "Yes, if they encountered no obstacle; but they would be stopped by the resistance of the ground. They would attempt to force themselves through, and would not succeed." "Why?" "Why, if the ground which supports us did not resist, we would not be at this moment chatting quietly here on the surface of the earth; drawn by gravity, we would all be----" "At the centre of the earth!" cried Miette. "Exactly. And it might very well happen that I would not then be in a mood to explain to you the attraction of gravity." "Yes, that is very probable," said Miss Miette, philosophically. Then she added, "If, instead of letting these bits of lead fall upon the ground, we let them fall in water?" "Well, they would approach the centre of the earth for the entire depth of the water." Miette had mechanically placed the sinker above the glass of water. She let it fall into it; the cork still swam above. "Why does the lead fall to the bottom of the water, and why does the cork not fall?" "Why," said Albert, "because lead is heavier than cork." Miette looked at her brother, and then turned her eyes towards Monsieur Roger, as if the explanation given by Albert explained nothing, and finally she said,-- "Of course lead is heavier than cork; but why is it heavier?" "My child, you want to know a great deal," said Madame Dalize. "Ah, mamma, it is not my fault,--it is Paul's, who wants to know, and does not like to ask. I am obliged to ask questions in his stead." That was true. Paul asked no questions, but he listened with attention, and his eyes seemed to approve the questions asked by his friend Miette. Monsieur Roger had observed with pleasure the conduct of his young friend, and it was for him, while he was looking at Miette, the latter continued: "Tell us, Monsieur Roger, why is lead heavier than cork?" "Because its density is greater," answered Monsieur Roger, seriously. "Ah!" murmured Miette, disappointed; and, as Monsieur Roger kept silent, she added, "What is density?" "It would take a long time to explain." "Tell me all the same." Monsieur Roger saw at this moment that Paul was beckoning to Miette to insist. "Goodness!" said he, smiling at Paul; "Miss Miette was right just now. It is you that wish me to continue the questions!" [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XIII. WHY LEAD IS HEAVIER THAN CORK. Monsieur Roger continued in these words: "We say that a body has density when it is thick and packed close. We give the name of density to the quantity of matter contained in a body of a certain size. "Let us suppose that this bit of lead has the same bulk--that is to say, that it is exactly as big--as the cork. Suppose, also, that we have a piece of gold and a piece of stone, also of the same bulk as the cork, and that we weigh each different piece in a pair of scales. We would find that cork weighs less than stone, that stone weighs less than lead, and that lead weighs less than gold. But, in order to compare these differences with each other, it has been necessary to adopt a standard of weight. "I now return to Miss Miette's question,--'Why is lead heavier than cork?'--a question to which I had solemnly answered, 'Because its density is greater.' Miss Miette must now understand that cork, weighing four times less than water, cannot sink in water, although that process is very easy to lead, which weighs eleven times more than water. And yet," said Monsieur Roger, "the problem is not perfectly solved, and I am quite sure that Miss Miette is not entirely satisfied." Miss Miette remained silent. "I was not mistaken. Miss Miette is not satisfied," said Monsieur Roger; "and she is right,--for I have not really explained to her why lead is heavier than cork." Miss Miette made a gesture, which seemed to say, "That is what I was expecting." "I said just now," continued Monsieur Roger, "that the density of a body was the quantity of matter contained in this body in a certain bulk. Now does Miss Miette know what matter is?" "No." "No! Now, there is the important thing: because, in explaining to her what matter is, I will make her understand why lead is heavier than cork." "Well, I am listening," said Miette. And Master Paul respectfully added, in an undertone, "We are listening." Monsieur Roger continued: "The name of 'bodies' has been given to all objects which, in infinite variety, surround us and reveal themselves to us by the touch, taste, sight, and smell. All these bodies present distinct properties; but there are certain numbers of properties which are common to all. Those all occupy a certain space; all are expanded by heat, are contracted by cold, and can even pass from the solid to the liquid state, and from the liquid to the gaseous state. They all possess a certain amount of elasticity, a certain amount of compressibility,--in a word, there exist in all bodies common characteristics: so they have given a common name to those possessing these common properties, and called that which constitutes bodies 'matter.' Bodies are not compact, as you may imagine. They are, on the contrary, formed by the union of infinitely small particles, all equal to each other and maintained at distances that are relatively considerable by the force of attraction. "These infinitely small particles have received the names of atoms or molecules. Imagine a pile of bullets, and remark the empty spaces left between them, and you will have a picture of the formation of bodies. I must acknowledge to you that no one has yet seen the molecules of a body. Their size is so small that no microscope can ever be made keen enough to see them. A wise man has reached this conclusion: That if you were to look at a drop of water through a magnifying instrument which made it appear as large as the whole earth, the molecules which compose this drop of water would seem hardly bigger than bits of bird-shot. Still, this conception of the formation of bodies is proved by certain properties which matter enjoys. Among these properties I must especially single out divisibility. Matter can be divided into parts so small that it is difficult to conceive of them. Gold-beaters, for instance, succeed in making gold-leaf so thin that it is necessary to place sixty thousand one on top of the other to arrive at the thickness of an inch. I will give you two other examples of 'divisibility' that are still more striking. For years, hardly losing any of its weight, a grain of musk spreads a strong odor. In a tubful of water one single drop of indigo communicates its color. The smallness of these particles of musk which strike the sense of smell and of these particles of indigo which color several quarts of water is beyond our imagination to conceive of. And these examples prove that bodies are nothing but a conglomeration of molecules. Now, if lead is heavier than cork, it is because in an equal volume it contains a far more considerable quantity of molecules, and because these molecules are themselves heavier than the molecules of cork. And now I shall stop," said Monsieur Roger, "after this long but necessary explanation. I will continue on the day when Miss Miette will present to me the famous air-pump." "That will not be very long from now," said Miss Miette to herself. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XIV. THE AIR-PUMP. Monsieur Roger had deferred his explanations for three days. He was awaiting the air-pump which Monsieur Dalize, at Miette's desire, had decided to purchase in Paris. Monsieur Roger judged that this interruption and this rest were necessary. In this way his hearers would not be tired too soon, and their curiosity, remaining unsatisfied for the moment, would become more eager. He was not mistaken; and when a large box containing the air-pump and other objects ordered by Monsieur Roger arrived, a series of cries of astonishment came from the pretty mouth of Miss Miette. Paul Solange, however, remained calm; but Monsieur Roger knew that his interest had been really awakened. They spent the afternoon in unpacking the air-pump, and Monsieur Roger was called upon at once to explain the instrument. "The machine," he said, "is called an air-pump because it is intended to exhaust air contained in a vase or other receptacle. To exhaust the air in a vase is to make a vacuum in that vase. You will see that this machine is composed of two cylinders, or pump-barrels, out of which there comes a tube, which opens in the centre of this disk of glass. Upon this disk we carefully place this globe of glass; and now we are going to exhaust the air contained in the globe." "We are going to make a vacuum," said Miette. "Exactly." And Monsieur Roger commenced to work the lever. "You will take notice," he said, "that when the lever is lowered at the left the round piece of leather placed in the cylinder on the left side is lowered, and that the bit of leather in the right-hand cylinder is raised. In the same way, when the lever is lowered at the right, it is the right-hand piece of leather which is lowered, while the piece of leather at the left is raised in its turn. These round bits of leather, whose importance is considerable, are called pistons. Each piston is hollow and opens into the air on top, while at the bottom, which communicates with that portion of the cylinder situated below the piston, there is a little hole, which is stopped by a valve. This valve is composed of a little round bit of metal, bearing on top a vertical stem, around which is rolled a spring somewhat in the shape of a coil or ringlet. The ends of this spring rest on one side on a little bit of metal, on the other on a fixed rest, pierced by a hole in which the stem of the valve can freely go up and down. When I work the lever, as I am doing now, you see that on the left side the piston lowers itself in the cylinder, and that the piston on the right is raised. Now, what is going on in the interior of each cylinder? The piston of the left, in lowering, disturbs the air contained in the cylinder,--it forces it down, it compresses it. Under this compression the coiled spring gives way, the round bit of metal is raised, and opens the little hole which puts the under part of the piston in communication with the atmosphere. The air contained in the cylinder passes in this way across the piston and disperses itself in the air which surrounds us. But the spring makes the bit of metal fall back again and closes the communication in the right-hand cylinder as soon as the piston commences to rise and the pressure of the air in the cylinder is not greater than the pressure of the atmosphere outside. Lastly, the tube which unites the cylinders to the glass globe opens at the end of each cylinder, but a little on the side. It is closed by a little cork, carried by a metal stem which traverses the whole piston. When I cause one of the pistons to lower, the piston brings the stem down with it. The cork at once comes in contact with the hole, which closes; the stem is then stopped, but the piston continues to descend by sliding over it. In the other cylinder, in which the piston is raised, it commences by raising the stem, which re-establishes communication with the glass globe; but as soon as the top of the stem comes in contact with the upper part of the cylinder, it stops and the piston glides over it and continues to rise." [Illustration] "In this fashion the movements of the cork are very small, and it opens and shuts the orifice as soon as one of the pistons begins to descend and the other begins to ascend. Consequently, by working the lever for a certain space of time, I will finish by exhausting the globe of all the air which it contains." "May I try to exhaust it?" asked Miette, timidly. "Try your hand, Miss Miette," answered Monsieur Roger. Miette began to work the lever of the air-pump, which she did at first very easily, but soon she stopped. "I cannot do it any more," said she. "Why?" "Because it is too heavy." "In fact, it is too heavy," said Monsieur Roger; "but tell me, what is it that is too heavy?" Miette sought an answer. "Oh, I do not know. It is the lever or the pistons which have become all of a sudden too heavy." "Not at all; that is not it. Neither the lever nor the pistons can change their weight." "Then, what is it that is so heavy?" "Come, now! Try once more, with all your strength." Miette endeavored to lower the right-hand side of the lever: she could not succeed. "Why," said she, "it is, of course, the piston on the left which has become too heavy, as I cannot make it rise again." "You are right, Miss Miette. It is the piston in the left cylinder which cannot rise; but it has not changed its weight, as I said,--only it has now to support a very considerable weight; and it is that weight which you cannot combat." "What weight is it?" said Miette, who did not understand. "The weight of the air." "The weight of the air? But what air?" "The air which is above it,--the exterior air; the air which weighs down this piston, as it weighs us down." "Does air weigh much?" "If you are very anxious to know, I will tell you that a wine gallon of air weighs about seventy-two grains; and as in the atmosphere--that is to say, in the mass of air which surrounds us--there is a very great number of gallons, you can imagine that it must represent a respectable number of pounds. It has been calculated, in fact, that each square inch of the surface of the soil supports a weight of air of a little more than sixteen pounds." "But how is that?" cried Miette. "A while ago there was also a considerable quantity of air above the piston, and yet I could make it go up very easily." "Certainly, there was above the piston the same quantity of air as now, but there was air also in the globe. Air, like gas, possesses an elastic force,--that is to say, that it constantly endeavors to distend its molecules, and presses without ceasing upon the sides of the vase which contained it, or upon the surrounding air. Now, when you began to work the lever there was still enough air in the globe to balance, through its elastic force, the air outside; and, as the piston receives an almost equal pressure of air from the atmosphere above and from the globe below, it is easily raised and lowered. But while you were working the lever you took air out of the globe, so that at last there arrived a time when so little air remained in this globe that its elastic force acted with little power upon the piston. So the piston was submitted to only one pressure,--that of the atmosphere; and, as I have just told you, the atmosphere weighs heavy enough to withstand your little strength. Still, all the air in the globe is not yet exhausted, and a stronger person, like Master Paul, for example, could still be able to conquer the resistance of the atmosphere and raise the piston." Paul Solange could not refuse this direct invitation, and he approached the air-pump and succeeded in working the lever, though with a certain difficulty. Meanwhile, Monsieur Roger was seeking among the physical instruments which had just arrived. He soon found a glass cylinder, whose upper opening was closed by a bit of bladder stretched taut and carefully tied upon the edges. "Stop, Master Paul," said he: "we are going to exchange the globe for this cylinder, and you will see very readily that the air is heavy. Now take away the globe." But, though Paul tried his best, he could not succeed in obeying this order. The globe remained firm in its place. "That is still another proof of the weight of the air," said Monsieur Roger. "The globe is empty of air; and as there is no longer any pressure upon it except from outside,--the pressure of the atmosphere,--Master Paul is unable to raise it." "He would be able to raise the glass," said Miss Miette, in a questioning tone, "but he cannot lift the air above it?" "You are exactly right. But you are going to see an experiment which will prove it. First, however, it will be necessary to take away the globe. I am going to ask Miss Miette to turn this button, which is called the key of the air-pump." Miette turned the key, and then they heard a whistling sound. "It is the air which is entering the globe," said Monsieur Roger. "Now Master Paul can take the globe away." That was true. When Paul took away the globe, Monsieur Roger put in its place the cylinder closed by the bit of bladder. Then he worked the handle of the machine again. As the air was withdrawn from the interior of the cylinder, the membrane was heard to crackle. Suddenly it burst, with a sort of explosion, to the great surprise of Miette and the amusement of everybody. "What is the matter?" said Miette, eagerly. "The matter is," answered Monsieur Roger, "that the exterior air weighed so heavily upon the membrane that it split it; and that is what I want to show you. The moment arrived when the pressure of the atmosphere was no longer counterbalanced by the elastic force of the air contained in the cylinder. Then that exhausted all the air, and the atmosphere came down with all its weight upon the membrane, which, after resisting for a little while, was torn." "Is it true, Monsieur Roger," said Miette, "that it is with this machine that you can make smoke fall?" "Certainly." "Well, then, won't you show that to us?" [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XV. DROPS OF RAIN AND HAMMER OF WATER. "I am very willing to show you that," answered Monsieur Roger; "but I must have a candle." Miette ran to the kitchen and succeeded in obtaining that article which was once so common, and which is now so rare, known as a candle. Monsieur Roger lit the candle and placed it under the glass globe of the air-pump. Then he asked Paul to make a vacuum. At the end of a few minutes the candle went out. Monsieur Roger then told Paul to stop. "Why has the candle gone out?" asked Miette. "Because it needs air. Master Paul has just exhausted the air necessary to the combustion of the candle; but the wick still smokes, and we are going to see if the smoke which it produces will rise or fall." Everybody approached the globe, full of curiosity. "It falls," cried Miette, "the smoke falls." And in fact, instead of rising in the globe, the smoke lowered slowly and heavily, and fell upon the glass disk of the air-pump. "Well," said Monsieur Roger, "you see that I was right. In a vacuum smoke falls: it falls because it no longer finds itself in the midst of air which is heavier than it and forms an obstacle to its fall. In the same way the cloud in the sky above the château would fall if we could exhaust the air which is between it and us." "I am very glad that we cannot," cried Miette. "And why are you very glad?" asked Madame Dalize. "Because, mamma, I don't wish any rain to fall." "Does Miss Miette think, then," said Monsieur Roger, "that if the cloud fell rain would fall?" "Certainly," answered Miss Miette, with a certain amount of logic. "When the clouds fall they fall in the form of rain." "Yes; but supposing that I should exhaust the air which is between the cloud and us, the cloud would not fall in a rain, but in a single and large mass of water." "Why?" "Clouds, you doubtless know, are masses of vapor from water. Now, when these vapors are sufficiently condensed to acquire a certain weight, they can no longer float in the atmosphere, and they fall in the form of rain. But they fall in rain because they have to traverse the air in order to fall to the ground. Now, the air offers such a resistance to this water that it is obliged to separate, to divide itself into small drops. If there were no air between the water and the ground, the water would not fall in drops of rain, but in a mass, like a solid body; and I am going to prove that to you, so as to convince Miss Miette." Among the various instruments unpacked from the box, Monsieur Roger chose a round tube of glass, closed at one end, tapering, and open at the other end. He introduced into this tube a certain quantity of water so as to half fill it. Then he placed the tube above a little alcohol lamp, and made the water boil. "Remark," said he, "how fully and completely the vapors from the water, which are formed by the influence of heat, force out the air which this tube encloses in escaping by the open end of the tube." When Monsieur Roger judged that there no longer remained any air in the tube, he begged Monsieur Dalize to hand him the blowpipe. Monsieur Dalize then handed to his friend a little instrument of brass, which was composed of three parts,--a conical tube, furnished with a mouth, a hollow cylinder succeeding to the first tube, and a second tube, equally conical, but narrower, and placed at right angles with the hollow cylinder. This second tube ended in a very little opening. Monsieur Roger placed his lips to the opening of the first tube, and blew, placing the little opening of the second tube in front of the flame of a candle, which Monsieur Dalize had just lit. A long and pointed tongue of fire extended itself from the flame of the candle. Monsieur Roger placed close to this tongue of fire the tapering and open end of the tube in which the water had finished boiling. The air, forced out of the blowpipe and thrust upon the flame of the candle, bore to this flame a considerable quantity of oxygen, which increased the combustion and produced a temperature high enough to soften and melt the open extremity of the tube, and so seal it hermetically. "I have," said Monsieur Roger, "by the means which you have seen, expelled the air which was contained in this tube, and there remains in it only water. In a few moments we will make use of it. But it is good to have a comparison under your eyes. I therefore ask Miss Miette to take another tube similar to that which I hold." "Here it is," cried Miette. "Now I ask her to put water into it." "I have done so." "Lastly, I ask her to turn it over quickly, with her little hand placed against its lower side in order to prevent the water from falling upon the floor." Miss Miette did as she was commanded. The water fell in the tube, dividing itself into drops of more or less size. It was like rain in miniature. "The water, as you have just seen," said Monsieur Roger, "has fallen in Miss Miette's tube, dividing itself against the resistance of the air. In the tube which I hold, and in which there is no longer any air, you will see how water falls." Monsieur Roger turned the tube over, but the water this time encountered no resistance from the air. It fell in one mass, and struck the bottom of the tube with a dry and metallic sound. "It made a noise almost like the noise of a hammer," said Paul Solange. "Exactly," answered Monsieur Roger. "Scientists have given this apparatus the name of the water-hammer." And looking at Miette, who in her astonishment was examining the tube without saying anything, Monsieur Roger added, smiling, "And this hammer has struck Miss Miette with surprise." [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XVI. AMUSING PHYSICS. Hearing Monsieur Roger's jest, Miette raised her head, and said,-- "Yes, it is very curious to see water fall like that, in a single mass; and, besides, it fell quicker than the water in my tube." "Of course: because it did not encounter the resistance of the air. This resistance is very easy to prove; and if Miss Miette will give me a sheet of any kind of paper----" Miss Miette looked at Monsieur Roger, seeming to be slightly nettled,--not by the errand, but by something else. Then she went in search of a sheet of letter-paper, which she brought back to Monsieur Roger. He raised his hand and dropped the paper. Instead of falling directly towards the earth, as a piece of lead or stone would do, it floated downward from the right to the left, gently balanced, and impeded in its fall by the evident resistance of the air. When this bit of paper had at last reached the ground, Monsieur Roger picked it up, saying,-- "I am going to squeeze this bit of paper in such a way as to make it a paper ball; and I am going to let this paper ball fall from the same height as I did the leaf." The paper ball fell directly in a straight line upon the floor. "And yet it was the same sheet," said he, "which has fallen so fast. The matter submitted to the action of gravity remains the same; there can be no doubt on that point. Therefore, if the sheet of paper falls more quickly when it is rolled up into a ball, it is certainly because it meets with less resistance from the air; and if it meets with less resistance, it is because under this form of a ball it presents only a small surface, which allows it easily to displace the air in order to pass." "That is so," said Miss Miette, with a certainty which made every one smile. Miette, astonished at the effect which she had thus produced, looked at her friend Paul, who remained silent, but very attentive. "Well, Paul," said she, "is not that certain?" "Yes," answered Paul. "Hold," returned Monsieur Roger. "I am going to show you an example still more convincing of the resistance of the air,--only I must have a pair of scissors; and if Miss Miette will have the kindness to----" Miss Miette looked again at Monsieur Roger with a singular air. None the less, she ran off in search of the scissors. Then Monsieur Roger pulled from his pocket a coin, and with the aid of the scissors cut a round bit of paper, a little smaller than the coin. That done, he placed the circular bit of paper flat upon the coin, in such a manner that it did not overlap, and asked Miss Miette to take the coin between her thumb and her finger. "Now," said he, "let it all fall." Miette opened her fingers, and the coin upon which he had placed the bit of paper fell. Coin and paper reached the ground at the same time. "Why," asked Monsieur Roger, "does the paper reach the ground as soon as the coin?" And as Miette hesitated to answer, Monsieur Roger continued: "Because the fall of the bit of paper was not interfered with by the resistance of the air." "Of course," cried Miette, "it is the coin which opened the way. The paper was preserved by the coin from the resistance of the air." "Exactly so," said Monsieur Roger; "and these simple experiments have led scientists to ask if in doing away entirely with the resistance of the air it would not be possible to abolish the differences which may be observed between the falling of various bodies,--for instance, the paper and the coin, a hair and a bit of lead. And they have decided that in a vacuum--that is to say, when the resistance of the air is abolished--the paper and the coin, the hair and the lead would fall with exactly the same swiftness; all of them would traverse the same space in the same time." [Illustration] "The hair falls as fast as lead," said Miette, in a tone which seemed to imply, "I would like to see that." Monsieur Roger understood the thought of Miette, and answered by saying,-- "Well, I am going to show you that." He chose a long tube of glass, closed by bits of metal, one of which had a stop-cock. He put in this tube the coin, the round bit of paper, a bit of lead, and a strand of hair from Miss Miette's head. Then he fastened the tube by one of its ends upon the disk of the air-pump and worked the pistons. As soon as he thought that the vacuum had been made, he closed the stop-cock of the tube, to prevent the exterior air from entering. He withdrew the tube from the machine, held it vertically, then turned it briskly upsidedown. Everybody saw that the paper, the coin, the hair, and the lead all arrived at the same time at the bottom of the tube. The experiment was conclusive. Then Monsieur Roger opened the stop-cock and allowed the air to enter into the tube. Again he turned the tube upsidedown: the coin and the bit of lead arrived almost together at the bottom of the tube, but the paper, and especially the strand of hair, found much difficulty on the way and arrived at the bottom much later. "Why, how amusing that is!" cried Miette; "as amusing as anything I know. I don't understand why Paul wishes to have nothing to do with physical science." But Miette was mistaken this time, for Paul was now very anxious to learn more. "Very well," said Monsieur Roger, "as all this has not wearied you, I am, in order to end to-day, going to make another experiment which will not be a bit tiresome, and which, without any scientific apparatus, without any air-pump, will demonstrate to you for the last time the existence of the pressure, of the weight of the atmosphere." Monsieur Roger stopped and looked at Miette, whose good temper he was again going to put to the test. Then he said,-- "I need a carafe and a hard egg; and if Miss Miette will only be kind enough to----" This time Miette seemed still more uneasy than ever, more embarrassed, more uncomfortable; still, she fled rapidly towards the kitchen. During her absence, Monsieur Roger said to Madame Dalize,-- "Miette seems to think that I trouble her a little too often." "That is not what is annoying her, I am certain," replied Madame Dalize; "but I do not understand the true cause. Let us wait." At this moment Miette returned, with the carafe in one hand, the hard-boiled egg (it was not boiled very hard, however) in the other. Monsieur Roger took the shell off the egg and placed the egg thus deprived of its shell upon the empty carafe, somewhat after the manner of a stopper or cork. [Illustration] "What I want to do," said he, "is to make this egg enter the carafe." "Very well," said Miette; "all you have to do is to push from above: you will force the egg down." "Oh, but nobody must touch it. It must not be a hand that forces it down, but by weight from above. No, the atmosphere must do this." Monsieur Roger took off the egg, and lit a bit of paper, which he threw into the empty carafe. "In order to burn," said he, "this paper is obliged to absorb the oxygen of the air in the carafe,--that is to say, it makes a partial vacuum." When the paper had burned for some moments, Monsieur Roger replaced the egg upon the carafe's neck, very much in the manner you would place a close-fitting ground-glass stopper in the neck of a bottle, and immediately they saw the egg lengthen, penetrate into the neck of the carafe, and at last fall to the bottom. "There," said he, "is atmospheric pressure clearly demonstrated. When a partial vacuum had been made in the carafe,--that is to say, when there was not enough air in it to counterbalance or resist the pressure of the exterior air,--this exterior air pressed with all its weight upon the egg and forced it down in very much the same way as Miss Miette wished me to do just now with my hand." In saying these last words, Monsieur Roger looked towards Miette. "By the way," he said, "I must apologize to you, Miss Miette, for having sent you on so many errands. I thought I saw that it annoyed you a little bit." Miss Miette raised her eyes with much surprise to Monsieur Roger. "But that was not it at all," said she. "Well, what was it?" asked Monsieur Roger. And Miette replied timidly, yet sweetly,-- "Why, I only thought that you might stop calling me Miss. If you please, I would like to be one of your very good friends." "Oh, yes; with very great pleasure, my dear little Miette," cried Monsieur Roger, much moved by this touching and kindly delicacy of feeling, and opening his arms to the pretty and obliging little child of his friends. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XVII. WHY THE MOON DOES NOT FALL. Next evening Monsieur Roger, as well as his friend Monsieur Dalize, seemed to have forgotten completely that there was such a thing as physical science. He sat in a corner and chatted about this thing and that with Monsieur and Madame Dalize. Still, the air-pump was there, and the children touched it, looked at it, and examined the different portions of it. At last there was a conversation in a low tone between Paul and Miette, and in the midst of the whispering were heard these words, clearly pronounced by the lips of Miette,-- "Ask him yourself." Then Monsieur Roger heard Paul answer,-- "No, I don't dare to." Miette then came forward towards her friend Roger, and said to him, without any hesitation,-- "Paul asks that you will explain to him about the tower?" Monsieur Roger remained a moment without understanding, then a light struck him, and he said,-- "Ah! Master Paul wants me to explain to him how I learned the height of the tower Heurtebize?" "That is it," said Miette. Paul Solange made an affirmative sign by a respectful movement of the head. "But," said Monsieur Roger, responding to this sign, "it is physical science, my dear Master Paul,--physical science, you know; and, goodness, I was so much afraid of boring you that both I and Monsieur Dalize had resolved never to approach this subject." "Still, sir," said Paul, "all that you have said and shown to us was on account of the tower of Heurtebize, and you promised me----" "That is true," said Monsieur Dalize; "and if you promised, you must keep your word. So explain to Paul how you have been able, without moving, to learn the exact height of that famous tower." "Come, then, I obey," answered Monsieur Roger. And, addressing himself to Paul, he said,-- "You will remember that at the beginning of this conversation on gravity I took a little stone and let it fall from my full height. It produced a very feeble shock; but I made you remark that if it were to fall from a greater height the shock would be violent enough to break it." "Yes," said Paul, "I remember." "Then, of course, you understand that the violence of the shock of a body against a fixed obstacle depends upon the rate of speed this body possessed at the moment when it encountered the obstacle. The higher the distance from which the body falls, the more violent is the shock,--for its swiftness is greater. Now, the speed of a falling body becomes greater and greater the longer it continues to fall; and, consequently, in falling faster and faster it will traverse a greater and greater space in a given interval of time. In studying the fall of a body we find that in one second it traverses a space of sixteen feet and one inch. In falling for two seconds it traverses----" "Twice the number of feet," said Miette, with a self-satisfied air. "Why, no," said Paul; "because it falls faster during the second second, and in consequence travels a greater distance." "Master Paul is right," replied Monsieur Roger. "It has been found that in falling for two seconds a body falls sixteen feet and one inch multiplied by twice two,--that is to say, sixty-four feet and four inches. In falling three seconds a body traverses sixteen feet and one inch multiplied by three times three,--that is to say, by nine. In falling four seconds it traverses sixteen feet and one inch multiplied by four times four,--that is to say, by sixteen; and so on. This law of falling bodies which learned men have discovered teaches us that in order to calculate the space traversed by a body in a certain number of seconds it is necessary to multiply sixteen feet and one inch by the arithmetical square of that number of seconds. And Master Paul must know, besides, that the square of a number is the product obtained by multiplying this number by itself." Paul bent his head. "And now you must also know," continued Monsieur Roger, "how I could calculate the height of the tower of Heurtebize. The stone which you let fall, according to my watch, took two seconds before it reached the soil. The calculation which I had to make was easy, was it not?" "Yes, sir: it was necessary to multiply sixteen feet and one inch by two times two,--which gives about sixty-four feet and four inches as the height of the tower." "You are right, and, as you may judge, it was not a very difficult problem." "Yes," added Monsieur Dalize; "but it was interesting to know why the apple fell, and you have taught us." "That is true," cried Miette; "only you have forgotten to tell us why the moon does not fall." "I have not forgotten," said Monsieur Roger; "but I wished to avoid speaking of the attraction of the universe. However, as Miette obliges me, I shall speak. You see that all earthly bodies are subject to a force which has been called gravity, or weight. Now, gravity can also be called attraction. By the word attraction is meant, in fact, the force which makes all bodies come mutually together and adhere together, unless they are separated by some other force. This gravity or attraction which the terrestrial mass exerts upon the objects placed on its surface is felt above the soil to a height that cannot be measured. Learned men have, therefore, been led to suppose that this gravity or attraction extended beyond the limits which we can reach; that it acted upon the stars themselves, only decreasing as they are farther off. This supposition allows it to be believed that all the stars are of similar phenomena, that there is a gravity or attraction on their surface, and that this gravity or attraction acts upon all other celestial bodies. With this frame of thought in his mind, Newton at last came to believe that all bodies attract each other by the force of gravity, that their movements are determined by the force which they exert mutually upon one another, and that the system of the universe is regulated by a single force,--gravity, or attraction." "But that does not explain to us why the moon does not fall," said Monsieur Dalize. Monsieur Roger looked at his friend. "So you also," said he, smiling,--"you also are trying to puzzle me?" "Of course I am; but I am only repeating the question whose answer Miette is still awaiting." "Yes," said Miette, "I am waiting. Why does not the moon fall?" "Well, the moon does not fall because it is launched into space with so great a force that it traverses nearly four-fifths of a mile a second." Miette ran to open the door of the vestibule. The park was bathed in the mild light of a splendid moon. "Is it of that moon that you are speaking,--the moon which turns around us?" "Certainly, as we have no other moon." "And it turns as swiftly as you say?" "Why, yes. And do you know why it turns around us, a prisoner of that earth from which it seeks continually to fly in a straight line? It is because----" Monsieur Roger stopped suddenly, with an embarrassed air. "What is the matter?" asked Miette. "Why, I am afraid I have put myself in a very difficult position." "Why?" [Illustration] "I have just undertaken to tell you why the moon does not fall. Is not that true?" "Yes." "Well, I am obliged to tell you that it does fall." "Ah, that is another matter!" cried Miette. "Yes, it is another matter, as you say; and it is necessary that I should speak to you of that other matter. Without that how can I make you believe that the moon does not fall and that it does fall?" "That would not be easy," said Miss Miette. "Well, then, imagine a ball shot by a cannon. This ball would go forever in a straight line and with the same swiftness if it were not subject to gravity, to the attraction of the earth. This attraction forces the ball to lower itself little by little below the straight line to approach the earth. At last the time comes when the force of attraction conquers the force which shot the ball, and the latter falls to the earth. This example of the ball may be applied to the moon, which would go forever in a straight line if it were not subject to the attraction of the earth. It shoots in a straight line, ready to flee away from us; but suddenly the attraction of the earth makes itself felt. Then the moon bends downward to approach us, and the straight line which it had been ready to traverse is changed to the arc of a circle. Again the moon endeavors to depart in a straight line, but the attraction is felt again, and brings near to us our unfaithful satellite. The same phenomenon goes on forever, and the straight path which the moon intended to follow becomes a circular one. It falls in every instance towards us, but it falls with exactly the same swiftness as that with which it seeks to get away from us. Consequently it remains always at the same distance. The attraction which prevents the moon from running away may be likened to a string tied to the claws of a cockchafer. The cockchafer flies, seeking to free itself; the string pulls it back towards the child's finger; and very often the circular flight which the insect takes around the finger which holds it represents exactly the circular flight of the moon around the earth." "But," said Miette, "is there no danger that the moon may fall some time?" "If the moon had been closer to the earth it would have fallen long ago; but it is more than two hundred and thirty-eight thousand miles away, and, as I have told you, if attraction or gravity acts upon the planets, it loses its power in proportion to the distance at which they are. The same attraction which forces the moon to turn around the earth obliges the earth and the planets to turn around the sun; and the sun itself is not immovable. It flies through space like all the other stars, bearing us in its train, subject also to universal attraction." Monsieur Roger stopped a moment, then he said,-- "And it is this great law of universal attraction, this law which governs the universe, that Newton discovered when he asked himself, 'Why does the apple fall?'" "Still, as for me," said Miette, "I should not have had that idea at all; I should have said quietly to myself, 'The apple fell because it was ripe.'" [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XVIII. A MYSTERIOUS RESEMBLANCE. The days passed by at the château of Sainte-Gemme quietly and happily. Monsieur Roger, having fulfilled his promise to give the explanation of gravity and of attraction, was careful to make no allusions to scientific matters. He thought it useful and right to let his little hearers find their own pleasures wherever they could. One afternoon he saw Miette and Paul leave the house together. Paul had two camp-stools, while Miette held her friend's album. "Where are you going?" asked Monsieur Roger. "We are going to sketch," answered Paul: "at the end of the park." Miette put on the air of a martyr, and said to Monsieur Roger,-- "I think he is going to sketch me." "Not at all; come along," replied Paul. And Miette ran gayly after Paul. An hour later, Monsieur Roger, in his walk, saw at the turning of a pathway lined by young chestnut-trees a scene which brought a smile to his lips. Two camp-stools were placed in front of each other, some distance apart; upon one of these camp-stools Paul was seated, his album and his pencil between his hands; on the other camp-stool was Miss Miette, posing for a portrait. Monsieur Roger approached. When Miette saw him, she sat up, and, crossing her little arms, cried, with pretended anger,-- "I told you so: he is going to sketch me." "Oh, Miette," said Paul, softly, "you have spoiled the pose." Miette turned towards Paul, and, seeing that she had made him angry, returned to her former attitude without saying a word. Monsieur Roger looked at Miette, so pretty, so restless by disposition, now forcing herself to sit quietly, with an expression of determination upon her face that was half serious and half laughing. Then he cast his eyes upon Paul's album, but at that moment Paul was scratching over with his pencil the sketch which he had begun. "Never," said he, discouraged, "never shall I be able to catch her likeness." "That is not astonishing," replied Monsieur Roger. "I was struck at once with the change in her face. Miette in posing does not resemble herself any longer." "That is true, sir; but why is it?" "Why, because it is possible that it does not amuse her very much." Miette began to laugh. Monsieur Roger had guessed aright. "Oh, stay like that!" cried Paul, seeing Miette's face lighten up with gayety. "I will remain like this on one condition." "And what is that?" "That our friend Roger will remain also with us. I shall have some one to whom I can talk, and you, Paul, will make your sketch at your ease." "That is understood," said Monsieur Roger, seating himself upon a bank of stones beside the children. At first he lent a rather listless ear to Miette's words, for he was thinking of something else, and he only uttered a word or two in answer, which, however, allowed the little girl to think that she was being listened to. His eyes had travelled from the model to the artist. Since his arrival at Sainte-Gemme Paul's face had slightly changed: his hair, which had been cut short at school, had lengthened, and now fell over his forehead, shading the top of his face and giving him an expression that was slightly feminine; his large eyes, with long, black lashes, went from Miette to the sketch-book with a grave attention which the presence of a third party did not trouble at all. Roger's looks had rested upon Paul, full of that sympathy which the boy had inspired in him the first time he had seen him; but, instead of looking elsewhere at the end of a few minutes, his eyes were riveted upon Paul's face. He eagerly examined every feature of that face, which had suddenly been revealed to him under a new aspect. He had become very pale, and his hands trembled slightly. Miette perceived this sudden change, and, full of uneasiness, cried out,-- "Why, what is the matter?" Recalled to himself by this exclamation, Monsieur Roger shook his head, passed his hand over his eyes, and answered, striving to smile,-- "Why, there is nothing the matter with me, my dear, except a slight dizziness, caused by the sun no doubt. Don't be uneasy about me. I am going back home." And Monsieur Roger left them at a rapid pace, cutting across the pathway to get out of sight of the children. He walked like a crazy man; his eyes were wild, his brain full of a strange and impossible idea. When he had reached the other end of the park, sure of being alone, sure of not being seen, he stopped; but then he felt weak, and he allowed himself to fall upon the grass. For a long time he remained motionless, plunged in thought. At last he got up, murmuring,-- "Why, that is impossible. I was a fool." He was himself again. He had thought over everything, he had weighed everything, and he persuaded himself that he had been the plaything of a singular hallucination. Still reasoning, still talking to himself, he took no notice of where he was going. Suddenly he perceived that he was returning to the spot which he had left. He stopped, and heard the voice of Miette in the distance; then he approached as softly as was possible, walking on tiptoe and avoiding the gravel and the falling leaves. One wish filled his heart,--to see Paul again without being seen. He walked through the woods towards the side whence the voice had made itself heard. The voice of Miette, now very close, said,-- "Let's see, Paul. Is it finished?" "Yes," answered Paul; "only two minutes more. And this time, thanks to Monsieur Roger, it will be something like you." Monsieur Roger, hidden behind branches and leaves, came nearer, redoubling his precautions. At last, through an opening in the foliage he perceived Paul Solange. He looked at him with profound attention until the lad, having started off with Miette, was some distance away. When the two children had disappeared, Monsieur Roger took the shaded path he had been following and went towards the château. He walked slowly, his head bent down, his mind a prey to mysterious thoughts. He had seen Paul again, and had studied his face, this time appealing to all his coolness, to all his reasoning power. And now a violent, unconquerable emotion bound him. In vain he tried in his sincerity to believe in a too happy and weak illusion, in a too ardent desire, realized only in his imagination. No, he was forced to admit that what he had just beheld had been seen with the eyes of a reasoning and thinking man whose brain was clear and whose mind was not disordered. However, this thought which had taken possession of him, this overwhelming idea of happiness, was it even admissible? And Monsieur Roger, striving to return to the reality, murmured,-- [Illustration] "It is folly! it is folly!" Was it not in fact folly which had led him suddenly to recognize in the features of Paul Solange those of Madame Roger La Morlière? Was it not folly to have noticed a mysterious, surprising, and extraordinary resemblance between the face of Paul Solange and the sweet one of her who had been the mother of George? Yes, it was madness, it was impossible. Yet, in spite of all, Monsieur Roger said to himself, deep down in his heart,-- "If it were my son?" [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XIX. THE FIXED IDEA. For some days Monsieur Roger made no allusion to the secret which now filled his soul, nor to that strange idea which filled his whole brain. He retired into himself, thinking that this folly which had suddenly come to him would go away as suddenly, and again feeling, in spite of all, the certain loss of a dream which had made him so happy. And still, the more he looked at Paul, which he did only on the sly, not daring to look him in the face, as formerly, for fear of betraying himself, the more and more evident and real did the mysterious resemblance appear to him. The Dalize family had remarked the absence of mind and the wandering look of Monsieur Roger. Still, they thought that that was simply because something had reminded him of his sorrows. Even Paul could not help taking notice of the new attitude which Monsieur Roger had taken up with regard to him. The kindness and sympathy which Monsieur Roger had shown him in the first few days of his acquaintance had greatly touched the motherless boy, whose father was far away on the other side of the ocean. Now, for some days, it had seemed to Paul that Monsieur Roger sought to avoid his presence,--he neither spoke to him nor looked at him. Once only Paul had surprised a look which Monsieur Roger had given him, and in this sad look he had discovered an affection so profound that it felt to him almost like a paternal caress. Yet, Paul was forced to acknowledge that his father had never looked at him in that way. One evening, after dinner, Monsieur Dalize led his friend Roger into the garden in front of the house, and said to him,-- "Roger, my dear friend, you have made us uneasy for some days. Now we are alone. What is the matter with you?" "Why, nothing is the matter with me," said Monsieur Roger, surprised at the question. "Why, certainly, something is the matter. What has happened to you?" "I don't understand what you mean?" "Roger, you oblige me to tread on delicate ground,--to ask you a painful question." "Speak." "Well, my dear friend, the change which we have noticed in you for some time is not my fault, is it? Or does it come from the surroundings in which you find yourself placed?" "I don't understand." "I ask if your grief--without your knowing it, perhaps--may not have been revived by the happiness which reigns around you? Perhaps the presence of these children, who nevertheless love you already almost as much as they do me, awakes in your heart a terrible remembrance and cruel regrets?" "No, no," cried Monsieur Roger; "that is not true. But why do you ask me such questions?" "Because, my dear friend, you are mentally ill, and I wish to cure you." "Why, no, I am not. I am not ill either mentally or physically, I swear." "Don't swear," said Monsieur Dalize; "and do me the kindness to hide yourself for some moments behind this clump of trees. I have witnesses who will convince you that I still have good eyes." Monsieur Dalize got up, opened the door of the vestibule, and called Miette. She ran out gayly. "What do you wish, papa?" she said. "I want to see our friend Roger. Is he not in the parlor with you?" "No; he always goes his own way. He does not talk to us any longer; and he has had a very funny, sad look for some time. He is not the same at all." [Illustration] "Very well, my child," said Monsieur Dalize, interrupting the little girl. "Go back to the parlor and send me your brother." Albert soon arrived. "You wanted me, father?" said he. "Yes; I want you to repeat to me what you told your mother this morning." Albert thought for a moment; then he said,-- "About Monsieur Roger?" "Yes." "Well, I told mamma that for some time back I have heard Monsieur Roger walking all night in his room; only this evening I heard him crying." "That is all that I wish to know, my child. You can go back again." When Monsieur Dalize was alone, he walked around the clump of trees to rejoin Roger. "Well," said he, softly, "you have heard. Everybody has noticed your grief. Won't you tell me now what it is that you are suffering, or what secret is torturing you?" "Yes, I will confide this secret to you," said Monsieur Roger, "because you will understand me, and you will not laugh at your unhappy friend." And Monsieur Roger told the whole truth to his friend Dalize. He told him what a singular fixed idea had possessed his brain; he told him of the strange resemblance which he thought he had discovered between the features of his dear and regretted wife and the face of Paul Solange. Monsieur Dalize let his friend pour out his soul to him. He said only, with pitying affection, when Monsieur Roger had finished,-- "My poor friend! it is a dream that is very near insanity." "Alas! that is what I tell myself; and still----" "And still?" repeated Monsieur Dalize. "You still doubt? Come with me." He re-entered the château with Roger. When he reached the parlor he went straight to Paul Solange. "Paul," said he, "to-morrow is the mail, and I shall write to your father." "Ah, sir," answered Paul, "I will give you my letter; maybe you can put it in yours." Monsieur Dalize seemed to be trying to think of something. "How long a time is it," said he, "since I have had the pleasure of seeing your excellent father?" "Two years, sir; but he will surely come to France this winter." Monsieur Dalize looked at Roger; then he whispered in his ear,-- "You have heard." [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XX. FIRE. Certainly Monsieur Roger had heard, certainly he tried to convince himself; but when his looks fell upon Paul, his reason forsook him and he doubted again, and even he hoped. Some days passed in a semi-sadness that made every one feel uneasy. The children, without knowing why, knew that something had happened which troubled the mutual happiness of their life. Monsieur and Madame Dalize alone understood and pitied their friend Roger. They endeavored to interest him in other things,--but Monsieur Roger refused walks, excursions, and the invitations of the neighbors. He had asked Monsieur Dalize to let him alone for a while, as he felt the need of solitude. One morning Albert said to his father,-- "Father, Paul and I wish to go with a fishing-party to the farm, as we did last year. Will you allow us to do so?" "Yes," answered Monsieur Dalize; "but on one condition." "What is it?" "That you take Monsieur Roger with you." Albert looked at his father, and answered,-- "Then you refuse?" "Why, no,--I only make that condition." "Yes, father; but as we cannot fulfil the condition, it is equal to a refusal." "Why cannot you fulfil it? What is there so difficult about it?" "You know as well as I, my dear father, Monsieur Roger has been for some time very sad, very preoccupied; he wants to remain by himself, and consequently he will refuse to go to the farm." "Who knows?" "Well, at all events, I would not dare to ask him." "Well, then, let Paul do it." "But what would Paul say?" "He will say that I am detained here, that I cannot come with you, and that, not thinking it prudent to allow you to go fishing alone, I object to it unless Monsieur Roger will consent to take my place." "Very well, father," said Albert, in a disappointed tone. "We will see whether Paul succeeds; but I am afraid he will not." But Paul did succeed. Monsieur Roger could not resist the request so pleasantly made by the boy. That evening, after dinner, they left home to sleep at the farm, which was situated on the borders of the River Yonne. They had to get up at daybreak in order to begin their fishing. The farmers gave up to Monsieur Roger the only spare room they had in the house. Albert and Paul had to sleep in what they called the turret. This turret, the last mossy vestige of the feudal castle, whose very windows were old loop-holes, now furnished with panes of glass, stood against one end of the farm-house. It was divided into three stories: the first story was a place where they kept hay and straw; in the second there slept a young farm-boy; the higher story was reserved for another servant, who was just now absent. "In war we must do as the warriors do," cried Albert, gayly; "besides, we have not so long to sleep. You may take whichever room you like the best." "I will take the highest story, if you are willing," answered Paul; "the view must be beautiful." "Oh, the view! through the loop-holes and their blackened glasses! However, you can climb up on the old platform of the turret if you wish. It is covered with zinc, like the roof of an ordinary house; but, all the same, one can walk upon it. Come, I will show it to you." The wooden staircase was easily ascended by the boys. When they had reached the room which Paul was to occupy, Albert pointed his hand towards the ceiling and made Paul remark a large bolt. "See," said he: "you have only to get upon a chair to draw this bolt and to push the trap-door, which gives admission to the turret. On the roof you will, in fact, see a beautiful view." "I shall do that to-morrow morning, when I get up," answered Paul. Albert, after he had said good-night to his friend, descended the staircase and slept in the bed which the farm-boy had yielded to him; the latter was to spend the night upon a bed of hay in the first story. A distant clock in the country had struck twelve. Monsieur Roger had opened the window of his room, and, being unable to sleep, was thinking, still the prey to the fixed idea, still occupied by the strange resemblance; and now the two names of Paul and George mingled together in his mind and were applied only to the one and the same dear being. Suddenly the odor of smoke came to him, brought on the breeze. In the cloudy night he saw nothing, and still the smoke grew more and more distinct. Every one was asleep at the farm: no light was burning, no sound was heard. Monsieur Roger bent over the window-sill and looked uneasily around him. The loop-holes of the lower story of the turret were illuminated; then sparks escaped from it, soon followed by jets of flame. At the same instant the wooden door which opened into the yard was violently burst open, and Monsieur Roger saw two young people in their night-gowns fleeing together and crying with a loud voice. This was all so quick that Monsieur Roger had had neither the time nor the thought of calling for help. A spasm of fear had seized him, which was calmed, now that Paul and Albert were safe; but the alarm had been given, and the farm-hands had awakened. But what help could they expect? The nearest village was six miles off; the turret would be burned before the engines could arrive. Monsieur Roger had run out with the others to witness this fire which they could not extinguish. He held Albert in his arms, embraced him, and said to him,-- "But, tell me, where is Paul?" Albert looked around him. "He must be here,--unless fright has made him run away." "No, he is not here. But you are sure that he ran out of the tower, are you not?" "Certainly, since it was he who came and shook me in my bed while I was asleep." At this moment a young boy in a night-gown came out of the crowd, and, approaching Albert, said,-- "No; it was I, sir, who shook you." Monsieur Roger looked at the boy who had just spoken, and he felt a horrible fear take possession of him. He saw that it was the farm-boy. It must have been he whom he had seen fleeing a moment before with Albert. But Paul? Had he remained in the turret? And the flames which licked the walls had almost reached the floor where Paul was sleeping. Was the poor boy still asleep? Had he heard nothing? "A ladder!" cried Monsieur Roger, with a cry of fear and despair. The ladder was immediately brought; but it was impossible to place it against the turret, whose base was in flames. Monsieur Roger in a second had examined the battlements which composed the roof. He ran towards the farm-house, climbed up the staircase to the top story, opened a trap-door, and found himself upon the roof. Crawling on his hands and knees, following the ridge of the roof, he reached the turret, and found himself even with the story where Paul Solange was asleep. The loop-hole was before him. With a blow of his elbow he broke the glass; then he cried,-- "Paul! Paul!" Below the people looked at him in mournful silence. No reply came from the room; he could see nothing through the darkness. Monsieur Roger had a gleam of hope: Paul must have escaped. But a sheet of fire higher than the others threw a sudden light through the loop-hole on the other side. Monsieur Roger was seized with indescribable anguish. Paul Solange was there in his bed. Was he asleep? Monsieur Roger cried out anew with all his force. Paul remained motionless. Then Monsieur Roger leaned over the roof, and said to the people below,-- "Cry at the top of your voices! Make a noise!" But the next moment he made a sign to them to be silent,--for Monsieur Roger had felt somebody crawling behind him, somebody who had followed his perilous path. It was Albert Dalize. "Oh, my friend,--my poor friend!" cried Monsieur Roger; "what can we do? Is it not enough to make you crazy? See! the staircase is in flames. You can hardly pass your arm through the loop-holes. Whether he wakes or not, he is lost." And then he said, with an awful gravity, "Then, it is better he should not awake." "No," replied Albert, quickly; "there is an opening at the top of the tower." "There is an opening?" "Yes, a trap-door, which I showed him only a little while ago, before we went to sleep." Monsieur Roger raised himself upon the roof to a standing position. "What are you doing?" cried Albert. "I am going to try to reach the top of the tower." "It is useless; the bolt opens in the room. Paul only can open it." "Paul can open it." "If he awakes. But how is it he does not awake?" And in his turn Albert called to his friend. Paul made no movement. The flames were gaining, growing more and more light, and the smoke was filtering through the plank floor and filling the room. [Illustration] "Ah, I understand," cried Monsieur Roger, "I understand: he is not sleeping. That is not sleep,--that is asphyxia." "Asphyxia?" repeated Albert, in a voice choked with fear. The scene was terrible. There was the boy, a prisoner, who was going to die under the eyes of those who loved him, and separated from them solely by a circle of stone and of fire,--a circle which they could not cross. He was going to die without any knowledge that he was dying. Asphyxia held him in a death-like trance. Albert saw the floor of the room crack and a tongue of flame shoot up, which lighted up the sleeping face of Paul Solange. Then he heard a strange cry from a terrified and awful voice. The voice cried,-- "George! George!" And it was Monsieur Roger who had twice called that name. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XXI. SAVED. Albert still looked. Then he saw Paul Solange raise himself upon his bed, and, seeing the fire, pass his hands over his eyes and his forehead, jump to the floor, reflect a moment, as if endeavoring to remember something, then seize a chair, get upon it, and pull the bolt of the trap-door. At the same time he remarked that Monsieur Roger was no longer near him. Braving the danger, Monsieur Roger had jumped from the roof, and succeeded in reaching the top of the turret; and now it was he who pulled Paul from the trap-door and gathered him up in his arms. The boy had fainted. Obeying an order shouted by Albert, two farm-boys trusted themselves upon the roof, bringing with them a ladder and ropes. Then Monsieur Roger was able to come down with his precious burden. Albert lent his aid to the rescuer, and Paul was taken down into the yard. At this moment a carriage arrived, which had been driving at the top of its speed. It stopped at the door of the farm-house. Monsieur Dalize appeared. From the château the flames had been seen by a watchman, who had gone to awake his master. Monsieur Dalize, understanding the danger, frightened at what might be happening over there in that farm-house on fire, under that roof which sheltered his child, his best friend, and Paul Solange, had immediately harnessed a horse, with the aid of the watchman, and, telling him to say nothing to Madame Dalize, had departed at the top of his speed. He arrived in time to see Monsieur Roger and Albert, who were bearing Paul with them. He approached, trembling. "Paul!" he cried. "Calm yourself," Monsieur Roger hastened to say: "he has only fainted. It is nothing; but we shall have to take him home." "The carriage is ready." "Then everything is for the best." Paul was seated in the carriage, between Albert and Monsieur Roger. The latter had placed his left arm under Paul's head to sustain him. The poor child was still insensible; but there could be no better remedy for him than the fresh air of the night,--the fresh air which the rapid movement of the carriage caused to penetrate into his lungs. Monsieur Dalize, who drove, turned around frequently, looking at Roger. The latter held in his right hand Paul Solange's hand, and from time to time placed his ear against the boy's breast. "Well?" said Monsieur Dalize, anxiously. "His pulse is still insensible," answered Monsieur Roger; "but stop your horse for a moment." The carriage stopped. Then, being no longer interfered with by the noise, Monsieur Roger again applied his ear, and said,-- "His heart beats; it beats very feebly, but it beats. Now go ahead." Again the carriage started. At the end of some minutes, Monsieur Roger, who still held Paul's wrist between his fingers, suddenly felt beneath the pulsations of the radial artery. He cried out, with a loud voice, but it was a cry of joy,-- "He is saved!" he said to Monsieur Dalize. At that very moment Paul Solange opened his eyes; but he closed them again, as if a heavy sleep, stronger than his will, were weighing upon his eyelids. Again he opened them, and looked with an undecided look, without understanding. At that moment they arrived at the house. Everybody was on foot. The fire at the farm had been perceived by others besides the watchman. They had all risen from their beds, and Madame Dalize, awakened by the noise, had, unfortunately, learned the terrible news. She was awaiting in cruel agony the return of her husband. At last she saw him driving the carriage and bringing with him the beings who were dear to her. Paul, leaning on the arms of Monsieur Roger and Albert, was able to cross the slight distance which separated them from the vestibule. There Monsieur Roger made him sit down in an arm-chair, near the window, which he opened wide. Monsieur and Madame Dalize and Albert stood beside Paul, looking at him silently and uneasily; but they were reassured by the expression of Monsieur Roger. With common accord they left him the care of his dear patient. Monsieur Roger was looking at Paul with tender eyes,--an expression of happiness, of joy, illumined his face: and this expression, which Monsieur Dalize had not seen for long years upon the face of his friend, seemed to him incomprehensible, for he was still ignorant of the extraordinary thing that had happened. At this moment, Miss Miette, in her night-cap, hardly taking time to dress herself, rushed into the vestibule. Her childish sleep had been interrupted by the tumult in the house. She had run down half awake. "Mamma, Mamma," she cried, "what is the matter?" Then, as she ran to throw herself upon her mother's knees, she saw the arm-chair and Paul sitting in it. She stopped at once, and, before they had the time or the thought of stopping her, she had taken Paul's hands, saying to him, very sadly,-- "Paul, Paul, are you sick?" Paul's eyes, which until this time had remained clouded and as if fixed upon something which he could not see, turned to Miette. Little by little they brightened as his senses returned to him: his eyes commenced to sparkle. He looked, and, with a soft but weary voice, he murmured,-- "Miette, my little Miette." [Illustration] Then he turned his head, trying to find out where it was he found himself, who were the people around him. "What has happened?" he asked. Nobody dared to answer. Everybody waited for Monsieur Roger; but Monsieur Roger kept silent. He let nature take care of itself. Indeed, he even hid himself slightly behind Monsieur Dalize. Paul's looks passed over the faces which were in front or beside him; but they did not stop there: they seemed to look for something or some one which they did not meet. Then, with a sudden movement, Paul bent over a little. He saw Monsieur Roger; he started; the blood came back to his face; he tried to speak, and could only let fall a few confused words. But, though they could not understand his words, what they did understand was his gesture. He held out his arms towards Monsieur Roger. The latter advanced and clasped Paul Solange in a fatherly embrace. The effort made by the sick boy had wearied him. He closed his eyes in sleep; but this time it was a healthy sleep, a refreshing sleep. Monsieur Roger and Monsieur Dalize took the sleeping Paul up to his room. And Miss Miette, as she regained her boudoir, said to herself, with astonishment,-- "It is extraordinary! Monsieur Roger embraced Paul as if he were his papa." [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XXII. GEORGE! GEORGE! Monsieur Roger stayed up all the remainder of that night by the side of Paul, whose sleep was calm and dreamless, like the sleep which succeeds to some strong emotion, some great fatigue. Paul was still sleeping in the morning when Monsieur Dalize softly turned the handle of the door and entered the room on tiptoe. His entrance was made with so much precaution that Monsieur Roger himself did not hear him. Monsieur Dalize had some seconds in which to observe Roger. He saw him sitting beside the bed, his eyes fixed upon the child, in a thoughtful attitude. Monsieur Roger was studying the delicate face which lay upon the pillow. He examined its features one by one, and, thinking himself alone, thinking that he would not be interrupted in this examination, he was calling up the mysterious resemblance with which he had already acquainted his friend. But he had not just now begun this study,--he had pursued it all night. The light, however, of the lowered lamp had not been favorable, and the emotion which he felt agitated him still too much to leave his judgment clear. When the morning sun had risen, chasing away all the vague images of the darkness and the doubts of the mind. Roger, having recovered his composure, looked at the child whom he had saved, and asked himself if the child was not his own. He was drawn from these reflections by feeling himself touched upon the shoulder. Monsieur Dalize had approached and asked,-- "Has he passed a good night?" "Excellent," answered Monsieur Roger, in a low tone; "but we must let him sleep as long as he can. Give orders that no noise shall be made around here and that no one shall enter. He must awake of his own accord. When he awakes he will only feel a slight fatigue." "Then I am going to give these orders and tell the good news," said Monsieur Dalize. He retired as softly as he had entered, but by accident, near the door, he stumbled against a chair. He stopped, holding his breath; but Roger made a sign that he could go on. The slight noise had not awakened Paul, or at least had not awakened him completely; he had turned around upon his bed for the first time since he had been placed there. Monsieur Roger, who never took his eyes off him, understood that he was dreaming. The dream seemed to be a painful one, for some feeble groans and murmurs escaped him. Then upon the face of the sleeping child appeared an expression of great fear. Monsieur Roger did not wish to leave Paul a prey to such a dream. He approached near to raise him a little upon the bed. The moment that Monsieur Roger's two hands softly touched Paul's head, the expression of fear disappeared, the features became quiet and calm, the groans ceased, and suddenly there escaped his lips the single word "Papa." Monsieur Roger started. With his trembling hands he still sustained the child; he bent over, ready to embrace him, forgetting that the child was sleeping and dreaming. Monsieur Roger was about to utter the name which choked him,--"My son." Then Paul Solange opened his eyes. He looked up dreamily; then he recognized the face before him, and surprise mingled with affection in his tones. "Monsieur Roger!" he said. He looked around him, saw that he was in his own room, and remembered nothing else. He asked,-- "Why are you here, Monsieur Roger?" Mastering himself, Monsieur Roger answered that he had come to find out how Paul was, as he had seen him suffering the night before. "I, suffering?" asked Paul. Then he sought to remember, and, all of a sudden, he cried, "The fire over there at the farm!" Although his memory had not entirely returned, he recollected something. He hesitated to speak. Then, with an anxious voice, he asked,-- "And Albert?" "Albert," answered Monsieur Roger, "he is below; and everybody is waiting until you come down to breakfast." "Then there were no accidents?" "No." "How fortunate! I will dress myself and be down in a minute." And, in fact, in a few minutes Paul was ready, and descended leaning on Monsieur Roger's arm. The latter, as they entered the dining-room, made a sign to them that they should all keep silence: he did not wish that they should fatigue the tired mind of the child with premature questions; but when they were sitting at the table, Paul, addressing Albert, said,-- "Tell me what passed last night. It is strange I scarcely remember." "No," said Madame Dalize: "we are at table for breakfast, and we have all need for food,--you, Paul, above all. Come, now, let us eat; a little later we may talk." [Illustration] "It is well said," said Monsieur Dalize. There was nothing to do but to obey. And, indeed, Paul was glad to do so, for he was very hungry. He had lost so much strength that the stomach for the moment was more interesting to him than the brain. They breakfasted, and then they went out upon the lawn before the château, under a large walnut-tree, which every day gave its hospitable shade to the Dalize family and their guests. "Well, my dear Paul," said Monsieur Dalize, "how are you at present?" "Very well, indeed, sir, very well," answered Paul. "I was a little feeble when I first awoke, but now,--now----" He stopped speaking; he seemed lost in thought. "What is the matter?" asked Albert. "I am thinking of last night at the farm,--the fire." "Oh, that was nothing," said Albert. "But," continued Paul, "how did we get back here?" "In the carriage. Father came for us and brought us home." "And how did we leave the farm?" Monsieur Roger followed with rapt attention the workings of Paul's memory. He was waiting in burning anxiety the moment when Paul should remember. One principal fact, only one thing occupied his attention. Would Paul remember how and by whom he had been borne from the torpor which was strangling him? Would he remember that cry,--that name which had had the miraculous power to awake him, to bring him back to life? If Paul remembered that, then, perhaps---- And again Monsieur Roger was a prey to his fixed idea,--to his stroke of folly, as Monsieur Dalize called it. The latter, besides, knew nothing as yet, and Monsieur Roger counted upon the sudden revelation of this extraordinary fact to shake his conviction. But Paul had repeated his question. He asked,-- "How did we leave the farm-house? How were we saved?" And as Albert did not know whether he should speak, whether he should tell everything, Paul continued: "But speak, explain to me: I am trying to find out. I cannot remember; and that gives me pain here." And he touched his head. Monsieur Roger made a sign to Albert, and the latter spoke: "Well, do you remember the turret, where we had our rooms? You slept above, I below. Do you remember the trap-door that I showed you? In the middle of the night I felt myself awakened by somebody, and I followed him. In my half sleep I thought that this some one was you, my poor friend; but, alas! you remained above; you were sleeping without fear. Why, it was Monsieur Roger who first saw the danger that you were in." Paul, while Albert was speaking, had bent his head, seeking in his memory and beginning to put in order his scattered thoughts. When Albert pronounced the name of Monsieur Roger, Paul raised his eyes towards him with a look which showed that he would soon remember. "And afterwards?" said he. "And afterwards Monsieur Roger climbed upon the roof, at the risk of his life, and reached the loop-hole which opened into your chamber. He broke the glass of the window; but you did not hear him: the smoke which was issuing through the floor had made you insensible,--had almost asphyxiated you." "Ah, I remember!" cried Paul. "I was sleeping, and, at the same time, I was not sleeping. I knew that I was exposed to some great danger, but I had not the strength to make a movement. I seemed paralyzed. I heard cries and confused murmurs, sounds of people coming and going. I felt that I ought to rise and flee, but that was impossible. My arms, my legs would not obey me; my eyelids, which I attempted to open, were of lead. I soon thought that everything was finished, that I was lost; and still I was saying to myself that I might be raised out of this stupor. It seemed to me that the efforts of some one outside might be so, that an order, a prayer might give back to my will the power which it had lost; but the stupor took hold of me more and more intensely. I was going to abandon myself to it, when, all of a sudden, I heard myself called. Yes, somebody called me; but not in the same way that I have been called before. In that cry there was such a command, such a prayer, so much faith, that my will at once recovered strength to make my body obey it. I roused myself; I saw and I understood, and, luckily, I remembered the trap-door which you had shown me. I could scarcely lift it; but there was some one there,--yes, some one who saved me." Paul Solange uttered a great cry. "Ah," said he, "it was Monsieur Roger!" And he ran to throw himself into the arms which Monsieur Roger extended to him. Miss Miette profited by the occasion to wipe her eyes, which this scene had filled with big tears in spite of herself. Then she turned to Paul, and said,-- "But the one who called to you? Was it true? It was not a dream?" "Oh, no; it was some one. But who was it?" "It was Monsieur Roger," answered Albert. "And so you understood him?" continued Miette, very much interested. "And he called you loudly by your name, 'Paul! Paul!'" Paul Solange did not answer. This question had suddenly set him to thinking. No, he had not heard himself called thus. But how had he been called? Seeing that Paul was silent, Albert answered his little sister's question: "Certainly," said he, "he called Paul by his name." Then he interrupted himself, and, remembering all of a sudden: "No," cried he; "Monsieur Roger called out another name." "What other name?" asked Monsieur Dalize, much surprised. "He cried out, 'George! George!'" Monsieur Dalize turned his head towards Roger and saw the eyes of his friend fixed upon his own. He understood at once. Poor Roger was still a slave to the same thought, the same illusion. Madame Dalize and Miette, who were acquainted with the sorrows of Monsieur Roger, imagined that in this moment of trouble he had in spite of himself called up the image of his child. Paul, very gravely, was dreamily saying to himself that the name of George was the name which he had heard, and that it was to the sound of this name that he had answered, and he was asking himself the mysterious reason for such a fact. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XXIII. A PROOF? Monsieur Dalize took his friend Roger by the arm, and they walked together down one of the solitary pathways of the park. When they were some distance off from Madame Dalize and the children, Monsieur Dalize stopped, looked his friend squarely in the eyes, and said, in a faltering tone,-- "Then you still think it? You have retained that foolish idea? You think that Paul----?" "Yes," interrupted Monsieur Roger, in a firm voice, and without avoiding the eyes of his friend, "I think it, and more than that." Then, lowering his head, in a softened tone, but without hesitation, he said, "I think that Paul is my son." Monsieur Dalize looked at his friend with a feeling of real pity. "Your son?" he said. "You think that Paul is your son? And on what do you found this improbable, this impossible belief? Upon a likeness which your sorrowful spirit persists in tracing. Truly, my dear Roger, you grieve me. I thought you had a firmer as well as a clearer head. To whom could you confide such absurd ideas?" "To you, in the first place, as I have already done," said Monsieur Roger, gravely. "The resemblance which you doubt, and which, in fact, seems impossible to prove, is not a resemblance which I see between Paul and George, but between Paul and her who was his mother; of that I am sure." "You are sure?" "Yes; and in speaking thus I am in possession of all my senses, as you see. Now, would you like to know what further clue I have? Perhaps I have one. I will tell it to you." Here Monsieur Roger interrupted himself. "No," said he: "you will laugh at me." "Speak," said Monsieur Dalize. "I am sorry for you, and I shall not laugh at your delusion. Speak. I will listen." "Well," said Monsieur Roger, "this very morning, when you left the room, the noise that you made troubled the sleep of Paul; a dream passed through his brain, and I followed all its phases. I saw that Paul was going over the terrible scene of the night before; I knew that by the terror of his face and by the murmur of his lips. He evidently thought himself exposed to danger; then it seemed as if he heard something, as if he knew that help was at hand. He made a movement, as if to extend his hands, and from his mouth came this word, 'Papa.'" Monsieur Roger looked at his friend, who remained silent. "You have not understood?" he said. Monsieur Dalize shook his head. "Ah, but I understood," continued Monsieur Roger; "I am certain that I understood. In his dream Paul--no, no, not Paul, but George, my little George--had heard himself called as ten years ago he had been called at the time of the shipwreck, during the fire on shipboard, and he was answering to that call; and it was to no stranger that he was answering; it was not to Monsieur Roger; no, it was to his father: it was to me." Monsieur Roger stopped, seeking some other proof which he might furnish to Monsieur Dalize. The latter was plunged in thought; his friend's faith commenced to shake his doubt. He certainly did not share Roger's idea, but he was saying to himself that perhaps this idea was not so impossible as it would seem at first sight. Roger continued, hesitating from the moment he had to pronounce the name of Paul Solange: "You remember exactly the story that Paul told. Were you not struck with it? Did not Paul acknowledge that in his torpor, in his semi-asphyxia, he had called for help, called to his assistance some unknown force which would shake and awake his dazed and half-paralyzed will? And did not this help come, this sudden force, when he felt himself called? Now, how many times I had cried out 'Paul' without waking the child! Paul was not his name; he did not hear it. I had to shout to him, making use of his own name, his real name. I cried out, 'George!' and George heard and understood me. George was saved." Monsieur Dalize listened attentively: he was following up a train of reasoning. At the end of some moments he answered Monsieur Roger, who was awaiting with impatience the result of his thoughts. "Alas, my poor friend! in spite of all my reason tells me, I should like to leave to you your hope, but it is impossible. I have seen Paul's father; I know him; I have spoken to him, I have touched him; that father is not a shadow,--he exists in flesh and blood. You have heard Paul himself speak of him. In a few months he will come to Paris; you will see him; and then you will be convinced." "But have you seen the birth-register of Paul Solange?" asked Monsieur Roger. "Have I seen it? I may have done so, but I don't remember just now." "But that register must have been made; it must be in France, in the hands of some one." "Certainly." "Where can it be?" "At the Lyceum, in the dockets of the registrar." "Well, my friend, my dear friend, I must see it. You understand?" "Yes, I understand. You wish to have under your own eyes the proof of your mistake. You shall have it. As the guardian of Paul Solange, I will write the registrar to send me a copy of that birth-register. Are you satisfied?" "Yes." "And now, I ask you to be calm, to keep cool." "Oh, don't be uneasy about me," answered Monsieur Roger. Then the two friends rejoined the group which they had left. Miette rose when she saw Monsieur Roger. "Ah!" she cried, "Monsieur Roger is going to tell us that." "That? What?" asked Monsieur Dalize. "Why, what asphyxia is," answered Miette. "Ah, my friend," said Monsieur Dalize, turning to Roger, "I will leave the word to you." "Very well," answered Monsieur Roger. "Asphyxia is,--it is----" And as Monsieur Roger was seeking for some easy words in which to explain himself, Miette cried out, with a laugh,-- "Perhaps you don't know yourself,--you who know everything?" "Yes, I know it," answered Monsieur Roger, with a smile; "but, in order to tell you, I must first explain to you what is the formation of the blood, and tell you something of oxygen and carbonic acid, and----" "Well, tell us," cried Miette, "if you think it will interest us.--It will, won't it, Paul?" Paul bent his head. Monsieur Roger saw this gesture, and replied,-- "Well, then, I am going to tell you." [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XXIV. THE AIR AND THE LUNGS. "In order to live," continued Monsieur Roger, "you must breathe. You don't doubt that?" "No," said Miss Miette, seriously. "Now, respiration consists in the absorption by the blood of some of the oxygen of the air and in breathing out carbonic acid. The oxygen, in combining with the carbon and hydrogen of the blood, excites a real combustion in the lungs, which results in the production of heat and in the exhalation of vapor and carbonic acid." Monsieur Roger was going to continue in the same scientific tone, when Monsieur Dalize remarked to him that his explanation did not seem to be at all understood by the children. The latter, a little embarrassed, held their tongues. "You are right," replied Monsieur Roger, addressing Monsieur Dalize; "that is a silence which is certainly not very flattering. I intend to profit by this lesson by beginning once more at the beginning." "You are right," said Miette. "Well, then, respiration is the very important function whose object is to introduce air into our lungs. "What are the lungs, and why is it necessary to introduce air into them? And, in the first place, how is this air introduced? Through the mouth and through the nose. Then it passes through the larynx and arrives at a large tube, which is called the trachea, or wind-pipe. It is this tube which, as I shall show you, forms the two lungs. As it enters the chest, this tube branches out into two smaller tubes, which are called the primary bronches. One of these bronches goes to the right, to make the right lung; the other to the left, to make the left lung. Each primary bronche is soon divided into a number of little tubes, called secondary bronches. The secondary bronches divide up into a number of other tubes, which are still smaller; and so on, and so on. Imagine a tree with two branches, one spreading towards the right, and the other towards the left. Upon these two branches grow other branches; upon these other branches still others, and so on. The branches become smaller and smaller until they become mere twigs. Now, imagine these twigs ending in leaves, and you will have some idea of that which is sometimes called the pulmonary tree, with its thousand branches." "No," said Miette: "bronches." "Bronches,--you are right," said Monsieur Roger, who could not help smiling at Miss Miette. "The tree which I have taken as a comparison finishes by dividing itself into twigs, which, as I have said, end in leaves. But you know, of course, that the twigs of the pulmonary tree in our breast do not end in leaves. They end in a sort of very small cells, surrounded by very thin walls. These cells are so small that they need a microscope to detect them, and their walls are very, very thin; the cells are all stuck fast together, and together they constitute a spongy mass, which is the lung. Now let us pass to the second question: Why is it necessary to introduce air into the lungs?" "Yes," said Miette; "let us pass to that." [Illustration] "The blood, in going out of the heart, circulates to all the parts of the body in order to make necessary repairs; at the same time it charges itself with all the old matter which has been used up and is no longer any good and carries it along. Now, what is it going to do with this old matter? It will burn it. Where will it burn it? In the lungs. Now, there can be no combustion when there is no air. The blood, wishing to burn its waste matter, and wishing also to purify the alimentary principles which the veins have drawn from the stomach, has need of air. Where will it find it? In the lungs. And that is why it is necessary to introduce air into our lungs, or, in other words, that is why we breathe. The lungs are a simple intermediary between the air and the blood. Among the cells of the lungs veins finer than hair wind and turn. These veins gather up the blood filled with waste matter. It is blood of a black color, which is called venous blood. The walls of the veins which transport the blood are so thin that air, under the atmospheric pressure,--this pressure which I have told you all about,--passes through them and into the blood. Then the venous blood charges itself with the oxygen contained in the air, and frees itself from what I have called its waste material, and which is nothing less than carbon. Immediately its aspect changes. This venous blood becomes what is called arterial blood; this black blood becomes rich vermilion,--it is regenerated. It goes out again to carry life to all our organs. Now, this time," asked Monsieur Roger, pausing, "have I made myself understood?" [Illustration] "Yes," said Miette, speaking both for Paul and for herself; "yes, we have understood,--except when you speak of oxygen, of carbon, and of combustion." "Oh, I was wrong to speak of them," answered Monsieur Roger, pretending to be vexed. "That may be," answered Miss Miette, very calmly; "but as you did speak of them, you must tell us what they are." "Yes, you must, my friend," remarked Monsieur Dalize, taking sides with his little girl. "Mustn't he, papa? mustn't Monsieur Roger explain?" asked Miette. "Come, now," said Monsieur Roger, in a resigned tone. "You must know, then, that air is composed of two gases,--oxygen and nitrogen; therefore, when we breathe, we send into our lungs oxygen and nitrogen. You might think, when we throw out this air, when we exhale,--you might think, I say, that this air coming out of our lungs is still composed of oxygen and of nitrogen in the same proportions. Now, it is not so at all. The quantity of nitrogen has not varied, but, in the first place, there is less oxygen, and there is another gas,--carbonic acid gas; where, then, is the oxygen which we have not exhaled, and whence comes this carbonic acid which we did not inhale? Then, besides, in the air exhaled there is vapor. Where does that come from? These phenomena result from the combustion of which I speak; but, in order that you should understand how this combustion occurs, I must explain to you what is oxygen and what is nitrogen. And as it is a long story, you must let me put it off till this evening; then I will talk until you are weary, my dear little Miette." Miette looked at Albert and Paul, and answered for them with remarkable frankness: "It will be only right if you do weary us. It is we who asked you, and, besides, we have so often wearied you that it is only right you should have your revenge on us. Still----" "Still, what?" "Still, we can trust you," added Miette, laughing, and throwing her arms around Roger's neck. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XXV. OXYGEN. "We were saying that oxygen----" cried Miss Miette, with a smile, that evening, after dinner, seeing that Monsieur Roger had completely forgotten his promise. "Yes," Monsieur Dalize hastened to add, as he wished to distract his friend from sad thoughts; "yes, my dear Roger, we were saying that oxygen----" "Is a gas," continued Monsieur Roger, good-humoredly. "Yes, it is a gas; and Miette, I suppose, will want to ask me, 'What is gas?'" "Certainly," said Miette. "Well, it is only recently that we have found out, although the old scientists, who called themselves alchemists, had remarked that besides those things that come within reach of our senses there also exists something invisible, impalpable; and, as their scientific methods did not enable them to detect this thing, they had considered it a portion of the spirit land; and indeed some of the names which they adopted under this idea still remain in common use. Don't we often call alcohol 'spirits of wine'? As these ancients did not see the air which surrounded them, it was difficult for them to know that men live in an ocean of gas, in the same way as fish live in water; and they could not imagine that air is a matter just as much as water is. You remember that universal gravitation was discovered through----" "The fall of an apple," said Miette. "Yes; and that was something that every one knew; it was a very common fact that an apple would fall. Well, it was another common fact, another well-known thing, which enabled the Fleming Van Helmont to discover in the seventeenth century the real existence of gases, or at least of a gas. Van Helmont, one winter evening, was struck by the difference between the bulk of the wood which burned on his hearth and the bulk of the ashes left by the wood after its combustion. He wished to examine into this phenomenon, and he made some experiments. He readily found that sixty-two pounds of charcoal left, after combustion, only one pound of ashes. Now, what had become of the other sixty-one pounds? Reason showed him that they had been transformed into something invisible, or, according to the language of the times, into some aërial spirit. This something Van Helmont called 'gaast,' which in Flemish means spirit, and which is the same word as our ghost. From the word gaast we have made our word gas. The gas which Van Helmont discovered was, as we now know, carbonic acid. This scientist made another experiment which caused him to think a good deal, but which he could not explain. Now, we can repeat this experiment, if it will give you any pleasure." "Certainly," said Miette; "what shall I bring you?" "Only two things,--a soup-plate and a candle." Monsieur Roger lit the candle and placed it in the middle of the soup-plate, which he had filled with water. Then he sought among the instruments which had come with the air-pump, and found a little glass globe. He placed the globe over the candle in the middle of the plate. Very soon, as if by a species of suction, the water of the plate rose in the globe; then the candle went out. "Can Miss Miette explain to me what she has just seen?" said Monsieur Roger. [Illustration] Miette reflected, and said,-- "As the water rose in the globe, it must have been because the air had left the globe, since the water came to take its place." "Yes," answered Monsieur Roger; "but the air could not leave the globe, as there is no opening in the globe on top, and below it there is water. It did not leave the globe, but it diminished. Now, tell me why it diminished." "Ah, I cannot tell you." "Well, Van Helmont was in just your position. He could not know anything about the cause of this diminution, because he was ignorant of the composition of the air, which was not discovered until the next century by the celebrated French chemist Lavoisier. Now, this is how Lavoisier arrived at this important discovery. In the first place, he knew that metals, when they are calcined,--that is to say, when they are exposed to the action of fire,--increase in weight. This fact had been remarked before his time by Dr. Jehan Rey, under the following circumstances: A druggist named Brun came one day to consult the doctor. Rey asked to be allowed to feel his pulse. "'But I am not sick,' cried the druggist. "'Then what are you doing here?' said the doctor. "'I come to consult you.' "'Then you must be sick.' "'Not at all. I come to consult you not for sickness, but in regard to an extraordinary thing which occurred in my laboratory.' "'What was it?' asked Rey, beginning to be interested. "'I had to calcine two pounds six ounces of tin. I weighed it carefully and then calcined it, and after the operation I weighed it again by chance, and what was my astonishment to find two pounds and thirteen ounces! Whence come these extra seven ounces? That is what I could not explain to myself, and that is why I came to consult you.' "Rey tried the same experiment again and again, and finally concluded that the increase of weight came from combination with some part of the air. "It is probable that this explanation did not satisfy the druggist; and yet the doctor was right. The increase came from the combination of the metal with that part of the air which Lavoisier called oxygen. That great chemist, after long study, declared that air was not a simple body, but that it was a composite formed of two bodies, of two gases,--oxygen and nitrogen. This opinion, running counter as it did to all preconceived ideas, raised a storm around the head of the learned man. He was looked upon as a fool, as an imbecile, as an ignoramus. That is the usual way. "Lavoisier resolved to show to the unbelievers the two bodies whose existence he had announced. In the experiment of increasing the weight of metals during calcination, an experiment which has been often repeated since Jehan Rey's time, either tin or lead had always been used. Now, these metals, during calcination, absorb a good deal of oxygen from the air, but, once they have absorbed it, they do not give it up again. Lavoisier abandoned tin and lead, and made use of a liquid metal called mercury. Mercury possesses not only the property of combining with the oxygen of the air when it is heated, but also that of giving back this oxygen as soon as the boiling-point is passed. The chemist put mercury in a glass retort whose neck was very long and bent over twice. The retort was placed upon an oven in such a way that the bent end of the neck opened into the top of the globe full of air, placed in a tube also full of mercury. By means of a bent tube, a little air had been sucked out of the globe in such a way that the mercury in the tube, finding the pressure diminished, had risen a slight distance in the globe. In this manner the height of the mercury in the globe was very readily seen. The level of the mercury in the globe was noted exactly, as well as the temperature and the pressure. Everything being now ready for the experiment, Lavoisier heated the mercury in the retort to the boiling-point, and kept it on the fire for twelve days. The mercury became covered with red pellicles, whose number increased towards the seventh and eighth days; at the end of the twelfth day, as the pellicles did not increase, Lavoisier discontinued the heat. Then he found out that the mercury had risen in the globe much higher than before he had begun the experiment, which indicated that the air contained in the globe had diminished. The air which remained in the globe had become a gas which was unfit either for combustion or for respiration; in fact, it was nitrogen. But the air which had disappeared from the globe, where had it gone to? What had become of it?" "Yes," said Miette, "it is like the air of our globe just now. Where has it gone?" "Wait a moment. Let us confine ourselves to Lavoisier's experiment." "We are listening." "Well, Lavoisier decided that the air which had disappeared could not have escaped from the globe, because that was closed on all sides. He examined the mercury. It seemed in very much the same state. What difference was there? None, excepting the red pellicles. Then it was in the pellicles that he must seek for the air which had disappeared. So the red pellicles were taken up and heated in a little retort, furnished with a tube which could gather the gas; under the action of heat the pellicles were decomposed. Lavoisier obtained mercury and a gas. The quantity of gas which he obtained represented the exact difference between the original bulk of the air in the globe and the bulk of the gas which the globe held at the end of the experiment. Therefore Lavoisier had not been deceived. The air which had disappeared from the globe had been found. This gas restored from the red pellicles was much better fitted than the air of the atmosphere for combustion and respiration. When a candle was placed in it, it burned with a dazzling light. A piece of charcoal, instead of consuming quietly, as in ordinary air, burned with a flame and with a sort of crackling sound, and with a light so strong that the eye could hardly bear it. That gas was oxygen." "And so the doubters were convinced," said Miette. "Or at least they ought to have been," added Monsieur Dalize, philosophically. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XXVI. WHY WATER PUTS OUT FIRE. "You have never seen oxygen any more than you have seen air," continued Monsieur Roger. "You have never seen it, and you never will see it with your eyes,--for those organs are very imperfect. I need not therefore say oxygen is a colorless gas; and yet I will say it to you by force of habit. All books of chemistry begin in this way. Besides this, it is without smell and without taste. Oxygen is extremely well fitted for combustion. A half-extinguished candle--that is, one whose wick is still burning but without flame--will relight instantly if placed in a globe full of oxygen. Almost all the metals, except the precious metals, such as gold, silver, and platinum, burn, or oxydize more or less rapidly, when they are put in contact with oxygen; for, besides those lively combustions, in which metals, or other materials, become hot and are maintained in a state of incandescence, there are other kinds of burning which may be called slow combustions. You have often had under your eyes, without knowing it, examples of these slow combustions. For example, you have seen bits of iron left in the air, or in the water, and covered with a dark-red or light-red matter." "That is rust," said Miette. "Yes, that is what they call rust; and this rust is nothing less than the product of the combustion of the iron. The oxygen which is found in the air, or the water, has come in contact with the bit of iron and has made it burn. It is a slow combustion, without flames, but it nevertheless releases some heat. Verdigris, in some of its forms, is nothing less than the product of the combustion----" "Of copper," interrupted Miette again. "Miette has said it. These metals burn when they come in contact with the oxygen of the air,--or, in the language of science, they are oxydized; and this oxydation is simple combustion. Therefore, oxygen is the principal agent in combustion. The process which we call burning is due to the oxygen uniting itself to some combustible body. There is no doubt on that subject, for it has been found that the weight of the products of combustion is equal to the sum of the weight of the body which burns and that of the oxygen which combines with it. In the experiment which we have made, if the oxygen has diminished in the globe, if it seems to have disappeared, it is because it has united itself and combined with the carbon of the candle to form the flame. In the same way in Lavoisier's experiment it had combined itself with the mercury to form the red pellicles. The candle had gone out when all the oxygen in the globe had been absorbed; the red pellicles had ceased to form when they found no more oxygen. In this way Lavoisier discovered that the air was formed of a mixture of two gases: the first was oxygen, of which we have just spoken; the second was nitrogen. The nitrogen, which is also a colorless, odorless, and tasteless gas, possesses some qualities that are precisely contrary to those of oxygen. Oxygen is the agent of combustion. Nitrogen extinguishes bodies in combustion. Oxygen is a gas indispensable to our existence, with which our lungs breathe, and which revives our being. The nitrogen, on the contrary, contains no properties that are directly useful to the body. Animals placed in a globe full of nitrogen perish of asphyxia. In other words, they drown in the gas, or are smothered by it. I suppose you will ask me what is the use of this gas, and why it enters into the composition of the air? You will ask it with all the more curiosity when you know that the air contains four times as much nitrogen as oxygen; to be exact, a hundred cubic feet of air contains seventy-nine cubic feet of nitrogen and twenty-one cubic feet of oxygen. Now, the important part that nitrogen plays is to moderate the action of the oxygen in respiration. You may compare this nitrogen mixed with oxygen to the water which you put in a glass of wine to temper it. Nitrogen possesses also another property which is more general: it is one of the essential elements in a certain number of mineral and vegetable substances and the larger portion of animal substances. There are certain compounds containing nitrogen which are indispensable to our food. An animal nourished entirely on food which is destitute of nitrogen would become weak and would soon die." "Excuse me, Monsieur Roger," said Albert Dalize: "how can nitrogen enter into our food?" "That is a very good question," added Miette, laughing; "surely you cannot eat nitrogen and you cannot eat gas." "The question is indeed a very sensible one," answered Monsieur Roger; "but this is how nitrogen enters into our food. We are carnivorous, are we not? we eat meat and flesh of animals. And what flesh do we chiefly eat? The flesh of sheep and of cattle. Sheep and cattle are herbivorous: they feed on herbs, on vegetables. Now, vegetables contain nitrogen. They have taken this nitrogen, either directly or indirectly, from the atmosphere and have fixed it in their tissues. Herbivorous animals, in eating vegetables, eat nitrogen, and we, who are carnivorous, we also eat nitrogen, since we eat the herbivorous animals. We also eat vegetable food, many kinds of which contain more or less nitrogen. Do you understand?" "Yes, I understand," said Miette. "There is nobody living who really understands this matter very well, for it is an extremely obscure, though very important, subject," replied Monsieur Roger. "But, to resume our explanation. Besides oxygen and nitrogen, there is also in the air a little carbonic acid and vapor. The carbonic acid will bring us back to the point from which we started,--the phenomenon of breathing. Carbonic acid is a gas formed by oxygen and carbon. The carbon is a body which is found under a large variety of forms. It has two or more varieties,--it is either pure or mixed with impurities. Its varieties can be united in two groups. The first group comprises the diamond and graphite, or plumbago, which are natural carbon. The second group comprises coal, charcoal, and the soot of a chimney, which we may call, for convenience, artificial carbon. When oxygen finds itself in contact with carbonaceous matter,--that is to say, with matter that contains carbon,--and when the surrounding temperature has reached the proper degree of heat, carbonic acid begins to be formed. In the oven and the furnace, coal and charcoal mingle with the oxygen of the air and give the necessary heat; but it is first necessary that by the aid of a match, paper, and kindling-wood you should have furnished the temperature at which oxygen can join with the carbon in order to burn it. That is what we may call an active or a live combustion; but there can also be a slow combustion of carbon,--a combustion without flame, and still giving out heat. It is this combustion which goes on in our body by means of respiration." "Ah, now we have come around to it!" cried Miette. "That is the very thing I was inquiring about." "Well, now that we have come around to it," answered Monsieur Roger, "tell me what I began to say to you on the subject of respiration." "That is not very difficult," answered Miette, in her quiet manner. "You told us that we swallowed oxygen and gave out carbonic acid; and you also said, 'Whence comes this carbonic acid? From combustion.' That is why I said, just now, 'We have come around to it.'" "Very good,--very good, indeed, only we do not _swallow_ oxygen, but we _inhale_ it," said Monsieur Dalize, charmed with the cleverness of his little girl. "What, then, is the cause of this production of carbonic acid?" continued Monsieur Roger. "You don't know? Well, I am going to tell you. The oxygen of the air which we breathe arrives into our lungs and finds itself in contact with the carbon in the black or venous blood. The carbon contained here joins with the oxygen, and forms the carbonic acid which we breathe out. This is a real, a slow combustion which takes place not only in our lungs,--as I said at first, in order not to make the explanation too difficult,--but also in all the different portions of our body. The air composed of oxygen and nitrogen--for the nitrogen enters naturally with the oxygen--penetrates into the pulmonary cells, spreads itself through the blood, and is borne through the numberless little capillary vessels. It is in these little vessels that combustion takes place,--that is to say, that the oxygen unites with the carbon and that carbonic acid is formed. This carbonic acid circulates, dissolved in the blood, until it can escape out of it. It is in the lungs that it finds liberty. When it arrives there it escapes from the blood, is exhaled, and is at once replaced by the new oxygen and the new nitrogen which arrive from outside. The nitrogen absorbed in aspiration at the same time as the oxygen is found to be of very much the same quantity when it goes out. There has therefore been no appreciable absorption of nitrogen. Now, this slow combustion causes the heat of our body; in fact, what is called the animal-heat is due to the caloric set free at the moment when the oxygen is converted into carbonic acid, in the same way as in all combustion of carbon. In conclusion, I will remind you that our digestion is exercised on two sorts of food,--nitrogenous food and carbonaceous food. Nitrogenous food--like fibrin, which is the chief substance in flesh; albumen, which is the principal substance of the egg; caseine, the principal substance of milk; legumine, of peas and beans--is assimilated in our organs, which they regenerate, which they rebuild continually. Carbonaceous foods--like the starch of the potato, of sugar, alcohol, oils, and the fat of animals--do not assimilate; they do not increase at all the substance of our muscles or the solidity of our bones. It is they which are burned and which aid in burning those waste materials of the venous blood of which I have already spoken. Still, many starchy foods do contain some nutritive principles, but in very small quantity. You will understand how little when you know that you would have to eat about fifteen pounds of potatoes to give your body the force that would be given it by a single pound of beef." "Oh," said Miette, "I don't like beef; but fifteen pounds of potatoes,--I would care still less to eat so much at once." "All the less that they would fatten you perceptibly," replied Monsieur Roger; "in fact, it is the carbonaceous foods which fatten. If they are introduced into the body in too great a quantity, they do not find enough oxygen to burn them, and they are deposited in the adipose or fatty tissue, where they will be useless and often harmful. You see how indispensable oxygen is to human life, and you now understand that if respiration does not go on with regularity, if the oxygen of your room should become exhausted, if the lungs were filled with carbonic acid produced by the combustion of fuel outside the body, there would follow at first a great deal of difficulty in breathing, then fainting, torpor, and, finally, asphyxia." These last words, pronounced by Monsieur Roger with much emotion, brought before them a remembrance so recent and so terrible that all remained silent and thoughtful. It was Miss Miette who first broke the spell by asking a new question of her friend Roger. Asphyxia had recalled to her the fire. Then she had thought of the manner of extinguishing fire, and she said, all of a sudden, her idea translating itself upon her lips almost without consciousness,-- "Why does water extinguish fire?" Monsieur Roger, drawn out of his thoughts by this question, raised his head, looked at Miette, and said to her,-- "In the first place, do you know what water is?" "No; but you were going to tell me." "All right. The celebrated Lavoisier, after having shown that air is not a simple body, but that it is composed of two gases, next turned his attention to the study of water, which was also, up to that time, considered to be an element; that is, a simple body. He studied it so skilfully that he succeeded in showing that water was formed by the combination of two gases." "Of two gases!--water?" cried Miette. "Certainly, of two gases. One of these gases is oxygen, which we have already spoken of, and the other is hydrogen." "Which we are going to speak of," added Miette. "Of course," answered Monsieur Roger, "since you wish it. But it was not Lavoisier, however, who first discovered hydrogen. This gas had been discovered before his time by the chemists Paracelsus and Boyle, who had found out that in placing iron or zinc in contact with an acid called sulphuric acid, there was disengaged an air "like a breath." This air "like a breath" is what we now call hydrogen. Lavoisier, with the assistance of the chemist Meusnier, proved that it was this gas which in combining with oxygen formed water. In order to do this he blew a current of hydrogen into a retort filled with oxygen. As this hydrogen penetrated into the retort, he set fire to it by means of electric sparks. Two stop-cocks regulated the proper proportions of the oxygen and the hydrogen in the retort. When the combustion took place, they saw water form in drops upon the sides of the retort and unite at the bottom. Water was therefore the product of the combination of hydrogen with oxygen. The following anecdote is told in regard to this combination. A chemist of the last century, who was fond of flattery, was engaged to give some lessons to a young prince of the blood royal. When he came to explain the composition of water, he prepared before his scholar the necessary apparatus for making the combination of hydrogen and oxygen, and, at the moment when he was about to send the electric spark into the retort, he said, bowing his head,-- [Illustration] "'If it please your Royal Highness, this hydrogen and oxygen are about to have the honor of combining before you.' "I don't know if the hydrogen and the oxygen were aware of the honor which was being done them; but certainly they combined with no more manners than if their spectator was an ordinary boy. Now, I may add, you must not confound combinations with mixtures; thus, air is a mixture of oxygen and nitrogen, while water is a combination of hydrogen and oxygen. This combination is a union of the molecules of the two gases which produces a composite body formed of new molecules. These new molecules are water. Now, this last word recalls to me Miette's question." "Yes," said the latter: "why does water put out fire?" "There are two reasons for this phenomenon," said Monsieur Roger: "the first is that water thrown upon the fire forms around the matter in combustion a thick cloud, or vapor, which prevents the air from reaching it. The wood, which was burning--that is to say, which was mingling with the oxygen of the air--finds its communication intercepted. The humid vapor has interposed between the carbon of the wood and the oxygen of the air; therefore, the combustion is forced to stop. Further, water falling upon the fire is transformed, as you very well know, into vapor, or steam. Now, this conversion into vapor necessitates the taking up of a certain quantity of heat. This heat is taken away from the body which is being burned, and that body is thus made much cooler; the combustion therefore becomes less active, and the fire is at last extinguished." "Very good," said Miette; "but still another question, and I will let you alone." "You promise?" "Yes." "Well, then, what is your last question?" "Why is a candle put out by blowing on it, and why do they light a fire by doing the same thing?" "In these two cases there are two very different actions," replied Monsieur Roger: "in the first there is a mechanical action, and in the second a chemical action. In blowing upon a candle the violence of the air which you send out of your mouth detaches a flame which holds on only to the wick. The burning particles of this wick are blown away, and consequently the combustion is stopped. But the case is very different when you blow with a bellows or with your mouth upon the fire in the stove. There the substance in combustion, whether wood or coal, is a mass large enough to resist the violence of the current of air you throw in, and it profits from the air which you send to it so abundantly, by taking the oxygen which it contains and burning up still more briskly. "Now, that is the answer to your last question; and I must beg you to remember your promise, and ask me no more hard questions to-night." "Yes, friend Roger," said Miette, "I will leave you alone; you may go to sleep." "And it will be a well-earned sleep," added Madame Dalize, with the assent of every one. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XXVII. PAUL OR GEORGE? At the end of this long talk every one rose. Monsieur and Madame Dalize, with Monsieur Roger and Albert, walked towards the château. Paul Solange, silent and motionless, followed them with his eyes. When Monsieur Roger reached the step, he turned and made a friendly gesture to Paul, who responded by a bow. His eyes, in resting on Monsieur Roger, had an affectionate, softened, and respectful look. Miette saw it, and was struck by it. She approached, passed her arm in Paul's, and said, softly,-- "You love him very much,--Monsieur Roger?" "Yes," answered Paul, with surprise. "You love him very, very much?" "Yes." "And he too loves you very well. I can see that. But do you love him as much as if he----?" And Miette paused, embarrassed a little, feeling that what she was going to say was very important; still, being certain that she was right, she continued: "As much as if he was--your papa?" Paul started. "Yes; you love him as much and perhaps--perhaps more," she cried, seeing Paul start. "Why do you say things like that to me?" murmured Paul, much moved. "Because--nothing." "Why do you think that I love Monsieur Roger in the manner that you have just said?" "Because----" "Because what?" "Well, because I look at my papa just as I see you looking at Monsieur Roger." Paul tried to hide his embarrassment, and replied,-- "You are foolish." Then he looked up at Miette, who shook her head and smiled, as if to say that she was not foolish. An idea came to him. "Miette," said he, softly, "I am going to ask you something." "Ask it." "But you will tell it to no one?" "To no one." "Well, do you know why Monsieur Roger, at the fire at the farm, called me--called me George?" "Why, certainly, I know." "You know?" cried Paul. "Yes: he called you George because he thought suddenly that his child, his little George, whom he lost in a fire,--in a fire on shipboard----" Paul Solange listened, opening his eyes very wide. "Ah, that is true. You don't know anything about it. You were not here when Monsieur Roger told us this terrible thing." "No, I was not here; but you were here, Miette. Well, speak--tell me all about it." Then Miette repeated to Paul Monsieur Roger's story; she told him about the departure of Monsieur Roger, his wife, and their little George for America, their voyage on the ship, then the fire at sea. She told about the grief, the almost insane grief, which Monsieur Roger had felt when he saw himself separated from his wife and his son, who had been taken off in a boat, while he remained upon the steamer. Then she told Paul of the despair of Monsieur Roger when he saw that boat disappear and bear down with it to a watery grave those whom he loved. [Illustration] "At that moment," continued Miette, "Monsieur Roger told us that he cried out 'George! George!' with a voice so loud, so terrified, that certainly his little boy must have heard." Miette stopped. "Why, what is the matter, Paul?" she cried: "are you sick?" For Paul Solange had suddenly become so pale that Miette was scared. "Not at all," said he; "not at all; but finish your story." "It is finished." "How?" "Poor Monsieur Roger has never again seen his wife or his little George--or at least he saw his wife, whose body had been cast up by the waves, but the body of the little boy remained at the bottom of the sea." After a silence, Miette added,-- "You now understand how it is that the fire at the farm recalled to him at once the fire on the ship, and why, in his grief, in his fright to see you in so great a danger, he thought of his little boy, and cried 'George!' You understand, don't you?" Paul remained an instant without answering; then, very gravely, with a pale face and wide open eyes, he said,-- "I understand." Paul Solange did not sleep the night which followed the day on which he learned all these things. His brain was full of strange thoughts. He was calling up shadowy confused recollections. He sought to go back as far as possible to the first years of his childhood, but his memory was at fault. He suddenly found a dark corner where everything disappeared; he could go no farther; but now that he knew Monsieur Roger's story, he was certain, absolutely certain that he had answered to the name of George in the fire at the farm. It was that name, that name only, which had suddenly shaken off his torpor and given him the strength to awake; it was that name that had saved him. Feverishly searching in his memory, he said to himself that this name he had heard formerly pronounced with the same loud and terrified voice in some crisis, which must have been very terrible, but which he could not recall; and then, hesitating anxiously, feeling that he was making a fool of himself, he asked himself if it was during the fire on shipboard, of which Miette had spoken, that he had heard this name of George; and little by little, in the silence of the night, this conviction entered and fixed itself in his mind. Then he turned his thoughts upon the way that Monsieur Roger had treated him. Whence this sudden and great affection which Monsieur Roger had shown him? Why that sympathy which he knew to be profound and whose cause he could not explain, as he did not merit it a bit more than his friend Albert? Why had Monsieur Roger so bravely risked his life to save him? Why had his emotion been so great? Lastly, why this cry of "George?" And Paul Solange arrived at this logical conclusion,-- "If Monsieur Roger loves me so much; if he gave me, at the terrible moment when I came near dying, the name of his son, it must be because I recalled to him his son; it must be because I resemble his little George. And what then?" [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XXVIII. MY FATHER. When Paul at last fell into an uneasy sleep, the sun had been up for some hours. Monsieur Dalize and his friend Roger went out from the château. "Has the postman not been here yet?" said Monsieur Dalize to his servant. "No sir; he will not be here for an hour." "Very well; we will go to meet him." And in fact, in his haste, Monsieur Roger carried his friend off to meet the postman. But days had elapsed since Monsieur Dalize had, according to promise, written to the registrar of births, to ask him to forward a copy of the register of birth of Paul Solange, and no answer had yet arrived. This silence had astonished Monsieur Dalize and given a hope to Monsieur Roger. "There must be some reason, don't you see," he said, walking beside his friend. "Some important reason why the registrar has not yet answered your pressing letter." "A reason, an important reason," replied Monsieur Dalize; "the explanation may be that the registrar is away." "No; there is some other reason," answered Monsieur Roger with conviction. Half-way to the station they met the letter-carrier, who said,-- "Monsieur Dalize, there are two letters for you." The first letter which Monsieur Dalize opened bore the address of the registrar of births. He rapidly read the few lines, then turned towards Roger. "You are right," said he; "there is a reason. Read." "I pray _you_ read it; I am too much excited," replied Roger. Monsieur Dalize read as follows: "=Sir=: "The researches which I have made in my docket to find the register of birth of Paul Solange must be my excuse for the delay. We have not the register of birth which you ask for, but in its place is a paper so important that I have not the right to part with it; still, I shall be ready to place this paper under your eyes when you come to Paris. "Yours respectfully," etc. "I go," said Monsieur Dalize, consulting his watch; "I have just time to catch the train, and I shall return in time for dinner. Go back to the château and tell them that an important letter calls me to Paris." Monsieur Roger took the hand of his friend with a joy which he could not conceal, and said,-- "Thank you." "I go to please you," answered Monsieur Dalize, not wishing that his friend should have hopes excited, for failure might leave him more unhappy than ever. "I am going to see this important paper, but I see no reason why it should show that Paul was not the son of Monsieur Solange. So keep calm; you will need all your calmness on my return." Before leaving, Monsieur Dalize opened the envelope of the second letter; as the first lines caught his eyes, an expression of sorrow and surprise came over his face. "That is very strange and very sad," said he. "What is it?" asked Roger. "It is strange that this letter speaks of Monsieur Solange, the father of Paul, and it is sad that it also brings me bad news." "Speak," said Roger, quickly. "This letter is from my successor in the banking house, and it says that Monsieur Solange, of Martinique, has suspended payment." "Has Monsieur Solange failed?" asked Roger. "The letter adds that they are awaiting fuller information from the mail that should arrive to-day. You see that my presence in Paris is doubly necessary. Come down to the station to meet me in the coupé at five o'clock, and come alone." The sudden departure of Monsieur Dalize did not very much astonish the people at the Château, but what did astonish them, and become a subject of remark for all, was the new expression on the face of Monsieur Roger. He seemed extremely moved, but his features showed hope and joy, which had chased away his usual sadness. Madame Dalize inquired what had happened, and Monsieur Roger told her the whole story. Monsieur Roger hoped, and he was even happier that day than ever to find himself near Paul, because the latter showed himself more affectionate than ever. Long before the appointed hour, Monsieur Roger was at the station, awaiting with impatience the return of Monsieur Dalize. At last the train came in sight, and soon Monsieur Dalize got out of the car. "Well?" said Roger, with a trembling voice, awaiting the yes or the no on which his happiness or his despair depended. Monsieur Dalize, without answering, led Roger away from the station; then, when they were in the coupé, which started at a brisk pace, Monsieur Dalize threw his arms around his friend, with these words: "Be happy, it is your son!" Roger's eyes filled with tears, great big tears, which he could not restrain, tears of joy succeeding to the many tears of sorrow which he had shed. At last he murmured,-- "You have the proofs?" "I have two proofs, one of which comes in a very sad way." "What is it?" "The confession of Monsieur Solange, who wrote to me on his death-bed." "Unhappy man!" "Unhappy, yes; but also guilty." "What do you mean?" "Well, read first a copy of the paper which took the place of the birth-register of Paul Solange." Through his tears, Monsieur Roger read as follows: "This 24th day of December, 1877, before me, Jean-Jacques Solange, French Consul of the Island of Saint-Christopher, in the English Antilles, appeared Jan Carit, captain of the Danish fishing vessel, 'Jutland,' and Steffenz and Kield, who declared to him that on the 15th of December, 1877, finding themselves near the Island of Eleuthera, in the archipelago of the Bahamas, they perceived a raft, from which they took a child of the masculine sex, who seemed to be between two and three years old. We have given him the name of Pierre Paul. In witness whereof, the above-named parties have hereunto set their hands and seals." When he had finished, Roger cried,-- "There is no doubt,--the date, the place, everything is proof." [Illustration] "Which would not be sufficient, if I had not this." And Monsieur Dalize gave to his friend Solange's letter. In this letter Monsieur Solange announced his ruin, and his approaching death from heart-disease; the doctors had given him up, and he begged Monsieur Dalize to tell Paul that he was not his son. Monsieur Solange declared that he was the French Consul at the Island of Saint Christopher when some Danish fishermen, from the Island of Saint Thomas, brought him the child, which they had found in the sea. He and his wife had no children. They determined to adopt the child which had been found. Monsieur Solange confessed that he had been wanting in his duty in not making the necessary search. He excused himself sadly by saying that he was convinced of the death of the parents of the child, and he begged for pardon, as he had wished to bring this child up and make him happy. In finishing, he said that the linen of the child was marked "G. L. M.," and that the boy could pronounce the French words "maman" and "papa." "I pardon him," said, gravely and solemnly, Monsieur Roger. The coupé had entered the park, and the two gentlemen alighted before the château, where the family awaited them. Monsieur Dalize advanced towards him who had hitherto been called Paul Solange, and who really was George La Morlière. "My dear child," said he, "I have news for you,--some very sad news and some very happy news." Anxious, excited, George came forward. Monsieur Dalize continued: "You have lost him who was your adopted father,--Monsieur Solange." "Monsieur Solange is dead!" cried George, bowing his head, overwhelmed at the news. "But," Monsieur Dalize hastened to add, "you have found your real father." At these words George raised his head again; his eyes went straight towards those of Monsieur Roger. He ran forward and threw himself in the arms which were opened to him, repeating, between his tears,-- "My father! my father!" And Miss Miette, who wept, as all the rest did, at this moving spectacle, said, in the midst of her sobs,-- "I knew it; I knew it; I knew it was his papa!" [Illustration] 
45657	----	generously made available by the Google Books Library Project (http://books.google.com) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 45657-h.htm or 45657-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45657/45657-h/45657-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45657/45657-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through the Google Books Library Project. See http://www.google.com/books?id=hCUXAAAAYAAJ THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AMID THE SNOWS by MARGARET VANDERCOOK Author of "The Ranch Girls" Series, "The Red Cross Girls" Series, etc. Illustrated Philadelphia The John C. Winston Co. Publishers Copyright, 1913, by The John C. Winston Company CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. The Winter Manitou 7 II. "Sunrise Cabin" 22 III. "A Rose of the World" 38 IV. "The Reason o' It" 50 V. Mollie's Suggestion 61 VI. A Black Sheep 69 VII. Turning the Tables 81 VIII. Possibilities 98 IX. Christmas Eve at the Cabin 110 X. Esther's Old Home 123 XI. Gifts 129 XII. The Camp Fire Play 137 XIII. An Indian Love Song 149 XIV. Mollie's Confidant 156 XV. A Boomerang 168 XVI. The Apology 183 XVII. General News 190 XVIII. Donna and Her Don 202 XIX. Memories 212 XX. The Explanation 223 XXI. Misfortune 234 XXII. Saying Farewell to the Cabin 242 XXIII. Future Plans 253 ILLUSTRATIONS "Ach Gnädiges Fräuleins, It Ist Not Possible" _Frontispiece_ PAGE "Turn That Box Over to Me" 85 The Song Had a Plaintive Cadence 152 "Do As I Tell You, Princess, Please" 218 The Camp Fire Girls Amid the Snows CHAPTER I The Winter Manitou The snow was falling in heavy slashing sheets, and a December snowstorm in the New Hampshire hills means something more serious than a storm in city streets or even an equal downfall upon more level meadows and plains. Yet on this winter afternoon, about an hour before twilight and along the base of a hill where a rough road wandered between tall cedar and pine trees and low bushes and shrubs, there sounded continually above the snow's silencing two voices, sometimes laughing, occasionally singing a brief line or so, but more often talking. Accompanying them always was a steady jingling of bells. "We simply can't get there to-night, Princess," one of the voices protested, still with a questioning note as though hardly believing in its own assertion. "We simply can't do anything else, my child" the other answered teasingly. "Have you ever thought how much harder it is to travel backward in this world than forward, otherwise I suppose we should have had eyes placed in the back of our heads and our feet would have turned around the other way? Don't be frightened, there really isn't the least danger." Then there was a sudden swish of a whip cutting the cold air and with a fresh tinkling of bells the shaggy pony plunged ahead. Five minutes afterwards with an instinctive stiffening of his forelegs he started sliding slowly down a steep embankment, where the road apparently ended, dragging his load behind him and only stopping on finally reaching the low ground and finding his sleigh had overturned. For a while the unusual stillness was oppressive. But a little later there followed a movement and then an unsteady voice calling, "Steady, Fire Star," as a tall girl in a gray hood and coat covered all over with snow came crawling forth from the uppermost side of the sleigh and immediately began pulling at it with trembling hands. "Princess, Princess, please speak or move! Oh, it is all my fault. I should never have let you attempt it; I am the older and even----" A little smothered sound and a slight disturbance under an immense fur rug interrupted her: "I can't speak, Esther, until I get some of this snow out of my mouth and I can't move until this grocery store is lifted off me. I'm--I'm the under side of things; there are ten pounds of sugar and a sack of flour and all the week's camping supplies between me and the gay world." A break in the cheerful tones ended these words and there was no further stirring, but Esther Clark failed to notice this, as she first lifted the rug which had almost covered up Betty Ashton and then helped her to sit upright, looking more of a Snow Princess than even the weather justified. For all about her there were small mounds of sugar and flour white as the snow itself and dissolving like dew. While Betty's seal cap and coat were encrusted in ice and the snow hung from her brows and lashes, indeed her face, usually so brilliantly colored, was now almost as pale. Esther was again tugging at the overturned sleigh trying to set it upright, the pony waiting motionless except for turning his head as if with the suggestion that matters be hurried along. "I could manage a great deal better, Betty, if you would help me," Esther protested a little indignantly. "I know the girls at Sunrise cabin are getting dreadfully worried over our being so late in arriving at home." Betty shivered. "I am getting a bit worried myself," she agreed, "and I might as well confess to you, Esther, that I haven't the faintest idea where we are, nor how far from the village or our camp. This snow has completely mixed me up; and I haven't sprained my ankle, of course, or broken it or done anything _quite_ so silly, but my foot does hurt most awfully and I know I never can stand up on it again and--and--if I wasn't a Camp Fire girl about to be made a Torch Bearer I'd like to weep and weep until I melted away into a beautiful iceberg." And then in spite of her brave fooling Betty did blink and choke, but only for an instant, for the sight of her companion's face made her smile again. "The runner of our sleigh has snapped in two," Esther next announced in accents of despair after having partially dragged the sleigh upright, although one runner still remained imbedded several inches deeper than the other in the drift of snow which had caused their disaster. Betty held up both hands. "I believe it never rains but it pours," she said a little mockingly; "but what about the snow? I am sorry I was so obstinate, dear. It is nice to be sorry when the deed is done, isn't it? I suppose I should never have attempted driving back to Sunrise Hill on such an evening, but then we did need our groceries so terribly in camp and I was afraid nobody would bring them to-morrow. And, well, as I have gotten you into this scrape I must get you out of it." So by clinging with both hands to Esther, Betty Ashton, by sheer force of will, did manage to rise on the one sound foot and then putting the injured one on the ground she stood wavering for a second. "I'm thinking, Esther, so please don't interrupt me for a moment," she gasped as soon as she found breath. "I can't but feel that this is our first real emergency since we started our camp fire in the woods this winter. If we only are able to get out of it successfully, why--why, won't Polly be envious?" Betty Ashton was so plainly talking at the present instant to gain time that the older girl did not pay the slightest attention to her; instead, she was thinking herself. Of course she or Betty could mount their pony and ride off somewhere to look for help, but then Esther had no fancy for being left alone in a snow-storm in a part of the country which she did not know in its present aspect and certainly under the circumstances she had no intention of leaving Betty to the same fate. Imagination, however, was never one of Esther Clark's strong points, although fortunately for them both now and in later years it was always a gift of the other girl's. "Better let me sit down again," Betty suggested, letting go of her clasp on her friend; "and will you unhitch Fire Star and lead her here to me. Somehow I think it best for us to manage to get back on the road and find some sort of shelter up there under the trees until the worst of this storm is past." With Betty to think and Esther to accomplish, things usually moved swiftly. So five minutes later, half leading and half being led by the pony, Esther climbed the embankment on foot with Betty riding and clinging with both arms about Fire Star's neck. Under a pine tree partly protected from the wind and snow by scrub pines growing only a few feet away, the girls found a temporary refuge. There they remained sheltered by the fur rug which Esther brought back on her second trip. The pony safely covered over with his own blanket stood hitched under another tree a short distance away. Nevertheless, half an hour of waiting found the two girls shivering uncomfortably under their rug and losing courage with every passing moment, for the storm had not abated in the least and Betty was really suffering agonies with her foot, although she had removed her shoe, bathed her ankle in snow and bound it up in her own and Esther's pocket handkerchiefs. "Esther," she said rather irritably, after a fresh paroxysm of pain had left her almost exhausted, "don't you think that, as we have been Camp Fire girls living in the woods for the past six months, even though conditions do seem trying, we ought to _do_ something and not just sit here in this limp fashion and be snowed under?" Esther nodded, but made no sort of suggestion. She was so cold and worried about Betty that she hadn't an idea in her mind save the haunting fear that if they continued long in their present situation they might actually be turned into icebergs. However, Betty promptly gave her a pinch that was realistic enough to be felt in spite of all her frozenness. "Wake up, Esther, dear, and if you are really so cold, child, just warm yourself by your nose, it certainly is red enough. Now as you girls have always said I dearly loved to boss, please, won't you let me be general of this expedition and you do what I say since I am too lame to help?" Again Esther nodded. She generally had done whatever Betty Ashton had asked of her since the day of her coming to the great Ashton homestead in Woodford a little more than half a year before. But as Betty outlined her plan Esther grew interested and in half a moment jumping up began stamping her feet and swinging her arms to get the warmth and vigor back into her body. "Why, Betty Ashton, of course we can manage even to stay here in the woods all night and not have such a horrid time! It won't be so difficult, I'll have things fixed in the least little while." A short time afterwards and Esther had brought up from their broken sleigh a portion of the precious grocery supplies which she and Betty had driven into Woodford early that afternoon to obtain--a can of coffee, crackers, a side of bacon and, most welcome of all, a bundle of kindling tied as neatly together as toothpicks. For several weeks of having to gather wood out of doors, oftentimes in the snow and rain, and then drying it under cover, had made an occasional supply of kindling from the shops in town extremely grateful to the camp fire makers. Fortunately, Betty had filled the last remaining space in their sleigh with kindling wood before starting back to camp. And in Esther's several absences she had been diligently preparing a place for a fire, first by scooping away the snow with her hands and then by scraping it with a three-pronged stick which she had found nearby. However, a fire in the snow was not easy to start even by a Camp Fire girl, so that fifteen minutes must have passed and an entire box of matches been consumed before the paper collected from about their packages had persuaded even the kindling to light. And then by infinite patience and coaxing, wet pine twigs and cones were added to the fire until finally the larger logs, discovered under the surrounding trees, also blazed into heat and light. And while Betty was cherishing the fire, Esther managed to make a partial canopy over their heads with brushwood. There are but few things in this world though that do not take a longer time to accomplish than we at first expect and require a longer patience. So that when the two girls had finally arranged their temporary winter shelter, the twilight had come down and both of them were extremely weary. Nevertheless, the most wonderful coffee was made with melted snow in the tin can, bacon sliced and fried with the knife no Camp Fire girl fails to carry and the crackers toasted into a smoky but delicious brown. And then when supper was over Betty crept close to Esther under their rug resting her head on her shoulder. "No one knows where we are to-night, Esther, so no one will worry. The girls will think we stayed in town on account of the storm and our friends in the village that we are now safe back in Sunrise cabin. So do let us make the best of things," she whispered. "To-night, at least, we are real Camp Fire girls from necessity and not choice, and I believe I can better understand why our ancestors once used to worship the fire as the symbol of home. Then, too, I am glad we chose the pine trees for our refuge. I wonder if you know this legend? When Mary was in flight to Egypt to save our Lord from Herod, she stopped beneath a pine tree and rested there safe from her enemies in a green chamber filled with its balsamy fragrance, the tree proving its love for the Christ Child by lowering its limbs when Herod's soldiers passed by. And then when the Baby raised its hand to bless the tree, it so marked it that when the pine cone is cut lengthwise it shows the form of a hand--the hand of Christ." With the telling of her story Betty's voice was sinking lower and lower, and as her cheeks were now so flushed with her nearness to the fire and with fever from the pain in her foot, Esther hoped she might soon fall asleep. So she made no reply, but instead began singing the "Good-Night Song" of the Camp Fire girls which has been set to the beautiful old melody "Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes." And though she began very softly, meaning her song to reach only Betty's ears, by and by forgetting herself in the pleasure her music always brought her, she let her voice increase in power, until the final notes could have been heard some distance through the woods and even a little way up the hill which stood like a solid white wall before them. The snow had stopped falling and the wind had died down, but the coldness and the stillness were therefore the more profound. "The sun is sinking in the west, The evening shadows fall; Across the silence of the lake We hear the loon's low call. So let us, too, the silence keep, And softly steal away, To rest and sleep until the morn Brings forth another day." "Betty, Betty!" Instead of allowing her friend to sleep Esther began shaking her nervously only a few moments after the closing of her song. And Betty started suddenly, giving a little cry of pain and surprise, for evidently she had been dreaming and found it hard to come back to so strange a reality. Here she and Esther were alone in the winter woods not many miles from shelter and yet unable to find it, while she had been dreaming of herself as a poor half-frozen waif somewhere out in a city street listening to strains of music, which were not of Esther's song but of some instrument. The girl rubbed her eyes and laughed. "Dear me, Esther, it's too cold to sleep, isn't it? Let us put some more wood on our fire and stay awake and talk. I think the Winter Manitou, Peboan, must have been visiting me with the wind playing the strings of his harp, for I have just dreamed I was listening to music." "You didn't dream it; I wasn't asleep and I heard it also. There, listen!" The two girls caught hold of one another's hands and silently they stared ahead of them through the opening in their curious, Esquimaux-like tent. Could anything be more improbable and yet without doubt the notes of a violin could be heard approaching nearer and nearer. Transfixed with surprise and pleasure Esther kept still but Betty, who in spite of her whims was a really practical person, shook her head in a somewhat annoyed fashion. "It is perfectly absurd you know, Esther, for any human being to be strolling through the New Hampshire woods on a winter's night playing the violin. We are not in Germany or the Alps or in a story book. But if it really is a person and not the Spirit of Winter, as I still believe, why he might as well help us out of our difficulty. I don't feel so romantic as I did an hour or so ago." At this instant a dim figure did appear around a turn in the road where the girls had previously met disaster and putting her cold fingers to her lips Betty cried "Halloo, Halloo," in as loud a voice as possible and at the same time seizing one of their burning logs she waved it as a signal of distress. CHAPTER II "Sunrise Cabin" "Ach, gnädige Fräuleins, it ist not possible." "No, I know it isn't," Betty returned with her most demure expression, although there were little sparks of light at the back of her gray-blue eyes. She rose stiffly from the ground with Esther's assistance and stood leaning on her arm, while both girls without trying to hide their astonishment surveyed a middle aged, shabbily dressed German with his violin case under one arm and his violin under the other. "I haf been visiting the Orphan Asylum in this neighborhood where I haf friends," he explained. "I am in Woodford only a few days now and after supper when the storm is over I start back to town. Then I thought I heard some one singing, calling, perhaps it is you?" He looked only at Betty, since in the semi-darkness with the fire as a background it was difficult to distinguish but one object at a time and that only by concentrated attention. But as she shook her head he turned toward Esther. "When I hear the singing I play my violin, thinking if some one was lost in these hills I may find them." But Esther was not thinking of her discoverer, only of what he had said. "Do you mean we are really not far from the Country Orphan Asylum?" she asked incredulously. "And actually I have gotten lost in a neighborhood where I have spent most of my life! It is the snow that has made things seem so strange and different!" Turning to Betty she forgot for a moment the presence of the stranger. "I'll find my way to the asylum right off and bring some one here to mend our sleigh and give poor little Fire Star something to eat. I don't believe we are more than two miles from Sunrise Camp." However, Betty was by this time attempting to make their situation clearer to the newcomer. She pointed toward their sleigh at the bottom of the gully and their pony under the tree and told him of camp fires and grocery supplies to be carried to Sunrise cabin, until out of the chaos these facts at least became clear to his mind--the girls had lost their way in the storm and because of Betty's injured ankle and the broken vehicle, had been unable to make their way home. At about the same hour of this same evening, two other young women were walking slowly up and down in front of a log house in a clearing near the base of a hill, with their arms intertwined about each other's shoulder. Outside the closed front door of the house a lighted lantern swung. From the inside other lights shone through the windows, while every now and then a face appeared and a finger beckoned toward the sentinels outside. Nevertheless, they continued their unbroken marching, only stopping now and then to stare out across the snow-covered landscape. "They simply have not tried to attempt it, Polly; it is foolish for you to be so worried," one of the voices said. But her companion, whose long black hair was hanging loose to her waist and who wore a long red cape and a red woolen cap giving her a curiously fantastic appearance, only shook her head decisively. "You can't know the Princess as well as I do, Rose, or you would never believe she would give up having her own way. She went into town when the rest of us thought it unwise and she will come back, frozen, starved, goodness only knows what, still come back she will. Poor Esther is but wax in her hands. I wonder if anything happens to break the Princess' will whatever will become of her?" The other girl sighed and her friend gazed at her sympathetically but a little curiously. "Betty will bear disappointment just as the rest of the world does," she answered, "filling her life with what she can have. But I do wish she and Esther would come back to camp now, or at least send us some word. The storm has been over for several hours and none of us will be able to sleep to-night on account of the uncertainty." With one of her characteristic movements Polly O'Neill now moved swiftly away from the speaker. "I am going to ring our emergency bell if you are willing, Rose," she announced. "Oh, I know we Camp Fire girls hate to appeal to outsiders for aid, but it's got to be done for once, for I simply can't stand this suspense about Betty and Esther any longer." Then without waiting for an answer, she ran toward the back yard of the cabin and an instant later the loud clanging of a bell startled the peace and quiet of the country night, but only for a moment, because before the second pull at the bell rope Polly felt her arm being held fast. "Don't ring again, Polly, or at least not yet," her companion insisted, "for I am almost sure I can see a dark object coming this way along our road and there's a chance of its being Betty and Esther." Ten minutes later the front door of the Sunrise cabin was suddenly burst open and out into the snow piled half a dozen other girls in as many varieties of heavy blanket wrappers. The music of Fire Star's sleigh bells had reached their ears several moments before the arrival of the wayfarers. However, very soon afterwards, following a suggestion of Sylvia Wharton's, Betty Ashton was borne into the cabin, four of the girls carrying her on a light canvas cot. This they set down before their big fire glowing in the center of the living room of the Sunrise cabin--Sunrise cabin which had not existed even in the dreams of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls until one afternoon in September not four months ago. Esther, with Mollie O'Neill's arm about her, walked into the cabin on foot, since she was only stiff with fatigue and cold. However, on throwing herself back in a big arm chair and allowing her shoes to be changed by Mollie for slippers, she seemed more affected, by their adventure than Betty. For Betty, in Princess fashion, with Polly, Sylvia and Nan, and the girl whom Polly had called Rose, all kneeling devotedly at her feet, was talking cheerfully. "He was just the most impossible, ridiculous looking person you ever could imagine, with red hair and glasses and dreadfully shabby clothes, the kind of a man in a German band to whom you would throw pennies out the window, but he declared that he had once lived here in Woodford for a short time years ago and had come back on some business or other. Oh, Esther, don't look at me so disapprovingly; I am saying nothing against him really. I am sure it was I who invited him to come out to our cabin and play for us girls. He looked so poor I thought I might be able to pay him then and I couldn't quite offer him anything for helping Esther mend the sleigh and then seeing us part of the way home. Home! Oh, isn't our beloved Sunrise cabin the most delightful and original home a group of Camp Fire girls ever possessed!" And Betty's eyes clouded with tears, partly from pain and weariness but more from joy at her return, as she looked from the faces gathered about hers in the neighborhood of the great fireplace and then saw all their glances follow hers with equal ardor throughout the length of their great living room. For if ever Betty Ashton had proved her right to her friend Polly's definition of her as a "Fairy Princess," it was when through her desire and largely through her money, Sunrise cabin rose on the very ground covered by the white tents of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls only the summer before. The cabin was built of pine logs from the woods at the foot of Sunrise Hill and the entire front of forty-five feet formed a single great room. The end nearer the kitchen the girls used as their dining room, while the rest of the room was music room, study, reception and every other kind of a room. And, except for the piano which Betty had brought from her own blue room at home and a few chairs, every other article of furniture and almost every ornament had been made by the Sunrise Camp Fire girls themselves. On either side the high mantel there were low book shelves and a music rack stood by the piano filled with the songs of the Camp Fire. Polly, Nan and Sylvia had manufactured a dining room table which was considered an extraordinary achievement although the design was really very simple. Four wide pine boards about ten feet in length formed the top and the legs were of heavy beams crossed under it at the center and at either end. The furniture of the living room was stained a Flemish brown to match the walls and floor done in the same color. On the floor were rag rugs of almost oriental beauty made by the girls and dyed into seven craft colors. On the walls hung pieces of homemade tapestry, leather skins embossed with Camp Fire emblems, and flowers so pressed and mounted as to give the effect of nature. Then on the mantelpiece were two hammered brass candlesticks and a great brass bowl filled with holly and cedar from the surrounding wood. On odd tables and shelves were Indian baskets woven by the girls and used for every convenient purpose from holding stockings waiting to be darned to treasuring the Sunrise Camp Record Book which now had twenty-five written and illustrated pages setting forth the history of Sunrise Camp since its infancy. But Eleanor Meade had given the living room its really unique distinction. Having once read a description of a famous Indian snow tepi, she had painted on the ceiling toward the northern end of the room seven stars which were to represent the north from whence the winter blizzards blew and on the southern side a red disc for the sun. The artist had pleaded long to be permitted to make the rest of the ceiling a bright blue with outlines of rolling prairie on the walls beneath, but this was greater realism in Indian ideals of art than the other girls were able to endure. Yet notwithstanding so much artistic decoration, Science also had her place in the Sunrise cabin living room. For Sylvia Wharton had established a cupboard in an inconspicuous corner where she kept a collection of first aid supplies: gauze for bandaging, medicated cotton, peroxide, lime water and sweet oil, arnica, and half a dozen or more simple remedies useful in emergencies. True to her surprising announcement at the close of their summer camp Sylvia, without wasting time, and in her own quiet and apparently dull fashion, had already set about preparing herself for her future work as a trained nurse by persuading her father to let her have first aid lessons from a young doctor in Woodford. So now it was stupid little Sylvia (although the Camp Fire girls were no longer so convinced of her stupidity) who took real charge of caring for Betty's foot, going back and forth to her cupboard and doing whatever she thought necessary without asking or heeding any one else's advice. Nevertheless, her work must have been successful, because in less than an hour after their return Betty, Esther and all the other girls were in dreamland in the two bedrooms which, besides the kitchen, completed Sunrise cabin. So soundly were they sleeping that it was only Polly O'Neill who was suddenly aroused by an unexpected knocking at their front door. It was nearly midnight and Polly shivered, not so much with fear as with apprehension. What could have happened to bring a human being to their cabin at such an hour? Instantly she thought of her mother still in Ireland, of Mr. and Mrs. Ashton traveling in Europe for Mr. Ashton's health. Slipping on her dressing gown Polly touched the figure in the bed near hers. "Rose," she whispered, so quietly as not to disturb any one else. "There is some one knocking. I am going to the door, so be awake if anything happens." Then without delaying she slipped into the next room. Crossing the floor in her slippers Polly made no noise and picking up the lantern which was always kept burning at night in the cabin, without any warning of her approach she suddenly pulled open the door. The figure waiting outside started. "I--you," he began breathlessly and then stopped because Polly O'Neill's cheeks had turned as crimson as her dressing gown and her Irish blue eyes were sending forth electric sparks of anger. "Billy Webster," she gasped, "I didn't dream that anything in the world could have made you do so ungentlemanly a thing as to disturb us in this fashion at such an hour of the night. Of course I have never liked you very much or thought you had really good manners, but I didn't believe----" "Stop, will you, and let me explain," the young man returned, now fully as angry as Polly and in a voice to justify her final accusation. Then he turned courteously toward the young woman who had entered the room soon after Polly. "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Dyer," he continued, "I must have made some stupid mistake, but some little time ago I thought I heard the sound of your alarm bell. It rang only once, so I waited for a little while expecting to hear it again and then I was rather a long time in getting to you through the woods on account of the heavy snow. It is awfully rough on you to have been awakened at such an hour because of my stupidity." But Rose Dyer, who was a good deal older than Polly, put out both hands and drew the young man, rather against his will, inside the living room. "Please come in and get warm and dry, you know our Camp Fire is never allowed to go out, and please do not apologize for your kindness in coming to our aid." She lighted the candles, giving Polly a chance to make her own confession. Though looking only a girl herself she was in reality the new guardian of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls. Polly, however, did not seem to be enthusiastic over her opportunity to announce that she had been responsible for the alarm bell which had brought their visitor forth on such an arduous tramp. Billy Webster was of course their nearest neighbor, as his father owned most of the land in their vicinity, still the farm house itself was a considerable distance away. And to make matters worse the young man was too deeply offended by Polly's reception of him to give even a glance in her direction. Polly coughed several times and then opened her mouth to speak, but Billy was staring into the fire poking at the logs with his wet boot. Rose had disappeared toward the kitchen to get their visitor something to eat as a small expression of their gratitude. Unexpectedly the young man felt some one pulling at the back of his coat and turning found himself again facing Polly, whose cheeks were quite as red as they had been at the time of his arrival, but whose eyes were shining until their color seemed to change as frequently as a wind swept sky. "Mr. William Daniel Webster," she began in a small crushed voice, "there are certain persons in this world who seem preordained to put me always in the wrong. You are one of them! I rang that bell because I thought my beloved Betty and Esther were lost in the storm, but they weren't, and then I forgot all about having rung it. So now I am overcome with embarrassment and shame and regret and any other humiliating emotion you would like to have me feel. But really, Billy," and here Polly extended her thin hand, which always had a curious warmth and intensity in keeping with her temperament, "can't you see how hard it is to like a person who is always making one eat humble pie?" Billy took the proffered hand and shook it with a forgiving strength that made the girl wince though nothing in her manner betrayed it. "Oh, cut that out, Miss Polly O'Neill," he commanded in the confused manner that Polly's teasing usually induced in him. "It's a whole lot rottener to be apologized to than it is to have to apologize, and it is utterly unnecessary this evening because, though, of course, I didn't know you had rung the alarm bell, I did know if there was trouble at Sunrise cabin you were sure to be in it." And, as Polly accepted this assertion with entire amiability, ten minutes afterward she and their chaperon were both offering their visitor hot chocolate and biscuits to fortify him for the journey home. In order to make him feel entirely comfortable Polly also devoured an equal amount of the refreshments, not because she was given to self-sacrifice but because uneasiness about her friends had made her forget to eat her supper. CHAPTER III "A Rose of the World" However much of a fairy Princess Betty Ashton's friends may have considered her, Sunrise cabin had not arisen like "Aladdin's Wonderful Palace" in a single night, although six months would seem a short enough time in which to see one's dream come true. Particularly a dream which in the beginning had appeared to have no chance of ever becoming a reality. For in the first place "The Lady of the Hills," Miss McMurtry, on that very afternoon when coming across the fields to the Camp Fire she had there been told of the plan for keeping the Sunrise Camp Fire club together for the winter, had not approved the idea. The country would certainly be too cold and too lonely for the girls and the getting back and forth from the cabin to school too difficult. Fathers and mothers could never be persuaded to approve and, moreover, there would be no guardian, since Miss McMurtry could not attend to her work at the High School and also look after a permanent winter camp fire. In a measure of course even the greatest enthusiasts for the new idea had known that there might be just these same difficulties to be overcome. Yet in conference they had decided to meet the obstacles one by one and in turn by following the old axiom of not climbing fences before coming to them. So as the money for building the cabin was a first necessity Betty Ashton had written at once to her brother Dick. Sylvia Wharton had seen her father, who had in September returned to Woodford, and Polly and Mollie had sent off appealing letters to Ireland asking for their mother's approval and whatever small sum of money they might be allowed to contribute. Indeed each Sunrise Camp girl had met the demands of the situation in the best way she knew how. But really, although help and interest developed in various directions, once the business of building the cabin had been fairly started, it was from Richard Ashton that the first real aid and encouragement came. For Dick was a student in the modern school of medical science which believes in fresh air, exercise and congenial work as a cure for most ills instead of the old-time methods of pills and poultices, and having seen the benefit of a summer camp upon twelve girls he had faith enough for the winter experiment. Besides this plan had appeared to him as a solution for certain personal problems which had been worrying him for a number of weeks. His father and mother were not returning to America this fall as they had expected, since Mr. Ashton's health required a milder climate than New Hampshire. It had seemed almost impossible for Dick to give up the graduating year of his study of medicine in Dartmouth in order to come home to Woodford to look after his sister and her friend, Esther Clark, who rather, through force of circumstances, appeared now to be Betty's permanent companion. So an offering from Dick Ashton with Betty's fifty dollars, which had been returned to her by Polly O'Neill, had actually laid the foundation of Sunrise Cabin, although every single member of the club gave something big or little so that the house might belong alike to them all. As Esther and Nan Graham had no money of their own and Edith Norton very little and no parents able to help, the three girls added their portions by doing work for their friends in the village which they had learned in their summer camp fire. At last they were able to stock the new kitchen with almost a complete set of new kitchen utensils, the summer ones having suffered from continuous outdoor use. Of course all the summer club members could not share the winter housekeeping scheme, but that did not affect their interest nor desire to help. Meg and "Little Brother" to everybody's despair had to return home, since with John leaving for college, that same fall, their professor father could not live or keep house without them. But then they were to be allowed to come out to the cabin each Friday for week ends, and Edith Norton, whose work in the millinery store made living in town imperative, was to take her Sunday rests in camp. Of the summer Sunrise Camp Fire girls, only Juliet and Beatrice Field had really to say serious farewells when returning to their school in Philadelphia, but they departed with at least the consoling thought that they were to come back to the cabin for their Christmas holidays. So that there remained only seven of the original girls pledged to give this experiment of winter housekeeping as a Camp Fire club a real test. And as they worked, pleaded and waited, one by one each difficulty had been overcome until now there remained but one--the necessity for finding a new guardian able to give all of her time to living at Sunrise cabin and to working with the girls. One evening toward the early part of November after the cabin had been completed, Betty Ashton had called a meeting at her home for the final discussion of this serious problem. As there were no outsiders present, before mentioning the subject the girls had arranged themselves in their accustomed Camp Fire attitudes, in a kind of semi-circle about the great drawing room fire, in order to talk more freely. For the past week each girl had been asked to search diligently for a suitable guardian. Yet when Betty looked hopefully about at the faces of her friends without speaking she sighed, shading her gray eyes with her hand. Only by an effort of will could she keep her tears from falling--not a line of success showed in a single countenance. Mollie O'Neill, understanding equally well, made no such effort at self-control. Placing her head on her sister's shoulder she frankly gave way to tears, while Polly stared moodily into the fire with Sylvia Wharton's square hand clutching hers despairingly. Esther and Eleanor frowned. Nan Graham, who had more at stake than the other girls, not trusting herself, jumped up and running across to a far corner of the big room flung herself face downward on a sofa. So there was a most unusual silence in the Sunrise Camp Fire circle and yet when a light knock sounded on the door no one said "Come in." An instant later, however, the knock was repeated, but this time, not waiting for an answer, the door opened and a figure walked slowly toward the center of the floor. It was a lovely figure, nevertheless, there was scarcely a person in Woodford whom the girls at this moment desired less to see. Certainly there was no one who had been more bitterly opposed to the whole Camp Fire idea and particularly to Betty Ashton's having a part in it. "I don't know whether you allow an outsider to come into one of your meetings," the intruder began, dropping into a near-by chair. From her place on the sofa Nan Graham lifted her head. She alone of the little company did not know their visitor's name. She saw a young woman of about twenty-six or seven with light golden brown hair and eyes with the same yellow lights in them, dressed in a lovely crepe evening gown with a bunch of roses at her belt and a scarf thrown over her shoulders. Nan's eyes glowed with a momentary forgetfulness, having long cherished just such an ideal and never before seen it realized. But Betty only shook her head, answering with little enthusiasm: "Oh, it doesn't matter this evening, Rose, you may stay if you like, though we don't generally have strangers at our meetings." And then, though she usually had good manners, Betty fell to studying the dancing lights in the fire without making any further effort at conversation. She had no desire to be rude, but it was trying to have Rose Dyer, her mother's intimate friend, the one older girl, held up as a model for her to follow, who had done her best to prejudice Mrs. Ashton against the Camp Fire plan the summer before, come into their midst at an hour when their very existence as a club seemed to be in peril. For a few moments Miss Dyer waited without trying to speak again. Although Polly and Esther were both endeavoring to make themselves agreeable, the atmosphere of the drawing room continued distinctly unfriendly. "I--I am afraid I am in the way although you were kind enough not to say so," Rose suggested, finding it difficult to explain what had inspired her visit with so many faces turned away from hers. "I think I had best go; I only came to ask you a great favor and now----" She was getting up quietly, when Betty with a sudden realization of her duties as a hostess made a little rush toward her and taking both the older girl's hands drew her into the center of their circle. "Please forgive our bad manners and do stay, Rose," she pleaded. "We really have no business to attend to to-night and perhaps company may cheer us up." But although Rose, without the least regard for her lovely gown, had immediately dropped down on the floor in regular Camp Fire fashion, apparently she had not heard what Betty had suggested, for straightway her expression became quite as serious as any one else's. "You may not care for what I am going to say and you must promise to be truthful if you don't," Rose began, as timidly as though she were not ten years older than any other girl in the room, "but I have been hearing for the past two months that you were looking for a Camp Fire guardian to spend the winter with you and I have been wondering----" Here pulling the flowers from her belt she let her gaze rest upon them. "I have been wondering if you would care to have me?" The silence was then more conspicuous than before and Rose flushed hotly. "I am sure you are very kind," Polly began in a perfectly unfamiliar tone of voice and manner since she too had known Rose all her life. "We appreciate your kindness very much," Eleanor added, fearing that Polly was about to break down. But Betty Ashton dropped her chin into her hands in her familiar fashion and stared directly at their visitor. "My dear Rose, whatever has happened to you?" she demanded. "Why it's too absurd! You know you don't care for anything but parties and dancing and having a good time. You simply haven't any idea of what it means to be a Camp Fire guardian; why it is difficult enough when you have only to preside at weekly Camp Fire meetings and to watch over the girls in between, but when it comes to living with us and teaching us as Miss McMurtry did last summer----" Betty bit her lips. She did not wish to be discourteous and yet the vision of the fashionably dressed girl before her fulfilling the requirements of their life together in the woods was too much for her sense of humor. Then suddenly, to Betty's embarrassment and the surprise of everyone else, Miss Dyer's eyes filled with tears. "Please don't, Betty," she said a little huskily. "You know, dear, one can get rather tired of hearing one's self described as an absolute good-for-nothing. Oh, I know I was opposed to your Camp Fire club last summer, but I have watched you more carefully than you dream and have entirely changed my mind. I am not asking you to let me come into your club to help you. I am afraid I am selfish, I can't explain it to you now, but I want to help myself. Of course I am not wise enough to be your guardian, but I have been talking to Miss McMurtry and she has promised to help me and it is only because you don't seem able to find anyone else that I dare offer myself." At this moment Nan Graham, whom Rose had not seen before, tumbled unexpectedly off her sofa. It was because of her eagerness to reach the other girls. They, at a quick signal from one to the other, had arisen, and now, forming a circle, danced slowly about their new guardian chanting the sacred law of the Camp Fire. CHAPTER IV "The Reason o' It" "Rose," Betty Ashton called at about ten o'clock the next morning. Betty was sitting alone before the living room fire, the other girls having gone into town to school several hours before. Books and papers and writing materials were piled on a table before her and evidently she had been working on some abstruse problem in mathematics, for several sheets of legal cap paper were covered with figures. "Rose," she called again, and so plaintively this second time that the new guardian of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls hurried in from the kitchen. A gingham apron covered her from head to foot, a large mixing spoon was in one hand and a becoming splash of flour on one cheek. "What is it, dear?" she inquired anxiously. "Does your foot hurt worse than it did? I ought to have come in to you right away, but Mammy and I have been making enough loaves of bread to feed a regiment and I have been turning some odds and ends of the dough into Camp Fire emblems to have for tea--rings and bracelets and crossed logs. I am afraid I am still dreadfully frivolous!" And Rose flushed, for in spite of Betty's own problem she was smiling at her. This the Rose who had come to her first Camp Fire Council only a month before in a Paris frock, probably never having cooked a meal for any one in her life! However, Betty answered loyally. "You are quite wonderful, Rose, and only the other day Donna said you were giving to our Camp Fire life what with all her knowledge she had somehow failed to give it--the real intimate family feeling. I suppose I oughtn't to have interrupted you. No, it isn't my foot, it is only that I have gotten myself into a new difficulty and I want to ask you what you think I had best do?" And with a worried frown Betty again studied the closely written figures which must have represented some still unsolved problem, for she continued staring at them, turning the sheets over and over. Finally, before speaking, she drew an open letter from her pocket, carefully re-reading several lines. "I suppose it isn't worth while my mentioning, Rose, that none of us do anything at present but think, dream and plan for our Camp Fire Christmas entertainment," she said with a half sigh and smile, "and you know packages have been coming to me until the attic is most full of them. I have just been charging things as I bought them and until to-day I haven't paid much attention to what they cost. But yesterday I received such a strange letter from mother. She writes that father is a little better and I am not to worry and she hopes we may have a happy Christmas. However, she can't send me any more money for the holidays beyond my usual allowance. Father has had some business losses lately, and not being able to look after things himself, they are not going quite right. Isn't it odd, for you see I have already explained to her that we were going to have unusually heavy expenses this Christmas and please to let me have money instead of a present? Yet she says she can't send me _anything_. Poor mother, she apologizes humbly instead of telling me that I am an extravagant wretch, but just the same it is the first time in my life I haven't had all the money I needed to spend at Christmas and now I don't see how I am ever going to pay for all the things I have bought. I don't think I have any right to be a Camp Fire girl if I am in debt, and I am--miles!" Instead of answering immediately Rose turned away her face to conceal a look of concern at Betty's news which she did not wish the young girl to see. Other persons in Woodford were beginning to speculate upon a possible change in the Ashton fortune. Certain enterprises in which Mr. Ashton had been concerned had been known to fail, but then no one understood to what extent he had been interested. "Can't you give up some of the things, dear," Rose suggested gently, knowing that Betty had never been called upon to do any such thing before in her life, but to her surprise she now saw that her companion's expression had entirely changed. "What a goose I am!" Betty laughed cheerfully. "Of course I can write to old Dick for the money. I don't usually like to ask him, for he is such a conscientious person, so unlike reckless me, and will probably scold, but then he will give me the money just the same. I wonder if anything ever happened to make Dick more serious than other young men? He isn't a bit like Frank Wharton or other wealthy fellows who do nothing but spend money and have a good time. He seems just devoted to studying medicine, and sometimes he has said such strange things to mother as though there might be some special reason why he wanted so much to help people." And feeling that her own dilemma was now comfortably settled, Betty fell to puzzling over the older problem which she had always kept more or less at the back of her mind. But, curiously enough, Rose Dyer shook her head discouragingly. "I wouldn't try that method of getting the money, Betty, if I were you," she replied thoughtfully. "I suppose it hasn't occurred to you that if your mother and father are not able to give you extra money, and you know Dick always makes them put you first, why he is probably not having any extra money either. And since his whole heart is set on going to Germany next year to continue his work why he is probably saving all that he can now so as not to be an additional expense." Rose was several years older than Dick, but they had known one another ever since she came as a young girl to New Hampshire from her home in Georgia, bringing her colored mammy with her. For Rose's parents had died and she had lived with an old uncle until a few years before when he had gone, leaving her his heiress. Now Rose's pretty home in Woodford was closed for the winter and her chaperon living in Florida while she spent her time trying to learn to be a worthy guardian for the Camp Fire girls. Perhaps she really had heard more of Dick Ashton's early life than his sister Betty and had a special reason for her interest in him, however she said nothing of it. "I wonder if I couldn't lend you the money. I am not rich as you are, but perhaps I have----" And here Betty shook her head decisively. "I couldn't borrow the money of anybody, one way of owing it would be as bad as another. I simply have got to find a way." She stopped suddenly because the sound of some one driving up to the cabin surprised her, and then, to her greater surprise, her guardian, after a hurried glance out of the window, dropped her mixing-spoon with a clatter and positively ran out of the room. Betty stared. She could only see rather a shabby, old-fashioned buggy standing near the Totem pole in front of their cabin, and a young man hitching his horse to it. Almost forgetting her bandaged ankle, the girl hobbled over to the door, but when she had opened it gave an involuntary cry of pain and the next instant found herself being lifted and carried back to her chair. "You must not try to walk until you are sure things are all right with you," a strange voice said severely. Then, in answer to Betty's look of amazement, he took off his hat and bowed gravely. She found herself staring at a tall, slender man of about thirty, in carefully brushed clothes, which nevertheless had an old-fashioned, country appearance, and with a face at once so handsome and so stern that he looked as if he might have stepped out of an old frame which had held the portrait of one of the early Puritan fathers. "I am the doctor Sylvia Wharton is studying with, Miss Ashton," he explained. "You don't know me but I know very well who you are. I have only been living in this part of the country for the past two years, trying to build up a practice among the farming people, so that when Sylvia stopped by and asked me to come and see you I telephoned at once to your physician in town, but finding him out I thought it might be best----" The young man hesitated and flushed. He was morbidly sensitive and conscientious, and knowing Mr. Ashton's prominence would not for the world have made an effort to gain Betty as a patient. However, Betty was by this time suffering so much that she gave a little cry of relief. "Sylvia has much more sense than any of us," she returned gratefully. "I assured everybody I wasn't suffering in the least this morning and now--well, I suppose I shouldn't have walked over to the door." The young doctor had knelt on the floor and was gently removing the bandage from the swollen ankle. "Sylvia has done very well," he declared. "The first aid idea is one of the best things I know about you Camp Fire girls, and Sylvia is trying to make me a convert, but surely you are not here alone. Miss Dyer is your chaperon or guardian, I am not entirely sure what you call her." "Why, yes, Rose is here. I can't understand why she does not come in," Betty returned, feeling rather aggrieved and surprised at Rose's neglect of her. But at this instant, hearing the bedroom door open, both the girl and the young man turned and Betty just managed to control a quick exclamation. For, to her amazement, for the first time since coming to the cabin, Rose had discarded her Camp Fire costume and was again fashionably dressed in a soft brown silk entirely inappropriate to her work and to the cabin. If Betty had thought young Dr. Barton's face stern on first seeing him it was as nothing to his expression now. He bowed formally, but as his manner showed he had known Rose before, Betty closed her eyes. The pain in her foot was increasing each instant now that Sylvia's dressing had been removed. When she opened them again she found Rose kneeling on the floor by Dr. Barton, entirely forgetful of her gown and listening quietly to his curt orders. Then during the next fifteen minutes Rose Dyer had her first experience as a trained nurse, wondering all the time she was at work how she could possibly be so stupid and so awkward. For she splashed hot water on her gown and hand, tripped over her long skirt, and was so nervous when Betty showed any signs of pain that the tears blinded her brown eyes and her hands trembled. She might have broken down except that Dr. Barton so plainly expected her to do what she was told, and because of a wrathful figure that stood immovable in the doorway. It was "Mammy," dressed in a stiff purple calico gown with a white handkerchief tied about her head. Mammy was past seventy and no longer able to do much work, but she had never left her "little Rose" in the twenty-seven year of her life and never would so long as she lived. Not able to help a great deal, she was still able to give the Sunrise Camp Fire club a great deal of advice, and then she was also a kind of additional guardian since Rose could not have been left alone at the cabin all morning with the girls in town at school. "I ain't never had much use for Yankee gentlemen," she mumbled to herself, plainly expecting the little audience to hear. "Whar I cum from the gentlemen was always waitin' on the ladies, not askin' them to tote and fetch, same as if they was poo' white trash." CHAPTER V Mollie's Suggestion The trouble with Betty Ashton's foot was only a sprained ankle but it kept her confined for several days and gave her plenty of time for reflection. She must of course pay her debts, for she could not make up her mind to send back the things she had ordered (self-denial and Betty had very slight acquaintance with one another), and besides the disappointment would not be hers alone but all of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls. For the truth is that Betty and Polly together had written a Camp Fire play setting forth some of the ideals of their organization and they wished to give the entertainment during Christmas week in the most beautiful possible fashion. Of course in the beginning they had assured Miss McMurtry, who was still a kind of advisory guardian, and Miss Dyer, that everything would be very simple and inexpensive, but naturally their ambitions grew with each passing day, and with scenery and costumes to be bought, besides the gifts and decorations for the Camp Fire tree, Betty found herself very much involved. As usual she was bearing the greater share of the expenses and then, though no one outside the Camp Fire club except Dick Ashton knew of it, Betty had been giving a part of her allowance each week so that Esther Clark might have singing lessons with the best possible teacher in Woodford. Not that the relation between Betty and Esther had seriously changed. The older girl still felt toward Betty the same adoring and self-sacrificing devotion, still considered her the most beautiful and charming person in the world and that her careless generosity lifted her above every one else, while, though to do Betty Ashton credit, she was entirely unconscious of it, her attitude toward Esther was just the least little bit condescending. Esther was so plain and awkward and particularly she lacked the birth and breeding Betty considered so essential, but then she was fond of her and did want Esther to have her chance--this chance she felt must lie in the cultivation of her beautiful voice. So that when Betty, unable to make up her mind what had best be done, determined to consult with the girls, it was to her old friends, Mollie and Polly O'Neill, that she turned rather than to Esther. She had been unusually quiet one evening, although insisting that her ankle was entirely well. Suddenly, however, she plead fatigue and with a little gesture, which both girls understood as a signal, asked that Mollie and Polly come and help her get ready for bed. When Betty was finally undressed, she sat bolt upright in her cot with her cheeks flushed and her gray eyes shining. So unusually pretty did she appear that Polly, who never ceased to admire her, even when she happened to be angry, set a silver paper crown upon her head. The crown was a part of their Christmas stage property and not intended for Betty, but now Polly stood a few feet away and clasped her hands together from sheer admiration, while Mollie, who was usually undemonstrative, leaned over and kissed her friend's cheek before settling herself at the foot of the bed. "You certainly are lovely, Princess, and so is Mollie for that matter," Polly exclaimed, generously seating herself opposite her sister. Betty happened to be wearing a heavy blue silk dressing jacket over her gown and her auburn hair hung in two heavy braids, one over each shoulder. Her forehead was low and she had delicate level brows. But just now Betty flushed scarlet and frowned, for whatever her other faults she was not vain. "Please don't call me Princess, Polly, dear," she urged, taking off her paper crown and surveying it rather ruefully, "because I am in truth only a paper princess to-night. You have told me a hundred times, Polly, child, that you thought I ought to know the sensation of being poor like other people, that I needed it for my education. Well, I do at last, for I have bought a lot of things for Christmas that I can't pay for, as mother writes she can't let me have any extra money." Betty's expression, however, was not half so serious as that of her two friends as she made this confession. For the girls had also heard the rumor which had troubled Rose Dyer in regard to Mr. Ashton's possible change of fortune, and knew that Betty did not in the least understand the gravity of her mother's refusal. Polly positively shivered. Betty poor! It was impossible to imagine! Yet what, after all, did the supposed loss of a few thousand dollars mean to a man of Mr. Ashton's wealth. Polly patted Betty's hand sympathetically. "Debt is the most horrible thing in the world, isn't it? I haven't forgotten how I felt when I was in your debt last summer, Betty, and took such a horrid way to get out of it." "Maybe you had better send back what you have bought," suggested the more practical Mollie, making the same suggestion as their guardian. But at this Betty and Polly glanced at one another despairingly. "Give up making their Camp Fire play a success?" For this is what it would mean should Betty have to send back her purchases! "How much do you owe, dear?" Polly next inquired in a crushed voice. And at this Betty drew the same sheets of complex figures out from under her pillow. "It is a hundred and fifty dollars, I can't make it any less," she confessed. "That sounds pretty dreadful doesn't it, when you have not a single cent to pay with, though I never thought one hundred and fifty dollars so very much before. Of course I could save something out of my allowance every month, but not very much, and father would not like me to ask people to wait." "Can't you give up something besides the Christmas present from your mother which you were _not_ going to have?" Mollie inquired so seriously and with such a horrified expression over the amount of her friend's indebtedness, and such an entire disregard for the Irishness of her speech, that both the other girls laughed in spite of their worry. Mollie's pretty face showed no answering smiles in return, nor did she take the least interest in the reason for their laughter. For it was not her way to be interrupted by their perfectly idle merriment. "But haven't you, Betty?" she repeated. And Betty leaned her chin on her hands. "I have my piano," she replied slowly, "but I can't sell that because then Esther would have no chance to practice, and we could never half enjoy our Camp Fire songs without." Both the other girls shook their heads. Giving up the piano _was_ out of the question. For a moment longer there was silence and then Betty's cheeks flushed again. "I have got some things I suppose I can part with, though I rather hate to," she confessed. "I don't know whether mother and father would like it, but then they would not like my being in debt. In a safety box in the bank in town I have some jewelry I never wear because mother thinks it too handsome for a girl of my age. Father and Dick have given it to me at different times. I suppose somebody would tell me how to dispose of at least a part of it." And although both Polly and Mollie at first strenuously objected to Betty's suggestion, it was finally decided that Betty and Polly should drive into Woodford on the following Saturday morning without saying anything to any one else and bring the safety box back with them. Then they could talk the matter over and find out what Betty could dispose of with the least regret. Her ankle was now well enough for her to make the trip in their sleigh without difficulty. CHAPTER VI A Black Sheep The one month in the winter camp had made more change in Nan Graham than the entire preceding summer, and the influence exerted by Rose Dyer in so short a time greater than all Miss McMurtry's conscientious efforts, so does one character often affect another, so by a strange law of nature do extremes meet. Unconsciously Nan had always cherished just such an ideal as Rose represented. This uncouth young girl, untrained in even the simple things of life, with her curious mixed parentage of an Italian peasant mother and a ne'er-do-well father, who nevertheless was of good old New England stock, wished to be like the lovely southern girl who had nearly every grace and charm and had had every possible social advantage. Yet in spite of the contrast Nan did wish to be like her and though even to herself there seemed little chance of her succeeding, did try to mold herself after Rose's pattern. The other girls quickly noted her attempts to soften her coarse voice, to give up the use of the ugly expressions that had so annoyed them and even to wear her clothes and to fix her thick black hair in a soft coil at the back of her neck as their guardian did. But fortunately they were kind enough not to laugh nor even to let Nan know that they were watching her. The girl had a certain beauty of her own with her dark coloring and sometimes sullen, sometimes eager, face. Her figure, however, was short and square, indeed she showed no trace of her New England blood and bore no resemblance to graceful Rose. However, as the days went by Nan was growing to be more like the other Camp Fire girls in her manner and behavior, and was probably learning more than any one of them, since she had had fewer opportunities before. Miss Dyer could hardly help suspecting Nan's devotion, for although she was still faithful to Polly as her first friend in the club, always she was at Rose's side ready to do anything she wished, and always accepting her suggestions in the best spirit. It was therefore the new Camp Fire guardian who was responsible for Nan's not separating herself from her family as the young girl would like to have done during this time of her effort at self-improvement. For Rose knew that the whole effort of the Camp Fire organization was to make the girls more useful, to give better and happier service to the people they loved. Therefore, because of Rose's advice and after a long talk with her in which Nan explained the conditions of her own home, it was decided that the young girl should spend every Saturday with her mother helping her with the work of the home and the care of the children, and trying to make practical the lessons she was learning in the Camp Fire. These days at home were not easy ones, and the girls were accustomed to seeing Nan come back at night tired and cross or at least dispirited. Her mother had no interest in her efforts. She was opposed to her oldest daughter's living away from home if she were earning no money, and had no desire to have her house disturbed by Nan's vigorous weekly efforts at cleaning. Indeed, except for Nan's father, she would never have been permitted to live at the cabin, where her share of the expenses were now being paid by Rose Dyer. He, however, had a kind of sympathy with the girl's efforts, and a slowly awakening sense that his daughter had the right to wish to be a lady. Though he might not actually help her, at least no one should stand in her way. So at his command Nan had been allowed this winter with the girls at the cabin and was also to do what she liked without interference when she returned home on Saturdays. Personally he liked the smell of soap and water which her visits left about his shack and greatly enjoyed the homemade bread and the weekly pumpkin pie which was always cooked especially for him. But Nan's most serious opposition came not from her idle but fairly good-natured mother but from her older brother Antonio, or Anthony as he preferred to be called. Having been given the Italian name he was less Italian than any other member of the family. Indeed, he was a good-looking American boy with hazel eyes and a fair skin and, except for his curly dark hair and a certain unconscious grace, not different in appearance from other American boys. Yet he shared the family weaknesses and had refused to go to school for the past two years. Indeed, he would not work at anything for a sufficiently long enough time to make it count, so that probably because he was a boy, and a fairly capable one if he had been more ambitious, his present reputation was now the worst in the family. He appeared also to resent Nan's new friendships and new efforts with the greatest possible bitterness. On the Saturday morning when Polly and Betty started driving toward town on their errand, about a quarter of a mile from the cabin they came unexpectedly upon Nan. She was trudging steadfastly along with a bundle of clothing which Rose had given her for the younger children under her arm, looking resolute and yet none too cheerful. Before catching up with her the two girls sighed and then smiled at one another. They had wanted this drive together without any one else and had waited until Saturday morning so that Betty's pony, Fire Star, would be free for her use and they could have the small sleigh, which had been well mended since the accident. Fire Star and a pony belonging to Sylvia Wharton had made the trips back and forth to school each day and a return journey was too much for them except for some special emergency. Both the girls had particularly wanted to discuss certain features of their Camp Fire play without interruption, but now the sight of Nan's faithful figure awoke their sympathy. "For goodness' sake, squeeze into the middle along with us, Nan," Betty invited. "How selfish you must have thought Polly and me this morning when we were planning right before you to drive into town and never said a word about taking you as far as your home. The fact is we both had something so important on our minds, or at least the thing seems important to me, so that really we forgot about you." The girls then said nothing of their errand while they were driving along the road, where the snow was now beaten down into a hard, firm crust. But when they had set Nan down in front of the ram-shackle hut at the edge of the village which served as her home, Betty leaned out remarking confidentially: "I am sorry we can't come back for you, Nan, but I am to get my box of jewelry from the bank and take it to our cabin so that I feel we ought to get back as soon as we can." There was no point in Betty's making this confession at this special time and Polly disapproved of it. They had taken no one into their confidence except Mollie, and, of course, their guardian. However, since Nan had been falsely suspected of stealing her money, Betty had never failed of showing her faith in her. And Nan understood this as she stood for several moments watching the pony and sleigh out of sight and hearing. Polly was wearing a crimson felt hat with a small black quill in it and a long red coat, and Betty, a seal-skin cap with a knot of her favorite blue velvet on one side and a fur coat. Nan could not help feeling the contrast between their lives and hers as she stepped later into their crowded and untidy kitchen. Nevertheless their friendship helped her to bear the fact that her brother Anthony, whom she loved best in her family, would not even speak to her. Indeed the thought of the Camp Fire club sustained her through the long and specially trying day. A slight flurry of snow fell during the morning, so that the four younger children would not go out of doors but kept getting under Nan's feet while she tried to clean. Her mother objected to each thing she did and Anthony loafing in a corner smoking cigarettes tried his best to make her lose her temper. At lunch Mr. Graham, who usually came home then and made things easier for Nan, did not return, so that by the time the dishes were washed the girl had given up the attempt to do any further cleaning and turned to her usual Saturday baking. This was usually more appreciated by her family. Because of a possible failure if she were too much interrupted, Mrs. Graham then removed the younger children to another room, leaving Nan alone with her brother. He did not torment her any further at first, but seeing that he was unusually moody and out of sorts his sister turned to him. "What is it, Tony?" she inquired good-naturedly, ignoring what had passed between them. The boy shrugged his shoulders. "Wasn't good enough to be elected a Boy Scout," he sneered, "seems like the fellows around here said they didn't like my record and wanted their camps kept up to the mark. Course I don't care anything about joining but they might have given a fellow a chance. Give a man a black name--I say, Nan," he broke off suddenly, "couldn't you lend me some money, say five dollars or so?" Nan stared at him in surprise. Anthony must know that she hadn't a cent in the world to call her own and that she was having her expenses paid by Miss Dyer at the cabin. Of course she meant some day to repay Rose, Betty and Polly for all they had done for her but it might take a number of years. "Couldn't you borrow the money from some of your rich friends?" he demanded, irritated and ashamed at his sister's silence. And then, unexpectedly, seeming to feel a better impulse, he came closer to the table where Nan was now mixing her pie crust and watched her quietly for a few moments. In a measure he realized his own right to be a gentleman, and resented the fact that they were everywhere looked down upon, and that Nan's efforts to better herself had to be made outside her own family. "There ain't no use your trying to make something of yourself, Nan," he said more kindly than he had spoken before during the day. "This Camp Fire business don't mean anything _real_. These girls maybe are letting you live with them and treating you fairly well but once you're grown up, maybe they'll say 'Howdy do' to you on the street, but they won't ever ask you into their houses or be your friends. I bet they didn't want you driving into town and being seen on the street with them to-day. I was watching and saw them set you down at your own door pretty prompt." "It wasn't because they were ashamed of me," Nan defended promptly, and yet although she knew that what she had said was true she could not help feeling both sore and ashamed. For the other Camp Fire girls really had the right to feel differently toward her when her own family would do nothing to make themselves respected and when she found it so hard to struggle with so much against her. For an instant Nan felt as if she might have to give up. But only for an instant, for she raised her flushed face and her brother saw the tears standing in her large dark eyes. "The girls would have been perfectly willing to take me into the village," she explained more quietly, "only they knew I had to work at home and they were going in on an important errand to get some money or jewelry of Betty's from the bank before it closed. They wanted to get back to the cabin before dark or else Betty said they would have stopped by and taken me home with them." The moment after these words passed Nan's lips she regretted them, not because she believed any possible harm could come of them but because she remembered that Betty and Polly had both told her no one else had been told of their intention and she did not wish to be the one to betray their confidence. "Please don't tell anybody what I have just said?" she begged beseechingly, but already her brother was lounging away as though he had grown tired of the confinement of the kitchen and apparently had not even heard her. But when Nan repeated her request he returned. "Oh, certainly I won't tell, Nan. Who on earth would I mention such a silly thing to anyway? It seems to me you Sunrise Camp Fire girls think every little thing you do and say of importance to all the world." CHAPTER VII Turning the Tables When Anthony Graham left his home and started walking slowly through the woods he had absolutely no definite intention of any kind in his mind. He was bored and a little ashamed of harassing his sister. For if Anthony had confessed the truth to himself down in his heart he was really both glad and proud of what Nan was trying to do and had felt secretly more ashamed of himself since she began her efforts. For the boy had a better mind than his sister and had more inheritances from his father's family. His idleness and weakness came more from his unfortunate environment and from the fact that nothing had as yet awakened any ambition or better feeling in him. He had not told Nan what he wanted with the money asked of her, but for the past ten days had been thinking that if only he could get away somewhere out of Woodford, where no one knew anything of him or his family, and have a fair start, why he too might amount to something in the future so that Nan need not be shamed by him. He walked for half a mile or so and then sitting down on a log began to whittle. There wasn't any use trying to clear out without money to buy food and he did not wish to remain anywhere in the immediate neighborhood. It had occurred to Anthony in the past week that he might work and earn sufficient money for his escape, but having applied at three or four places and been refused, his old shiftlessness and lack of will power laid fresh hold on him so that he gave up the effort. Now, as he sat at his usual occupation of killing time, he tried to banish all thought and all desire. He intended waiting until it was time to walk back to the Sunrise cabin with Nan and then go into the village and find his equally idle friends. Suddenly Polly's laugh sounded and then Betty's, as though in response to something her companion had said. The girls were driving along the road toward home and a little farther on would come within a dozen yards of the spot where Anthony was seated, concealed from view of the road by the grouping of trees. The boy started, at first with surprise. The winter woods had seemed so quiet and so lonely, not even a teamster had passed in all the time of his musing. And then a curiosity seized hold on him to see his sister's much talked of friends without being seen by them. Of course he had probably passed both Betty and Polly on the streets of Woodford a good many times and that morning had caught a distant glimpse of them from the window, but he did not know one girl from the other, and from his sister's description he might now be able to tell. Betty was the beautiful one, and Polly, well Nan no more than other people had ever been able to decide whether Polly was beautiful or whether she was so fascinating that you had to think so while she was talking to you. When she was quiet her face was apt to be pale and a little too thin. Anthony found a hiding place behind a tree bordering the road, until the sound of the sleigh bells came nearer and nearer, and Fire Star made her appearance. Then an impulse stronger and more dangerous than curiosity swept over him. For the first time since leaving his sister in the kitchen he remembered Nan's information. The two girls would be carrying back to their cabin a box containing Betty's jewelry. How easy to frighten them and make them surrender the box. Then he could get away from this neighborhood he hated and have a chance at a new life. He would do the girls no harm and only take enough money to cover his actual needs. The rest Betty could have back again. Anthony did not believe that either Betty or Polly knew him on sight. Nevertheless, though he had little time for reflection, with a quick movement he pulled his ragged cap down well over his forehead and eyes, turned up his coat collar and stooping picked up from the ground a heavy stick which was almost a log in size. An instant later Fire Star's bridle was seized with an ugly jerk and the pony brought to a standstill. As Betty was driving, the tin box was being held in Polly's lap so that the highwayman's first words were addressed to her. "Turn over that box to me," he demanded, trying to make his voice sound older and more threatening than usual. However, both girls were so entirely overcome by amazement at the unexpected appearance of a robber in their peaceful New Hampshire woods, that for a moment they could only stare. The next instant Polly with a quick flare of her Irish temper, leaned over and seizing hold of Betty's almost toy whip, slashed it in the face of the intruder. "Get out of the way," she cried angrily. "I am sure you can't know what you are doing." But almost in the same instant the whip was torn out of her hand and dropped on the ground. When Betty attempted to rush Fire Star forward the pony's bridle was caught the second time. "If you don't do what I say I'll break your pony's back with this stick," the boy muttered, and at this Betty winced, making no further effort to drive on. Fire Star had been her pony since she was a small girl and the stick the young fellow held was large enough to do her serious hurt, also his manner was sufficiently ugly to indicate that he meant what he said. Polly was by this time so angry that she could scarcely think, but, fortunately, Betty, after the first moment of surprise and natural fear, had held herself well in hand. Now she looked so steadfastly at the figure at her pony's head that the young man turned his face away. "You are Nan Graham's brother," Betty remarked quietly, "and I hope poor Nan may never hear what you are trying to do. You may not believe I have ever seen you before, but I have. Then as we have told only Nan the reason for our errand to town only she could have told you. I am quite sure though that she did not mean to betray us." Betty said this so loyally and in such an unafraid, yet accusing voice, that Anthony Graham wished himself ten thousand miles from the place where he stood and as many leagues from the deed he was doing. However, since he had already disgraced both his sister and himself there was all the more reason why he should go through with this cowardly business and get himself away if he possibly could. "No matter who I am, you will hand that box over just the same and be quick about it," he commanded with another threatening wave of his stick. "We will do no such thing but will have you arrested as a thief," Polly announced defiantly, wishing with all her heart, in spite of her Camp Fire training, that the despised Billy Webster might appear at this moment driving one of his father's wagons either to or away from town. At other times she might look down upon Billy for having only a farmer's ideals, just now, however, the splendid strength that his outdoor life must have given him would have been peculiarly desirable. However, to Polly's surprise and chagrin, Betty, whom she had always considered braver than herself, showed signs of weakening. "I will give you the key to my box if you will let me have some papers that are inside it which can be of no value to you." Betty said this with a nervous laugh, her face suddenly turning pale when it had formerly been flushed. Then she set her lips to keep them from trembling. Without waiting for an answer she afterwards leaned forward and began searching under the carriage rug on the bottom of her sleigh for the purse bag in which Polly remembered the key to have been concealed. Anthony might at this instant have seized the tin box from Polly and been off with it before Betty could have driven Fire Star on. But he was willing enough to have the key to Betty's box and even to leave her papers behind some tree if she so much desired them. He had never meant to take all her foolish trinkets which were of no value to any one except a girl. So for a brief moment Anthony did not look toward either Betty or Polly but kept his eyes fastened on the pony's head. In that same moment, hearing a sudden whirr through the air, before he was able to move the boy found himself securely caught by a rope and his arms drawn tight to his sides so that his stick dropped with a clatter on the frozen ground. While Betty Ashton with another rapid movement wound the other end of her rope about the cross bar of her sleigh catching it with a clove hitch and then, with a little gasp of astonishment at her own prowess, dropped back into her seat, only faintly hearing Polly's cry of delighted amazement. Not for nothing had Betty Ashton been learning to acquire honors in camp craft for the past six months, practicing different kinds of knot tying with the other girls in friendly rivalry hour after hour. In the bottom of her sleigh along with the purse bag which really did contain her key, Betty had remembered that they had fifty feet of new clothes line being taken back to the cabin. In the moment of fumbling under the rug she had quickly tied the much practiced slip noose and then had thrown it with better skill than she could ever repeat. Polly gave a characteristic laugh to relieve the tension of the situation. "We have caught the enemy and he is ours now, Betty, dear, but whatever are we going to do with him?" But Betty had gathered up her reins and was quietly urging Fire Star ahead. So there was nothing for their prisoner to do but to run along by the side of the sleigh. By superior strength the young man could have jerked away from Betty's and Polly's hold, but not from the sleigh itself. Now the more he pulled on the clothes line the tighter it bound him. Besides it was difficult to do even this when all his strength was required keeping up with the pony's rapid gait. "I have often wondered how it would feel to be a conqueror driving through the streets of Rome with one's prisoners lashed to their chariot wheels and this is deliciously like it," Polly sighed before her companion had once spoken, enjoying with all her vivid imagination the retribution that had overtaken the evildoer. But Betty's expression was strangely grave and every now and then she kept glancing aside at the figure running along beside them. For, except for a first oath and a few violent threats, the young man seemed to own himself beaten and had since said nothing. There was a horrible droop instead to his head and shoulders, and indeed to his whole figure, and he looked so ashamed that it made Betty sick to look at him, Polly did not seem to have noticed but Betty felt that she had never seen just such an expression before. "Polly," she whispered softly, "do you think we ought to drive up to the cabin taking this fellow with us like this? Of course we can turn around and go back to town and even drive up to the jail with him but that is just as bad. After all, he is poor little Nan's brother, and if we do the child can never hold up her head again! I keep imagining how I should feel if I were to be taken prisoner and carried before a lot of strange boys to act as my judges." Then Betty shuddered as though her vision were real, but Polly only laughed so scornfully that the boy, overhearing her, cringed. "It is an absurd supposition, Betty, and I can't well imagine your putting yourself in this dreadful fellow's place. You can hardly expect me to conceive of you, even in these advanced female days, suddenly stopping a number of young men and demanding their pocketbooks." Notwithstanding Betty appeared deaf to her beloved Polly's teasing, for instead of answering she slowed her pony down. "Don't you think we owe anything to Nan as a member of our Camp Fire circle?" she asked. "It seems to me that allegiance is one of the first things boys learn and it is because we girls don't feel it toward one another that women have the harder time." Instantly Polly sobered. "That is true, Princess," she agreed, "and I am desperately sorry for Nan and would spare her if we could, but do you think it right to let an intended thief go free? Besides, if we do cut him loose how do we know he will not seize your box away from us?" "Because I should drive up almost to the Webster farm, where we could be heard if we called for help before letting him go. And anyhow even if we don't let him go free I should like to talk to him." Polly shook her head. "Don't try reformation at the eleventh hour, I don't believe in it," she declared. Notwithstanding this Betty drove on until within hailing distance of the Webster farm house and then, without asking further advice from Polly, calmly brought her pony to a standstill. The young fellow made no effort to come nearer the sleigh or even to tear himself away, but kept gazing in astonishment at Betty as she dismounted and walked fearlessly up to him. "What made you want to take my jewelry, Anthony?" she inquired. "I know your name because I have heard Nan speak so often of you. I wonder if you have ever tried to steal anything before?" She said this apparently to herself since the boy did not seem inclined to answer. And then Betty shook her lovely head softly. "I wonder what it feels like to want to steal?" she questioned. "It must be some very dreadful reason that tempts one. You see I have never been poor myself or known what it was to want terribly anything I could not have." And then very swiftly and without allowing time for Polly to stop her, Betty drew out her Camp Fire knife and cut the rope that bound the young fellow's arms to his sides. "I don't know whether it is right or wrong for me to do this," she confessed, "but for Nan's sake I cannot bear to hold you a prisoner." Then both to her surprise and Polly's, Anthony made no movement and at the same instant the girls to their embarrassment saw that he was crying. Not weeping like some girls to whom tears come easily, but shaken by dry painful sobs, as though his shame and self-abasement were too great to be borne. "It was for Nan's sake that I wanted to get away," he confessed finally, pulling himself together by a tremendous effort. "I thought maybe if I could get a chance like she is having, somewhere away from here where no one knew me, that I might be able to do something for myself. It was nearly killing me thinking I had ruined everything for her." "So you were intending to steal in order to begin leading a better life," Betty repeated thoughtfully, and the young man flashed an angry look at her. But she was not trying to be sarcastic and the expression on her face at that moment he never afterwards forgot. "I should hate you to stop trying to make things right for yourself and Nan because you began the wrong way," she continued after a little thoughtful pause. Then with a blush and an humble look very characteristic of Betty when wishing to be allowed to do another person a favor, she picked up her purse bag from the bottom of the sleigh and slipping her hand in it drew out a crumpled bill. "Won't you let me lend you the money for your chance?" she asked, as though speaking to a friend and utterly ignoring the ugly scene that had just passed. "I haven't much money with me, so you must not mind. You can pay it back to me when you get to the new place and have good luck." And then, before the dazed boy had time to understand what she was trying to do, Betty had thrust ten dollars into his partially clenched hand and jumping back into her sleigh had driven rapidly away. Fire Star was rather bored with so much unnecessary delay on his journey home and wanted to get back to shelter. A little later Billy Webster, who had been cutting down trees in a portion of his father's woods, took off his fur cap to wave to the girls just as Polly in her dramatic fashion dropped down on one knee in their sleigh attempting to kiss Betty's hand. "Betty dear, if ever I saw you do a Princess-like act in a Princess-like fashion it was when you gave that abominable boy that money," she said admiringly. "It is my opinion that either he is absolutely no good or else he will reform from this moment and be your faithful knight to the end of the chapter." But Betty only smiled a little uncertainly. "Perhaps it wasn't honest of me, Polly, to be giving away money when I owe so much to other people." And then, touching the tin box in her friend's lap, she said half joking and half serious, "but since I am having to give up my kingdom I am glad to be able to help some one else to come into theirs." CHAPTER VIII Possibilities "'Rose of the World,' my fate is to be decided on this coming Christmas night." Polly O'Neill made this surprising statement on the same evening following the adventure that had befallen her and Betty earlier in the afternoon. The seven girls were sitting in a crescent upon sofa pillows before their living-room fire with Rose on a low stool in the center. Although it was now nearly bedtime no mention had been made of the cause of the two girls' trip into town nor of their unusual experience. Nan had come home uncommonly tired and silent, and ever since supper time had been curled up on the floor using her pillow as a kind of bed and almost half asleep. But at Polly's extravagant words she sat up and looked at her curiously and so did all the other girls except Betty, who only smiled sympathetically, nodding her head reassuringly at Mollie, who seemed a little puzzled and a little annoyed. "I don't see why it is going to be your fate that is to be decided any more than Betty's or any of the rest of us, Polly." Mollie answered before their guardian could speak. "Just because you are going to have the chief part in our play when the rest of us just have less important parts." But Polly, who was in one of her wildest moods to-night, flung her arms unexpectedly about her sister, almost overturning her by her ardor. "You don't know what you are talking about, Mollie Mavourneen, because you haven't heard my news, since I only learned it to-day in town. It can't affect Betty or you or any of the other girls as it does me, because you haven't been yearning ever since you were born to go on the stage as I have until the very thought of the footlights and the smell of the theater makes me hungry and dizzy and frightened and so happy!" "You haven't been in the theater a dozen times in your life, Polly O'Neill," Mollie returned, looking even more serious than before remembering her mother's opposition and her own to Polly's theatrical ambition, "and you know nothing in the world about what the life means." "Well, I will know pretty soon, Mollie. You see I am sixteen now, almost seventeen. I will be through school in another year--and then--why if I have any talent mother must be persuaded to let me study and see what I can do. And thereby hangs my tale!" Two vivid spots of color were burning on Polly's high cheek bones, her eyes were shining as though she saw only the joys of the career she hoped to choose for herself and none of its hardships, and she had to hold her thin nervous hands tight together to try to control her excitement. "Don't tell, please, Betty, I am waiting to get more breath," Polly pleaded, and Betty nodded reassuringly. Not for worlds would she have stolen this particular clap of thunder from her friend, and it was rather a habit with Polly not to be able to breathe very deeply when she was much agitated. "When Betty and I drove into town this morning," she said in the next instant, "you know we stopped by Miss Adams' to go over our Christmas rehearsals with her." (Miss Adams was the teacher of elocution at the Woodford High School and greatly interested in Polly.) "Well, when we had finished and she had told Betty of half a dozen mistakes she was making and me of something less than a hundred, she said slowly but with a kind of peculiar expression all the time, 'Girls, I wonder if you will be willing for me to bring a guest to your Christmas Camp Fire play?' Betty answered, 'Yes' very politely, though you know we have asked more people already than we will ever have room for, but as I was mumbling over some lines of a speech I didn't say anything. Then Miss Adams looked straight at me and said slowly just like this: 'I am very glad indeed, Polly, for your sake, You remember that I have often spoken to you of a cousin of mine (we were like sisters when we were little girls) who is now one of the most famous, if not the very most famous, actress in this country. We write each other constantly and several times I have spoken to her about you. This very morning I had a letter from her saying she was tired and as she was to have a week's holiday at Christmas might she come down and spend it with me if I would promise not to let anybody know who she was nor make her see any company.' My heart had been pounding just like this," Polly continued, making an uneven, quick movement with her hand, "but when Miss Adams ended in this cruel fashion it must have stopped, because I remember I couldn't speak and felt myself turn pale. And then my beloved Betty saved me! She answered in just a little bit frightened voice. 'But you think, Miss Adams, that you may be able to persuade your cousin to come to our play, if we don't talk about it or let other people worry her, and then she can tell whether Polly has any real talent for the stage or whether we think so just because she wishes us to.'" At the end of this long speech Polly may have lost her breath. Anyhow, she became frightened and stopped talking, staring instead into the open fire. "It will be a great trial for the rest of us to have the great Miss Margaret Adams watching us act our poor little Camp Fire play," Betty continued, "but I am sure we must all be glad to have her for Polly's sake." After this there was silence for a moment, so that the noise of the old clock ticking above the mantel could be distinctly heard. Then the new guardian shook her head. "I am sorry, Polly, but I am afraid that having Miss Adams talk to you about your future, whether she encourages you or not, will not be right without your mother's consent." Rose knew Mrs. O'Neill very well and understood how she dreaded the life of the stage for Polly's emotional and none too well-balanced temperament. Polly's fashion of living on her nerves rather than on any reserve of physical strength would be a serious drawback. For a moment the older woman wished that she might be able to accede to this Christmas experiment and that the great actress might be wise enough to recognize Polly's unfitness for acting and persuade her to dismiss the entire idea from her mind. "Of course I will have to get mother's consent," Polly agreed more quietly than any one had expected, "but I think when I write and tell her exactly how I feel she will do as I ask." It was now ten o'clock and Nan Graham rose first to make ready for bed. She was followed by Eleanor and Sylvia, as it was already an hour past their usual week-day bedtime, but Betty laid her hand quietly on Rose's arm. "Please don't go to your room yet," she whispered, "I have something I want to talk to you about. It won't matter if only Polly and Mollie stay with us." She glanced expectantly at Esther, supposing of course that she would retire with the other girls, but instead Esther was sitting with her big, awkward hands clasped before her and such an utterly miserable expression on her plain face that Betty forgot her own problem and intended sacrifice. "What on earth is the matter with you, Esther Clark?" she demanded a little indignantly. "Half an hour ago you looked as you usually do, and I am sure I have heard no one since say anything to hurt your feelings. Why, please, should you now look as if you had lost your last friend on earth?" Esther laughed nervously. "Please don't be angry, Betty, or Miss Dyer, or Polly, and don't think I mean to be hateful or unaccommodating, but really I don't think I can sing on the evening of our Christmas entertainment. I have been trying to make up my mind to tell you for days and days, that I know I shall simply break down and disgrace us all." "And since you heard that we were to have a famous woman as a member of our audience you are more sure than ever that you won't be able to sing?" Polly questioned. Esther nodded silently, while Polly's eyes gazed past her as though they were trying to solve some puzzle. "It is odd, isn't it," she continued, speaking to all or to none of the little company. "Here I am with just a slight talent for acting, and perhaps not even that, dreaming and longing to have this Miss Adams' criticism, even though I may break down when the time comes, and here is Esther with a really great gift liking to hide her light under a bushel. Oh me, oh my, and it's a queer world, isn't it?" "Yes, but Esther isn't going to hide her light this time, it's too silly of her," Betty rejoined. "She has that perfectly wonderful song that Dick got for her last summer and has been practicing it for months. Besides we have asked our funny old German, who rescued us in the storm, to play Esther's accompaniment on his violin. He has practiced with her in town and is enraptured. Says Esther sings like a 'liebe angel.'" Esther rose slowly to her feet. "Of course if you really wish me to, Betty, with all you have done for me----" But Betty gave her an affectionate push toward the bedroom door. "Oh, go to bed, Esther, what I have done for you has nothing to do with your singing and certainly gives me no right to try to run you. It is only that I don't mean you to take a back seat all your life if I can possibly shove you forward." At any other time Esther might have felt wounded at Betty's so evidently wishing to get rid of her and have her older friends stay behind (for Esther had that rather trying sensitiveness that belongs to some shy people and makes them difficult), but with Christmas near at hand secrets were too much a part of Camp Fire life to be regarded seriously, so that Esther straightway left the O'Neill girls, Betty and Rose, to themselves. Then Betty went immediately over to a closet and brought out the locked tin box. As she opened it she explained her plan to Rose, who said nothing at first, merely leaning a little curiously over one of Betty's shoulders watching her take out her pretty ornaments, while Mollie and Polly stood guard on the other side. Betty of course had the usual discarded childish trinkets--a string of amber beads, pins and a small ring--but these she put hastily aside as of no value, and then with a little sigh of admiration and regret drew forth a really beautiful possession, a sapphire necklace with tiny diamonds set between the blue stones, which Betty loved and had chosen for her special jewel. "I expect this is worth the amount of my debt," Betty suggested huskily. Her father had given her the necklace the last summer they were in Europe together. But Rose Dyer shook her head decisively. "Not that, Betty; indeed I have not yet made up my mind whether you ought to be allowed to part with any of your jewelry, at least before you ask your brother Dick." Next the girls considered Betty's blue enamel watch which her brother had given her on her last birthday and a small diamond ring. She had just about decided that she preferred to part with the ring when Polly exclaimed thoughtlessly, "Are those the papers you were so unwilling to give up this afternoon, Princess?" At this Betty nodded, frowning slightly. They had decided not to make any mention of the afternoon's experience in order that Nan should never hear about it. "There is some mystery or other about these papers," she explained, picking up a large envelope with an official seal on the outside. "Father asked me to take good care of this envelope all my life and never to open it unless there was some very special cause. As he never told me what the reason should be I suppose I will keep it sealed forever." Then Betty with a little cry of delight dropped the envelope inside the box picking up another paper instead, which had a gold seal and two strings of blue ribbon pasted upon it. "What a forgetful person I am!" she exclaimed in a relieved voice. "Why here is a two hundred dollar bond which honestly belongs to me, since once upon a time I actually saved the money for a whole year to buy it. It will pay all I owe without any bother." And Betty tucking her precious box under her arm, straightway the little company made ready for bed. CHAPTER IX Christmas Eve at the Cabin "I am so sorry, I never dreamed things would turn out like this," said Sylvia Wharton awkwardly, trying to control a suggestion of tears. She was standing in the center of the Sunrise cabin living room with one hand clasping Rose Dyer's skirt and the other holding on to Polly. However, if she had had half a dozen hands she would like to have grasped as many girls, for her hour of reckoning had come. Instead, her eyes mutely implored Mollie and Betty who happened to be hurrying by at the same moment and had been arrested by the apologetic and frightened note so unusual in Sylvia's voice. And this note had to be very much emphasized at the present time to have any one pay the least attention to it, since there were enough Christmas preparations now going on in the Camp Fire living room to have sufficed a small village. On a raised platform, which occupied about a third of their entire floor space, Miss Martha McMurtry was rehearsing the two Field girls, Juliet and Beatrice, who had only arrived the night before, in the parts they were to play in the Christmas entertainment the following night. While Meg, holding "Little Brother" tight by the belt, was trying to persuade him to await more patiently his time for instruction. Toward the front of this stage, John, Billy Webster and Dick Ashton were struggling to adjust a curtain made of heavy khaki. It had a central design, the crossed logs and a splendid aspiring fire, the well-known Camp Fire emblem, painted by Eleanor Meade, who was at this moment making suggestions to the curtain raisers from the top of a step-ladder. Nan Graham and Edith Norton ran about the room meanwhile, carrying holly wreaths, bunches of mistletoe and garlands of cedar, that several of their Boy Scout friends were helping festoon along the walls. Indeed, every girl in the Sunrise Camp Fire was represented except Esther. She had gone over to the old orphan asylum where she had lived as a child, for a final rehearsal of her song with the German Herr Professor, who was staying with the superintendent of the asylum. For what reason he was there no one knew except that he must have intended getting music pupils in the village later on. However, in the midst of the prevailing noise the little group about Sylvia had remained silent, for their guardian's face was flushing strangely, her yellow-brown eyes darkening and for the first time since she came into the Sunrise Club it was possible to see how Rose Dyer felt when she was truly angry. Although her voice never lost its softness there was a severity in it that the girls felt to be rather worse than Miss McMurtry's in her moods of disapproval. "Do you mean, Sylvia," Rose asked, "that you and Dr. Barton have arranged to have a young girl whom none of us know brought to our cabin to be taken care of all winter, without consulting me or even mentioning the subject to a single one of the girls? And that this child, who has been so ill she will require a great deal of care, is actually to arrive this afternoon? It seems to me that not only have you broken every principle of our Camp Fire life but you have been lacking in the very simplest courtesy." Never in her life would Sylvia Wharton be able to explain herself or her motives properly in words. She was one of the often misunderstood people to whom expression comes with difficulty. Now her plain face was nearly purple with embarrassment. "I didn't mean to be rude; yes, I know it looks horrid and impossible of me, but you see I meant to explain and to ask permission, only I didn't dream that she would arrive for another week, and I was just waiting until our festivities would be over and you would be better able to be interested." She looked rather desperately at Betty, Polly and Mollie before going on, but they appeared almost as overwhelmed as their guardian. "You see, Betty, it was something you said a while ago that made me think of it first," she continued. "You said to Miss Dyer one evening that you thought we Sunrise Camp Fire girls were getting rather selfish, that we were not letting strangers into our club or doing anything for outside people. So I thought as Christmas was coming I would like to help somebody. Perhaps we all would! So when Dr. Barton told me about a poor little girl (she is only thirteen, I think) who was ill, probably dying, and if only she could have an outdoor life such as we girls are living she might get well, why, I told him I thought we would like to have her in our camp." Sylvia stopped because her words had given out, but she could hardly have chosen a wiser moment, for Mollie, whose gentleness and good judgment everybody respected, was beginning to understand. "I think Sylvia is trying to show the Christmas spirit of doing good to the people who need it and letting us help," she whispered, coming closer to their guardian and slipping an arm about her waist. "Perhaps our Christmas preparations have been a little bit too much for ourselves. Of course Sylvia ought to have asked permission, Rose, and of course the little girl is not to stay if you don't want her, but she didn't expect her for another week and--and please don't be angry on Christmas eve." This was exactly what poor Sylvia would like to have said without knowing how; however it did not matter who spoke, as Rose was plainly softening. "But it is Dr. Barton's part I don't understand, Sylvia; he is older, a great deal older, than you, he must have understood that you had not the right to make such a proposition without consulting me or any one," Rose declared thoughtfully. "He did," Sylvia now answered more confidently, feeling the atmosphere a bit more friendly. "He said at the beginning that the idea was quite impossible, that Miss Dyer would never be willing to undertake a responsibility of such a character, that he was surprised she had stayed with our Camp Fire club so long. It was only when I promised to try and save you all the trouble possible that he consented, Miss Dyer. You see Abbie is the daughter of a landlady Dr. Barton once had when he was a student in Boston, and so he is much interested in her, only he is too poor to pay her board and hasn't anybody to look after her at his little place; and you mustn't think it is just goodness on my part, wanting this girl at our cabin. You see I do care about learning to look after sick people more than anything else and I do want to know if our way of living really helps." "So Dr. Barton thought I would not wish to help in the care of a sick child, that I was only playing at being a real Camp Fire guardian," Rose Dyer repeated slowly and then, without adding another word, somehow she seemed to drift away. However, there were a dozen voices calling for her advice and aid at this same instant, which may have explained her failure to let Sylvia and the other girls know her possible decision. The three older friends exchanged looks and then Polly patted the crestfallen Sylvia on the shoulder. "Never mind, dear, some of us possess all the virtues except the trifling one of tact. If your little girl comes we can't very well turn her out on Christmas eve, so you had better say nothing more until Rose has thought things over and we have had a meeting of our Council Fire." Then the girls hurried off to what was about the busiest day in their careers, with little further thought of Sylvia's protégé; Polly to a quiet rehearsal with her elocution teacher of her part in the Christmas play, Mollie and Betty to assist with the final details of certain costumes, and Sylvia, who was never of a great deal of service in frivolities, to apply her scientific interest toward helping with the cooking. However, by six o'clock all the Sunrise Camp Fire friends and assistants had gone back to the village and by seven supper was over and cleared away so that the girls might have a quiet evening and go early to bed in order to be rested for the next day. Esther had only gotten home a few minutes before tea time, but in the excitement no one had missed her, nor did she seem much more tired than the rest of the girls from the strain of her last rehearsal. Nevertheless, Miss McMurtry, who had always a special affection for Esther, did see that she was even paler than usual and persuaded her to sit close to her when the girls grouped themselves about their great Christmas eve fire for an hour of Christmas story telling before separating for the night. And it was while their old guardian held everybody's attention that Rose managed to slip quietly away. She was not a child, she was not even a young girl any longer, and yet she went straight to the refuge of her babyhood--to Mammy--who had a tiny room of her own just off the kitchen. To-night there was a younger colored girl in the kitchen who had come out from Woodford to help over Christmas day, but as Rose passed their pantry she saw that Mammy had forgotten her seventy years and intended giving the New England girls a taste of an old-fashioned Southern Christmas. For along with the beautiful pies and doughnuts, which the Camp Fire girls had made, there were great dishes of sugar-powdered crullers, a black cake as big as a cart wheel and half a dozen deliciously fried chickens to vie with the turkey which had not yet been cooked. Down on a stool at the old colored woman's feet Rose let Mammy brush out her yellow-brown hair as she had done ever since she could remember. She was tired to-night; she had done more work in the past month than in all the years of her life and she loved it and was very happy and was only hoping to grow more capable and more worthy every day. Yet it was hard to have a narrow-minded New England doctor who had been a friend of her uncle's criticizing her to one of her own girls and failing to show faith in her or her work. Just because he was a recluse and spent his time in looking after the sick poor was no reason for being so severe and puritanical in his judgments. Rose was not listening to Mammy's low crooning else her ears would not have been the first to catch the sound of a horse and buggy approaching their cabin door. If the girls had forgotten the prospect of a newcomer to their Camp Fire circle their guardian had not, so now, hastily tucking up her hair without waiting for a wrap, Rose hurried out into the darkness. It was a cold clear night with many stars, but it was hardly necessary for her actually to behold the shabby buggy before recognizing it. However, the young doctor did not at first see her, for he stopped and hitched his horse and then lifted out what appeared to be a soft bundle of rugs. "Don't be frightened, dear," he whispered in a voice of unusual gentleness. "She--they will be very kind to you, I am sure, even if they can't keep you very long. I am sorry I didn't understand that things weren't exactly settled and that we made such a mistake about the time, but--why, Rose, Miss Dyer," he corrected himself hastily, "it is good of you to come out to meet us, I am sorry to be putting this additional burden upon you." And then his manner changed to a doctor's severity. "Please go into the house at once, you haven't any wrap and on such a cold night as this! Really I don't see how you are able to look after girls when you don't look after yourself." But Mammy appeared at this moment wrapping her charge in a long rose-colored broadcloth cape, and Rose's manner was unexpectedly humble. "I wouldn't have forgotten if it had been one of my girls," she apologized, and then more coldly, "Won't you come into the house?" She had so far caught but an indefinite glimpse of the young girl in Dr. Barton's charge and was steeling her heart against her until she had had time to think of whether it was best for the other Camp Fire girls to bring this sick child into their midst. For she did look such a baby standing there in the snow with an old-fashioned knitted blue woolen hood on her head, such as little girls had not worn for almost twenty years. And then, suddenly, the girl began to cry quite helplessly and pitifully, so that Rose forgot every other consideration and put her arms about her as you would comfort a baby, drawing her toward the cabin and into the kitchen that she might be warmed and comforted by Mammy before being presented to a dozen strange older girls all at once. The young doctor did not follow them, indeed Rose had not invited him in again. But a few moments later she must have remembered his existence, for she came out for the second time into the cold. Dr. Barton extended his hand, but apparently Rose did not see it, for she kept her own arms by her sides, saying in somewhat the same manner she had used earlier in the day to Sylvia: "I am sorry, Dr. Barton, you do not think I can be interested in the care of a sick little girl, and that you feel me unworthy to be a Camp Fire guardian. I know that I haven't all the knowledge and character that is necessary, but I am learning, and----" Rose would not listen to the young man's explanation or apology, for with a quick good-night she turned and left him endeavoring to say something to her which evidently she did not care to hear. CHAPTER X Esther's Old Home However, of all the Sunrise Camp Fire club it was Esther Clark who actually had the strangest Christmas eve experience. Betty had rather opposed her going over to the orphan asylum for a last rehearsal of her song with Herr Crippen. It was not really necessary, for Esther knew her song as well as she ever would be able to learn it and could only fail in her singing of it on Christmas night should her audience happen to frighten her voice away. Nevertheless, Esther had a kind of sentiment in seeing her old friends at the asylum on Christmas eve, since this was the first year that she could remember when her Christmas had not been spent with them, and there would be no opportunity for visiting the next day. For some reason or other, which Esther had never had satisfactorily explained to her, she had been kept longer at the orphan asylum than any of the other children. Indeed she was sixteen, almost seventeen, in the spring before when Mrs. Ashton had persuaded the superintendent to let her try the experiment of having Esther as her daughter Betty's companion. Ordinarily the children were sent away to live and work in other people's homes when they were thirteen or fourteen; many of them were adopted by the farmers in the surrounding neighborhood when they were almost babies, so that Esther naturally felt her obligation to be the deeper. Notwithstanding she was not thinking a great deal about her former lonely life at the asylum, nor even of the queer German violinist's interest in her voice, as she drove Fire Star over the now familiar road. Both her mind and heart were heavy with the news Dick Ashton had been able to whisper to her in a few hurried moments when they had been alone in the cabin that morning soon after Dick's arrival. Mr. Ashton had lost not merely a small sum of money which might cause him temporary inconvenience, as Betty imagined. He had had such serious losses that Dick's mother had written begging him and Betty to cut down their living expenses as closely as possible. And some one had to tell Betty. Dick was not a coward; in making his confidence he simply wondered if Esther would not be able to console his sister afterwards and to explain conditions to her better than he could, because Betty never had seemed able to understand any question of money matters however much she seemed to try. The actual facts he himself would tell her as soon as the holiday season had passed. There was one way in which Betty could save money, Esther decided. She should no longer pay for her singing lessons. Indeed she would ask the German violinist that morning if there were not some way by which she could help him, by playing his accompaniments, perhaps, if he succeeded in getting up a violin class in Woodford. Anyhow she would earn the money for her own lessons in some way, for, unselfish as Esther was, her music lessons meant too much to her, were too important to her future, even to think of giving them up altogether. The professor was waiting for her in the big, bare, ugly parlor of the asylum which, however, possessed the glory of a not utterly impossible piano. Nevertheless, Esther only waved her hand to him as she passed the door on the way to her older friends. She was thinking that he looked older, poorer and homelier than ever with his red hair, his spectacled, pale blue eyes and his worn clothes. He had a little sprig of holly in his buttonhole, in a determined German effort to be a part of the prevailing Christmas cheerfulness. Then, half an hour later, Esther sang her song straight through without hesitation or a single mistake to the elderly German's way of thinking. For when she had finished he looked at her speechless for a moment, and then taking off his spectacles wiped away a kind of mist from his glasses. "Ach, my dear young Fräulein, you haf the great thing I hoped for through all my youth and then gave up when the years found me--an almost big violinist--das Talent! Was ist es in English, genius, nicht wahr?" And then, with Esther blushing until the burning in her throat and cheeks was almost painful, and twisting her big hands together in the ungainly fashion Betty had almost broken her of, he went on, seemingly unconscious of her presence. "I am that thing you call a failure, but I used to dream I might haf a child who some day would go farther than I was able and then when I had to gif up this also--Ach, Himmel!" To Esther's great embarrassment Herr Crippen then began sobbing in a most un-American fashion. "It was my own fault. I should never haf gone away, I----" But whatever else he may have poured forth in his present state of emotion was heard only by the four walls of the room, for Esther, in utter consternation, slipped out, hurrying toward the small study in the rear of the house where she knew she would find her old friend, the superintendent, at work. She told him rather shyly of her unceremonious leave taking, asking him to make her apologies to Herr Crippen and to beg him to come early to their Christmas entertainment the next night. Then, when she had put out her hand for farewell, quite unexpectedly the superintendent asked her to sit down again, saying that he would like to tell her Herr Crippen's story and the reason he had come into their neighborhood, since possibly she might be able to assist him. Afterwards for more than an hour Esther listened to a most surprising narrative and later on drove back to Sunrise cabin puzzled, thoughtful and just the least shade frightened and unhappy. However, she made up her mind not to let anything trouble her until after their wonderful Christmas had passed. CHAPTER XI Gifts "Oh come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant; Oh come ye, oh come ye to Bethlehem; Come and behold Him born the King of angels; Oh come, let us adore Him, Oh come, let us adore Him, Oh come, let us adore Him, Christ the Lord." Esther sang the first few lines of the beautiful Christmas hymn in a low voice but with gathering strength until when she had reached the refrain Sunrise cabin was filled with melody. She had awakened before any one else on this Christmas morning and after thinking over more quietly the events of yesterday, had slipped into her clothes and then stolen into the living room hoping that her hymn might be the first sound that her friends should hear. It was a perfect winter day. From the window Esther could see the snow-crowned peak of Sunrise Hill from which the dawn colors were now slowly fading and beyond a long line of the crystal hills. Wherever the Sunrise Camp Fire girls should go in after years, to whatever places their destinies should call them, the scene surrounding their camp could never be forgotten, nor could there be found many places in the world more beautiful. Of course Esther had until now seen nothing beyond the New Hampshire hills and so this morning, with a little only half-defined fear tugging at her heart, she gazed at the landscape until the eternal peace of the mountains rested and soothed her. Then, turning away, she went first to building up their great log fire until its flames roared up the chimney and then to the singing of her song. By and by, with a blue dressing gown wrapped about her, Betty came into the room, and stood resting an elbow on the piano. Polly and Mollie followed, and soon after Meg and Eleanor with Miss McMurtry between them, until finally every member of the Sunrise club had gathered in the room, including the little probation girl who entered last holding tight to Rose's hand. She looked like a pale little Christmas angel with her big blue eyes set in a colorless face and her soft rings of light yellow hair, which had been cut close on account of recent fever, curling like a fringe about her high forehead. When Esther came to the last verse of her hymn, there were many other voices to join in with hers, and somehow all their eyes turned instinctively toward the great pine tree which stood undecorated upon the farthest corner of their stage with the great silver star overhead. "Yea, Lord, we greet Thee, born this happy morning; Jesu, to Thee be glory given; Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing; Oh come, let us adore Him, Oh come, let us adore Him, Oh come, let us adore Him, Christ the Lord." There was an instant's hush after this and then a surprising amount of noise. Surely Esther's idea had been a very lovely one, for there was little Christmas peace and quiet at the cabin for the rest of the wonderful and eventful day. Some weeks before the girls had decided that there would be no present giving among themselves except the merest trifles, since all their money and energy must be spent in making a success of their Camp Fire play, but this did not forbid the receiving of gifts from the outside. So before breakfast was over offerings began to arrive, some of them for individual girls but more for the camp. Mr. and Mrs. Webster sent from the farm a great roasted goose stuffed with chestnuts, a baked ham and two immense mince pies, while Billy Webster, who drove over to bring the gifts, shyly tucked into Mollie's hands a bouquet of pink geraniums and lemon verbena from his mother's little indoor garden. To Polly, with a perfectly serious expression, he presented a bunch of thistles grown on the mountains that fall and made very brilliant and effective by having their centers dyed scarlet and being tied with a bright red ribbon. They were beautiful enough to have been bestowed on any one and would be an ornament for the cabin living room all winter, and yet Polly, though she was far too clever to betray herself, could not but wonder if there were not a double meaning attached to Billy's gift. Dick Ashton gave no individual presents, not even one to Betty, but to the club he gave a reading lamp so brilliant that half a dozen girls might do their studying around it at night. If it were placed on the piano Esther might be able to read her most intricate music without difficulty. Then there were other more valuable gifts, Mr. Wharton, Sylvia's father, who had unexpectedly gone to Europe for a few weeks, left a check to supply the winter's coal bill, while Mrs. O'Neill from over in Ireland sent a set of kitchen aprons, which she had made during that winter, for each member of the Sunrise club including Mammy. There was a mysterious communication received by Betty Ashton, however, of which she did not speak to any one, not even to Polly. She was not at all sure from whom it came, but naturally there was but one person whom she could suspect. The post-mark was a near-by town, and it was a common looking gift--just a card with the picture of a ladder rising in the air, apparently by its own volition, and very slowly ascending it the figure of a young man. Yet the words written below were of far finer significance than the picture and Betty really wondered how they had ever made their appeal. "And men may rise on stepping-stones of their dead selves to higher things." At four o'clock, when the girls were resting for an hour before getting ready for the evening's entertainment, convinced that there was nothing more to come for any one of them, there appeared at the cabin door certainly the most unlooked-for gift. Rose happened for the moment to be alone in the living room, having firmly ordered the girls off to their bedrooms to lie down while she attended to some final arrangements, such as finding space for a few more chairs for their audience than had been sent out from town an hour before. So the sounds outside did not at first attract her attention, though they were most unusual. But suddenly, when a large form apparently flung itself against the door and there followed a low muffled cry, Rose, without a thought of Christmas, ran hastily to the rescue. Fortunately she was not nervous, else she might have been frightened when an unexpected object leapt up to her shoulders and a warm wet tongue caressed her cheek. Straightway her cry of surprise and admiration brought half a dozen girls to her side, who had found sleep at so critical a time quite out of the question. Imagine their surprise at finding their new guardian being embraced by a cream and brown and gold St. Bernard dog, already a tremendous fellow and yet still in his puppyhood. Polly, who was ever a lover of dogs, got down on her knees before him. "Whose ever can he be and how has he found his way to our cabin?" she cried, but before her question was ended Polly herself discovered a small envelope attached to the dog's collar and tearing it off hastily presented it to Rose with an eastern salaam, as she happened to be already seated on the floor. "From an unknown admirer, Rose? Isn't this like a story book?" Betty commented with an unnecessary expression of demureness, for she had noticed an evident though faint blush touching their guardian's cheeks. But Rose answered with a dignity that somehow made Betty feel ashamed of herself. "No, Betty, the dog is for our club if you girls wish to keep him. Dr. Barton writes that he feels we are too much alone in these woods in the winter and that if we will forgive his solicitude he has sent us a third Camp Fire guardian." And Rose slipped the stiff little note she had just received inside her pocket, realizing that it was as near an apology as the severe young doctor could bring himself to make. CHAPTER XII The Camp Fire Play By eight o'clock on Christmas evening every seat in the Sunrise cabin living room was filled except two, and toward these the eyes of every girl hidden behind the khaki curtain turned questioningly for the last fifteen minutes before their Camp Fire play was to commence. However then, to Polly's despair, their last hope died away--the great lady and the great actress in one--would not form a part of their Woodford audience, even her own Miss Adams had likewise failed her. Nevertheless their entertainment was to begin promptly (on this Miss McMurtry and Miss Dyer had both insisted), since punctuality was so seldom a feature of amateur plays they wished thus to show one of the superior results of the Camp Fire training. A Camp Fire Morality Play: These words were printed on the Christmas programs and it was an old time morality play such as we have seen and read in "Everyman" that Polly and Betty had attempted to write, assisted of course by both their guardians and with suggestions from every girl in the Sunrise club. Whether they were successful in keeping close to the old model was not so much their ideal as the desire to show both by words and tableaux the aims and the influence of the Camp Fire organization, and what women have given to the world since the primitive time when human life centered about the camp-fire. At a quarter past eight the curtain arose slowly, showing the stage in semi-darkness and representing a scene in a primeval forest. In the corner is the bare pine tree, the ground is strewn with twigs, fir cones and needles, and there within the instant the figure of a woman enters. It is Polly! And because of her great disappointment there is a tragic droop to her shoulders, a pathetic expression in her great wide-open Irish blue eyes. She had hoped so much from Miss Adams' promise and now--well, she must not forget her part, she must try to do her best for her friends' sakes. Polly is dressed in a short skirt with a fox's skin fastened from one shoulder to her belt, there are sandals on her feet and her straight black hair is hanging about her shoulders. Unhappy, she gropes her way about the stage shivering and finding nothing to do, no place in which to rest herself. It is December, the month of the long moon, and the night promises to be bitterly cold. In another moment there is heard from the outside the crying of a child and next "Little Brother," very proud of his rabbit coat and cap, runs forward throwing his arms about the woman's knees and evidently begging for warmth and shelter. Still in pantomime the mother mournfully shakes her head, and with this Eleanor Meade appears representing a primitive man and carrying a brace of freshly killed game over her shoulder. This he presents to the child and the woman, but both of them shake their heads and a moment later the man drops despairingly down on the frozen ground burying his face in his hands, the child hiding between his parents for warmth. However the woman does not cover her face and by and by, picking up two dry twigs from the ground, she begins in an idle fashion to rub them together. Suddenly there is a tiny spark of light and then darkness. It was a wise selection on the part of the Sunrise club girls to have chosen Polly O'Neill to represent the mother of all the Camp Fire women, for though she had when needful the Irish gift of expression, she had also a face so vivid and so emotional that to Polly's own chagrin it was seldom possible for her to hide from other people what was going on in her mind. Now, however, this characteristic was of excellent service, for there was not a member of her little audience who did not in this instant guess the inspiration that had just been born in the woman. In a seat toward the back of the living room, in as inconspicuous a spot as possible, a fragile looking woman, an unknown member of the small Woodford audience, turned suddenly to the companion beside her, nodding her head quickly. She had a plain, yet remarkably youthful looking face illumined by a pair of wonderful gray eyes with an indescribably wistful and yet understanding expression. And from now on she watched the girl on the stage more attentively. Rising quietly, Polly seemed almost to be holding her breath. Then with eager fingers she can be seen searching along the ground until by and by she has gathered together a few twigs, and now kneeling before them appears to be uttering a silent prayer. A moment later and she picks up her former sticks, again repeating the rubbing of them together. For a while Polly seemed to be unsuccessful in making them ignite, so that in the background and well out of sight the other Camp Fire girls hold their breath with a kind of sick horror, fearing that she is going to fail here and so make a fiasco of the entire scene. But the little waiting has only made the final result more dramatic. There is a tiny flare of light, and then bending over her pile of twigs the woman lights the first Camp Fire. She guards it with her hands until there is a crackle and many spurts of yellow flame and the instant after is across the stage shaking the man by the shoulder and drawing the child toward the blaze. Together then they heap on more fuel until a really splendid fire is a-light. (And for fear any one may think that this fire in the middle of the wooden platform would probably have put an end to Sunrise cabin it must be explained that a sheet of iron had been fastened on the floor that the fire might be built with entire safety.) Like a flame herself the woman then flies from one home duty to the other, making a bed of pine branches for the child near the fire, appearing to roast the game for her husband. Far better by her actions than by any possible words Polly told her story, until the curtain at last goes down on the beginning of the first home with the woman as its genius and inspiration. But before the curtain has finally descended, for a moment Polly's attention, as though drawn by an invisible magnet, centered upon the face of a stranger in the back of the living room beyond the more familiar ranks of her friends; and with a quick intake of her breath and a feeling of thankfulness that her first trial is over and that she is not obliged to speak, the young girl recognizes the famous actress. She is glad then that she had not known of her presence sooner and also that her first appearance before her has been made in pantomime, for she guesses it to be a surer test of dramatic ability than any recitation an untrained girl might be able to repeat. If she had the necessary temperament somehow in the scene just past it must have revealed itself. But now an intermission of twenty minutes passes and the second act represents a scene wholly different from the first, for now the stage is intended to present as nearly as possible the picture of an ideal home. It was difficult to portray, of course, but then the bigger things must always be trusted to the imagination, for this home was not intended to suggest merely a single home but a kind of universal and representative one. There were beautiful pictures in it and soft rugs and many books and windows everywhere, supposedly letting in all the possible sunlight, while over in the corner the solitary pine tree still stood, but now covered with many white candles, although none of them were yet a-light. Then the door opens and the first spirit of the home enters. This is Esther Clark wearing a kind of blue tunic with a silver band about her unloosened red hair. With swift steps and busy fingers she moves about, bringing a bunch of winter roses to a table, putting fresh logs on the fire, drawing chairs nearer to the inspiring blaze, which is now no longer a primitive camp fire but a great, hospitable open hearth. Then Esther goes to the front of the stage and waits there for a moment in silence before beginning her speech, and there are but few persons watching her who have yet guessed what spirit she is illustrating. Esther is awkward and not handsome; nevertheless, because she has a clear and beautiful speaking as well as singing voice she had been chosen for this particular part. Now she is plainly heard throughout the room. "I am Work, the great Mother Spirit of the earth. I have borne many children with a fairer fame, Service, who is my daughter with a gentler name." And here Nan Graham in a yellow costume with her black hair flowing over her shoulders and her dark eyes shining walks forward and takes her place at one end of the stage just a little back of the speaker, followed by Eleanor Meade in a white robe with a wreath of laurel on her head and a scroll in her hand, who is seen by the audience as Esther continues: "Knowledge, who needs no word of mine to prove her worth, Beauty that shall not fade, surely it lives through me In music, books and art, a noble trinity." Then Betty Ashton, whom there is no difficulty in recognizing as the spirit of Beauty, approaches the front of the stage in a dress of some soft silvery material with three stars in her hair and stands beside Eleanor. "And Health and Happiness, would they deny their birth? Then let them seek it in some nobler form than mine, The quest is everlasting but the choice is thine." Sylvia and Beatrice Field then advance together and take their places in the center of the group, Sylvia as Health dressed in the green of the open fields and Beatrice in deep rose color. "Trustworthiness and Sympathy dwell by my hearth With Purity; we are the graces of the home. And yet there is one other fairer still to come Whose handmaids are these spirits named above; To her alone I yield my gracious place, The inspiration of the home--the world--is Love!" While Esther has been finishing her verse, Juliet Field has come forth to portray the spirit of Trustworthiness in a dress of deep violet, carrying a sheath of purple lilies. Meg, with her charming face so full of humor and tenderness, is the embodiment of Sympathy, and Edith Norton as Purity has her long fair hair falling almost down to her knees and wears a dress of the palest green--like Undine when she first comes forth from the sea. And now a crescent has slowly formed about the figure of Esther who is a little in advance of the other girls, but now as she speaks the final word--Love--she steps quietly backward and Mollie O'Neill as the spirit of Love occupies the center of the stage. She has never looked half so lovely in her life as she does to-night. Her gown is of pale pink, she has a wreath of roses in her black hair, her usually too grave expression is illumined by a smile born partly of fear and the rest of pride, which has nothing to do with her own appearance, but is a kind of shadowy pleasure in the beauty and the significance of the tableau surrounding her. From his place behind the curtain Billy Webster wonders how he was ever able even at the beginning of their acquaintance to confuse the twin sisters. Polly in all her existence has never looked so pretty as this and probably never will, and then Billy comes to his senses in a hurry, realizing that it is now his duty to assist in letting the curtain drop on this second scene in the Camp Fire allegory. In the last act the Christmas tree is all a-blaze with pure white candles and silver tinsel and above it is suspended a great silver star, while the girls in their many colored costumes are seen dancing before it. Then at the close of the dance Polly again enters. She is to recite the epilogue, to make plainer the ideals of the Camp Fire. But some change has come over her since the first scene, her color is entirely gone, her eyes are rimmed and, worst of all, she feels that a deadly weight is settling on her chest and that her voice is nowhere to be found. She is having an attack of stage fright, but Polly does not yet know it by that name. The truth is that she has grown desperately tired, the strain and excitement of waiting after the long day's pleasure with the very foolish thought that her fate is probably to be decided by one person's judgment of her abilities has proved too much for her. She tries pulling herself together, she sees many eyes turned up toward her, with one face shining a little farther off like a star. Polly opens her mouth to speak, but there is a great darkness about her, the world is slowly slipping away. She puts out both arms with a pathetic appeal for silence and patience and then suddenly some one is holding her up and the other girls are forming a rainbow circle about her so that she is safely hidden from view. For in a flash Betty Ashton has guessed at Polly's faintness, has signaled her companions and then reached her first, so that the curtain finally fell on perhaps the prettiest scene of all. CHAPTER XIII An Indian Love Song Although Polly O'Neill could never afterwards be persuaded that her failure had not marred the Camp Fire play, nevertheless there were many members of the audience who never realized that anything had gone wrong, so promptly had the other girls acted and so swiftly had the curtain been rung down. And then, within a remarkably short space of time, Esther had reappeared to close the entertainment with her song. The stage had been left as it was in the final act, the piano was already there, and almost immediately the accompanist, Esther's music teacher in the village, seated herself before it. The only delay was of a few minutes, caused by the fact that Esther had insisted on wearing her ordinary clothes. A week before, therefore, Betty had had made for her a simple white dress and this Miss McMurtry very quickly helped her into, braiding her red hair into a kind of crown about her head. Her toilet was of course made in a great hurry, but then Esther was so convinced of her own homeliness that she cared very little except to look neatly and appropriately dressed. Herr Crippen and Esther then walked out on the platform together, the man leading the girl with one hand and carrying his violin with the other, and it was curious the similarity in their coloring. Very little of the Indian idea had the girls thus far brought into their Christmas Camp Fire entertainment, but now Esther's song was to bring with it this suggestion, although it had been chosen chiefly because of its beauty and suitability to Esther's voice. It was, however, a wonderful Indian love song, which Dick had found quite by accident the summer before for his sister's friend. Esther was also dreadfully nervous and frightened at the beginning of her song, but fortunately for her she was thinking more of the music itself than of the effect she was to produce. Nevertheless, it was with sensations of disappointment that the friends, who cared most for her singing, listened to the first verse of her song. Dick Ashton, who had found himself a seat in the back of the room, when he was no longer needed to assist with the management of the curtain, moved impatiently several times, thinking that Betty had probably been making unnecessary sacrifices to cultivate her friend's voice and that they had all probably been mistaken in the degree of Esther's talent. However, Dick changed his mind so soon that he never afterwards remembered this first thought, but sat spellbound with delight, feeling every nerve in his body thrill and quiver with the pathos and loveliness of a voice that was so clear, so true and so sympathetic that not a single member of Esther's audience failed to respond to its beauty. The song had a kind of plaintive cadence and had been arranged either for a tenor or soprano. "Fades the star of morning, west winds gently blow, Soft the pine trees murmur, soft the waters flow. Lift thine eyes, my maiden, to the hill-tops nigh, Night and gloom will vanish when the pale stars die. Lift thine eyes, my maiden, hear thy lover's cry. "From my tent I wander seeking only thee, As the day from darkness comes for stream and tree. Lift thine eyes, my maiden, to the hill-top nigh; Lo! the dawn is breaking, rosy beams the sky. Lift thine eyes, my maiden, hear thy lover's cry. "Lonely is our valley, though the month is May, Come and be my moonlight, I will be thy day. Lift thine eyes, my maiden, oh, behold me nigh; Now the sun is rising, now the shadows fly. Lift thine eyes, my maiden, hear thy lover's cry." Hearing the applause which broke out like a storm at the close of Esther's singing, Betty managed to get away from Polly and to find Esther shivering in the kitchen which opened just off their stage and had been used for the entrance way that evening. But no power or persuasion could have induced Esther to go back upon the stage, not even when Herr Crippen added his entreaties, nor when Dick slipped out into the cold and came around through the back door to congratulate her. If Esther had pleased Betty and Dick and Miss McMurtry, really she cared very little for any one else's criticism. Nevertheless, later that evening, when the company was enjoying a kind of informal reception, she could not refuse to be introduced to the celebrated Miss Margaret Adams, who sent one of the girls especially for her. Esther was awkward and tongue-tied and nervous as usual when the great lady congratulated her, very different from Polly, who when she had recovered from her faintness had come immediately out into the living room and gone straight up to Miss Adams and taken her hand. "If I wasn't so used to failing at most of the important moments of my life, I think I couldn't bear to live after to-night," she said with characteristic Polly exaggeration. Then, with one of the sudden smiles that so transformed her face and made her fascinating both to strangers and friends she added: "But, after all, I have seen _you_ and I am talking to you now, and as that is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me, I am going to try and not care about anything else." Then the older woman pressed Polly's hot hand in both of hers, looking keenly into the girl's expressive face. Only she knew how much Polly did care about her failure and also that her suffering had not yet fully begun, because until the excitement of the evening was well over the girl would not fully realize all that she at least believed this failure meant. "Come and see me for half an hour to-morrow, I can judge nothing by to-night. And do please remember, child, that one person's judgment in this world fortunately does not count for much at best. I want to have a little talk with you just because my cousin, whom I love very dearly, has told me so much about you." "And because," Polly added with her lips trembling, "because you are sorry for me. But I don't care so much why you want me, I only know I want to come more than anything in the world." Of course at the close of the Camp Fire play it was then impossible for Miss Adams to escape recognition, so she was evidently tired on her way back home from the cabin and therefore did little talking. However, after the cousins had undressed for the night she called softly into the next room: "My dear Mary, I think your Polly is charming, but I am afraid your little girl has the dream and the temperament and that the other plainer girl has the talent. But, then, who can tell when they are both so young?" CHAPTER XIV Mollie's Confidant Of her visit to Miss Adams, Polly never afterwards spoke, except to Betty and her sister Mollie, asking that they tell Rose Dyer that it was right that she as their guardian should know and promising to write her mother; however, several of the other Camp Fire girls believed that they saw a slight change in Polly dating from her visit. Afterwards she never seemed to give up, at least without some struggle, to her old, utterly unreasonable changes of mood. To Betty and Mollie, however, Polly confessed that, although Miss Adams had been kind beyond her wildest dreams, she had not said that she had seen any evidences of genius or even of marked ability in her interrupted dramatic efforts; although she had suggested that only the most remarkable people the world has ever known have betrayed exceptional gifts at the age of sixteen, that most people only achieve success by endless patience, faith and work and by what sometimes looks at first like failure. She had then told Polly something of her own early struggle, but this Polly of course did not reveal even to her sister and dearest friend. However, to Mollie's relief, she did announce that she meant to spend the next two years in doing everything she could for her health by obeying every single Camp Fire rule, that she meant to learn more self-control, to study harder and also to memorize all the plays and poems that she possibly could. For at the close of her graduation at the High School the wonderful Miss Adams had asked that Polly write her and then if her mother was willing, if Polly was well and of the same desire, she would see that she had an opportunity for the kind of study she would then need should she adopt the stage for her profession. For the truth is that though the great actress had not been particularly impressed by Polly's acting she had discovered two things about her, one that she had the expressive face with quick mobile features and the graceful carriage more to be desired on the stage than either beauty or stateliness and, moreover, like most other people, she had taken a decided fancy to the girl herself. For a few weeks following Polly's famous interview her sister Mollie found herself and Polly farther apart in sympathy than they had ever been before in their lives. Under nearly all other circumstances Mollie had always allowed herself to be influenced by her twin sister's wishes; Polly had always seemed to want things so much harder than other people that she and her mother had usually been willing enough to give in, but now on this question of Polly's going upon the stage after she had finished her education Mollie made up her mind to stand firm in her opposition at every possible opportunity, even if her mother should give in to Polly's persuasion. It was utterly impossible for Mollie O'Neill to understand her twin sister's restlessness and ambition. How could she ever wish to leave her home and mother, to leave _her_, to follow after such a will-o'-the-wisp? It was in vain that Polly explained that it was no lack of affection on her part, that she surely loved her own people as much as they could love her, but that she felt she must see more of the world, live a wider life than Woodford could give her. Mollie was always obdurate. There was only one way by which Polly could silence her twin and that was to inquire if Mollie meant always to stay at home, to remain an old maid? And when Mollie most indignantly denied any such suggestion, Polly would then ask how if she loved them could she make up her mind to go away from home on account of a strange man, and if a career wasn't as good as a husband, until Mollie became too indignant and unhappy for argument and usually by making no further replies carried off the honors of war. If only Mollie could have had another girl to unbosom herself to, but there was no one; Polly had asked her not to discuss her affairs with any one of the Camp Fire girls except Betty Ashton, and Betty openly sympathized with Polly. Having no gifts herself she used to say that all she could do would be to live in the successes of Polly and Esther; although Polly used always to assure her in return that a Princess was above the possession of small abilities like ordinary mortals, and Esther that she never expected to have any success beyond learning to sing well enough to make her own living and perhaps some day to have a position in a Woodford church choir. So Mollie for the month succeeding Christmas kept most of her worry to herself, and to the entire Sunrise Camp Fire club's surprise and consternation grew quite unlike her usually sweet-tempered, happy self. Sometimes she used to insist upon taking the daily exercise prescribed by the Camp Fire rules entirely alone, if she were allowed, in order that she might think up some possible way of influencing Polly to give up her wholly foolish ambition. Since Polly felt that she must do something toward supporting her mother and herself, she should try to learn to be a teacher like Miss McMurtry or Miss Mary Adams. One Saturday afternoon, being particularly low in her mind because Rose Dyer had thought Polly not very well and had suggested that she stay at home and take her walk outside the cabin with the newest Camp Fire girl, Mollie had deliberately stolen off while her friends were getting ready for a hard tramp through the woods. She did not care at the time that their guardian might object to her going off alone. She almost hoped that something might happen to her to make Polly feel uneasy. Since Polly was always making her perfectly miserable why she might as well experience the sensation occasionally herself. So, knowing that the other girls were to strike out through the pine woods, find the road and walk over toward the asylum to escort Esther home (who was now having a weekly music lesson with Herr Crippen), Mollie first walked back of the cabin and then found the road through the Webster farm. She didn't walk very far however. It was perfectly ridiculous of her of course to anticipate trouble, and yet somehow she felt that she and Polly were never going to be just the same that they had been in the past to one another, in some way they would be separated. Suddenly Mollie felt a wave of homesickness, of longing for her mother such as she had not felt since the first few weeks after Mrs. O'Neill's sailing for Ireland the spring before. So quite unmindful of consequences Mollie dropped down on the stump of a tree, deliberately giving herself up to the enjoyment of tears. It was so utterly impossible ever to cry at the cabin. Some one was always about seeing you and besides all the other Camp Fire girls Mollie solemnly believed to have outgrown the foolish weakness of crying, it was so utterly in contradiction to all their training. The tears, however, must have been extremely near the surface, since they dried so instantly, and Mollie jumped to her feet indignantly when a hard ball of snow went whizzing past her ear, almost striking her. A moment later she heard footsteps coming up behind her. "Hope you won't mind my appearing to pay off old scores in this way; I really had no idea of hitting you, but I had to attract your attention in some fashion, so you wouldn't run away from me," said a voice Mollie immediately recognized and a moment later Billy Webster appeared by her side. "Would any one in the world except Miss Polly O'Neill seat herself calmly on a stump in the midst of the winter woods with nothing but snow and ice all about her as if she were in the lap of spring?" he asked. And then, when Mollie made no answer and catching just a side glance at her downcast face, he puckered his lips as though intending to whistle, but better manners prevailing said as sympathetically as he could: "Dear me, Miss Polly, you look as though you were desperately unhappy over something or other. What is it that is troubling you this time?" Mollie was wearing a long brown coat exactly like Polly's red one and her brown tam-o'-shanter she had pulled down as low as possible over her face because of the cold January wind, but now she turned with some indignation toward her companion. "I am not Polly," she announced with a good deal of vexation (the twin sisters never liked being taken for one another). "I am sorry, but I suppose Polly hasn't a monopoly of all the trouble in this world. Or at least she very often passes it on to other people." Instantly Billy's fur cap was off, showing his heavy hair, which was browner than during the months of exposure to the summer sun, but although his face was also less tanned, his eyes were as blue and as full of humor as ever. "It is I who am sorry and glad too, Miss Mollie," he answered as gallantly as possible. "It seems to be my fate everlastingly to put my foot in it with both you and your sister. I could have sworn not long ago that I would never again mistake you for one another and here I am at it again. But you will forgive me this time. You see you don't look quite like yourself to-day; you are so much paler and kind of uncertain looking--and cross. But now I beg the other Miss O'Neill's pardon," and Billy laughed, not so much as though he cared a great deal about having made fun of Polly, but more in order to cheer up Mollie. "Better not let Polly hear you say that," she returned, smiling a little. "You know, like the tiger in 'Little Black Sambo,' she would have to eat you up. But Polly is really a great deal better tempered than I am and sweeter than anything nowadays; ask anybody in camp. It is I who am the cross one. And it is all because I am so unhappy." And then, to Mollie's own surprise and Billy's decided embarrassment, she began crying a great deal harder than before. There was nothing a fellow could do but just to stand there and watch her for a moment and then Billy had a feeble inspiration. He tucked her arm through his comfortingly. "Come, it is getting dark, these days are so dreadfully short. Let me walk on back to the cabin with you." And on the way Mollie discovered herself unexpectedly confiding everything that troubled her about her sister to this comparatively unknown boy friend. Although the Camp Fire girls had seen more of Billy Webster than any one else because of their living so near his father's farm. For the first few minutes Mollie felt she might regret her outburst, but not for long, for to her satisfaction and indeed to her very real consolation, Billy felt exactly as she did about Polly. It was utterly absurd for Polly to talk about going away from Woodford even to study for the stage; she was not strong enough; the life was a perfectly abominable one for a lady, but for a delicate high-strung girl like Polly O'Neill it was worse than absurd; it was wicked! Mollie should write for her mother to come home to prevent Polly's getting the idea more firmly fixed in her mind. Later on it might be more difficult to influence her. Billy Webster fairly spluttered with indignation. His mother was a perfect farmer's wife, devoted to her husband, to her son and a younger daughter, and to the life and work of her farm and very naturally Billy's mother was his ideal. He liked the two O'Neill girls very much, had known of their struggle to get along and of their mother's efforts to give them an education, and believed, like Mollie, that it was ungrateful of Polly to wish to leave her home so soon as she was grown up. Besides he did not like to see Mollie so worried! What a strangely difficult person Polly was! There were times when he felt that he almost hated her and then again she was rather fascinating. "I have got about half as much influence with your sister as that totem pole," he announced, when he had brought Mollie almost back to the Sunrise cabin, "but if there is anything I can ever do to help you make her change her mind, why count on me up to the limit. Don't you think the best thing would be somehow to joke the whole idea out of her? She is just the kind of a person to be more influenced by joking than any real opposition." Mollie bowed her head in entire agreement. "Yes, but what kind of a joke could we ever think up that could have anything to do with Polly's wishing to be an actress and meaning to study several years from now?" she inquired doubtfully. And to do Billy Webster credit he did look considerably confused. "Well, I can't say right off," he confessed, laughing a little at himself, "but if you and I think things over for a week or so, perhaps an inspiration may come to one or the other of us. And in the meantime," he added this rather hastily, "I wouldn't mention to your sister that you have spoken of her plans to me. It is all right though, for I shall never breathe what you have told me to any one." CHAPTER XV A Boomerang Two weeks later Polly received a note at the cabin asking that she come into Woodford on the following Friday afternoon for an interview with a friend of Miss Margaret Adams, who happened by chance to be in Woodford for a few days and wanted an opportunity for talking with her about her future. For whatever resulted from this interview Polly had herself chiefly to blame. She most certainly should never have replied to a note signed by a name which was unfamiliar without consulting the guardian of the Sunrise club. But Polly knew perfectly well that Rose would never have permitted her to have any such conference. She knew also that their guardian and her mother's friend was almost as much opposed as her sister Mollie to her ambition and considered that she was behaving most unwisely in letting her mind dwell on a possibility which in any case was very indefinite and far away. Indeed, Rose had had a quiet talk with Polly asking her not to discuss the subject of the stage with the other girls and to try and give her own energy and attention solely to their Camp Fire work. Polly had agreed and was apparently keeping her promise, since she felt so assured that the Camp Fire ideals must help every woman in whatever work she undertook later in life. Nevertheless, when the first temptation came Polly fell. One night she spent in indecision, wondering why Miss Margaret Adams had not written to her about her friend or why Miss Adams, their elocution teacher, had said nothing. These questions, however, Polly finally answered satisfactorily to herself, since it is usually easy to find answers that accord with one's own desires. By morning she had made up her mind that she would go and see the stranger and have a talk with him, since no harm could come of one small visit. The appointment was to take place at the home of Meg, whose Professor father was one of the most prominent men in the village and Polly was told to bring a chaperon, so from the standpoint of propriety she was committing no offence. She had not seen Meg for a week and so could ask her no questions, and as Betty was the only person who could be relied upon in the emergency, to Betty she confided the whole situation, not in the least asking her advice, since this was not the way with Mistress Polly, but begging Betty to be present with her during the call. If Betty demurred at first, suggesting Miss Dyer, Miss McMurtry, Miss Mary Adams, as more suitable chaperons, she did finally agree. So early on Friday afternoon the two girls started into town in their best clothes, saying that they were going in on an errand. Betty was driving Fire Star and Polly carrying a volume of "Romeo and Juliet" and "Palgrave's Golden Treasury." The note had suggested that since Miss Margaret Adams had had no opportunity to hear Miss O'Neill recite, the writer would be interested to know what she could do. Polly was cold with nervous excitement all the way into town. She was not in the least sure whether she did not dread the coming interview more than anything that had ever happened to her in her life and she also had very uncomfortable twinges of conscience, since this venture of hers had no grown-up sanction. There had been no time as yet to write her mother about it and she had not confided in Mollie, who once had known all her secrets. Indeed, had she not even felt glad that Mollie had decided not to return to the cabin after school that day but to remain in town with a friend, so that no uncomfortable family questions could be raised. By special request Betty was invited not to talk on the journey in, so that Polly could have the opportunity for repeating to herself the poems she had made up her mind to recite and go once more over Juliet's famous lament. The hall at the Professor's was unusually dark when Meg herself, to the girls' delight, opened the front door. Polly was by this time in too agitated a condition to stop for asking questions, but although Betty was not, Meg did not seem willing to answer them. Instead she kept shaking her head and pointing mysteriously toward their drawing room door. "The stranger was already in there, yes, her father knew him, Polly must not mind that the visitor had his wife with him, she was also an actress upon whose judgment he placed the greatest reliance, but the girls were not to do more than bow to her, as it bored her to meet people." If the hall was dark the drawing room was even darker, but then before joining the Camp Fire club Meg had been a proverbially poor housekeeper, so she probably had neglected to open the drawing room shutters and, as it was a dark February afternoon, the light that came through the slats was not sufficient. Betty felt most distinctly that she was not going to enjoy the approaching interview, that there was already something odd and uncomfortable about it, but she had no opportunity for confiding her views and Polly was not in a critical humor. As for the darkness Polly was decidedly grateful for it. If she had to get up and recite before Meg and Betty and the two strangers it would be far easier to be in the half shadow than to have their critical glances full upon her. This drawing room recitation before so small an audience did not appeal to Polly anyhow, certainly it held none of the glamour of the stage, the music, the footlights, the feeling that you were no longer your real self but a performer in some other drama in some different world. Betty sat down at once in a far corner, as she saw no notice was to be taken of her, but Polly felt herself having her hand shaken coldly by a tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man wearing glasses, with an iron gray, pointed beard and iron gray hair pulled low down over his forehead. He seemed, however, not to have the least desire for conversation, for waving Polly toward the center of the room, he at once asked her to show what she could do, without introducing his wife nor making the least satisfactory explanation of his own presence in Woodford, his acquaintance with Miss Margaret Adams, nor his right to have solicited this meeting with Polly. However, none of these points weighed upon the girl's mind at the time. The man looked just as she expected an actor-manager might look, and as for his wife, she could see nothing of her but a figure dressed in a long traveling coat and wearing a hat and heavy veil, who had not even deigned to glance in her direction. "What--what shall I begin with?" Polly inquired anxiously. "Miss Adams, our teacher of elocution at the High School, says that young girls should try simple recitations, that it is absurd for us to attempt to reveal the great emotions such as one finds in Shakespeare's plays, or Ibsen's or Maeterlinck's, that we must wait until we know something more of life for them. I did not feel sure what you would think about it, but I know some English poems, very famous and very beautiful, perhaps you would like me to begin with one of them?" There was a slight hesitation in Polly's voice because personally she found the simple poems much more difficult than the big ones and her taste did not incline toward Whitcomb Riley, or Eugene Field, toward any of the simple character work, which would have been the best possible training for her at the present time. But the critic fortunately agreeing with Polly's point of view shook his head gravely over her suggestion of English verses. "No," he said a little pompously, it must be confessed, "try the most difficult thing you know and even if you do not make an entire success of it I will be better able to judge what you can do." The man spoke in a hoarse, strained voice which to Betty's ears sounded forced and peculiar. "Would you--would you think it very foolish if I tried Juliet's speech before she takes the poison?" Polly then asked timidly. "I know I can't do it very well, it is one of the greatest speeches in the whole world of acting, but perhaps for that very reason I like to attempt it." Polly had thrown off her red coat and hat in the hall, but she was wearing her best frock, a simple cashmere made in a single piece, with a crushed velvet belt of a darker shade and a collar and cuffs of real Irish lace which her mother had sent as a Christmas gift from Ireland. Her hair was very dark and her coloring vivid, so perhaps she did not look so utterly unlike the Italian Juliet, whom it is difficult for us to believe was only fourteen at the time of her tragic love story. "Farewell,--and God knows when we shall meet again," Polly began in a far less melodramatic fashion than one might have expected; indeed, Betty thought her voice exquisitely pathetic and appealing and even Meg, who had not the slightest sympathy with Polly's dramatic aspirations, was subtly impressed. "I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, That almost freezes up the heat of life. I'll call them back again to comfort me.-- Nurse!--What should she do here? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, phial. What if this mixture do not work at all, Shall I be married, then, to-morrow morning? No, no;--this shall forbid it:--lie thou there--" And here Polly is being carried away by the thrill of her own performance. Almost she believes she beholds a slight suggestion of admiration in the blue eyes of the critic who most assuredly is watching her efforts with a great deal of interest. Unhappily, however, in her preparation for this great occasion, Polly has forgotten the necessary stage equipment and now at this instant remembers that Juliet requires a dagger to make this moment properly realistic. The girl is in a delicious state of excitement. For the time being actually she is feeling herself the terrified and yet superbly courageous Juliet, and there on the parlor table, as though by direct inspiration, is reposing a steel paper cutter of the Professor's. With a quick movement of her hand Polly seizes the desired dagger, but also she seizes something else along with it, for the table cover comes off at the same instant, almost overwhelming Juliet in a rain of papers, ornaments and books. Polly feels as though she would faint with chagrin and mortification, so suddenly and so uncomfortably is she brought back to the hard realities. "I am so dreadfully sorry," she starts to say, but before she has finished, her attention is arrested by the behavior of the mysterious veiled lady. She had given a hysterical giggle, first one, then another, as though she were never going to be able to stop. Meg's face is also crimson with the effort to control her laughter, although she is looking nervously, almost imploringly, toward her strange visitor. The solitary man in the room has simply turned his back upon the whole situation and is gazing steadfastly at the closed windows. Polly thinks perhaps she is losing her senses, for there had been something familiar in that excited laughter which is now turning almost into a sob, and yet of course the idea was ridiculous. Polly then turned entreatingly toward Betty Ashton as her one sure rock of salvation in a vanishing world, and Betty never forgot the expression in her friend's eyes, the look of wounded dignity, of disappointed affection, of almost resentful disbelief. For in Betty's returning glance she found a confirmation of her worst fears. The truth of the matter was that Betty had been suspicious of the little group of spectators of her friend's recitation almost as soon as Polly began her speech. She was not under the pressure of so much excitement and had time and opportunity to look about and examine people and things more closely. The woman in the long cloak--evidently her clothes were of the ready-made variety, for they certainly did not fit. Also she seemed very slender for a full grown woman, and in spite of her intention to remain unobserved was curiously nervous. And the man? He was trying to keep his face in the shadow, but from Betty's point of observation a ray of afternoon sunlight fell directly across his face. The line where his beard began was extremely distinct and his cheeks above it brown and boyish. Besides, though he did wear glasses, his eyes showed fear, amusement and Polly was right in a way, for they did show a certain amount of admiration, although they were certainly never the eyes of a censorious dramatic critic. For several moments Betty had been longing to interrupt Polly's speech-making but had not known exactly how, and indeed had hardly dared. Perhaps if she could get Polly away before she ever found things out it would be best. Polly's temper was never very good, and this would hurt her in all the ways in which she was most sensitive. The girl's face was white as chalk as she now ceased gazing at Betty and walked quietly across the room toward the supposedly strange woman who had risen at her approach and was trembling violently. "It is a joke, Polly, don't be angry; we thought if you could just see how silly play acting seemed to other people you would give it up," the voice shook a little. For Polly was ominously pale and quiet as she gently untied the veil and lifted off the stranger's hat. "So you wanted to see how much of a fool you could make of me, didn't you, Mollie? Well, you have succeeded splendidly, dear; I can't imagine how you could have had any greater success!" And Polly shut her lips tight together and clenched her hands. If only Betty and Meg and Mollie knew how furiously, suffocatingly angry she was they would probably be afraid to have anything to do with her. But Meg was approaching her with her usually happy face somewhat clouded. "I am afraid you must think pretty poorly of us all, Polly, really it just looked funny to us at first, we only meant to tease you. But now, while I am willing to confess, it does seem rather hateful of us and I want to apologize to you for my part in this whole proceeding." Still Polly made no answer, only when Mollie rather timidly put her arms about her saying: "Please do, Polly dear, forgive us and don't take the whole thing so seriously, you are fond enough of a joke yourself," she quietly pushed Mollie aside and turned toward Betty. "Please take me home then, Betty, for I am afraid I have furnished all the amusement this afternoon that I feel equal to." But when Betty's arms went about her, Polly trembled so violently that she had to hide her head on her friend's shoulder and just for an instant a choked sob shook her. Both girls, however, were moving toward the closed drawing room door, but before they could leave the room a tall form barred their way. "You can't go until I have spoken to you," Billy Webster said almost rudely in his determination to be obeyed. He had taken off his beard, wig and glasses and his face showed almost as white as Polly's. But Polly looked directly at him with eyes that apparently did not see him. "I never wish to have to speak to you again so long as I live, Mr. Webster," she said quietly, "And you can be quite happy, because whatever old scores you may think you owe me, you have paid me back this afternoon with interest." CHAPTER XVI The Apology "But--but I didn't do it in that spirit in the least, Miss Polly," the young man pleaded, still refusing to let the girls pass him unless they actually forced their way. "It was all a joke, a horribly poor one, I agree with Miss Meg. But it began by accident and then grew until none of us realized how foolish and worse than that it was. Oh, if you only knew what it is like to feel like a cad and to hate yourself through and through and yet to know that whatever you do you can never change things! We never dreamed you would take it all so seriously or be so completely deceived. We thought you would see through us pretty soon and then scold for a while and afterwards laugh along with the rest of us." "But Polly's ambition is not a joke to her," Betty returned, seeing that Polly either couldn't or wouldn't speak. "She takes it as seriously as you can take the most serious ambition of your life. And to come here and do her best in order that all of you might make fun of her, really it is so cruel and in such bad taste I don't feel I can like any of you for a long time, not even Meg and Mollie." Betty's gray eyes were so full of high-bred reproach, her face betrayed such a spiritual distaste that, if Billy Webster could have felt more humbled, which was quite impossible, he would have at this moment. "But I was not making fun, at least not after Miss Polly began her recitation," he returned. "I thought it quite remarkable and I would have given a very great deal if that accident had not happened so that I might have heard her straight through. I confess I don't approve of well-bred girls even thinking of going on the stage, and I do sincerely hope Miss Polly will give up the idea before she is much older, but if it's a question of talent, well, I don't think there can be much doubt of her having talent enough." Billy said this so earnestly and with such evident sincerity that at any other time it might have slightly appeased Polly. Now, however, her feelings were too badly wounded for any outside balm. Mollie was crying, so that she could hardly do or say anything, but Meg walked quietly up to Billy Webster, taking him by the sleeve. "Let the girls go now, Billy, please. It is not the time to detain them. Perhaps when Polly has thought things over a little she will realize we did not intend to wound her so deeply and will remember that she has probably made mistakes with people sometimes herself. I expect Mollie had better stay all night with me so that she won't have to discuss this question any more to-night." And at this Polly and Betty both looking a little relieved retired into the hall, where they found their coats and hats and put them on with Meg's assistance, saying good-bye to her politely enough as they started toward home. It was not necessary, however, for Polly to have to ask Betty not to talk to her on their way to the cabin, for Betty's gift of sympathy and understanding was one of her surest charms. She even explained to Rose and the other girls on their arrival that Polly had developed a headache on the trip back from town and asked to be left alone for the rest of the evening to sleep it off. However, when supper was over, by Polly's request, she asked that Rose would give her a few quiet moments and in those moments she made her friend's and her own confessions. Rose was not quite so angry, or so wholly on Polly's side, as Betty believed she should be. For in the first place Miss Dyer was vexed with the two girls for not having told her of their intentions and suggested that their interview having developed into a joke was perhaps the best way out of it. It was rather an unkind joke, but then Polly took herself far too seriously and in her heart of hearts Rose hoped the young lady might learn a useful lesson through her uncomfortable experience. And in a measure Rose's wish was gratified, for Polly did not soon recover from her hurt and shame and did not refer again either to Miss Adams or her own future ambition. Apparently, so far as any one knew, she had given up all thought of it, for she settled down more seriously to the work of the Camp Fire, gaining each month additional honors, and was also working to acquire a prize at school. Of course she had to forgive Mollie her part in her discomfiture; Mollie was so truly repentant once she discovered how deep was her sister's hurt and Polly with all her faults was not one to cherish anger. Then by and by she also made up with Meg, though it was a good many years before she had exactly the same intimate feeling with her as she had with the other Camp Fire girls. In future years it was always Mollie and Meg who were particularly intimate. But there was one person whom Polly could not bring herself to pardon. For the rest of that winter she never again spoke to Billy Webster. He and Mollie remained good friends and sometimes with another girl used to take walks together, so that Polly saw him now and then at the cabin and oftentimes when she was walking or driving through his father's woods. However, though he never failed to raise his hat to her, she always behaved as though he were made of thin air and so impossible for her to behold. However, Polly had not given up her ambition in spite of her altered behavior. Nevertheless, the shock to her pride had, though she did not herself realize it, been extremely good for her, making her realize how silly her pretensions must seem to other people. And so through this, and by watching Esther Clark go quietly ahead with her music, working steadily without asking either for reward or admiration, she learned several valuable lessons. Besides, Polly was so truly happy in the thought that her beloved mother was to return home early in the spring. Mrs. O'Neill had written her daughters that she was coming home in April and that she had a wonderful secret to tell them which she hoped they would rejoice in for her sake. She also said that an old Irish uncle had died during her stay abroad and had left to Mollie and Polly a legacy of two thousand dollars each, so that they need have no worry about their education. If it were possible Mrs. O'Neill hoped to see Mrs. Ashton before coming back to America, so that she could bring Betty and Dick a better report of their father's exact condition than letters had yet been able to give them. CHAPTER XVII General News The final winter months passed peacefully and fairly uneventfully at the Sunrise cabin, with the girls following a regular routine of school and Camp Fire work and receiving new honors at each monthly meeting of their Council Fire. So far Esther Clark, Mollie O'Neill and, strangely enough, Nan Graham, had earned the greatest number of honor beads, for since Nan's unpleasant day at home a new incentive seemed to have been added to her first ambition to make herself an attractive and capable woman. What this incentive was she confided only to her two most admired friends, Rose Dyer and Polly, but by a Polly channel the news also reached Betty Ashton's ears. Nan's former good-for-nothing brother, Anthony, had disappeared, but had written his sister two letters declaring that he was hard at work, keeping straight, and, though he did not wish anyone to know where he was, some day when he could feel that Nan might be proud instead of ashamed of him, meant to come home. In the meantime he urged Nan to stick close to her Camp Fire friends and to work. Therefore there was only one Wood Gatherer now within the Sunrise club circle and this the small Abbie, whom Dr. Barton and Sylvia had introduced with such an amazing lack of tact on Christmas eve. For several weeks after her arrival the girls had simply permitted her to live on at the cabin enjoying their outdoor life, their healthy diet and watching the faint roses bloom in her cheeks but without the faintest idea of ever asking her to become a member of the Sunrise club. In the first place the child was too impossibly young, a bare thirteen, when most of the other girls were now approaching seventeen and grown-up-ness, and it was an unwritten Camp Fire law that the girls in a single group should be as nearly as possible of the same age. If Abbie had only been as old as her years, but she was not even that, and yet somehow this very babyishness and oddity finally won her admittance to the magic circle paradoxical as it may seem. Perchance the club may have needed a baby now that "Little Brother" had returned, to live in his own home, anyhow, Abbie, almost before any one was aware of it, was occupying this position. Before her arrival Sylvia Wharton had been the youngest member of the Sunrise club, but there had never been anything particularly youthful or clinging about Sylvia; indeed, she had been about the most independent and self-reliant of the girls and therefore she found it very difficult to understand her own special protégé. Abbie's name wasn't Abbie at all, but Abigail Faith Abbott, and once the romantic Polly made this discovery, Faith the little girl became to the entire club. Faith had lived a curiously solitary life apart from all other children. It was true her mother kept boarders in a downtown house in old Boston that had once belonged to her great-grandfather, but Faith had been kept away from them as much as possible and because of her ill health had never been allowed to go to school. It was because of her many illnesses that young Dr. Barton took an interest in the child. Her father was dead and her mother too busy with many cares to see much of her, so most of the young girl's life had been spent in a small room at the top of an old house, which had an ever-closed window through which she could look out upon miles of chimney tops with every now and then a more aspiring steeple. So was it much of a wonder that the little lonely girl lived with fancies instead of realities and that as a result of all these things she now looked as though a harsh New Hampshire wind might easily blow her away? The children Faith had played with had never been real children at all, but two little spirit sisters whom she had imaged in her own mind for so long now that she could not remember when first she had thought of them. Nevertheless, it was with them that she constantly played and, if left alone, occasionally she spoke to them aloud. Of course Faith was old enough now to understand the absurdity of this and had made up her mind never to betray herself at the cabin. Yet within a short time after her arrival and because of her dreadful homesickness, Miss Dyer made the discovery. Unfortunately Sylvia, who had taken the little visitor's physical training sternly in hand, also found out the fancy. Faith did not go into town to school with the other girls, for by the doctor's and Sylvia's advice she was to spend all her time outdoors on the cabin front porch wrapped up in rugs. It was rather cold and dull with only the Sunrise Hill before her, the now frozen lake, where the girls skated in the late afternoons, and the long, dark avenue of pines. However, in the beginning of her experience Faith confessed to herself that she liked the loneliness far better than so many and such amazingly enterprising girls. With an almost desperate shyness she clung to Rose Dyer as the one grown-up person who faintly suggested her own mother and to Sylvia's ministrations she yielded herself without protesting, but for some weeks she never spoke one word to any of the older girls except in answering a question addressed to her. Indeed, when evening came and the others gathered about their log fire to talk, the little stranger used to slip away to be cuddled like a baby in old Mammy's arms until Sylvia, who wished her to retire an hour before any one else and have a special late supper of milk and eggs, would come and bear her off to be put to bed. One morning Rose had been feeling worried at having been compelled to leave Faith so long outdoors alone without even going to the door to speak to her. The guardian's hands had been unusually full that morning with Mammy, who ordinarily helped a little with the work while the girls were away, laid up with rheumatism. Also Rose knew that Max, the big St. Bernard dog who had arrived almost at the same time with Faith, spent most of his time with the little girl, and so she let the whole matter slip her mind until it was time to carry out her midday lunch. Then she smiled a little ruefully as she paused for a moment before opening the front door, wondering if Dr. Barton could guess just how much this child had added to her responsibilities and whether he would care seriously if he did. With his own devotion to looking after the sick (really he seemed totally indifferent to people who were well) doubtless he would take everything as a matter of course. In his visits to the cabin since Christmas certainly nothing more had been said on the subject. Rose laughed and then sighed, pausing with the door to the porch half open and listening. Faith was evidently not alone, for she could distinctly hear her talking to some one although unable to catch any answers. "I think perhaps I can keep on bearing it, Anastasia," Faith said in a voice that was only fairly brave, "if only you will stay with me and not let all those strange girls drive you and Gloria away. When they talk so much it seems as though I can't remember you and it makes me want to go _home_." Her voice broke and Rose peering out was deeply mystified. The little half-sick girl was plainly alone and plainly dreadfully homesick, but with whom could she be talking? "I don't mind the Rose one so much, Gloria," she continued, "but Dr. Ned said she was as nice as my mother, even nicer I believe he thought her. Yet he does not even look at her and hardly speaks to her when he comes to visit me." And here Faith dropped her pale face into her small gloved hands and began to cry just as Rose appeared with her lunch. Nevertheless, by the exercise of as much tact and patience as Miss Dyer had ever used in her society days to charm the coldest and most obdurate of her critics, finally she managed to persuade Faith to explain to her with whom she had been talking and just who were the mysterious persons Gloria and Anastasia. Of course, with many blushes Faith made her confession, understanding that she was now far too old for any such fanciful nonsense. Yet she did tell Rose with a good deal of pleasure toward the last that the two names represented two older sisters with whom she had been pretending to play ever since she was a baby and who were really dearer to her and more actual than real people. Naturally the new Camp Fire guardian was puzzled over this wholly new problem, with a so much younger girl, and after thinking it over for a long time made up her mind to consult with Dr. Barton. For if ever the little girl were to recover her normal health under their Camp Fire rules she must certainly put away her morbid fancies. But the consultation gave the new guardian no satisfaction, appearing to estrange her more than ever from the young physician. For he and Rose disagreed about the method of Faith's cure completely and it was ever the young man's obstinacy that Rose had found it hardest to forgive. Actually Dr. Barton had the stupidity to lecture Faith about her cherished secret and even to betray her to Sylvia, who tried reasoning with her every night while putting her to bed. Fortunately, however, Rose Dyer had not had a colored Mammy for nothing, having grown up on splendid fairy and folk-lore stories, so that by degrees she managed to interest little Faith in the things outside her own mind, in real Camp Fire games and work, and finally in the girls themselves, until, growing less afraid, Faith found Mollie, Polly and Betty better substitutes than the sisters of her dreams. And by and by through their guardian's advice the little girl was permitted to enter the Sunrise club as a Wood Gatherer. There she grew to be more and more faithful to its rules and ideals, until after a while her too vivid imagination seemed to be fairly well under her control. If later in life, however, her fancy was to lead her into strange experiences, soon no one would have guessed it, for March found Faith stronger than ever before in her life and utterly attached to Rose Dyer. Still looking like our little golden haired Christmas angel, Polly once remarked, but like the angel after she had eaten the Christmas dinner. Nevertheless, though Sylvia fully understood that all Faith's devotion was now bestowed on their Camp Fire guardian, now and then she used to wonder why Faith did not show any liking for her. Certainly she had given her the tenderest physical care, making her follow faithfully every Camp Fire health rule, live outdoors, sleep and eat all she should. It was also puzzling to Sylvia, just as it has often been to older persons, why after a few weeks every girl in the Sunrise camp seemed to feel a special affection for little Faith. She never appeared to do anything to try to deserve it, except to be pretty and have curly light hair, big gentle, blue eyes and a timid and appealing manner, while Sylvia, who spent most of her time making herself as useful as possible to her friends, was not particularly loved, not even by Polly. And for Polly O'Neill, Sylvia Wharton's devotion has never for a single instant wavered and never will, even when the future puts it to many difficult tests. For faithfulness to an idea, a conviction or a person will ever be Sylvia's predominant trait of character, and while it may not make her appear on the surface as loving or lovable as some of her companions, it would be well if she could now know that it will be to her the other girls will always turn in after years when they stand in need of sensible advice or even of real practical assistance. And this was to be particularly true of Polly O'Neill in her not very peaceful life, so it was unfortunate that poor Sylvia had now to fight down many pangs of foolish jealousy through seeing that Polly as well as the other girls made a special pet and plaything of the newest comer. But if Faith had unconsciously made Sylvia suffer now and then, she also accomplished another result. Just at first Betty Ashton had imagined that there might be some unknown bond of interest between Rose Dyer and young Dr. Barton, cemented before Rose's entrance into their club as guardian. But now she gave up the impression, believing thoroughly that Rose found the cold, puritanical young man actually distasteful in spite of his many acts of kindness to the Sunrise Camp Fire girls. CHAPTER XVIII Donna and Her Don However, if none of the Camp Fire girls thought of a possible romance between their new guardian and the young physician, now established as the regular visiting doctor at the Sunrise cabin, when the month of March was passing and the New Hampshire snows beginning to show every now and then a tendency toward melting, indicating the return of the ever romantic spring, there was a good deal of carefully whispered discussion about the chief Camp Fire guardian, Miss Martha McMurtry. Their guardian of the preceding summer liked best that the girls should call her by her Camp Fire title, "The Madonna of the Hill," shortened for use into the Italian "Donna." In the first weeks at camp the summer before, Miss McMurtry had seemed to some of the Camp Fire girls a sort of heaven-appointed old maid, a regular born and bred one. As she had lived and worked through the outdoor months with such a variety of girls, gradually this old-maidish appearance had worn off, until now there were actually self-evident reasons for believing that Donna had a real _bona fide_ admirer in the person of the poor German gentleman who had rescued Betty and Esther on that memorable December evening in the snow and, through their acquaintance, had since come to know every member of the club. It is but natural to suppose that the first breath of this suggestion may have been introduced by Esther Clark, since she had best opportunities for making observations. Yet actually it was Betty Ashton who first whispered it to Esther, next to Polly, and afterward it traveled very naturally about the select Camp Fire circle. Esther had been continuing her lessons with the German professor once every week since before Christmas. Not that he was a singing master, but he proved to be a thoroughly trained musician who understood the piano almost as well as the violin, so that he was able to give Esther splendid assistance with her piano training so necessary to the singing later on. And this he insisted on doing without payment in spite of his poverty, showing a very decided interest in Esther's possible future. In spite of her own seriously reduced income, however, Betty had at first suggested that she be allowed to contribute a small sum for the lessons, but Esther had positively refused to accept anything more than her singing lessons from her friend. She explained that Herr Crippen said she rendered him sufficient aid in his other work to pay for what he was doing for her, and closing with the more truthful statement that, for a reason which he could not now set forth, he felt particularly hopeful for _das gnädige Fräulein_. And yet notwithstanding the fact that Betty was extremely grateful to him for his kindness to Esther, from their first acquaintance she had never been able to resist the inclination to make fun of the poor gentleman on every possible occasion, in the face of Esther's open protests, that is, when it could be done without hurting his feelings. Under most circumstances Esther felt that Betty could do no wrong, but her jokes at the Herr Professor's expense made Esther suffer a variety of emotions which she could not exactly explain even to herself. The poor man was so shabby and shy, such an apparent failure in life, without money, position, friends or family, none of the things which Betty still considered absolutely essential. Though she never thought she had betrayed herself, in a way it is just possible that Herr Crippen was all that winter guessing what was going on in regard to him in the back of Betty Ashton's mind. He had a pleading, almost apologetic expression as he gazed into her lovely face as though vaguely asking her not to be too hard in her judgment and to be kind to him if she could. Once or twice it is just possible that he asked Miss McMurtry questions about her in his semi-weekly visits to the older Camp Fire guardian, but of this Betty of course had no knowledge. It was on one Saturday night, when Miss McMurtry happened to be staying at the cabin to afford Rose Dyer a holiday in town, that Betty's suspicions of a possible romance were first aroused. Promptly at eight o'clock that evening the Herr Professor, dressed in his best clothes, made his appearance at the front door, wearing a large clean collar considerably frayed at the ends and a flowing black silk necktie. By chance there happened to be but a few of the Sunrise girls at home that evening, for Mollie O'Neill was staying all night with Meg, Eleanor Meade was to remain over Sunday with her mother and Nan had gone home to take her father to church the next day as he had solemnly promised to be her companion. So as Edith had not come out for her regular week-end visit there were only the five girls in camp. However, Sylvia was so busily engaged in seeing Faith to bed that when the Professor arrived there were only Betty, Polly and Esther about to be in the way. Yet half an hour or so after his arrival and in the midst of quite an interesting general conversation Herr Crippen, seeming to be overwhelmed with emotion, suddenly asked Miss McMurtry to take a walk outside with him and this when it was not even a particularly warm or agreeable late March evening. Betty was a little vexed, for they had just been talking of the old-time history of Woodford, of the names of some of the old families in the town and the immediate neighborhood. This was always a subject of keen interest to Betty, as her own family, the Ashtons, had been among the first settlers in the village and through each generation had furnished some of its most distinguished men and women. Indeed, it was Betty's grandfather who had built the orphan asylum where Esther had lived as a child. Consequently, she felt an interest in it for her own as well as Esther's sake when Herr Crippen asked Miss McMurtry if she had not once taught some of the children at the asylum as a kind of practice work before graduating at the Normal School. And directly after this question when Miss McMurtry had quietly answered, "yes," she and her Professor had disappeared out into the moonlight. Then immediately after this, Esther had slipped over to the piano and presently begun playing over a new Camp Fire song, which Frank Wharton had just sent his sister from headquarters in New York, hearing that the girls were particularly anxious for the latest Camp Fire music. Polly, who had been rather annoyed at the interruption of a visitor, returned once more to the reading of her book, so that it was left to Betty, who was in an idle mood, to wander over casually to the window and there, without the least intention of spying, behold what certainly looked like a very interesting scene. Instead of walking up and down outside as the Professor had suggested, Herr Crippen's hands were clasped imploringly together and his face wore a strangely beseeching expression. Indeed, if Betty had been near enough she might have seen actual tears in his eyes as there had been on the Christmas eve when he had his conversation with Esther. The very next instant Betty had of course turned hurriedly away, feeling ashamed of herself for having even innocently seen what was so plainly not intended for her eyes. And yet at the same moment she could not restrain a giggle, a giggle which grew later on into a confession of what she had witnessed. Still as she explained it was merely a suspicion, nothing more, for Betty had not seen how Donna had received the Professor's suit nor did she really know what kind of a question he had asked. However, when a few days later Miss McMurtry actually asked for a leave of absence from school in order to have a quiet talk alone with Rose Dyer at the cabin, what had been an idle suspicion now looked as though it might be a reality. Notwithstanding, the girls had to suffer for some time with ungratified curiosity, since Rose made no mention even of having had an unexpected visit from the older woman. Indeed, she tried to go about her regular Camp Fire work from day to day as though nothing had happened, as though there were nothing of special interest or importance on her mind, but this she did not quite succeed in doing, at least not to the watchful eyes of Betty, Esther and Polly, who were the most interested of the girls. For Rose's face, when she supposed that no one was looking, wore an expression of surprise, of uncertainty and even of worry and uneasiness. It was odd, Betty thought, why Rose should take Miss McMurtry's love affair so seriously and what could there be in it to trouble over, anyhow? Either Miss Martha did or did not care for the funny old German who must have been fifteen years her senior, and who certainly was not a desirable catch from a worldly point of view. It never occurred to Betty that there could be any possibility of love not running smoothly with two such elderly persons. However, as Rose made no confidences, after a week had passed the whole subject vanished into the background of everybody's minds and most of the girls believed that the whole idea had been a mistaken one from the beginning. And then one afternoon in the early part of April, Rose called Betty aside and asked her if on the following afternoon she and Esther could meet Miss McMurtry, Herr Crippen and herself in the drawing room at the Ashton house in Woodford. There was a question which had to be discussed and it was not possible to have any privacy at the cabin. Miss Dyer's own house was closed, but a caretaker had been left in charge of the Ashton home, as it was too beautiful a place to remain for so many months unguarded. CHAPTER XIX Memories Betty arrived at her home before her visitors. Esther was engaged for another half hour with a music lesson and besides Betty wished to see that the house was in order for her visitors. It was a curious sensation to come home alone and to wander from one end of the big house to the other, hearing only the sound of her own footsteps, for Mrs. Mitchell, the caretaker, was in the kitchen preparing afternoon tea to be served the guests a little later, while her husband was working in the yard. Betty had an uncomfortable feeling of desolation, as though she were a kind of a ghost. First she went straight to her mother's room, but there the pictures were covered with sheets, the mattress rolled up, the curtains down, and the tables and mantel so bare of ornament that Betty hurried away to her own blue sitting room across the hall. Would her father and mother never be back? Surely they would both be returning in the early summer when the weather would be less severe upon her father's health and the great house would be reopened as it had always been. At the cabin with the other girls the time had not seemed so long to Betty, nearly ten months now since their sailing, but here at home why it seemed that years might have passed. A sudden fear clutched the girl's heart--would things ever be quite the same again; did life ever repeat itself in exactly the same old way? And yet Betty had no regrets, only pleasure, that she had been the moving spirit in the first organization of the Sunrise Camp Fire club. How much they had learned in their summer and winter together! And though she might count herself as having learned least of all, yet surely she would never be quite so spoiled and selfish as on that May day when she had accidentally discovered Esther Clark singing the Camp Fire hymn in their formerly deserted back room. When her mother returned she would relieve her by taking the care of the housekeeping upon her own shoulders and certainly she would be able to cut down expenses. Now that her father's income was so reduced, this would be a great assistance to him, as Mrs. Ashton had no idea of possible household economies. Betty smiled, not in the least mournfully. There was no thought of any real poverty to be grappled with in her mind. She was only considering in what an unexpected fashion she was going to be able to show to her mother and father the benefits of her Camp Fire training, for which she had plead so earnestly not quite a year before. The young girl was in her own room at the time of these reflections, seated in her own blue rocking chair with her feet tucked up under her and her chin resting in her hand, looking out her open window at the desolate garden, for this April afternoon was just as cold and uninspiring as that other May afternoon, and there was also no fire in her grate, although downstairs a big blaze had been lighted for the expected company. That Betty had changed in the past year, her parents would be able to see readily. Really she was prettier than ever; from her outdoor life the color in her cheeks was deeper, her lips a more vivid scarlet and the selfish, sometimes discontented lines about her mouth and forehead had wholly disappeared. Now thinking of her parents return, of how she would be able to prove her love for them by greater devotion to her father in his ill-health; that perhaps he would even teach her something of his business cares and responsibilities since Dick would be so long away completing his medical studies, her expression was very thoughtful and charming and her gray eyes unusually serious. Yet the next instant with a gay laugh Betty jumped to her feet. "My goodness, I must hurry downstairs and see how the drawing room looks!" she exclaimed aloud. "I have been forgetting what an interesting interview we are going to have this afternoon! Dear me, I wonder what the trouble is and why Esther and I should be privileged to attend this romantic meeting? Perhaps there is going to be some kind of marriage contract, arranged in German fashion, and Esther, Rose and I are wanted as witnesses. It matters not just so I am allowed in the secret." And Betty started running down the hall. However, before arriving at the front steps a moment's hesitation overtook her and she paused. The next second she had gone to the end of the passage and stood with her hand on the door-knob of the very room where she had once surprised Esther. But to-day she could hear no sounds of singing on the inside. "I am going to peep into Esther's old room; I wonder if she will wish this same one when she comes back to live with us again. Somehow it must affect me like the locked chamber did Bluebeard's wife; there isn't the least reason why I should be peering into this empty place to-day." The door opened quickly and Betty gave a sudden scream of terror. The room was not unoccupied, some one was kneeling over in a corner by a closed window. The figure rose slowly to its feet. "I am sorry, Betty, I didn't mean to frighten you. Really, dear, I didn't dream of your coming in here." It was Esther Clark. In the half light Betty was now able to distinguish her perfectly. Esther's face was extremely white, there were tears in her large pale blue eyes and her lids were red and swollen. Her big hands worked nervously as they had on that former occasion when Betty had thought her so plain and unattractive looking. "Oh, it's you, Esther," Betty exclaimed in relieved tones. "Gracious, how you startled me! But I thought you were taking your music lesson. What in the world is troubling you, child, and how did you get into this house and upstairs without my knowing?" "I came in through the kitchen and crept upstairs as quietly as possible, since I wanted to be alone here for a few minutes," Esther explained. "Will you please leave me for a little while?" "Most certainly not," returned Betty in her most autocratic tones. "If you have anything on your mind that is worrying you, come on downstairs and tell me what it is. You have a dreadful tiresome fashion, Esther, of just hugging your grievances to yourself, when if you just told outright what they were, there would probably be nothing for you to fret about." Betty was annoyed and her tone was far more irritable than usual. Nevertheless, Esther crossed the short space between them and taking Betty's lovely face between her hands kissed her two or three times in succession. "Do as I tell you, Princess, please," she spoke in unusual tones of authority. "I will join you downstairs in a very little while, but I must get back my self-control first." So there seemed to be nothing left for Betty but obedience, so plainly did Esther appear to know what she wanted. Very slowly the younger girl walked down to the drawing room. "Esther did find it difficult to confide things to people, but usually she was willing to tell them to her," Betty thought. "Well, perhaps her shyness and reticence came from having been raised in an orphan asylum where no one was really deeply interested in her or her personal affairs. Nothing very serious could have happened, however, since Esther had left school only about an hour before." In the drawing room everything was far more cheerful, the fire was burning, the window blinds were drawn up, the grand piano was open and on it rested a vase of white roses. It was perfectly impossible for Betty Ashton to learn to be economical all at once, and with the thought of a possible betrothal in the house that afternoon she had stopped at a florist's and brought the flowers in with her. Now she could not help feeling a little glow of pride over the beauty of their old drawing room, especially noticeable after the simplicity of the living room at the cabin. Feeling rather nervous over the idea that Esther might probably be continuing with her crying upstairs and so unable to take part in the coming interview, Betty walked slowly around the great room studying the portraits of her ancestors,--a favorite amusement with her so long as she could remember. They were stern persons most of them. Betty did not believe that she could ever have such strict views of the difference between right and wrong, be so harsh in her judgments as they had been, but then the world had moved on to a wider vision since those days. One of her great, great uncles had assisted in the burning of witches. Betty turned from this self-righteous looking portrait to the picture of the aunt whom she had always believed herself to resemble, the young woman in the white dress with the big picture hat, then the girl smiled at her own vanity. How absurd to think that she could look like any one so lovely! And yet here was the auburn hair, only a shade more golden than her own, big eyes that were blue instead of gray and a kind of proud fashion of tilting her chin. Very probably Betty had always held her own head in this fashion because she had always so wished to be thought like this special great aunt. "Well, it was a good thing to feel a certain pride of ancestry," the young girl thought, "in spite of all of Polly's teasing. Surely the possession of a great name ought to keep one away from littleness or meanness, make one strive to fill an honorable position in the world. If she had not the ability to be a great woman certainly she intended to be a good one. And then the recollection of Esther came to her again. Poor Esther, who had not even a name of her own! For this very reason had she not always been more ambitious for her friend than Esther had seemed for herself? If she had no position, no money and no family, Esther did have a real talent and must make a place for herself some day." But there sounded the first ring at the door bell! Let one hope it was not Herr Crippen arriving first, since, with Esther still upstairs, how could she ever hope to keep him entertained until the arrival of the others? But probably the elderly violinist had never seen anything quite so handsome as their drawing room. Betty had the grace to laugh and then blush over her own foolishness, snobbishness Polly might call it. What did she know of Herr Crippen, his past, what he had seen, where he had traveled in the forty-five years or more of his life? With a smile of welcome and her hand extended Betty then moved forward toward the door to receive her first guest. CHAPTER XX The Explanation However, it only turned out to be Rose Dyer, looking unusually flushed and excited, who kissed Betty rather tremulously and then sat down as though she were out of breath. "I was afraid I would be late," was her explanation. An instant later there was another ring at the bell and on this second occasion Miss McMurtry and Herr Crippen entered together. Betty considered that Miss McMurtry looked a little bit agitated, but not remarkably so, just enough if she were really about to announce her engagement. But Herr Crippen, unhappy man, was this the way that love affected the emotional German temperament? His face, which was ordinarily pale enough, was to-day like chalk, his red hair was moist upon his high forehead and his big hands cold as he shook hands with his hostess. Then the little company arranged themselves in chairs before the glowing fire and remained perfectly silent. Why on earth didn't some one speak? It was her own home, and Betty felt that upon herself devolved the duties of a hostess and yet so plainly in the present instance did it seem to be her place to say nothing until her older guests offered some explanation for their presence. "Where is Esther?" Miss McMurtry finally asked, and feeling grateful at having something to do which permitted even an instant's escape from the frozen stillness of the room, Betty jumped up, announcing hurriedly: "I will get her myself; Esther isn't feeling very well or she would have been down before. She is upstairs in her own room." Then before she could get away there was an unmistakable sound of some one approaching and the next moment Esther Clark joined her friends. She had washed her face and smoothed her hair, but there were still plain traces of recent tears about her and yet no one of the company appeared surprised. When Betty had taken her place before the fire again Esther sat down on a stool near her and, not seeming to care in the least about the near presence of other people, took one of Betty's hands in hers as though she were clinging to it for encouragement and support. "Will you please tell the whole story as slowly and as clearly as you can, Herr Crippen?" Esther then asked. "Miss McMurtry and Miss Dyer both understand about it in a measure, but it will be an entire surprise to Miss Ashton." In utter amazement Betty, entirely forgetting her manners, now proceeded to stare from one face to the other of her guests. Was this the way to announce a betrothal, and besides what could Esther know of the relation between her music teacher and their first Camp Fire guardian; had she not been as much mystified as the rest of them? Herr Crippen, clearing his throat, jumped up from his chair and began striding rapidly up and down the length of the great room, talking so rapidly and under the pressure of such great excitement that Betty had almost to strain her ears to catch the real drift of what he was saying. "I haf told you before, I haf lived one oder time in Woodford, fourteen, fifteen year ago, but I haf not said for how long I am here nor why I went away," he began hastily. "I haf a very beautiful wife, an American woman. She was not well and we came here to your Crystal Hill country with our babies that she might recover. But she recovered not; instead she was ill so long a time until at last she was _todt_, dead," he corrected himself, wiping the moisture from his brow with a big pocket handkerchief. "Then I am poor, very poor; I haf spent so much time nursing her and I haf two babies left who must be looked after. I try then to get music pupils, but I haf not much heart, besides are not the babies always there to be kept out of mischief, so where is the time I can work? I must go away, there is noding else and how can I carry the little ones, one under each arm? No, I must leave my children behind." Esther's blue eyes were gazing steadfastly down at the oriental rug at her feet, but Betty's cheeks were burning with interest and her gray eyes followed the speaker as eagerly as her ears heard him. "There is a great house here for little ones I am told, an orphans' home, they call it. Are not my babies orphans, with no mother and a father that has not even food to give them?" In a flash Betty's arms were about Esther's neck and she was drawing her toward her with an affectionate understanding she had rarely ever before shown her. "You need not explain any more, Herr Crippen, if the others already know," Betty Ashton interrupted, "for I think I understand what you are intending to tell me. You left your children at our Woodford orphan asylum and Esther is your daughter, so after all these years have passed you come back to find her. It is very, very strange, I can't quite realize it all yet and here is Esther not looking in the least like a German but inheriting your musical talent, although with her it has taken the form of a wonderful voice." And Betty stopped talking at last to gaze into the fire, too overcome with the surprising mysteries of life to say anything more for the present. An apparent relief showed itself in the faces of everybody present. Herr Crippen sat down again and Esther left her place for a chair next his. "Aren't we going to have some tea, Betty dear, now our surprise party is over?" Rose Dyer inquired, so that Betty came back to herself with a start and crossing the room rang the bell. The next instant she paused in front of Esther and her father. It was odd that no one had ever thought of it, but there was a kind of likeness between the man and girl, the same red hair and paleness, the same nervous manner, although Esther was far more attractive looking and had learned a great deal more self-control. This afternoon there was an added dignity about Esther, even a nobility, which showed itself in the quiet poise of her head, in the firm lines about her always handsome mouth. Looking at her friend, Betty Ashton's eyes filled suddenly with tears, for in this moment she was feeling a deeper, a sincerer affection for her than at any time since their acquaintance. "But you won't be taking Esther away from me, Herr Crippen?" Betty suddenly pleaded. "She has been a kind of foster sister to me for almost a year and I should be so dreadfully lonely here in this big house without her after the closing of our camp. She has already taught me such a number of things, I don't suppose she can even dream how many! Can't you just let her live on with me and come and see her whenever you like?" Which question showed that Betty Ashton did not realize that circumstances ever could seriously interfere with her dearest wishes. But the German violinist, while he held his daughter's hand clasped tight in his, slowly shook his head. "For a little while, yes," he agreed, "but after that my Esther she must go away from Woodford. She hast _ein grosser_ talent than you her friends who do not understand music can know. She must study much, she must do all that I haf failed to do. I haf a little money, it is enough for the start, after that----" "But I shall not wish ever to leave Betty or you," Esther here interrupted quietly. "I am not ambitious; I can learn all I shall need to know to earn my living here in Woodford." It was hardly the time for argument, as each member of the little company realized, and fortunately at this moment the tea tray made its arrival so that Betty and Esther were both busy in supplying the wants of their few guests. However, when Betty had secured her own cup of tea she brought up a tiny table and placed it between the German professor and herself. There had not been much time for thought, but in a vague way Betty felt that she wanted to make reparation both to her friend and Herr Crippen for any foolish joking which she had done at the man's expense. Really he was not so bad, now one realized how many misfortunes he had passed through, although he could not have had much strength of character or he would never have let anything persuade him to desert his children. "You will go with Esther when she has to leave Woodford?" Betty inquired softly, not wishing that any one else should overhear. "Of course when the time comes it wouldn't be fair for me to stand in her way no matter how much we care for one another, but Esther would be far too timid to go alone." Herr Crippen shook his head violently. "I cannot leaf this neighborhood, nothing can make me until I haf accomplished all my purpose, no objectings, no arguments." He spoke with such anger that Betty stared in a complete state of mystification. Herr Crippen's voice was not lowered; he gazed with apparent fierceness at Miss McMurtry, whom Betty had supposed until very recently to be the object of his ardent affections. "I tell you I leaf behind two childrens," he went on, "the one I haf found, the other the superintendent at the asylum, my friends, no one will tell me where mine oder child is. Adopted they tell me, taken away from here, I haf no more a legal right, I should only make unhappiness should I demand my little baby back again." "You promised me you would not talk of this, father," Esther began in a pleading tone, "you promised me that if I would forget all your past neglect you would find your happiness in me." But Betty had risen to her feet and stood frowning with unconscious earnestness at the tall man. "If your son has been adopted by people who love him and whom he loves and thinks are his parents, then I don't think you have the least right to interfere, Herr Crippen. You went away and left him when he was a little baby to almost any kind of fate. Now you expect him to give up everything and everybody and come back to you, a perfect stranger. I am sure if I were in his place, I should love my adopted parents whom I had always believed to be my own far better than I could ever care for you." The big German dropped his head on his chest. Rose and Miss McMurtry got up quickly, "Come, girls, we must be getting back home to the cabin or the other girls will believe we are lost. Run away, Betty, you and Esther, and get your coats and hats." But when the five people were leaving the big house together, Betty waited behind for a moment. "I hope I didn't hurt your feelings about your son, Herr Professor," she apologized. "I--I didn't intend to be rude, and I should think just finding a wonderful daughter like Esther might make one happy enough." Herr Crippen opened his mouth intending to say something but evidently changed his mind as to what it should be. "You are very good, little lady, whom I haf heard your friends call Princess, and I haf no doubt that what you before said to me is most true." CHAPTER XXI Misfortune Several days later Dick Ashton, walking out to the Sunrise cabin from Woodford, unexpectedly caught up with Esther making the same journey. He came up to her side very quickly and with one look in his face the girl gave a cry of dismay. Dick was always serious and yet in spite of his seriousness there was no one with a keener appreciation of humorous situations and people, but to-day his face was drawn and there was a set look about his lips. "I didn't mean to startle you, Esther," Dick said quietly, "but I am very glad it is you I have met rather than any one of the other girls. I have bad news for Betty." Did Esther's face for a fleeting instant show surprise and almost alarm? "It has nothing to do with me, has it?" she asked, but Dick, shaking his head and hardly heeding her question, went on: "I have just received news of my father's death and must break it to Betty. It is going to be very hard; Betty has never known anything but happiness and in spite of--in spite of everything, I believe my father loved her almost better than either my mother or me." After her first exclamation of sympathy Esther continued silent, feeling it wiser to let Dick talk himself out to a sympathetic listener than to pour forth her own regrets. "It isn't only the loss of my father that Betty and mother will have to endure," he continued, "but the entire loss of my father's fortune. The trouble has been brewing for some time, but a few weeks ago the crash came and it must have hastened the end." "You don't mean to say they will have nothing?" Esther inquired in a frightened voice. The thought of Betty, whom her friends had always called "Princess" because of her careless generosity, her indifference, her absolute ignorance of the whole money question, now to face poverty without any training or preparation for it,--the thought fairly made Esther gasp, and Dick who had some idea of what was passing in her mind added: "Yes, it is pretty rough to bring a girl up to live like a Princess and then suddenly to leave her a pauper. I have always been afraid we have not been quite fair with Betty, maybe it would have been easier for her to have known the truth about things from the beginning. Still it can't be helped now. But the worst of it is that I know nothing about business either; I have never cared for anything but my profession and it takes a long time for a man to be able to support even himself in medicine until he has had several years of experience at least. I must give it up." Dick's face went whiter than ever at this and Esther, who in spite of a certain shyness and nervousness when she found herself the center of observation, had a really good judgment and self-control, now replied quietly: "I wouldn't think too much of this now, Mr. Ashton, things are pretty sure to turn out a little better than you feel they can at present and in any case I am sure something will be arranged so that you can go on with your profession. It would be too great a pity, when you have studied so long and are now so near your graduation, to have to give it up." Dick Ashton looked at Esther gratefully, thinking of how their positions had been reversed in a little less than a year. Had he not, when first he came upon the shy, homely girl among his sister's group of friends, done his best to make her more comfortable, less of a stranger and an outsider, and now he felt strangely strengthened and calmed by her presence and advice. He too saw that there were times when Esther's self-forgetfulness gave her a kind of beauty which was more important than mere lines and color, since it was a beauty that would last far longer. So the young people walked on for a little time in silence, until Dick Ashton colored and then hesitated. "I hope you won't think me rude, Miss Esther, that in my own trouble I have forgotten to congratulate you on having found your father. Betty has written me all about it and I certainly hope it may add to your happiness. I used to wonder even when I was a little boy if you felt very lonely at the asylum without a--a single relative." "You wondered about me; then you knew about _me_?" Esther asked quietly, and turned, stopping short in the path to give Dick Ashton a long, quiet look. Something passed between them without words, one of those subtle and silent communications of thought for which there has been no satisfactory explanation. Yet in the instant each one of them knew that the other had guessed his and her secret, or if not quite guessing it, at least had very reasonable foundations for their suspicion. Dick's formerly pale face crimsoned and he looked down at the ground, beginning to walk slowly on. "We--we thought it best this way, Miss Esther, and still think so. It has been hard upon you perhaps, but isn't it better that one person should suffer than that a number should be made unhappy?" There was almost entreaty in Dick Ashton's voice and at the same time he meant to make no betrayal if Esther did not know what he supposed she might possibly have learned within the past few weeks. Esther's reply left no room for doubt. "It is best this way now," she answered slowly. "I can't say that I think it altogether fair or just at the beginning. But so far as I am concerned, why you need never worry." "I wish there were some way in which we could make it up to you, but we have nothing now to be of any assistance to anybody. It is what my mother meant in a measure when----" Esther nodded. "I understand and there is no need of talking about repaying me. Betty has already done more than that and there is nothing in the world I would not do or give up for her sake. I care for her more than she may ever know." His companion's voice trembled so that Dick feared she might be losing her self-control and knew that they had a hard enough task before them. They were not very far from Sunrise cabin now and feared that at any moment Betty Ashton might come out to meet them, since Dick had telegraphed that he was coming to see her on important business in order that she might be a little bit prepared for what was to follow. "It is a pretty dark road for all of us just now, Miss Esther, but some day perhaps without our having to make the decision things will right themselves _somehow_," he returned kindly. And at this instant the young man and girl discovered Betty flying along the path in their direction. It was a fairly warm April afternoon and she wore her blue cape, the cape which Esther remembered so well during the spring of her own coming to the big Ashton house. She had on no hat and her hair was tied back in a loose bunch of red-brown curls. Evidently Betty had suspected no trouble from Dick's telegram (Betty and trouble were so far apart these days), for she laughed and waved both hands in joyous welcome at her brother's approach. "Where did you two people find one another? I believe it was all arranged beforehand and Dick Ashton's visits to our cabin are quite as much to see Miss Esther Clark--Crippen I meant to say--as they are to see poor little me." Betty had always enjoyed teasing Esther and now she expected this silly remark of hers to make her friend blush and scold, but Esther seemed not to have paid the least attention, not even to have heard her. And in the same instant Betty guessed that something serious had occurred. Her expression changed instantly. Betty looked suddenly older and unlike any one had ever seen her look before. She took her brother's hand. "Never mind, Dick, I think I know already," she whispered, and unexpectedly it seemed to be Dick who was having to be upheld and consoled. Esther slipped silently away, leaving the brother and sister together in their sorrow, and somehow in her loneliness she felt almost envious of them in the closeness of their grief. CHAPTER XXII Saying Farewell to the Cabin "For my part," announced Polly O'Neill, "I am not so heart-broken as I expected at having to say farewell to Sunrise cabin. It is so different for us all, with the Princess not here and having to think of her back home in their big house with only her mother and one little maid of all work. To think that I used to tell the Princess I thought she ought to be poor a little while just to find out what it felt like! I could cry my eyes out now when I realize that it has actually come true." It was the May meeting of the Sunrise Council Fire and because it was to be the last meeting for some time which might be held on their old camping grounds, the girls and their guardian had decided that it should take place outdoors and that at the close of their regular program there should be, a general talk over the history of the past year. Esther rose quietly at this speech of Polly's, partly because she seemed to wish to find relief in action and then because the May night was cold, and put several fresh pine logs on their already glowing fire. "You must not think I am ungrateful, Rose dear," Polly continued. "This winter has been to me the most wonderful one, sometimes I think the turning point in my whole life, but if Betty is going to be trying to take boarders in that big Ashton house to support herself and her mother and let Dick finish his medical studies, why I think Mollie and mother and I had better be back in our own tiny cottage to give her our valuable advice." "But Betty won't be keeping boarders herself, will she? I thought it was Mrs. Ashton who was to look after things with Betty to help," Nan Graham spoke in a kind of awed tone. "Still it wouldn't seem very nice of us to keep on living here in our cabin, which Betty did a great deal more toward building than the rest of us, if she were not here to share it." Mollie shook her head decidedly, so that the feathers of her Indian head-dress made fantastic small shadows on the ground. "I don't think that would matter in the least and certainly not to Betty," she said in her sensible, far-seeing fashion. "Betty would love to think of our being here and she would come and visit us whenever it were possible, but circumstances seem to have changed for all of us. Here is mother coming home from Ireland and Polly and I will want to keep house for her and look after things while she is at work just as we have always done, and then Mrs. Meade says she isn't willing for Eleanor to be away from her any longer, and Nan feels she ought to go home and help her mother with the younger children, and Esther going away after a while to New York to study. Dear me, what changes a few months can bring! I am glad they have not brought such big ones to us, Polly." Sylvia Wharton had been in the act of wrapping a white woolen shawl about the small Faith, who was cuddled close to Rose Dyer, but now she stopped and stared hard at Mollie and then at Polly with an apparently wooden expression of face. "What makes you feel things won't be different for you and that your mother will go back to work?" she stammered, feeling their guardian give a little warning tug at her dress but unable to change the form of her question once it had taken a start in that way in her mind. However, both the sisters only laughed, Polly exclaiming in an amused tone: "Of course we don't know anything definitely, oh Sylvia, in this world of surprises, but merely that present indications point the way Mollie has just mentioned." Fortunately, Polly, who was usually quick as a flash to follow up any suggestion, had her mind on other than her own affairs to-night. "Esther," she continued the next moment, "this is a kind of confessional to-night, or at least it may be if we girls decide that we are willing to confide in one another (autobiography is so much more interesting than history anyhow), so I wonder if you would mind telling us why you changed your mind so suddenly about going away from Woodford to study. At first you said nothing in the world would persuade you to go and then all of a sudden, after Betty's misfortune, when it looked as though you might be a help to her, you determined to leave. Don't answer me if you don't like, Esther, I know you have a perfectly good reason. Of course _I_ change my mind without a reason, but you don't." Esther now felt that the eyes of all the members of the Camp Fire circle were fixed upon her and that many of them held the same question that Polly had just so frankly asked. For a moment she hesitated, looking a little appealingly at Miss McMurtry and then at Rose Dyer. Rose nodded her head. "I would tell just what I felt, Esther, as far as you can," Rose recommended. "It is only fair to you that Betty's dearest friends should understand your position, even though you would rather that Betty herself should not know. I feel you can trust them to keep your secret." Esther wound the seven strings of honor beads into a single chain before she spoke. "It sounds rather absurd of me and pretentious I know," she began slowly; "of course I have a great many reasons in my mind why I feel it best for me to go away from Woodford right now and the most important one I cannot tell, but there is another which perhaps I have the right to let you try to understand. I am not deserting Betty just when she seems to need me most; it is because Betty now is poor and some day I may be able to help her if I do go away and succeed with my music that I am willing to go. You see Betty has done such a lot for me and has wanted to do so much more and--and--" Esther could not continue with her confession, but it was hardly necessary, for rising from her place Polly marched solemnly around their circle and sitting down by Esther put her arm about her neck. "I understand you perfectly now, Esther, though I want you to believe that no one of us has ever doubted you. You are too unselfish and too unworldly to care to make a big success in the world with your talent if it is only for yourself, but the thought that maybe you can some day bring back wealth and happiness again to the Princess makes most any effort worth while?" Esther bowed her head, too full of emotion to answer Polly's question in words. "I supposed I cared for Betty a lot, I have known her so much longer than you have," Polly went on thoughtfully, "but I don't half love her as you do, Esther, even in this little while. I suppose it is because you haven't any relatives of your own and your father is still so new to you. But didn't you have a baby brother or some one long years ago----?" Polly's remark was never finished because Miss Dyer now got up quickly. Because the evenings were so cool the May Council Fire had started early and though it was well nigh over, there was still a faint reflection of daylight. "I thought I heard the wheels of a wagon several moments ago," she explained, "and now I think I can see Dr. Barton's buggy being driven this way. I wonder what in the world he can want with us at this time of the evening? Polly, will you come back to the cabin with me to see." The Council Fire was being held at no great distance from the Sunrise cabin, but perhaps it was Rose Dyer's purpose at this moment to separate Polly and Esther. Of course Polly followed with entire willingness, but a few feet from their door, seeing Dr. Barton's buggy draw nearer and that it held two occupants instead of one, her face crimsoned and she bit her lips to control her vexation. She was returning to join the girls when Dr. Barton's voice called after her: "Don't go away, Miss O'Neill, please, our call is upon your sister and you. I was driving through the woods and found Mr. Webster with a telegram which had been telephoned to the farm and which he was bringing out to you and I offered to give him a lift." Although neither of the two young men had received any invitation to alight, they both got out of the buggy and both wearing somewhat crestfallen expressions, stood gazing at the two young women. "I will call Mollie," Polly declared stiffly, drawing back from Billy's hand which held a square of paper in it. "You need not speak to me, Miss O'Neill, simply because I happen to be your messenger boy," the young man said as haughtily as Polly could have spoken. "And you need not feel any contamination at accepting this message from me. The telegram was telephoned out to our farm and my mother wrote it down, so I haven't the faintest idea what the paper contains." Without showing any further signs of recognizing the speaker, Polly reached for the paper, but the next instant her frightened cry for Mollie brought her sister, Sylvia Wharton, and half a dozen other persons to her side. "I must have read it wrong, it is so dark, or your mother must have made some mistake!" Polly cried, forgetting her policy of silence in her agitation. And then standing with a white face and clenched teeth she watched Mollie read the message. Mollie did not betray any great grief or anger, only a considerable amount of surprise, so that Polly for an instant believed her own eyes must have deceived her. "Why, I can't quite understand it," Mollie said aloud, seeing the puzzled group of faces around her. "Mother telegraphs that she and Mr. Wharton, Sylvia's father, have been engaged to be married for the past few months and that she was coming home to tell us about it and to ask us if we were willing, but something has happened or else Mr. Wharton has just persuaded her, for they are married already and are sailing for home to-morrow. Mother says she is very happy and hopes we will forgive her and be almost as overjoyed as she is in coming home to us. At least that is what I think the cablegram means. Billy was mistaken in thinking it a telegram. How do you feel, Polly dear? I am too dazed to take it all in." "I feel," said Polly, with a return to her old passionate, uncontrolled manner, "that I shall never be happy again as long as I live." And then observing a slow, hurt look in Sylvia Wharton's usually unmoved face, she turned for an instant toward her. "I don't mean to hurt your feelings, Sylvia, or to say anything against your father, but it just isn't possible for you to understand what this means to me." And with this thoroughly Polly-like point of view she ran away and hid herself inside the cabin. Billy Webster walked off with Mollie and the other Camp Fire girls to talk things over, giving Dr. Barton a chance to linger for a few moments with Rose Dyer. "I don't know why you seem so offended with me these days, Miss Rose," that young man was soon saying in rather an humble voice for so stern and upright a judge of other people's duties, "but may I say that I think your work among the Camp Fire girls this winter has been quite wonderful and that I never dreamed you could or would be interested in anything outside of society? Oh, Rose----" "Rose of the World," Rose Dyer finished in a slightly mocking tone, which did not show whether or not she had forgiven the young man's former opinion of her. However, he _was_ obstinate and so would not be interrupted. "Oh, Rose of a Thousand Leaves," he ended for himself. CHAPTER XXIII Future Plans "It was Sylvia who really arranged things for me," Polly explained confidentially. The girls were in Betty Ashton's own blue room, having said good-bye to Sunrise cabin and turned their backs upon it for a time at least. But the cabin had been left ready to receive its owners at any time when they might be able to come back to it and week-end parties and Council Fire meetings were often to take place there, besides more important events which the girls could not well anticipate now. But to-day was Betty Ashton's birthday and although she was in too deep mourning for any kind of gayety, her Camp Fire friends had planned to stop by her house during the afternoon to leave little gifts for her, along with their best wishes. And Mollie and Polly O'Neill had arrived first. "I shall miss you terribly, Polly," Betty returned wistfully; her bright color had gone in the last few weeks and there were slight shadows under her gray eyes. "Still I feel sure that under the circumstances it is best for you to go. You are too restless anyhow to have wanted to stay in Woodford and the new life with the new people and sights will make you much happier. You will probably have a good deal of liberty at a New York boarding school and you'll be able to go to the theater now and then and do many of the things you will like. But Mollie and I hope you will come back for Christmas and will write us pretty often." Polly looked thoughtfully from her friend to her sister. "I know I am an absolutely selfish person and I would rather neither one of you would even attempt to deny it. I am not leaving my home though simply because I am restless. The truth is I simply can't get used to mother's being married to Mr. Wharton and to living in their great ugly house instead of our own beloved cottage. I don't like Frank Wharton and though Mr. Wharton is very kind and wants to do everything for Mollie and me, he is one of those dreadfully literal persons, so I am afraid we never will understand one another." "But you used to say, Polly, that you were tired of our small house and that you wanted to live in a big one with lots of money and servants. And now you have it you are dying to get away." And Mollie sighed, for the thought of being parted from her sister even as far away as the next fall, was very hard to bear, and yet she would not leave her mother, since for both of her daughters to go away would look like a reflection upon her marriage. "Heigh, ho!" laughed Polly. "Perhaps I have made some such statement in the past but I suppose I wanted to get rich in my own little way, like I wish to do everything else. And _in_consistency, which is not a jewel, is certainly Polly O'Neill. But don't let's talk about me any more, it's Betty's birthday. However, I would like to register this statement-- Sylvia Wharton is the most extraordinary person I ever met. And what Sylvia starts out to do in this world she'll do. It was Sylvia who saw I wasn't happy in her home, Sylvia who talked things over first to me, and then suggested my departure to mother and her father. And though our parents were both horribly opposed to the idea at first, Sylvia brought them around without any arguments or excitement simply by continuing to make plain statements of the facts." "Well, the wheel of fortune we hear so much about has truly turned, dear, and you're rich and I'm poor and now we must wait to see what will happen next," Betty remarked, hearing a faint knock at her bedroom door and moving forward to open it, but in passing she stopped and kissed Polly lightly on the forehead. "Don't look as though you were the wheel, Polly child, and had made the changes. I am not going to be half so miserable being poor as you girls think I will. Just think of how much more self-respecting I am going to feel if, when I go to bed some night, I can say to myself: 'Betty Ashton has earned her salt to-day.'" Betty now opened her door and there on the threshold stood Rose Dyer with a bunch of pink roses and Faith with a pot of lemon verbena in her hand. Faith was not yet well enough to go home to the boarding house in Boston, so Miss Dyer had brought her to her own home in Woodford, where she and Mammy were still to look after the odd child. On the arrival of Polly and Mollie a few moments before, Betty had not been in the least surprised. The two girls usually ran in to see her every afternoon now and had been giving her birthday presents for nearly as many years as she could remember, but when Rose and Faith also appeared she realized that the members of the Sunrise club might all be coming in to see her during the afternoon in just this same quiet fashion. And the next instant she was convinced when Sylvia solemnly appeared with a box of candy, which she thrust awkwardly at her. "It's against our Camp Fire rules to eat candy, Betty, and I don't approve of it or like it very much myself, but I couldn't think of anything else to bring when Polly and Mollie went off without me; and there won't be enough to make so many people sick." During the laughter over Sylvia's remark, Nan Graham walked shyly in through the now open door, bearing a loaf of cake. "I couldn't bring a real present, Betty," she explained with far more grace and sweetness than one could have dreamed possible of so rough and untrained a girl the year before, "but this is the kind of cake you used to like when I made it at the cabin and I thought you wouldn't mind eating a piece on your birthday for old times' sake." Feeling a sudden rush of emotion, Betty gave Nan a swift embrace and then excusing herself from her friends for a moment slipped out of the room for two purposes: she wanted to find her mother and make her join her friends and she wanted to prepare a great pitcher of lemonade for her guests, for Betty was neither foolish nor selfish in her sorrow, and if her friends had come to her to bring their good wishes, she desired that the afternoon might pass as pleasantly as possible. Things had not gone quite so badly with the Ashton fortune as Dick Ashton had originally feared, although conditions were surely bad enough. For Mrs. Ashton still had the house and Betty a small income settled on her by Mr. Ashton years before as a dress allowance, which now had to cover many other needs. For the completion of Dick's medical course there were several thousand dollars that an aunt had left him as a legacy when he was only a small boy and to use the capital in this way now seemed the wisest investment he could make. To keep the big Ashton house and try and make it yield an income was perhaps not quite so wise, but this had been Betty's dearest desire, and her mother and brother had agreed to it for her sake. To give up the home of her ancestors, to see the beloved old portraits stored away in some one's attic or stuck up in a small room where they would seem absurdly out of place, Betty felt that she could bear everything, do anything if only their old home remained! And so she was allowed at least to try the experiment of renting rooms or taking boarders, whichever might turn out the simpler plan. But when Mrs. Ashton was finally persuaded to join Betty's friends, it was fairly plain that the greater part of the planning and work for the future must fall upon Betty and not her mother, for Mrs. Ashton looked dazed by misfortune and was already a semi-invalid, querulous and rebellious against more evil fortune than she had character or health to withstand. It was no wonder therefore, that even Betty's best friends doubted whether she would be able to meet the responsibilities that had so unexpectedly come upon her, although rejoicing that a year of Camp Fire training found her far better prepared than most girls of her age and position. Esther had been sitting in the room with Mrs. Ashton when Betty found them, as the older woman seemed to enjoy the society of her daughter's companion more than any one's else these days, so the two girls soon brought the lemonade back to Betty's room. In her absence Betty found that her writing table had been cleared and was now decorated with Rose's flowers, Nan's cake and Sylvia's candy, with sandwiches which Meg had just brought in and which "Little Brother" was rapidly devouring, and with a little pile of gifts at the head. Betty's eyes filled with tears, but instinctively her hands flew toward a small square of canvas that stood facing her leaning against one of her candlesticks. It was a painting of the Sunrise cabin which Eleanor had made after Betty had returned home and quite the best piece of work she had ever done. The painting had been made in the dawn and the colors of the sunrise flooded the log cabin, touching the tops of the tall pines standing a little in the foreground and making a crown of light for the high peak of the Sunrise Hill. "It is too lovely; I ought not to have it," Betty exclaimed, extending her picture toward Miss McMurtry, for she and Edith Norton had at this moment joined the party; but seeing that their first Camp Fire guardian shook her head, Betty then turned to Rose Dyer. "Oughtn't you to have it then, Rose, and let the Sunrise Camp Fire girls just come in and look at it now and then?" But at this Eleanor Meade laughed. "Look here, Princess, we all know your passion for giving away your possessions, but do you think you ought to thrust my gift upon some one else while I am standing here watching you? I would like humbly to mention that I painted that picture of the Sunrise cabin for your particular birthday gift and that I would prefer to have you keep it." "And I would like to add," said Miss McMurtry, with an affectionate, even an admiring glance toward the Betty for whom she had once felt so keen a disapproval, "that among us there is no one with quite the same claim upon whatever has to do with our Sunrise club as Betty Ashton. For though she may have forgotten, we have not, that it was to Betty's enthusiasm and a great deal to her efforts that we owe the organization of our club." The chief guardian now leaned over, lighting three candles on Betty's tea table--"Work, Health, Love." "We wish you all the good things that following the law of the Camp Fire may bring you, Betty dear," she whispered. "Seek beauty Give service Pursue knowledge Be trustworthy Hold on to health Glorify work Be happy." While the older woman was speaking, Esther had slipped quietly over to Betty's own piano, which had been brought home from the cabin to her room, and now in order to relieve the atmosphere of emotion which was making ordinary conversation impossible at this moment, she commenced singing her own and Betty's favorite Camp Fire song, the other girls joining in an instant later. "Lay me to sleep in sheltering flame, O Master of the Hidden Fire, Wash pure my heart and cleanse for me My soul's desire. In flame of sunrise bathe my mind, O Master of the Hidden Fire, That when I wake, clear-eyed may be My soul's desire." And before the song had ended, half a dozen of the girls in the room at least were wondering whether they were any nearer to the all-important knowledge of what their soul's desire might be. * * * * * * * * A year the Sunrise Camp Fire girls have tried living and working together, following to the best of their different abilities the Camp Fire law, but while the third volume in this series will show them still under its influence, they will be pursuing their own careers under utterly different circumstances in a story to be called: "The Camp Fire Girls in the Outside World." BOOKS BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK THE RANCH GIRLS SERIES The Ranch Girls at Rainbow Lodge The Ranch Girls' Pot of Gold The Ranch Girls at Boarding School The Ranch Girls in Europe The Ranch Girls at Home Again The Ranch Girls and their Great Adventure THE RED CROSS GIRLS SERIES The Red Cross Girls in the British Trenches The Red Cross Girls on the French Firing Line The Red Cross Girls in Belgium The Red Cross Girls with the Russian Army The Red Cross Girls with the Italian Army The Red Cross Girls Under the Stars and Stripes STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS List of Titles in the Order of their Publication The Camp Fire Girls at Sunrise Hill The Camp Fire Girls Amid the Snows The Camp Fire Girls in the Outside World The Camp Fire Girls Across the Sea The Camp Fire Girls' Careers The Camp Fire Girls in After Years The Camp Fire Girls at the Edge of the Desert The Camp Fire Girls at the End of the Trail The Camp Fire Girls Behind the Lines The Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious typographical errors were corrected without note. Promotional material was moved to the end of the text. Inconsistently-cited book titles were changed to match the actual book. 
32310	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 32310-h.htm or 32310-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32310/32310-h/32310-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32310/32310-h.zip) DOROTHY AT OAK KNOWE by EVELYN RAYMOND New York Hurst & Co., Inc. Publishers * * * * * THE DOROTHY BOOKS By EVELYN RAYMOND These stories of an American girl by an American author have made "Dorothy" a household synonym for all that is fascinating. Truth and realism are stamped on every page. The interest never flags, and is ofttimes intense. No more happy choice can be made for gift books, so sure are they to win approval and please not only the young in years, but also "grown-ups" who are young in heart and spirit. Dorothy Dorothy at Skyrie Dorothy's Schooling Dorothy's Travels Dorothy's House Party Dorothy in California Dorothy on a Ranch Dorothy's House Boat Dorothy at Oak Knowe Dorothy's Triumph Dorothy's Tour COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY THE PLATT & PECK CO. * * * * * [Illustration: "EVER RIDE IN AN OX-CART"? _Dorothy at Oak Knowe._] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. ON THE ROAD TO OAK KNOWE 9 II. UNFORTUNATE BEGINNINGS 24 III. PEERS AND COMMONS 39 IV. THE GILPINS HAVE A PARTY 55 V. THE FRIGHT OF MILLIKINS-PILLIKINS 69 VI. AT THE FALL OF THE MAIDEN'S BATH 85 VII. ALL HALLOW EVE FESTIVITIES 102 VIII. PEER AND COMMONER 117 IX. THE NIGHT THAT FOLLOWED 133 X. OPEN CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL 148 XI. WHAT CAME WITH THE SNOW AND ICE 164 XII. JOHN GILPIN JOINS THE SPORT 182 XIII. A BAD DAY FOR JOHN GILPIN 193 XIV. EXPLANATIONS ARE IN ORDER 206 XV. MRS. JARLEY ENTERTAINS 221 XVI. A PERPLEXING PROBLEM OF LIFE 232 XVII. COMMENCEMENT; AND CONCLUSION 249 DOROTHY AT OAK KNOWE CHAPTER I ON THE ROAD TO OAK KNOWE "This way for the Queen!" "Here you are for the Duke of Connaught! Right this way!" "Want the Metropole, Miss?" "Room there, stupid! She's from the States--any fool could see that! I'm from your hotel, little lady, the American. Your luggage, Miss, allow me?" If Dorothy's hands hadn't been too full, she would have clapped them over her ears, to drown the cries of the hackmen who swarmed about her as she stepped from the train at the railway station in Toronto. As it was, she clung desperately to her bag and shawlstrap, which the man from the American hotel seemed bound to seize, whether or no. But her heart sank and it was a forlorn little girl, indeed, who looked anxiously around seeking some face on which might be a smile of welcome. But nobody paid any attention to her, except the obstreperous hackmen, and in a sudden fright she let fall the tears she had so bravely kept back until then. It had been a long and lonely journey, but she had been assured that she would be promptly met and cared for when it ended. Now, amid all the throng of travelers and those who awaited them, not one was looking for a "dark haired girl in navy blue" and the tears fell faster as she cried aloud: "Oh! what shall I do! What shall I do!" Even the hackmen had forsaken her in pursuit of other, more promising patrons. The short autumn day was at its close and in the growing darkness her fright increased and her usual common sense left her. But, as she spoke, a hand was laid upon her shoulder and a rather gruff voice demanded: "Why, little stranger, what's a-troublin' ye?" Dorothy winked her tears away and looked up into the face of an old man, whose gray beard swept his breast while his head was entirely bald. He wore a long blue smock, carried an ox-goad in one hand and a canvas bag in the other. He looked as kind as he was homely and Dorothy answered quickly: "I'm lost, I guess. Or forgotten, and that's just as bad! I--I--" "Lost? Right here in this town? Well, that couldn't hardly be. Though I own it's a biggish place. But if you be, I'll see to it that you get found again, immediate. First start--who be ye?" "I'm Dorothy Calvert, from Baltimore. I came to the Oak Knowe School for Girls. Somebody was to meet me. Nobody has and--and--I don't know what to do." John Gilpin whistled and exclaimed: "No! Never! I saw at a glance you was no Cannuck! The little maids we raise in our Province have redder cheeks 'an yours. An' we don't let 'em go traversin' round the universe without their mothers or leastways nurses to look after 'em. But bless my soul, you've fell into safe hands. I know old Oak Knowe well. No better school in the whole Empire nor that. Moresomever, there's been some miscarry betwixt your folks and the Lady Principal or she'd never let you come to this pass. But my road lies same as yours. I'll just step-an'-fetch my oxen and head 'em straight for home. We'll get to the School in next to no time. Leastways, betwixt now and bedding-bell--they ring it about half-past nine." "Is it so far? Why, it must be hours till then!" At the cheerful sound of this old teamster's voice Dorothy forgot her fear. She didn't stop to reflect that she should have waited quietly in the station till somebody called for her, nor that she might have telephoned to her teachers to announce her arrival. All she realized was that here was a friend in need and that he was a quaintly interesting person. "'Tis a matter of some miles, lassie, and my old oxen are no electric tram. Slow and sure's their motto and what's an hour, more or less, in a little girl's lifetime? You got a box?" Dorothy glanced at the rug and magazine, tightly strapped together, and at the handbag she had set down upon the platform and replied: "No, Mr.--I don't know your name yet--I haven't now. I had one, but I ate the lunch out of it and tossed it from the car window." The old man stared as if she had spoken nonsense, but informed her: "Gilpin's my name. John Gilpin; but my dame says I'm no descendant of him that took that famous ride as is in the story books. I'm too slow, Dame says. But is all your clothes in that satchel?" It was Dorothy's turn to stare and to laugh. "Oh! no, indeed! They're in my trunk. Here is my check. Number 70777. I put that down in my little notebook, though it's easy to remember." "Humph! I've heard that in the States they call a box a 'trunk,' same's if it was an elephant. Well, give me the check. I'll just step-an'-fetch it and we'll be jogging." Mr. Gilpin took the check and lumbered away, dragging one leg stiffly as if he could not bend the knee, while Dorothy's spirits rose as she watched him. After all, this was a real adventure; and when it was over and she was safe at her fine school, she could write all about it to the friends at home. Thinking about them, she forgot how long John Gilpin tarried and roused from her reverie with a start when his hearty voice, guiding his oxen, came around the corner of the station. "Here we be, lassie! Ever ride in an ox-cart? Ever see a neater yoke o' cattle? That's an unco big box for a small maid to own and hefty, to boot. Step right in, for it's gathering clouds, I see, and we can't have that tidy dress of yours get spoiled while it's new." It was easy to "step in" to the low-hung vehicle and Dorothy nestled against her new friend on his spring-seat forward; all the back part of the wagon being filled with empty barrels and her own trunk. It had been some sort of holiday in the city and the streets were gay with flags and bunting, causing Dorothy to exclaim: "Why, it's just like Halifax, that time Earl Grey was coming! It's just as English as that was--even more so, for I don't see Old Glory anywhere, and there I did." Old John turned his bare, bald head toward her and demanded: "What do you know about Halifax? Or the Governor General? I thought you was United States." "So I am, so I am! But people may travel once in a while, mayn't they? I can tell you lots about Halifax, even though I was there but a little while. That was on a vacation journey and it was delight-ful!" Then, finding the farmer so interested, Dorothy eagerly recited the story of her "Travels" and their happy ending at her rightful home at Deerhurst and in the love of her Great-Aunt Betty. "Sounds like a story book, now don't it! And to think after all that the old lady should be willin' to despatch you up here to our Province, just to get a mite of education. Should ha' thought there'd be institooshuns of learning nigher hand 'an Oak Knowe, where she could ha' clapped eyes on ye, now and again. She--" "Oh! don't misjudge my darling aunt! She hated to have me come as badly as I hated to leave her; but, though I've never been really ill, she fancied that this climate would make me very, very strong. Besides, the minister who founded Oak Knowe--he was a bishop, I believe--was one of her girlhood friends, and so she chose it for that, too. Anyway, to her who has traveled so much, Canada and Maryland seem but a little way apart." "That's right, lassie. That's right. Be loyal to your friends, whether they be right or wrong. An' talk about travel, there beant many corners of this earth that I haven't took a glance at. I've not always been a farmer, though you mightn't think it now." They had passed out of the city streets into the open country, the oxen swaying and pacing sedately along, as if it mattered nothing how late they might reach home. To pass the time, Dorothy asked the old man to talk about his own travels, and he promptly answered: "In course, and obleeged for anybody to care to listen. Dame has heard my yarns so often, she scoffs 'em; but I've seen a power o' things in my day, a power o' things. I was born in Lunnon, raised in Glasgo', run away to Liverpool and shipped afore the mast. From sailor I turned soldier under Chinese Gordon--Ah! the man he wus! Miner, constable, me Lord's butler, then his cook, and now, at the fag end of my days, settled down to be my Dame's right-hand-man. She was a likely widow, coming from England to take up land here, and I met her aboard ship, last time I crossed seas. Didn't take us long to strike a bargain. She needed a man to till her farm; I needed a good woman to mend me and do for me, for I was that tired of rovin'--my hearties! We get along well. We get along prime. I do the talking and her does the thinking. She's that uncommon thing--a silent woman. Like to hear how I come nigh-hand to death along of a devil fish? Want to feel your hair rise on end and your arms get reg'lar goose-fleshy? Makes me nigh get that way myself, every time I recall--Whist! If that ain't thunder I'm a-dreamin', sure! Thunder this season of the year! Now that's fair ridic'lous. But mentionin' devil fish, yon comes one them red go-devils, Dame calls 'em, as squawkin', blazing-eyed automobeelyers--comin' this minute. No marvel natur' gets topsy-turvy with them wild things ramsaging round. But, quick, lassie! Do your young eyes see something or somebody lying beyond in the middle of the road?" The old man checked his garrulous tongue to rise and peer into the darkness, while Dorothy sprang to her feet beside him, straining her own eyes to follow his pointing finger. "There is, there is! Looks like a man or boy or bicycle or something and that horrid car is coming right toward it! Make 'em stop! Holloa! Loud, loud, for they don't see him! they'll run over him--he'll be killed!" But still the gay occupants of the car observed nothing; till at last a fiercer shriek from Dorothy sounded above their laughter and instantly hushed it, while the driver of the machine looked curiously at the cart which the wise oxen, perceiving their own danger, had drawn out of harm on the roadside. But the stop had been too late. Though the motor was swerved aside, it had already collided with the objects in its path, and it was in a terrified silence that the merrymakers descended from it. But even old John had been quicker than they and was now bending above the lad crushed beneath the forward wheels of this hated "go-devil." "Oh! my poor lad! Oh! my sunny Robin!" he groaned: then in a fury of anger at the great machine, tried his strength to lift it from its victim. Fortunately there were several men in the party, and the car well equipped against mischance, and so it was swiftly forced away, while the farmer again stooped over the motionless lad beneath and tenderly raised him in his arms. For a moment the group gathered about the pair believed that the boy was dead; then a low moan from his white lips mingled with the lamentations of John Gilpin and brought relief to everyone. Again came flashes of lightning and the growls of thunder, and the owner of the car exclaimed: "Lay the boy in the motor and we'll get him to a hospital at once. Maybe he isn't so badly hurt as seems. Pile up the cushions, somebody, and give him to me, old man. I'm stronger than you and better used to sick folks. Doctor Winston is my name." "The more shame to you then for what you've done this night!" hotly retorted old John, clasping his burden the closer and moving slowly toward his own humble cart. "Idiot! Don't put him in that shaky wagon. Delay may cost his life. Hospital's the place and the car is swiftest!" cried another of the gentlemen, indignantly. "Of course we'll see to it that he has the best of care with no expense spared." As if he had not heard, old John still moved away, quietly ordering Dorothy: "Undo that shawl of yours. Roll them barrels out of the wagon. Take off your jacket and make a piller of it. Spread the shawl out and cover him with part of it whilst I lay him down. Poor little Robin! The 'only son of his mother and she was a widow.'" Dorothy was glad to obey this strange old man who had been so genial and was now so stern, and it relieved her distress to be doing something to help. But as she tried to roll the barrels out, a hand fell on her arm and the doctor said: "I'll do that, Miss. They're too heavy for you. I wish you'd persuade your grandfather to trust me with this poor boy. It would be so much better." "He isn't my grandfather. I don't know him--I mean he was taking me--" But her words fell upon deaf ears, apparently. Having sent the empty barrels flying where they would, the doctor had now taken the pile of cushions somebody had brought him and arranged them on the wagon bottom. Next he calmly relieved John Gilpin of the injured boy and laid him gently down. Shaking out Dorothy's thick steamer rug, her "shawl," he carefully covered Robin and, sitting down beside him, ordered: "Drive on, farmer! Chauffeur, follow with the car. Lady Jane, the medicine case. To the nearest house at once." There was no resisting the firm authority of the physician and John Gilpin climbed meekly to his seat and at his urgent "gee-ho" the oxen started onward at a steady gait. But despite his anxiety there was a satisfaction in their owner's mind that the "nearest house" would be his own and that it would be his capable "Dame" who would care for Robin and not a hospital nurse. Meanwhile Dorothy seemed forgotten both by the people who had returned to their car and Mr. Gilpin; so, fearing that she would be left alone by the roadside, she sprang upon the end of the cart and sat there, her feet dangling over its edge. Now, indeed, her adventure was proving anything but amusing. What would Aunt Betty think of her heedless action? Or her dear guardian, Seth Winters, the "learned Blacksmith," wisest of men, whom the reader of this series will recall in "Dorothy's Schooling." Would she ever reach Oak Knowe, and how would this escapade be regarded there? Into her troubled thoughts now broke a sound of pain, that drove everything save pity from her mind. The rain was now falling fast and drenching her new clothes, but her anxiety was only that the injured boy should not get wet and she was glad that her rug was so thick and warm. It had been a parting gift from her "House-Boat" guests and held almost sacred as a memento of their happy trip together. But now the oxen were turning into a lane. She could dimly see the hedgerows on either side, that now and then the lightning flashes showed more plainly; and, after a time, something big and white seemed to block their way. A moment more and the white obstruction proved to be a cottage with a lamp shining through its window. Then a door opened and a woman's voice called cheerily: "Welcome home, my man! You're late the night. Met you up with any trouble? Didn't the apples sell well?" "More trouble than you dream, Dame, and I've fetched it for you to share. Light the bedroom to once. 'Tis the dead--or dyin'--is here." Without a word the woman turned away, moving heavily because of her great size, and an inner door opened, showing a comfortable bed, its covers already invitingly spread back. Lighting more candles the dame stood quietly aside, waiting her unexpected guest. The doctor brought the boy in, still wrapped in the rug and, tossing that to the floor, gently laid him down. John followed close behind, announcing: "'Tis Robin, Dame, our bonny Robin of the Glen. The heart of the mother will break. He--" "Help here. Hot water, please. More light. An old sheet for bandages. Don't dally. Undress him, Lady Jane." "But, doctor, I'm afraid!" objected that lady who, partly from curiosity, partly to avoid the rain, had followed the physician into the house. Indeed, all the motoring party had now swarmed into the kitchen, intending to be quiet yet really chattering noisily, and some of them sniffing covetously the odors from a great pot of soup, steaming away on the stove. But nobody was quite ready to respond to the doctor's appeals for help, even Mrs. Gilpin being confused and stupid before these strangers who had taken possession of her home. As for old John, he could simply stand and stare at the unconscious lad on the bed, too dazed and grieved to be of any use whatever. Not so Dorothy, who had entered with the rest and who noticed Dr. Winston's impatience--who knew that a hospital was where his patient should be and not this ill-equipped cottage. Throwing off her dripping jacket, she cried: "I'll help." A teakettle was singing beside the soup-pot on the stove and a dishpan was hanging near. To empty the kettle into the pan and to carry it to the chair beside the bed was an instant's task. Then, seizing the upper sheet and using her teeth for scissors, she swiftly tore it into strips; and by this time the dame had regained her own presence of mind. Without troubling to ask who Dorothy was or how she came to be there, she now took charge of things, saying: "You'll find clean towels in that chest of drawers. Fetch the doctor a pile. Shears are yon in that work-basket. You're spry on your feet as I can't be, but I do know how to take the clothes off this poor Robin. My, what's this he clenches so tight in hand? One of them telegraph letters 'tis his errand to deliver. All over the countryside the laddie rode on his wheel to earn the bit money would pay his mother's rent. Brave, bonny lad that he was!" Gently releasing the telegram from his fingers, Mrs. Gilpin held it up for the doctor to see. "For Oak Knowe. Open it, little girl, and read if it's important." She obeyed, but her voice trembled as she read. It was the belated message that announced her own coming and the hour of her arrival. It explained why she had not been met at the station, but she felt both shocked and guilty as she exclaimed: "Oh! it is my fault! It's all my fault that he is killed! Just about me it happened! What shall I do--what shall I do?" "Stop that sort of talk and see how your dead boy stares at you! Look well, Robin, you see a real live Yankee girl!" CHAPTER II UNFORTUNATE BEGINNINGS Even the most cultured Lady Principals do not enjoy being roused from their slumbers, an hour after midnight, by the tooting of a motor car beneath their bedroom windows. It was annoying to have to dress again and descend to a dimly-lighted reception room to receive a new pupil who had missed a train, on the route, and misdirected her telegram. Nor was there anything prepossessing about this especial girl, whose clothes steamed with moisture and whose travel-soiled cheeks were streaked by raindrops and tears. So it was small wonder that Dorothy's reception by Miss Muriel Tross-Kingdon was decidedly cool and crisp. "This is really unprecedented, Miss Calvert. I cannot understand how any young lady, whose friends consider her intelligent enough to travel alone, could have made such stupid blunders, as you have. At the point where you knew you were to change trains, why did you not keep watch and inquire for direction?" "Well, you see there was a military parade and the soldiers looked so queer in their red uniforms and their funny little caps on the sides of their heads that--that--that I forgot. I mean the timetable told the right hour, course, but the first train was behind and so--and so--" It was a very lame excuse and Dolly knew it. But it was the truth and as such she gave it. Miss Tross-Kingdon made no reply. Inwardly she was commenting upon Dorothy's pronunciation of certain words, which was wholly at fault according to English custom, and realizing that here was the first fault to be corrected in her new pupil. Dorothy's heart sank. Uncle Seth's last advice to her had been: "Whenever you feel blue, just wave your flag of high courage and march ahead. Don't stop to think! March, march, march--toward the better time that will surely come." But that high-courage flag hung limply now and she felt she could never again wave it at all. But, fortunately, the Lady Principal now rose to terminate the interview. Touching an electric bell for the maid on night duty, she said: "It is very late and you are tired. Dawkins will show you to your cubicle and assist you in undressing. You may omit your bath, to-night, and are allowed an extra hour of sleep in the morning. Where are your suit case and hand bag?" Dorothy rose, as the lady did, but a fresh feeling of guilt made her eyes fall as she murmured: "I--don't--know." "Don't know!" echoed the Lady Principal, in amazement. Then directing Dawkins to supply what was needed, she returned to her interrupted repose, while Dorothy wearily followed the stern-faced maid; being cautioned, meanwhile: "Do not dare to make a noise and arouse the young ladies." Yet arrived at the cubicle, or small division of the great dormitory which had been assigned her, Dorothy realized that Dawkins was kinder than she looked. For presently she was being undressed, her face and hands sponged with cool water, and herself reclothed with the freshest of gowns. Then she was bodily lifted into the dainty little bed as if she were a baby. This unexpected gentleness touched her heart and, flinging her arms about the maid's neck, she sobbed: "Oh! do be good to me! I am so desolate!" "Whist, child! We must no be wakin' the troublesome girls around. And sure the lonesomeness'll pass, like the dew afore sun, once you get a good sleep and meet up with your mates. Good night, child, and sleep well." Then, since there was nobody to witness her unusual demonstration, maid Dawkins stooped and kissed the tired eyes of her new charge, and went quietly away. But there had been one observer of this caress. Peeping from her own compartment stood a girl whose keen eyes had noticed everything, and who felt she could scarcely wait until morning to spread the news. Creeping back to her own bed, she lay long awake, thinking the matter over. For this schoolgirl, who rejoiced in the title of the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard, had a deal of curiosity that was wholly roused now. "Never saw old Dawkins kiss anybody. Dawkins, of all creatures! Never knew a new girl come at this time of night--and she certainly was new. And she hadn't any clothes, I know, because that was one of the school hampers Dawkins had. Must be somebody very poor. I wonder who! Maybe--for goodness sake! Maybe she's some relation to old Dawk! Else why should she kiss her? Humph! I thought this was a school for young ladies, not for the poor relations of servants. There's one thing certain, mamma will never allow me to remain where there are paupers. Never in this world. Neither would Lord Christopher let Marjorie. No, indeed. So will Miss Tross-Kingdon find out. Why! one charity pupil at Oak Knowe would ruin it! Anyhow, I mean to hurry round in the morning and warn all my set against noticing the beggar and what our set does surely goes. Mamma gets odd notions about things, sometimes, like saying I must sleep in this old dormitory instead of having a private room, and that I have silly feelings about rank. Wanted the Lady Principal to make me more democratic: but even she couldn't wish me to sleep among paupers. Heigho! I wish it was morning! But I'll take a nap now and that will pass the time." Exhausted by the long journey she had taken, and by the startling events of the night, unconscious Dorothy slept calmly on, little dreaming of Gwendolyn's fancies about her; nor did she wake till long after all her dormitory mates had dressed and gone below to breakfast. When she did arouse it was to wonder about this strange place in which she found herself and at an elfish-looking child perched on the foot of her little bed, staring at her with wide eyes and keen impatience, and who greeted her first movement with the exclamation: "Well, old sleepy-head, I thought you never would wake up! Who are you, anyway, and what makes you stay in cubicle so long after breakfast? Won't you catch a lecture, though! I wouldn't be in your shoes for a sovereign!" "Don't believe you could be in them. You're so small they'd fall off," answered Dorothy laughing. "No, they wouldn't. I'd tie them on. If I wanted to. Who are you? When'd you come? How dare you stay in bed so?" Dolly laughed again. She had fallen asleep convinced that she could never laugh again, so tired and homesick had she been. But now, refreshed by rest and with the sunlight streaming through the windows, the world seemed a very different place. Besides, there was something so winning about this inquisitive little maid, that the stranger's heart was comforted that she had found a friend already. "Well, dearie, I suppose I dare because Miss Tross-Kingdon--" "Did she say you could? Isn't that odd! She's my aunt. I haven't any folks 'cept her, I'm a norphan. I'm Millikins-Pillikins, my brother Hugh calls me; and the girls, too. But I'm not, really. I'm Grace Adelaide Victoria Tross-Kingdon. That's my truly name. Nobody could call me all that, could they? Wouldn't be time. Auntie Princie calls me just plain 'darling' or 'dear.' I'm a Minim. I don't have to do lessons and things. I'm in the 'kindy.' Auntie Princie doesn't approve of a kindergarten in this School for Young Ladies; but it's a speriment the Board of Directioners wanted to try. Them's the gentlemen auntie has to mind. Fancy! My great big grown-up Auntie Prin having to mind them, same's I have to mind her! My Lord Bishop, he's the head Directioner, but he's the jolliest! I just love him! He knew my papa and mamma before they got drowned in the sea. My brother Hugh lives with the Bishop and writes things for him. They call him a seckeratary. He gets money for doing it. Think of that! Sometimes he gives me pennies and even six-pences. Sometimes--not often. You see he wants to earn enough to buy a cottage for him and me. I'm to be the lady of it--the mistress! Fancy! But Auntie Princie says I have lots to learn before then. I will have to make his bread, 'cause he won't have money enough to keep me and a cook, too. I'll have to have a housemaid to help me, but you know housemaids never do the cooking. But say, girl, you haven't told me your name yet?" Dorothy sat up in bed and drew the child toward her: "My dear, you haven't given me a chance yet, you've been so busy telling me who you are. But I've enjoyed it and I thank you for coming to wake me up. Now I must get up and dress. Maybe you will show me to the bathroom, though I don't like to go about in this way." "That's a school nightie you've got on. Where's your bath robe?" "In my trunk." "Where's your trunk?" "I suppose it's at John Gilpin's house. That is, if he didn't throw it out of the cart with the empty barrels." "Why did he throw out the barrels?" "To make a place for Robin to lie on." "What Robin?" "The messenger boy who was hurt. He was bringing my telegram and he fainted and fell and the motor car--but I mustn't stop now to talk. I must get dressed." "Couldn't you talk without stopping? I could." "I believe you, child. Will you show me?" "Of course--if you'll tell the rest. Wait. If you want a robe I'll get Gwendolyn's. It's right yonder." So it happened that the first act of the supposed charity pupil was to borrow a garment of the very girl who had so misjudged her, and who entered the dormitory just as Dorothy was leaving it for the lavatory. Curiosity had sent Gwendolyn and Laura Griswold, her chum and "shadow," back to this apartment at this unusual hour, but at sight of Dorothy disappearing toward the bath wearing Gwendolyn's robe, its owner forgot her curiosity in indignation. Stopping short, midway the great room, she clasped her hands in a tragic manner and demanded of Laura: "Did you ever in your life see anything so cool as that? The impudent girl! How dare she? I wonder what else she's taken! And that mischievous little Pill with her. That child's the nuisance of this school. Even if she is Lady Principal's niece, she shouldn't be given the liberty she has. But I'll report." "Yes, indeed, I'd report!" echoed Laura. "First, have to sleep in the school things; then help herself to yours. It's simply outrageous. Why not go right away? It's recess and Miss Tross-Kingdon has no class." "She has worse. The Bishop's in the reception-room, and Dr. Winston, too. They were all talking very fast and I wanted to stop and listen. But I didn't quite dare, for she was facing the door and might see me. But I did hear the Bishop say that if she was a Calvert she could hardly fail to be all right. She came of good stock--none better. I wondered who he meant; but Lady Principal saw me looking in and asked me if 'I wished anything?' Hateful woman! She has the most disagreeable manners!" "Never mind. Anyway, let's go tell her!" advised Laura, and the pair departed. However, the electric bell rang just then, announcing that recess was over and the telling had to be postponed to a better season. A few moments later a maid came to say that as soon as Dorothy was ready the Lady Principal would receive her in the west parlor. But she might stop in the breakfast-room on the way, where a dish of cereal and a bowl of hot milk was awaiting her. The maid added to the "Little Pill": "As for you, Miss Grace, the Minims are ready for their calisthenics and your teacher wants you." "But I don't want her. I want to go with Dolly." "You're too big a girl for dolls, Miss Grace, and quite big enough to obey orders." Grace's sharp little face darkened and she made a mocking grimace to the maid, retorting: "You don't know anything, Dora Bond! You don't know that the Dolly I play with is this new girl. I shall go with her. I hate them exercises. They make my back ache. I'm excused to-day, anyhow. I heard Auntie Princie tell a lady how I wasn't a bit strong and that she had to indulge me a lot. I shall do as I please. I shall go where I like. I shall, so, old Bondy! So there!" Dorothy was surprised by the unpleasant expression which had settled on the little girl's face, but said nothing. Following Bond's direction, she hurried through a long hall to a sunshiny breakfast-room and the simple meal prepared for her. She hastily drank the milk, but had no appetite for the cereal. Her heart was in a flutter of anxiety about the coming interview with Miss Tross-Kingdon. She had at once disliked and feared that lady, on the night before, and felt that her present appearance, in a rain-spotted frock and with her hair so hastily brushed, must only add to the sternness of this unknown Lady Principal. However, the clinging hand of Millikins-Pillikins gave a little comfort. She didn't feel quite so lonely and timid with the child beside her and, as she made her graceful curtsey at the open door, all her fear vanished and she became once more the self-possessed Dorothy of old. For, rising and crossing the room to meet her was her acquaintance of the night, who had brought her to Oak Knowe in his own car from John Gilpin's cottage. With extended hands he grasped hers and, turning to Miss Muriel, remarked: "Any time you need a nurse, madam, just call upon this little lady. She was the best helper I had last night. Quick and quiet and intelligent. She must train herself for that vocation when she is older." The color flew to Dorothy's cheeks and she flashed him a grateful smile, for the kind words that so soothed her homesick heart. The other gentleman in the room did not rise, but held out a beckoning hand and, with another curtsey to Doctor Winston, Dorothy excused herself to him and obeyed the summons. This other was a venerable man with a queer-shaped cap upon his white head and wearing knee breeches and gaiters, which made the young American remember some pictures of old Continental statesmen. "So this is my old friend Betty Calvert's child, is it? Well, well! You're as like her as possible--yet only her great-niece. Ha, hum! Little lady, you carry me straight back to the days of my boyhood, when my parents came from England--strangers to your Baltimore. But we were not strangers for long. There's a distant blood relation between our house and yours and we youngsters found in beautiful Bellevieu a second home. So you must remember that, since your aunt has done me the honor to send you away up here to this school of mine--of ours, I should say--you have come to another home just as I did then. Dear little Betty! What a mischief she was! Are you mischievous, too, I wonder?" Then he turned to the Lady Principal, warning her: "Look out for this little miss, Miss Tross-Kingdon! She looks as meek as a lamb, just now, but blood will tell and she'll bear watching, I believe." The dear old man had drawn Dorothy close to his side and was smiling upon her in a manner to win the heart of any girl and to cure her of her homesickness--at least for the time being. When he released her, he rose to depart, resuming for a moment the business talk with the Lady Principal, which Dorothy's entrance had interrupted. Both she and the doctor also arose and stood respectfully waiting till the Bishop disappeared. Then said Dr. Winston: "You'll like to hear about your boy patient, I suppose, Miss Calvert. Well, I think he's all right, or will be as soon as his bones and bruises mend. What I suspect is that the brave lad is about half-starved--or was. He's in danger of being overfed now, since he has fallen into Dame Gilpin's hands." "Half-starved, sir? How dreadful!" cried Dorothy, while Miss Tross-Kingdon exclaimed: "Can that be possible!" "Quite possible, indeed. His mother is a widow and very frail, old John tells me. Her husband was a carpenter who worked in town and was trying to pay for the little place he'd bought out here in the suburbs, hoping the open-air life might cure her. She'd gone into chicken and flower culture, thinking she could help in the payment. They were proud of Robin, the 'brightest, merriest, best boy in the Glen,' John claims, and had somehow got a second-hand bicycle for him to ride into school for the 'grand eddication' they wanted he should have. Then the father died and Robin got a position as messenger boy. Every cent he earned he gave his mother and she took in sewing. They ate just as little as they could and the result has been disastrous. A growing boy can't work all day and half the night, sometimes, on a diet of bread and water. So last night he fainted on his trip and fell off his wheel in the middle of the road. Then I came speeding along toward home and smashed them both up. But it's an ill wind that blows nobody good and the lad's accident may turn out his blessing. Dorothy and I and the Dame have mended a collar bone and a couple of ribs and my ambitious young 'Mercury' is laid up for repairs. John 'step-and-fetched' the mother, Mrs. Locke, and she, too, will get some rest and nourishment. She's worrying a good deal, but has no need. Plucky little Robin will soon be chirping again, 'fine as silk.' Maybe, after school hours, Miss Tross-Kingdon will permit me to take Dorothy with me in the car to visit her patient. May I, Madam?" The Lady Principal did not look pleased. The Bishop's and the doctor's treatment of the new pupil had really softened her heart toward the girl, but she was a stickler for "rules" and "discipline," and remembered that this was not the day on which her "young ladies" were allowed to pay visits. "Thank you, Doctor Winston, but I am obliged to decline the invitation for to-day. She has entered Oak Knowe some time after the opening of term and must pass examination, that I may understand for which Form she is best fitted. Nor have I yet been advised of such houses as her guardians desire her to visit. Commonly, the young ladies of Oak Knowe do not consort with laborers and messenger boys. But I thank you for your courtesy toward her; and, as that is the bell for my class in Greek, I must beg you to excuse me and I wish you good morning, Dr. Winston. Come, Miss Calvert, I will have your examination begin at once. Make your obeisance to the doctor." Dolly's heart sank. Why should she be made to feel so guilty and insignificant? Still, as she turned to follow the teacher, she obediently saluted the physician and, glancing up into his face, saw--was it possible that he winked? Though she felt as she were going to be tried for her life, this sight so surprised her, that she giggled hysterically and thus irreverently followed the haughty instructress out of the room. So doing, she added one more to the list of misdemeanors that lady had already placed against her account. CHAPTER III PEERS AND COMMONS Along the hall down which Dorothy followed the Lady Principal were many doors opening into small class rooms. Each class was under its especial teacher, its number being limited to ten students. It was the policy of the school that by this division better instruction could be given each pupil, and Dorothy wondered to which of these groups--if any--she would be assigned. Another hall and other class rooms joined the first and longer one, at a right angle, and here Miss Muriel paused, directing: "Proceed down this corridor till you reach the parlor at its end. There you will find Miss Hexam awaiting you. She will test your scholarship and report to me. Do not fail to answer her questions promptly and distinctly. I observe that you do not enunciate well. You slur some of your words and clip the endings from your participles. To say 'hopin'' or 'runnin'' is execrable. Also, there is no such word as 'daown' or 'araoun'.'" Dorothy's temper rose. She had done nothing right, it seemed, since she had arrived at this "school for criticism," as she termed it, and now said pertly: "I reckon that's the Southern way of talking. I noticed that the Bishop didn't bother about his 'gs' and he had the same twang that all do down home. He must have lived there a right smart time when he was little." "Many things are permissible in a cultured old gentleman which are not in an ignorant and forward girl. You came here for your own improvement. I shall see that you attain it; or, if you fail in this after a reasonable trial, you cannot be retained. That rule is plainly stated in our circular. I will bid you good morning until I send for you." Poor Dorothy fairly withered under this sternness that she felt was unjust, but she felt, also, that she had been impertinent, and running after Miss Muriel, as she moved away, she caught the lady's sleeve, imploring: "Please don't think I'm all bad, Miss Tross-Kingdon! I've been heedless and saucy, but I didn't mean it--not for badness. Please wait and try me and I _will_ 'improve,' as you said. Please, please! It would break Aunt Betty's heart if she thought I wasn't good and--and I'm so unhappy! Please forgive me." The dark eyes, lifted so appealingly, filled with tears which their owner bravely restrained, and the Lady Principal was touched by this self-control. Also, under all her sternness, she was just. "Certainly, Dorothy, your apology is sufficient. Now go at once to Miss Hexam and do yourself credit. If you have studied music, another person will examine you in that." Impulsively Dorothy caught the lady's hand and kissed it; and, fortunately, did not observe that dainty person wipe off the caress with her handkerchief. Then summoning her courage, the new pupil hurried to the end parlor and entered it as she had been taught. But the "den of inquisition," as some of the girls had named it, proved anything but that to Dorothy. "The Inquisitor" was a lovely, white-haired woman, clothed in soft white wool, and smiling so gently toward the trembling girl that all fear instantly left her. "So this is Dorothy Calvert, our little maid from Dixie. You'll find a wide difference between your Southland and our Province, but I hope you'll find the change a pleasant one. Take this chair before the fire. You'll find it comfortable. I love these autumn days, when a blazing log can keep us warm. It's so fragrant and cheerful and far more romantic than a coil of steam pipe. Have a biscuit, dear?" Miss Hexam motioned to a low wicker chair, which some girls had declared a "chair of torture," but which suited Dorothy exactly, for it was own mate to her own little reading chair "at home." Almost she could have kissed it for its likeness, but was allowed no time for foolishness. The homely little treat of the simple crackers banished all shyness and the dreaded "exam" proved really but a social visit, the girl not dreaming that under this friendly talk was a careful probing of her own character and attainments. Nor did she understand just then how greatly her answers pleased the gentle "Inquisitor." "You want me to 'begin at the beginning'? Why, that's a long way back, when I was a mere midget. A baby only a year and a half old. Papa and mamma died away out west, but, of course, I didn't know that then. I didn't know anything, I reckon, except how to make Mother Martha trouble. My father was Aunt Betty's nephew and she didn't like his marrying mamma. I don't know why; only Ephraim says 'Miss Betty was allays full o' notions same's a aig's full o' meat.' Ephy's Aunt Betty's 'boy,' about as old as she is--something over eighty. Nobody knows just auntie's real age, except Ephraim and Dinah. They've lived with her always and treat her now just as if she were a child. It's too funny for words, sometimes, to hear the three of them argue over some thing or trifle. She'll let them go a certain length; then all at once she'll put on her dignity and they fairly begin to tremble. She's mistress then and they're her servants, but I do believe either one would die to prolong her life. Dinah says: ''Pears lak death an' dyin' nebah gwine come nigh my Miss Betty Calvert.' And she's just right. Everybody thinks my darling aunt is the sweetest, most wonderful woman in the world. But I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to talk so much and hinder your examination." "Oh! that is all right. I love to hear your story that you've left off at its beginning. You're only a 'baby' so far, you know." "Well, if you like. When my father died, my mother felt that she would die, too, and she couldn't bear to leave me alone. So she just sent me to Aunt Betty. But she felt, auntie did, that she couldn't be bothered with a 'squalling baby,' nor could she cast me off, really. 'Cause she was my real great-aunt and my nearest relation and was rich enough to do what she liked in a money way. Besides, she wanted me to be raised real sensible. So she picked out a splendid couple she knew and had me left on their doorstep. She had pinned to my clothes that my name was 'Dorothy C.' Their name began with 'C,' too, so they guessed I was meant for them to keep, because they hadn't any other child. What a lot I'm talking! Do you want to hear any more? Won't the Lady Principal be angry if I don't get examined?" "I will make that all right, Dorothy, and I am greatly interested. It's 'like a story out of a book,' as the Minims say. Go on, please." "Well, these dear people took care of me till I was a real big girl. I love them dearly. He was a postman and he walked too much. So he had to lose his position with lameness and he's never gotten over it, though he's better now. He has a position in a sanitarium for other lame folks and Mother Martha is the housekeeper, or matron, there. Uncle Seth Winters, who knows so much that he is called the 'Learned Blacksmith,' is my guardian. He and Aunt Betty have been dearest friends ever since they were little. They call each other cousin, though they're no kin at all, any more than he's my uncle. He was my first teacher at his 'school in the woods,' but felt I ought to go to a school for girls. So I went to the Rhinelander Academy and he stayed at his smithy on the mountain, near Mother Martha's little farm and Aunt Betty's big one, and one vacation auntie told me who I was and took me home to live with her; and she liked Oak Knowe because the Bishop is her lifelong friend. She has had my name on the list waiting for a vacancy for a long, long time; so it's a terrible pity I should have been horrid, and offended the Lady Principal." "Let us hope she is not seriously offended, dear, nor have you told me what the offense is. But bear in mind, Dorothy, that she is at the head of a great and famous institution and must strictly live up to its standards and keep her pupils to their duty. But she is absolutely just, as you will learn in time. "I feel like hearing music, to-day, but get very little. All our practice rooms are sound-deadened. Do you play at all, on any instrument, or sing?" "A little of both, when I'm at home. Not well in either, though Aunt Betty loves my violin and my little songs. If I had it here, I would try for you, if you'd like. But it's in my trunk, my 'box,' Mr. Gilpin called it." Miss Hexam smiled and, opening a little secretary, took out an old Cremona, explaining: "This was my brother's, who died when I was young. He was a master of it, had many pupils. I allow few to touch it, but I'd be pleased to have you, if you would like." "Would you? May I?" asked Dorothy, handling it reverently for its sacredness to this loving old sister. And, after she had tuned it, as reverently for its own sake. It was a rare old instrument of sweetest tone and almost unconsciously Dorothy tried one theme after another upon it while Miss Hexam leaned back in her chair listening and motionless. Into that playing the young musician put all the love and homesickness of her own heart. It seemed as if she were back at Deerhurst, with the Great Danes lying on the rug at her feet and dear Aunt Betty resting before the fire. Then, when memory threatened to bring the tears she was determined should not fall, she stopped, laid the violin silently upon the table and slipped out of the room, leaving Miss Hexam still motionless in her chair. But she would have been surprised had she looked back into the "inquisition chamber" a few moments later to see the "inquisitor" arouse, seize a sheet of paper and rapidly write a few lines upon it. But the few lines were important. They gave a synopsis of Dorothy's scholarship and accomplishments, and unerringly assigned her to "Form IVb, class of Miss Aldrich." The "terrible exam" was over and Dorothy hadn't known a thing about it! Outside that little parlor another surprise awaited her. A crowd of girls was racing madly down the hall, the foremost looking backward as she ran and roughly colliding with Dorothy; with the result that both fell; while the others, following in such speed, were unable to check in time to prevent their tumbling over the first pair. Then such shrieks of laughter rang out that the teachers in the nearby classrooms came to their doors in haste. Even they were obliged to smile over the heap of girls and the tangle of legs and arms as the fallen ones strove to extricate themselves. They were all in gymnasium-costume and were bound for a side door of the building which led by a short cut to the gymnasium in the Annex. This was Dorothy's introduction to the "Commons," the largest and wildest "set" in the great school. They were all daughters of good families but of no "rank" or titles; and there was an abiding opposition among them to the "Peers," the smaller "set" of aristocrats to which the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard and Lady Marjorie Lancaster belonged. Mostly the "Commons" were a rollicking company, going to the extreme limits of behavior where any fun promised to follow, yet mostly keeping just safely within rules. Their escapades kept the faculty in considerable anxiety as to what they would do next, yet their very gayety was the life of Oak Knowe and even the Lady Principal was secretly fonder of them than of the more dignified "Peers." As they now scrambled to their feet, she who had run against Dorothy heartily apologized, yet paused half-way in that apology to stare and remark: "Why, heigho, there! I thought you were a Minim, you're so little. But I fancy you're a newcomer whom I don't know. Please explain; are you 'Peer' or 'Lower House'?" Dorothy laughed: "'Lower House,' I thought when you knocked me down, whatever that may be." "It means--is your father an Earl? or your mother a Duchess? Have you an Honorable amongst you? You hold your curly head as if you might have all three!" All the girls had now gathered about the stranger whom their leader was so unceremoniously quizzing and were eagerly inspecting her, but somehow Dorothy did not resent the scrutiny. There were big girls and little ones, fat girls and thin ones, plain and pretty, but each so good-natured looking and so friendly in her curiosity that Dolly's own spirits rose in response to their liveliness. "No, indeed! I'm just a plain American girl and prouder of that than of any title in the world. You see, all of _us_ are queens in our own right!" answered the newcomer, promptly. "Well, come on then; you belong to us and we all belong to the queen. Queen, what shall we call you? Where do you hail from?" "My home is in Baltimore, and my name is Dorothy Calvert." "Then you must be a sort of 'Peer' after all. I hate history, but I remember about that, for Lord Baltimore and Calvert are the same thing, I fancy. I'm sorry. I hoped you belonged to our 'set' and weren't an aristocrat." "But I'm not, I'm not!" protested Dorothy. "I do belong to you, I want to because you look so friendly and I need friends dreadfully. I'm so lonely, or I was. I've just come, you know." "Have you been 'inquisitioned' yet?" "I don't understand." The questioner explained, and Dorothy exclaimed: "Oh! I think that's cruel! Miss Hexam is perfectly lovely!" "So do we think, course, and she doesn't mind the nickname. It was first given her by a silly Seventh Form girl who thought she was all ready for the University yet failed to pass even a Fifth Form exam. I guess you'll not be put to study to-day, so best come over to the gym with us. What stunts can you do?" "None. But I've told you my name and you haven't told yours. Thank you, though, for asking me. I'm so glad to go." "Oh! you poor little lonesome Queen Baltimore! I'm Winifred Christie; this freckle face is Fannie Dimock; Annie Dow wears that blue bow in her hair; Florita Sheraton is the fat one; Ernesta Smith the thin; Bessie Walters--well, no need to point out Bessie. She's the nimblest girl in the gym. We here extend the freedom of the Lower House; and all in favor of grabbing this Yankee into our set before the other set catches her, say--Aye!" "Aye--aye--aye!" endorsed the motion and Dorothy clapped her hands over her ears, to keep out the ear-splitting shouts. How these girls dared make such an uproar amazed her; but she did not yet know that in the "long recess," now passing, much liberty was permitted and that a noise which did not interfere with study hours was not reprimanded. "It's the overflow of natural spirits and inevitable in the young," was one of the Bishop's beliefs, and not even the Lady Principal disputed his authority. "Come on, Queenie, and be put through your paces!" cried Winifred, throwing her arm around Dorothy's shoulders and forcibly racing her out of doors and across the lawn toward the gymnasium. But arrived there only one or two of the group attempted any exercise. The rest settled around Dorothy, whom the athletic Winifred had tossed upward upon the back of the wooden horse, and, with her arms folded upon the newcomer's knees, this leader of the "Commons" proceeded to cross-question her victim. [Illustration: "PROCEEDED TO CROSS-QUESTION HER VICTIM." _Dorothy at Oak Knowe._] "It's the cast-iron rule of our set to find out everything about anybody we receive into it. Begin at the date of your birth and proceed in a seemly manner until you come up to date. Where were you born? What sort of baby were you--good, bad, or indifferent? Begin!" Entering into the spirit of the thing Dorothy gave her simple life history in a few sentences. But when the questions came as to the events of the last few days her face grew serious and her voice faltered. "Why did I come to Oak Knowe alone? Because there was nobody to come with me. That is, Dinah or Ephraim, who might have come, couldn't be trusted to go back alone. My dearest girl friend, Molly Breckenridge, had been enrolled here and we expected to come together, but the Judge's health suddenly broke down and he was ordered to California and couldn't part with her. Uncle Seth wasn't well. He's my guardian and Aunt Betty's friend. She's my great aunt who takes care of me but she wouldn't leave Uncle Seth, even if he's not our kin at all, though we call him so. Jim Barlow is tutoring in a boys' school and; well, Aunt Betty said I could perfectly well and safely travel alone. I was put into the conductor's care when I started from Baltimore and he passed me along to the next one, and they've all been splendid to me. There'd have been no mistakes if I hadn't been careless myself. But I was. I missed a train I should have taken and didn't send the telegram I ought at the right time and there was nobody at the station to meet me and--and--" "The idea! A girl like you, traveling all the way from Baltimore to Toronto without a maid or any grown-up to take care of her! That's the strangest thing I ever heard. Weren't you just awfully scared all the time?" asked Florita Sheraton, amazed. "An English girl would have been in a blue funk every minute of the time." "I don't know anything about a blue or other colored funk, but every well-bred American girl can take care of herself if she chooses. If she 'loses her head' she gets into trouble right away. I lost mine last night and went riding off at dark with a strange old man, who said he'd bring me here, instead of stepping into the telegraph office and wiring the Lady Principal. Then all I'd have had to do would be to wait for her to send for me, and after all it wasn't the old man who brought me, it was Dr. Winston in his motor. He called here this morning and asked me to ride back with him and see Robin, but Miss Tross-Kingdon wouldn't let me." "Course she wouldn't. She never lets anybody do anything she wants to, if she can help it. Hateful old thing!" remarked Bessie Walters; at which the others laughed and Annie Dow inquired, "Who is Robin?" Dorothy told the story of last night, her new acquaintances listening intently, and Winifred commenting: "If you aren't the very luckiest girl in the world! Why I never had an adventure in my life, yet I'm ages older than you." At this a shout of derision rose, and Fannie Dimock exclaimed: "Don't believe that, Queen Baltimore. There's scarcely a day passes that she isn't in some scrape or other. Why, last term, she was in disgrace so often I really believed she wouldn't be allowed to come back." "Oh! little things like that don't count. But--" she stopped speaking so abruptly and such an earnest expression settled on her face that a mate remarked: "Look! There's something brewing this minute! Look out, Win, what you do! Don't mix any of us up in your schemes. I don't want any more extras so soon again;" then explained to Dorothy that "extras" were some difficult lessons any culprit was obliged to learn. Just then came the bell for mid-day luncheon, and all the Commons except Winifred answered the summons promptly. But she lingered behind, detaining Dorothy till the others were out of hearing, and then suggested something to her which made her clap her hands in delight. For the secret thus imparted seemed the simplest thing possible and one in which, to Dolly's ignorance of Oak Knowe rules, was entirely right. Arm in arm, the new friends entered the dining-room and Winifred marched Dorothy steadily forward to a seat at her own table, just opposite that occupied by some of the other "set," with the Honorable Gwendolyn among them. Dolly glanced across and nodded, but that titled young person returned the nod with a stare so intent and contemptuous that the color flashed to the stranger's face and her eyes fell as if she were in guilt. Yet she couldn't guess why, nor why she should be relieved when there arose a sudden diversion outside the doorway toward which everybody turned their eyes. CHAPTER IV THE GILPINS HAVE A PARTY The young ladies of Oak Knowe went out for their afternoon exercise for the half hour before supper. Those who had been long at the school were allowed to roam about the spacious grounds without a teacher, but newcomers, or those who wished to go further afield, were always attended by one. Most of Winifred's motherless life had been passed at Oak Knowe, even few of her vacations elsewhere. Her father was a very wealthy man, of large affairs which carried him often from the Province, to England or countries further away, so that his home was seldom opened. But to compensate his daughter for this state of things he had arranged with the authorities that her school life should be made as homelike as possible. She had her own private room with a tiny parlor and private bath adjoining. She was allowed to entertain her schoolmates there as she would have done in her father's house; always, of course, within the limits set by the faculty. But Winifred cared little for all this unusual luxury. She rarely asked for any money "banked" with the Lady Principal beyond the twenty-five cents a week which any pupil might spend; and she liked the common parlor far better than her own richly furnished one. Nothing hurt her feelings more than to have her mates refer to her wealth or to treat her differently from the poorest pupil. But there were times when she enjoyed her privileges to the utmost, and that first day of Dorothy's life at Oak Knowe was one such. Not having been "in disgrace" for a week at least she confidently asked permission to entertain the newcomer in her rooms, "Just we two by ourselves. She's lonely and I like her. Please, Miss Tross-Kingdon." "You'll be quiet, Winifred, and keep out of mischief?" asked the Lady Principal, with more gentleness than ordinary. It was natural that she should feel great interest in the girl she had almost reared and whose own power for good or ill Winifred herself could not yet comprehend. "Ah, now, Miss Muriel, you know I will! Why, surely, I've been as good for a whole week as if I were a kindergarten Minim. You should trust me more. I read the other day that people are just what you think they are. So, whatever you want me to be, please just think I _am_ and I'll be it!" and the audacious creature actually dabbed a kiss on the Lady Principal's own cheek. "Wheedler! Well, I'll try to fancy you're a saint, but I'm not so fanciful about this Dorothy Calvert. She's a pretty little thing and my Grace made friends with her at once and the Bishop says she is of good blood. That counts, of course, but she seems to me a little headstrong and very stupid. I don't yet understand how Miss Hexam came to put her into so high a Form. However, I know that she is very homesick, as all new pupils are, so you may entertain her if you wish. A maid shall send you in a tray and you are excused from school supper; but see to it, Winifred, that you use your influence aright. The more favored a person is in this world the more that individual should watch her own actions." Winifred thanked the teacher and backed out of the room as if in the presence of royalty itself. This action in itself was offensive to the teacher but was one she could hardly criticise; nor did she guess that, once out of sight, the "wheedler" should first stamp her foot and exclaim: "I'm sick to death of hearing about my 'influence' and being an 'individual.' Makes me feel like a spider, that time the German count came to visit Father and called his attention to 'that individual crawling down the wall.' He meant 'one, a solitary thing.' But I'm no 'solitary' just because Father has a little money. I often wish he hadn't a pound, especially when some of the 'Peers' try to make me believe he is at least a 'Sir'." Then hurrying to Dorothy she danced about in delight at her success. "Yes, she says you may come, and she's sure to send us in a fine supper. Miss Muriel Tross-Kingdon never does a thing by halves, not even a lecture on 'individual influence.' Queen Baltimore, aren't you glad you're poor?" "Neither glad nor sorry, Winifred, because I'm neither rich nor poor. Anyway neither of us can help being just as we are, I reckon." "Come on, though, and hurry up. 'If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly,'" quoted Winifred, whose class reading just then was "Macbeth"; and seizing the smaller girl whirled merrily down the hall. Five minutes later, with hats and jackets on, they joined the other pupils out of doors. To Dorothy it seemed the beautiful grounds were alive with all sorts and conditions of girls, pacing rapidly up and down, "sprinting" to warm themselves against the chill of the coming evening, playing tennis for the brief half-hour, or racing one another from point to point. There were girls so many and so various, from Seventh Form young ladies to the wee little Minims, that Dolly wondered if she would ever know them all or feel herself a member of the great company. But Winifred gave her little time to gaze about her. "Oh! don't bother with them now. Our way is that lower gate, and it's a good bit of a distance, I hope you're a good walker." "Pretty good, I reckon," answered Dolly falling into step with the taller girl and hurrying forward at even a swifter pace. "But, begging your pardon, that's no way. We Canadians learn pedestrianism--whew! what a long word!--just as we learn our letters. Begin very slowly at first. Then when your muscles are limbered, walk faster--and faster--and faster! Till it seems as if your legs swing up and down of their own accord, just like machines. It's wonderful then how little you tire and how far you can go. Slack up a bit and I'll show you." Absorbed in this new lesson Dorothy scarcely noticed when they left Oak Knowe limits and struck out along a country lane, with hedgerows at either side; nor when having climbed a stile they set out across a plowed field, till her feet grew heavy with the soil they gathered. "Oh! dear! What mud! Why do you walk in it, Winifred?" "It's the shortest road. Here's a stone. Stop a bit and scrape it off--as I do. See?" answered the other, calmly illustrating her advice. "But I don't like it. My shoes will be ruined!" wailed Dolly who was always finical about "dirt." "Humph! Haven't you another pair? But they ought to be--such flimsy-wimpsy affairs! Look at mine. A bit of mud more or less can't hurt them and it's the boot-boy's business to clean them." The English girl held forth a good sized foot clad in a still larger shoe of calfskin, which though soiled with the clay had not absorbed much of its moisture: while the finer affairs of Dorothy's were already wet through, making her uncomfortable. "I couldn't walk in such heavy boots. And it's raining again. It rained last night. Does it rain every day in Canada? We ought to go back. Do let's, and try this some other time. I reckon this will finish my new suit, entirely." Winifred put her arms akimbo and stared at her new friend. Then burst into a hearty laugh over Dorothy's disgusted face. "Ha, ha, ha! And 'I reckon,' little southerner, that you'll be a more sensible girl after you've lived up here a while. The idea of turning back because it rains! absurd! Why, it's fine, just fine! The Lady Principal will overhaul your fair-weather-clothes and see that you get some fit to stand anything. This homespun suit of mine couldn't get wet through if it tried! But I shan't stand here, in the middle of a plowed field, and let it try. Come on. Its the States against the Province! Who'll win?" "I will! For old Maryland and the President!" cried Dorothy, and valiantly strode forward again. "For our Province and the King!" shouted the Canadian; and after that neither spoke, till the long walk ended before the cottage door of old John Gilpin and his dame. There Winifred gave a smart tap to the panel and holding her hand toward Dorothy, cried: "Quits, Queen Baltimore! We'll call it even and I'll never doubt your pluck again. But you certainly must get some decent clothes--if I have to buy them myself!" Then the door opened and there stood old John, peering from the lamp-lighted room into the twilight without. After a second he recognized Dorothy and drew her in, exclaiming joyfully: "Why, Dame, 'tis our little lass herself! Her of the night last spent and the helping hand! Step ben, step ben, and 'tother miss with ye. You're surely welcome as the flowers in spring." Mrs. Gilpin came ponderously forward, a smile on her big but comely face, and silently greeted both visitors, while her more nimble husband promptly "step-an'-fetched" the best chairs in the room and placed them before the fire. "Dry yourselves, lassies, whilst I tell the Robin you've come to see him. He'll be that proud, poor laddie, to have Oak Knowe young ladies pay him that honor! and he's mending fine, mending fine, doctor says. The mother--" He disappeared within that inner chamber still talking and as happy now as he had seemed sorrowful when Dorothy parted from him on the night before. Then he had anticipated nothing less than death for the boy he loved, despite the doctor's assurance to the contrary. He came back leading a woman by the hand, as protectingly as if she had been a child, and introduced her as: "The bit mother hersel'! Look at her well. Isn't she the very sight and image of Robin, the lad? And mind how she's pickin' up already. Just one day of good victuals and Dame's cossetting and the pink's streamin' back to her cheeks. Please the good Lord they'll never get that thin again whilst I have my ox-team to haul with and the Dame's good land to till. I'll just step-an'-fetch the rocker out--" At that point in his remarks the Dame laid a hand on his shoulder, saying: "That'll do, John Gilpin. Just brew a cup of tea. I'll tell the lad." Winifred was amused at this wifely reprimand, but no offense seemed meant nor taken. The farmer stopped talking and deftly made the tea from the boiling kettle, added a couple of plates to the waiting supper table, and drew from the oven a mighty dish of baked beans that might have been cooked in Yankee-land, and flanked this by a Yorkshire pudding. "Oh! how nice that smells!" cried Dorothy, springing up to add the knives and forks from the dresser; while Winifred clapped her hands in a pretended ecstasy and sniffed the savory odors, admitting: "I'm as hungry as hungry! And this beats any supper I asked for at Oak Knowe. I hope they'll want us to stay!" Her frankness made timid little Mrs. Locke smile as she had not been able to do since she had known of Robin's accident, and smiling was good for her. Indeed, the whole atmosphere of this simple, comfortable home was good for her, and the high spirits of these three young people delightful to her care-burdened heart. For, presently, it was the three--not least of these her idol, her Robin! Dorothy had followed the Dame into the boy's room and Winifred had promptly followed her; and because he was the sunny-hearted lad which the farmer had claimed him to be, he put all thought of his own pain or trouble out of mind, and laughed with the two girls at their awkward attempts at feeding him from the tray on the stand beside the bed. Having to lie flat upon his back he could still use one arm and could have fed himself fairly well. But this his visitors would not allow; and he was obliged to submit when Winifred, playfully struggling with Dolly for "My time now!" thrust a spoon into his ear instead of his mouth. The truth was that under the girl's assumed indifference to the fact that she was breaking rules by "visiting without permission" lay a feeling of guilt. "Double guilt" she knew, because she had imposed upon Dorothy's ignorance by stating that during "exercise hour" any long resident pupil was free to go where she chose. This was true, but only in a measure. What was not true was that so distant a point as John Gilpin's cottage should be chosen, much less entered without permission. But curiosity had been too strong for her and she had resented, on Dorothy's account, the refusal of Dr. Winston's invitation in the morning. Besides, she argued with her own conscience: "We're excused from school supper and free to entertain each other in my room till chapel. What difference does it make, and who will know? To-morrow, I'll go and 'fess to Miss Muriel and if she is displeased I'll take my punishment, whatever it is, without a word. Anyhow, Dolly can't be punished for what she doesn't know is wrong." So, feeling that she "was in for it, anyway" Winifred's mood grew reckless and she "let herself go" to a positive hilarity. Dorothy watched and listened in surprise but soon caught her schoolmate's spirit, and jested and laughed as merrily as she. Even Robin tried to match their funny remarks with odd stories of his own and after a little time, when he had eaten as much as they could make him, began to sing a long rigmarole, of innumerable verses, that began with the same words and ended midway each verse, only to resume. It was all something about the king and the queen and the "hull r'yal famblely" which Dorothy promptly capped with an improved version of Yankee Doodle. Whereupon, the absurd jumble and discord of the two contrasting tunes proved too much for old John's gravity. Springing up from his chair in the outer room he seized his fiddle from its shelf and scraped away on a tune of his own. For his fiddle was his great delight and his one resort at times when his wife silenced his voluble tongue. The old fiddle was sadly out of tune and Dorothy couldn't endure that. Running to him she begged him: "Oh! do stop that, please, please! Here, let me take and get it into shape. You make me cringe, you squawk so!" "You fix it? you, lassie! Well, if that don't beat the Dutch! What else do they l'arn children over in the States? Leave 'em to go sky-larkin' round the country in railway carriages all by themsel's, and how to help doctors set broken bones, and how to fiddle a tune--Stars an' Garters! What next? Here, child, take her and make her hum!" Presently, the preliminary squeaks and discords, incident to "tuning up," were over and Dorothy began a simple melody that made all her hearers quietly listen. One after another the familiar things which Aunt Betty and her guardian loved best came into her mind; and remembering the beloved scenes where she had last played them, her feeling of homesickness and longing made her render them so movingly that soon the little widow was crying and Robin's sensitive face showed signs of his own tears following hers. The tempting supper had remained untouched thus far. But now the sight of his guests' emotion, and a warning huskiness in his own throat, brought John Gilpin to his feet. "This isn't no mournin' party, little miss, and you quit, you quit that right square off. Understand? Something lively's more to this occasion than all that solemcholy 'Old Lang Synin', 'or 'Wearin' Awa'' business. Touch us off a 'Highland Fling,' and if that t'other girl, was gigglin' so a few minutes gone, 'll do me the honor"--here the old fellow bowed low to Winifred--"I'll show you how the figger should be danced. I can cut a pigeon-wing yet, with the supplest." Away rolled the table into the further corner of the room: even the Dame merely moving her own chair aside. For she had watched the widow's face and grieved to see it growing sad again, where a little while before it had been cheerful. Dorothy understood, and swiftly changed from the "Land O' the Leal" to the gay dance melody demanded. Then laughter came back, for it was so funny to see the farmer's exaggerated flourish as he bowed again to Winifred and gallantly led her to the middle of the kitchen floor, now cleared for action. Then followed the merriest jig that ever was danced in that old cottage, or many another. The cuts and the capers, the flings and pigeon-wings that bald-headed John Gilpin displayed were little short of marvelous. Forgotten was the dragging foot that now soared as high as the other, while perspiration streamed from his wrinkled face, flushed to an apoplectic crimson by this violent exercise. Winifred was no whit behind. Away flung her jacket and then her hat. Off flew the farmer's smock, always worn for a coat and to protect the homespun suit beneath. The pace grew mad and madder, following the movement of the old fiddle which Dorothy played to its swiftest. Robin's blue eyes grew big with wonder and he whistled his liveliest, to keep up with the wild antics he could see in the outer room. Nobody heard a knock upon the door, repeated until patience ceased, and then it softly opened. A full moment the visitor waited there, gazing upon this orgy of motion; then with an ultra flourish of her skirts Winifred faced about and beheld--the Lady Principal! CHAPTER V THE FRIGHT OF MILLIKINS-PILLIKINS For another moment there was utter silence in the cottage. Even the Dame's calmness forsook her, the absurd performance of her bald-headed husband making her ashamed of him. She had seen the Lady Principal passing along the road beyond the lane but had never met her so closely, and she felt that the mistress of Oak Knowe was high above common mortals. However, as the flush died out of Miss Tross-Kingdon's face Mrs. Gilpin's ordinary manner returned and she advanced in welcome. "You do us proud, madam, by this call. Pray come in and be seated." "Yes, yes, do!" cried John, interrupting. "I'll just step-an'-fetch the arm-chair out o' Robin's room. 'Twas carried there for his mother to rest in. She--" The mortified old fellow was vainly trying to put back the smock he had so recklessly discarded and without which he never felt fully dressed. He hated a coat and wore one only on Sundays, at church. But his frantic efforts to don this garment but added to his own discomfiture, for he slipped it on backwards, the buttons behind, grimacing fiercely at his failure to fasten them. One glance toward him set all the young folks laughing, he looked so comical, and even the dignified caller was forced to smile. "Don't see what's so terrible funny as to send ye all into a tee-hee's-nest! but if so be _you_ do, why giggle away and get shut of it!" testily cried the poor old man. To have been caught "making a fool of himself" was a "bitter pill" for him to swallow; having always prided himself upon his correct deportment. It was, as usual, the portly Dame who came to his relief, reminding: "There, husband, that will do." Then she quietly drew the smock over his head and slipped it back in proper guise. With this upon him his composure returned, and he apologized to Miss Tross-Kingdon as any gentleman might have done. "Sorry to have kep' you standing so long, lady, but I'll step-an'-fetch--" However he was spared that necessity. Dorothy had heard and understood that the best chair in the house must be placed at the caller's service and had as promptly brought it. For a moment Miss Tross-Kingdon still stood as if she would decline, till, seeing the disappointment on her host's face, she accepted it with: "Thank you. My errand could easily have been done without so troubling you. I came to see if you have any more of that variety of apples that you sent us last time. The _chef_ declares they are the finest yet. Have you?" "Yes, lady, I've got a few bar'ls left. Leastwise, my Dame has. She can speak for hersel', if so be she wants to part with 'em. I heard her say she meant to keep 'em for our own winter use. But--" "That will do, John. Bring a pan from the further bin and show Miss Tross-Kingdon. Maybe she'll like them just as well." "All right, wife. I'll step-an'-fetch 'em to oncet." So this obedient husband went out, his lame foot once more dragging heavily behind him, and he managing as he departed to pass by Dorothy and firmly clutch her sleeve, as he hoarsely whispered: "Did you ever see the beat! In your mortal 'arthly life, did ye? Well, I'm ashamed to the marrer of my bones to be caught cavortin' round like the donkey I was. Come on down suller with me and I'll get the apples. But carry 'em back--I shan't. Not this night. That woman--lady, I mean--has got eyes like gimlets and the less she bores 'em into old John Gilpin the better he'll like it. Worst is, what'll dame think? She won't say much. She's a rare silent woman, dame is, but she can do a power of thinking. Oh! hum!" So it happened that Dorothy returned to the kitchen, fairly staggering under the weight of the biggest pan of apples that the farmer could find. Mrs. Gilpin took them from her and showed them to the Lady Principal, who was inwardly disappointed at the failure of her visit. But the business was speedily concluded and, rising, she bade Mrs. Gilpin good evening. The only notice she bestowed upon her runaway pupils was to offer: "If your visit is ended, young ladies, you may return to Oak Knowe in my carriage." Dorothy did not yet know how serious an offense she had committed and merely thought that the Lady Principal was "stiffer" even than usual; not once speaking again until the school was reached. Then, as she moved away ignoring Winifred entirely, she bade Dorothy: "Go to your dormitory, take a warm bath, and dress yourself freshly all through. Your luggage has been unpacked and arranged in your wardrobe. Put on one of your wool gowns for the evening, and come to Assembly Hall. We are to have a lecture and concert, beginning at eight. Punctual attendance required." "She acts and looks as if we had done something dreadful, but I can't guess what," said Dorothy, perplexed. "Lucky for you that you can't! Your ignorance of school rules may save you this time, but it can't save me. One of the hardest things about it is, that you and I will be prohibited each other's 'society' for nobody knows how long. I'm a wild black sheep, who's led a little lamb--that's you--astray. It was fun--_was_ fun, mind you, but--but it's all over for Winifred!" "Win, you darling, what do you mean?" demanded Dolly, throwing her arms about her new friend's neck in great distress. "I mean exactly what I say. I'm an old offender, I've been there before and ought to know better. I did like you so! Well, never mind! The milk is spilled and no use crying about it!" Dorothy was surprised to see tears suddenly fill Winifred's eyes and to feel her clinging arms gently loosened. Under all her affected indifference, the girl was evidently suffering, but as evidently resented having sympathy shown her; so the new pupil made no further comment, but asked: "Do we have supper before that lecture? and should I dress before the supper?" "Huh! There'll be no supper for you nor me this night! And I'm just ravenous hungry! Why was I such a fool as to dance that jig instead of eating that pudding and beans? Yorkshire pudding's just delicious, if it's made right, and the Dame's looked better even than our _chef's_. If one could only look ahead in this world, how wise one would be, 'specially in the matter of suppers! Well, good-by, Queenie, with aching heart from you I part; when shall we meet again? Ah! me! When?" With a gesture of despair, half-comical, half-serious, the older girl dashed down the corridor and Dorothy turned slowly toward her own little room. There she found her luggage unpacked, her frocks and shoes neatly arranged in the wardrobe, underclothing in the small bureau, her toilet things on the tiny dressing table, and the fresh suit she had been asked to put on spread out upon the bed. It was all very cosy and comfortable, or would have been if she hadn't been so hungry. However, she had hardly begun undressing before Dawkins appeared with a small tray of sandwiches and milk, explaining: "Supper's long past, Miss Dorothy, but the Principal bade me bring this. Also, if there's time before lecture, you are to go to her private parlor to speak with her. I'll help you and 'twill make the time seem shorter." "Thank you, Dawkins, that's sweet and kind of you; but--but I don't feel any great hurry about dressing. Maybe Miss Tross-Kingdon'll be better-natured--I mean not so cross--Oh! dear, you know what I mean, don't you, dear Dawkins?" "Sure, lassie, I know you have a deal more fear of the Lady Principal 'an you need. She's that just kind of a person one can always trust." "I reckon I don't like 'just' people. I like 'em real plain _kind_. I--I don't like to be found fault with." "Few folks do so like; especially them as deserves it. But you will love Miss Muriel better 'an anybody at Oak Knowe afore the year's out. Only them that has lived with her knows her. I do know. A better woman never trod shoe leather, and so you'll find. Now, you've no time to waste." Nor was any wasted, though Dorothy would gladly have postponed the Principal's further acquaintance till another day. She found the lady waiting and herself welcomed by a gracious word and smile. Motioning to a low seat beside her own chair, Miss Muriel began: "You are looking vastly improved, Dorothy, since you've taken off your rain-soaked clothes. I hope you haven't taken cold. Have you felt any chill?" "Thank you, Miss Tross-Kingdon, none at all. Winifred says I will soon get used to rain, and she doesn't mind it in the least. She says she likes it." The Lady Principal's expression altered to one of sadness rather than anger, at the mention of the other girl, but she did not criticise her in words. "My dear little Dorothy, I sent for you to explain some things about Oak Knowe which you do not understand. We try to make our rules as few and lenient as possible, but such as do exist we rigidly enforce. Where there are three hundred resident and day pupils gathered under one roof, there is need for regular discipline, and, in general, we have little trouble. What we do have sometimes comes from ignorance, as in your case to-night. Your taking so long a walk without a chaperon, and paying a social visit without permission, was a direct trespass upon our authority. So, to prevent any future mistakes, I have prepared you a list of what you may and may not do. Keep this little notebook by you until you have grown familiar with Oak Knowe life. Also, you will find copies of our regulations posted in several places upon the walls. "And now that we have finished 'business' for the present, let us talk of something pleasanter. Tell me about that 'Aunt Betty' of yours, whom our good Bishop lauds so highly." Vastly relieved that the dreaded "scolding" had been so mild and Miss Tross-Kingdon so really kind, Dorothy eagerly obeyed, and was delighted to see a real interest in this wonderful aunt showing in the teacher's face. But her enthusiastic description of Mrs. Calvert was rudely interrupted by a childish scream and little Millikins-Pillikins flying wildly into the room, to spring into Miss Muriel's lap and hide her face on the lady's shoulder, begging: "Don't you let him! Don't you let him! Oh! Auntie, don't you!" "Why, darling, what is this? What sent you out of bed, just in your nightgown? What has frightened you?" "The debbil!" "Grace! What wicked word is that you speak?" "It was, _it was!_ I seen him! He come--set on my feet--an'--an'--Oh! Auntie Prin, you hold me close. 'Cause he was a talkin' debbil. He come to cotch me--he said it, yes he did." Miss Tross-Kingdon was as perplexed as horrified. That little Grace, her orphan niece and the dearest thing in life to her, should speak like this and be in such a state was most amazing. For a few seconds she did hold the little one "close" and in silence, tenderly stroking the small body and folding her own light shawl about it, and gradually its trembling ceased, the shuddering sobs grew fainter and fewer and the exhausted little maid fell fast asleep. Just then the clock on the mantel chimed for eight and Miss Muriel's place was in assembly, on the platform with the famous lecturer who had come to do her great school honor. She must go and at once. Dorothy, watching, saw the struggle in the aunt's mind depicted on her face. With a tender clasp of the little one she put her own desire aside and turned to duty; and the girl's own heart warmed to the stately woman as she had not believed it ever could. Dawkins had prophesied: "You'll love Miss Muriel, once you know her," but Dorothy had not believed her. Yet here it was coming true already! "Dorothy, will you please ring for a maid to look after Grace? Wake up, darling, Auntie Prin must go." The child roused as her aunt spoke, but when she attempted to put her down and rise, the frantic screams broke out afresh, nor would she submit to be lifted by the maid who promptly came. Miss Muriel's bell was not one to be neglected! "No, no, no! I shan't--I won't--the deb--" "Not that word, sweetheart, never again!" warned the Lady Principal, laying her finger on Grace's lips. "Go nicely now with Dora, and make no trouble." "No, no, no!" still screamed Grace: her flushed face and feverish appearance sending fresh alarm to her aunt's heart. "Why, look here, Millikins! I'm Dorothy. The 'sleepy-head' you came to wake up this morning. Won't you go with _me_, dear? If Auntie Prin says 'yes,' I'll take you back to bed, and if you'll show me where." Millikins looked long and steadily at Dolly's appealing arms, then slowly crept into them. "Pretty! Millikins'll go with pretty Dorothy!" So they went away, indeed a "pretty" sight to the anxious aunt. Dorothy's white gown and scarlet ribbons transformed her from the rain-and-mud-bespattered girl of a few hours before, while her loving interest in the frightened child banished all fear and homesickness from her own mobile face. Little Grace's room was a small one opening off from Miss Muriel's, and as soon as the lecture was over and she was free, she took Dr. Winston with her to see the child. Her dark little face was still very flushed, but she was asleep, Dorothy also. The girl had drawn a chair close to the child's cot and sat there with an arm protectingly thrown over her charge: and now a fresh anxiety rose in the Lady Principal's heart. "Oh! Doctor, what if it should be something contagious? I don't see why I didn't think of that before. Besides, I sacrificed Miss Calvert's opportunity to hear the lecture for Grace's sake. How could I have been so thoughtless!" "Well, Madam, I suppose because you are human as well as a schoolma'am, and love for your niece stronger than training. But don't distress yourself. I doubt if this is anything more than a fit of indigestion. That would account, also, for the imaginary visit of a goblin, which terrified the little one. However, it might be well to isolate Miss Dorothy for a day or so, in case anything serious develops." By that time Dorothy was awake and sat up listening to this conversation; and when the doctor explained to her that this isolation meant that she must live quite apart from the schoolmates she so desired to know, she was bitterly disappointed. "I haven't been here more than twenty-four hours, yet it seems as if more unpleasant things have happened than could anywhere else in a lifetime," she complained to Dawkins, who had come to arrange another cot for her to use and to bring the needed articles from her own little cubicle. "Ah, lassie! When you've lived as long as me you'll learn 't a 'lifetime' is a goodish long spell: and if so be you can't mix with your mates for a little few days, more's the blessing that's yours, alongside as you'll be of the Lady Principal. Now, say your prayers and hop into this fine bed I've fixed for you, and off to Noddle Island quick as wink. Good night and sleep well." Surely our Dorothy had the gift of winning hearts, and other Oak Knowe girls with whom Dawkins exchanged scant speech would have been astonished by the kindly gossip with this newcomer. Also, the maid's belief that Dorothy's intercourse with the Lady Principal would be delightful was well founded. Miss Muriel was grateful to her pupil for her patience with troublesome Grace, and regretful that her isolation from her mates had come about in just this wise. However, Dr. Winston had been right. Millikins-Pillikins had been allowed the run of the house and, like most children, found its kitchen its most attractive place. There her sharp tongue and amusing capers furnished amusement for the servants, who rewarded her with all sorts of "treats" and sweetmeats. The result was natural, but what was not so natural was her persistent declaration that she had been visited by an evil spirit. "I did so see him, Auntie Princie! He had big whitey eyes, and his head was all red--" "No more, darling. Say no more. Just play with your blocks. See what sort of house you can build, or--" "Auntie Prin, I do _hate_ blocks! And you don't believe me. Did Millikins ever tell you a wrong story in her whole life?" "No, darling, not to my knowledge. I'm proud to know you are a very truthful little girl. But even such can _dream_ queer things. Ask Dorothy to play for you and me. You know this is the last day she'll be shut up here and I'd like to hear some music." Dorothy laid down her book and went to fetch her violin, but the self-willed Grace would have none of that. Stamping her foot, she imperiously cried: "No, no, no! She shall come with me and seek that old debbil. She shall so. He had hornses and his face--" "Grace Adelaide Tross-Kingdon! if you disobey me again by mentioning that subject, I shall send for the Bishop and brother Hugh and see what they can do with you. Do you want to be disgraced before them?" The little girl pondered that question seriously. She could not understand why telling the truth should disgrace anybody. She loved the Bishop and fairly idolized her big brother Hugh. Her Aunt Muriel was more angry with the child than ever before in her short life and Millikins fully realized this fact. "I'm sorry, Auntie Prin. I'm sorrier than ever was. I hate them two should think I was bad and I wish--I wish you wouldn't not for to tell 'em. I isn't bad, you only think so. 'Cause it's the truthiest truth, I _did_ see him. He had--" Miss Tross-Kingdon held up a warning hand and her face was sterner than any pupil had ever seen it. Such would have quailed before it, but Millikins-Pillikins quailed not at all. Rising from the carpet, where she had been sitting, she planted her sturdy legs apart, folded her arms behind her and unflinchingly regarded her aunt. The midget's defiant attitude made Dorothy turn her head to hide a smile, while the little girl reiterated: "I did see him. I have to tell the truth all times. You said so and I have to mind. I did see that debbil. He lives in this house. When my brother Hugh comes, he shall go with me to hunt which room he lives in, and the Bishop shall preach at him the goodest and hardest he can. This isn't no badness, dear, angry Auntie Prin; it is the truthiest truth and when you see him, too, you'll believe it. If Hugh would come--" Miss Tross-Kingdon leaned back in her chair and threw out her hand in a gesture of despair. What made her darling so incorrigible? "Oh! I wish he would come, I certainly wish he would! This thing is beyond me or anything in my experience. I almost begin to believe that Bible days have returned and you are possessed of the evil spirit." Millikins-Pillikins returned to her play in supreme indifference. She knew what she knew. Couldn't a body believe one's own eyes? Didn't the _chef_ often say that "Seeing is believing," when the scullery maid stole the raisins and he found them in her pocket? She couldn't help Auntie Prin being stupid; and-- "Oh, oh, oh! Hughie's come! Hughie's come! Oh! you darling brother boy, let's go and seek that debbil!" The youth who entered and into whose arms his little sister had sprung, held her away from him and gasped. Then answered merrily: "That gentleman doesn't belong in good society, kiddie. It's not good form even to mention him. I'd rather go the other way." Then he set her gently down and turned to acknowledge his aunt's introduction to Dorothy. He was well used to meeting the Oak Knowe girls, but wondered a little at finding one at this hour in the Lady Principal's private parlor. As he opened his lips to address some courteous remark to her, a shriek of utter terror rang through the house and a housemaid burst unceremoniously in, white and almost breathless, yet managing to say: "Oh! Ma'am, I'm leavin'--I'm leavin' the now! Sure, 'tis a haunted house and Satan hisself dwells in it!" CHAPTER VI AT THE FALL OF THE MAIDEN'S BATH There had, indeed, been strange happenings at Oak Knowe. Beginning on that first day of Dorothy's life there, with the crash outside the dining-room door. That had been caused by the tripping and falling with a loaded tray of one of the best waitresses employed. Afterward it was discovered that a wire had been stretched across the doorway, low down near to the floor, and not easily noticeable in the dim passage. Who had done this thing? Miss Tross-Kingdon paid scant attention to the incident, apparently, although she caused a very thorough investigation to be secretly made. Nothing came of it. Matters went so wrong in the servants' quarters that they became demoralized and several threatened to leave. Thefts from one and another were frequent; yet as often the missing article was found in some unusual place where, as Dawkins declared: "Nobody but a crazy person would ha' puttin' it." One morning the _chef's_ spotless marble molding-board was found decorated by a death's-head and bones, done in red paint, and his angry accusations of his fellow-workers brought the Lady Principal to the kitchen to restore peace. But peace did not last long. The head laundress, who personally "did up" the finest pieces in "the wash," found her pile of them deluged with blueing, so that her work had to be done all over again. These were but samples of the strange happenings; and though most of the servants had been so long at Oak Knowe that they considered it their real home, some of the most loyal to its interests felt they couldn't endure this state of things much longer. Then had come the fright of little Grace, followed by that of the housemaid, whom no arguments could calm, and who rushed out of Miss Muriel's parlor as she rushed into it, departing that hour for good and all and to spread far and near ill reports of the great school. However, after that day nothing further happened. At a secret meeting of the faculty it was decided to take no outward notice of these disturbances, but to keep silent watch until such a time as the culprit, or culprits, should betray themselves. "He or she is bound to do so, after a time. There's always a hitch somewhere in such mischievous schemes and nothing worse than mortal hands has performed this 'witch work,'" said the Bishop calmly, though vexed that such foolishness could be found at his beloved Oak Knowe. Then for many days the disturbances ceased. Dorothy fell into the daily life of the school with all her heart, making friends with her mates in her own Form and even with some of the older girls. Best of all, she had lost all fear of the Lady Principal, whose heart she had won by her devotion to little Millikins. She even begged forgiveness for Winifred, against whom the teacher still felt some resentment; saying to Dolly: "It isn't what she did--in itself--so much as her broken trust. She has been with me so long, she has been taught so constantly, that I feel indignant at her deception. Anything but deception, Dorothy. Remember that a treacherous person is more to be feared than an openly wicked one." "But, dear Miss Muriel, Winifred will never cheat again. Never, I know. She won't go off bounds a step now, even though her 'restriction's' taken off. And she keeps away from me till she makes me feel dreadfully. Says she doesn't want to 'contaminate' and get me into trouble again. Please let her go nutting this afternoon with Miss Aldrich's class." "Very well. She may go." "One thing more, Miss Tross-Kingdon. When may I, may we, go to see Robin?" The lady smiled. A sudden memory of the scene upon which she had entered that rainy evening of her first visit to the cottage amused her, and she answered graciously: "Probably on Saturday, if you wish. Though I am still doubtful whether your guardians would approve." "I can answer for them, dear Miss Muriel. They are just the kind that would like me to go. Some of Aunt Betty's dearest friends are very poor. She finds them honester and more generous than the rich ones. As for darling Uncle Seth, he learned to be a regular blacksmith, just so he could live among them on 'even terms,' he said. Yet he's the wisest, best man in all the world." In the Lady Principal's private opinion he was also the most eccentric; but she did not dash Dorothy's enthusiasm further than to say: "To me it seems wisest to content one's self with the station in which one has been born. To step aside from the normal path in life--" Foreseeing a "lecture," Dorothy interrupted: "Beg pardon, Miss Muriel, but there's Win yonder this minute, walking with her head down as if she were worrying. She thought her father was coming home next week and he isn't, and she's so disappointed. She's reading his letter over again. She said, when I asked her why she was so blue, that it didn't seem like home here any longer with you offended, and he wasn't coming, and she had no real home anywhere. Oh! you needn't be afraid of darling Win doing anything crooked again. Do love her and take her back into your trust, and may I go now to tell her she can go nutting and about Saturday, and may I hurry up?" Without waiting an instant longer, Dorothy took permission for granted and ran out of the house. In reality, she had grieved far more over Winifred's punishment, by being kept on bounds and denied some other privileges, than that lively young person had herself. Winifred was ashamed, but she wasn't unhappy. Only now this letter of her father's, and the longing to see him, had sobered her greatly. Yet she was ready enough for the next amusement that might offer and looked up eagerly as Dorothy ran towards her across the lawn, crying: "Don't look so forlorn, Win! We can go--you can go--" "They can go!" finished the other, her mood quickly changing at sight of Dorothy's beaming face. "Where can they go, how can they go, when can they go, Teacher?" "Nutting, with Miss Aldrich's class. On their feet. With baskets and bags and the boot-boy with poles to thresh the trees and carry the nuts! and on Saturday to old John's cottage to hear the Robin sing!" "Oh! do you mean it? Do you? Then I know I'm all right with Miss Muriel again and I must go and thank her." Away hurried the impulsive girl and in the Lady Principal's room was presently an interview that was delightful to both. For in her heart, beneath a cold manner, Miss Tross-Kingdon kept a warm love for this wild pupil of hers; and was as ready to believe in Winifred's promises as the girl was to make them. The late autumn day was uncommonly fine. Not only Miss Aldrich, but most of the other teachers, were to take their classes to a distant forest on their annual nutting excursion, from which, this year, Winifred had felt she would be excluded. Miss Aldrich was not her own class director, but the girls in it were her especial friends and belonged to her gymnasium class. They were all "Commons," except Marjorie Lancaster, a gentle little "Peer," whom haughty Gwendolyn kept well reminded of her rank. "I don't like your being so chummy with those girls, and, worst of all, with that Dorothy Calvert. She's a pert sort of girl, with no manner at all. Why, Marjorie, I've seen her leaning against the Bishop just as if he were a post! _The Bishop_, mind you!" "Well, if he wanted her to, what harm, Gwen? Somebody said he knew her people over in the States and that's why she was sent away up here to his school. I like her ever so much. She's so full of fun and so willing to help a girl, any girl, with her lessons. She learns so easy and I'm so stupid!" protested Marjorie, who was, indeed, more noted for her failures than her successes at recitations. "But I don't like it. If you must have an intimate, why not choose her from 'our set'?" "The 'Commons' are lots jollier. They're not all the time thinking about their clothes, or who's higher ranked than another. I'm thankful I belong with the Aldrich ten. We have splendid times." Gwendolyn sighed. She found it very difficult to keep many of her "set" up to their duty as peers of the realm. "Class distinction" fell from her nimble tongue a dozen times a day in reprimands to other "Peers" who would hobnob with untitled schoolmates despite all she could do; and now to preserve Marjorie from mingling too much with the "Commons," she declared: "Well, if you won't come with us, I shall go with you. My director will let me. She always does let me do about as I like. She's lots more agreeable than the Lady Principal, who ought to appreciate what I try to do for the good of the school. When I told her how Florita Sheraton had complained she just couldn't get enough to eat here, she was cross as two sticks and said: 'Gwendolyn, if you are a real Honorable, you'll not descend to tale-bearing!' Hateful thing. And she comes of a titled family, too, somebody said. Yes, I'm sure my teacher will let me." "Even a worm will turn," and mild little Marjorie murmured under her breath: "I wish she wouldn't! But, of course, she will, 'cause it's the easiest way to get along. Yet you'll spoil sport--sure!" But the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard was already moving away to announce her intention to her greatly relieved director. For it was usually the case, that wherever this young aristocrat went, trouble followed; for, like the 'twelfth juryman,' she never could understand why the 'eleven contrary ones' didn't agree with _him_. Nobody stayed at Oak Knowe, that day, who was able to join this outing: and when nearly three hundred girls take the road, they are a goodly sight worth seeing. Each had been provided with her own little parcel of lunch packed in the small basket that was to be carried home full of nuts, and each carried a stout alpenstock, such as the experienced teachers had found a help on their pupils' long walks. "A walk that is less than five miles long is no walk at all for healthy girls," had been Dr. Winston's remark; adding, for the Lady Principal's ear alone: "That'll take the kinks out of them and they'll give you less trouble, skylarking. Teach them the art of walking and let them go!" To escape Gwendolyn, Marjorie had hurried to the fore of her "Ten" and slipped her arm into Winifred's, who had expected Dorothy instead. But she couldn't refuse Marjorie's pleading: "Don't look like you didn't want me, Winnie dear. Gwen is bound so to take care of me and I don't need her care. I don't see any difference between you 'Commons' and we 'Peers' except that you're nicer." "Why, of course, I want you, Marjorie. Can you see Dorothy Calvert anywhere behind? It's so narrow here and the hedge so thick I can't look back." From her outer place and lower height Marjorie could stoop and peer around the curve, and gleefully cried: "Of all things! The girls have paired off so as to leave Gwen and Dolly together at the very end! Another class is so close behind they can't change very well and I wonder what Gwendolyn will do!" "I'm sorry for Dolly, but she'll get on. Gwen has pretended not to see her so many times that Dorothy can hardly put up with it. Under all her good nature she has a hot temper. You'd ought to have seen her pitch into one of the scullery boys for tormenting a cat. And she said once that she'd make Gwendolyn like her yet or know the reason why. Now's her chance to try it! It's all that silly imagination of Gwen's that makes her act so. Made up her mind that Dolly is a 'charity' girl, when anybody with common sense would know better. There are some at Oak Knowe, course: we all know that, for it's one of the Bishop's notions he must give any girl an education who wants it and can't pay for it. But I don't know which ones are; do you?" "No, indeed! And if I did, I'd never let them know I knew." "Of course you wouldn't. No gentlewoman would, except that stuck-up Gwen. Her mother, Lady Jane's so different. She's almost as jolly and simple as her brother, Dr. Winston. But her Honorable young daughter just makes me tired! Peek again. What are they doing now?" "The 'Peer' is walking like a soldier on parade, stiff as can be, thumping her alpenstock up and down plumpety-plump, hard as nails. But Dorothy seems to be chattering away like a good one!" Winifred stooped and peered between the bobbing rows of girls and branches of trees and caught Dorothy's eye, to whom she beckoned: "Forward!" But Dorothy smilingly signaled "No!" "Well, _one_ of that pair is happy, but it isn't Lady Jane's daughter! I fancy we'd best leave them to 'fight it out on that line,'" decided Winifred, facing about again. "I know Queen Baltimore will down Honorable England at the end." Despite her own stiffness, Dorothy's continued chatter at last began to interest Gwendolyn, and the perfect good nature with which she accepted the marked coldness of the haughty girl to make her ashamed. Also, she was surprised to see how the girl from the States enjoyed the novelty of everything Canadian. The wild flowers especially interested her, and Gwendolyn was compelled to admire the stranger's love and knowledge of growing things. With more decency than she had hitherto shown, she finally asked: "However did you come to know so much botany, Miss Calvert?" "Why, my Uncle Seth, the Blacksmith, taught me; he lived in the woods and loved them to that degree--my heart! he would no sooner hurt a plant than a person! He was that way. Some people are, who make friends of little things. And he was so happy, always, in his smithy under the Great Tree, which people from all the countryside came to see, it was so monstrous big. Oh! I wish you could see dear Uncle Seth, sitting at the smithy door, reading or talking to the blacksmith inside at the anvil, a man who worked for him and adored him." The Honorable Gwendolyn stiffened again, and walked along in freezing silence. She would have joined some other girl ahead, but none invited her, and she was too proud to beg for a place beside those who should have felt it an honor to have her. Besides, pride kept her to her place in the rear. "Huh! I'll show this Yankee farrier's niece that I am above caring who is near me. But it's horrid to be forced into such a position and I wish I hadn't come. Goodness! how her tongue runs! And now what freak sets her 'Oh-ing!' and 'Ah-ing!' that style?" ran Gwendolyn's thoughts, and she showed her annoyance by asking: "Miss Calvert, will you oblige me by not screaming quite so loud? It's wretched form and gets on my nerves, for I'm not used to that sort of thing." "Neither am I!" laughed Dorothy; "but you see, I never saw anything so lovely as that glimpse before. I couldn't help crying out--we came upon it so suddenly. Do see yonder!" Her finger pointed westward, then was promptly drawn back, as she admitted: "Pointing is 'bad form,' too, I've been taught. But do look--do look! It's just like fairyland!" Gwendolyn did look, though rather against her will, and paused, as charmed as Dorothy, but in a quieter fashion. She was a considerable artist and her gift in painting her one great talent. Oddly enough, too, she cared less for the praise of others than for the delight of handling her brush. Beyond, a sudden break in the thick wood revealed a tumbling waterfall, descending from a cliff by almost regular steps into a sunlit pool below. Bordering it on both sides were trees of gorgeous coloring and mountain ashes laden with their brilliant berries; while a shimmering vapor rose from the pool beneath, half veiling the little cascade, foaming white upon the rocks. For a moment Gwendolyn regarded the scene in silence but with shining eyes and parted lips. Then she exclaimed: "The very spot we've searched for so often and never found! 'The Maiden's Bath,' it's called. I've heard about it so much. The story is that there was an Indian girl so lovely and pure that it was thought a mortal sin for mortal eyes to look upon her. She had devoted herself to the service of the Great Spirit and, to reward her, He formed this beautiful Bath for her use alone, hid it so deep in the heart of the forest that no one could find it but she. There was but one trail which led to it and--we've found it, we've found it! Hurry up! Come." Dorothy stared. Here seemed a new Gwendolyn, whose tongue ran quite as rapidly as her own had ever done, and whose haughty face was now transformed by eager delight. As the young artist ran forward toward the spot, Dolly noticed that no other girl was in sight. They two had turned a little aside from the smoother path which the rest had taken, Dorothy following the lure of some new wild flower and Gwendolyn stiffly following her. Only a minute before the chatter and laughter of many girls had filled the air; now, save for their own footsteps on the fallen leaves, there was no sound. "I wonder where the rest are! Did you see which way they went, Gwendolyn?" "No. I didn't notice. But they're just around the next turn, I fancy. Oh! to think I've found the Bath at last. I must make a little sketch of it and come back as soon as I can with my color box. How the studio girls will envy me! Every time we've been in these woods we've searched for it and now to come upon it all at once, never dreaming, makes me proud! But--_don't you tell_. I'd begun something else for next exhibition, but I shall drop that and do this. I'll get leave to do it in my recreation hours in some empty class room, and bring it out as a surprise. I wish I'd found it alone. I wish nobody knew it but me. It must be kept a secret--so don't you dare to tell. Come on." "Huh! I reckon if you'll stick to facts, it was I--not you--who found it. I don't see why I should keep it secret. It doesn't belong to either of us, it belongs to the whole world. I wish everybody who loves beauty could enjoy it," answered Dorothy, warmly. "Well, go tell then, tattle-tale! You might know a common girl like you would be hateful to her betters, if she got a chance!" retorted Gwendolyn, angrily. It rose to Dorothy's lips to respond: "Tattle-tale and mischief-maker is what all the girls know _you_ are!" but she kept the hard words back, "counting ten" vigorously, and also listening for some sound of her now invisible schoolmates. She wasn't a timid girl, but the silence of this deep forest startled her, nor looking around could she discover by what path they had come to this place. Then Gwendolyn was hurrying forward, carrying the pocket-pad and pencil without which she went nowhere, and careless of everything but to get her sketch. So Dorothy followed, forgetting her resentment in watching her companion. To see Gwen's head turning this way, then that, squinting her eyes and holding her pencil before them, measuring distance thus and seeking the "right light," interested the watcher for the time. Finally, the artist had secured a point which suited her and, seating herself, rapidly drew a picture of one view. She worked so deftly and confidently, that Dorothy's only feeling now was one of admiration. Then a new position was sought and another sketch made, but Gwen permitted no talk between them. "I can't work and talk, too; please be still, can't you?" she asked, looking up from her work. And again the real earnestness of the girl she disliked made Dorothy obedient, again rising to follow while Gwen chose another view still, high up near the top of the wonderful cascade. Her face had grown pink and animated and her eyes glowed with enthusiasm. "I shall paint that misty-veil with a glaze of ultramarine. There should be an underwash of madder, and maybe terre verte. Oh! if I can only make it look one atom as I see it! We must come here again and again, you and I, Miss Calvert, and you must--you simply _must_ keep the secret of our finding till after I've exhibited my picture." "All right. How long will it be before we can go find the others? you know we can't gather any nuts right here. I don't see a single nut tree." "I don't know how long I shall be, and why care about nuts while we can have--this?" returned Gwen, indifferently. "Very well, I guess I'll take a nap. Seems terrible close in this shut-in nook and my walk has made me sleepy. I reckon I'll take a nap. Wake me up when you get through." So saying, Dorothy curled down upon a mass of mighty ferns, laid her head on her arm and went to sleep. For how long she never knew, but her awakening was sudden and startling. She had been roused from a dream of Bellevieu, her Baltimore home, and of dear Aunt Betty feeding her pets, the Great Danes. Brushing the slumber from her eyes, she gazed about her, wondering for an instant, where she was. Then--that frantic shriek again: "Help! Help! I'm dr--" The cry died in a gurgle and Dorothy sprang to her feet in terror. She had warned Gwendolyn not to take that high seat so close to that slippery rock, from beneath which the cascade began its downward flow. "If you fall, it will be straight into the pool. Do be careful, Gwen, how you move." But the warning had been useless--Gwendolyn was already in the pool. CHAPTER VII ALL HALLOW EVE FESTIVITIES "I'm going to choose Queen Bess! I've made a lovely ruff, stands away up above my head. And Mrs. Archibald, the matron, has bought me four yards of chintz that might be brocade--if it was!" said Florita Sheraton, from the gymnasium floor, hugging her arms for warmth. "Four yards! That'll never go around you, Fatty!" declared Fanny Dimock, with playful frankness. "Well, it'll have to go as far as it may, then. It cost twenty cents. That left five only for the white and gilt paper for my ruff and crown." "Was Queen Elizabeth fat?" asked Dorothy, from her now favorite perch upon the high wooden horse. "What does that matter, whether she were or not? The plot is to act like a Queen when once you get her clothes on," observed Winifred, judicially. "I wonder if you can do that, Flo. Or if it needs another yard of cloth to make you real stately--she ought to have a train, oughtn't she--I might lend you another sixpence. If Miss Muriel would let me." "Don't ask for it, Win. You've done so splendidly ever since--" "That time I didn't! Well, I'd rather not ask for it. Twenty-five cents was the limit she set." "Wants to stimulate our ingenuity, maybe, to see how well we can dress on twenty-five cents a week!" laughed Ernesta Smith, who had no ingenuity at all. "If it weren't for Dolly here, I'd have to give it up, but she's fixed me a lovely, spooky rig that'll just make you all goose-fleshy." "What is it? Tell," begged the others, but Ernesta shook her head. "No, indeedy! It's the chance of my life to create an impression and I shan't spoil it beforehand. It'll be all the more stunning because I'm such a bean-pole. Dorothy says that Florrie and I must walk together in the parade." "Oh! I hope it will be a grand success!" cried Winifred, seizing Bessie Walters and going through a lively calisthenic exercise with her. "We've always wanted to have a Hallowe'en Party, but the faculty have never before said yes. It's all Dorothy's doings that we have it now." A shadow fell over Dolly's bright face. It was quite true that she had suggested this little festivity to the good Bishop. She had told him other things as well which hurt him to hear and made him the more willing to consent to any bit of gayety she might propose. She had said: "There is somebody in this school that doesn't like me. Yes, dear Bishop, it's true; though I don't know who and I've tried to be friendly to everybody. That is to all I know. The high-up Form girls don't appear to see me at all, though they're friendly enough with lots of the other younger ones. I heard Edna Ross-Ross saying to another that all the strange, horrid things that had happened at Oak Knowe this autumn began with my coming. She'd been told that I was a charity scholar, belonging to one of the servants. She didn't object to charity girls, so long as she knew they were of _good_ family, but she drew the line at _servants'_ families. She said that Gwendolyn had heard you, yourself, tell Miss Tross-Kingdon that I was mischievous and she must look out for me." "My dear, my dear! Surely no fair-minded girl could have so misunderstood me, even admitting that I did say that--which I fail to remember. As to that silly notion about the 'haunting' business, Betty Calvert's niece should be able to laugh at that. Absurd, absurd! Now tell me again what your fancy is about this Hallowe'en Party." "Why, sir, things can't be done without folks do them, can they?" "That's a poser; but I'll grant your premises. Proceed with the argument," answered the old gentleman, merrily. "Well, I thought, somehow, that if everybody was allowed to dress in character and wear some sort of a mask, the one who had played such pranks and frightened Grace and the maids might be found out. If anybody in this house owns such a mask as that horrid one and is mean enough to scare little girls, he or she wouldn't lose so good a chance of scaring a lot more. Don't you think so? And--and--there's something else I ought to tell, but am afraid. Miss Muriel gets so stern every time the thing is mentioned that I put it off and off. I can tell you though, if you wish." "Certainly, I wish you would." The gentleman's face had grown as serious now, and almost as stern, as the Lady Principal's at similar times; and Dorothy gave a sigh to bolster her own courage as she gravely announced: "When I took out my white shoes to wear them last evening, there was a skull and cross-bones on each one, done with red paint: and the tube of vermilion had been taken from my own oil color box. Now--what do you think of that?" Her listener pursed his lips in a silent whistle, which indicated great amazement in a man like him, but he said nothing. Only, for a moment he drew the girl to him and looked searchingly into her brown eyes. But they looked back at him with a clear, straightforward gaze that pleased him and made him exclaim: "Well, little Betty--whom you always seem to me--we're in a scrape worthy of old Bellevieu. We've got to get out of it, somehow. You try your scheme of playing masked detective first. If you fail in proving our innocence and some other youngster's roguery, I'll tackle the matter myself. For this nonsense is hurtful to Oak Knowe. That I am compelled to admit. 'Behold how great a matter a little fire kindleth.' A miserable rumor started has wide-spread effect. I could preach you a sermon on that topic, but I won't. Run along back to your mates and try it. Just whisper 'Hallowe'en Party' to any one of them and see if every girl at Oak Knowe doesn't know beforehand that after chapel, to-night, the Lady Principal will announce this intended event. Now, good day, my dear 'Betty,' and for the present, to oblige me, just put those decorated shoes out of sight." This talk had been two days before: and with the Lady Principal's announcement of the affair had been coupled the decision: "Those of you young ladies that have no costume suitable may expend their week's allowance in material for one. Of course, this restricts the expense to utmost simplicity. No one may run in debt, nor borrow more than suggestions from her neighbors. Under these conditions I hope you will have the happy time you anticipate." So they were dismissed in gay spirits, to gather in groups everywhere to discuss costumes and the possibility of evolving a fetching one at the modest cost of a quarter dollar. By the afternoon following, most of the preparations had been made. Some of the maids had lent a hand to the sewing and the good-natured matron had planned and purchased and cut till her arms ached. But she had entered into the spirit of the occasion as heartily as any girl of them all; and the sixth and seventh Form students, who rather fancied themselves too grown-up for such frivolity, had willingly helped the preparations of the lower school pupils. Only one who might have enjoyed the fun was out of it. Gwendolyn was in the hospital, in the furthest west wing: for the time being a nervous and physical wreck from her experience at the Maiden's Bath. Even yet nobody dared speak to her of that terrible time, for it made her so hysterical; and for some reason she shrank from Dorothy's visits of inquiry and sympathy more than from any other's. But this seemed ungrateful to Lady Jane, her mother, now in residence at the school to care for and be near her daughter. She determined this "nonsense" must be overcome and had especially begged Dolly to come to the sick room, dressed for the party, and to relate in detail all that had happened on that dreadful day. So Dorothy had slipped away from her mates, to oblige Lady Jane, but dreading to meet the girl she had saved, yet who still seemed to dislike her. She wore her gipsy costume of scarlet, a little costume that she had worn at home at a similar party, and a dainty scarlet mask would be added later on. She looked so graceful and winsome, as she tapped at the door, that Lady Jane exclaimed as she admitted her: "Why, you darling! What a picture you have made of yourself! I must give you a good kiss--two of them! One for myself and Gwen and one for the Aunt Betty you love." Then the lady led her in to the low chair beside Gwen's bed, with a tenderness so motherly that Dorothy lost all feeling of awkwardness with the sick girl. "Now, my child, I must hear every detail of that afternoon. My darling daughter is really much better. I want her to get over this dread of what is past, and safely so. I'm sure your story of the matter will help her to think of it calmly." She waited for Dorothy to begin, and at last she did, making as light of the affair as of an ordinary playground happening. "Why, it wasn't anything. Really, it wasn't, except that Gwen took such a cold and grieved so because other folks had to find where the hidden cascade was. She just got so eager with her drawing that she didn't notice how close she got to the edge of the rock. If I had stayed awake, instead of going to sleep, I should have seen and caught her before she slipped. I can't forgive myself for that." The Lady Jane shook a protesting head. "That was no fault in you, Dorothy. Go on." "When I waked up, she was in the water, and she didn't understand how to get out. She couldn't swim, you know, but I can. So, course, I just jumped in and caught her. There was a big branch bent down low and I caught hold of that. She caught hold of me, but not both my arms, and so--so--I could pull us both out." Dorothy did not add that her arm had been so strained she could not yet use it without pain. "Oh! thank God for you, my dear!" cried the mother, laying her hand upon Gwendolyn's shoulder, who had turned toward the wall and lay with her face hidden. "And after that? Somebody said you stripped off your own jacket and wrapped it around her." "It wasn't as nice as hers, but you see she was cold, and I thought she wouldn't mind for once. I borrowed her bathrobe once and she didn't like it, and now she'd borrowed my jacket and didn't like that, I suppose." "Like it! Doubtless it helped to save her life, too, or her from pneumonia. Oh! if you hadn't been there! If--" sobbed the mother. "But there wasn't any 'if,' Lady Jane; 'cause if I hadn't seen the falls and made her see them, too, she wouldn't have been near hand. If she'd gone with the girl she wanted to, nothing at all would have happened. Some way it got mixed up so she had to walk with me and that's all. Only once we got out of the water onto the ground, I started yelling, and I must have done it terrible loud. Else Mr. Hugh wouldn't have heard me and followed my yells. He'd gone long past us, hunting with his gun, and he heard me and came hurrying to where the sound was. So he just put his coat around her and made her get up and walk. He had to speak to her real cross before she would, she was so dazed and mis'able. But she did at last, and he knew all those woods by heart. And the directions of them, which way was north, or south, or all ways. "It was a right smart road he took for roughness, so that sometimes we girls stumbled and fell, but he wouldn't stop. He kept telling us that, and saying: 'Only a little further now!' though it did seem to the end of the world. And by and by we came out of the woods to a level road, and after a time to a little farmhouse. Mr. Hugh made the farmer hitch up his horse mighty quick and wrap us in blankets and drove us home--fast as fast. And, that's all. I'm sorry Gwendolyn took such a cold and I hope when she gets well she'll forgive me for going to sleep that time. And, please, Lady Jane, may I go now? Some of the girls are waiting for me, 'cause they want me in the parade." "Surely, my dear: and thank you for telling me so long a story. I wanted it at first hands and I wanted Gwendolyn to hear it, too. Good night and a happy, happy evening. It's really your own party, I hear; begged by yourself from the Bishop for your schoolmates' pleasure. I trust the lion's share of that pleasure may be your own." As Dorothy left the room, with her graceful farewell curtsey, the girl on the bed turned back toward her mother and lifted a tear-wet face. "Why, Gwen, dearest, surely she didn't make you nervous again, did she? She described your accident so simply and in such a matter of course way. She seemed to blame the whole matter on herself; first her discovery of the waterfall, then her falling asleep. She is a brave, unselfish girl. Hoping you 'would forgive' her--for saving your life!" "Oh, mother, don't! You can't guess how that hurts me. 'Forgive her'! Can she ever in this world forgive me!" And again the invalid's face was hidden in the covers, while her body shook with sobs; that convinced Lady Jane that nobody, not even her anxious self, knew how seriously ill her daughter was. "My child, my child, don't grieve so! It is all past and gone. I made a mistake in forcing you to meet the companion of your disaster and hearing the story from her, but please do forget it for my sake. You are well--or soon will be; and the sooner you gain some strength, you'll be as happy as ever." "I shall never be happy again--never. I want to go away from here. I never want to see Oak Knowe again!" wailed Gwendolyn with fresh tears. "Go away? Why, darling, you have always been happier here than in any other place. At home you complain of your brothers, and you think my home rules harder than the Lady Principal's. Besides, I've just settled the boys at school and with you here, I felt free to make all my plans for a winter abroad. Don't be nonsensical. Don't spoil everything by foolishness concerning an accident that ended so well. I don't understand you, dearest, I certainly do not." Assembly Hall had been cleared for the entertainment. Most of the chairs had been removed, only a row of them being left around the walls for the benefit of the invited guests. These were the friends and patrons of the school from the near by city and from the country houses round about. Conspicuous among these was old John Gilpin in his Sunday suit, his long beard brushed till each hair hung smooth and separate, his bald head polished till it shone, and himself the most ill at ease of all the company. Beside him sat the little widow, Robin's mother; without whom, John had declared, he would "not stir hand nor hoof" toward any such frivolity, and the good Dame abetting him in the matter. She had said: "No, Mrs. Locke, no more he shall. I can't go, it's bread-settin' night, and with my being so unwieldy and awkward like--I'd ruther by far stay home. Robin will be all right. The dear lad's become the very apple of my eye and I e'enamost dread his gettin' well enough to go to work again. A bit of nonsense, like this of Dorothy's gettin'-up, 'll do you more good nor medicine. I've said my say and leave it said. If John could go in his clean smock, he'd be all right, even to face that Lady Principal that caught him cavortin' like a silly calf. But 'twould be an obligement to me if you'd go along and keep him in countenance." Of course, Mrs. Locke could do no less for a neighbor who had so befriended her and Robin: so here she was, looking as much the lady in her cheap black gown as any richer woman there. Also, so absorbed she was in keeping old John from trying to "cut and run," or doing anything else that would have mortified his wife. The Lady Principal had herself hesitated somewhat before the cottagers were invited, fearing their presence would be offensive to more aristocratic guests, but the good Bishop had heartily endorsed Dorothy's plea for them and she accepted his decision. In any case, she need not have feared. For suddenly there sounded from the distance the wailing of a violin, so weird and suggestive of uncanny things, that all talking ceased and all eyes turned toward the wide entrance doors, through which the masqueraders must come. Everything within the great room had been arranged with due attention to "effect." In its center a great "witches' caldron" hung suspended from three poles, and a lantern hung above it, where the bobbing for apples would take place. Dishes of salt, witch-cakes of meal, jack-o'-lanterns dimly lighted, odors of brimstone, daubs of phosphorus here and there--in fact, everything that the imaginations of the maskers could conceive, or reading suggest as fit for Hallowe'en, had been prepared. The doleful music drew nearer and nearer and as the lights in the Hall went out, leaving only the pale glimmer of the lanterns, even the most indifferent guests felt a little thrill run through their nerves. Then the doors slowly opened and there came through them a ghostly company that seemed endless. From head to foot each "ghost" was draped in white, even the extended hand which held a lighted taper was gloved in white, and the whole procession moved slowly to the dirge which the unseen musicians played. After a circuit of the great room, they began a curious dance which, in reality, was a calisthenic movement familiar to the everyday life of these young actors, but, as now performed, seemed weird and nerve-trying even to themselves. Its effect upon others was even more powerful and upon John Gilpin, to send him into a shivering fit that alarmed Mrs. Locke. "Why, Mr. Gilpin, what's the matter? Are you ill?" "Seems if--seems if--my last hour's come! Needn't tell me--them's--just--just plain schoolgirls! They--they're spooks right out the graveyard, sure as preachin' and I wish--I hadn't come! And there's no end of 'em! And it means--somethin' terr'ble! I wish--do you suppose--Ain't there a winder some'ers nigh? Is this Hall high up? Could I--could I climb out it?" The poor little widow was growing very nervous herself. Her companion's positive terror was infecting her and she felt that if this were her promised "fun" she'd had quite enough of it, and would be as glad as he to desert the gathering. Suddenly the movement changed. The slowly circling ghosts fell into step with the altered music, which, still a wailing minor, grew fast and faster, until with a crash its mad measure ended. At that instant, and before the lights were turned on, came another most peculiar sound. It was like the patter of small hoofs, the "ih-ih-ihing" of some terrified beast; and all ears were strained to listen while through those open doors came bounding and leaping, as if to escape its own self--What? From her perch on Dr. Winston's knees, Miss Millikins-Pillikins identified it as: "The debbil! The debbil!" Old John sprang to his feet and shrieked, while, as if attracted by his cry, the horrible object made straight for him and with one vicious thrust of its dreadful head knocked him down. CHAPTER VIII PEER AND COMMONER The lights flashed out. The ghostly wrappings fell from the figures which had been halted by the sudden apparition that had selected poor John Gilpin as its victim, though, in knocking him down it had knocked common sense back into his head. For as he lay sprawled on the floor the thrusts of that demoniac head continued and now, instead of frightening, angered him. For there was something familiar in the action of his assailant. Recovering his breath, he sat up and seized the horns that were prodding his Sunday suit, and yelled: "Quit that, Baal, you old rascal! Dressin' up like the Old Boy, be ye? Well, you never could ha' picked out a closer fit! But I'll strip ye bare--you cantankerous old goat, you Baal!" Away flew the mask of the evil spirit which some ingenious hand had fastened to the animal's head, and up rose such a shout of laughter as made the great room ring. The recent "ghosts" swarmed about the pair, still in masks and costumes, and a lively chase of Baal followed. The goat had broken away from the irate old man, as soon as might be, and John had risen stiffly to his feet. But his bashfulness was past. Also, his lameness was again forgotten, as one masquerader after another whirled about him, catching his coat skirts or his arm and laughingly daring him: "Guess who I am!" He didn't even try, but entered into the fun with as great zest as any youngster present, and it must be admitted, making a greater noise than any. Around and around the great hall sped the goat, somebody having mischievously closed the doors to prevent its escape; and across and about chased the merrymakers, tossing off their masks to see and careless now who guessed their identity. "Baal!" "Baal here!" "Who owns him? Where did he come from?" "What makes him so slippery? I wonder if he's been greased!" At last answered the farmer: "I guess I could tell you who owns him, but I'd better not. I don't want to get nobody into trouble, much as he deserves it." "'He?' Is it a 'he' then and not one of the girls?" demanded Winifred. But he did not inform her, merely asking when it would be time to bob for apples. "Because I know they're prime. They come out Dame's choisest bar'l. Grew on a tree she'll let nobody touch, not even me." "Apples! Apples! My turn first!" cried Florita Sheraton, stooping her fat body above the "caldron" into which some of the fruit had been tossed. But she failed, of course, her frantic efforts to plant her white teeth in any one of the apples resulting only in the wetting of her paper crown and ruff, as well as the ripping of her hastily made "robe." Then the others crowded around the great kettle, good naturedly pushing first comers aside while but a few succeeded in obtaining a prize. Old John was one of these; so gay and lively that the audience found him the most amusing feature of the entertainment. Till finally Mrs. Locke gained courage to cross to his side and whisper something in his ear; at which he looked, abashed and with a furtive glance in the direction of the Lady Principal, he murmured: "Right you be. I 'low I've forgot myself and I'm afraid she'd blush to see me so cuttin' up again. And too, I clean forgot that bag! I'll step-an'-fetch it right away." With his disappearance half the noise and nonsense ended, but more than satisfaction greeted his return, with Jack, the boot-boy, in close attendance. The latter bore in each hand a jug of freshly made sweet cider but his expression was not a happy one, and he kept a watchful eye upon the old man he followed. The latter carried two baskets; one heavy with well cracked nuts, the other as light with its heap of white popped corn. Bowing low to the Lady Principal he remarked: "With your permission, Ma'am;" then set the articles down beside the "caldron," clapping his hands to attract the schoolgirls' attention and bid them gather around his "treat" to enjoy it. Then, stumbling over a fallen mask, he sternly ordered Jack: "Get to work and clear these things up, and don't you forget to save Baal's, for, likely, 'twill be needed again." At which the boot-boy's face turned crimson, though that might have come from stooping. Nobody waited a second invitation to enjoy the good things that John's thoughtfulness had provided; but, sitting on the floor around his baskets, they made him act the host in dispensing fair portions to all, a maid having quickly brought plates, nutpicks and cups for their service. After the feast followed games and dances galore, till the hour grew late for schoolgirls, and the Bishop begged: "Before we part, my children, please give us a little music. A song from the Minims, a bit from the Sevenths on the piano, and a violin melody from our girl from the South. For it is she, really, who is responsible for this delightful party. Now she has coaxed us into trying it once, I propose that we make Hallowe'en an annual junketing affair, and--All in favor of so doing say 'Aye.'" After which the "Ayes" and hand claps were so deafening, that the good man bowed his head as if before a storm. Then the room quieted and the music followed; but when it came to Dorothy's turn she was nowhere to be seen. Girlish cries for "Queenie!" "Miss Dixie!" "Dolly! Dolly Doodles!" "Miss Calvert to the front!" failed to bring her. "Gone to 'step-an'-fetch' her fiddle--or Mr. Gilpin's, maybe!" suggested Winifred, with a mischievous glance at the old man who sat on the floor in the midst of the girls, gay now as any of them and still urging them to take "just a han'ful more" of the nuts he had been at such pains to crack for them. But neither Dorothy nor "fiddle" appeared; and the festivities came to a close without her. "Queer where Queenie went to!" said Florita, walking along the hall toward her dormitory, "and as queer, too, where that goat came from." "Seemed to be an old acquaintance of the farmer's, didn't it? He called it 'Baal,' as if that was its name; and wasn't it too funny for words? to see him chasing after it, catching it and letting it slip away so, till Jack caught it and led it away. From the way he acted I believe _he_ was the one who owns it and rigged it up so," said Ernesta, beside her. "Well, no matter. I'm so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open! But what a glorious time we've had; and what a mess Assembly Hall is in." "Who cares? We're had the fun and now Jack and the scullery boy will have to put it in order for us. Matron'll see to that. Good night." They parted, each entering her own cubicle and each wondering somewhat why Dorothy did not come to hers. Commonly she was the most prompt of all in retiring and this was long past the usual hour. Could they have seen her at that moment their surprise would have been even greater. Long before, while the feast was at its height, the girl had quietly slipped away. Despite the fun she had so heartily enjoyed, thoughts of the visit to Gwendolyn's sick room, which she had made just before it, kept coming into her mind: and her thoughts running thus: "Gwen was ill, she really was, although Lady Jane seemed to think her only whimsical. She looked so unhappy and maybe partly because she couldn't be in this first Hallowe'en party. It was too bad. I felt as if she must come and when I said so to Winnie she just laughed and answered: 'Serves her right. Gwendolyn has always felt herself the top of the heap, that nothing could go on just right if she didn't boss the job. Now she'll find out that a little "Commoner" like you can do what no "Peer" ever did. Don't go worrying over that girl, Queen Baltimore. A lesson or two like this will do her good. She'd be as nice as anybody if it wasn't for her wretched stuck-up-ness. Miss Muriel says it's no harm to be proud if it's pride of the right sort. But pride of rank--Huh! How can anybody help where they're born or who their parents are? Don't you be silly, too, Dorothy Calvert, and pity somebody who'd resent the pity. I never knew a girl like you. You make me provoked. Never have a really, truly good time because you happen to know of somebody else that isn't having it. I say again: If the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard feels bad because she isn't in this racket I'm downright glad of it. She has spoiled lots of good times for other girls and 'turn about's fair play.'" "Now, Winnie dear, your 'bark is worse than your bite' if I can quote maxims, too. In your heart, down deep, you're just as sorry for poor Gwen as I am. Only you won't admit it." "Well, if you think so, all right. You're a stubborn little thing and once you take a notion into your brain nobody can take it out. 'Where are you going, my pretty maid? I'm going a studying, sir, she said;'" and tossing an airy kiss in Dorothy's direction, ran swiftly away. Yet events proved that, as Winifred had argued, Dorothy's opinion did not alter. Neither could she be sorry for anyone without trying to help them in some way. The simple country treat of nuts, popped corn, and cider had proved enjoyable to other schoolmates--why shouldn't it to Gwendolyn? She'd try it, anyway. So, unnoticed by those around her, Dolly heaped her own plate with the good things, placing a tumbler of cider in the middle and hurried away, or rather glided away, so gently she moved until she reached the doorway. There she ran as swiftly down the long hall toward the west wing and Gwendolyn's room in it. Tapping at the door Lady Jane soon opened it, but with finger on lip requesting silence. But she smiled as she recognized who stood there and at the plate of goodies Dorothy had brought. Then she gently drew her in, nodding toward the cot where her daughter seemed asleep. She was not, however, but had been lying still, thinking of many things and among them her present visitor. She was not surprised to see her and this time was not pained. It seemed to the imaginative invalid that her own thoughts had compelled Dorothy to come, in response to them. "I'm awake, Mamma. You needn't keep so quiet." "Are you, dearest? Well, that's good; for here has come our little maid with something tempting for your appetite. A share of the Hallowe'en treat, is it, Dorothy?" "Yes, Lady Jane, and it's something different from what we often have. The farmer, Mr. Gilpin, brought it for us girls and I couldn't bear--I mean I thought Gwendolyn should have--might like, her share, even if--if _I_ brought it. I'm sorry the plate is a cracked one, but you see there were so many needed and the maids brought what they could find handiest, I suppose. But--the glass of cider is all right. That's from the regular table and--and it's really very sweet and nice." Now that she had come poor Dorothy wished that she hadn't. Lady Jane seemed pleased enough and had promptly turned on a stronger light which clearly showed the face of the girl on the bed. She could talk readily enough to the mother but whenever she glanced toward Gwendolyn her tongue faltered and hesitated woefully. It seemed as if the sick girl's eyes were still hard and forbidding and their steady stare made her uncomfortable. So she did not speak to the invalid and was promptly retreating when Gwendolyn suddenly asked, yet with apparent effort: "Mamma, will you please go away for a few minutes? I've--I've got to speak to Dorothy--alone." "Why, certainly, dearest, if you think you're strong enough. But wouldn't you better wait another day? Wouldn't I be able to talk for you?" "No, no. Oh! no, no. Nobody but I can--Please go--go quick!" "'Stand not upon the order of your going but go at once!'" quoted Lady Jane, jestingly. But she failed to make her daughter smile and went away, warning: "Don't talk of that accident again to-night, girls." "That's exactly what I must talk about, Mamma, but you mustn't care." Lady Jane's heart was anxious as she closed the door behind her and she would have been amazed had she heard Gwendolyn's exclamation: "I've been a wicked girl! Oh, Dorothy! I've been so mean to you! And all the time you show me kindness. Are you trying to 'heap coals' on my head?" "'Heap coals?'" echoed Dolly, at first not comprehending; then she laughed. "I couldn't do that. I have none to 'heap' and I'd be horrid if I tried. What do you mean?" "It began the night you came. I made up things about you in my mind and then told them to our 'set' for facts. I'd--I'd had trouble with the 'set' because they would not remember about--about keeping ourselves apart from those who hadn't titles. I felt we ought to remember; that if our England had made 'classes' we ought to help her, loyally. That was the first feeling, way down deep. Then--then I don't get liked as I want to be, because I can't help knowing things about other girls and if they break the rules I felt I ought to tell the teachers. Somehow, even they don't like that; for the Lady Principal about as plain as called me 'tale-bearer.' I hate--oh! I do hate to tell you all this! But I can't help it. Something inside me makes me, but I'm so miserable!" She looked the fact she stated and Dorothy's sympathy was won, so that she begged: "Don't do it, then. Just get well and--and carry no more tales and you'll be happy right away." "It's easy to talk--for you, maybe. For me, I'd almost rather die than own I've been at fault--if it wasn't for that horrid, sick sort of feeling inside me." In spite of herself the listener laughed, for Gwendolyn had laid her hands upon her stomach as if locating the seat of her misery. She asked merrily: "Is it there we keep our consciences? I never knew before and am glad to find out." But Gwendolyn didn't laugh. She was an odd sort of girl, and always desperately earnest in whatever she undertook. She had made up her mind she must confess to the "Commoner" the things she had done against her; she was sincerely sorry for them now, but she couldn't make that confession gracefully. She caught her breath as if before a plunge into cold water and then blurted out: "I told 'our set' that you were Dawkins's niece! I said you were a disgrace to the school and one of us would have to leave it. But Mamma wouldn't take _me_ and I couldn't make _you_ go. I got mad and jealous. Everybody liked you, except the girls I'd influenced. The Bishop petted you--he never notices me. Miss Tross-Kingdon treats you almost as lovingly as she does Millikins-Pillikins. All the servants smile on you and nobody is afraid of you as everybody is of me. Dawkins, and sometimes even Mamma, accuses me of a 'sharp tongue' that makes enemies. But, somehow, I can't help it. And the worst is--one can't get back the things one has said and done, no matter how she tries. Then you went and saved my life!" At this, the strange girl covered her face and began to cry, while Dorothy stared at her, too surprised to speak. Until the tears changed to sobs and Gwendolyn shook with the stress of her emotion. Then, fearing serious results, Dorothy forgot everything except that here was someone in distress which she must soothe. Down on her knees she went, flung her arms around the shaking shoulders, and pleaded: "Well, you poor dear, can't you be glad of that? Even if you can never like me isn't it good to be alive? Aren't you grateful that somebody who could swim, even poor I, was at the pool to help you out of it that day? Forget it, do forget it, and get well and happy right away. I'll keep away from you as far as I can and you must forgive me for coming here again just now." "Forgive you? Forgive you! Oh! Dorothy Calvert, can you, will you ever forgive me? After all my meanness to you, could you make yourself like me just a little?" Gwendolyn's own arms had now closed in eager entreaty about the girl she had injured. Her pride was humbled at last and completely. But there was no need of further speech between them. They clung together in their suddenly awakened affection, at peace and so happy that neither felt it possible they had ever been at odds. When, at last, Dorothy drew back and rose, Gwen still clung to her hand, and penitently said: "But that isn't all. There's a lot more to tell that, maybe, will make you despise me worse than ever. I've done--" "No matter what, dearest. You've talked quite enough for to-night and Dorothy should be in bed. Bid one another good night, my dears, and meet again to-morrow;" interrupted Lady Jane, who had quietly returned. So Dorothy departed, and with a happier heart than she had had since her coming to Oak Knowe; for now there was nobody there with whom she was at discord. But--was there not? Gayly tripping down the long corridor, humming a merry air and hoping that she hadn't yet broken the retiring-rule, she stopped short on the way. Something or somebody was far ahead of her, moving with utmost caution against noise, yet himself, or itself, making a peculiar rat-a-tat-tat upon the polished boards. Instantly Dorothy hushed her light song and slackened her steps. The passage was dimly lighted for it was rarely used, leading as it did to the distant servants' quarters and ending in a great drying-room above the laundry. Even this drying-room was almost given up to the storage of trunks and other things, the laundry itself being more convenient for all its requirements. Rumors came back to her of the burglaries which the kitchen-folk had declared had been frequent of late, none more serious than the loss of a dinner provided and the strange rifling of safes and cupboard. Such had happened weeks before, then apparently ceased; but they had begun again of late; with added rumors of strange noises heard at night, and in the quieter hours of the day. The faculty had tried to keep these fresh rumors from the pupils' ears, but they had leaked out. Yet no real investigation had been made. It was a busy household, both above and below stairs; and as is usual, what is "everybody's business is nobody's" and things were left to run their course. But now, was the burglar real? And had Dorothy come suddenly upon his track? If she only could find out! Without fear of consequences to herself and forgetful of that retiring-rule she tip-toed noiselessly in the wake of whatever was in advance, and so came at last to the door of the drying-room. It stood ajar and whatever had preceded her passed beyond it as the girl came to it. She also entered, curiosity setting every nerve a-tingle, yet she still unafraid. Stepping behind the open door she waited what next, and trying to accustom her eyes to the absolute darkness of the place. The long row of windows on the outer wall were covered by wooden shutters, as she had noticed from the ground, and with them closed the only light which could enter came through a small scuttle, or skylight in the center of the ceiling. From her retreat behind the door she listened breathlessly. The rat-a-tat-tat had died away in the distance, whither she now dared not follow because of the darkness; and presently she heard a noise like the slipping of boards in a cattle shed. Then footsteps returning, swiftly and softly, as of one in bare or stockinged feet. There was a rush past her, the door to which she clung was snatched from her and shut with a bang. This sound went through her with a thrill, and vividly there arose the memory of a night long past when she had been imprisoned in an empty barn, by the wild freak of an old acquaintance of the mountain, and half-witted Peter Piper for sole companion. Then swiftly she felt her way back along the door till her hand was on its lock--which she could not move. Here was a situation suitable, indeed, for any Hallowe'en! CHAPTER IX THE NIGHT THAT FOLLOWED It was long past the hour when, on ordinary nights, Oak Knowe would have been in darkness, relieved only by a glimmer here and there, at the head of some stairway, and in absolute stillness. But the Hallowe'en party had made everything give way and the servants were up late, putting the great Assembly Hall into the spotless order required for the routine of the next day. Nut shells and scattered pop corn, apple-skins that had been tossed over the merrymakers' shoulders to see what initial might be formed, broken masks that had been discarded, fragments of the flimsy costumes, splashes of spilled cider, scattered crumbs and misplaced furniture, made Dawkins and her aids lift hands in dismay as, armed with brooms and scrubbing brushes they came to "clear up." "Clear up, indeed! Never was such a mess as this since ever I set foot at Oak Knowe. After the sweepin' the scrubbin'; and after the scrubbin' the polishin', and the chair fetchin' and--my heart! 'Tis the dear bit lassie she is, but may I be further afore Dorothy Dixie gets up another Hallowe'en prank!" grumbled Dawkins, yet with a tender smile on her lips, remembering the thousand and one trifles which the willing girl had done for her. For Dawkins was growing old. Under her maid's cap the hair was thin and gray, and stooping to pick up things the girls had carelessly thrown down was no longer an easy task. The rules against carelessness were stringent enough and fairly well obeyed, yet among three hundred lively girls some rules were bound to be ignored. But from the first, as soon as she understood them, Dorothy had been obedient to all these rules; and it was Dawkins's pride, when showing visitors through the building to point to Dolly's cubicle as a model. Here was never an article left out of place; because not only school regulations but real affection for the maid, who had been her first friend at Oak Knowe, made Dorothy "take care." Then busy at their tasks, the workers talked of the evening's events and laughingly recalled the incident of the goat, which they had witnessed from the upper gallery; a place prepared for them by the good Bishop's orders, that nobody at his great school should be prohibited from enjoying a sight of the pupils' frequent entertainments. "But sure, 'tis that lad, Jack, which frets me as one not belongin' to Oak Knowe," said Dora, with conviction. "Not belonging? Why, woman alive, he's been here longer nor yourself. 'Twas his mother that's gone, was cook here before the _chef_ and pity for his orphaned state the reason he's stayed since. But I own ye, he's not been bettered by his summers off, when the school's not keepin' and him let work for any farmer round. I note he's a bit more prankish an' disobliging, every fall when he comes back. For some curious reason--I can't dream what--he's been terrible chummy with Miss Gwendolyn. Don't that beat all?" said Dawkins whirling her brush. "I don't know--I don't really know as 'tis. He's forever drawing pictures round of every created thing, and she's come across him doin' it. She's that crazy for drawing herself that she's likely took an int'rest in him. I heard her puttin' notions in his head, once, tellin' him how 't some the greatest painters ever lived had been born just peasants like him." "Huh! Was that what made him so top-lofty and up-steppin'? When I told him he didn't half clean the young ladies' shoes, tossin' his head like the simpleton he is, and saucin' back as how he wouldn't be a boot-boy all his life. I'd find out one these days whom I'd been tongue-lashin' so long and'd be ashamed to look him in the face. Huh!" added another maid. "Well, why bother with such as him, when we've all this to finish, and me to go yet to my dormitory to see if all's right with my young ladies," answered Dawkins and silence fell, till the task was done and the great room in the perfect order required for the morning. Then away to her task above hurried good Dawkins and coming to Dorothy's cubicle found its bed still untouched and its light brightly burning. The maid stared and gasped. What did this mean? Had harm befallen her favorite? Then she smiled at her own fears. Of course, Dorothy was in the room with little Grace, where the cot once prepared for her still remained because the child had so begged; in "hopes I'll be sick some more and Dolly'll come again." So Dawkins turned off the light and hurried to her reclining chair in the outer hall, where she usually spent the hours of her watch. But no sooner had she settled herself there than all her uneasiness returned. Twisting and turning on her cushions she fretted: "I don't see what's got into this chair, the night! Seems if I can't get a comfortable spot in it anywhere. Maybe, it's 'cause I'm extra tired. Hallowe'en pranks are fun for the time but there's a deal hard work goes along with 'em. Or any other company fixings, for that matter. I wonder was the little Grace scared again, by that ridic'lous goat? Is that why Dorothy went with her? Where'd the beast come from, anyway? And who invited it to the masquerade? Not the good Bishop, I'll be bound. Now, what does make me so uneasy! Sure there's nought wrong with dear little Dixie. How could there be under this safe roof?" But the longer Dawkins pondered the matter the more restless she grew; till, at last, she felt she must satisfy her mind, even at the cost of disturbing the Lady Principal; and a moment later tapped at her door, asking softly: "Are you awake, Miss Muriel? It's Dawkins." "Yes, Dawkins, come in. I've not been able to sleep yet. I suppose the evening's care and excitement has tired me too much. What is it you want? Anything wrong in the dormitory?" "Well, not to say wrong--or so I hope. I just stepped here to ask is Miss Dorothy Calvert staying the night?" "Staying with Grace? No, indeed, the child has been asleep for hours: perfectly satisfied now that I and so many others have seen the apparition she had, and so proved her the truthful little creature she'd always been." That seemed a very long answer to impatient Dawkins and she clipped it short by asking: "Then, Ma'am, where do you suppose she is?" "What? Do you mean that she isn't in her own place?" "No, Ma'am, nor sign of her; and it's terr'ble strange, 'pears to me. I don't like the look of it, Ma'am, I do not." "Pooh! don't make a mystery out of it, my good woman!" replied Miss Tross-Kingdon, yet with a curious flutter in her usually stern voice. Then she considered the matter for a moment, finally directing: "Go to the hospital wing and ask if she's there with Gwendolyn. She's been so sorry for the girl and I noticed her slipping out of Assembly with a plate full of the things Mr. Gilpin brought. I don't remember her coming back, but she was certainly absent when her violin was asked for. Doubtless, you'll find her there, but be careful not to rouse any of the young ladies. Then come back and report." Dawkins tip-toed away, glad that she had told her anxiety to her mistress. But she was back from her errand before it seemed possible she could be, her face white and her limbs trembling with fear of--she knew not what! "If it was any girl but her, Ma'am! That keeps the rules better nor any other here!" "Hush, good Dawkins. She's all right somewhere, as we shall soon discover. We'll go below and look in all the rooms, in case she might be ill, or locked in some of them." "Yes, yes, Ma'am, we'll look. Ill she might really be after all them nuts an' trash, but locked in she can't be, since never a lock is turned in this whole house. Sure the Bishop wouldn't so permit, seeing that if it fired any time them that was locked up could not so easy get out. And me the last one down, to leave all in the good order you like." "Step softly still, Dawkins. It would take very little to start a panic among our many girls should they hear that anything was amiss." Each took a candle from the rack in the hall and by the soft light of these began their search below, not daring to flash on the electric lights whose brilliance might possibly arouse the sleepers in the house. Dawkins observed that the Lady Principal, walking ahead, was shaking, either with cold or nervousness, and, as for herself, her teeth were fairly chattering. Of course their search proved useless. Nowhere in any of those first floor rooms was any trace of the missing girl. Even closets were examined while Dawkins peered behind the furniture and curtains, her heart growing heavier each moment. Neither mistress nor maid spoke now, though the former led the way upwards again and silently inspected the dormitories on each floor. Also, she looked into each private room of the older and wealthier pupils, but the result was the same--Dorothy had as completely disappeared as if she had been bodily swallowed up. Then the aid of the other maids and, even of a few teachers was secured, although that the school work might go on regularly the next day, not many of these latter were disturbed. At daybreak, when the servants began to gather in the great kitchen, each to begin his daily tasks, the Lady Principal surprised them by her appearance among them. In the briefest and quietest manner possible she told them what had happened and begged their help in the search. But she was unprepared for the result. A housemaid threw up her hands in wild excitement, crying: "'Tis ten long years I've served Oak Knowe but my day is past! Her that went some syne was the wise one. I'll not tarry longer to risk the health o' me soul in a house that's haunted by imps!" "Nor me! Him that's snatched off to his wicked place the sweet, purty gell, of the willin' word an' friendly smile, 'll no long spare such as me! A fine collectin' ground for the Evil One is so big a school as this. I'm leavin' the dustin' to such as can do it, but I'm off, Ma'am, and better times for ye, I'm sure!" cried another superstitious creature. This was plain mutiny. For a moment the lady's heart sank at the prospect before her, for the panic would spread if not instantly quelled, and there were three hundred hungry girls awaiting breakfast--and breakfast but one feature of the case. Should these servants leave, to spread their untrue tales, new ones would be almost impossible to obtain. Then, summoning her authority, she demanded: "Silence and attention from all of you. I shall telephone for the constabulary, and any person who leaves Oak Knowe before Miss Calvert is found will leave it for the lock-up. The housemaids are excused from ordinary duties and are to assist the _chef_ in preparing breakfast. The rest of you, who have retained your common sense, are to spread yourselves about the house and grounds, and through every outbuilding till some one of you shall find the girl you all have loved. Leave before then? I am ashamed of your hard hearts." With stately dignity the mistress left the kitchen and a much subdued force of helpers behind her. That threat of "the constabulary" was an argument not to be defied. "Worst of it is, she meant it. Lady Principal never says a thing she doesn't mean. So--Well, I suppose I'll have to stay, then, for who wants to get took up? But it's hard on a workin' woman 't she can't do as she likes," muttered the first deserter and set about her duties. Also, as did she so did the others. Meanwhile how had the night passed with the imprisoned Dorothy? At first with greater anger than fear; anger against the unknown person who had shut that door upon her. Then she thought: "But of course he didn't know, whoever it was. I'm sure it was a man or boy, afraid, maybe, to make a noise account of its being late. Yet what a fix I'm in! Nobody will know or come to let me out till Dawkins goes her rounds and that'll be very, very late, on account of her clearing up the mess we made down in Assembly. My! what a fine time we had! And how perfectly grand that Gwendolyn and I should be friends at last. She kissed me. Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard kissed me! It's worth even being shut up here alone, behind that spring-locked door, just to be friends. I'm so sleepy. I wish I could find something to put around me and I'd lie right down on this floor and take a nap till somebody lets me out." Then she remembered that once she had heard Dawkins telling another maid that there were "plenty more blankets in the old drying-room if her 'beds' needed 'em;" and maybe she could find some if she tried. "This is the very darkest place could ever be, seems if! ouch! that hurt!" said the prisoner aloud, to bolster her own courage, and as she stumbled against a trunk that bruised her ankle. "I'll take more care." So she did: reasoning that people generally piled things against a wall, that is, in such a place, for greater convenience. With outstretched hands she felt her way and at last was rewarded by finding the blankets she sought. Here, too, were folded several cots, that were needed at times, like Commencement, when many strangers were at Oak Knowe. But she didn't trouble to set up one of these, even if she could have done so in that gloom. But a blanket she could manage, and beside the cots she could feel a heap of them. In a very few minutes she had pulled down several of these and spread them on the floor; and a little later had wrapped them about her and was sound asleep--"as a bug in a rug, like Dawkins says," her last, untroubled thought. So, though a prisoner, for many hours she slumbered peacefully. Down in the breakfast-room matters went on as usual. Or if many of the girls and a few of the pupils seemed unduly sleepy, that was natural enough, considering the frivolities and late hours of the night before. Even the Lady Principal, sitting calmly in her accustomed place, looked very pale and tired; and Winifred, observing this, whispered to her neighbor: "I don't believe we'll get another party very soon. Just look at Miss Tross-Kingdon. She's as white as a ghost and so nervous she can hardly sit still. I never saw her that way before. The way she keeps glancing toward the doors, half-scared every time she hears a noise, is queer. I wonder if she's expecting somebody!" "Likely somebody's late and she's waiting to say: 'Miss'--whoever it is--'your excuse, please?' I wonder who 'twill be! and say, look at the Aldrich ten--can you see Dorothy?" Winifred glanced around and answered, with real surprise: "Why, she's absent! If it were I nobody'd be astonished, 'cause I always have the same excuse: 'Overslept.' But Dolly? Oh! I hope she isn't sick!" And immediately the meal was over, Winifred hurried to the Lady Principal and asked: "Please, Miss Muriel, can you tell me, is Dorothy Calvert ill?" "Excuse me, Winifred, I am extremely busy," returned Miss Tross-Kingdon, and hurried away as if she were afraid of being questioned further. Naturally, Winifred was surprised, for despite her sternness the Lady Principal was invariably courteous; and putting "two and two together" she decided that Dorothy was in trouble of some sort and began a systematic inquiry of all she met concerning her. But nobody had seen the girl or knew anything about her; yet the questioner's anxiety promptly influenced others and by the time school session was called there was a wide-spread belief that some dreadful thing had befallen the southerner, and small attention was paid to lessons. It was not until the middle of the morning that Jack-boot-boy appeared in the kitchen, from his room in an outside building, where the men servants slept. He was greeted by reproofs for his tardiness and the news of Dorothy's disappearance. "Lost? Lost, you say? How can she be right here in this house? Why, I saw her around all evening. It was her own party, wasn't it? or hers was the first notion of it. Huh! That's the queerest! S'pose the faculty'll offer a reward? Jiminy cricket! Wish they would! I bet I'd find her. Why, sir, I'd make a first rate detective, I would. I've been readin' up on that thing an' I don't know but it would pay me better'n paintin', even if I am a 'born artist,' as Miss Gwendolyn says." "Born nincompoop! That's what you are, and the all-conceitedest lazybones 't ever trod shoe leather! Dragging out of bed this time o' day, and not a shoe cleaned--in my dormitory, anyway!" retorted Dawkins, in disgust. "Huh! old woman, what's the matter with you? And why ain't you _in_ bed, 'stead of out of it? I thought all you night-owls went to bed when the rest of us got up. You need sleep, you do, for I never knowed you crosser'n you be now--which is sayin' consid'able!" Dawkins was cross, there was no denying that, for her nerves were sadly shaken by her fears for the girl she had learned to love so dearly. "You get about your business, boy, at once; without tarryin' to pass remarks upon your betters;" and she made a vicious dash toward him as if to strike him. He knew this was only pretence, and sidled toward her, mockingly, then, as she raised her hand again--this time with more decision--he cowered aside and made a rush out of the kitchen. "Well, that's odd! The first time I ever knew that boy to turn down his breakfast!" remarked the _chef_, pointing to a heaped up plate at the back of the range. "Well, I shan't keep it any longer. He'll have the better appetite for dinner, ha, ha!" Jack's unusual indifference to good food was due to a sound he had overheard. It came from somewhere above and passed unnoticed by all but him, but set him running to a distant stairway which led from "the old laundry" to the drying-loft above: and a sigh of satisfaction escaped him as he saw that the door of this was shut. "Lucky for me, that is! I was afraid they'd been looking here for that Calvert girl, but they haven't, 'cause the lock ain't broke and the key's in my pocket," said he, in a habit he had of talking to himself. The noise beyond the door increased, and worried him, and he hurriedly sought the key where he usually carried it. The door could be, and had been, closed by a spring, but it needed that key to open it, as he had boastingly remembered. Unhappy lad! In not one of his many and ragged pockets could that key now be found! While in the great room beyond the noise grew loud, and louder, with each passing second and surely would soon be heard by all the house. Under the circumstances nobody would hesitate to break that hateful lock to learn the racket's cause; yet what would happen to him when this was discovered? What, indeed! Yet, strangely enough, in all his trepidation there was no thought of Dorothy. CHAPTER X OPEN CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL A housemaid, passing through the disused "old laundry" on the ground floor, as a short-cut toward the newer one in a detached building, heard a strange noise in the drying-room overhead, and paused to listen. This was unusual. In ordinary the loft was never entered, nowadays, except by some slippered maid, or Michael with a trunk. Setting down her basket of soiled linen she put her hands on her hips and stood motionless, intently listening. Dorothy? Could it be Dorothy? Impossible! No living girl could make all that racket; yet--was that a scream? Was it laughter--terror--wild animal--or what? Away she sped; her nimble feet pausing not an instant on the way, no matter with whom she collided nor whom her excited face frightened, and still breathlessly running came into the great Assembly Hall. There Miss Tross-Kingdon had, by the advice of the Bishop, gathered the whole school; to tell them as quietly as she could of Dorothy's disappearance and to cross-examine them as to what anyone could remember about her on the evening before. For the sorrowful fact could no longer be hidden--Dorothy Calvert was gone and could not be found. On the faces of those three hundred girls was consternation and grief; in their young hearts a memory of the "spookish" things which had happened of late, but that had not before disturbed them; and now, at the excited entrance of the maid, a shiver ran over the whole company. Here was news! Nothing less could explain this unceremonious disturbance. Even Miss Muriel's face turned paler than it had been, could that have been possible and without a word she waited for the maid to speak. "Oh! Lady Principal! Let somebody come! The drying-loft! screams--boards dragging--or trunks--or murder doing--maybe! Let somebody go quick--Michael--a man--men--Somebody quick!" Exhausted by her own excitement, the maid sank upon the nearest chair, her hand on her heart, and herself unable to add another word. Miss Tross-Kingdon rose, trembling so that she could hardly walk, and made her way out of the room. In an instant every assembled schoolgirl was on her feet, speeding toward the far west wing and the great loft, dreading yet eager to see what would there be revealed. Still anxious on his own account, but from a far different cause, and still listening at the closed door with wonder at what seemed going on behind it, was Jack, the boot-boy. At the approach of the excited girls, he lifted his ear from the keyhole and looked behind him, to find himself trapped, as it were, at this end of the narrow passage by the multitude which swarmed about him, feverishly demanding: "Boy, what is it? What is it? Is Dorothy in there? Is Dorothy found?" "Is Dorothy--" Poor Jack! This was the worst yet! At full comprehension of what that question meant, even he turned pale and his lips stuttered: "I--I--dunno--I--Jiminy cricket!" He must get out of that! He must--he must! Before that door was opened he must escape! Frantically he tried to force his way backward through the crowd which penned him in, but could make little progress; even that being suddenly cut off by a strong hand laid on his shoulder and the _chef_ forcing into his hand a stout crowbar, and ordering: "Help to break her down!" at the same instant Michael, the porter, pressing to his side armed with an ax. "Now, all together!" cried he, and whether or no, Jack was compelled to aid in the work of breaking in. But it was short work, indeed, and the crowd surged through the opening in terror of what they might behold--only to have that terror changed into shouts of hilarious delight. For there was Dorothy! not one whit the worse for her brief imprisonment and happily unconscious of the anxiety which that had caused to others. And there was Baal, the goat! Careering about the place, dragging behind him a board to which he had been tied and was unable to dislodge. The room was fairly lighted now by the sun streaming through the skylight, and Baal had been having a glorious time chasing Dorothy about the great room, from spot to spot, gleefully trying to butt her with his horns, leaping over piles of empty trunks, and in general making such a ridiculous--if sometimes dangerous--spectacle of himself, that Dorothy, also, had had a merry time. "Oh! you darling, you darling!" "Dolly Doodles, how came you here!" "Why did you do it? You've scared us all almost to death!" "The Bishop has gone into town to start detectives on your track!" "The Lady Principal--Here she is now! you've made her positively ill, and as for Dawkins, they say she had completely collapsed and lies on her chair moaning all the time." "Oh, oh! How dreadful! And how sorry I am! I never dreamed; oh! dear Miss Muriel, do believe me--listen, listen!" The lady sat down on a trunk and drew the girl to her. Her only feeling now was one of intensest gratitude, but she remembered how all the others had shared her anxiety and bade her recovered pupil tell the story so that all might hear. It was very simple, as has been seen, and needs no repetition here, ending with the heartfelt declaration: "That cures me of playing detective ever again! I was so anxious to stop all that silly talk about evil spirits and after all the only such around Oak Knowe was Baal!" "But how Baal, and why? And most of all how came he here in the house?" demanded Miss Tross-Kingdon, looking from one to another; until her eye was arrested by the expression of Jack, the boot-boy's face. That was so funny she smiled, seeing it, and asked him: "Can't you explain this, Jack?" "Uh--er--Ah! Wull--wull, yes, Ma'am, I allow 't I might. I mean 't I can. Er--sho!--Course, I'll have to. Wull--wull--You see, Miss Lady Principal, how as last summer, after school was took in, I hired myself out to work for old John Gilpin an' he had a goat. Dame didn't hanker for it no great; said it et up things an' got into places where 'twarn't wanted and she adwised him, that is to say she told him, how 't he must get rid of it. He got rid of it onto me. I hadn't got nobody belongin' and we've been first rate friends, Baal and me." This was evidenced by the quietude of the animal, now lying at the boot-boy's feet in affectionate confidence, and refreshing itself with a nap, after its hilarious exercise. "Strange that we didn't know he was on our grounds, for I did not. Where have you kept him, Jack, and how?" The lad flushed and fidgetted but dared not refuse to reply. He had been too long under the authority of Miss Tross-Kingdon for that, to whose good offices his mother had left him when she died. "Wull--Wull--" "Kindly stop 'wulling' and reply. It is nearly lunch time and Dorothy has had no breakfast." "Yes, Miss Muriel, please but I have. When I waked up after I'd slept so long it was real light, so I went poking around to see if I could find another door that would open, or any way out; and I came to a queer place away yonder at the end; and I heard the funniest noise--'ih-ih-ih--Ah-umph!' something like that. Then I knew it was the goat, that I'd heard pat-pat-pattering along the hall last night and that I'd followed. And I guessed it was Jack, instead of a burglar, who'd rushed past me and locked me in. I was mighty glad to see anybody, even a goat, and I opened the gate to the place and Baal jumped out. He was tied to that board--he'd pulled it off the gate, and was as glad to see me as I was him. That little sort of cupboard, or cubby-hole, had lots of excelsior in it; I guess it had come around crockery or something, and that was where Baal slept. There was a tin box there, too, and I opened it. I was glad enough then! For it was half full of cakes and apples and a lemon pie, that you call a 'Christchurch' up here in Canada; and before I knew it Baal had his nose in the box, like he was used to eating out of it, and I had to slap his nose to make him let me have a share. So I'm not hungry and all I care is that I have made you all so worried." But already that was almost forgotten, though Miss Muriel's curiosity was not yet satisfied. "Jack, are you in the habit of keeping that animal here, in this room?" "Yes--yes, Ma'am; times I am. Other times he stays in the old shed down by the brook. Most of the men knew I had him; Michael did, anyhow. He never said nothing again' it;" answered the boy, defiantly, trying to shift responsibility to the old porter, the most trusted servant of the house. "No, I cannot imagine Michael meddling with you and your foolishness; and for a lad who's lived so long at a great school, I wonder to hear such bad grammar from your lips. How did you get Baal into this room without being detected in it?" "Why, Ma'am, that was easy as preachin'. That back end, outside steps, what leads up from the ground for carrying up wet clothes, it used to be. He comes up that way, for goats can climb any place. Leastwise, Baal can, and the door's never locked no more, 'cause I lost the key;" answered Jack, who was now the center of attention and proud of the fact. "Very well, Jack. That will do. Kindly see to it that Baal is permanently removed from Oak Knowe, and--" She paused for a moment, as if about to add more, then quietly moved away, with Dorothy beside her and all her now happy flock following. Never before had the laughter and chatter of her girls sounded so musical in her ears, nor her own heart been lighter than now, in its rebound from her recent anxiety. She wasn't pleased with Jack, the boot-boy; decidedly she was not pleased. She had not been since his return from his summer's work, for he had not improved either in industry or behavior. She had not liked the strange interest which Gwendolyn had taken in his slight gift for drawing, which that enthusiastic young artist called "remarkable," but which this more experienced instructor knew would never amount to anything. Yet that was a matter which could wait. Meanwhile, here was a broken day, with everybody still so excited that lessons would be merely wasted effort; so, after she had sent Dorothy to put on her ordinary school dress, she informed the various classes that no more work was required that day and that after lunch there would be half-holiday for all her pupils. "Hurrah! Hurrah! Three cheers for Dolly and may she soon get lost again!" shouted Winifred, and, for once, was not rebuked because of unladylike manners. Left to himself, Jack regarded his beloved Baal, in keen distress. "Said you'd got to go, did she? Well, if you go I do, too. Anyhow I'm sick to death of cleaning nasty girls', or nasty shoes o' a lot o' girls--ary way you put it. Boot-boy, Baal! Think o' that. If that ain't a re--restrick-erated life for a artist, like Miss Gwen says I am; or uther a dectective gentleman--I'd like to know. No, sir, Baal! We'll quit an' we'll do it to once. Maybe they won't feel sorry when they find me gone an' my place empty to the table! Maybe them girls that laughed when that old schoolmarm was a pitchin' into me afore all them giggling creatures, maybe they won't feel bad, a-lookin' at that hull row of shoes outside cubicle doors waiting to be cleaned and not one touched toward it! Huh! It'll do all them 'ristocratics good to have to clean 'em themselves. All but Miss Gwendolyn. She's the likeliest one of the hull three hundred. I hate--I kinder hate to leave her. 'Artists has kindred souls,' she said once when she was showin' me how to draw that skull. Who can tell? I might get to be more famouser'n her, smart as she is; an' I might grow up, and her too, and I might come to her house--or is it a turreted castle?--an' I might take my fa--famousness an' offer it to her to marry me! And then, when her folks couldn't hardly believe that I was I, and her old boot-boy, maybe they'd say 'Yes, take her, my son! I'm proud to welcome into our 'ristocraticy one that has riz from a boot-boy to our rank!' Many a story-book tells o' such doings, an' what's in them ought to be true. Good for 't I can buy 'em cheap. The Bishop caught me reading one once and preached me a reg'lar sermon about it. Said that such kind of literatoor had ruined many a simple fellow and would me if I kep' on. But even Bishops don't know everything, though I allow he's a grand old man. I kind of sorter hate to leave Oak Knowe on his account, he takes such an int'rest in me. But he'll get over it. He'll have to, for we're going, Baal an' me, out of this house where we're wastin' our sweetness on the desert air. My jiminy cricket! If a boy that can paint pictures and recite poetry like I can, can't rise above shoe-cleanin' and get on in this world--I'd like to know the reason why! Come, Baal! I'll strap my clothes in a bundle, shake the dust of old Oak Knowe offen me, and hie away to seek my fortune--and your'n." Nobody interfering, Jack proceeded to put this plan into action; but it was curious that, as he reached the limits of Oak Knowe grounds, he turned and looked back on the big, many-windowed house, and at the throngs of happy girls who were at "recreation" on the well-kept lawns. A sort of sob rose in his throat and there was a strange sinking in his stomach that made him most uncomfortable. He couldn't tell that this was "homesickness," and he tried to forget it in bitterness against those whom he was deserting. "They don't care, none of 'em! Not a single mite does anyone of them 'ristocratics care what becomes of--of poor Jack, the boot-boy! Come on, Baal! If we don't start our seekin' pretty quick--Why jiminy cricket I shall be snivellin'!" Saying this, the self-exiled lad gripped the goat's leading strap and set out at a furious pace down the long road toward the distant city. He had a dime novel in one pocket, an English sixpence in another--And what was this? "My soul! If there ain't the key to that old door they broke in to see what was racketing round so! I wonder if I ought to take it back? Baal, what say? That cubby of our'n wasn't so bad. You know, Baal, I wouldn't like to be a thief--not a reg'lar thief that'd steal a key. Course I wouldn't. Anyhow, I've left, I've quit. I'm seekin' my fortune--understand? Whew! The wind's risin'. I allow there's going to be a storm. I wish--Old Dawkins used to say: 'Better take two thoughts to a thing!' an' maybe, maybe, if I'd ha' waited a spell afore--I mean I wouldn't ha' started fortune-seekin' till to-morrow and the storm over. Anyhow, I've really started, though! And if things don't happen to my mind, I can show 'em what an honest boy I am by takin' back that key. Come on, Baal, do come on! What in creation makes you drag so on that strap and keep lookin' back? Come on, I say!" Then, both helping and hindering one another, the lad and his pet passed out of sight and for many a day were seen no more in that locality. Yet the strange events of that memorable day were not all over. At study hour, that evening, came another surprise--a visit to her mates of the invalid Gwendolyn. From some of them she received only a silent nod of welcome; but Laura, Marjorie, and Dorothy sprang to meet her with one accord, and Winifred followed Dorothy's example after a second's hesitation. "Oh, Gwen! How glad we are to have you back! Are you sure you're quite strong enough to come?" questioned Marjorie, while less judicious Laura exclaimed: "But you can't guess what you've missed! We've had the greatest scare ever was in this school! You'd ought to have come down sooner. What do you think it was that happened? Guess--quick--right away! Or I can't wait to tell! I'll tell anyhow! Dorothy was lost and everybody feared she had been killed! Yes, Gwen, lost all the long night through and had to sleep with the goat and--" Gwendolyn's face was pale from her confinement in the sick room but it grew paler now, and catching Dorothy's hand she cried out: "Oh! what if I had been too late!" Nobody understood her, not even Dorothy herself, who merely guessed that Gwen was referring to their interview of the night before; but she didn't know this proud girl fully, nor the peculiar nature of that pride which, once aroused, compelled her to do what she most shrank from. As Dorothy pushed a chair forward, Gwendolyn shook her head. "Thank you, but not yet. I've got something to say--that all of you must hear." Of course, everybody was astonished by this speech and every eye turned toward the young "Peer" who was about to prove herself of noble "rank" as never in all her life before. Dorothy began to suspect what might be coming and by a silent clasp of Gwendolyn's waist and a protesting shake of her head tried to prevent her saying more. But Gwendolyn as silently put aside the appealing arm and folding her own arms stood rigidly erect. It wouldn't have been the real Gwen if she hadn't assumed this rather dramatic pose, which she had mentally rehearsed many times that day. Also, she had chosen this quiet hour and place as the most effective for her purpose, and she had almost coerced Lady Jane into letting her come. "Schoolmates and friends, I want to confess to you the meanest things that ever were done at dear Oak Knowe. From the moment she came here I disliked Dorothy Calvert and was jealous of her. In less than a week she had won Miss Muriel's heart as well as that of almost everybody else. I thought I could drive her out of the school, if I made the rest of you hate her, too. I'd begun to teach the boot-boy to draw, having once seen him attempting it. I painted him a death's head for a copy, and gave him my pocket-money to buy a mask of the Evil One." "Oh! Gwendolyn how dared you? You horrid, wicked girl!" cried gentle Marjorie, moved from her gentleness for once. "Well, I'll say this much in justice to myself. That thing went further than I meant, which was only to have him put pictures of it around in different places. He'd told me about keeping a goat in the old drying-room, and of course he couldn't always keep it still. The kitchen folks put the pictures and the goat's noises together and declared the house was haunted. I told the maids that they might lay that all to the new scholar from the States, and a lot of them believed me." Even loyal Laura now shrank aside from her paragon, simply horrified. She had helped to spread the rumor that Dorothy was a niece of Dawkins, but she had done no worse than that. It had been left to Jack-boot-boy to finish the contemptible acts. He got phosphorus from the laboratory, paint from any convenient color box, and his first success as a terrifier had been in the case of Millikins-Pillikins, at whose bed he had appeared--with the results that have been told. He it had been who had frightened the maid into leaving, and had spread consternation in the kitchen. "And in all these things he did, I helped him. I planned some of them but he always went ahead and thought worse ones out. Yet nobody, except the simpletons below stairs, believed it was Dorothy who had 'bewitched' the house," concluded that part of Gwendolyn's confession. Yet still she stood there, firmly facing the contempt on the faces of her schoolmates, knowing that that was less hard to bear than her own self-reproach had been. And presently she went on: "Then came that affair at the Maiden's Bath. Dorothy Calvert, whom I still hated, saved my life--while she might have lost her own. What I have suffered since, knowing this and how bravely she had borne all my hatefulness and had sacrificed herself for me--You must guess that. I can't tell it. But last night I made myself beg her pardon in private as I now beg it before you all. May I yet have the chance to do to her as she has done to me! Dorothy Calvert--will you forgive me?" CHAPTER XI WHAT CAME WITH THE SNOW AND ICE After that memorable week of Hallowe'en, affairs at Oak Knowe settled into their ordinary smooth running. That week had brought to all the school a surfeit of excitement so that all were glad of quiet and peace. "The classes have never made such even, rapid progress before, in all the years I've been here;" said the Lady Principal to the good Bishop. "Things are almost ominously quiet and I almost dread to have Christmas time approach. All the young ladies get more interested then in gift-preparing and anticipations of vacations at home than in school routine. I hate to have that interrupted so soon again." The Bishop laughed. "My dear Miss Muriel, you take life too seriously. Upheavals are good for us. Our lives would grow stagnant without them." "Beg pardon, but I can't fancy affairs at Oak Knowe ever being stagnant! Nor do I see, as you seem to, any fine results from the happenings of Hallow week. One of the ill results is--I cannot find a competent boot-boy. That makes you smile again, but I assure you it is no trifle in a large establishment like this, with it the rule that every pupil must walk the muddy road each day. The maids will do the work, of course, but they grumble. I do wish the ground would freeze or some good boy offer his services." A rattling of the window panes and a sound of rising wind sent the Bishop to the window: "Well, Miss Tross-Kingdon, one of your wishes is already coming true. There's a blizzard coming--surely. Flakes are already falling and I'm glad the double sashes are in place on this north side the building, and that Michael has seen to having the toboggan slide put in order. I prophesy that within a few days all the young folks will be tobogganing at a glorious rate. That's one of the things I'm thankful for--having been born in Canada where I could slide with the best!" He turned about and the lady smiled at his boyish enthusiasm. He was a man who never felt old, despite his venerable white head, but as he moved again toward the fire and Dorothy entered the room a shadow crossed his face. He had sent for her because within his pocket lay a letter he knew she ought to have, yet greatly disliked to give her. All the mail matter coming to the Oak Knowe girls passed first through their instructors' hands, though it was a rare occasion when such was not promptly delivered. This letter the Bishop had read as usual, but it had not pleased him. It was signed by one James Barlow, evidently a very old friend of Dorothy's, and was written with a boyish assumption of authority that was most objectionable, the Bishop thought. It stated that Mr. Seth Winters was very ill and that Mrs. Calvert was breaking down from grief and anxiety concerning him; and that, in the writer's opinion, Dorothy's duty lay at home and not in getting an education away up there in Canada. "Anybody who really wishes to learn can do that anywhere," was the conclusion of this rather stilted epistle. Now when his favorite came in, happy and eager to greet him, he suddenly decided that he would keep that letter to himself for a time, until he had written to some other of the girl's friends and found out more about the matter. "Did you send for me, dear Bishop?" "Well, yes, little girl, I did. There was something I wanted to talk to you about, but I've changed my mind and decided to put it off for the present;" he answered with a kindly smile that was less bright than usual. So that the sensitive girl was alarmed and asked: "Is it something that I've done but ought not?" "Bless your bonny face, no, indeed. No, Miss Betty the second, I have no fault to find with you. Rather I am greatly delighted by all your reports. Just look out of window a minute--what do you see?" Dorothy still wondered why she had been summoned, but looked out as she had been bidden. "Why, it's snowing! My, how fast, and how all of a sudden! When we were out for exercise the sun was shining bright." "The sun is always shining, dear child, even though clouds of trouble often obscure it. Always remember that, little Dorothy, no matter what happens." Then he dropped what the schoolgirls called his "preachy manner" and asked: "How do you like tobogganing?" "Why--why, of course I don't know. I've never even seen a toboggan, except in pictures. They looked lovely." "Lovely? I should say, but the real thing far lovelier. Miss Tross-Kingdon, here, knows my opinion of tobogganing. The finest sport there is and one that you unfortunate southerners cannot enjoy in your native land. Up here we have everything delightful, ha, ha! But you'll have to be equipped for the fun right away. Will you see to it, Miss Muriel, that Dorothy has a toboggan rig provided? For Michael will have the slides ready, you may be sure. He was born a deal further north even than this and snow-and-ice is his native element. Why, the honest old fellow can show several prizes he won, in his younger days, for skating, ice-boating, tobogganing, and the like. I always feel safe when Michael is on hand at the slide to look after his 'young leddies.' "Now, I must go. I have a service in town, to-night, and if I don't hurry I'll be caught in this blizzard. You run along, 'Betty' and spread the news of the grand times coming." With a gentle pat of the little hand he held he thus dismissed her, and inspired by his talk of the--to her--novel sport, she ran happily away, forgetful already of anything more serious. "Oh! girls! the Bishop says we'll soon have tobogganing!" she cried, joining a group gathered about a great wood fire in the library. "Oh! goody! I was looking at my new suit this very morning. Mother's had such a pretty one made for me, a blanket suit of baby blue with everything to match--mittens and cap and all! I'm just wild to wear it!" answered Fanny Dimock, running to the window to peer out. "To-morrow's half-holiday. Let's all go help Michael to get the slides ready!" "Of course--if the storm will let us out! Oh glorious!" said Ernesta Smith flying to Fanny's side, and trying to see through the great flakes, fast packing against the pane and hiding the view without. But this only increased the gayety within. Electric lights flashed out, girl after girl ran to fetch her own coasting suit and to spread it before the eyes of her mates. "Oh! aren't they the sweetest things!" exclaimed the delighted Dorothy; "the very prettiest clothes I ever saw!" Indeed they did make a fine show of color, heaped here and there, their soft, thick texture assuring perfect protection from cold. Reds and greens, pinks and blues, and snowy white; some fresh from the makers' hands, some showing the hard wear of former winters; yet all made after the Oak Knowe pattern. A roomy pair of pantaloons, to draw over the ordinary clothing from the waist down, ended in stocking-shaped feet, fitted for warm wool overshoes. The tunic fell below the knees and ended above in a pointed hood, and mittens were made fast to the sleeves. "Lovely, but isn't it terribly clumsy?" asked Dorothy, more closely examining one costume. "Let's show her! Let's have an Indian dance! Hurry up, everybody, and dress!" In a jiffy every girl who owned a costume got into it and the place was transformed. For somebody flew to the piano and struck up a lively waltz, and away went the girls, catching one another for partner--no matter who--whirling and circling, twisting bodies about, arms overhead, as in a regular calisthenic figure--till Dorothy was amazed. For what looked so thick and clumsy was too soft and yielding to hinder grace. In the midst of the mirth, the portieres were lifted and Gwendolyn came in. It was unfortunate that just then the music ended with a crash and that the whirling circles paused. For it looked as if her coming had stopped the fun, though this was far from true. Ever since that day of her open confession her schoolmates had regarded her with greater respect than ever before. Most of them realized how hard that confession had been for so haughty a girl, and except for her own manner, many would have shown her marked affection. When she had ceased speaking on that day an awkward silence followed. If she had expected hand-claps or applause she failed to get either. The listeners were too surprised to know what to do, and there was just as much pride in the young "Peer's" bearing as of old. After a moment of waiting she had stalked away and all chance for applause was gone. But she had returned to her regular classes the next morning and mixed with the girls at recreation more familiarly than she had formerly done; yet still that stiffness remained. For half-minute, Gwendolyn hesitated just within the entrance, then forced herself to advance toward the fireplace and stand there warming herself. "It's getting very cold," she remarked by way of breaking the unpleasant silence. "Yes, isn't it!" returned Winifred; adding under her breath: "Inside this room, anyway." "We're warm enough, dressed up like this," said Marjorie, pleasantly. "Dorothy says that the Bishop thinks we'll have tobogganing in a day or two, if the snow holds. She's never seen a toboggan nor how we dress for the sport, and we brought in our togs to show her. She thinks they look too clumsy for words, so we've just been showing her that we can move as easily in them as without them. But--my! It's made us so warm!" Gwendolyn turned toward Dorothy with a smile intended to be cordial, and asked: "Is that so, indeed? Then I suppose you'll have to get a rig like ours if you want to try the slide." "Yes, I suppose so. The Bishop asked the Lady Principal to get me one, but I don't suppose she can right away. Nobody could go shopping in such weather, and I suppose they have to be bought in town." "The blankets are bought there, but usually the suits are made at home before we come; or else by the matron and some of the maids here. I--" A look of keener interest had come into her face, but she said nothing further and a moment later went out again. As the portieres fell together behind her, Winifred threw up her hands in comic despair. "Whatever is the matter with that girl? or with _me_--or _you_--or _you_!" pointing to one and another around her. "She wants to be friendly--and so do we! But there's something wrong and I don't know what." "I do," said a sweet-faced "Seventher," who had been quietly studying during all this noise. "Poor Gwendolyn is sorry but isn't one bit humble. She's absolutely just and has done what she believed right. But it hasn't helped her much. She's fully as proud as she ever was, and the only way we can help her is by loving her. We've _got_ to love her or she'll grow harder than ever." "You can't make love as you'd make a--a pin-cushion!" returned Florita Sheraton, holding up, to illustrate, a Christmas gift she was embroidering. Dorothy listened to this talk, her own heart upbraiding her for her failure to "love" Gwen. She liked her greatly and admired her courage more. "Win, let's you and me try and see if that is true, what Florita says. Maybe love can be 'made' after all;" she whispered to her friend. "Huh! That'll be a harder job than algebra! I shall fail in both." "I reckon I shall, too, but we can try--all the same. That won't hurt either one of us and I'm awfully sorry for her, she must be so lonesome." "'Pity is akin to love!' You've taken the first step in your climb toward Gwen's top-lofty heart!" quoted Winifred. "Climb away and I'll boost you as well as I can. I--" "Miss Dorothy Calvert, the Lady Principal would like to see you in her own parlor;" said a maid, appearing at the door. "What now? You seem to be greatly in demand, to-day, by the powers that be, I hope it isn't a lecture the Bishop passed on to her to deliver," said Florita as Dorothy rose to obey. But whatever fear Dolly felt of any such matter was banished by her first glance into her teacher's face. Miss Muriel had never looked kinder nor better pleased than then, as, holding up a pair of beautiful white blankets she said: "How will these do for the toboggan suit the Bishop wished me to get for you?" "Oh! Miss Muriel! Are those for me and so soon? Why, it's only an hour ago, or not much more, since he spoke of it, and how could anybody go to town and back in that little while, in such a storm?" "That wasn't necessary. These were in the house. Do you like them?" "Like them! They're the softest, thickest, prettiest things! I never saw any so fine, even at Aunt Betty's Bellevieu. Do you think I ought to have them? Wouldn't cheaper ones answer for messing around in the snow?" "The question of expense is all right, dear, and we're fortunate to have the material on hand. Mrs. Archibald will be here, directly, to take your measurements. Ah! here she is now." This was something delightfully different from any "lecture," and even Miss Muriel talked more and in higher spirits than usual; till Dorothy asked: "Do you love tobogganing, too, Miss Tross-Kingdon?" "No, my dear, I'm afraid of it. My heart is rather weak and the swift motion is bad for it. But I love to see others happy and some things have happened, to-day, which have greatly pleased me. But you must talk sliding with Mrs. Archibald. Dignified as she is, she'll show you what a true Canadian can do, give her a bit of ice and a hill." The matron laughed and nodded. "May the day be long before I tire of my nation's sport! I'm even worse than Michael, who's almost daft on the subject." Then she grew busy with her measurings and clippings, declaring: "It just makes me feel bad to put scissors into such splendid blankets as these. You'll be as proud as Punch, when I dress you out in the handsomest costume ever shot down Oak Knowe slide!" "Oh! I wish Aunt Betty could see it, too. She does so love nice things!" When Mrs. Archibald and her willing helpers had completed her task and Dolly was arrayed in her snow-suit she made, indeed, "the picture" which Dawkins called her. For the weather proved what the Bishop had foretold. The snow fell deep and heavy, "just right for packing," Michael said, on the great wooden slide whose further end rose to a dizzy height and from whose lower one a second timbered "hill" rose and descended. If the toboggan was in good working order, the momentum gained in the descent of the first would carry the toboggans up and over the second; and nothing could have been in finer condition than these on that next Saturday morning when the sport was to begin. The depression between the two slides was over a small lake, or pond, now solidly frozen and covered with snow; except in spots where the ice had been cut for filling the Oak Knowe ice-houses. Into one of these holes Michael and his force had plunged a long hose pipe, and a pump had been contrived to throw water upward over the slide. On the night before men had been stationed on the slide, at intervals, to distribute this water over the whole incline, the intense cold causing it to freeze the instant it fell; and so well they understood their business they had soon rendered it a perfectly smooth slide of ice from top to bottom. A little hand-railed stairway, for the ascent of the tobogganers, was built into the timbers of the toboggan, or incline, itself; and it was by this that they climbed back to the top after each descent, dragging their toboggans behind them. At the further side of the lake, close to its bank, great blazing fires were built, where the merry makers could warm themselves, or rest on the benches placed around. Large as some of the toboggans were they were also light and easily carried, some capable of holding a half-dozen girls--"packed close." Yet some sleds could seat but two, and these were the handsomest of all. They belonged to the girls who had grown proficient in the sport and able to take care of themselves; while some man of the household always acted as guide on the larger sleds and for the younger pupils. When Dorothy came out of the great building, that Saturday holiday, she thought the whole scene was truly fairyland. The evergreens were loaded to the ground with their burden of snow, the wide lawns were dazzlingly bright, and the sun shone brilliantly. "Who're you going to slide with, Dolly? On Michael's sled? I guess the Lady Principal will say so, because you're so new to it. Will you be afraid?" "Why should I be afraid? I used to slide down the mountain side when I lived at Skyrie. What makes you laugh, Winifred? This won't be very different, will it?" "Wait till you try it! It's perfectly glorious but it isn't just the same as sliding down a hill, where a body can stop and step off any time. You can't step off a toboggan, unless you want to get killed." Dorothy was frightened and surprised, and quickly asked: "How can anybody call that 'sport' which is as dangerous as that? What do you mean? I reckon I won't go. I'll just watch you." It was Winifred's turn to stare, but she was also disappointed. "Oh! you little 'Fraid-Cat,' I thought you were never afraid of anything. That's why I liked you. One why--and there are other whys--but don't you back out in this. Don't you dare. When you've got that be-a-u-tiful rig and a be-a-u-tiful toboggan to match. I'd hate to blush for you, Queen Baltimore!" "I have no toboggan, Winnie, dear. You know that. I was wondering who'd take me on theirs--if--if I try it at all." Winifred rushed to the other side of the porch and came flying back, carrying over her head a toboggan, so light and finely polished that it shone; also a lovely cushion of pink and white dragged from one hand. This fitted the flat bottom of the sled and was held in place, when used, by silver catches. The whole toboggan was of this one polished board, curving upward in front according to the most approved form, pink tassels floating from its corners that pink silk cords held in their place. Across this curving front was stenciled in pink: "Dorothy Calvert." "There, girlie, what do you say to that? Isn't it marked plainly enough? Didn't you know about it before? Why all we girls have been just wild with envy of you, ever since we saw it among the others." Dorothy almost caught her breath. It certainly was a beauty, that toboggan! But how came she to have it? "What do you mean, Winifred Christie? Do you suppose the Bishop has had it made, or bought it, for me? Looks as if it had cost a lot. And Aunt Betty has lost so much money she can't afford to pay for extra things--not very high ones--" "Quit borrowing trouble, Queenie! Who cares where it came from or how much it cost? Here it is with your own name on it and if you're too big a goose to use it, I shall just borrow it myself. So there you are. There isn't a girl here but wouldn't be glad to have first ride on it. Am I invited?" and Winifred poked a saucy face under her friend's hood. "Am I?" asked Florita Sheraton, coaxingly throwing her arms around Dolly. "Oh! get away, Flo! You're too big! You'd split the thing in two!" said Ernesta, pulling away her chum's arms. "Just look at me, Dolly Doodles! Just see how nice and thin I am! Why I'm a feather's weight to Flo, and I'm one of the best tobogganers at Oak Knowe. Sure. Ask Mrs. Archibald herself, for here she comes all ready for her share of the fun!" "Yes, yes, lassie, you're a fair one at the sport now and give some promise o' winning the cup yet!" answered the matron, joining the girls and looking as fit and full of life as any of them. "Hear! Hear! Hurrah for 'Nesta! Three cheers for the champion cup winner!" "And three times three for the girl Dolly chooses to share her first slide on the new toboggan!" cried somebody, while a dozen laughing faces were thrust forward and as many hands tapped on the breasts of the pleaders, signifying: "Choose me!" The Bishop was already on hand, looking almost a giant in his mufflers, and as full of glee as the youngest there. The lady Principal, in her furs, had also joined the group, for though she did not try the slides, she loved to watch the enjoyment of the others, from a warm seat beside the bonfire. While Dorothy hesitated in her choice, looking from one to another of the merry, pleading faces about her, Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard stood a little apart, watching with keen interest the little scene before her, while the elder members of the group also exchanged some interested glances. "Count us! Count us! That's fair! Begin: 'Intry, mintry, outry, corn; wire, brier, apple, thorn. Roly, poly, dimble-dee;--O--U--T spells Out goes SHE!'" Over and over, they laughingly repeated the nonsense-jingle, each girl whom the final "she" designated stepping meekly back with pretended chagrin, while the "counting out" went on without her. The game promised to be so long that the matron begged: "Do settle it soon, young ladies! We're wasting precious time." Dorothy laughed and still undecided, happened to glance toward Gwendolyn, who had made no appeal for preference, and called out: "Gwen, dear, will you give me my first lesson? I choose Gwendolyn!" It was good to see the flush of happiness steal into Gwen's face and to see the smile she flashed toward Dorothy. Stepping forward she said: "Thank you, dear. I do appreciate this in you, and you needn't be afraid. The Lady Principal knows I can manage a toboggan fairly well, and this of yours seems to be an exact copy of my own that I've used so long." Other cheers followed this and in a moment the whole party had spread over the white grounds leading to the great slide, the good Bishop following more slowly with the other "grown-ups," and softly clapping his mittened hands. "Good! Fine! I like that. Dorothy has ignorantly done the one right thing. If she could only guess the secret which lies under all how thankful she would be that she made this choice and no other." CHAPTER XII JOHN GILPIN JOINS THE SPORT Old Michael stood on the wide platform at the top of the slide, his face aglow with eagerness, and his whole manner altered to boyish gayety. His great toboggan was perched on the angle of the incline, like a bird poised for flight, while he was bidding his company to: "Get on, ladies! Get on and let's be off!" Behind and around him were the other men employees of Oak Knowe, and every one of them, except the _chef_, enthusiastic over the coming sport. But he, unhappy mortal, preferred the warmth of his kitchen fire to this shivery pastime and had only entered into it to escape the gibing tongues of the other servants. Yet in point of costume he could "hold his head up with the best"; and the fact that he could, in this respect even outshine his comrades was some compensation for his cold-pinched toes. The platform was crowded with toboggans and girls; the air rang with jest and laughter; with girlish squeals of pretended fear; and cries of: "Don't crowd!" or: "Sit close, sit close!" "Sit close" they did; the blanketed legs of each tobogganer pressed forward on either side of the girl in front, and all hands clasping the small rod that ran along the sides of the toboggan. The slide had been built wide enough for two of the sleds abreast, and one side was usually left to the smaller ones of the experienced girls, who could be trusted to safely manage their own light craft. To Michael and the matron was always accorded the honor of first slide on the right while the "best singles" coasted alongside on the left. That morning, by tacit consent, the new "Dorothy Calvert" was poised beside the big "Oak Knowe" and the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard was a proud and happy girl, indeed, as she took her place upon it as guide and protector of ignorant Dorothy. "She chose me of her own accord! I do believe she begins to really love me. Oh! it's so nice to be just free and happy with her as the others are!" thought Gwen, as she took her own place and directed her mate just how to sit and act. Adding a final: "Don't you be one bit afraid. I never had an accident sliding and I've always done it every winter since I can remember. We're off! Bow your head a little and--keep--your--mouth--shut!" There wasn't time! Dorothy felt a little quiver run through the thing on which she sat and a wild rush through icy air! That was all! They had reached the bottom of the first slide and began to fly upward over the other before she realized a thing. Gwen hadn't even finished her directions before they had "arrived!" The Southerner was too amazed, for a second, to even step off the toboggan, but Gwendolyn caught her up, gave her a hearty kiss and hug, and demanded: "Well! Here we are! How do you like it! We've beat! We've beat!" Dorothy rubbed her eyes. So they had, for at that instant the big Oak Knowe fetched up beside them, and its occupants stepped or tumbled off, throwing up their hands and cheering: "Three cheers for the Dorothy Calvert! Queen of the Slide for all This Year!" And liveliest among the cheerers was the once so dignified young "Peer," the Honorable Gwen. Dorothy looking into her beaming face and hearing her happy voice could scarce believe this to be the same girl she had hitherto known. But she had scant time to think for here they came, thick and fast, toboggan after toboggan, Seventh Form girls and Minims, teachers and pupils, the Bishop and the _chef_, maids and men-servants, the matron and old Michael--all in high spirits, all apparently talking at once and so many demanding of "Miss Dixie" how she liked it, that she could answer nobody. Then the Bishop pushed back her tasseled hood and smiled into her shining eyes: "Well little 'Betty the Second,' can you beat that down at old Baltimore? What do you think now? Isn't it fine--fine? Doesn't it make you feel you're a bird of the air? Ah! it's grand--grand. Just tell me you like it and I'll let you go." "I--Yes--I reckon I do! I hadn't time to think. We hadn't started, and we were here." "Up we go. Try her again!" cried one, and the climb back to the top promptly began, the men carrying the heavier sleds, the girls their lighter ones, Gwendolyn and Dorothy their own between them. Then the fun all over again; the jests at awkward starts, the cheers at skillful ones, the laughter and good will, till all felt the exhilaration of the moment and every care was forgotten. Many a slide was taken and now Dorothy could answer when asked did she like it: "It's just grand, as the Bishop said. At first I could hardly breathe and I was dizzy. Now I do as Gwen tells me and I love it! I should like to stay out here all day!" "Wait till dinner-time! Then you'll be ready enough to go in. Tobogganing is the hungriest work--or play--there can possibly be!" said Gwendolyn, pirouetting about on the ice as gracefully as on a waxed floor, the merriest, happiest girl in all that throng. Not only Dorothy but many another observed her with surprise. This was a new Gwen, not the stand-offish sort of creature who had once so haughtily scorned all their fun. She had always tobogganed, every year that she had been in that school, but she had never enjoyed it like this; and again as the Bishop regarded her, he nodded his head in satisfaction and said to the matron: "I told you so. I knew it. Do a kindness to somebody and it will return to yourself in happiness a thousand fold." "Thanks, dear Bishop! I'll try to remember," merrily answered she; noticing that Gwendolyn had drawn near enough to hear, and taking this little preachment to herself to prevent Gwendolyn's doing so. She was so pleased by sight of the girl's present happiness that she wished nothing to cloud it, and believing herself discussed would certainly offend proud, sensitive Gwen. Almost two hours had passed, and a few were beginning to tire of the really arduous sport, with its upward climb, so out of proportion to the swift descent; when suddenly fresh shouts of laughter rang out from the high platform and those ascending made haste to join the others at the top. There stood old John Gilpin and Robin, the latter's young bones now sound and strong again, and himself much the better for his sojourn at the cottage with his enforced rest and abundance of good food. "Well, well! How be ye all? Hearty, you look, and reg'lar circus pictures in them warm duds! Good day to your Reverence, Bishop, and I hope I see you in good health. My humble respects, your Reverence, and I thought as how I'd just step up and ask your Reverence might my lad here and me have a try on your slide. I thought--why, sir, the talk on't has spread way into town a'ready, sir, and there'll be more beggars nor me seekin' use on't, your Reverence--" The prelate's hearty laughter rang out on the frosty air, a sound delightful to hear, so full it was of genial humanity, and he grasped the hand of the old teamster as warmly as he would that of a far wealthier man. "Man to man, John, we're all in the same boat to-day. Drop the formality and welcome to the sport. But what sort of sled is this, man? Looks rather rough, doesn't it? Sure you could manage it on this steep incline?" John bridled and Robin looked disappointed. Expectations of the toboggan-slide's being made ready had filled his head, and he and the old man had toiled for hours to make the sled at which the Bishop looked so doubtfully. "Well, your Reverence--I mean--you without the Reverence--" here the Bishop smiled and Robin giggled, thereby causing his host to turn about with a frown. "You see, sir, Robin's always been hearin' about your toboggan up here to Oak Knowe and's been just plumb crazy--" At this point the shy lad pulled John's coat, silently begging him to leave him out of the talk; but the farmer had been annoyed by Robin's ill-timed giggle, and testily inquired: "Well, sir, ain't that so? Didn't you pester the life clean out o' me till I said I'd try? Hey?" "Y-yes," meekly assented the boy; then catching a glimpse of Dorothy and Winifred and their beckoning nods he slipped away to them. To him Dorothy proudly exhibited her beautiful toboggan, explaining its fine construction with a glibness that fitted an "old tobogganer" better than this beginner at the sport. Gwen's face beamed again, listening to her, as if she felt a more personal pride in the sled than even Dorothy herself. She even unbent so far from her pride of rank as to suggest: "If you'll let me borrow it and he'd like to go, I'll take Robin down once, to show him how smoothly it runs." Robin's eyes sparkled. He wasn't shy with girls, but only when he felt himself made too conspicuous by his host's talk. "Would you? Could she? May she?" he cried, teetering about on his ragged shoes in an ecstasy of delight. Dolly laughed and clapped her hands. "Verily, she should, would, can, and may! laddie boy. But where's your jacket? I mean your other one? It's so cold, you'll freeze in that thin one." By the color which came to the lad's cheek Dolly realized that she had asked a "leading question," but Robin's dismay lasted only an instant; then he laughed merrily at the "good joke," and answered: "Well, you see, Miss Dorothy, my 'other one' is at some tailor's shop in town. I haven't had a chance yet to choose one, let alone pay for it! But what matter? 'Tisn't winter all the year and who wears top-coats in summer? Did she really mean it?" Gwendolyn proved that she "really meant it" by pushing the "Dorothy Calvert" into position and nodding to him that she was ready. "All right! Let her go!" he responded to her silent invitation and away they went, as ill-matched a pair as might have been found. But he had a boy's fearlessness and love of adventure; and even on that swift descent his gay whistling floated back to those above. Meanwhile, John Gilpin was explaining with considerable pride, yet thankful that the Bishop was out of hearing on his own downward-speeding toboggan: "You see, lassie, how't Robin was dead set to come. Said he knew so good a man as his Reverence wouldn't say 'No' to us, and just kept teasin' at me till we stepped-an'-fetched a lot of staves come off a hogshead. So I fastened 'em together on the insides--See? And we've shaved an' shaved, an' glass-scraped 'em on t'other till they'll never hurt no slide 't ever was iced. The Bishop seemed terr'ble afraid I'd rough up his track with it, but it's a poor track that water won't freeze smooth again; so if we do happen to scratch it a mite, I'll step-an'-fetch a few buckets o' water and fix it up again. And say, girlie, where's that Jack, boot-boy? And Baal? I ain't seen hide nor hair of ary one this long spell, an' I allow I kind of sorter miss 'em. He used to give the dame the fidgets with his yarns of what he's goin to be an' do, time comes, but me an' him got on fairly well--fairly. As for that goat, he was the amusingest little creatur' 't ever jumped a fence, even if we did fight most of the time. Hah, hum! I've noticed more'n once that the folks or things you quarrel with are the ones you miss most, once they're gone." "We haven't seen Jack since that time he locked me in the drying-room. He ran away, I reckon, and took Baal with him. And it's just like you say: nobody liked him much, and he was always in disgrace with somebody, but I heard the Lady Principal say, only yesterday, that she actually believed she missed that worthless boot-boy more than any other servant who might have left." "Well, now, Dorothy, don't that beat all? That book-l'arned lady just agreein' with me! I often tell Dame 't I know more'n she thinks I do, but all she'll answer to that is: 'John, that'll do.' A rare silent woman is my Dame but a powerful thinker. Hello! Here they come back again. Robin! Robin! Look-a-here! You didn't bamboozle me into makin' our sled and climbin' this height just to leave me go for a passel o' silly girls! No, siree! You come and slide with me right to once. I set out to go a-tobogganin' an' I'm goin'. So none of your backslidin' now!" "All right, Mr. Gilpin, here am I! And I do hope it won't be any true _back_ sliding we shall do on this thing. You'd ought to have put a little handrail on the sides like I told you there always was; but--" "But that'll do, Robin. In my young days knee-high boys didn't know more'n their elders. That'll do!" The old farmer's imitation of his wife's manner seemed very funny to all the young folks, but his anxiety was evident, as he glanced from his own hand-made "toboggan" to the professional ones of the others. Upon his was not even the slight rod to hold on by and the least jar might send him off upon the ice. Peering down, it seemed to him that glazed descent was a straight road to a pit of perdition and his old heart sank within him. But--He had set out to go tobogganing and go he would, if he perished doing it. Dame had besought him with real tears not to risk his old bones in such a foolhardy sport, and he had loftily assured her that "what his Reverence can do I can do. Me and him was born in the same year, I've heard my mother tell, and it's a pity if I can't ekal him!" Moreover, there were all these youngsters makin' eyes at him, plumb ready to laugh, and thinkin' he'd back out. Back out? He? John Gilpin? Never! "Come on, Robin! Let's start!" Gwendolyn and Dorothy were also ready to "start" upon what they intended should be their last descent of that morning. Alas! it proved to be! Five seconds later such a scream of terror rent the air that the hearts of all who heard it chilled in horror. CHAPTER XIII A BAD DAY FOR JOHN GILPIN What had happened! Those who were sliding down that icy incline could not stop to see, and those who were on the ground below covered their eyes that they might not. Yet opened them again to stare helplessly at the dangling figure of a girl outside that terrible slide. For in a moment, when the clutching fingers must unclose, the poor child must drop to destruction. That was inevitable. Then they saw it was Dorothy, who hung thus, suspended between life and death. Dorothy in her white and pink, the daintiest darling of them all, who had so enjoyed her first--and last!--day at this sport. Fresh shudders ran through the onlookers as they realized this and the Lady Principal sank down in a faint. Then another groan escaped them--the merest possibility of hope. Behold! The girl did not fall! Another's small hand reached over the low side of the toboggan and clutched the blanket-covered shoulder of the imperiled child. Another hand! the other shoulder, and hope grew stronger. Someone had caught the falling Dorothy--she and her would-be-rescuer were now moving--moving--slowly downward along the very edge--one swaying perilously with the motion, the other wholly unseen save for those outstretched hands, with their death-fast grip upon the snowy wool. Down--down! And faster now! Till the hands of the tallest watchers could reach and clasp the feet, then the whole precious little body of "Miss Dixie," their favorite from the Southland. But even then, as strong arms drew her into their safe shelter, the small hands which had supported her to safety clung still so tight that only the Bishop's could loose their clasp. "Gwendolyn! You brave, sweet girl! Let go--let go. It's all right now--Dorothy did not fall--You saved her life. Look up, my daughter. Don't faint now when all is over. Look up, you noble child, and hear me tell you: Dorothy is safe and it is you who saved her life. At the risk of your own you saved her life." Clasped close in his fatherly arms, Gwendolyn shuddered but obeyed and looked up into the Bishop's face. "Say that again. Please. Say that again--very slow--if it's the--the truth." [Illustration: "SOMEONE HAD CAUGHT THE FALLING GIRL." _Dorothy at Oak Knowe._] "Gwendolyn, I tell you now, in the presence of God and these witnesses, it has been your precious privilege to save a human life, by your swift thought and determined action you have saved the life of Dorothy Calvert, and God bless you for it." "Then we are quits!" For another moment after she had said those words she still rested quietly where she was, then slowly rose and looked about her. Dorothy had been in the greater peril of the two, yet more unconscious of it. She had not seen how high above the ground she hung, nor how directly beneath was the lake with the thinly frozen spots whence the thicker ice had been cut for the ice-houses; nor how there were heaped up rocks bordering the water, left as nature had designed to beautify the scene. She was the quickest to recover her great fright and she was wholly unhurt. Her really greater wonder was that poor Miss Muriel should happen to faint away just then. "I'm glad she did, though, if it won't make her ill, 'cause then she didn't see me dangling, like I must have, and get scared for that. Likely she stayed out doors too long. She isn't very strong and it's mighty cold, I think." So they hurried her indoors, Gwendolyn with her, yet neither of them allowed to discuss the affair until they were both warmly dressed in ordinary clothes and set down to a cute little lunch table, "all for your two selves," Nora explained: "And to eat all these warm things and drink hot coffee--as much of it as you like. It was Miss Muriel herself who said that!" This was a treat indeed. Coffee at any meal was kept for a special treat, but to have unlimited portions of it was what Dolly called "a step beyond." Curious glances, but smiling and tender, came often their way, from other tables in the room, yet the sport, and happily ended hazard of the morning had given to every girl a fine appetite, so that, for once, knives and forks were more busily employed than tongues. Neither did the two heroines of the recent tragic episode feel much like speech. Now that it was all over and they could think about it more clearly their hearts were filled with the solemnity of what had happened; and Gwendolyn said all that was needed for both, when once laying her hand on Dorothy's she whispered: "You saved my life--the Bishop says that I saved yours. After that we're even and we must love each other all our lives." "Oh! we must, we must! And I do, I shall!" returned Dorothy, with tears rising. Then this festive little lunch dispatched, they were captured by their schoolmates and led triumphantly into the cheerful library, the scene of all their confabs, and Winifred demanded: "Now, in the name of all the Oak Knowe girls, I demand a detailed history of what happened. Begin at the beginning and don't either of you dare to skip a single moment of the time from where you started down the old toboggan alongside of John Gilpin and that boy. I fancy if the tale were properly told his ride would outdo that of his namesake of old times. Dorothy Calvert, begin." "Why, dear, I don't know what to say, except that, as you say, we started. My lovely toboggan went beautifully, as it had all the time, but theirs didn't act right. I believe that the old man was scared so that he couldn't do a thing except meddle with Robin, who doesn't know much more about sliding than I do, or did. He--" "I saw he was getting on the wrong side, right behind you two, as we shot past on ours," interrupted Serena Huntington, "and we both called out: 'steer! steer right!' but I suppose they didn't hear or understand. We were so far down then that I don't know." "Gwen, dear, you tell the rest," begged Dorothy, cuddling up to the girl she now so dearly loved. It wasn't often that Gwendolyn was called to the front like this, but she found it very pleasant; so readily took up the tale where Dorothy left it, "at the very beginning" as "Dixie" laughingly declared. "It seems as if there was nothing to tell--it was all so quick--it just happened! Half way down, it must have been, the farmer's sled hit ours. That scared me, too, and I called, just as Serena had, and as everybody on the slide was doing as they passed: 'Steer right!' I guess that only confused the poor old man, for he kept bobbing into us and that hindered our getting away from him ourselves. "Next I knew, Dolly was off the sled and over the edge of the slide, clinging to it for her life. I knew she couldn't hold on long and so I rolled off and grabbed her. Then we began to slide and I knew somebody was trying to help by pushing us downward toward the bottom. I don't know who that was. I don't know anything clearly. It was all like a flash--I guessed we would be killed--I shut my eyes and--that's all." To break the too suggestive silence which followed with its hint of a different, sorrowful ending, Florita Sheraton exclaimed: "I know who did that pushing! It was our little Robin Adair, or whatever his name is. Fact. That home-made toboggan of his came to grief. The old man has told me. He's out in the kitchen now warming up his bruises. You see, there wasn't anything to hang on by, on the sides. He had scorned Robin's advice to nail something on and he nearly ground his fingers off holding on by the flat bottom. It went so swift--his fingers ached so--he yanked them out from under--Robin screeched--they ran into you--they both tumbled off--Robin lodged against you but John Gilpin rode to the bottom--thus wise!" Florita illustrated by rolling one hand over and under the other; and thus, in fact, had John Gilpin taken his first toboggan slide. Laughter showed that the tension of excitement which had held these schoolgirls all that day had yielded to ordinary feelings, and now most of them went away for study or practicing, leaving Dorothy and Gwendolyn alone. After a moment, they also left the library, bound kitchenwards, to visit old John and see if Robin were still thereabouts. "I wish there were something I could do for that boy," said Gwen. "I feel so grateful to him for helping us and he looked so poor. Do you suppose, Dolly, if Mamma offered him money for that new coat he jested about, that he would be offended." "Of course, Gwen, I don't know about _him_. You never can tell about other folks, but Uncle Seth thinks it's a mighty safe rule 'to put yourself in his place'; and if I were in Robin's I'd be 'mad as a hatter' to have money offered me for doing a little thing like that. Wouldn't you?" "Why, yes, Dorothy, of course I would. The idea! But I'm rich, or my people are, which is the same thing. But he's poor. His feelings may not, cannot, be the same as our sort have." "Why can't they? I don't like to have you think that way. You ought not. Gwen you must not. For that will make us break friendship square off. I'm not poor Dawkins's niece, though I might be much worse off than that, but once I was 'poor' like Robin. I was a deserted baby, adopted by a poor letter carrier. Now, what do you think of that? Can't I have nice feelings same as you? And am I a bit better--in myself--because in reality I belonged to a rich old family, than I was when I washed dishes in Mother Martha's kitchen? Tell me that, before we go one step further." Dorothy had stopped short in the hall and faced about, anxiously studying the face of this "Peer," who had now become so dear to her. Gwendolyn's face was a puzzle; as, for a time, the old opinions and the new struggled within her. But the struggle was brief. Her pride, her justice, and now her love, won the victory. "No, you darling, brave little thing, you are not. Whatever you are you were born such, and I love you, I love you. If I'd only been born in the States I'd have had no silly notions." "Don't you believe that, Gwen. Aunt Betty says that human nature is the same all the world over. You'd have been just as much of a snob if you'd been 'raised in ol' Ferginny' as you are here. Oh! my! I didn't mean that. I meant--You must understand what I mean!" A flush of mortification at her too plain speaking made Dorothy hide her face, but her hands were swiftly pulled down and a kiss left in their place. "Don't you fret, Queenie! It's taken lots of Mamma's plain speaking to keep me half-way decent to others less rich than I, and I'm afraid it'll take lots of yours, too, to put the finishing touches to that lesson. Come on. We love each other now, and love puts everything right. Come on. Let's find that Robin and see what we can do for him without hurting his feelings." "Oh! yes, come, let's hurry! But first to the Lady Principal. Maybe we can help them both. Won't that be fine?" But they were not to help Robin just then. A groan from the servants' parlor, a pleasant room opening from the kitchen, arrested their attention and made them pause to listen. Punctuated by other sounds, a querulous voice was complaining: "Seems if there warn't a hull spot left on my old body that ain't bruised sore as a bile. Why, sir, when I fell off that blamed sled we'd tinkered up"--groan--"I didn't know anything. Just slid--an' slid--an' rolled over and over, never realizin' which side of me was topmost till I fetched up--kerwhack! to the very bottom. Seemed as if I'd fell out o' the sky into the bottomless pit. Oh! dear!" Dawkins's voice it was that answered him, both pitying and teasing him in the same breath: "I'm sure it's sorry I am, Mr. Gilpin, for what's befell; but for a man that's lived in a tobogganing country ever since he was born, you begun rather late in life to learn the sport. Why--" "Ain't no older'n the Bishop! Can't one man do same's t'other, I'd like to know, Mis' Dawkins?" "Seems not;" laughed the maid. "But, here, take this cup of hot spearmint tea. 'Twill warm your old bones and help 'em to mend; an' next time you start playin' children's game--why don't! And for goodness' sake, John, quit groanin'! Takin' on like that don't help any and I tell you fair and square I've had about all the strain put on my nerves, to-day, 't I can bear. What was your bit of a roll down that smooth ice compared to what our girls went through?" "Has you got any nuts in your pockets? Has you?" broke in Millikins-Pillikins, who had been a patient listener to the confab between the farmer and the nurse till she could wait no longer. Never had the old man come to Oak Knowe without some dainty for the little girl and she expected such now. "No, sissy, I haven't. I dunno as I've got a pocket left. I dunno nothing, except--except--What'll SHE say when I go home all lamed up like this! Oh! hum! Seems if I was possessed to ha' done it, and so she thought. But 'twas Robin's fault. If Robin hadn't beset me so I'd never thought of it. Leastwise, not to go the length I did. If I'd--But there! What's the use? But one thing's sure. I'll get shut of that boy, see if I don't. He's well now an' why should I go to harboring _reptiles_ in my buzzum? Tell me that if ye can! _Reptiles._ That's what he was, a-teasin' an' misleadin' a poor old man into destruction. Huh! I'll make it warm for him--trust John Gilpin for that!" Dawkins had long since departed, unable to bear the old man's lamentations, and leaving the cup, or pot, of hot tea on the table beside him. But little Grace couldn't tear herself away. She lingered, first hoping for the nuts she craved, and later in wonder about the "_reptile_" he said was in his bosom. There were big books full of pictures in the library, that Auntie Prin sometimes let her see. She loved to have them opened on the rug and lie down beside them to study them. She knew what "reptiles" were. That was the very one of all the Natural History books with the blue bindings that she liked best, it was so delightfully crawly and sent such funny little thrills all through her. If a picture could do that what might not the real thing do! "Show it to me, please, Mr. Gilpin. I never saw a reptile in all my whole life long! Never!" The farmer had paid scant attention to her chatter; indeed, he scarcely heard it, his mind being wholly engrossed now with what his dame would say to him, on his return home; and in his absent-mindedness he reached out for the drink good Dawkins had left him and put the pot to his lips taking a great draught. An instant later the pot flew out of his hand and he sprang to his feet, clutching frantically at his bosom and yelling as if he were stung. For the contents of the pot were boiling hot and he had scalded his throat most painfully. But wide-eyed little Grace did not understand his wild action, as, still clutching his shirt front, he hurled the pot far from him. Of course, the "reptile" was biting! That must be why he screeched so, and now all her desire for a personal acquaintance with such a creature vanished. She must get as far away from it as possible before it appeared on the surface of his smock and, darting doorward, was just in time to receive the pot and what was left in it upon her curly head. Down she dropped as if she had been shot, and Dorothy entering was just in time to see her fall. The scene apparently explained itself. The angry face of the old man, his arm still rigid, in the gesture of hurling, the fallen child and the broken pot--who could guess that it was horror at his uncalculated deed which kept him in that pose? Not Dorothy, who caught up little Grace and turned a furious face upon poor John, crying out in fierce contempt: "Oh! you horrible old man! First you tried to kill me and now you have killed her!" CHAPTER XIV EXPLANATIONS ARE IN ORDER Dorothy ran straight to the Lady Principal's room, too horrified by what she imagined was the case to pause on the way and too excited to feel the heavy burden she carried. Nobody met her to stop her or inquire what had happened. Gwendolyn had been called to join her mother and had seen nothing of the incident, and Dorothy burst into the pretty parlor--only to find it empty. Laying Millikins down on the couch she started to find help, but was promptly called back by the child herself. "Where you going, Dolly Doodles? What you carry me for, running so?" "Why--why--darling--can you _speak_? Are you _alive_? Oh! you dear--you dear! I thought you were killed!" cried the relieved girl kneeling beside the couch and hugging the astonished little one. "Why for can't I speak, Dorothy? Why for can't I be alive? The 'reptile' didn't bite me, it bited _him_. That's why he hollered so and flung things. See, Dolly, I'm all wet with smelly stuff like 'meddy' some kind, that Dawkins made him. And what you think? Soon's he started drinking it the 'reptile' must not have liked it and must have bited him to make him stop--'Ou-u-c-ch!' Just like that he said it, an' course I runned, an' the tea-pot flew, an' I fell down, and you come, grabbed me and said things, and--and--But the reptile didn't get Gracie, did it? No it didn't, 'cause I runned like anything, and 'cause you come, and--Say, Dolly! I guess I'd rather see 'em in the book. I guess I don't want to get acquainted with no live ones like I thought I did. No, sir!" "What in the world do you mean, Baby? Whatever are you talking about? Oh! you mischief, you gave poor Dolly such a fright when you fell down like that!" "Why, Dolly Doodles, how funny! I fall down lots of times. Some days I fall down two-ten-five times, and sometimes I'd cry, but Auntie Prin don't like that. She'll say right off: 'There, Millikins, I wouldn't bother to do that. You haven't hurt the floor any.' So course I stop. 'Cause if I had hurted the floor she'd let me cry a lot. She said so, once. Mr. Gilpin didn't have a single nut in his pockets. He said so. And he talked awful funny! Not as if to me at all, so must ha' been to the 'reptile' in his 'buzzum.' Do 'reptiles' buzz, Dolly, same as sting-bees do? And wouldn't you rather carry nuts in your pockets for such nice little girls as me, than crawly things inside your smock to bite you? I think a smock's the funniest kind of clothes, and Mr. Gilpin's the funniest kind of man inside 'em. Don't you?" "If either one can match you for funniness, you midget, I'll lose my guess. Seems if this had been the 'funniest' kind of day ever was. But I'll give you up till you get ready to explain your 'reptile' talk. Changing the subject, did you get a slide to-day?" "Yes, lots of them. What do think? I didn't have anybody give me a nice new toboggan with my name on it, like you had; so the Bishop he told Auntie Prin that he'd look out for me this year same's he did last year. I hadn't grown so much bigger, he thought. Course he's terrible big and I'm terrible little, so all he does is tuck me inside his great toboggan coat. Buttons it right around me--this way--so I never could slip out, could I? And I don't have to hold on at all he holds on for me and Auntie's not afraid, that way. Don't you think it was terrible nice for Gwendolyn to give you your things?" "What things, dear? Gwen has given me nothing that I know of. Is this another mystery of yours?" "It isn't not no mystery, I don't know what them are, except when girls like you get lost right in their own houses and don't get found again right soon. But I know 'secrets.' Secrets are what the one you have 'em about don't get told. That was a secret about your things, Gwen said. You didn't get told, did you?" "I have a suspicion that I'm being told now," answered Dorothy, soberly. "Suppose you finish the telling, dear, while we are airing the subject. What are the things you're talking about?" "Why, aren't you stupid, Dolly? About the be-a-u-tiful blankets were made into your suit. Auntie said they were the handsomest ever was. Lady Jane had bought 'em to have new things made for Gwen, 'cause Lady Jane's going far away across the ocean and she wanted to provide every single thing Gwen might want. In case anything happened to Gwen's old one. "So Gwen said, no, she didn't need 'em and you did. She guessed your folks hadn't much money, she'd overheard the Bishop say so. That's the way she knows everything is 'cause she always 'overhears.' I told Auntie Prin that I thought that was terrible nice, and I'd like to learn overhearing; and she sauced me back the funniest! My! she did! Said if she ever caught me overhearing I'd be put to bed with nothing but bread and water to eat, until I forgot the art. Just like that she said it! Seems if overhearing is badness. She does so want Gwendolyn to be really noble. Auntie Prin thinks it noble for Gwen to give up her blankets and to have that be-a-u-tiful toboggan bought for you with your name on it. You aren't real poor, are you, Dolly? Not like the beggar folks come 'tramping' by and has 'victuals' given to them? Bishop says all little girls must be good to the poor. That's when he wants me to put my pennies in my Mite Box for the little heathen. I don't so much care about the heathen and Hugh--" But Dorothy suddenly put the child down, knowing that once started upon the theme of "Brother Hugh" the little sister's talk was endless. And she was deeply troubled. She had altogether forgotten John Gilpin and the accusation she had hurled at him. Nothing now remained in her mind but thoughts of Gwendolyn's rich gifts and indignation against her. Why had she done it? As a sort of payment for Dorothy's assistance at the Maiden's Bath? Meeting Miss Muriel in the hall she cried: "Oh! my dear lady, I am in such trouble! May I talk to you a moment?" "Certainly, Dorothy. Come this way. Surely there can be nothing further have happened to you, to-day." Safe in the shelter and privacy of a small classroom, Dorothy told her story into wise and loving ears; and to be comforted at once. "You are all wrong, Dorothy. I am sure that there was no such thought as payment for any deed of yours in poor Gwendolyn's mind. You have been invariably kind to her in every way possible; and until this chance came she had found none in which to show you that she realized this and loved you for it. Why, my dear, if you could have seen her happiness when I told her it was a beautiful thing for her to do, you would certainly have understood her and been glad to give her the chance she was glad to take. It is often harder to accept favors than to bestow them. It takes more grace. Now, dear, let's call that 'ghost laid,' as Dawkins says. Hunt up Gwen, tell her how grateful you are to her for her rich, unselfish gifts, and--do it with a real Dorothy face; not with any hint of offended pride--which is not natural to it! And go at once, then drop the subject and forget it. We were all so thankful that you chose her this morning without knowing." Back came the smiles as Miss Muriel hoped to see them, and away sped Dorothy to put the good advice in practice; and five minutes later Gwendolyn was the happiest girl at Oak Knowe, because her gifts had been ascribed to real affection only. "Now, Gwen, that we've settled _that_, let's go and see what we can do for Robin. Heigho, Winifred! you're just in time to aid a worthy cause--Come on to Lady Principal!" "Exactly whither I was bound!" waving a letter overhead. "Going a-begging, my dears, if you please!" she returned, clasping Gwen's waist on one side to walk three abreast. A trivial action in itself but delightful to the "Peer," showing that this free-spoken "Commoner" no longer regarded her as "stand-offish" but "just one of the crowd." "Begging for what, Win?" "That's a secret!" "Pooh! You might as well tell. Secrets always get found out. I've just discovered one--by way of chattering Millikins-Pillikins. Guess it." "I couldn't, Dolly, I'm too full of my own. As for that child's talk--but half of it has sense." "So I thought, too, listening to her. But _half did_ have sense and that is--Who do you think gave me my beautiful toboggan things?" "Why, your Aunt Betty, I suppose, since she does everything else for you," answered Winifred promptly. "Anyhow, don't waste time on guesses--Tell!" Then she glanced up into Gwendolyn's face and saw how happy it was, and hastily added: "No, you needn't tell, after all, I know. It was Gwen, here, the big-hearted dear old thing! She's the only girl at Oak Knowe who's rich enough and generous enough to do such a splendid thing." "Good for you, Win, you guessed right at once!" answered Dolly trying to clap her hands but unable to loosen them from her comrades' clasp. "Now for yours!" "Wait till we get to the 'audience chamber'! Come on." But even yet they were hindered. In the distance, down at the end of the hall, Dorothy caught sight of Mr. Gilpin, evidently just departing from the house. A more dejected figure could scarcely be imagined, nor a more ludicrous one, as he limped toward the entrance, hands on hips and himself bent forward forlornly. Below his rough top-coat which he had discarded on his arrival, hung the tatters of his smock that had been worn to ribbons by his roll down the slide. Nobody knew what had become of his own old beaver hat, but a light colored derby, which the _chef_ had loaned him, sat rakishly over one ear, in size too small for the whole top of his bald head. "Looks as if he had two foreheads!" said Winifred, who couldn't help laughing at his comical appearance, with part of his baldness showing at front and back of the borrowed hat. Dorothy laughed, too, yet felt a guilty regret at the way she had spoken to him. She had accused him of "trying to kill her" as well as Gwen and little Grace; but he "kill anything"? Wicked, even to say that. "There goes John Gilpin, and, girls, I must speak to him. Come--I can't let him go that way!" As his "good foot" crossed the threshold Dorothy's hand was on his shoulder and her voice begging: "Oh! please, Mr. Gilpin! Do forgive that horrible thing I said! I didn't know, I didn't understand, I didn't mean it--I thought--it looked--Do come back just a minute and let me explain." The old fellow turned and gazed into her pleading eyes, but at first scarcely heard her. "Why, 'tis the little maid! hersel' that was cryin' that night on the big railway platform. The night that Robin lad was anigh kilt. Something's mixed up in me head. What's it, lassie, you want?" "I want your forgiveness, Mr. Gilpin. When I saw Gracie on the floor and the broken pot beside her I thought--you'd--you'd tried--and account of your sled hitting Gwen and me--Do come in and rest. You're worse hurt than anybody thought, I'm afraid. There, there, that's right. Come back and rest till the team goes into town for the Saturday night's supplies. It always goes you know, and Michael will get the driver to drop you at your own door. I'm sure he will." Obediently, he allowed her to lead him back into the hall and to seat him on the settle beside the radiator. The warmth of that and the comfort of three sympathetic girls soon restored his wandering wits and he was as ready to talk as they to listen. "You do forgive, don't you, dear old John?" "Sure, lassie, there's nought about forgiveness, uther side. It was a bit misunderstandin' was all. The wee woman a-pleadin' for treats out of pocket, and me thinkin' hard o' Robin, for coaxin' an old man to make a fool of hissel'. Me feeling that minute as if 'twas all his fault and thinking I'd cherished a snake, a reptile, in my buzzum, and sayin' it out loud, likes I have a bad habit of doing. "Silly I was, not remembering how't a child takes all things literal. Ha, ha, ha! To think it! When I scalded mysel' with the hot tea the bairnie should fancy I yelled at a sarpent's bite! Sure, I could split my sides a-laughin' but for the hurt I gave her. How is she doin', lass? I've waited this long spell for someone to pass by and give me the word, but nobody has. Leastwise, them that passes has no mind for old John in his dumps." "Why, Mr. Gilpin, she wasn't hurt at all; and it's just as you said. She thought you had a real snake in your clothes and it had bitten you. She's all right now, right as can be; and so will you be as soon as you get home and into your wife's good care. She--" "Ah, my Dorothy! 'Tis she I dread. Not a word'll she say, like enough, but the look she will give to my silly face--Hmm. She's a rare silent woman is my Dame, but she can do a power o' thinkin'." "Yes, she can, and the first thing she'll think is how glad she is to have her husband back again, safe and sound." "Aye, but Dorothy, hark ye! I'm safe, I'll grant ye that; but--sound? 'Tis different letters spells that word. Sound? I'll no' be that for weeks to come!" and the poor fellow, who certainly had been badly bruised and lucky to have escaped broken bones, sighed profoundly. Winifred had an inspiration. "Speaking of Robins, suppose we write her a round-robin letter? Right here and now, on the back of this letter of Father's? It's a grand good letter for me and we'll write so nicely of you, Mr. John, that it'll be a good one for her, too." "Will ye? A real letter explainin' about the accident, when the lassie's toboggan got in our way and we got that mixed 'twas nigh the death of the lot? Dame'd be proud enough to get that letter. Sure, I believe 'twould set her thinkin' of other things, and she'll be liker to overlook my foolishness." They all laughed at the crafty manner in which he shipped his responsibility for the accident from his shoulders to theirs; but Winifred plumped herself down on the settle beside him and, using it for a desk, concocted an amusing story of the whole day's happenings. The other girls had less of the gift of writing, but each added a few words and signed her name with a flourish. Altogether it was a wonderful document, so the farmer thought, as Winifred tore that half-sheet from her father's letter, folded it in a fantastic way and gave it him. Indeed, he was so pleased with it and so anxious to get it into his wife's hands that, after turning it over and about, in admiration of the "true lover's knot" into which Win had folded it, he rose to go away. All his stiffness was forgotten, he almost neglected to drag his lame foot, he firmly declined to stay for supper or any ride with the Oak Knowe team, so completely had the kindness of the three girls cured him. "A letter for the Dame! Sure she'll be the proud woman the night, and maybe she'll think I'd more sense after all. I don't mind she'd ary letter come before since we was married. Good night, young ladies. Tell the bit woman 't next time there'll be nuts in me pockets, all right, and no fear for her o' more snakes. Good-by." They watched him down the path, fairly strutting in his pride over the note which a mere whim on Winifred's part had suggested, and Dorothy exclaimed: "What a dear, simple old soul he is! That a tiny thing like that could make so happy. I believe he was more delighted with that half-sheet of your paper than you are with your father's other half." Winifred caught the others about the waist and whirled them indoors again, first gleefully kissing her father's bit of writing and asking: "Think so? Then he's the gladdest person in the world, to-night. Oh--ee!" "Well, Win, you can be glad without squeezing the breath out of a body, can't you? Heigho, Robin! Where'd you come from?" said Dolly, as the boy came suddenly upon them from a side hall. "Why, from the kitchen. The folks there made me eat a lot of good stuff and a woman--I guess it was the housekeeper--she made me put on some of the men's clothes while she took my knickers and mended them. I'd torn them all to flinders on that slide, or old botched up sled, and she said I was a sight. I was, too. She was awful kind. She made me tell all about Mother and my getting hurt and everything. But she said I ought to go right away and find Mr. Gilpin and get friends with him again. Isn't it funny? He blames _me_ for all that happened and for teasing him to make that wretched sled, yet, sir, if you'll believe me he was the one spoke of it first. True! Said he'd never had a toboggan ride in all his life, long as that was, because he hadn't anybody to go with him. But 'he'd admire' to have just one before he died--" "He had it, didn't he?" laughed Winifred. "He had a hard time getting Mrs. Gilpin's consent. She treats him as if he were a little boy, worse'n Mother does me, but he doesn't get mad at all. He thinks she's the most wonderful woman in the world, but I must find him and put myself right with him before we go home and tackle her. He'll need my help then more'n he did makin' that beastly sled! It was awful--really awful--the way he went rolling down that icy slide, but to save my life I can't help laughing when I think of it. Can you?" At the lad's absurd movements, as he now pictured John's remarkable "ride" they all laughed; but suddenly Dorothy demanded: "You sit right down yonder on that settle and wait for me. You can't find Mr. Gilpin, now, he's far on the road home. But there's something I must ask Miss Tross-Kingdon--" "No! You don't ask Miss Tross-Kingdon one single thing till I've had my ask first, Dorothy Calvert! Here I'm nearly crazy, trying to hold in my secret, and--" "I claim my chance too! I've a petition of my own if you please and let the first to arrive win!" shouted Gwendolyn, speeding after the other two toward the "audience chamber." Thus deserted, Robin laughed and curled up on the bench to wait; while the Lady Principal's sanctum was boisterously invaded by three petitioners, forgetful of the required decorum, and each trying to forestall the others, with her: "Oh! Miss Muriel, may I--?" "Please, Miss Tross-Kingdon, my father's--" "Hear me first, dear Lady Principal, before he gets away. Can--" But the Lady Principal merely clapped her hands over her ears and ordered: "One at a time. Count twenty." CHAPTER XV MRS. JARLEY ENTERTAINS "I've counted! And I beg pardon for rushing in here like that. But I was afraid the others had favors to ask and I wanted to get mine in first!" said Gwendolyn, after the brief pause Miss Tross-Kingdon had suggested. "Oh! you sweet, unselfish thing!" mocked Winifred, "your favor can't be half as fine as mine--" "Nor mine! Oh! do please let me speak first, for fear he gets away!" begged Dorothy, eagerly. "First come first served, Dolly, please!" coaxed Gwendolyn and the teacher nodded to her to speak. "Mine's for next Saturday. Mrs. Jarley's Wax Works are to be in town and Mamma says if you'll allow I may invite the whole school to go. She'll have big sleighs sent out for us and will let us have supper at the hotel where she stops. May we go?" "Wait a moment, Gwendolyn. Did you say the 'whole school'?" Each year Lady Jane had allowed her daughter to entertain her schoolmates in some such manner but the number had, heretofore, been limited to "Peers" only. Such a wholesale invitation as this required some explanation. Gwendolyn's eyes fell and her cheek flushed, while the other girls listened in wondering delight for her answer, which came after some hesitation. But came frankly at last in the girl's own manner. "I'm ashamed now of the silly notions I used to have. I wanted to do something which would prove that I am; so instead of picking out a few of what we called 'our set' I want every girl at Oak Knowe to join us. You'll understand, of course, that there will be no expense to anybody. It's Mamma's farewell treat to us girls, before she goes abroad. May she and I give it?" "Indeed, you may, Gwendolyn, if the Bishop approves. With the understanding that no lessons are neglected. The winter is about over. Spring exams are near, and 'Honors' or even 'Distinction' will not be won without hard work." "Thank you, Miss Muriel. May I go now and ask the Bishop, then tell the girls?" "Certainly," and there was an expression of greater pleasure on the lady's face than on that of Gwendolyn's even. Winifred executed what she called a "war dance" as Gwen disappeared, crying: "That's what I call a wholesale burying of the hatchet! That 'Honorable' young woman is distinguishing herself. Don't you think so, Miss Muriel?" "I am pleased. I am very pleased. Gwendolyn has surely dropped her foolishness and I'm proud of her. It's so much safer for anyone to be normal, without fads or fancies--" "Oh! come now, you dear Schoolma'am! Never mind the pretty talk just this minute, 'cause I can't wait to tell you--Father's coming--my Father is coming and a proper good time with him! If you'll only remember I wasn't saucy then--A girl you'd raised to hand, like me, couldn't really be saucy, could she? And--and please just wait a minute. Please let me talk first. Because _I_ can't ask _everybody_, but my darling Father means just as well as Lady Jane. His invite is only for a dozen--round baker's dozen, to take a trip in his car to Montreal and visit the Ice Palace! Think of that! The beautiful Ice Palace that I've never seen in all my life. If you'll say 'yes,' if you'll be the picker out of 'em, besides yourself and Miss Hexam and Dawkins--Oh! dear! You three grown-ups take off three from my dozen-thirteen! But there'll be ten left, any way, and please say yes and how many days we may be gone and--Oh! I love you, Miss Muriel, you know I do!" The lady Principal calmly loosened Winifred's clasping arms, and smilingly looked into the sparkling, pleading eyes before her. Who could be stern with the whimsical child she had cared for during so many years, and under whose apparently saucy manner, lay a deep love and respect? She did not enlighten the pleader on the fact that this was no new thing she had just heard; nor that there had been written communications passing between Mr. Christie and the Bishop with consent already won. But she put her answer off by saying: "We'll see about it, Winifred: and I'm glad there was nobody save Dorothy here to see you so misbehave! But if we go, and if the selection is left to me, I may not please you; for I should choose those whose record for good conduct is highest and whose preparation for exams is most complete." Winifred wrinkled her brows. Of course she, as hostess couldn't be counted either out or in, but she knew without telling that but few of her own class-ten would be allowed to go. They were the jolliest "ten" at Oak Knowe and oftener in disgrace about lessons than free from it. "Oh! dear! I do wish we'd dreamed this treat was coming! I'd have forced the 'Aldriches' to study as hard as they played--if--if I had to do it at the point of my mahl-stick. I guess it'll be a lesson to them." "I trust it will, dear, but Dorothy has waited all this time. Three little maids with three little wishes, regular fairy-tale like, and two of them granted already. What's yours, Dorothy?" Since listening to the others' requests, her own seemed very simple, almost foolish; but she answered promptly: "I want to get you a boot-boy." Winifred laughed. "Hey, Dolly! To switch off from a private-car-ice-palace-trip into a boot-boy's jacket is funny enough. Who's the candidate you're electioneering for?" Miss Muriel hushed Winifred's nonsense which had gone far enough and was due, she knew, to the girl's wild delight over her father's promised visit. "If you could find a good one for me, Dorothy, you would certainly be doing me a favor, not I one for you. Whom do you mean?" "Robin Locke, Miss Tross-Kingdon. He's so very poor." "Poverty isn't always a recommendation for usefulness. Is he old enough? Is it that lad who came with Mr. Gilpin?" "Yes, Miss Muriel. He's just the loveliest boy I've seen in Canada--" "The _only_ one, except Jack!" interrupted Winifred. "It was because of me and my carelessness he got hurt and broke himself. He was carrying my telegram that I ought to have sent long before and he was so starved he fell off his bicycle and always ever since I've wished I could help him some way and he'd have such a nice home here and he wouldn't bring in goats, and his mother could do things to help and I thought maybe he could do the shoes and other things would be easier than what he did and could be a golf-boy for the Bishop when the time comes and it's pretty near and--" "There, Dorothy, take your breath, and put a comma or two into your sentences. Then we'll talk about this project of yours. Where's Robin now?" "Right out on the settle this minute waiting--if he hasn't gone away--May I--" "Yes, honey, step-an'-fetch him!" laughed Winifred again, "he's used to that sort of talk." Away flashed Dorothy and now, at a really serious rebuke from the Lady Principal, Winifred sobered her lively spirits to be an interested witness of the coming interview, as Dorothy came speeding back, literally dragging the shy Robin behind her. But, as before, the presence of other young folks and Miss Muriel's first question put him at his ease. "Robin, are you willing to work rather hard, in a good home, for your mother and to provide one for her, too?" "Why, of course, Ma'am. That's what I was a-doin' when I fell off. Goody! Wouldn't I? Did you ever see my mother, lady?" "Yes, Robin, at our Hallowe'en Party," answered Miss Tross-Kingdon, smiling into the beautiful, animated face of this loyal son. "You'd like her, Ma'am, you couldn't help it. She's 'the sweetest thing in the garden,' Father used to say, and he knew. She feels bad now, thinking we've been so long at the farmer's 'cause she don't see how 't we ever can pay them. And the doctor, too. Oh! Ma'am, did you hear tell of such a place? Do you think I could get it?" "Yes, lad, I did hear of just such, for Dorothy told me. It's right here at Oak Knowe. The work is to pick up row after row of girls' shoes, standing over night outside their bedroom doors and to blacken them, or whiten them, as the case might be, and to have them punctually back in place, in time for their owners to put on. Cleaning boots isn't such a difficult task as it is a tedious one. The maids complain that it's more tiresome than scrubbing, and a boy I knew grew very careless about his work. If I asked you and your mother to come here to live, would you get tired? Or would she dislike to help care for the linen mending? Of course, you would be paid a fair wage as well as she. What do you think?" What Robin thought was evident: for away he ran to Dorothy's side and catching her hand kissed it over and over. "Oh! you dear, good girl! It was you who helped the doctor set my bones, it was you who let me slide on your new toboggan, and it's you who've 'spoke for me' to this lady. Oh! I do thank you. And now I'm not afraid to go back and see Mr. Gilpin. He was so vexed with me because he thought--May I go now, Ma'am? and when do you want us, Mother and me?" "To-morrow morning, at daybreak. Will you be here?" "Will I not? Oh! good-by. I must go quick! and tell my Mother that she needn't worry any more. Oh! how glad I am!" With a bow toward Miss Tross-Kingdon and a gay wave of his hand toward the girls, he vanished from the room, fairly running down the corridor and whistling as he went. The rules of Oak Knowe had yet all to be learned but it certainly was a cheerful "noise in halls" to which they listened now. "And that's another 'link' in life, such as Uncle Seth was always watching for. If I hadn't delayed that telegram and he hadn't fallen down and--everything else that happened--Robin would never have had such a lovely chance," said Dorothy proudly. "That's a dangerous doctrine, Dorothy. It's fine to see the 'links' you speak of, but not at all fine to do evil that good may come. I'd rather have you believe that this same good might have come to the lad without your own first mistake. But it's time for studying Sunday lessons and you must go." "Catch me studying 'links' for things, Dolly, if it gets a body lectured. Dear Lady Principal does so love to cap her kindnesses with 'a few remarks.' There's a soft side and a hard side to that woman, and a middle sort of schoolma'amy side between. She can't help it, poor thing, and mostly her soft side was in front just now. "Think of it! Wax Works and Ice Palaces all in one term! I do just hope Mrs. Jarley'll have a lot of real blood-curdling 'figgers' to look at and not all miminy-piminy ones. Well, good night, honey, I'm off to be as good as gold." Every pupil at Oak Knowe, in the week that followed, tried to be "as good as gold," for a pleasure such as Lady Jane proposed to give the school was as welcome to the highest Form as to the lowest Minims, and the result was that none was left out of the party--not one. It was all perfectly arranged, even the weather conspiring to further the good time, with a beautifully clear day and the air turned mild, with a promise of the coming spring. The snow was beginning to waste, yet the sleighing held fine and the city stables had been ransacked to obtain the most gorgeous outfits with the safest drivers. Thirty handsome sleighs with their floating plumes and luxurious robes, drawn by thirty spans of beautiful horses was the alluring procession which entered Oak Knowe grounds on the eventful Saturday; and three hundred happy girls, each in her best attire piled into them. Yes, and one small boy! For who could bear to leave behind that one last child of the great family? And a boy who in but a week's time had learned to clean shoes so well and promptly? So clad in his new suit, of the school's uniform, "Such as all we men folks wear"--as he had proudly explained to his mother when he first appeared in this before her--and with a warm top-coat and cap to match, the happy youngster rode in the leading sleigh in which sat Lady Jane herself. Of how those happy young folks took possession of the exhibition hall, that had been reserved for them; and smiled or shuddered over the lifelike images of famous men and women; and finally tore themselves away from the glib tongue of the exhibitor and his fascinating show--all this any schoolgirl reader can picture for herself. Then of the dinner at the great hotel, in a beautiful room also reserved that they might indulge their appetites as hunger craved without fear or observation of other guests: the slow drive about the city, and the swift drive home--with not one whit of the gayety dimmed by any untoward accident. "Oh! it's been a perfect success! Nothing has happened that should not, and I believe that I've been the happiest girl of all! But such a crowd of them. Better count your flock, Miss Tross-Kingdon, maybe, and see if any are missing;" said Lady Jane as she stepped down at the Oak Knowe door. "I don't see how there could be, under your care, my Lady, but I'll call a mental roll." So she did. But the roll was not perfect. Two were missing. Why? CHAPTER XVI A PERPLEXING PROBLEM OF LIFE Miss Tross-Kingdon entered Miss Hexam's room, looking so disturbed that the latter asked: "Why, Muriel, what is the matter?" They two were of kin and called each other by their first names. "Matter enough, Wilda. I'm worried and angry. And to think it should happen while the Bishop is away on that trip of his to the States!" "Tell me," urged the gentle little woman, pushing a chair forward into which the Lady Principal wearily dropped. "It's that Dorothy Calvert. She's lost herself again!" "She has a knack of doing that! But she'll be found." "Maybe. Worst is she's taken another with her. Robin, the new boot-boy." Miss Hexam laughed: "Well, I admit that is the greater loss just now! Girls are plentiful enough at Oak Knowe but boot-boys are scarce. And this Robin was a paragon, wasn't he? Also, I thought Dorothy was away up toward the 'good conduct medal,' as well as 'distinction' in music. I don't see why she should do so foolish a thing as you say and lessen her chances for the prize." "Wilda, you don't understand how serious it is. It was one thing to have it happen in this house but it's night now and she away in a strange city. I declare I almost wish she'd never come at all." For a moment Miss Hexam said no more. She knew that Miss Muriel loved the missing girl with sincere affection and was extremely proud of her great progress in her studies. All the school had readily conceded that in her own Form Dorothy stood highest, and would certainly win the "honors" of that Form. When the Principal had rested quietly a while longer she asked: "Now tell me all about it, Muriel." "Nobody missed her, but, she did not come home with the rest. I've 'phoned to the police to look for for her and the boy, but it's a disgrace to the school to have to do such a thing. Besides, Robin's mother is half wild about him and declares she must walk into town to seek him." "You're foolish, the pair of you. Stop and reason. Robin is thoroughly familiar with the city and suburbs, from his messenger-boy experience. Dorothy is blessed with a fair share of common sense. If they wandered away somewhere, they'll soon wander back again when they realize what they have done. I'm sorry you stirred up the police and they should be warned to keep the matter quiet." "Oh! they have been," answered the weary Lady Principal. "It does seem, lately, that every good time we allow the girls ends in disaster." "Never mind. You go to bed. You've done all you can till morning." Miss Muriel did go away but only to spend the night in watching along with Lady Jane in the library, the latter deeply regretting that she had ever suggested this outing and, like the Lady Principal, both sorry and angry over its ending. Dorothy had ridden to the exhibition in the very last sleigh of all, as Robin had in the first, and when they all left the hotel after dinner he had lingered beside her while she waited for the other teams to drive on and her own to come up. This took a long time, there was so much ado in settling so many girls to the satisfaction of all; and looking backward he saw that there would still be a delay of several moments. "I say, Dorothy, come on. I want to show you where we used to live before my father died. We'll be back in plenty time. It's the dearest little house, with only two rooms in it; but after we left it nobody lived there and it's all gone to pieces. Makes me feel bad but I'd like to show you. Just down that block and around a side street. Come on. What's the use standing here?" "Sure we can be back in time, Robin?" "Certain. Cross my heart. I'm telling you the truth. It's only a step or so." "Well, then, let's hurry." Hurry they did, he whistling as usual, until they came to a narrow alley that had used to be open but had now been closed by a great pile of lumber, impossible for them to climb. "Oh! pshaw! Somebody must be going to build here. But never mind. Our house was right yonder, we can go another way." His interest as well as hers in exploring "new places," made them forget everything else; and when, at last, they came to Robin's old home a full half-hour had passed. It was, indeed, a sorry place. Broken windows, hanging doors and shutters, chimney fallen, and doorstep gone. Nobody occupied it now except, possibly, a passing tramp or the street gamin who had destroyed it. "My! I'm glad my Mother can't see it now. She never has since we moved down to our cottage in the glen. It would break her dear heart, for my father built it when they were first married. That was the kitchen, that the bedroom--Hark! What's that?" "Sounded like a cat." "Didn't to me. Cats are squealier'n that was. I wonder if anybody or thing is in there now. If I had time I'd go and see." "Robin, wouldn't you be afraid?" "Afraid? Afraid to go into my own house, that was, that my father built with his own hands? Huh! What do you take me for? I'd as soon go in there as eat my din--Hello! There certainly--" They put their heads close to the paneless window and listened intently. That was a human groan. That was a curious patter of small hoofs--Dorothy had heard just such a sound before. That surely was a most familiar wail: "Oh, Baal! My jiminy cricket!" "Jiminy cricket yourself, Jack-boot-boy! What you doing in my house? I'm living in yours--I mean I'm boot-boy now. How are you?" cried Robin, through the window. "Who'm you? Have you got anything to eat? Quick! Have you?" The voice which put the question was surely Jack's but oddly weak and tremulous. Dorothy answered: "Not here, Jack, course. Are you hungry?" "Starvin'! Starvin'! I ain't touched food nor drink this two days. Oh! Have you?" Daylight was already fading and street lights flashing out but this by-way of the town had no such break to the darkness. Robin was over the rickety threshold in an instant and Dorothy quickly followed. Neither had now any thought save for the boy within and his suffering. They found him lying on a pile of old rags or pieces of discarded burlap which he had picked up on the streets, or that some former lodger in the room had gathered. Beside him was Baal, bleating piteously, as if he, too, were starving. The reason for this was evident when Robin stumbled over a rope by which the animal was fastened to the window sash; else he might have strolled abroad and foraged for himself. But if Robin fell he was up in a second and with the instincts of a city bred boy knew just what to do and how to do it. "Got any money, Dorothy?" "Yes. Twenty-five cents, my week's allowance." "I've got ten. Mother said I might keep that much out of my week's wages. Give it here. I'll be back in a minute." He was gone and Dorothy dropped down on the dusty floor beside Jack and asked his story. He told it readily enough, as far as willingness went, but his speech lagged for once and from sheer lack of strength. "I left--seeking my fortune. It warn't so easy as I thought it would be. I've hired for odd jobs, held horses, run arrants, helped 'round taverns, but didn't get no place for steady. Trouble was, folks don't take no great to Baal. They'd put with him a spell, treat him real decent till he'd up and butt somebody over--then his dough was cooked. The worse he was used the better I liked him, though I'd ha' sold him for money if I could, I've been hungry so much the time. And that right here, Dorothy, _in a town full o' victuals_! Just chock full. See 'em in the winders, see 'em in the markets, on wagons--and every created place, but not a speck for me. But I got along, I'd ha' made out, if I hadn't et somethin' made me dretful sick. It was somethin' in a can I picked up out a garbage pail, some sort o' fish I guess, and I've been terr'ble ever since. What'd he go for? Why don't he come back?" "I don't know. I reckon he went for food. How did you keep warm in here, if this is where you lived?" "Didn't keep warm. How could I? I ain't been warm, not real clean through, since the last night I slep' in my nice bed at Oak Knowe." "Why didn't you come back? Or go to the railway stations? They are always heated, I reckon." "Did. Turned me out. Lemme stay a spell but then turned me out. Said I better go to the poorhouse but--won't that boy never come!" "He's coming now, Jack," she answered and was almost as glad as he of the fact. Robin came whistling in, good cheer in the very sound. "Here you are neighbor! Candle and matches--two cents. Pint of milk--three. Drink it down while I light up!" Jack grabbed the milk bottle with both hands and drained it; then fell back again with a groan. "'T hurts my stummick! Hurts my stummick awful!" "Never mind. I'll turn Baal loose and let him find something outside. A likely supper of tin cans and old shoes'll set him up to a T. Scoot, Baal!" The goat was glad enough to go, apparently, yet in a moment came bleating back to his master. Dorothy thought that was pathetic but Robin declared it disgusting. "Clear out, you old heathen, and hunt your supper--" "Oh! don't be cruel to the loving creature, Robin! Suppose he should get lost?" begged Dorothy. "Lost? You can't lose Baal, don't you fret. Look-a-here, boy! here's a sandwich! Come from the best place in town. I know it. Give the biggest slice for the least money. Can't tell me anything about that, for I've been nigh starved myself too often in this same old town. What? You don't want it? Can't eat it? Then what do you want?" Provoked that his efforts to please Jack failed so fully, Robin whistled again, but not at all merrily this time; for he had at last begun to think of his own predicament and Dorothy's. Here they were stranded in town, Oak Knowe so far away, night fast falling and, doubtless, a stern reprimand due--should they ever reach that happy haven again. "Robin, I do believe he is sick. Real, terrible sick. It wasn't just starving ailed him. Do you s'pose we could get a doctor to him?" "To this shanty? No, I don't. But if he's sick, there's hospitals. Slathers of 'em. Hurray! There's the one that Dr. Winston is head of. There's an emergency ward there and free ones--and it's the very checker!" Jack had ceased moaning and lay very still. So still that they were both frightened and Dolly asked: "How can we get him there, if they would take him in? He's terrible heavy to carry." Even dimly seen by the light of the flickering candle struck on the floor, Dorothy thought the pose of superiority Robin now affected the funniest thing, and was not offended when he answered with lofty scorn: "Carry him? I should say not. We couldn't and we won't. I'll just step to the corner and ring up an ambulance. I know the name. You stay here. I'll meet it when it comes and don't get scared when the gong clangs to get out of the way." Dorothy's own life in a southern city returned to her now and she remembered some of its advantages which Robin had spoken of. So she was not at all frightened when she heard the ambulance come into the street beyond the alley, which was too narrow for it to enter, nor when two men in hospital uniforms appeared at the door of the room. They had lanterns and a stretcher and at once placed poor Jack upon it and hurried away. They needed not to ask questions for Robin had followed them and was glibly explaining all he knew of the "case" and the rest which he had guessed. "Ate spoiled fish out of a garbage can, did he? So you think it's ptomaine poisoning, do you Doctor Jack-o'-my-thumb? Well, I shouldn't be surprised if your diagnosis is correct. Steady now, mate, this is a--Hello! What's that?" "That" proved to be Baal, returned to inquire what was being done to his master by prodding the orderly's legs with his horns, so that the stretcher nearly fell out of his hand. Baal got his answer by way of a vicious kick which landed him out of reach and permitted the men to carry their burden quickly away. Left behind, the pair of young Samaritans stared for an instant at one another, dismayed at their own delay. It was Dorothy who came to a decision: "We've done as bad as we could and as good. Seems awful queer how it all happened. Now we must go home. Can we get a carriage anywhere and would it take us back without any money to pay it? Would Miss Tross-Kingdon pay it, do you think? The Bishop would but he's gone traveling." Leaving their candle still flickering on the floor they anxiously left the shanty; and it may be stated here, for the guidance of other careless ones that there was an item in the next morning's paper stating that a certain "old rookery had been burned down during the night; origin of fire unknown; a benefit to the city for it had long been infested by hoboes and tramps." To which of these classes poor Jack belonged it did not state; but either one was a far call to the "great artist" he had said he would become. There were cabs in plenty to be seen and, probably, to be hired; but they did not summon one. A vision of Miss Tross-Kingdon's face at its sternest rose before Dorothy and she dared not venture on the lady's generosity. Another thought came, a far happier one: "I'll tell you! Let's follow Jack. Maybe Dr. Winston would be there or somebody would know about us--if we told--and would telephone to Oak Knowe what trouble we're in. For it is trouble now, Robin Locke, and you needn't say it isn't. You're scared almost to death and so am I. I wish--I wish I'd never heard of a Wax Works, so there!" Robin stopped and turned her face up to the light of a street lamp they were passing and saw tears in her eyes. That was the oddest thing for her to cry--right here in this familiar city where were railway stations plenty in which they might wait till morning and somebody came. But, softened as her tears made him, he couldn't yet quite forget that he was the man of the party. "It's an awful long ways to that Hospital, and I've got five cents left. We can go in anywhere and I can 'phone for myself. No need to bother any doctors or nurses." Opposition to her wishes dried her tears. "Well, I am going to Dr. Winston's hospital. I'd like you to go with me and show me the way but if you won't the policemen I meet will do it. I'm going right now." That conquered this small Canadian gentleman, and he answered: "All right. I'll show you. Only don't you dare to be crying when you get there." She wasn't. It proved a long walk but help loomed at the end of it and the youngsters scarcely felt fatigue in the prospect of this. Also, the help proved to be just what they most desired. For there was Dr. Winston himself, making his night visit to a very ill patient and almost ready to depart in his car which stood waiting at the door. Dorothy remembered how little gentlewomen should conduct themselves when paying visits; so after inquiring of the white-clad orderly who admitted her if Dr. Winston was there, and being told that he was, she took her empty purse from her pocket and sent up her card. She would have written Robin's name below hers if she had had a pencil or--had thought about it. The tiny card was placed upon a little silver salver and borne away with all the dignity possible; but there was more amazement than dignity in the good doctor's reception of it. Another moment he was below, buttoning his top-coat as he came and demanding with a smile that was rather anxious: "To what am I indebted for the pleasure of this visit, Miss Dorothy Calvert?" But the tears were still too near the girl's eyes for her to meet jest with jest. She could only hold out her arms, like the lonely, frightened child she was and he promptly clasped her in his own. Then "tinkle, tinkle, tinkle," ran a little bell in the Oak Knowe library and over the telephone wire rang the doctor's hearty voice. "Be at rest, Miss Muriel. Your runaways are found and I'll motor them home in a jiffy!" This was so joyful a message that Lady Jane and the Lady Principal promptly fell upon one another's neck and wept a few womanly tears. Then Miss Tross-Kingdon released herself, exclaiming: "Oh! those dreadful police. Why did I violate the privacy of Oak Knowe by setting them to search? I must recall the order right away--if I can!" Self-blame doesn't tend toward anybody's good nature and the head of Oak Knowe School for Young Ladies had been sorely tried. Also, her offense had come from the very girl she trusted most and was, therefore, the more difficult to forgive. So clothing herself in all her dignity, she was simply the Lady Principal and nothing more, when for a second time the quiet of her domain was broken by the honk-honk of an automobile, the door opened and Dorothy and Robin walked in. The doctor had laughingly declared that he couldn't enter with them--he was afraid! But though it was really only lack of time that prevented him so doing, their own spirits were now so low that they caught the infection of his remark--if not his spirit--and visibly trembled. This was a sign of guilt and caught Miss Muriel's eye at once. "What is the explanation of this, Dorothy? Robin?" Dorothy had been pondering that explanation on the swift ride home. Dr. Winston had called them the Good Samaritans and seemed pleased with them. Maybe Miss Muriel would think so, too. "We stayed to see--we had to be what he said. Good little Samaritans--" "Humph! If that is some new game you have invented, please never to play it again. Your duty--" "Why, Lady Principal, you wouldn't have us 'pass by on the other side,' would you? To-morrow's lesson--" But there was no softening in Miss Muriel's eye, and indignant Robin flashed out: "Well--well--you needn't blame _her_. You needn't blame a _girl_--when it was all my fault! I coaxed her or she wouldn't ha' done it!" This was such a manly, loyal reversion of the old story of Adam and Eve that Lady Jane laughed and would have clapped her hands in pride of her small compatriot. But she refrained and chose the wiser course of slipping away unseen. "Robin! you forget yourself! I have given you a home here but I have not given you license to be insolent or disobedient. You have been both. Your mother is somewhere on the road to town, looking for you." But it happened she was not. Dr. Winston had espied a lone woman dragging herself citywards and had stopped to give her a lift. Then, learning who she was and her errand, had promptly turned about and conveyed her also home; so she was back in their own rooms almost as soon as her boy was and able to soothe his wrath as only mothers can. But upon poor Dorothy fell the full force of her teacher's indignation. "Dorothy, I would not have believed it possible for you so willfully to disappoint me. Go to your dormitory and to bed at once. You cannot go off bounds again till Easter holidays. Good night." Dorothy obeyed in silence. She could think of many things to say but she could not say them. Even to anxious Dawkins who would have welcomed her warmly and ministered loving comfort she could only say: "Good night. It's such a mixed up world. It was good to help Jack, the doctor said; and it was wrong, Miss Tross-Kingdon said; and--and--I'm so tired! Oh! if I could only see Aunt Betty!" With that last homesick cry, she laid her head on her pillow, and being a perfectly healthy girl--fell fast asleep. CHAPTER XVII COMMENCEMENT; AND CONCLUSION Dorothy in disgrace! That seemed an incredible thing to her schoolmates, who had hitherto believed "Dixie" to be the one great favorite of all. However, she could never speak of the matter to anybody, except the Bishop when he came home from his southern journey and the news he had to bring her was so far more important and saddening that a short confinement "on bounds" seemed actually trivial. For Uncle Seth was dead. The dear guardian and wise counselor would greet her no more. At first her grief seemed unbearable; but the good Bishop took her into his own home for a little time and she came back to Oak Knowe somewhat comforted for her loss. Besides she had had a little talk with Miss Tross-Kingdon, and there was again sweet peace and confidence between them. Miss Muriel now helped the girl in her work, inciting her ambition and keeping her so well employed that she had little time to sit and grieve. Indeed, the spirit of ambition was in everyone's heart. Easter holidays were past, spring exams proved fairly satisfactory with much yet to be accomplished before Commencement came. So the weeks fairly flew, the outdoor recreations changing with the seasons, and Dorothy learning the games of cricket and golf, which were new to her and which she described in her letters home as "adorably fascinating and English." Tennis and basket-ball were not so new. She had played these at the Rhinelander Academy, the first private school she had ever attended; but for even these familiar sports she spared little time. "It does seem as if the minutes weren't half as long as they were in the winter, Winifred! There's so much, so much I want to finish and the time so short. Why, it's the middle of June already, and Commencement on the twenty-first. Only six days for us to be together, dear!" cried Dorothy in the music room with her violin on her lap, and her friend whirling about on the piano stool. They were "programmed" for a duet, the most difficult they had ever undertaken, and were resting for the moment from their practicing while Dorothy's thoughts ran back over the year that was past. "Such a lot of things have happened. So many bad ones that have turned out good. Maybe, the best of all was Jack-boot-boy's running away and our finding him. It gave Robin and me a rather unhappy time, but it's turned out fine for him, because as he says: 'It's knocked the nonsense out of me.'" "The Dame will let no more creep in. Old John told me how it was. Soon as Dr. Winston told him where Jack was, at that hospital, he said to his wife: 'I'm going to see him.' Then that 'rare silent woman' spoke her mind. 'Husband, that'll do. I'll ride yon, on the cart, to fetch him home here to our cottage. The doctor says he's well enough to leave that place. I'll get him bound out to me till he's twenty-one. Then I'll let him go to 'seek' that 'fortune' he yearns for, with a new suit of clothes on his back and a hundred dollars in his pocket. That's the law and I've took him in hand." "So he's settled and done for, for a long time to come. It's just fine for him, they'll treat him like a son--Baal can live his days out in a pen--and Jack will grow up better fitted for his own station in life, as you Canadians say. Down in the States we believe that folks make their own 'stations'; don't find them hanging around their necks when they are born. Why I know a boy who was--" "There, Dolly Doodles! Don't get started on that subject. I know him by heart. One remarkable creature named James Barlow, who couldn't spell till you taught him and now has aspirations toward a college professorship. By the letters he writes, I should judge him to be a horrible prig. I wish I could see him once. I'd make him bow his lofty head; you'd find out!" Dorothy pulled a letter from her pocket and tossed it into her friend's hands. "You'll soon have a chance. Read that." "Oh! may I?" But the reading was brief and an expression of great disappointment came to Winifred's face. "Oh, Dorothy! How horrid!" "Yes, dear. I felt so, too, at first. Now all I feel is a wish to be through so I can hurry home to dear Aunt Betty who must need me dreadfully, or she'd never disappoint us like this." "It was such a beautiful plan. We should have had such a lovely time. Ah! here comes Gwen. Girl, what do you think? Mrs. Calvert isn't well enough to come to Canada, after all, and Dorothy has got to go home. When it's all fixed, too. Father's freed himself from business for three delightful months, and we three, with her were to go jaunting about all over the country in his private car, and Dorothy to learn that Canada beats the States all to pieces." Gwendolyn shared the disappointment. That trio had been dubbed by their mates as the "Inseparables" and the love between them all was now deep and sincere. "Read it aloud, Gwen. Maybe there's a chance yet, that I overlooked. I was so mad I couldn't half see that upstart's writing--not after the first few words. He doesn't mince matters, does he?" The letter ran thus: "DEAR DOROTHY: "Mrs. Calvert will not be able to come to Canada to meet you. She is not ill in bed but she needs you here. Dinah is taking care of her now, and Ephraim and I have decided that it is best for us two to come to Oak Knowe to fetch you home. Of course, you could come alone, as you went, but I'm at leisure now, and have laid aside enough from my year's earnings to pay the expenses of us all; and Ephraim wants to go for you. He says 'it ain' fitten fo' no young lady lak my li'l Miss to go trabbelin' erbout de country widout her own serbant-boy to take care ob her. Mah Miss Betty was clean bewitchted, erlowin' hit in de fust place, but she's laid up an' ole Eph, he ain' gwine hab no mo' such foolishness.' "Those are his own words and lately--Well, I don't like to go against that old man's wishes. So he and I will be on hand by the twenty-first of June and I expect can get put up somewhere, though I'm ignorant as to what they do with negroes in Canada. "Faithfully, "JIM." "Negroes! Negroes? Why, is that Ephraim a negro?" "Yes, indeed. As black as ink, almost, with the finest white head--of wool! Not quite so thick and curly as your 'barristers' wear, but handsome, I think. It represents so many, many years of faithful service. That dear old man has taken care of Aunt Betty ever since she was a child, and does so still. Nobody knows his real age, but it's one proof of his devotion to her that he'll take this long journey just because he remembers what's 'fitten,' even if she has grown careless about it. You see, it's Uncle Seth's death that must have changed her so," said Dorothy, musingly, with her eyes on the floor. The other two exchanged pitying glances, and it rose to Winifred's lips to say: "But she let you come alone in the fall and he wasn't dead then;" but she refrained. She knew, for Dolly had told her, that all that winter Dorothy's home letters had not seemed quite the same as they had used, during other separations from her aunt; and that many of them had been written for Mrs. Calvert by various friends of the old lady's, "just to oblige." Never before had the sprightly Mrs. Betty shrunk from writing her own letters; and, indeed, had done so often enough during the early winter to prevent Dorothy's suspicion of anything amiss. "Auntie dear, is so old, you know girls, that of course she does need me. Besides she's been all over the world and seen everything, so there's really 'nothing new under the sun' for her. That's why this junketing around we'd planned so finely, doesn't appeal to her as it does to us," said Dorothy, at last, lifting her violin to her shoulder and rising to her feet. "Shall we try it again, Win? And, Gwen, dear, have you finished your picture yet for the exhibition?" "Just finished, Dolly. And I forgot my errand here. Miss Muriel sent me to tell you girls that the dressmaker was in the sewing-room, giving last fittings to our frocks. She wants us to go there right after practice hour, for we must not lose our turn. I wanted to wear that beautiful one Mamma sent me from Paris but 'No' was the word. 'There will be no change in our custom. Each girl will wear a plain white lawn Commencement frock, untrimmed, and with no decoration except a sash of each Form's colors.' So there we are, same old six-pences, and dowds I think, every one of us." But when those few days intervening had passed and great Oak Knowe was alight with its hundreds of daintily robed girls, there was not a single "dowd" among them; nor one, whether unknown "charity" scholar or otherwise who felt envy of any difference between themselves or others. "What a glorious day! What crowds are here and coming. Assembly and all the rooms near it will be packed closer than ever! Oh! I'm so happy I can't keep still! No more lessons, no more early-to-bed-and-rise business for three delightful months! There's father! There he is--right in the front row of guests' seats. Right amongst the 'Peers,' where he belongs by right!" cried Winifred, turning Dorothy's head around that she might see the object of her own great excitement. "See, see! He's looking our way. He's discovered us! And he's awfully disappointed about you. He never forgave Miss Tross-Kingdon that she wouldn't let you take that Ice Palace trip with us, just because you'd broken a few rules. But never you mind, darling. Though this is the end of Oak Knowe for us together, it isn't the end of the world--nor time. Father shall bring me to you, he shall, indeed! Just think how it would help my education to visit the States! But, hark! The bugle is blowing--fall into line!" From their peep-hole in the hall Dorothy, also, could see the guests taking seats; and clutching Winifred's sleeve, whispered: "Look! Look! Away there at the back of Assembly, close to the door--that's Jim! That's Ephy! Oh! isn't it good to see them? For no matter now, I'm not without my own home folks any more than the rest of you. After banquet I'll introduce you if I get a chance." Then they fell into the line of white clad girls, and to the strains of a march played by the Seventh Form graduates, three hundred bright faced maidens--large and small--filed to their places in Assembly for their last appearance all together. It was a Commencement like multitudes of others; with the usual eager interest in guessing who'd be prize winners. The most highly valued prize of each year at Oak Knowe was the gold medal for improvement in conduct. Who would get it? Looking back the "Inseparables" could think of nobody who'd shown marked advance along that line; Winifred remarking, complacently: "I think we're all about as good as can be, anyway. 'Cause we're not allowed to be anything else." "I know who's improved most, though. I hope--Oh! I hope she'll get it!" And when the announcement was made she did! Said the Bishop, who conferred the diplomas and prizes: "The Improvement Gold Medal, the highest honor our faculty can bestow, is this year awarded to--" Here the speaker paused just long enough to whet the curiosity of those eager girls--"To the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard. Will she kindly advance and receive it?" Never was "honor girl" more deeply moved, surprised, and grateful than this once so haughty "Peer," now humble at heart as the meekest "Charity" present, and never such deafening cheers and hand-claps greeted the recipient of that coveted prize. Other lesser prizes followed: to Winifred's surprise, she had gained "Distinction" in physical culture; Florita in mathematics; and a new "Distinction" was announced for that year--"To Miss Dorothy Calvert for uniform courtesy," and one that she valued less: a gold star for advancement in music. "Two prizes, Dolly Doodles! You ought to should give poor Gracie one, you should. 'Tis not nice for one girl to have two, but my Auntie Prin, she couldn't help it. She told the Bishop you'd always been a beautiful behaver, an' she must. Now, it's all over, and I'm glad. I'm so tired and hungry. Come to banquet." After all it was the same as most Commencements the world over, with its joys and its anticipations. What of the latter's realization? In Dorothy's case at least the telling thereof is not for this time or place; but all is duly related in a new story and a new volume which tells of "Dorothy's Triumph." But there was that year one innovation at the banquet, that farewell feast of all the school together. For the company was but just seated when there stalked majestically into the great hall an old negro in livery. Pulling his forelock respectfully toward the Bishop, bowing and scraping his foot as his Miss Betty had long ago taught him, he marched straight to his Miss Dorothy's chair and took his stand behind it. He took no notice when turning her head she flashed a rather frightened smile in his direction, nor did either of them speak. But she glanced over to the head of the table and received an approving nod from her beloved Bishop; whose own heart felt a thrill of happy memory as he beheld this scene. So, away back in boyhood's days, in the dining-room at beautiful Bellevieu, had this same white-headed "boy" served those he had loved and lost. To him it was pathetic; to other observers, a novelty and curiosity; but to Dorothy and Ephraim themselves, after that first minute, a mere matter of course. Looking over that great table, the girl's face grew thoughtful. She had come among all these a stranger; she was leaving them a friend with everyone. The days that were coming might be happy, might be sorry; yet she was not alone. Old Ephraim stood behind her, faithful to the end; and out in the hall waited James Barlow, also faithful and full of the courage of young life and great ambition. No, she was not alone, whatever came or had come; and, after all, it was sweet to be going back to the familiar places and the familiar friends. So, the banquet at its end, by a nod from the Bishop, she drew her violin from under the table and rising in her place played sweetly and joyfully that forever well loved melody of "Home, Sweet Home." One by one, or in groups, the company melted away. Each to her new life of joy or sorrow or as general, both intermingled. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. 
29693	----	[Illustration: SHE STARED BEWILDERED INTO THE SHAGGY FACES AROUND HER.--PAGE 21.] A WAIF OF THE MOUNTAINS BY EDWARD S. ELLIS AUTHOR OF "UP THE TAPAJOS," "FROM THE THROTTLE TO THE PRESIDENT'S CHAIR," "THE LAND OF WONDERS," ETC. CHICAGO GEO. M. HILL CO. PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY THE MERSHON COMPANY A WAIF OF THE MOUNTAINS CHAPTER I AT NEW CONSTANTINOPLE IT had been snowing hard for twenty-four hours at Dead Man's Gulch. Beginning with a few feathery particles, they had steadily increased in number until the biting air was filled with billions of snowflakes, which whirled and eddied in the gale that howled through the gorges and cañons of the Sierras. It was still snowing with no sign of cessation, and the blizzard blanketed the earth to the depth of several feet, filling up the treacherous hollows, caverns and abysses and making travel almost impossible for man or animal. The shanties of the miners in Dead Man's Gulch were just eleven in number. They were strung along the eastern side of the gorge and at an altitude of two or three hundred feet from the bed of the pass or cañon. The site protruded in the form of a table-land, offering a secure foundation for the structures, which were thus elevated sufficiently to be beyond reach of the terrific torrents that sometimes rushed through the ravine during the melting of the snow in the spring, or after one of those fierce cloud-bursts that give scarcely a minute's warning of their coming. The diggings were in the mountain side at varying distances. The success in mining had been only moderate, although several promising finds raised hopes. The population numbered precisely thirty men, representing all quarters of the Union, while five came from Europe. The majority were shaggy, bronzed adventurers, the variety being almost as great as the numbers. Some had been clerks, several were college graduates, a number were the sons of wealthy parents, and one was a full-fledged parson, while there was a certain percentage who had left their homes to escape the grip of the offended law. With that yearning for picturesqueness which is a peculiar trait of Americans, the miners felt that when their settlement had attained the dignity of nearly a dozen dwellings, it was entitled to an appropriate name. The gorge, which seemed to have been gouged out of the solid mass of boulders and rocks, when the mountains were split apart in the remote past, was known from the first by the title already given, which also clung to the diggings themselves. The single saloon presided over by Max Ortigies, was the Heavenly Bower,--so _that_ point was settled, but when it came to naming the settlement itself, the difficulties were so numerous that days and weeks passed without an agreement being reached. No matter how striking and expressive the title offered by one man, the majority promptly protested. It was too sulphurous, or too insipid or it lacked in that nebulous characteristic which may be defined as true Americanism. It looked as if the problem would never be solved, when Landlord Ortigies, taking the bull by the horns, appointed a committee of three to select a name, the others pledging themselves to accept whatever the committee submitted. But the mischief was to pay when on the night of the blizzard the committee met at the Heavenly Bower to make their report. The chairman insisted upon "E Pluribus Unum," the second member's favorite was "Murderer's Holler," while the third would not listen to anything except "Wolf Eye," and each was immovably set in his convictions. Budge Isham was not a member of the committee, but he was known as a college graduate. From his seat on an overturned box at the rear of the room, where he was smoking a pipe, he asked troublesome questions and succeeded in arraying the committeemen so fiercely against one another that each was eager to vote, in the event of failing to carry his own point, in favor of any name objectionable to the rest. The chairman as stated favored the patriotic name "E Pluribus Unum," and boldly announced the fact. "It has a lofty sound," blandly remarked Isham; "will the chairman be good enough to translate it for us? In other words, what does 'E Pluribus Unum' mean?" "Why," replied the chairman with scorn in his manner; "everybody oughter know it means, 'Hurrah for the red, white and blue.'" "Thank you," returned Isham, puffing at his pipe. Vose Adams, the second committeeman, felt it his duty to explain his position. "The trouble with that outlandish name is in the fust place that it has three words and consequently it's too much to manage. Whoever heard of a town with three handles to its name? Then it's foreign. When I was in college (several disrespectful sniffs which caused the speaker to stop and glare around in quest of the offenders); I say when I was in college and studying Greek and Chinese and Russian, I larned that that name was made up of all three of them languages. I b'leve in America for the Americans, and if we can't find a name that's in the American language, why let's wait till we can." This sentiment was delivered with such dramatic force that several of the miners nodded their heads in approval. It was an appeal to the patriotic side of their nature--which was quick to respond. "Mr. Chairman," said Budge Isham, addressing the landlord, who, by general consent, was the presiding officer at these disputations, and who like the others failed to see the quiet amusement the educated man was extracting, "if it is agreeable to Mr. Adams, to whose eloquent speech we have listened with much edification, I would like him to give us his reasons for calling our handsome town 'Murderers' Hollow.'" The gentleman appealed to rose to his feet. Turning toward the man who had called upon him, he gave him a look which ought to have made him sink to the floor with mortification, preliminary to saying with polished irony: "If the gentleman had paid attention as he oughter, he would have obsarved that I said 'Murderer's Holler,' not 'Murderers' _Hollow_.' I would advise him not to forget that he ain't the only man in this place that has received a college eddycation. Now as to the name: it proclaims our stern virtue and love for law." The orator paused, but the wondering expression of the bronzed faces turned toward him showed that he would have to descend to particulars. "When violators of the law hear that name, what does it say to them? It says that if any murderer shows his face in this place, he will receive such rough handling that he will have to holler 'enough,' and will be glad to get out--I don't see what there is to laugh at!" exclaimed Vose angrily, looking threateningly around again with his fists clenched and his gaze fixed specially upon the grinning Budge Isham. "There's some sense in what Vose says, which ain't often the case," remarked Ike Hoe, the other member of the committee, "but the trouble will be that when folks hear of the name, they won't think to give it the meanin' that he gives it. They'll conclude that this place is the home of murderers, and, if it keeps on, bime by of hoss thieves. If it warn't for that danger, I might go in for backing up Vose with his name, but as it stands it won't do." The argument of Ike had produced its effect. There was little sympathy in the first place for the title, and that little was destroyed by the words of Ike, who proceeded to plead for his own choice. "Now as to 'Wolf Eye.' In the first place, it is short and easy to say. There ain't any slur in the name, that might offend a new comer, who would think the 'Murderer's Holler' contained ungentlemanly allusions to his past. It is warning, too, that the place has got an eye on everybody and has teeth as sharp as a wolf. Then there is poetry in the name. Gentlemen," added Ike in a burst of enthusiasm, "we oughter go in for poetry. How can any one live in such a glorious country as this with the towering kenyons around him, with the mountains thousands of feet deep, with the grand sun kissin' the western tips in the morning and sinking to rest at night in the east,--with the snow storms in summer and the blazing heat in winter--with the glo----" "Hold on! hold on!" called Budge Isham, rising solemnly to his feet, with hands uplifted in protest; "if Ike doesn't stop, he'll have us all standing on our heads. There's a brand of liquor down in Sacramento called 'Wolf Eye;' I don't make any charges, gentlemen, against my friend Ike, but you can draw your inferences. Wolf Eye won't do." A general laugh greeted this sally, seeing which the indignant Ike turned the tables upon Budge with an admirable piece of sarcasm. "Seeing as how all of us together don't know 'nough to git up a name that will suit, I move that the college eddycated gentleman supplies the brains and does it himself." The crushing irony of this remark was spoiled by Budge accepting it in all seriousness. He bowed his head and gracefully thanked the satirical Vose. "I shall be very glad to do so. The committee meant well enough, but the trouble was that there were too many fools on it----" At this point Wade Ruggles sprang to his feet, with the fierce question: "Does the gentleman refer to _me_?" His hand was at his hip on the butt of his revolver and matters looked squally, but the tactful Budge quelled the rising storm with Chesterfieldian grace. Waving his hand and bowing, he said: "I did not intend the remotest reference to you." Vose Adams came up promptly. "Then it's _me_ and I'm ready to make any man eat his words." "My good friend is mistaken; nothing could induce me to apply such a term to him; I hold him in too high esteem." Since this left Ike Hoe as the only remaining member, he began to show signs of explosion, perceiving which the incomprehensible Budge proceeded to mollify him. "And Ike knows that I would be the last person in the world to slur a gentleman from whom I as well as the others have received so much instruction." Ike was mystified. He looked at the other members of the committee and then into the faces of the group. He couldn't make it out. "If it's all the same, Mr. Chairman, since the gentleman has said there was too many fools on the committee, and has just explained that he didn't mean any one of us three, I'll be obliged if he'll explain who in thunder he did mean." This sounded unanswerable, but the cunning Budge was equal to the occasion. "It gives me pleasure to answer the question of the gentleman: my remark was made in a Pickwickian sense." He leaned forward with a beaming smile, as if his explanation left nothing to be added. No one understood to what he referred, but all were too proud to admit the fact. There was a general nodding of heads, and Ike, with the manner of a man who magnanimously accepts the humble apology of him whom he has worsted, leaned back on his stool and audibly remarked: "That makes it all right." Budge Isham resumed his seat, when he was reminded that he was expected to submit a name for the new settlement. "I beg pardon," he said, rising again, "it is a fact known to this highly intelligent assemblage, that every city of prominence in Europe has from one to forty namesakes in this country. There is one exception, however; doubtless all know to what city I refer." In response to his inquiring looks, the group tried to appear as if the name was familiar to them, but no one spoke. "It is hardly necessary for me to mention the city, but I may say it is Constantinople." A contemptuous sniff greeted this proposal. "That's the worst yet," said Wade Ruggles, drawing a match along the thigh of his trousers to relight his pipe, which had gone out during the excitement; "the man that insults this party with such a proposition, ought to be run out of the place." "What's the matter with it?" demanded Budge. "It's too long in the fust place," commented Ike Hoe; "it bothers a man to git his mouth around it and it hain't any music, like the other names such as Starvation Kenyon, Hangman's Noose, Blizzard Gorge and the rest. I stick to mine as the purtiest of all." "What's that?" "'Blazes,' short and sweet and innercent like." Landlord Ortigies was leaning with both elbows on the bar. The new name struck him favorably. "I'm inclined to agree with Budge," he said, "cause there hain't any other place that's hit onto it. All of them names that you chaps have tried to spring onto us, have been used in other places, or at least some part of the names, but, as Budge has observed, no galoot has scooped 'Constantinople.'" "'Cause no one ain't fool enough," observed Ike Hoe, who noted the drift of the sentiment. "But they'll pounce onto it powerful quick if we don't grab it while it's passin'; it's a good long name, and what if it does make a chap sling the muscles of his jaw to warble it? All the better; it'll make him think well of his town, which I prophesy is going to be the emporium of the West." "Let's see," growled Wade Ruggles, "Constantinople is in Ireland isn't it?" "Where's your eddycation?" sneered Ike Vose; "it's the oldest town in Wales." Landlord Ortigies raised his head and filled the room with his genial laughter. "If there was anything I was strong on when I led my class at the Squankum High School it was astronermy; I was never catched in locating places." "If you know so much," remarked Ruggles, "you'll let us know something 'bout that town which I scorn to name." "I'm allers ready to enlighten ign'rance, though I've never visited Constantinople, which stands on the top of the Himalaya Mountains, in the southern part of Iceland." "That's very good," said Budge Isham, who with his usual tact maneuvered to keep the ally he had gained, "but the Constantinople I have in mind is in Turkey, which is such a goodly sized country that it straddles from Europe to Asia." "Which the same I suppose means to imply that this ere Constantinople will do likewise similar." "No doubt that's what it'll do in time," assented the landlord. "I beg to offer an amendment to my own motion," continued the oily Budge; "when the boom strikes this town, as it is bound soon to do, and it rivals in size the famous city on the other side of the Atlantic, there should be something to distinguish the two. We have no wish to rob any other place of the honors it has taken centuries to gain; so, while we reserve the principal name, I propose that we distinguish it from the old city by prefixing the word 'New.'" "You mean that this town shall be 'New Constantinople?'" was the inquiring remark of the landlord. "Precisely; and I now make the motion that that be our name." There were seventeen persons present and it looked as if a decision was inevitable. The landlord was shrewd. His first act was to invite all to drink at his expense, after which he made each pledge himself to abide by the decision, whatever it might be. These preliminaries being arranged, a show of hands was called for. The vote was eight for and eight against the new name. "That's a tie," commented the landlord from behind his immense beard; "and therefore the question ain't settled." "It's easy 'nough to settle it," said Ike Hoe. "How?" "Take another vote." "I don't see how that'll do it, onless some one changes his mind; but again, gentlemen: all who favor the new name, raise their right hands." Eight horny palms were elevated in air, while the same number were displayed in the negative. The landlord looked troubled. "We must keep it up till some one weakens," observed Wade Ruggles. The host scanned the earnest faces in front of him. "Which of you gentlemen will promise to weaken if we keep this thing up for half the night?" "I'll stay here a week," was the reply of Vose Adams, while the general nodding of heads showed that he echoed the sentiments of the others. The landlord met the crisis with becoming dignity. "Gentlemen, when I was a member of Congress, all questions that was tied was settled by the presiding officer casting the deciding vote, and which as aforesaid we don't lay any claim to being higher than Congress, I therefore, by virtue of the aforesaid right vested in me, cast my vote in favor of this city being called New Constantinople, which the same is on me again; gentlemen, what will you have?" It was a coup d'etat, the victory being clinched before the opposition realized it. Ere the company had fairly recovered from their bewilderment, Budge Isham declared that the victory was really his, due to the good sense and high toned chivalry of his friends, and he insisted upon doing the honors. He would accept no denial and the engaging style in which he acquitted himself of this duty restored good humor. Thus it was that the little mining town of the Sierras in the days that are gone received its title. The Heavenly Bower consisted of two large apartments, both on the ground floor. The one at the rear was used by Landlord Ortigies for sleeping, eating and partial storage purposes. When Vose Adams made his quarterly visits to Sacramento, he was accompanied by two mules. They were not necessary to take and bring the mail, since the pocket of Adams' great coat was sufficient for that, but they carried down to Sacramento several empty casks which came back filled, or rather they were thus when the return journey was begun, but to the dismay of the proprietor of the Heavenly Bower, he found that they were barely two-thirds full, when unloaded at his place. Vose explained that the leakage was due to the roughness of the trail. Since there seemed no other way of overcoming this, the landlord sent an extra cask with the request to Vose that he would confine his leakage to that and Vose kindly obliged him. The stuff thus provided for the Heavenly Bower was generally in concentrated form, thereby permitting a dilution which insured a full supply for the customers who were afflicted with an eternal thirst. The bar room was of extensive proportions. Nearly all of one side was occupied by the bar. Opposite was the huge fireplace, and scattered around were a number of stools, rickety chairs and strong boxes which served equally well for seats. The crackling fire, the genial warmth and good cheer within the room were the more striking because of their contrast with the howling storm without. The gale roared around the corners of the rude but strong structure, rattling against the massive door and the log walls, spitting vicious gusts down the chimney and flinging great drifts hither and yon with a fury that threatened to send the building skurrying through the snowy space. "It's the worst blizzard we ever had," remarked Wade Ruggles, after one of these violent outbursts; "God pity any one that's abroad to-night." "It reminds me of that zephyr last winter," observed Vose Adams, "when I was bringing your freight, Max, from Sacramento." "I remember," nodded the landlord; "you started with two kegs and got here with about half a one; the leakage was tremenjus on that trip." "True; the blizzards is always rough on Mountain Dew, and sorter makes it shrink," replied the unblushing Vose. "Can't you stop the casks leaking so much," inquired Felix Brush, who had been a parson in Missouri, and claimed that he had never been "unfrocked." The landlord solemnly swayed his head. "Not as long as Vose has charge of the freight----" At that instant a dull but resounding thump was heard on the roof overhead. It shook every log in the structure, checked speech and caused each man to look wonderingly at his neighbor. "The mountain has fell on us!" exclaimed Ike Hoe in a husky whisper. "If it was the mountain," said Budge Isham, slightly raising his voice, as the courage of the party came back; "none of us would be able to tell of it." "Then it's a rock--well, I'm blessed! the thing is moving!" Something was certainly astir in the mass of snow overhead. "I guess it's a angel that has lost its way," submitted Hoe. "More likely it's a grizzly b'ar that's stumbled off the rocks--" But all these speculations were scattered to the winds by the sound of a voice muffled and seemingly far away, which came to them through the storm: "_Helloa, the house_!" CHAPTER II WHAT THE BLIZZARD BROUGHT TO NEW CONSTANTINOPLE A moment after the hail was heard from the roof, the muffled noise which accompanied it ceased. The stranger groping about in the snowy gloom had stepped off the roof into the huge drift outside the Heavenly Bower, and a minute later, lifted the latch of the door and pushed in among the astonished miners. They saw the figure of a sturdy man holding something in his arms, so wrapped round with blankets and coverings that no one could tell its nature. He stamped the snow from his boots, shook himself like a shaggy dog, then walked heavily to the chair which Budge Isham placed near the fire for him, and almost fell into it. "Good evening, friends," he said in a grave voice; "It was no fault of mine that I tried at first to enter by the roof." "When I built the Heavenly Bower," replied Landlord Ortigies; "I meant to place a door up there, but there wasn't anybody in New Constantinople with enough sense to know how to do it. I 'spose you was looking fur it, stranger." "No," was the reply, "I wasn't looking for anything; I was just walking, walking through the storm, not knowing or caring where I went. I can't say how far I came, but it must have been a number of miles. I was still plodding on, when I set my foot on vacancy and down I went." "Gracious! you fell nearly a hundred feet," said Parson Brush; "it was a wonderful providence that saved you from being dashed to death." "The snow on the roof must be five or six feet deep," replied the stranger; "for it received me as if it were a feather bed. I saw a glow from the top of your chimney against the rocks and knew I was on the roof of a house. I hardly felt jarred and groped my way off into a lot more snow and here I am." The astonishment of the listeners did not make them forget the laws of hospitality. Budge Isham looked significantly at the landlord, but he had already drawn a glass of spirits and was coming from behind the bar with it. "Stranger, swallow this; you look cold; you're welcome to the Heavenly Bower, whether you come through the roof or down the chimbley." "Thank you; I'll take the whiskey in a minute." And then feeling that he owed those who made him so welcome some explanation of his coming among them, the stranger said: "My friends, my name is Maurice Dawson. About two months ago, I left Independence, Missouri, with an emigrant train for the Pacific coast. The elements, disease and the Indians made such inroads upon us that after a time only half a dozen families remained. As if that wasn't enough, the few survivors quarreled over the course to follow, most of them aiming for a pass through the mountains into Southern California, while I, the greatest fool of them all, set out to find Dead Man's Gulch, of which I had heard from a party of trappers. My canvas covered wagon, with a single span of horses, contained all my worldly goods, and my companions were my wife and little girl Nellie, only three years old. Everything might have gone well but for this blizzard, which jumbled up the points of the compass and made traveling so difficult that after a time it became impossible." All were listening with the closest interest, and every heart was touched by the emotion of the man, which he could not control for several minutes. No one interrupted, and, feeling that his story was not quite completed, he added: "I fired my gun in the hope of attracting attention, but fortunately for others I was the only one abroad. By and by the horses stopped. They could draw the wagon no further. They stood panting and exhausted and soon lay down in the snow. I turned to speak to my wife, when I found she had been dead for some minutes, the cold carrying her off as quietly as if she were dropping asleep. Before she passed away, she wrapped nearly all her clothing about Nellie, who was cuddling beside her, so that really the mother, like the noble woman she was, gave her life for the little one. It was because Nellie was alive, that I jumped out of the wagon and began floundering through the snow. I ploughed blindly forward until providence guided me to you." While uttering the last words, Maurice Dawson was tenderly unwrapping the bundle in his arms. There were many folds to draw away, but at last he reached the treasure within, which was his Nellie, still sound asleep. If the miners were startled by the resounding thump on the roof, they were now almost struck dumb with amazement. They sat with open mouths, staring eyes and for a minute no one spoke or stirred. "God bless you, my Nellie," murmured the father, bending his head and touching his lips to the cool forehead; "I had no hope of this when I left your dead mother and started on my tramp through the snow." A general sigh went up from the group of awed miners. Wade Ruggles, who had been leaning on the bar, with his gaze fixed on that of the handsome stranger, was the first to recover from the spell which held them all. Tiptoeing across the room, he paused in front of the father and his child and stared, wondering and speechless. Then one by one the others did the same, until the whole company were grouped around the man and child, each afraid to whisper, as if doing so would dissolve the heavenly vision. When the wrappings had been laid aside, and the little one was placed upright, she stared bewildered into the shaggy faces around her. Her big blue eyes were open to their widest extent, the mass of golden curls rippled about her shoulders and the fairy-like feet were inclosed in thick, warm shoes and stockings. The dress of a dull brown color and thick texture, fitted her tiny frame perfectly and she formed a most winsome picture of infantile beauty. For fully five minutes all stared in silence at the marvelous picture. As before, Wade Ruggles was the first to come to himself, but when he spoke, it was in an awed, hesitating whisper: "Is she really alive?" The sorrowful face of the father lit up with a faint smile as he answered: "Yes; thank heaven; alive and well." "May I touch her?" timidly asked Ike Hoe, extending his finger which faintly brushed the rosy cheek, and was instantly snatched away as if he felt he had done a sacrilegious thing. "I say," ventured Ruggles gathering courage, "I wonder now if she would let me take her in my arms for a minute or so; I won't drop her; but that's too much to ask, howsumever." While he stood hopeful, hesitating and doubtful, Nellie with a half frightened smile, dived her head under the arm of her father, as if to get away from the embarrassing situation. He gently fondled the golden hair and drew her face into view again. "There, little one, there's nothing to be frightened at; these people are all your friends and will do anything they can to please you." "You're right!" exclaimed Landlord Ortigies, with a shake of his head; "we'll do anything in the world for you; if you say the word, I'll stand on my head or stand any one else here the same way." And he showed an alarming inclination to invert himself for the amusement of the child, but she did not seem to grasp the meaning of the offer. She fixed her eyes upon Ruggles, who made bold by what seemed a favorable sign, took a step forward and invitingly extended his hands. She debated for a moment, whether to meet the proffer and then with the impulsiveness of infancy leaned toward him. With a thrill of pleasure the grizzled miner carefully placed his huge arms underneath hers, and lifted her as if she were a doll from her father's knee. As he did so, every one saw the big tears trickling down his cheeks. "I can't help it, boys," he said apologetically; "the last child I held in these arms was my own Jennie, and she was dead." With infinite affection, he pressed his bearded lips against the chubby cheek, while she, relieved of all fear, flung her dimpled arms about his neck and kissed him in return. With one hand, she lifted the flapping hat from his head and with the other smoothed away the luxuriant hair from his forehead. "I like you ever so much, but you are crying," she said sympathetically; "what makes you do that? Haven't you got a little girl like me?" "No, my precious child; I once had just such a sweet tot as you, but the good Lord took her from me, and I love you just as I loved her." "And that's what we all are going to do," remarked Ike Hoe, with a sniff as he drew his sleeve across his eyes; "this beats anything in the history of New Constantinople, by seven hundred and eighty-four thousand majority." "Come, Wade, you must be fair with us," said the landlord, reaching out his arms; "we all claim an equal share in her." The miner felt the truth of this, and without a word relinquished the treasure. Drawing his handkerchief, he wiped his eyes clear of their mist and jealously followed the surrendered one as she was fondled in turn by the others. First one and then another, until she had completed the round. All had something pleasant to say to her and she replied in her sweet innocent way, causing laughter and winning her path straight to the hearts of the hardy fellows, to whom such endearments had been unknown for years, but whose better natures were stirred by the presence of the child, as if she were in reality an angel sent from heaven. Felix Brush had purposely left his turn for the last, hoping thereby to retain her longer than his friends. After chatting with her for a moment and repeating some rigmarole that set her laughing, followed by the request for him to say it again, he stood her on the bar. Then he danced in front of her, swung his arms like a jumping-jack, and told some outlandish fairy story from the stock that no one had ever suspected he possessed. "Can you stand on your head?" asked Nellie, rippling over with fun. "Certainly," he replied, as without a moment's hesitation, he inverted himself and cracked his heels together, though the attitude was such an unfamiliar one that he careened and went over on his back with a thump that made the room tremble. Nellie clapped her chubby hands with delight and before Brush could repeat the performance, she called: "Catch me; I'm going to jump." "All right; I'm ready for you." She recoiled a step to gather momentum and Landlord Ortigies, terrified at the fear that she might step off backward, made a dive round the end of the bar, catching his foot in an obstruction and falling with a crash that drew all attention to him. "I'm so sorry; be you hurt?" asked Nellie, turning her head and surveying him, as his face came up to view like the full moon rising above the horizon. "Not a bit; I done that on purpose to make you laugh; I always do that to please good little girls like you." "Bime by I'll let you fall all the time, but just see me jump." Felix Brush was still standing, with arms outstretched, and, without a second's hesitation the child leaped off into space. She showed no fright, for there was no cause for it, since she was caught fairly and securely. Inasmuch as she had been fondled by every one, and the parson had had her longer than anyone else, he set her down on the floor and she began running here and there, displaying a childish curiosity to understand everything in sight. Going to the half-opened door, communicating with the darkened apartment at the rear, she peeped timidly in. "Who lives in dere?" she asked, turning around and addressing the whole group who were laughingly watching her. "That's where I live," replied Ortigies. "Do you live all alone?" "Yes, my child." "Haven't you got any little girl like me?" "No; I'd give all I have in the world if I had." "Wouldn't you like to have me for your little girl?" "Indeed I would; will you be my little girl?" The baby face became thoughtful. She thrust one finger in the corner of her mouth and looked down at the floor. "What would papa do and those other folks? I will be the little girl for all of you." This struck the party as the brightest and wittiest expression ever made by a mortal. They laughed, clapped their hands and striking each other on the shoulder wanted to know whether anything of the like had ever before been heard. Certainly not. Without paying any heed to them, Nellie was peering into the room again. "It's dark and cold," she said in an awed voice, turning her face around, the better to communicate the information; "but I ain't afraid." Before she could fairly enter the place, her father, who was affectionately watching her, said: "I guess you would better not go in there, Nellie; it's growing late and is time you prepared for bed." "I'll fix a place for her," said Ortigies; "we ain't much on style here, but I can manage to make her comfortable." "But will it not discommode you?" "That little gal can't discommode any one in New Constantinople; if she would prefer to have me go out and sleep in the snow, I'll be glad to do it." "I've just the place for her," interposed Wade Ruggles; "couldn't be better if I had taken a week to get it ready." "Can't begin with my quarters," Felix Brush hastened to say, and there would have been a general wrangle for the privilege of accommodating the little one, had not her father, seeing how matters were going, smilingly raised his hand in protest. "I cannot tell you, my friends, how much I thank you all for your kindness. Ah, if my poor wife could have held out until she reached here, but that was not to be. I shall be glad to stay with Mr. Ortigies to-night, and with your permission shall remain for a few days in your settlement. I have lost everything I owned in the world, and will need some time to decide what is best to do. Our stay in New Constantinople will give all a better chance to get acquainted with Nellie. I'll surrender her to you until you get tired of her." "Get tired of her!" repeated Vose Adams, voicing the sentiments of all; "we're not the kind of galoots to git tired of an angel." The father expressed his thanks with such winsome grace, that every man instinctively felt that he was a born gentleman. There was not a miner in the room who did not sympathize with him in his affliction, and yet they envied him the possession of the child, whose innocence and beauty impressed them as more wonderful than they had ever looked upon before. When Felix Brush whispered to Budge Isham that arrangements must be made in some way to keep the father with them, for the sake of having the child, his friend nodded his head, and said he had made up his mind to the same effect from the moment the parent referred to the matter. And the sentiments of these two were those of the rest. "Come, Nellie, let me prepare you for bed; it's a long time since you have had that privilege." The little one obediently walked to her father and turned her back to him that he might better remove her clothing. "I suppose you have plenty of covering for her?" remarked the parent inquiringly to the landlord. "There's all she can need." Lifting her on his knee, the father began removing the shoes and stockings, the little one giving what aid she could, when it came to the garments. One of the last acts of the affectionate mother had been to place upon her child the gown she was accustomed to wear while asleep. When at last she was ready, she looked up to her father and asked in a half whisper: "Where's mamma?" "She will not be with us to-night." "Then she will come in the morning?" "Wait until then, my child; don't say anything more about mamma now." She was satisfied, and signified that she was ready to have her father carry her to her bed. Then she exclaimed with a laugh: "Ain't that funny?" "What's that?" "I like to fordot to say my prayers." And slipping from her father's knee, she knelt on the floor, with her hands covering her face which, as it pressed his knee, was hidden by the mass of golden ringlets clustering and falling about it. Not a man stirred or spoke. All were so silent that the sifting of the snow against the logs, the moaning of the gale and the soft rustle of the embers that broke apart on the hearth were audible. But all these were as the "voice of silence" itself, so that when the child began her prayer in a low voice, every syllable was heard. "Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. God bless papa, mamma and make Nellie a good girl; bless--" Wheeling short round at the silent, awed group, she looked at the landlord and asked: "What is your name?" "Or-ti-gies," he replied, pronouncing it carefully. She made rather sorry work at first, but there could be no doubt that the One to whom she was addressing the petition understood her wishes. When she had satisfied herself and included the landlord in her prayer, she ceased again, and this time looked up at her father whose hand was resting on her head. "I must pray for _all_ of them, musn't I?" "Certainly, my child." "But I don't know dere names." "They will all tell them." No act of worship in church or grand cathedral was more solemn and reverential than that of the men, as each in turn stepped softly forward with bowed head, and repeated his name to the tiny petitioner, who immediately included it with those for whom she had already prayed and it was wafted upward through space to Him who delights to hear and answer such petitions. She did not forget one. To make sure, she looked up while still on her knees and asked: "Did I fordot any of you?" "No," replied the parent; "you have not missed any. That's a good girl." "And I know they will all be good, for I asked God to make 'em so." The father now rose to his feet with her in his arms, and she called a general good night, flinging a kiss to all. Landlord Ortigies had lit an extra lamp and with it in hand, he led the way to the rear room, where as he stated, comfortable quarters were provided for the little one. Since the Heavenly Bower was the only place in the mining settlement where the wanderer, who occasionally made his way into that remote part of the world, could expect to find sleeping accommodations, Ortigies was always prepared for visitors. Thus he was able to furnish the father with a couch so placed that he virtually shared the bed with his child. Ten minutes later, when he stole back into the room with the landlord to see whether everything was right with his child, she was found sunk in the sweet, dreamless slumber of infancy. The picture was so winsome as she lay with her cheek resting upon the rough pillow, that Ortigies stepped softly to the door and beckoned to his friends. Everyone stole forward, and stood looking down for several minutes upon the sleeper, and, as he did so, new resolves sprang into his heart. Already it may be said they were better men because of the blessed messenger that had come among them. CHAPTER III A SLIP OR TWO The blizzard gradually subsided toward morning, but when the fall of snow ceased, it lay to the depth of several feet on the level, while the gorges were choked with vast drifts. The cold was below zero and no work could be done in the diggings until a rise in temperature came. It was hardly light, however, on the succeeding morning, when three of the miners accompanied Maurice Dawson in his search for the abandoned wagon and team. There was not a trace of anything resembling a trail, the footprints of the man having been obliterated by the wind-driven snow, and the skill of the party was taxed to the utmost. Several times they were compelled to rest, and Dawson himself suggested that the search be given up until a change in the weather; but the kind hearted men saw how deeply he grieved, and their sympathy kept them toiling until about noon when success came. The wagon was so covered with snow that it resembled a hummock, which ordinarily would have been passed without notice. The horses and the inanimate form within were like blocks of wood. The slight figure was lifted tenderly from its resting place and brought to Dead Man's Gulch. Since the last recollection of Nellie was when she supposed her mother alive, it was deemed kinder that she should not look upon the lifeless form again. With hard labor the picks and shovels hollowed out a shallow grave into which the form, wrapped about with a single blanket, was laid away to rest until the last day. The father, when questioned by the little one, explained that her mother had gone on a long, long journey and there was no saying when she would be seen again. Nellie cried a good deal and it saddened her parent's heart, when stealing softly into her room, he saw the traces of tears on her cheeks. Who can tell the sorrows of childhood when such a cruel affliction comes upon it? But it is a blessed truth that time is the healer of all wounds, and after awhile the little one ceased to ask about her mother. When the whole truth was told her, she had become old enough to bear the blow. Maurice Dawson's first purpose was to remain only for a week or two with the friends of himself and child. He had set out for the Pacific coast, and, although it was still a thousand miles distant, he felt it his duty to press on, but he suffered himself to be dissuaded, when it was explained that the prospect of obtaining gold was as good at New Constantinople, whereas, if he continued his journey, he would have to make his home among strangers, who were not likely to feel the interest in him and his child that was felt by those who were the means of saving their lives. Furthermore, since he had lost his team, he was without the means of pressing on. None of the emigrant trains turned so far out of their course as to come to Dead Man's Gulch, and nothing was plainer than that the citizens of that place would not give the least help in an enterprise that was to deprive them of Nellie. It is impossible to say what would have followed, had he persisted in his first decision, for while the men might have consented to let him go, they would have rebelled had he attempted to take the child from them. And so it came about, we repeat, that Maurice Dawson decided to make his home indefinitely in the town that had been christened New Constantinople. With the help of his neighbors, Landlord Ortigies divided his rear room into two apartments, one of which was turned over to the parent and his child. Nearly every miner brought some article, such as a fragment of mirror, a picture or trinket and presented it to the little one, whose room naturally became the finest in New Constantinople. Dawson himself joined the miners at their work, all showing an eagerness to lend him a helping hand, and there was reason to hope that in time there would be a fair reward for their labor. He was not only an educated man, but was strong and enterprising, considerate of the feelings of others, and now that his life partner was gone, he had but the little daughter to live for. Gladly he toiled for her, for no child was ever more tenderly loved by parent than she. His thoughts turned to the future, but for some years he believed it was better that she should remain where she was. Nellie Dawson became the pet of the mining town. There was not a man in the place, no matter how rough his ways, nor how dark had been his past, who was not made the better by her presence. She touched a responsive chord in every heart. She awoke tones that had been silent for years, and stirred into life resolves that had lain dormant for a generation. When the weather grew milder with the approach of spring, she flitted like a bird from cabin to cabin, equally at home and dearly prized in all. Many a time when night came, the father was unable to find her, and perhaps saw nothing of her until the next day, but he never felt any solicitude. He knew that some of the men had persuaded her to remain with them, and he was too considerate to rob them of the pleasure of listening to her innocent prattle, while they racked their ingenuity and threw dignity to the winds in the effort to entertain her. Each one strove to make her think more of him than the others, and it ended by her loving them all. As a rule, Nellie ate her morning meal at home, after spending the night with her father, and then she was off for the day, returning or remaining away as her airy fancy prompted. Her sweet influence in the mining camp was beyond the power of human calculation to fathom. No gauge could be placed upon it. Like the sweep of an angel's wing, her coming seemed to have wafted nearly all the coarseness, wrong and evil from her path. "There's a serious question that I want to lay afore this company," gravely remarked Wade Ruggles one night in the Heavenly Bower. Dawson was absent with a brother miner at the lower end of the settlement, so the gathering felt at liberty to discuss him and his child. Wade of late had fallen into the habit of taking the lead in such discussions, and Landlord Ortigies was quite willing to turn over the honors of the chairmanship to the outspoken fellow. The remainder of the company were smoking, drinking and talking as the mood took them, and all looked inquiringly at the speaker, seeing which Wade continued with the same earnestness he had shown at first: "It is this: that little angel that was tossed down here in the blizzard is growing fast; she's larning something cute every day; she notices things that you don't think of; fact is she's the smartest youngster that was ever born. Does any gent feel disposed to dispoot the aforesaid statement?" he abruptly asked, laying his hand on the butt of his revolver and looking severely around in the faces of his friends. No one questioned the assertion. Had it been left to them to choose the words, they would have made them stronger. "Wal, the remark I was about to remark is that I hear some coarse observations once in awhile. I may say that I have indulged in a few myself when the 'casion was suitable and called for 'em, but I want to give notice that the thing must stop in the presence of the angel." "Your suggestions generally ain't worth listenin' to," observed Ike Hoe, "but there's solid sense in them words. I have been troubled over the same thing and was goin' to submit a proposition." "You're a purty one to do it," commented Vose Adams scornfully; "why it's only yesterday that I heerd you say 'darn' just because I happened to smash the end of your finger, with the hammer I was drivin' a nail with." "Did the little one hear him?" asked Wade Ruggles, while an expression of horror settled on every countenance. "No, sir!" declared Ike; "afore I indulged in the expression, so proper under the tryin' circumstances, I looked round to make sartin she wasn't in hearing distance." "You must have looked very quick," said Vose; "for the horrible words was simultaneous with the flattenin' of your big forefinger. Howsumever, I gazed round myself and am happy to say she warn't in sight. If she had been, I'd smashed all your fingers." "A very proper Christian spirit," commended Wade; "I hope all the rest of you will strive to emerlate it." Felix Brush was leaning on the end of the bar with a glass of steaming toddy, which he had partly sipped, and was now caressing with his hand. "Gentlemen," said he impressively, "permit me a word. Wade has touched a subject which appeals to us all. I have given it much thought for the past few days and feel it my duty to look after the religious instruction of the child." Two or three disrespectful snickers followed this declaration. The parson instantly flared up. "If any reprobate here feels a desire to scoff, he's only to step outside for a few minutes and see who can get the drop on the other." Everybody knew that the parson was always well heeled, and no one questioned his courage. His friends contented themselves with pitying smiles and significant glances at one another. Felix hastily swallowed his toddy, with the evident intention of airing his emphatic views, when Wade Ruggles interposed: "Pards, you're gettin' off the track; we hain't got to the religious racket yit; that'll come later. What I want to 'rive at is as to using cuss words and unproper language where the angel hears it. It ain't 'nough for us to agree that we won't do it; it must be fixed so we don't take no chances." This was not exactly clear and Wade was asked to be more explicit. "I mean that there must be a penalty, such as will stop a galoot that has once offended from doing the same thing again." This clearly intimated that the punishment which the chairman had in mind was of a frightful nature. The landlord begged Wade to come down to particulars. "My idee is that whoever offends this little one by unproper language shall be filled full of bullet holes: how does _that_ strike you?" "It hits me just right!" responded the landlord, with several nods of his head; "but there's one thing in the way." "What's that?" demanded Wade, showing some temper at this attack upon his scheme. "It 'lows a man to say the unproper words in the hearin' of the angel, _afore_ he's shot; so it won't prevent her ears from being 'fended. Can't we fix it some way, so that she shan't hear 'em at all?" "There's no trouble about that," solemnly remarked Budge Isham from his seat at the further end of the room; "You have only to find out when a fellow has made up his mind to use improper language in the presence of the child, and then shoot him before he can say the words." "But how shall we know he's going to say 'em?" inquired the chairman, who in the earnestness of his feelings felt no suspicion of the honesty of his friend. "You will have to judge that by the expression of his countenance. I think when a fellow has made up his mind to swear his looks give notice of what is coming. The rest of us must be on the alert and pick him off before the words get out of his mouth. And yet I am sorry to say," added Budge gravely rising to his feet, "that there is one serious drawback to my proposition." "The chairman is anxious to hear it." "There might be mistakes made. A man's expression is not always an index of his thoughts. He might be suffering from some inward pain, and be in the act of uttering some expression, but his face could have so mean a look that if our law was in force, he would be shot on sight. For instance, studying these faces all turned toward me, I should say, speaking on general principles, that all except one or two deserve, not shooting, but hanging, and if looks were to determine a man's depth of infamy, mighty few of you would live five minutes." Budge sank gravely into his seat and resumed smoking, while his friends, understanding his trifling character, contemptuously refused attention to his disrespectful remarks. In the general discussion which followed, several insisted that the only proper punishment for the grave offence was death; but the sentiment crystallized into the feeling that that penalty was somewhat severe for the first breaking of the law. It was proper enough for the second crime, but a man who had been accustomed to picturesque and emphatic words was liable to err once at least while on the road to reformation. The agreement finally reached was that the offender should be heavily fined, compelled to fast several days, or, more frightful than all, be deprived of the privileges of the bar for the same length of time. When the last penalty was fixed there were several suppressed groans and a general setting of lips, with the unshakable resolve to steer clear of that appalling punishment. Everything was serene for several days, when, as might have been anticipated, the explosion came. Al Bidwell, in coming out of the Heavenly Bower, caught the toe of one of his boots and fell forward on his hands and knees. Two of his friends seeing him naturally laughed, whereupon, as he picked himself up, he demanded in the name of the presiding genius of hades, what they saw to laugh at. By way of answer, one of them pointed to Nellie Dawson, who ran forward to help him to his feet. "Did you hurt yourself, Mr. Bidwell? I's so sorry." "You may well be, little one," was the bitter response, as he realized his awful offence; "for this will play thunder with me--there it goes agin! Please don't say another word," he exclaimed desperately, striding down the street to save himself from piling up a mountain of unpardonable crimes. The committee did not gather until late that evening, for Nellie was at home and it was thought advisable to wait until she was asleep, so that she should not know anything of what was in the air. The conversation was in subdued tones until Mr. Dawson tip-toed out of the rear room, with the announcement that the little one was sunk in slumber. "Such bein' the case," remarked Wade Ruggles, with becoming gravity, "this meeting will proceed to bus'ness. Pards, a hein'us crime has been committed among us. In the proud history of New Constantinople, we've had hangin' bees; we've shot three Injins 'cause they _was_ Injins; there has been any number of holes plugged inter them as was a little careless of speech, and more'n once there has been the devil to pay, but nothin' like this, _never_! Vose Adams, you was one as heard this wretch Bidwell indulge in his shocking profanity. You'll be good 'nough to give the partic'lars to the gents that I must warn to brace themselves fur the shock." Vose Adams told the story which was familiar to all. He and Budge Isham were approaching the Heavenly Bower that forenoon, the cause being a due regard for the requirement of the laws of health, when Albert Bidwell, the accused, stubbed his toe. Hearing a laugh, he looked up and demanded to know what the ---- they were laughing at. While the query, though objectionable on æsthetic grounds, might have passed muster in the diggings or anywhere in New Constantinople previous to the advent of the angel at present making her home with them, yet the horror of the thing was that the aforesaid angel heard it. She ran to the help of the villain, who added to his monumental crime by calmly remarking to her that what he had just said would play thunder with him. This second offence was unanimously felt by those present to be more unpardonable than the first, since it was in the nature of an addendum, had nothing to do with the business proper, and worst of all, was addressed to Nellie herself. Chairman Ruggles turned his severest frown upon the prisoner, who was sitting disconsolately on a box, and drawing at his brier wood pipe, which in the depth of his emotion, he failed to notice was unlighted. "What has the prisoner to say fur himself?" Bidwell shuffled to his feet, took the pipe from his mouth and looked around upon the cold, unsympathetic faces. "Wal, pards," he remarked, heaving a great sigh, "I don't see that there's anything partic'lar fur me to say. When a thing is fairly proved onto you, you can't make nothin' by denyin' of the same. I've been tryin' to walk a chalk line ever since the angel arrove among us. Two or three times I fell over backward and bruised my head, owin' to my tryin' to stand up too straight. I was just bracin' myself to do the same as aforesaid, when comin' out of this disgraceful place, when I took a headlong dive and struck the earth so hard, I must have made a bulge in China. Two unmannerly ijuts that happened to see me, instead of expressin' sorrer for my mishap, broke out laughin', and in my righteous indignation, I asked them a emphatic question." "Ord'narily," observed the Court, "your explanation would do. In the old times, nothin' would have been said if you'd drawed your gun and give 'em a lesson in manners, but that aint the question afore the house: Why did you do it in the presence of the angel?" "Didn't see her till after the crime was committed." "But why didn't you look fur her to larn whether she was in sight or was liable to hear your shocking words?" "Didn't think of it." "Your reply only aggervates the offence. If any man feels that he must swear or bust, he must bust, purvided the little one is in sight; or he must hold in till he can climb on top of the rocks, or creep among the foothills where he's sure of being alone. The Court hain't any 'bjection to your thinking all the cuss words you want to, but you mus'n't speak 'em when she's about. You understand the position of the Court?" "I'd be a fool if I didn't," growled the accused. "It's onnecessary to understand 'em in order to be a fool, Mr. Bidwell, but how 'bout your second offence, when you used the word 'thunder,' and addressed it to the gal herself?" The prisoner felt that nothing could be said in palliation of this charge. "That _was_ bad bus'ness, I'll confess; but I was so disgusted with myself that I didn't know what I was doing or saying; the words come out afore I had time to pull myself together. I was so afeard of adding something still worser that I just rushed off to git out of danger." [Illustration: AS HE PICKED HIMSELF UP, HE DEMANDED IN THE NAME OF THE PRESIDING GENIUS OF HADES WHAT THEY SAW TO LAUGH AT.--PAGE 43.] "There's where you showed the first grain of sense the Court ever knowed you to show. If I had been in your place, I would have jumped off the rocks, into the kenyon, two thousand feet below. If you'd done that you'd been saved the disgrace of being put on trial in this honorable Court. Gents," added Ruggles, glancing from the prisoner into the expectant faces, "since the man owns up, it rests with you to fix the penalty for his crime of bigamous murder." The prisoner resumed his seat and the chairman looked around, as an invitation for those present to express their views. When they came to do so, a wide diversity came to the surface. Vose Adams suggested that the criminal be compelled to go without any food for three days, but this was not favorably received, since the rough, trying life which each man had been compelled to follow at times during the past years, made the punishment much less than it appeared to be. Ike Hoe suggested that instead of food, the accused's liquid refreshment should be shut off for the time named. The accused groaned. When this had continued for some time, Felix Brush, the parson, took the floor. "Gentlemen, it's a principle in law to be lenient with the first offence, and, since this is the first time that Bidwell has offended and he deeply feels his disgrace, why not require him to apologize to the young lady and stand treat for the crowd, with the understanding that his next crime shall be visited with condign punishment?" "Do you propose to let him off?" demanded the wrathful chairman. "Yes; for this once, but never again." "I'll never consent to anything of the kind! The dignity of the Court must be preserved; the law must be executed, and any man who says 'devil' or 'thunder' in the presence of the little gal, I don't care what the circumstances, orter to be shot, so that there wont be any delay in his going to the devil, where he belongs." "_O, Mr. Ruggles, I heard you_!" A little figure dressed in white stood at the door leading to the rear room, and the startled auditors turning their heads, saw Nellie Dawson, with her chubby finger pointed reprovingly at the dumbfounded chairman. CHAPTER IV SUITING THE PUNISHMENT TO THE CRIME Wade Ruggles was speechless. He sat with his mouth wide open and his eyes staring at the little figure, as if it were a veritable apparition. All the others looked in the same direction. Nellie Dawson stood for a moment with her finger pointed reprovingly at the chairman, and then turning about ran back into the rear room and plunged into her bed. "Max, quick!" said Ruggles faintly, pointing to the black bottle at the rear of the bar. The landlord hastily poured out some of the fiery stuff, and the miserable fellow swallowed it at a gulp. It served partly to revive him, but he was really on the verge of collapse. The only one of the company not impressed was Maurice Dawson, father of the little girl. He was sitting well back of the rest, where no one paid attention to him. Comprehending the meaning of this incident, he drew his hand across his mouth to conceal the smile that could not be wholly restrained. Then he hurried back into the room to see that his child was "tucked up" and properly covered for the night. Finding himself in the dark, where he could not be observed, he laughed deeply and silently, his mirth all the greater because of the oppressive gravity of every one else. Then bending over, he said, as he kissed the little one: "I thought you were asleep, Nellie?" "So I was, but Mr. Ruggles spoke those bad words so loud he woked me." "You mustn't get up again, will you?" "Not if you don't want me to." "I have just told you I don't wish you to." "Then I wont get up." The father lingered in the room, until he mastered his disposition to laugh, and then, when he walked out among his friends no countenance was graver than his. "I say, Dawson," said Ruggles, swallowing a lump in his throat, "will you oblige me by acting as chairman?--I don't feel--very--well." The gentleman walked forward to where Ruggles had been standing with his back against the bar, looking down in the faces of his friends. The poor fellow seemed to have aged ten years, as he slouched off to an upturned box near the door, where he dejectedly seated himself. "What is your pleasure, gentlemen?" asked Dawson, as if presiding over the deliberations of one of the most august assemblages in the land; "I am ready to hear any suggestion or motion." Al Bidwell rose to his feet. "Mr. Chairman, I wish to endorse with all my heart, the soul-stirring, eloquent address to which we have just listened from the late Mr. Ruggles,--I mean the late Chairman. Them sentiments of his is as sound as a gold dollar. He maintains that any gent that uses an unproper word, such as he used and which I scorn to repeat, in the presence of the young lady, who has just listened to his remarks, oughter to be sent to the individooal whose name is too shocking fur me to pronounce, since the aforesaid young lady is in the adjoining apartment, from whence she was awoke by the awful profanity of the gent who lately served as our chairman." And having gotten back on Ruggles in this masterly manner, Bidwell sat down, slung one leg over the other, and relit his pipe. The oppressive silence was broken by a prodigious sigh from Ruggles. Parson Brush, after the stillness had continued some minutes, rose to his feet. "Mr. Chairman, an extraordinary state of affairs has arisen. You have not forgotten that I plead for charity for Mr. Bidwell, because it was his first offence. My plea was not well received, but my sentiments are unchanged, and I now make the same plea for Mr. Ruggles and on the same grounds. When he was denouncing in fitting terms the sin of Bidwell, he had no thought of committing the crime himself, but in his earnestness he did. This being plain to all of us, I renew----" Wade Ruggles bounded to his feet. "I don't want any one to plead for me! I ain't pleading fur myself! I can take my medicine like a man; if there's any galoot here----" He suddenly checked himself with an apprehensive glance at the door of the rear room, and then resumed in a more subdued voice: "I insist that Al Bidwell shall suffer for his onspeakable crime and me too, 'cause mine was onspeakabler. Jedgin' from the evidence that showed itself, I must have awoke the little gal from peaceful slumber, by them awful words of mine." He paused and looked inquiringly at the chairman, who calmly returned his gaze, without speaking. It was Parson Brush who interposed: "I should like to ask, Mr. Dawson, whether the supposition of Mr. Ruggles has any foundation in fact." "It has; when I asked Nellie what caused her to awake, she said it was Mr. Ruggles when he used those bad words." "Just what I thought!" exclaimed Ruggles, as if he enjoyed heaping fire upon his own head; "there ain't any depth of infamy which I hain't reached. For me to try to sneak out now, when I made such a----(Here he again threw a startled glance at the rear of the room) would be to do something which Wade Ruggles never done in his variegated career of nigh onto forty years. All I ask is that you'll git through it as soon as you kin and fix our terms of imprisonment or our deaths and hev done with it." Al Bidwell took an unworthy delight in prodding the man who had been so severe upon him. "I beg humbly to suggest to the gent that there are plenty of places in the mountains where he can make a jump of a thousand feet or two into the kenyons. Wouldn't it be a good idee fur the gent to try it?" "I will if you'll join me," retorted Wade, turning upon him like a flash. "I'll let you try it first and see how it works," replied Bidwell, so crushed that he remained silent henceforward. "Since I am chairman," said Dawson, with becoming dignity, "it is my duty to listen to suggestions and to hear motions. What is your pleasure, gentlemen?" No one in looking at the countenance of Maurice Dawson would have suspected he was extracting the keenest enjoyment from these proceedings, yet such was the fact. There was something so intensely ludicrous in the whole business, that only by assuming preternatural gravity could he refrain from breaking into merriment. His policy was to egg on the discussion until the company were ready for a decision, when he would interpose with the proposal to wipe out the whole matter and begin over again. The earnestness of Wade Ruggles, however, threatened to check anything of that nature. He was on his feet several times until Budge Isham, who shrewdly suspected the sentiments of the chairman, protested. "With all due respect to the parson, to Ruggles and to Bidwell, it strikes me, Mr. Chairman, that they should give the rest of us a show. We have listened to their yawping until it has grown monotonous. Having told us a dozen times, more or less, that he wants us to punish him all he deserves, Mr. Ruggles ought to let it rest with that; but he shouldn't forget," added Budge, with the solemn manner which always marked his waggery, "that, if we took him at his word, he would be kicking vacancy this minute. However, this hasn't anything to do with his general cussedness, but concerns his offence against the young lady. That is all there is before the house, and I insist that we confine ourselves to that----" "Isn't that what I've been insistin' on?" demanded Wade Ruggles. "There you go again! I have the floor, and you have no parliamentary right to interrupt me with your frivolous remarks. Am I correct, Mr. Chairman?" "You are most unquestionably; proceed." "Well, to bring this tiresome matter to a close, I move that Mr. Bidwell be deprived of the bar privileges of the Heavenly Bower for a period of four days, and that the same be denied to Mr. Ruggles for a period of one week. Did I hear a groan?" asked Budge, looking round at the two men, who were trying bravely to bear up under the threatened punishment. Both shook their heads, afraid to trust their voices by way of reply. "If the gentlemen will permit me," said the chairman, "I should like to say a few words." "I am sure we shall be glad to hear from Mr. Dawson," remarked the parson. "Thank you. What I had in mind is this:--It is creditable to your honor that you should pledge yourselves to refrain from unbecoming language in the hearing of my little girl, for you cannot help being her instructors, no matter how much you may wish it were otherwise. But you are magnifying the matter. I am sure every man of you will strive just as hard, without being incited thereto by the fear of punishment. I would beg to suggest----" He paused, for, looking at Wade Ruggles, he saw it was useless to go further. Bidwell would have been glad to receive leniency, but his partner in crime was immovable, and it would not do to punish one and allow the other to go free. Dawson was wise enough to accept the situation promptly. "You have heard the penalties suggested for the offences of the two gentlemen accused. All who favor such punishment will show it by raising their right hands." Every man in the room, except the chairman, voted in the affirmative. "It isn't worth while to put the negative. The accused have heard the verdict, which is that Mr. Bidwell shall not drink a drop of anything except water or coffee for a period of four days, dating from this moment, while Mr. Ruggles is to undergo the same penalty for a period of one week." "That's right," growled Bidwell; "for he drank about half of what was in the bottle only a few minutes ago." "And you would have drunk it all," retorted Ruggles, "if you'd knowed what was coming." CHAPTER V A HUNDRED FOLD All this may seem a trifling matter to the reader who does not understand the real punishment suffered by these two men, who, like all the rest of their companions, had been accustomed to the use of ardent spirits for many years. There was no deprivation which they could not have borne with less distress, but their great consolation was that both knew the penalty was fully deserved, and they would not have complained had it been made more severe. "I tell you," said Bidwell, at the end of the fourth day, when he had celebrated his release from purgatory, "it pays, Ruggles." "What pays?" "The reward you git for all this. At the end of a week you'll have a thirst that you wouldn't take a thousand dollars fur." "But the week isn't much more'n half gone and I'd sell my thirst mighty cheap now." "Don't you do it! Hold fast to it." "That's what I'm doing, 'cause I can't help myself. Howsumever it's the thirst that's holding fast to me." "That's the beauty of it; it'll git stronger and stronger, and then it's so big that you can't well handle it. It seems to me that ten minutes after I've had a drink, I'm thirsty agin, which reminds me; I'd like to invite you, Wade." "Invite all you want to, 'cause it won't do any more hurt than good; don't let me keep you," added Ruggles, observing the longing eyes his friend cast in the direction of the Heavenly Bower. Bidwell moved off with pretended reluctance, out of consideration for the feelings of his friend, but once inside, he gave another demonstration of the truth of his remarks concerning thirst. As for Ruggles, only he who has been similarly placed can appreciate his trial. No man is so deserving of sympathy as he who is making a resolute effort to conquer the debasing appetite that has brought him to the gutter. On that fourth night the thirst of the fellow was a raging fever. He drank copious draughts of spring water, but all the help it gave was to fill him up. The insatiate craving remained and could not be soothed. It seemed as if every nerve was crying out for the stimulant which it was denied. "The only time I ever went through anything like this," he said to himself, "was twenty years ago, when a party of us were lost in the Death Valley. Three of 'em died of thirst, and I come so nigh it that it makes me shudder to think of it even at this late day." A wonderful experience came to Wade Ruggles. To his unbounded amazement, he noticed a sensible diminution, on the fifth day, of his thirst. It startled him at first and caused something in the nature of alarm. He feared some radical change had taken place in his system which threatened a dangerous issue. When this misgiving passed, it was succeeded by something of the nature of regret. One consoling reflection from the moment his torture began, was the reward which Al Bidwell had named, that is,--the glorious enjoyment of fully quenching his terrific craving, but, if that craving diminished, the future bliss must shrink in a corresponding ratio, and _that_ was a calamity to make a man like him shudder. On the evening of the fifth day, he ventured for the first time during his penal term, to enter the Heavenly Bower. He wished to test his self-control. When he sat quietly and saw his friends imbibing, and was yet able to restrain himself from a headlong rush to join them, he knew that beyond all question, his fearful appetite had lost a part of its control over him. Still he believed it was only a temporary disarrangement, and that the following day would bring a renewal of his thirst, with all its merciless violence. But lo! on the sixth morning, the appetite was weaker than ever. His craving was so moderate that, after a deep draught of mountain spring water, he was hardly conscious of any longing for liquor. He seemed to be losing his memory of it. "I don't understand it," he mused, keeping the astonishing truth to himself; "It's less than a week ago that I was one of the heaviest drinkers in New Constantinople, and if anyone had told me of this, I would have been sure he'd lost his senses, which the same may be what's the matter with me." But there was no awakening of his torment during the day, and when he lay down at night, he was disturbed by strange musings. "If we had a doctor in the place, I would ask him to tell me what it means. The queerest thing 'bout the whole bus'ness is that I feel three thousand per cent. better. I wonder if it can be on 'count of my not swallerin' any of Ortigies' pison which the same he calls Mountain Dew. I guess it must be that." But that night he was restless, and gradually his thoughts turned into a new channel. A momentous problem presented itself for solution. "If I've improved so much after goin' six days without drinkin', won't I feel a blamed sight better, if I try it for six weeks--six months--six years--_forever_." And as an extraordinary, a marvelous resolution simmered and finally crystallized, he chortled. "What'll the boys say? What'll the parson think? What'll I think? What would that good old mother of mine think, if she was alive? But she died afore she knowed what a good for nothin' man her boy turned out to be. God rest her soul!" he added softly, "she must have prayed over me a good many hundred times; if she's kept track of me all these years, this is an answer to her prayers." Budge Isham was the partner of Wade, and shared his cabin with him. He slept across the room, and noticed how his friend tossed and muttered in his sleep. "Great Gee!" he exclaimed, "but Wade's got it pretty bad; I wonder if it's the jim jams that is getting hold of him; I'll sleep with one eye open, for he will need looking after. What a blessed thing it is that he has only one more day. Then he can celebrate and be happy. I have no doubt that by the end of another week, he will have brought things up to their old average." And with this conclusion, the man who a few years before took the first honors at Yale, shifted his position, so as to keep an eye on his comrade, and straightway proceeded to drop into a sound slumber, which was not broken until the sun rose on the following morning. The sympathy for Wade was general. Had he not insisted upon carrying out in spirit and letter the full punishment pronounced upon him, there would have been a unanimous agreement to commute his term by one or two days at least; but all knew the grit or "sand" of the fellow too well to propose it. His actions on the seventh day caused considerable disquietude. He had labored in the mines, in a desultory fashion up to that time, but he did not do a stroke of work during the concluding hours of his ordeal. It was observed by his partner, Budge Isham, that his appetite was unusually good and he seemed to be in high spirits. His friends attributed this to the closeness of his reward for his abstention, but he took several walks up the mountain side and was gone for a good while. He wore a smiling face and Vose Adams declared that he overheard him communing with himself, when he thought he was too far off for the act to be noticed. "No use of talkin'," whispered Vose; "Wade ain't quite himself; he's a little off and won't be exactly right till after two or three days." "He has my sympathy," remarked the parson, "but it will serve as a lesson which he will always remember." "And won't _we_ remember it?" said Ike Hoe, with a shudder. "When we're disposed to say one of them unproper words, the picture of that miserable scamp going a full week without a touch of Mountain Dew, will freeze up our lips closer than a clam." That night the usual group was gathered at the Heavenly Bower. There were the same merry jests, the reminiscences, the conjectures how certain diggings would pan out, the small talk and the general good feeling. Common hardship and suffering had brought these rough men close to one another. They were indulgent and charitable and each one would have eagerly risked his life for the sake of the rest. Quick to anger, they were equally quick to forgive, mutually rejoicing in good fortune, and mutually sympathetic in sorrow. There was more than one furtive glance at Ruggles, who was among the first arrivals. Whispers had passed around of his strange actions, and the surprise would not have been great had it been found that he had gone clean daft; but nothing in his manner indicated anything of that nature. He was as full of quip and jest as ever, and none was in higher or more buoyant spirits than he. He suddenly called: "Dawson, what time is it?" The latest comer among them carried a watch which he drew out and examined. "It is exactly half-past nine." "When did my punishment begin?" "A week ago to-night, precisely at this hour; I began to fear that you had forgotten it." "No danger of my ever forgetting it," grimly responded Ruggles; "what I want to know is whether I have served out my full term." "You have unquestionably." "Is there anyone here disposed to dispute this statement?" asked Wade, standing very erect and looking around in the faces of his friends. No one interposed an objection. He had not only the sympathy but the respect of every one. "You sarved your time like a man," remarked Ike Hoe; "the week is up and you've give good measure." "Which the same being the case, I invite all to come forward and liquidate." Never was an invitation responded to with more enthusiasm. The grinning Ortigies set out a couple of bottles, intending as a matter of course to join in the celebration. He feelingly remarked: "Wade, my heart bled for you and thar ain't a pard here that wouldn't have been willing to take your place--that is for a limited time," the landlord hastened to add. Each tumbler was half-filled with the fiery stuff and all looked in smiling expectancy at their host to give the cue. He poured a small quantity into his glass, and elevating it almost to a level with his lips, looked over the top. "Are you ready, pards? here goes." Up went every glass and down went the stuff. But there was one exception. While the glass was at his lips, and while the familiar odor was in his nostrils, Wade Ruggles deliberately inverted the tumbler and emptied the contents on the floor. It was the strangest incident that had ever occurred in New Constantinople. CHAPTER VI TEACHER AND PUPIL The group looked at Wade Ruggles in breathless amazement. He had invited them to the bar to join in celebrating his release from thralldom; all had filled their glasses and he had raised his own to his lips, though several noticed that there was only a small amount of liquid in the tumbler. Then, when every glass was upraised and there was a general gurgling, he had turned his glass upside down and spilled every drop on the floor. Before anyone could think of suitable terms in which to express his emotions, Wade said, with a smile that rather added than detracted from his seriousness: "Pards, never again does a drop of that stuff go down my throat! I've suffered hell, but I've come out of the flames, and the one that fetched me through is the little gal which lays asleep in the next room." He did not attempt to deliver a temperance lecture to his friends, nor did they trifle with him. They questioned him closely as to how he had reached this extraordinary decision, and he gave a vivid and truthful account of his experience. It made several of the men thoughtful, but most of them felt dubious about his persistence in the new path he had laid out for himself. "You know, boys, whether I've got a will of my own," he quietly replied; "just wait and see how this thing comes out." It was noticed that Parson Brush was the most interested inquirer, and, though he had comparatively little to say, he left the Bower unusually early. He had begun his system of instruction with Nellie Dawson, and reported that she was making remarkably good progress. Had the contrary been the fact, it may be doubted whether it would have been safe for him to proclaim it. And now the scene changes. It is the close of a radiant summer day in the Sierras. Far down in the cañon-like chasm between the mountainous spurs, nestled the little mining settlement, which had been christened but a short time before, New Constantinople. Here and there tiny wounds had been gouged into the ribs of the mountain walls, and the miners were pecking away with pick and shovel, deepening the hurts in their quest for the yellow atoms or dark ore which had been the means of bringing every man thousands of miles to the spot. Far up toward the clouds were the towering, craggy peaks, with many a rent and yawn and table-land and lesser elevation, until, as if to check the climbing ambition of the prodigious monster, nature had flung an immense blanket of snow, whose ragged and torn edges lapped far down the sides of the crests. Ages ago the chilling blanket was tucked around the mountain tops, there to remain through the long stretch of centuries to follow. Down the valley, at the bottom of the winding cañon, the air palpitated with the fervor of the torrid zone. He who attempted to plod forward panted and perspired, but a little way up the mountain side, the cool breath crept downward from the regions of perpetual ice and snow, through the balsamic pines and cedars, with a revivifying power that was grateful to all who felt its life-giving embrace. The sun hovered in a sky of unclouded azure. It shot its arrows into the gullies, ravines and gorges, but made no impression on the frozen covering far up in cloudland itself. Long pointed ravelings on the lower edge of the mantle showed where some of the snow had turned to water, which changed again to ice, when the sun dipped below the horizon. The miners were pigmies as they toiled in the sides of the towering mountain walls, where they had toiled for many a day. On the lip of a projecting crag, half a mile above were three other pigmies, who neither toiled nor spun. Viewed through a glass, it was seen that they wore stained feathers in their black hair dangling about their shoulders, with the blankets wrapped round their forms descending to their moccasined feet. They were watching in grim silence these proofs of the invasion of their homes by the children of another race, and mayhap were conjuring some scheme for driving them back into the great sea across which they had sailed to occupy the new land. One of the Indians was a chieftain. He had come in violent contact with these hated creatures and he bore on his person the scars of such meeting. All carried bows and arrows, though others of their tribe had learned the use of the deadly firearms, which has played such havoc with the American race. Suddenly the chief uttered an exclamation. Then drawing an arrow from the quiver over his shoulder, he fitted it to the string of his long bow, and pointing downward toward the group of miners, launched the shaft. Except for the power of gravity, it would have been a foolhardy effort, but guided by the wisp of feather twisted around the reed, the missile spun far outward over the cañon, and dived through the vast reach of space, as if it were endowed with life and determined to seek out and pierce the intruders. The black eyes of the three warriors followed the arrow until it was only a flickering speck, far below them; but, before that moment arrived, they saw that it was speeding wide of the mark. When at last, the sharp point struck the flinty rock, and the missile doubled over upon itself and dropped harmlessly to the bottom of the cañon, it was at such a distance from the miners, that they knew nothing of it. They never looked up, nor were they aware of the futile anger of the red men, who seeing how useless was everything of that nature, turned about and soon passed from view. The incident was typical of the futility of the red man struggling against his inevitable doom at the hands of his white brother. Half way between the bottom of the cañon and the lower fringe of the vast mantle of snow, a waterfall tumbled over the edge of a rock, and with many a twist and eddy found its way to the small stream, which rippled along the bottom of the gorge, until its winding course carried it beyond sight. Now and then a rift of wind blew aside some of the foam, like a wisp of snow, and brought the murmur more clearly to the ear of the listener, shutting out for the time, the faint hollow roar that was wafted from the region of pines and cedars. It was a picture of lonely grandeur and desolation, made all the more impressive by the tiny bits of life, showing in the few spots along the mountain wall. [Illustration: THE TEACHER HAD MARKED ON THE DARK FACE OF THE ROCK WITH A SPECIES OF CHALK ALL THE LETTERS OF THE ALPHABET.--PAGE 71.] At the rear of the row of cabins, and elevated perhaps fifty feet above, was the comparatively smooth face of a rock, several square rods in extent. At the base was abundant footing for two persons, Parson Brush and Nellie Dawson. The teacher had marked on the dark face of the rock with a species of chalk, all the letters large and small of the alphabet. They were well drawn, for the parson, like others in the settlement, was a man of education, though his many years of roughing it had greatly rusted his book knowledge. Standing to one side of his artistic work, like a teacher of the olden time, the parson, with a long, trimmed branch in his hand, pointed at the different letters in turn and patiently waited for his little pupil to pronounce their names. It never would have done to make the child keep her feet like an ordinary mortal. With great labor, three of the miners had carried a stone of considerable size to the spot, which served her as a seat, while receiving instruction. It is true that she never sat still for more than three minutes at a time, but that was enough to establish the indispensable necessity of a chair. "You are doing very well, my dear," said the parson, encouragingly; "you have received only a few lessons, but have mastered the alphabet. I notice that the 'd's' and 'b's' and 'h's' and 'q's' puzzle you a little now and then, but you have got them straight, and it is now time that we took a lesson in spelling." "Oh, I can't do that, Mr. Brush," protested the queen, rising from the chair, adjusting her skirts and sitting down again; "I never can spell." "What is it to spell?" "I don't know; what is it?" "I can best answer your question by showing you. Have you ever seen a cat?" "Do you mean a pussy?" "Yes; some folks call it that." "Oh, yes; when we came from where we used to live,--I guess it must have been three or four hundred years ago, we brought my pussy along. Her name was Nellie, the same as mine." "What became of her?" "She died," was the sorrowful reply; "I guess she was homesick." "That was too bad. Now will you tell me what letter that is?" "Why, Mr. Brush, don't you know?" "Yes, but I wish to find out whether you know." "It is C; anybody knows that." "And this one?" "A." "That is right; now this one?" "T; I hope you will remember, Mr. Brush, because I don't like to tell you so often." The teacher continued to drill her, skipping about and pointing at the letters so rapidly in turn that he was kept bowing and straightening up like a jumping-jack. Then, allowing her to rest, he pronounced the letters in their regular order, giving them the sounds proper to the word itself. Nellie, who was watching closely and listening, suddenly exclaimed with glowing face: "Why, that's 'cat'!" "Of course; now can you say the letters without looking at them?" After one or two trials she did it successfully. "There! you have learned to spell 'cat.' You see how easy it is." "Does that spell 'pussy' too?" "No,--only 'cat.' After a time you will be able to spell big words." "Let me try something else, Mr. Brush." The next word tackled was 'dog,' which was soon mastered. When this was accomplished, the teacher paused for a moment. He was trying to think of another word of three letters, but oddly enough could not readily do so. "Ah," he exclaimed, "here is another. Now give me the name of that letter," "D." "And that?" "A." "And that?" "M." "Now say them quickly, 'd-a-m;' what is the word?" "Why, it's 'dam'; O, Mr. Brush, I heard you say that is a bad word." The teacher was thunderstruck and stammered: "I didn't think of that, but there are two kinds of 'dam' and this one is not a bad word. It means a bank of earth or stones or wood, that is put up to stop the flow of water." CHAPTER VII PUPIL AND TEACHER Mr. Brush glanced nervously around, to learn whether any of his friends were within hearing, shuddering to think what the consequences might be. He believed that he could explain the matter to some of the folks, but the majority were so radical in their views that they would refuse to admit the distinction, and would take him to task for teaching improper language to his young pupil. It caused him another shudder at the thought that the same penalty that Wade Ruggles had undergone might be visited upon him, though it is doubtful if the issue would have been similar. "Ahem, Miss Nellie, when we go back home, will you promise me to say nothing about this part of your lesson?" "You mean 'bout that bad word?" "Yes,--let's forget all about it." "I'll try, but mebbe I'll forget to forget it." "Likely enough," gloomily reflected the parson; "suppose we try some other words. Ah, we have a visitor." At that moment Budge Isham climbed into view and sauntered smilingly toward them. Brush added a whispered warning to the little one not to forget her promise, though, since Isham was an educated man, there ought not to have been anything to fear in his case, but the teacher knew his waggish nature, and had good reason to fear the mischief he would delight in creating. "Good day," was his cheery greeting, as he came up; "I hope I am not intruding, but I thought I should like to see how you are getting on, Nellie." "Oh, Mr. Brush says I am learning real fast; I can spell 'cat,' and 'dog,' and 'dam.'" Budge raised his hands in horror. "What in the name of heaven, parson, does she mean?" "Mr. Isham," said the gentleman, severely, "are you aware that you are using improper language in the presence of this young lady?" "Explain yourself." "It is wrong for you to appeal to heaven on so trifling a question; it is such a near approach to profanity that the dividing line is imperceptible. I am sorry you forgot yourself, but I will overlook it this time." Budge was really frightened, for though the distinction was quite fine, he felt there was some justice in the position of the parson, but he bluffed it out. "I doubt whether a jury would find me guilty, and in the meantime explain the remark just made by Nellie, if you please." Thus cornered, the parson made a clean breast of it. Isham assumed a grave expression. "The only criticism I can make is upon your taste in selecting a word, susceptible of a questionable meaning. You know as well as I that if this should be submitted to a jury at the Heavenly Bower this evening, the majority would sit down on you, and it would be hard work for you to escape the penalty." "I'm afraid it would," responded the parson; "it was a piece of forgetfulness on my part----" "Which is the plea that Bidwell and Ruggles made, but it didn't answer. However, I'll say nothing about it, knowing you will be more careful in the future, while I shall not forget to put a bridle on my own tongue. The trouble, however," he added with a smile, "is to make _her_ overlook it." "She has promised she will do so." "Since that promise was made just before I got here, she has shown how readily she can forget it." "I will give her a longer lesson than usual and thus drive all remembrance out of her mind," said the parson resolutely. Budge Isham folded his arms, prepared to look on and listen, but the queen of the proceedings checked it all by an unexpected veto. "Mr. Brush, I feel so tired." Her face wore a bored expression and she looked wistfully away from the blackboard toward the cabins below them. "Does your head hurt you?" inquired the teacher with much solicitude, while the single auditor was ready to join in the protest. "No, but mebbe it will hurt me one of these days." "It isn't wise, parson, to force the child; a great deal of injury is done to children by cramming their heads with useless knowledge." The teacher could not feel sure that this counsel was disinterested, for there could be no danger of his taxing the mental powers of the little one too severely, but her protest could not pass unheeded. "You have done very well, my child; you are learning fast, so we'll leave the spelling for to-morrow. Suppose we now try the commandments: can you repeat the first one?" Nellie gave it correctly, as she did with slight assistance, the remaining ones. She was certainly gifted with a remarkable memory and possessed an unusually bright mind. Budge Isham was impressed by her repetition of the decalogue, whose meaning she was unable fully to grasp. His frivolous disposition vanished, as he looked upon the innocent child and watched the lips from which the sacred words flowed. He quietly decided that it would be inexcusably mean to seek any amusement at the expense of the parson, and it may as well be added that he never afterward referred to the incident, while it seemed to have passed wholly from the mind of Nellie herself. At the conclusion of the lesson, Budge complimented teacher and pupil and said he would be glad to certify that Mr. Brush was the best teacher in New Constantinople, and that it was impossible for any one to take his place. Then he bade them good day and walked thoughtfully away, leaving them once more to themselves. These were the most precious moments of all to the teacher, when the formal lesson was completed, and he sat down for a little talk with his pupil. He occupied the stone which served her for a seat, while one arm loosely clasped the figure which stood between his knees. She patted his cheek, played with his rough collar and shaggy whiskers, while as he listened and replied to her prattle, felt as never before the truth of the declaration that of such is the kingdom of heaven. "Mr. Brush," she finally said, "do you know why I love you?" "I suppose it must be because I am so handsome," he replied with a smile. "No; it isn't that, for you _ain't_ handsome." "Whew! but you are not afraid to speak the truth, little one, and I hope you will always do that. No; I don't know why you love me, unless you are so good yourself that you can't help it." This was not exactly clear to the little one, and she stood silent for a minute, gently fingering his long beard. Then she thought it best to clear up the mystery without further parley. "I love you 'cause you're good." Even though the avowal was delightful, it caused a pang, like a knife-thrust from his accusing conscience. "I am thankful to hear you say that, but, Nellie, I am not good." "Yes, you is, but if you ain't good, why ain't you good?" The logic of the reply of the adult was of the same grade as that of the child. "I suppose the true reason is because I am bad. I am sorry to say it, but I have drifted far away from where I ought to be." The dimpled hand continued to fondle the whiskers, and the little brain was busy, but a wisdom that was more than human guided it. Turning those lustrous blue eyes upon him she softly asked: "Will you do what I ask you?" He almost gasped, for he instinctively suspected what was coming, but he answered without hesitation: "If it is my power I will do it, though it kills me." "Oh, I don't want it to kill you; this won't hurt you; will you do it, Mr. Brush?" "Yes, God helping me." "Do like Mr. Ruggles." "How's that?" asked the parson with a sinking heart. "Don't drink any more of that red water, which makes men talk loud and sometimes say bad words." "Heavens!" thought the parson; "she little dreams what she is asking me, but it is not she but some One who is thus calling me back to duty. Yes, my child, I will do what you ask." "You is as good and nice as you can be now, but then you will be a good deal gooder and nicer," said she, warmly kissing him. "I hope so," he added, rising to his feet, with the feeling that he was not himself but some one else, and that that some one else was the young man away among the distant hills of Missouri, before he wandered to the West, and in doing so, wandered from the path along which he had attempted to guide and lead others. "I call myself her teacher," he mused, as he reached down and took the tiny hand in his own, "but she is the teacher and I am the pupil." They had started in the direction of the cabins, when they heard curious shouts and outcries in that direction. "There's something strange going on down there," he said, peering toward the point; "I wonder what it can be; let us hurry and find out." Firmly clasping her hand, the two hastened down the incline, wondering what it was that caused all the noise and confusion. CHAPTER VIII THE PASSING YEARS THE excitement in New Constantinople was caused by the arrival of Vose Adams, the mail carrier and messenger, with his budget of letters and freight for the Heavenly Bower. These periodical journeys never occupied less than two weeks, and in the present instance he had been absent several days beyond that period, so that some anxiety was felt for him, since every trip was attended with more or less danger. He was exposed to the peril of storms, snowslides, wild animals and hostile Indians. The elemental disturbances in the Sierras are sometimes of a terrific nature. Twice he had lost a mule, and once both animals went spinning down a precipice for a thousand feet, in an avalanche of snow and were never found again. Vose's only consolation in the last instance was that it occurred when on his way to Sacramento, while in the former case he saved one of the precious kegs, which he insisted was the means of saving him in turn from perishing in the Arctic temperature. The shadowy trail wound in and out among the gorges and cañons, beside towering mountain walls, at a dizzying elevation, over ridges above the snow line, across table lands, through forests of pine and cedar and tumultuous mountain torrents, where he took his life in his hands every time he made the venture. The unerring marksmanship of Vose and his alertness reduced the danger from the fierce grizzly bears and ravening mountain wolves to the minimum, but the red men were an ever present peril. He had served as the target of many a whizzing arrow and stealthy rifle shot, but thus far had emerged with only a few insignificant hurts. He was ready at the stated times to set out on his journey, and appeared indeed to welcome the change in the existence which otherwise became tiresome and monotonous. It mattered not that his friends often intimated that he was starting on his last venture of that nature, for he believed that his "time" had been set and it mattered naught what he did, since it could not be changed. Vose explained that the cause of his last delay was the old one--Indians. They had pursued and pestered him so persistently that he was compelled to hunt out a new trail, longer and more difficult that the old one, and which came within a hair of landing him into the very camp of his enemies. However, everything had turned out well, and he brought with him the most prized cargo that ever arrived in New Constantinople. First of all, were the two casks of freight, which had suffered so slight leakage, that Landlord Ortigies complimented the vigilance of the messenger. Then he brought with him fully a hundred letters and newspapers. Each citizen received one, and many had several. In every instance, the grateful recipient paid Vose a dollar for his mail, so that the reward was generous, including as it did a liberal honorarium from the proprietor of the Heavenly Bower. In addition to the mail and freight, there were a number of articles to which no special reference is needed. In one package, however, every one was deeply interested, and Nellie Dawson more than the others. Unknown to the father, a goodly sum had been entrusted to Adams, with which to purchase such articles as it was believed the child needed. These included material for numerous new dresses of gorgeous pattern, stockings, shoes, slippers, ribbons, hats and even gloves, trinkets and playthings beyond enumeration. When these were spread out before the little one, she clapped her hands and danced with delight. She had never dreamed of or seen such bewildering wealth, and the miners were repaid a hundred fold, while the grateful parent thanked them for their thoughtful kindness. With no other person of her sex in the settlement, it would naturally be thought that she lacked in many of the little attentions which only a mother or adult female friend can give, but such was not the case. There was not a man among them all, who had not been taught in the hard school of necessity to become his own tailor and conservator of clothing. Many had natural taste, and had not wholly forgotten the education and training received in the homes of civilization, before they became adventurers and wanderers. A consensus of views, all moved by the same gentle impulse, resulted in Nellie Dawson being clothed in a garb which would hardly have caused criticism in the metropolis of our country. Not only that, but she was abundantly provided against all kinds of weather, and with Vose Adams making his regular trips westward, there was no possibility of her ever knowing the want of thoughtful care. The education of the little one was never neglected. Enough has been told to show her brightness, and even had not her teacher been inspired by his affection for the little one, the task of imparting knowledge to such an apt pupil must have been a constant pleasure. This work, as we have shown, fell by common consent to the parson, Felix Brush, though his choice at first was not unanimous. Wade Ruggles was so insistent that he should have a part in the work, that he was allowed a trial, but it cannot be said the result of several days' effort was satisfactory. A stealthy inspection of the blackboard by Budge Isham and the parson disclosed that Ruggles had constructed the alphabet on a system of his own. Some of the letters were reversed, several inverted, while the forms of others prevented any one from identifying them except the teacher himself. An examination of the pupil developed the same startling originality in Ruggles's system of orthography, which seemed to be a mixture of the phonetic and the prevailing awkward method. Thus he insisted that "purp" was the right way to spell the name of a young dog, whose correct title was "dorg." Ruggles was finally persuaded to resign, though he displayed considerable ill feeling and intimated that the movement was inspired by jealousy of his success. Budge Isham not only refrained from referring to the slip which the parson made in his spelling lesson, but spoke in such high terms of his success with Nellie, that every one conceded the right teacher had been selected, and it would be a misfortune for any one to assume to take the place of the parson. Not until the final summing up of all accounts, will the full measure of the influence of the little one be known. It was gentle, subtle, almost imperceptible. Wade Ruggles never broke his resolve not to touch liquor. Inasmuch as an appetite nourished for years, cannot be wholly extirpated in a day, he had his moments of intense yearning for stimulants, when the temptation was powerful, but his will was still more so, and the time came when the terrific thirst vanished entirely, though he knew it was simply "asleep" and could be roused into resistless fury by indulgence in a single glass. The parson had a severer struggle. After holding out for days, he yielded, and by his inordinate dissipation brought back matters to a fair average. Then he set about manfully to retrieve himself. A second time he fell, and then, thank heaven! he gained the mastery. Henceforward he was safe. Maurice Dawson himself had been an occasional tippler for years, but he felt the influence of example and experienced no trouble in giving up the habit. Several others did the same, while more tried but "fell by the wayside." Landlord Ortigies noticed the diminution in his receipts, but, strange as it may sound, down in his heart he was not sorry. Like nine out of ten engaged in his business he was dissatisfied, and like the same nine out of ten, he longed for the chance to take up some other calling which would bring him bread and butter and no accusing pangs of conscience. Before the coming of Nellie Dawson, brawls and personal encounters often occurred. The walls of the Heavenly Bower contained several pounds of lead. Blood had been shed, and the history of the settlement showed that three persons had died with their boots on, but those stirring days seemed to have departed forever. Parson Brush did a good deal of thinking. When through with his pupil, he was accustomed to take long walks into the mountains, his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed in meditation. It is safe to conclude that Conscience was getting in its work with him. And so the seasons came and went and the years rolled on. Varick Thomson, an old miner, who had spent years of fruitless toil in the diggings of Australia, lay down and died, and the parson officiated at his funeral. Two other miners grew weary of the poor success in Dead Man's Gulch and went off on a prospecting tour deeper into the mountains. A year later another prospecting party came upon two skeletons, near a small stream of water, which after careful examination, were pronounced to be those of their former friends, doubtless victims of the ferocity of the red men. Three vagrant miners straggled into New Constantinople one night and were hospitably entertained at the Heavenly Bower. Their appearance was against them, and, when they announced their intention of making their home at Dead Man's Gulch, the suggestion to them to move on was made in such terms that they acted upon it and were never seen there again. Thus it came about that New Constantinople, instead of increasing in population and making a bid for the chieftaincy among the new towns in the West, was actually shrinking in numbers. And all this time, Nellie Dawson was growing fast. Her beautiful mind kept pace with the expansion of her body. Her natural grace and perfection of figure would have roused admiration anywhere. Her innocence and goodness were an ever present benison to the rough miners, who had long since learned to check the hasty word, to restrain the rising temper and to crush the wrongful thought in her presence. After a time, Maurice Dawson took possession of one of the deserted cabins which he fitted up, or rather the community fitted up the principal apartment for the young queen, whose rule was supreme. No one else was permitted to share the building with them, though visitors were constant and Nellie herself continually passed to and fro among her friends. But those who watched Dawson saw that a change had come over him. Formerly there was a quiet waggery in his nature, much like that of Budge Isham, which led him to enjoy the rough pleasantries of his companions, though he rarely took part in them, except as an inciting cause. One of his greatest pleasures had been to sit in the Heavenly Bower and exchange reminiscences with his friends, but all that came to an end. Night after night passed without his face being seen in the place. Those who called at the cabin were treated hospitably, but he was reserved and moody, and often failed to hear the words addressed to him. It was evident that there was something on his mind, though he showed no disposition to make a confidant of any one. CHAPTER IX THE CLOUD OF WAR "I KNOW the cause of Dawson's trouble," remarked Vose Adams, late one night at the Heavenly Bower. "What is it?" asked Wade Ruggles, while the rest listened intently. "On my last trip to Sacramento, two months ago, I brought him a thick letter: that's what is raising the mischief with him." "But what was in the letter to make him act so queer?" "How should I know? do you expect me to open and read all the letters I bring through the mountains?" "Bein' as you couldn't read the big letters the parson has painted on the side of the rock a foot high," said Al Bidwell sarcastically, "there ain't much danger of your doin' that, which the same is lucky for them as gits love letters like myself regular by each mail." "Which the same you won't git any more onless you sling your remarks a little more keerful," warned the mail carrier. "And the same being that you can't read the directions writ onto them, I don't see how you're going to help yourself." "The postmaster at Sacramento is very obligin'," was the significant comment of Vose. Bidwell saw the dangerous ground on which he was treading, and made it safe by a jesting remark and an invitation to Adams and the rest to join him at the bar. "We was on the subject of Dawson," remarked Ruggles from his seat, for all had learned long before of the uselessness of inviting him to drink; "and it's the opinion of Vose, I understand, that it was the letter that has made the change in him." "There ain't any doubt about it," said Adams; "fur the attack took him right after; I noticed the difference in him the next day. He sets by himself these evenings after the little gal has gone to bed, smoking his pipe, without any light in his shanty, and thinking hard." Wade smoked thoughtfully a minute and then remarked: "I wonder whether it wouldn't be a good idee to app'int a committee to wait on Dawson and ask him what the blazes is the matter and whether we can't do nothin' to make a man of him agin." Since Ruggles had become accustomed to act as chairman at the discussions in the Heavenly Bower, he had developed a strong faith in committees. "That's a piece of the most onspeakable foolishness that I've run aginst since I settled in New Constantinople," observed the landlord with a contemptuous sniff; "the minute the committee arrove and stated their bus'ness, Dawson would kick 'em out of his shanty and clean across the street, and he'd be lacking in the instincts of a man if he didn't do that same thing." "Mr. Ortigies forgits that I didn't mean to suggest that _he_ was to be a member of the committee; I meant they should be _gentlemen_; consequently that bars him out and there wouldn't be no trouble." "I understand your sarcasm, Wade, but your words would leave you off the committee likewise; but may I ask what the members would ask him when they knocked at his door?" "Any gentleman wouldn't be at a loss what to say, fur he would only hev to remark sorter careless like that he had observed the man was acting so queer that we was afeard he was troubled with remorse over some crime he'd committed, and about which he had got notice that the officers was lookin' fur him, but that if he'd trust us and give a description of the officers, so there wouldn't be any mistake, we'd watch fur 'em up the trail and pick 'em off afore they could profane New Constantinople with their presence." This was a prodigious sentence for Wade, and he leaned back and smoked his pipe with considerable self-complacency, but it impressed none of his hearers as he expected. Parson Brush shook his head. "It isn't a very wise way of introducing yourself to a man by assuming that he is a fugitive from justice. In the first place, I am sure there is nothing of the kind in the case of Dawson. He has probably heard some news from the East that troubles him." "That's just what I was sayin'," broke in Ruggles. "But not of the nature intimated by you." "What else can it be?" "It might be one of a dozen things; I know you are all wrong in your guesses." Every eye was fixed upon the parson, for all were anxious to learn at what he was hinting. His face was unusually grave, but he stopped speaking, as if he deemed it indiscreet to say anything more. He noticed the looks and whetted the curiosity by adding: "I have been so disturbed over the change in Dawson that I called on him last night and had a talk with him." "And what did you learn?" asked Budge Isham, the moment Brush showed an inclination to stop talking. "Well, it was hard work to draw him out, but finally he told me he had received a letter from the East, which made him think he would have to leave us. That isn't the worst." All were breathless, afraid to give utterance to the dread that until then was vague and indistinct in their minds. "He thinks he must take his daughter Nellie with him." "What! Take her away from us? That can never be allowed." None felt the anguish of the announcement keener than the man who made it, but he looked calmly into the angry faces and said: "You forget, my friends, that she is his child and he has the moral and legal right to do what he thinks is best for her." "But where are _our_ rights?" demanded Wade Ruggles; "they mustn't be forgot." "We haven't any,--not a single one. But I am satisfied that one cause of Dawson's distress of mind is the very question you have asked. He can never cease to be deeply grateful to all of us for what we have done for him and his child. He doesn't wish to take her away for it will be as painful to her as to us. But friends," continued the parson, with a sense of right that was creditable to him, "Dawson's first duty is to his child. She is now twelve years old, quite a large girl and is growing fast. She has never seen girl or woman since she was brought here; she will soon be a young woman; she requires association with others of her own sex; her welfare demands this; her education and proper training can never be obtained in this mining settlement." "Eddycation!" exclaimed Vose Adams; "what have you been doing with her all this time? She must be as far along in her studies and eddycation as me and Ruggles." "It is to be hoped so," replied the parson with a smile; "I doubt whether she will meet any one of her age as proficient in book learning as herself, but there remains music, etiquette, and above all, the social customs and accomplishments which can be acquired nowhere except in the abode of civilization. There is none upon whom this blow will fall more heavily than myself, but I have no right to interpose when a man is doing his duty." An exploding bomb could not have caused more consternation than the news brought by the parson. Every one felt the truth of his words and respected him for their utterance, but it was like asking them to consent to the blotting of the sun from the heavens. "I see a way out of it," finally remarked Wade Ruggles with a brightening face; "we can compermise." "In what way?" "Why, if Dawson feels that he and the gal must go, let him split the difference atween us; he can go and leave her; that will satisfy everybody." "It will hardly satisfy him, since the whole question is that of taking her with him. He must be left free to do whatever he chooses." The parson looked into the gloomy faces turned toward him. "Boys, you have all heard the news brought by the last papers. Fort Sumter has been fired on; President Lincoln has called for volunteers; the Southern Confederacy has been declared and civil war has begun. It is the intention of Dawson to offer his services to the cause of the Union." "And I shall enlist too," declared Wade Ruggles, compressing his lips, "but it will be on the other side." "I'm with you," added Budge Isham; "I am from Alabama, and if she secedes, as she is sure to do, I am ready to lay down my life in her defence." "Sorry, pards, but that shoves me into the Union army," remarked Al Bidwell, puffing quietly at his pipe; "we must keep the balance right, but we'll part friends here and we'll be friends till we shoulder our muskets. Then we'll do all we can to kill each other." Further discussion disclosed that the citizens of New Constantinople were about equally divided in their allegiance, but all of them were not yet ready to take up arms in support of the cause with which they sympathized. There were eight who announced their intention of making their way to San Francisco, there to find the most available route to the points necessary to reach. It was typical of that stupendous struggle, the greatest of modern times, that four of these recruits were ardent supporters of one cause and four equally eager to risk their lives for the other. They were the warmest of friends and had been for years, willing to face any danger for the sake of the remainder. It would be the same until they parted, and then, as one of them had already expressed it, they would devote every energy to trying to kill one another. None of the volunteers faltered until Maurice Dawson decided to leave his daughter at the settlement until his return, if so be he should be permitted to return. He knew of no better or safer place for her, nor of any friends to whose care he would more cheerfully commit her, in case it should be his lot to fall on the field of battle. It had been Parson Brush's intention to be Dawson's comrade in his perils, but when the father begged him to stay behind to look after his child he consented. And so the programme, so fraught with momentous consequences, was arranged. CHAPTER X THE BLUE AND THE GRAY The four years of stupendous war came to an end. The sun of the Southern Confederacy went down in gloom and defeat behind the hills of Appomattox, never to rise again, and blessed peace brooded over a reunited nation, which shall endure through the coming ages to the end of time. It was only the faint echoes of the mighty struggle that, faintly reverberating across prairie and mountain, reached the little mining settlement nestling among the solitudes of the Sierras. Vose Adams made more frequent journeys to Sacramento, in order to gather news of the terrific events, which were making history at an appalling rate. Upon his return, the miners gathered round Parson Brush, or some other one with a good voice, who stood up, with every eye centred on him and every ear keyed to the highest point and they listened with breathless interest until the thrilling story was read through to the end. The same diversity of sentiment that appeared at first continued to the last, but the parson's earnest words and his insistence that no quarrels should take place among the neighbors prevented any outbreak, though more than once the point was perilously near. "If your sympathies are with the Union or with the South," he said impressively, "there is nothing to prevent your taking up arms, but it must be on the battle field and not here." And this wise counsel prevailed. Now and then some ardent partisan shouldered his rifle, bade his friends a hasty good-by and hurried away. One by one, they went until the new recruits numbered five. Thus the population of New Constantinople dwindled to about one-half, and retaining its exclusive tastes, permitted no new comers to join them, so that the boom which in its early days was so confidently looked for sank to zero and vanished. In truth it looked as if New Constantinople was doomed to die of dry rot. Strange news came now and then from the men who had gone to the war. Maurice Dawson wrote often to his daughter Nellie, whose letters, it can well be understood were the bright spots in his life of adventure and danger. She had improved wonderfully under the careful tuition of Parson Brush, who, gaining experience, as he saw the brightness of her mind, found his work of the most pleasant nature conceivable. She displayed a thirst for knowledge and made advances which astonished him. The books needed for her instruction were procured by Vose Adams in Sacramento, and she valued such presents more than anything else. The teacher declared many a time, with a certain pride, that she put him upon his mettle to make clear the abstruse problems with which he wrestled when in college. "How she will surprise the boys and her father when they come back," reflected the parson; "it won't take her much longer to reach the point beyond which I cannot lead her." To her friends who remained, the growth and improvement of the girl were astonishing. Probably no one of her sex ever gave nature itself a better chance to show what she can do with a healthy frame, when untrammeled by the fashions and requirements of modern usages. Her lithe, comely figure was perfect. She never knew an hour's illness. The cheeks had the rose tint of health, the eyes were clear, the teeth perfect and her spirits buoyant. As one of the men expressed it, she was like a burst of sunshine in the settlement. But Parson Brush was thoughtful. He saw that she was crossing the line into young womanhood, and that her own interests demanded that she should go out into the world of which he had told her so much; that she should meet those of her own sex and learn the mysteries of her own being. The affection of her friends could not make up for this lack. It cost the honest fellow many a pang when he thought of this, but his consolation lay in the inevitable conclusion that nothing could be done until the return of her parent or until his wishes were made known. "If it so happens that he shall fall in battle, then a grave problem must be met. It will not do for her to remain here; I will talk it over with the others and we shall make some arrangement for her good," and with this conclusion he was content to await the issue of events. Occasionally the parson received a letter from the father. The missives were models in their way, telling of his experiences in the service of the battles, of the prospect of victory and his faith in the final triumph of the great struggle. He thanked the teacher for his interest in his child and assured him that his kindness would never be forgotten by father or daughter. Vose Adams continued his frequent journeys to Sacramento, for those were stirring times and he was as anxious as his friends for news. Always on his return he was met by Nellie some distance down the winding trail, and, as soon as she was in sight, he held up the plump letter for which she yearned, and over which she was made happy beyond expression, and he never failed to carry back with him the reply of the child, who knew how much it cheered the brave soldier in the distant East and South fighting the battles of his country. For two years and more there was not a break in this correspondence. Dawson must have been a good soldier, for, though he enlisted as a private, he was soon promoted, and before the close of the two years, was a full fledged captain, with the brevet of major. It was about this time that one of his letters gave the story of Gettysburg. In the hell-blast of Pickett's charge two of his old friends, who had left New Constantinople to fight for the South, were riddled, and another, marching at the captain's side, had his head blown off by an exploding shell. Thus in one engagement three of the old residents of the mining settlement were wiped out. Only once or twice was any news received of Al Bidwell. It was known that Ruggles was with the Army of Northern Virginia, but no tidings came of Budge Isham and Ike Hoe. The continued silence was accepted as almost certain proof of their death, and yet both were well and unharmed. One day in early summer, two sunburned, shaggy men rode down the mountain side and drew up their horses in front of the Heavenly Bower. They had ridden from the East and had come through many hardships and dangers. One of them wore a partial uniform of blue, while the other was of a faded, butternut tinge. The two had been engaged for years in trying to slay each other, inclusive of their respective friends, but failing in the effort, gave it up when the final surrender took place at Appomattox. Both were from New Constantinople, and they now turned their faces in that direction. Starting from widely separated points their lines of travel converged and finally joined. When they met, there was a moment of mutual sharp scrutiny, then an exclamation of delight, a fervent handclasp and a moistening of the eyes, as both exclaimed: "God bless you, old boy! There's no one in the world I would rather meet than you! Shake again!" And they did, and henceforward they followed the same trail and "drank from the same canteen." They shared their rations with each other, and in the regions of the West, where danger lurked in the air, one watched while the other slept, ready to interpose his body as a shield between peril and his comrade. And what splendid soldiers the Civil War made! How those veterans could fight! What pluck, what coolness, what nerve, what daring they displayed! There was one stormy night beyond the Mississippi, when a band of jayhawkers, believing the two men carried a few hundred dollars, formed a plan for shooting both for the sake of the plunder. There were six of the outlaws at the opening of proceedings, but at the close just half the number was left, and one of them carried away a wound with him, from which he could never recover, while the defenders did not receive a scratch. "When I heard that rebel yell of yours," remarked the veteran who wore the blue, "it tingled through my veins as it did at Chancellorsville, Antietam and various other scenes of unpleasantness. I couldn't help sailing in." "I didn't mean to let out the yawp," returned his companion, "but when the shooting began, it was so like old times I couldn't help it. It was real enjoyable." "Yes," was the dry response, "but rather more so for us than for the other fellows." Three days later a band of Indians concluded to try their hand upon the veterans, but the trouble was that the red men could not get a fair chance. Before they arrived within effective striking distance, the veterans began shooting, and whenever they shot somebody fell. The thing became so monotonous that the hostiles gave it up in disgust and drew off. Thenceforward the old soldiers had comparatively an easy time of it. And so, after a ride of more than two thousand miles on horseback, these two men entered Dead Man's Gulch and drew rein in front of the Heavenly Bower. Their coming caused a sensation, for their looks showed they were veterans of the war and were certain to bring important news. The couple smiled and whispered to each other, for they saw that no one suspected their identity. Among the wondering group that gathered round was Nellie Dawson. She was profoundly interested, for Vose Adams had made two journeys to and from Sacramento without bringing a letter from her father. Doubtless these men could tell her something, and she stood on the edge of the group, waiting for them to speak and for the opportunity to question them. "Do you see her?" whispered one of the men. "Yes; gracious! hasn't she grown? Why, she was a little girl when we left and now she's a young woman." "Blessed if she isn't! She wears such long dresses that you can see only the tiny toes of her shoes; we've obsarved a good many purty women since we left these parts, but nothing that could come up to her." "You can bet your life! She hasn't any idee of who we are, nor have the boys, but it looks to me as if the parson is a little suspicious." Although the patronage of the Heavenly Bower had shrunk a good deal, Landlord Ortigies was as genial and hospitable as ever. The new arrivals had time only for a few secret comments, when he came forward: "Strangers, you're welcome to the best we have, which isn't anything to boast of; look as if you had rid a good many miles and you must be as tired and thirsty as your animals. If you'll turn 'em over to Vose Adams, he'll 'tend to them, and, if you'll allow me, you shall have a good meal, which before the same, I beg to tender you some distilled home brewed Mountain Dew." Thanking the landlord for his offer, the men dismounted and waited outside, while he brought forth two glasses, half-filled with the fiery stuff of the poetical name. One of the men took his and eagerly swallowed it. The other held his aloft, where under the bright sunlight it glowed crimson like blood. With his hand motionless for a moment, he slowly inverted the glass and allowed the liquid to run out on the ground. "Max, I reckon you haven't forgot when I done something like that some four years ago," said the man, turning toward the astonished host. CHAPTER XI WAITING "Wade Ruggles, as I'm alive!" exclaimed the delighted landlord, rushing forward and grasping his hand. Instantly the group closed in, and there was such laughing and handshaking that for a time nothing was clearly distinguished. "I was suspicious," remarked the parson; "but, though you both had beards when you went away, these have grown so much that they have greatly altered your appearance." He scanned the other man closely, but before the parson had identified him, several others had done so. "It's Al Bidwell!" "Yes," replied the laughing Ruggles; "that's the fellow, but I'm sorry to say that since they made a major-general of him, he's become a reg'lar dude. He doesn't go out when it rains for fear of soiling his uniform, and the noise of powder makes him sick, so be careful how you handle the delicate fellow." "Well, you do not need to be told," was the hearty response of the parson, "that no one could be more welcome than you; let's shake hands all around again." It was some minutes before the flurry was over, for the delight on both sides was unbounded and the joy of the reunion great. One member of the group lingered in the background. Her face was flushed with delighted expectancy, but with a coyness unknown in her earlier years, she hesitated on the outer edge of the circle. She could not mingle with the rush and waited until the flurry was over. The men were scarcely less embarrassed than she, and while not appearing to see her, both were watching her every movement. When the time came that the meeting could no longer be delayed, Ruggles walked to her and extended his hand. "Well, Nellie, aren't you glad to see me?" The crinkling of the whiskers at the side of the invisible mouth showed that he was laughing, and indeed his white teeth gleamed through his wealth of beard. Nellie promptly advanced and met him half way. "Mr. Ruggles, I can't tell you how glad I am to meet you again." He had been asking himself whether it would do to kiss this vision of loveliness. He wished to do so, but was afraid. However, the question was settled by the girl, who, instead of taking the hand, flung her arms about his neck and saluted him fervently, that is as well as she could under the conditions. Al Bidwell came forward and was received in the same manner. Then, as the two men stepped back and looked admiringly at her, she said: "I can see you are the same and yet those beards make you look different; I love to think of you as you were when you bade us good-by and rode off four years ago." "We shall be glad to fix up our faces in the old style," said Ruggles, while his companion nodded assent. If she had asked them to cut off their heads they would have unhesitatingly agreed to do it. "No doubt we've changed somewhat," said Bidwell, "but not one half so much as you." "As I!" she repeated in astonishment; "why, I am just the same," and she looked down at her dress, as if seeking the explanation of his remark; "I haven't changed a bit." "Not in goodness and all that sort of thing, but we left a little girl and now I'm blessed if we don't find a young woman, and yet it's the same little girl after all." The maidenly blush darkened her face and she laughed. "You couldn't expect me to stand still all these years." "No; though we would have been glad if you had done so." The three were standing apart, the others with commendable delicacy leaving them to themselves. Nellie laid her arm on the sleeve of Ruggles, and looking up yearningly in his face she asked: "Can you give me any news of father?" "Being as him and me was on different sides, I haven't seen or heard a thing of him since we parted in San Francisco, but I hope all has gone well with him." She turned to Bidwell, who said: "Me and him was thrown together once or twice and I met him after Gettysburg, where neither of us got a scratch, which is more than tens of thousands of others can say. Then I seen him in front of Petersburg, where we had the same good luck agin, but in the fighting round there we lost track of each other. Are you worried about him, little gal?" "Very much," she mournfully replied; "never once did Vose Adams come back from Sacramento without one or two letters from him, but he has now done so twice, and I haven't heard a word. I fear father is dead; if he is, my heart is broken and I shall die too." What could they say to cheer her, for Vose Adams made still another journey westward with the same dismal emptiness of the mail bag, so far as she was concerned. Every one did his utmost to cheer her, but none succeeded. The ground taken was that the parent had set out on his return, but had been hindered by some cause which would be explained when he finally arrived. When not one of the men himself believed the story, how could he hope to make the mourning daughter believe it? Felix Brush took a different stand from the others. He early settled into the belief that Captain Dawson was dead, and that it was wrong to encourage hope on the part of the child when the disappointment must be more bitter in the end. "If you are never to see him again in this world," he said, at the close of a sultry afternoon, as the two were seated on a rocky ledge near the cabin in which she had made her home all alone during her parent's long absence, "what a blessed memory he leaves behind him! Died on the field of battle, or in camp or hospital, in the service of his country,--what more glorious epitaph can patriot desire?" "If he is dead then I shall die; I shall pray that I may do so, so that I shall soon see him again." "My dear child, you must show some of the courage of your parent and prove that you are a soldier's daughter. Your blow is a severe one, but it has fallen upon thousands of others, and they have bravely met it. You are young; you have seen nothing of the great world around you--" "I do not care to see anything of it," she interrupted with a sigh. "You will feel different when you have recovered from the blow. It is an amazing world, my dear. The cities and towns; the great ocean; the works of art; the ships and steamboats; the vast structures; the railways; the multitudes of people; the lands beyond the seas, with still more marvelous scenes,--all these will expand like fairy land before you and make you wonder that you ever should have wished to leave such a realm of beauty and miracles while in your youth." Nellie sat for some time in silence, and then rose to her feet with a weary sigh. Without speaking, she turned to walk away, but not in the direction of her own home. "Where are you going?" he asked. "To look for him," was her sorrowful reply. It was what he suspected and feared. He knew she had done the same thing night after night for weeks past, even when the rains fell and the chilling blasts made her shiver with discomfort. He could not interpose, and with the reflection that perhaps it was as well, he turned mournfully aside and walked slowly toward the cabins. Meanwhile, Nellie Dawson passed beyond the limits of the settlement until all the houses were behind her. She did not sit down, but folding her arms, after gathering her shawl about her, bent her gaze upon the trail, which wound in and out at the bottom of the cañon below, for a fourth of a mile, when a mass of projecting rocks hid it from sight. Night was closing in. Already the grim walls, thousands of feet in height, were wrapped in gloom, and few eyes beside hers could have traced the devious mule path for more than a hundred yards from where she stood. The clear sky was studded with stars, but the moon had not yet climbed from behind the towering peaks, which would shut out its light until near the zenith. The soft murmur of the distant waterfall, the sound of voices behind her, the faint, hollow roar, which always is present in a vast solitude, filled the great space around her and made the stillness grander and more impressive. All this had been in her ears many a time before, and little heed did she give to it now. Her musings were with that loved one, who had been silent for so many weeks, and for whose coming she longed with an unspeakable longing. She knew the course of the trail so well, though she had never been far over it, that she was aware at what point he must first appear, if he ever appeared, and upon that point she centered her attention. "Something tells me that when father comes it will be in the night time," she said; "I know he has tried hard to reach me, and what could it be that held him back? I will not believe he is dead until--" Her heart gave a quicker throb, for surely that was a faint sound in the path, though too far off for her to perceive the cause. She could not tell its precise nature, but fancied it was the footfall of some animal. She took several quick steps forward on tiptoe, with head extended, peering and listening, with all her senses at the highest tension. Hark! she heard it again. Surely it was the noise of hoofs, for it was repeated and the sounds ran into each other as if the animal were trotting or galloping, or mayhap there was more than one of them. Yes; some one was drawing nigh on the back of horse or mule. There was no mistaking the hoof beats, and in the gloom the figure of an animal and his rider assumed vague form, growing more distinct each moment. Nellie broke into a run, her arms outstretched and her hair flying. "Father! father! I know it is you! It is I--Nellie, your own Nellie, who has waited so long for you! You have come at last!" CHAPTER XII HOME AGAIN The horseman coming up the trail had assumed definite form. Checking his animal he sat transfixed until the flying girl was beside him. Then he bent forward and in a choking voice, answered: "Yes, Nellie, it is your father! God be thanked for permitting me to come to you again. And you are Nellie! But how grown!" Captain Dawson leaned over the side of his horse and, passing his strong arm around the waist of his daughter, lifted her up in front of him. Then he pressed his lips to hers, and half-laughing and half-crying asked: "Who's the happier, you or I?" "You can't be any happier than I; but, father," she added in amazement, "where is your other arm?" "Buried in Southern Virginia as a memento of my work for the Union, but, my dear child, _I_ am here; isn't _that_ enough?" "Yes, bless your heart!" she exclaimed, nestling up to him; "it all seems like a dream, but it _isn't_, for I can feel you. I am so sorry," she added, noticing the sleeve pinned to his breast; "how you must have suffered." "Nonsense! it isn't anything to lose an arm; it's not half so bad as having your head blown off or both legs carried away. After going nearly through the war without a scratch, I caught it just before Appomattox, but thousands were less fortunate and I am thankful." "But why did you not write to me and tell me all this? Mr. Brush was sure you were dead, and I know the rest thought so, too, though they didn't talk that way." "I did have a close call; I got the fever while in the hospital and didn't know so much as my own name for several weeks. Then, when well enough to write, I concluded to come myself, believing I could keep up with any letter and you would be gladder to see me than to receive anything I might send." While these words were passing the steed remained motionless, but Nellie had observed from the first that her parent had a companion. "Father," she whispered, "you have some one with you." "Yes, my child, I had forgotten it in my delight at meeting you." A horseman was sitting as motionless as a statue in the trail behind them, the form of himself and animal clearly outlined in the obscurity. He had not spoken nor stirred since the coming of the girl. The head of the steed was high, but beyond and above it loomed the head and shoulders of the man sitting upright, like an officer of dragoons. The gloom prevented a fair view of his countenance, but Nellie fancied he was of pleasing appearance and wore a mustache. Captain Dawson turned his head and looked over his shoulder, as if to locate the man. "That is Lieutenant Russell; he served under me during the latter part of the war; he is my friend, Nellie, for he saved my life. Lieutenant," added the captain, elevating his voice, "this is my daughter Nellie of whom you heard me speak so often." The young officer lifted his cap, the graceful gesture being plainly seen and replied with a pleasant laugh. "Miss Dawson, I am glad to become acquainted with you and hope I shall soon be favored with a better view." "And I hope to see more of the one that was the means of saving my dear father," she was quick to reply. "Well, I guess that was equal on both sides, for I should never have reached this place but for him." "Father, what is _that_?" abruptly asked Nellie, shrinking closer to him; "have you a bear following you?" That which caused the startled question was a huge animal, which came slowly forward from the gloom in which he had been enveloped. The horses showed no fear of him, and he sniffed at the skirts of the girl. "Don't be alarmed," replied her father; "you may consider him a lion or tiger or both combined. He is Lieutenant Russell's dog Timon, one of the biggest, fiercest, but most intelligent and affectionate of his kind. We three are comrades, so you must accept him, too, as your friend." The two now gave rein to their horses and within briefer time than would be supposed, every man in New Constantinople knew of the arrival of the couple and had given them right royal welcome. It was the most joyous incident in the history of the little mining settlement. Every one knew of the corroding grief of Nellie Dawson, and there was not a heart that did not go out in sympathy to her. All were gathered around and within the crowded quarters of the Heavenly Bower, where the two men and Nellie ate their happy evening meal. Then the pipes were lighted, and with the girl perched upon her father's knee, the rest listened to his story, which he summarized, leaving the particulars for a more convenient occasion. "I am sorry my long silence caused misgiving," said he looking round in the faces of his friends, "but it could not be very well helped. You have noticed that whereas I left New Constantinople with two arms, I am now one short. As I told Nellie, that happened in the very last days of the war. It was quite a loss, but you have little idea of how soon a man can become accustomed to it. The fact is," added the soldier, with a grim smile, "things are moving so well with me that I wouldn't give much to have the old limb back again. I have no doubt General Howard feels the same way." "The pruned oak is the strongest," observed Parson Brush. "Provided it isn't pruned too much. With my wound came an attack of fever, which brought me nearer death than I ever was in battle, but I came out of it all and here we are." "What route did you take, captain?" asked Wade Ruggles. "By steamer to the Isthmus, then up the coast to San Francisco. There the lieutenant and I joined a party to Sacramento and each bought a good strong horse. He had brought his dog Timon all the way from Virginia, where he was given to him by an old friend who wore the gray. We were hopeful of meeting Vose Adams in Sacramento, but he had not been there for weeks. Instead of him, whom should we come across but Ike Hoe, who was also getting ready to start for this place. We three set out nearly ten days ago, but Ike is still in the mountains." This was said with so grave a face that all knew what it meant. "I never heard of the Indians being so troublesome. For three days and nights it was little else than fighting. In the darkness we would steal off and hunt for some new way through the mountains, but it mattered not where we went, for we were sure to run against some of them." "How was it that Hoe met his death?" asked the parson. "It was on the third night. We hadn't seen a thing of the Indians since the noon halt and were hopeful they had given up the hunt for us. We hadn't eaten a mouthful for twenty-four hours and were hungry enough to chew our boots. Ike found a place among the rocks, where a camp fire couldn't be seen for more than a few rods and started a blaze. The lieutenant had brought down an antelope, and if we could get a chance to cook the steak, we were sure of the right kind of a meal. Well, we broiled enough to give each all he wanted. Ike leaned back with a pleasant smile on his face and remarked that it was worth all the risk to get such a feast, when I caught the flicker of something like the dart of a small bird between him and me. Before I could make out what it was, Ike gave a groan, and rolling over backward, never spoke or stirred. I saw the feathered end of an arrow sticking up above his breast. The head had gone clean through him and it must have split his heart in two." "But was neither you or the lieutenant harmed?" "That is the remarkable part of it. The lieutenant saw the arrow before I did and warned me. We darted back in the darkness with our guns ready, but saw and heard nothing more of the Indians. What was remarkable about it was that only the single arrow should have been launched at Ike." "It looks as if there was but the single Injin," suggested Bidwell. "That is the way we interpreted it." "And that was the end of your troubles with the Indians?" "Not quite, but they bothered us only once more and then they managed to get us into a corner, where it would have been the last of me had it not been for the lieutenant and Timon. I tell you----" The captain stopped short and smiled. He had seen the protesting expression on the face of the young officer, and said: "We'll keep that story till some time when he isn't present. But there is another fact which I observed. There are more white men in the mountains than ever before and the numbers will increase. The close of the war has released nearly a million soldiers, who must make a living somehow. Some will come westward. You have preserved this place as an exclusive residence for yourselves, but you won't be able to do it much longer." All saw the truth of these words, and knew trouble would inevitably follow the mingling of uncongenial spirits, but they concluded it would be time enough to meet it when it came, without allowing the fear to disturb the pleasure of the present communion. Lieutenant Fred Russell could not fail to be an individual of keen interest to those who had never before seen him. While the captain was talking, he sat modestly in the background, smoking his brierwood, listening as intently as if everything said was new to him. It was noticed that like several of the rest, he did not drink at the bar, though he received numerous invitations. Truth to tell, he had been quite a drinker, but during that eventful journey through the mountains, when Captain Dawson was talking of his daughter, as he loved to do, he named those who had reformed as the result of Nellie's influence. The young officer made no comment, but it struck him that if those rough, hardy men could abstain, it ought not to be difficult for him to do the same, and he did it. Few men were more prepossessing than the lieutenant. He was educated, about twenty-four years of age, and undeniably handsome. His campaigns of exposure, hardship and fighting had hardened his frame into the mould of the trained athlete. The faded uniform which he still wore became him well. The ruddy cheeks had grown swarthy and browned, but when he removed his cap, the upper part of his forehead showed as white and fair as that of a woman. His nose was slightly aquiline, just enough to give character to his countenance, the hair which was rather scant, was dark like the mustache and the small tuft on his chin. He wore fine, high cavalry boots, reaching above the knees, a sword and like the captain was armed with revolver and Winchester rifle. Crouched at his feet was his massive dog Timon, an object of as much interest as his master; for, curious as it may seem, he was the only canine ever owned in New Constantinople. He was of mixed breed, huge, powerful and swift, seeming to combine the sagacity and intelligence of the Newfoundland, the courage of the bull dog, the persistency of the bloodhound and the best qualities of all of them. Seeming to understand that he was among friends, he rested his nose between his paws and lay as if asleep, but those who gazed admiringly at him, noted that at intervals he opened one of his eyes as if to say: "Strangers, I guess it is all right, but I'm taking no chances." Coming with the credentials that no one else ever bore, Lieutenant Fred Russell was sure of a warm reception at New Constantinople. The depletion of the population had left more than one cabin vacant and the best of these was turned over to him. In it he found cooking utensils, rough but serviceable bedding and accommodations and much better comforts than he was accustomed to during his campaigning. Having no immediate relatives, he had followed the discreet course of Captain Dawson, who deposited nearly all of his accumulated pay in a savings institution in the East, reserving only enough to insure their arrival on the Pacific coast. Russell, like so many turned from consumers into producers by the end of hostilities, was obliged to decide upon the means of earning a livelihood. He had begun the study of law, at the time he answered the call for volunteers, and would have had no difficulty in taking it up again; but, somehow or other, he did not feel drawn thitherward. He disliked the confinements of office work and the sedentary profession itself. He wanted something more stirring, and active, and calling for out door life. It was when he was in this mood, that Captain Dawson urged him to accompany him to the gold diggings in the Sierras. "So far as I can learn," explained the captain, "the mines haven't panned out to any great extent, but there is no doubt that there are millions of dollars in gold in the mountains, and if it isn't at New Constantinople, it is not far off." "I shall accept your invitation," replied the junior officer, "with the understanding that if the prospect is not satisfactory, I shall feel at liberty to go somewhere else." "That's the constitutional right of every American citizen." "I am not as far along in years as you, but I am old enough to feel that no person ought to fritter away the most valuable years of his life." And thus it was that the lieutenant went to New Constantinople and received the heartiest welcome from every one there. And yet among these citizens were two that had lately become partners and sharers of the same cabin, and who were oppressed with misgiving. "I tell you," said the parson late at night, when he and Wade Ruggles were smoking in their home, with no one near enough to overhear them; "Captain Dawson has made the mistake of his life." "How?" "In bringing Lieutenant Russell to New Constantinople." "I don't quite foller your meaning, parson." "Yes, you do; you understand it as well as myself." "I have a suspicion of it, but are you afraid to trust me?" "You ought to know better than to ask that." "Go ahead then and give me the partic'lars." "In the first place then, the lieutenant is young and good looking." "Unfortinitly there can't be any doubt of that." "Nellie Dawson has never seen a handsome young man----" "Exceptin' you and me, and we ain't as young as we once was." "She is now a young woman and ready to fall in love, and just at the right hour, or rather the very worst hour, the captain brings the man here." "You have spoke the exact thoughts I had in mind all along; you're right, parson." He would have been better pleased had Ruggles contradicted him. He did not wish to believe that which he could not help believing. "We must treat him well because the captain brings him and he has saved the captain's life, but, Wade, _we must watch them both close_." "I agree with you agin, but what shall we do if we find him making love to the little gal?" The parson's fierce reply showed how deeply his feelings were stirred. "Warn him just once!" "I feel as bad about it as you do, but, parson, I haven't forgot that afore the war broke out, and we was afeard the captain meant to take the gal away to have her eddycated, you told us it was none of our bus'ness and he had the right to do as he thought best with his own child." "All that was true at the time, but the conditions have changed." "_Now_ I can't foller you. 'Spose the captain is agreeable?" "He _won't_ be!" exclaimed Brush, who in the depth of his excitement added an exclamation which sounded perilously like profanity. But for the parson's intense earnestness, Ruggles would have quizzed him, but he pitied the man and at the same time was distressed himself. "I hope you're right, but I doubt it. We've all felt for a good while that sooner or later, we must lose the little one. Now that she's growed up, the captain may feel more than ever that she must be took off to some town where all the men ain't savages, and she can see some of her own kind." "If he puts it that way, we shall have to submit. He can take her where he wills, for my position is the same as four or five years ago, but nobody else must take her from among us." Ruggles's mood was now quite similar to that of his partner. "If I see anything wrong in the doings of that pretty faced young officer, I'll shoot him down like a mad dog." "So will I." The two were in the ugliest temper conceivable. They continued to smoke, but their meditations were tumultuous and revengeful. Each breast contained a strange disturbing secret that either would have died before confessing, but nevertheless, it was there and had taken ineradicable root within the past days and weeks. Felix Brush, as the reader knows, had been the instructor of Nellie Dawson from infancy. He was the medium through which she had gained an excellent book education. He had held many long confidential talks with her. She, in her trusting innocence, had told him more of her inmost thoughts, her self communings, her dim, vague aspirations, than she imparted to anyone else. And he could not but notice her wonderful budding beauty. Surely, he thought, such a winsome creature was never born. He had begun to ask himself in a whispered, startled way: "Why may I not possess this mountain flower? True, I am much her senior, but I will nourish, protect and defend her against the world, as no younger man could or would. She believes in my goodness, far more than I deserve. I will cultivate the affection within her of whose nature she has as yet no comprehension. By and by, when she is a few years older, perhaps I may claim her. More extraordinary things have happened and are happening every day. I have but to keep her uncontaminated from the world, of which I have told her so much, so that when she goes forth, she shall be under my guardianship--the most sacred guardianship of all for it shall be that of husband." "Aye," he added, his heart throbbing with the new, strange hope, "all this, please heaven, shall come to pass if things go on as they are, and no younger man with better looks crosses my path." And now that younger and better looking man had crossed his path. The knowledge seemed to rouse all the dormant resentment of his nature, and to undo the good that the girl herself had done in the years that were gone. He felt that if he lost her, if his cherished dream was to be rudely dissipated, he would go to perdition. And somewhat similar in range and nature were the communings of Wade Ruggles, who until this eventful evening, had cherished a hope, so wild, so ecstatic, so strange and so soul-absorbing that he hardly dared to admit it to himself. At times, he shrank back, terrified at his presumption, as does the man who has striven to seize and hold that which is unattainable and which it would be sacrilege for him to lay hands upon. "I'm three months younger than the parson," he would reflect when the more hopeful mood was upon him; "neither of us is in danger of being hung for our good looks, but I've got the bulge on him dead sure. I had too much in the way of whiskers to suit the little one, when I came back from the war; she wanted to see me as I was when I left; _why was that_?" After pausing for a reply, he continued: "So accordin' I trimmed 'em off and she says I'm better looking than ever, and what she says in Dead Man's Gulch and New Constantinople, goes. She meant it, too, as I could see by the sparkle of her eyes. "I went all through the war without swallerin' a mouthful of strong drink, even when the doctor ordered it. I've contrived, sort of accerdental and off hand like, to let her know them circumstances and I've seen it pleased her immense. I've been layin' out some of my money for clothes, too, since I got back. Vose bought me a coat in Sacramento, blue with brass buttons. I've had a necktie that has been laid away till the proper time comes to put it on. There are three or four yards of silk in it and it will knock a rainbow out of sight. I didn't want to overwhelm her too sudden like, and have been layin' back for the right occasion. "It's arriv! I must knock that leftenant out, and that necktie will do it! I'm mighty glad the parson hain't got any foolish dreams 'bout the gal. The leftenant is the only galoot I've got to look out for, or rather," added the miner grimly, "I'm the one he's got to beware of. I'm in dead earnest this time." CHAPTER XIII YOUNG LOVE'S DREAM That which in the nature of things was inevitable came to pass. Lieutenant Russell, in the same moment that his eyes rested upon Nellie Dawson, was smitten, as hopelessly as ever ardent lover was smitten by the lady whom he worshiped. The many things which the father had told him about his daughter naturally excited interest in her, but the young officer never dreamed of looking upon such marvelous beauty as that which met his gaze in that secluded cañon of the Sierras. It required all his self-control from drawing attention to himself by his admiration of her. "I never saw such a perfect combination of face, feature and figure," he reflected when alone. "It is an illustration of what nature can do when left to herself. Then, too, she has a fund of knowledge that is amazing, when all the circumstances are considered. I haven't had much chance to converse with her, but I heard enough to know that she would shine by virtue of her mind among the most accomplished of her sisters, who have had every advantage that civilization can give. She is a flower nourished on a mountain crag, exhaling all its fragrance, untainted by a poisonous breath from the outer world. Who would have dared to say that amid this rough, uncouth people, such loveliness could take root and nourish? And yet it is that loveliness which has permeated and regenerated the miners themselves. But for her these nights would be spent in drinking, roistering, fighting and carousing. It is her blessed influence, which unconsciously to herself has purified the springs of life. Like the little leaven she has leavened the whole lump." The passing days increased his interest in her, until very soon he confessed to himself that he was deeply in love with Nellie Dawson. She had become dearer to him than his own life. He could not live without the hope of gaining and possessing her. He would remain in New Constantinople and starve, even though a Golconda was discovered a few miles away. He would linger, hopeful, buoyant and believing that the dream of his existence was to be crowned with perfect fruition. But the sagacious lieutenant had learned to be observant and to note the most trifling things that escape the eyes of the majority of persons. Thus it was that the secret which Wade Ruggles and Parson Brush believed was hidden, each from everyone except himself, became as clear as noonday to him. He pitied them and yet he extracted a grim amusement from the fact. "They are hopelessly infatuated with her; they are excessively jealous and would rather shoot me than have me win. They are more than double her age, and yet they can see no incongruity in hoping to win her. They will hope on until the awakening comes. Then they will be my deadliest enemies. I shouldn't be surprised if I receive a call and warning from them, but neither they nor the whole world shall turn me from the prize which is more than all the gold, mined or unmined, in the Sierras." No one could have been more circumspect than the young man. He treated Nellie Dawson with the chivalrous respect of a Crusader of the olden time. He was always deferential, and, though he managed frequently to meet and chat with her, yet it invariably had the appearance of being accidental. Fortunately his feeling of comradeship for Captain Dawson gave him a legitimate pretext for spending many evenings in his cabin, where it was inevitable that he should be thrown into the society of the daughter. Wade Ruggles and the parson noted all this with growing resentment. When it had continued for several weeks, the two friends had a conference over the situation. "I tell you, parson, it won't do to wait any longer," observed Ruggles, puffing away at his pipe; "things is getting dangerous." "Do you think so?" asked his companion, who held precisely the same opinion, but disliked to admit it. "There isn't a particle of doubt of it." "Let me see,--we agreed to give him warning didn't we?--just once." "Yes,--it's only fair that you should let a man know afore you hit him, so he can brace himself for the shock, as it were." "Well, if we are going to do it, there is no use of waiting." "No use! It'll git worse every day. Let's go over to his place now." "It isn't likely we'll find him there; he spends nearly every evening in the cabin of Captain Dawson." Neither fancied the task, and, had not their feelings been so wrought up, they never could have been induced to undertake it, but because of their misgivings, nothing could have dissuaded them from their purpose. "When he comes to think soberly of it," added Ruggles, "he'll thank us for giving him warning in time. If we wait much longer, it might be too late; we couldn't scare him off the track, but now he'll show his sense by stopping at once." The two passed out of the house and walked to the cabin of Lieutenant Russell. Relieved, and yet in a certain sense dismayed, they found the young officer at home engaged in reading. The instant he saw and admitted them, he knew the errand on which they had come. Except for the grave question involved, that which followed would have been a delicious comedy. The lieutenant could not have treated a brother with greater cordiality and never did host shine more brilliantly. He fell to talking of war times, drew out Ruggles, interested the parson and gave some of his own stirring experiences. They remained two hours and went away charmed, without having once referred to Nellie Dawson. They voted the young man a good fellow, concluded they were mistaken about his admiring the young lady, and thought it lucky they had not made fools of themselves. When they were clear of the house, Lieutenant Russell laughed heartily. "Their faces gave them away; they were loaded and primed, but I drew their charges; to-night they will vote me one of the best fellows that ever lived; to-morrow they will begin to doubt, and by and by the sweetest privilege they can ask will be to shoot me." Perhaps the most curious feature of the tragical incidents that followed was the obtusiveness of Captain Dawson. What every one else saw was veiled from him, until at times he almost seemed wilfully blind. The two men had gone through many perilous experiences together, and sometimes alone. It had been the fortune of the younger officer to serve the elder, more than once when in imminent danger and none could be more grateful than the captain. As for Nellie Dawson herself, it is unlikely that for a time she suspected the truth in all its fulness. She knew that hers was a peculiarly sweet enjoyment, while her deft fingers were busy with some needlework, to listen to the reminiscences of the two. Sometimes she started with a shock of alarm, when the father pictured in his graphic way a situation from which it seemed no escape was open to him. Forgetful for the moment of the fact that he was there before her, alive and well, she fairly held her breath, until the _denouement_ came. Not until then were her fears wholly relieved. And when the parent rendered such glowing tributes to the bravery of the young officer, recalling events of so thrilling a nature that the lieutenant never would have dared to describe them in similar terms, how could the daughter help the kindling of admiration for the handsome young man? How could she avoid feeling grateful, when she knew that he had risked his life for her parent, even on their late journey through the mountains? In truth, everything tended to fan the flame that had already been kindled in both hearts. It was late one night, after the tired Nellie had withdrawn, that the visitor made her the subject of the conversation, the approach being so tactful, that the captain had no suspicion of its object. "Do you intend to spend all your life in this out of the way corner of the world?" was the question of the lieutenant. "Probably I shall. Just before I went to war, I became convinced that my duty to my daughter demanded I should move to the East, in order to give her the education she can never receive here. However, when I went to the war, there was no place except this where I could leave her. When I come back, I find her a young woman, with excellent book knowledge, thanks to Brush and the kind attention of the others. Sometimes I think that she is so innocent and ignorant of evil, that it will be better for her to spend the rest of her life here." "It is a serious matter, but neither you nor she should be content to remain in this place for the rest of your lives." "Why not? Does that which she can learn elsewhere outweigh that which she will never learn in this secluded settlement? Is not the man or woman fortunate who never comes face to face with the ingratitude, the treachery, the selfishness, the baseness and the sin which are the accompaniments of civilization? In this untainted mountain air, her nature will retain its freshness and purity; her life will be a well spring of happiness and goodness to all with whom she comes in contact; I shall never marry, and mean to keep her by me until in the order of nature I am called away. That is the only boon that I ask from heaven." "But may not all this be hers and yours if the flower is transplanted from the wilderness into a more congenial soil? Has she not already acquired that rugged strength which renders her nature secure against evil? Is she not doubly panoplied in goodness by the training of her infancy and girlhood?" "I would like to think so, but, lieutenant, I have lived a few years longer than you. She _might_ not be safe there; I _know_ she is here." CHAPTER XIV THE THUNDERBOLT Lieutenant Russell was treading on delicate ground, where the utmost caution was necessary. He must not alarm his friend. He smoked a few minutes in silence. "It is not for me to give counsel to my captain, but is it not a fact that selfishness grows upon us with advancing years?" "Very likely." "Has it occurred to you that in concluding to pass the remainder of your days in this mining settlement, you are thinking more of yourself than of your child?" "What have I said that warrants that question?" asked the captain sharply. "No higher motive than to protect a daughter from harm can inspire a father, but if she should be allowed to close your eyes, when you come to lie down and die, it will be hers to live: what _then_?" "I shall leave her comfortably provided for. My pay amounted to a goodly sum when the war ended, and it is placed where no one else can reap the benefit of it. Then, too, as you know we have struck considerable paying dirt of late. The prospects are that New Constantinople, even if a small town, will soon be a rich one." Lieutenant Russell groaned in spirit. Would the parent never understand him? "Then you expect her to remain here, sharing in all the vicissitudes of the place? It cannot always stand still; it will either increase, bringing with it many bad elements, or it will cease to exist and these people will have to go elsewhere: what then of the child whom you have left behind you?" "Oh, by that time," airily replied the father; "she will be married to some good honest fellow, like the parson, who seems to be fond of her, as I know she is of him, but I will not allow her to think of marriage for a long while to come," he added with emphasis. Lieutenant Russell had heard all he wished. He had learned that the father would not consent to the marriage of his daughter for a number of years, and when that time came, he would select one of the shaggy, uncouth miners for her life partner. "He has never thought of _me_ in that capacity, but he will have to entertain the thought before he is much older." In her dreamings of the mysterious world, with its teeming multitudes and all manner of men, Nellie Dawson was sure that none lived who could compare with this young cavalier who had come out from that wonderful realm into the loneliness of her mountain home, bringing with him a sunshine, a glow, a radiance, a happiness, and a thrilling life which she had never believed could be hers. She often sat with her eyes upon his countenance, when, in his chair opposite her father, he recalled those marvelous experiences of his. To her no man could ever possess so musical a voice, and none so perfect features and winning ways. It was young love's dream and in her heart the sacred flame was kindled and fanned until her whole being was suffused and glowed with the new life. One of Lieutenant Russell's firsts acts of kindness to Nellie Dawson was to present her with his massive dog Timon. She had shown great admiration from the first for the magnificent brute, who became fond of her. The maiden was delighted beyond measure and thanked the donor so effusively that he was embarrassed. It is not probable, however, that Timon himself was ever aware of the change of ownership, for it brought no change of conditions to him. He had learned to divide his time about equally between the home of the lieutenant and that of Captain Dawson, while, like the young lady herself, he wandered about the settlement at will. He was a dignified canine, who stalked solemnly through New Constantinople, or took a turn in Dead Man's Gulch, resenting all familiarity from every one, except from the only two persons that had ever owned him. The lieutenant reflected much upon his conversation with Captain Dawson, the impression which he had received being anything but pleasant. "He considers himself unselfish, and yet like all such he is selfishness itself. He has determined to spend the rest of his days in this hole and to keep her with him. He won't allow her to marry for years, because it might interfere with his own pleasure; then he intends to turn her over to that lank, shaggy-faced Brush, who pretends to be a parson. The captain never thinks of _me_ as having any claims upon her love. To carry out his plan would be a crime. If she objects to Brush, he will probably give her a choice from the whole precious lot, including Ruggles, Adams, Bidwell, or Red Mike, the reformed gambler. "Never once has he asked himself whether his daughter may not have a preference in the matter, but, with the help of heaven, he shall not carry out this outrage." In the solitude of his own thoughts, the lover put the question to himself: "Am _I_ unselfish in my intentions?" Selfishness is the essence of love. We resolve to obtain the one upon whom our affections are set, regardless of the consequences or of the future. It is _our_ happiness which is placed in the balance and outweighs everything else. "Of course," continued the young officer in his self-communing, "I shall be the luckiest fellow in the world when I win her and she will be a happy woman. Therefore, it is her good which I seek as much as my own." How characteristic of the lover! "I shall not abduct her. If she tells me she does not love me; if she refuses to forsake all for me, then I will bid her good-by and go off and die." How characteristic again of the lover! And yet it may be repeated that Lieutenant Russell was the most guarded and circumspect of men. He no longer argued with Captain Dawson, for it was useless. He rather lulled his suspicion by falling in with his views, and talked of the future of parent and daughter, as if it were one of the least interesting subjects that could come between them. On one of Vose Adams's pilgrimages to Sacramento, he returned with a superb mettled pony, the gift of Lieutenant Russell. With this pet she soon became a daring and accomplished horsewoman. She was an expert, too, with the small Winchester and revolver which her father brought with him from the East. Perched like a bird upon her own Cap, as she named him, she often dashed for a mile down the trail, wheeling like a flash and returning at full speed. "Have a care," said Parson Brush, more than once; "you ride like a centaur and none knows better how to use firearms, but there are Indians in these mountains and they sometimes approach nigh enough to be seen from New Constantinople. Then, too, your father brought word that other miners are working their way toward us. More than likely there are bad men among them whom it is best you should not meet." "But none would harm _me_," was the wondering reply of the miss; "are not all of my own race my friends?" "They ought to be, but alas! it is too much to expect." She could not believe, however, that any danger of that nature threatened her, but she deferred to the fears of her father, Lieutenant Russell and the parson to that extent that she generally had a companion with her on these dashes down the trail. Sometimes it was Brush, sometimes Ruggles or her parent, and less frequently the young officer. Timon always galloped or trotted behind her pony, and she could not be made to believe that his protection was not all-sufficient. The winds of early autumn were moaning through the gorges and cañons of the Sierras, bringing with them the breath of coming winter, which was often felt with all its Arctic rigor in these depressions among the towering peaks and ridges. The usual group was gathered in the Heavenly Bower, though two of the most prominent citizens were absent. They were Felix Brush and Wade Ruggles, who were seated in their cabin, where a small fire had been kindled on the primitive hearth and afforded the only light in the small apartment. They had eaten their evening meal and as usual were smoking. As neither cared to taste the Mountain Dew, so winsome to a majority of the miners, the two often spent their evenings thus, especially since the shadow caused by the coming of Lieutenant Russell had fallen across their threshold. "Things begin to look better than afore," remarked Ruggles, sitting with one leg flung across the other and looking thoughtfully into the fire. "Yes, I always insisted that the soil about here is auriferous and we had only to stick to it to obtain our reward." Ruggles took his pipe from his mouth and looked at his partner with a disgusted expression. "What are you talkin' 'bout, parson?" "Didn't you refer to the diggings?" he innocently asked in turn. "Come now, that won't do; you know my references to allusions was the leftenant and the young lady. I say things look better as regards the same." "In what way?" "In the only way there could be. They don't care partic'lar for each other." "There is no doubt they did some time ago." "Of course, but I mean _now_." "How do you explain the change, Wade?" "The chap ain't a fool; he's took notice of our warnin's." "I wasn't aware that we had given him any." "Not 'zactly in words, but every time I've met him with the gal, I give the leftenant a scowl. Once I come purty near shakin' my fist at him; he's obsarved it all and is wise in time." "I think there is ground for what you say," remarked the parson, anxious to be convinced of the hoped-for fact; "what I base my belief on is that the leftenant doesn't accompany her on her little riding trips as often as her father or you or I: _that_ is a sure barometer, according to my judgment. Still I have sometimes feared from the way she talks and acts that she thinks more of him than is right." "Nothing of the kind! She treats him as she does everybody else; the leftenant is the friend of the cap and the leftenant give her the dog that is the size of a meetin' house and the pony hardly as big as the dog, but she doesn't think half as much of him as of you and me; how can she?" demanded Ruggles, sitting bolt upright and spreading his hand like a lawyer who has uttered an unanswerable argument; "hain't she knowed us a blamed sight longer than him?" "You are correct; I didn't think of that." How eagerly we accept the argument, flimsy as it may be, which accords with our wishes! "When I feel sorter ugly over my 'spicions," continued Ruggles; "I jest reflect that we've knowed the gal ever since she was a baby and her father tumbled down a hundred feet onto the roof of the Heavenly Bower, with her in his arms in the middle of that howlin' blizzard,--when I think of that I say----" The door of the cabin was hastily shoved inward and Captain Dawson, his face as white as death, strode in. "Have you seen anything of Nellie?" he asked in a husky whisper. "No; what's the matter?" asked the startled miners. "She has gone! she has left me!" gasped the father dropping into the only remaining chair, the picture of despair and unutterable woe. "Why do you think that?" asked the parson, sympathetically. "Lieutenant Russell has gone too! They have fled together!" CHAPTER XV COMRADES IN SORROW Wade Ruggles and Parson Brush sprang to their feet and confronted the white-faced Captain Dawson, who stared at them and breathed fast. For a full minute they gazed into one another's faces, dazed, motionless and speechless. The partners stood, each with pipe in hand, the faint smoke curling upward from the bowls, their slouched hats still on their frowsy heads, the revolvers at their cartridge belts spanning their waists, their trousers tucked in the tops of their boots, and with their heavy flannel shirts serving for coats and vests. Captain Dawson was similarly attired. He had dashed out of his own cabin and into that of his friends, his long locks flying, and even the strands of his heavy beard rigidly apart, as if from the consternation that had taken possession of his very soul. In those seconds of tomb-like stillness, an ember on the earthen hearth fell apart and a twist of flame threw a yellow illumination through the small room, grim and bare of everything suggesting luxury. It was the parson who first found voice, but when he spoke the tones, even to himself, sounded like those of another person. "Captain, it is possible that there is some mistake about this." "Would to God there might be!" "Let us hope there is." "Mistake!" he repeated in a husky, rasping voice; "can there be any mistake about _that_?" He threw out his single arm as he spoke, as if he would drive his fist through their chests. But he held a crumpled bit of paper in the face of the parson, who silently took it from him, crinkled it apart and turning his side so that the firelight fell on the sheet, began reading the few words written in pencil and in the pretty delicate hand which he knew so well. "Read it out loud, parson," said Ruggles, speaking for the first time. Felix Brush did so in a voice of surprising evenness: "MY DEAREST FATHER:--I have decided to go with Lieutenant Russell. We love each other and I have promised to become his wife. Do not think I love you any less for that can never be. I cannot remain here. You will hear from us soon and then I pray that you will come to your own NELLIE." "Have you been to his shanty?" asked Ruggles, who hardly comprehended the meaning of his own words. "Why would he go there?" angrily demanded the parson. "Mebbe the villain changed his mind." "But, if he had, _she_ would not be there." "Yes; I went to his cabin," bitterly answered Captain Dawson; "he has not been in the place for hours; all is dark and deserted; if I found him, I would have killed him." The three were laboring under fearful emotion, but with surprising power forced themselves to seem comparatively calm. "Captain, tell us about it," said the parson, carefully folding the bit of paper upon itself and shoving it into his pocket, unobserved by the others. Despite his apparent calmness it took a few moments for the father to gain sufficient self-control to speak clearly. Seated in the chair, he looked into the embers of the fire on the hearth, compressed his lips and breathed hard. His two friends had also seated themselves, for it seemed to them it was easier to master their agitation thus than while upon their feet. "What have I to tell, but my everlasting woe and shame? The lieutenant and I have been working for several days by ourselves on a new lead. I had noticed nothing unusual in his manner nor indeed in that of my child. At lunch time to-day he complained to me of not feeling like work, and told me not to expect him back this afternoon. I would have returned with him, had not the indications of the new lead been so good. And actually he invited me to do no more work until to-morrow, though why he should have done it, when it would have spoiled their whole scheme, is more than I can explain. "It was part of his plan to deceive you." "I don't see how it could do that, for there was no need of his inviting me,--but let it go. It came about that I worked later than usual, so that it was dark when I got home. I was surprised to see no light and to find no fire or Nellie. I thought nothing of that, however, for who would have believed it possible that there could be anything wrong? I supposed she was with some of the folks and being tired I sat down in my chair and fell asleep. "When I awoke, the room was cold, silent and as dark as a wolf's mouth. I felt impatient and decided to give her a scolding for being so neglectful. I groped around until I found a match, intending to start a fire. I had just lit the lamp and set it down on the table, when I caught sight of a folded piece of paper with my name in her handwriting on the outside. It gave me a queer feeling and my hands trembled when I unfolded and read it. "I don't clearly remember the next few minutes. The room seemed to be spinning around, and I think I had to sit down to keep from falling, but what saved me from collapse was my anger. I have been consumed with indignation once or twice in my life, but was never so furious, so uncontrollable, so utterly savage as I was after reading that note. If I could have found Russell, I would have throttled him. It may sound strange, but I hardly once thought of Nellie; it was _he_, the villain, whom I yearned to get my hands on." "Of course," said Ruggles, "that's the way you oughter feel." "I don't know what possessed me to do so, but I rushed out and made straight for his cabin, as if I would find him there. Of course that too was empty, and then I came here. Fool that I have been!" exclaimed the parent, leaping to his feet and striding up and down the room; "not to see all this, but," he added pathetically, "I believed that Nellie loved me." The flaming wrath of the two melted into pity for the stricken father. Parson Brush laid his hand on his shoulder and compelled him to resume his seat. Then he spoke with the tenderness of a woman: "That child _does_ love you more than she loves her own life, but she is blinded by her infatuation for that smooth-tongued scoundrel. It is the nature of her sex to feel and act thus; but, as I said, it does not mean that her love for you is less--" "Don't talk of her love for me," fiercely interrupted the parent; "we only judge of a person by his actions." "But you and I have made mistakes--" "Nothing like this; why did she not ask me? why did _he_ not tell me that he wished to marry her?--that is if he does," added the father, as if determined to make his own cup as bitter as possible. "He did not ask you, because he knew you would refuse; for from the first time he entered this community, he was determined to have her." "How do you know that?" "Because Ruggles and I read him; we did what no one else did,--we measured the man. Am I right, Wade?" The miner nodded his head. "Every word is as true as gospel; we noticed his sly looks at her, that first night you and him entered the Heavenly Bower and she was there. We couldn't make any mistake about it." "And you didn't warn me! You two are as bad as he, because you kept the secret when you ought to have put me on my guard, so that I might have strangled him at the first advance he made." Sympathy for the man prevented his listeners taking offence at the words which, from any one else, would have brought serious consequences. The parson said soothingly: "If you were not so wrought up, captain, you would not be so unreasonable; suppose Wade and I had gone to you with the statement that the man who, according to your own words, had saved your life but a short time before in the mountains, was a villain, who contemplated robbing you of your child; what would you have done?" "Thanked you and been on my guard." "You would have done nothing of the kind; you would have cursed us and told us to mind our own business." "No matter what I would have done, it was your duty to tell me, regardless of the consequences to yourselves. I might have resented it, but my eyes would have been opened and this blow saved me." "Nothing could have opened your eyes, for you were blind," said the parson, who felt that though the man was intensely agitated, he ought to hear some plain truths; "even had you suspected there was ground for our fears, you would have gone to Lieutenant Russell and demanded an explanation. He would have denied it, and you would have believed him with the result that he would have been put on his guard and would have deceived you the more completely." "Likewise, as aforesaid," added Ruggles, "the villain would have come to us and made us give our grounds for our charges. What ridic'lous fools we would have been, when all we could answer was that we thought he looked as if he meant to run away with your darter." "There may be some justice in what you say," replied the captain more composedly; "It was I who was blind, but I can't understand it. Never until I read that piece of paper, did I suspect the truth." "Howsumever, the parson and me haven't been idle; we often talked it over and fixed on a line that we thought would work better than going to you. We showed the leftenant that we was onto his game; I give him a scowl now and then, as it fell convenient, that said 'Beware!' We, that is the parson and me, made up our minds to watch close, and, at the first sign that was dead sure, we'd fall onto him like a couple of mountains." "And why didn't you?" "He fooled us as he did you. We was talkin' over matters the very minute you busted into the door and was satisfied that he had larned he was playin' with fire and had concluded to drop it. We was as big fools as you." CHAPTER XVI NOW It was the parson who now broke in. "Why do we sit here, lamenting that which cannot be helped? Do you mean to give up, captain, and let her go? Will you settle down to toil in the diggings, giving her no further thought, while this pretty-faced lieutenant is chuckling over the clever manner by which he fooled you as well as us--" "No!" fairly shouted the roused parent; "I will follow them to the ends of the earth! They shall not find a foot of ground that will protect them! She has never seen me angry, but she shall now!" "We are with you," coolly responded Brush, "but only on one condition." "What's that?" "That this account is to be settled with _him_ alone; you musn't speak so much as a cross word to Nellie; she will shed many a bitter tear of sorrow; she will drain the cup to its dregs; _he_, the cause of it all, is to be brought to judgment. When do you wish to take up the pursuit?" "Now!" "And we are with you." There was something wonderful in the way Parson Brush kept control of himself. Externally he was as calm as when standing in front of the adamantine blackboard, giving instruction to Nellie Dawson, while down deep in his heart, raged a tempest such as rouses into life the darkest passions that can nerve a man to wrong doing. Believing it necessary to stir the father to action, he had done it by well chosen words, that could not have been more effective. For weeks and months the shadow had brooded over him. Sometimes it seemed to lift and dissolve into unsubstantiality, only to come back more baleful than before. And the moment when he had about persuaded himself that it was but a figment of the imagination, it had sprung into being and crushed him. But he was now stern, remorseless, resolute, implacable. It was much the same with Wade Ruggles. He strove desperately to gain the remarkable control of his feelings, displayed by his comrade, and partly succeeded. But there was a restless fidgeting which caused him to move aimlessly about the room and showed itself now and then in a slight tremulousness of the voice and hands, but his eyes wore that steely glitter, which those at his side had noticed when the rumble and grumble told that the battle was on. Captain Dawson went from one extreme to the other. Crazed, tumultuous in his fury, and at first like a baffled tiger, he moderated his voice and manner until his companions wondered at his self-poise. "They have started for Sacramento and are now well advanced over the trail," he remarked without any evidence of excitement. "When do you imagine they set out?" asked Brush. "Probably about the middle of the afternoon; possibly earlier." "Then," said Ruggles, "they have a good six hours' start. They haven't lost any time and must be fifteen or twenty miles away." "The trail is easy traveling for twice that distance, as I recollect it," observed the captain; "after that it grows rougher and they will not be able to go so fast." "This must have been arranged several days ago, though it is only guesswork on our part. Of course she has taken considerable clothing with her." "I did not look into her room," said the captain; "there's no use; it is enough to know they made their preparations and started, accompanied by that dog Timon." No time was wasted. They knew they would encounter cold weather, for the autumn had fairly set in, and some portions of the trail carried them to an elevation where it was chilly in midsummer. Each took a thick blanket. The captain donned his military coat, with the empty sleeve pinned to the breast, caught up his saddle and trappings, his Winchester and revolver, and buckled the cartridge belt around his waist. Then he was ready. Neither of the others took coat or vest. The blanket flung around the shoulders was all that was likely to be needed, in addition to the heavy flannel shirt worn summer and winter. Thus equipped, the three stood outside the cabin, with the moon high in the sky, a gentle wind sweeping up the cañon and loose masses of clouds drifting in front of the orb of night. Here and there a light twinkled from a shanty and the hum of voices sounded faintly in their ears. Further off, at the extreme end of the settlement, stood the Heavenly Bower, with the yellow rays streaming from its two windows. They could picture the group gathered there, as it had gathered night after night during the past years, full of jest and story, and with never a thought of the tragedy that had already begun. "Shall we tell them?" asked Ruggles. "No," answered Brush; "some of them might wish to go with us." "And it might be well to take them," suggested Captain Dawson. "We are enough," was the grim response of the parson. Like so many phantoms, the men moved toward the further end of the settlement. Opposite the last shanty a man assumed form in the gloom. He had just emerged from his dwelling and stopped abruptly at sight of the trio of shadows gliding past. "What's up, pards?" he called. "Nothing," was the curt answer of the captain, who was leading and did not change his pace. "You needn't be so huffy about it," growled the other, standing still and puffing his pipe until they vanished. "That was Vose Adams," remarked the captain over his shoulder; "he'll tell the rest what he saw and it will be known to everybody in the morning." The little party was carefully descending the side of the cañon, with now and then a partial stumble, until they reached the bottom of the broad valley where the grass grew luxuriantly nearly the whole year. It was nutritious and succulent and afforded the best of pasturage for the few horses and mules belonging to the miners. Captain Dawson and Lieutenant Russell had ridden up the trail, each mounted on a fine steed, which had brought them from Sacramento. When the saddles and bridles were removed, the animals were turned loose in the rich pasturage, which extended for miles over the bottom of the cañon. There, too, grazed the pony of Nellie Dawson, the horses of Ruggles and Bidwell and the three mules owned by Landlord Ortigies and Vose Adams. The latter were left to themselves, except when needed for the periodical journeys to Sacramento. The little drove constituted all the possessions of New Constantinople in that line. Consequently, if any more of the miners wished to join in the pursuit, they would have to do so on foot or on mule back,--a fact which was likely to deter most of them. In the early days of the settlement, before the descent of that terrible blizzard, fully a dozen mules and horses were grazing in the gorge, subject to the call of their owners, who, however, did not expect to need them, unless they decided to remove to some other site. But one morning every hoof had vanished and was never seen again. The prints of moccasins, here and there in the soft earth, left no doubt of the cause of their disappearance. Perhaps this event had something to do with the permanence of New Constantinople, since the means of a comfortable departure with goods, chattels, tools and mining implements went off with the animals. After that the miners made no further investments in quadrupeds, except to the extent of three or four mules, needed by Vose Adams, though he was forced to make one journey to Sacramento on foot. Thus matters stood until the addition of the horses. There was always danger of their being stolen, but as the weeks and months passed, without the occurrence of anything of that nature, the matter was forgotten. The three men were so familiar with the surroundings that they made their way to the bottom of the cañon with as much readiness as if the sun were shining. Pausing beside the narrow, winding stream, which at that season was no more than a brook, they stood for several minutes peering here and there in the gloom, for the animals indispensable for a successful pursuit of the eloping ones. "There's no saying how long it will take to find them," remarked the captain impatiently; "it may be they have been grazing a mile away." "Have you any signal which your animal understands?" "Yes, but it is doubtful if he will obey it." Captain Dawson placed his fingers between his lips and emitted a peculiar tremulous whistle, repeating it three times with much distinctness. Then all stood silent and listening. "He may be asleep. Once he was prompt to obey me, but he has been turned loose so long that there is little likelihood of his heeding it." "Try it again and a little stronger," suggested Ruggles. The captain repeated the call until it seemed certain the animal must hear it, but all the same, the result was nothing. It was exasperating for the hounds thus to be held in leash when the game was speeding from them, with the scent warm, but there was no help for it. "We are wasting time," said Dawson; "while you two go up the gorge, I will take the other direction; look sharp for the animals that are probably lying down; they are cunning and will not relish being disturbed; if you find them whistle, and I'll do the same." They separated, the captain following one course and his friends the other. "It'll be a bad go," remarked Ruggles, "if we don't find the horses, for we won't have any show against them on their animals." "Little indeed and yet it will not hold us back." "No, indeed!" replied Ruggles with a concentration of passion that made the words seem to hiss between his teeth. Since the stream was so insignificant, Wade Ruggles leaped across and went up the cañon on the other side, his course being parallel with his friend's. A hundred yards further and he made a discovery. "Helloa, Brush, here they are!" The parson bounded over the brook and hurried to his side, but a disappointment followed. The three mules having cropped their fill had lain down for the night but the horses were not in sight. CHAPTER XVII THE PURSUERS The parson expressed his disappointment in vigorous language, when, instead of the horses, the hybrids proved to be the only animals near them. "I am afraid this proves one thing," he said. "What is that?" "I have had a dread all along that the Indians would run off the horses, but it seems to me that if they had done so, they would have taken the mules." "It strikes me as more likely that the leftenant took the horses, so as to prevent our follering him and the gal." "That sounds reasonable," said the parson thoughtfully; "the plan is so simple that it must have occurred to him. The mules are too slow to be of any use to us, and it may be as well that we shall have to go afoot." "How do you figure that out?" "They will conclude that, if we haven't any horses, we won't follow them; they will, therefore, take their time and travel so slow, that we'll have the chance to swoop down on them when they are not expecting it." "I s'pose there's what you call philosophy in that, but it doesn't hit me very favorable. We'll see what the cap thinks--helloa!" Clearly and distinctly through the still air came the signal by which Captain Dawson was to announce his discovery of the animals. The call scattered all thoughts of making the journey on foot, and, wheeling about, the two started off at a rapid pace to join their friend. At the same moment the call sounded again, and they answered it to let it be known they understood the situation. In a brief time they came upon Captain Dawson impatiently awaiting them. There was no need for him to tell them he had been successful in his search, for he was standing beside the three horses, which were quickly saddled and bridled. A minute later the men vaulted upon their backs and the captain said crisply: "Now we are off!" Each seemed to be inspired by the spirit of adventure. They sat erect in the saddles, drew in a deep inhalation of the keen night air, and moved off with their horses on a brisk walk, which almost immediately became a canter. For a mile, the trail through Dead Man's Gulch was nearly as hard and even as a country highway. The width of the cañon varied from a few rods to a quarter of a mile, with the mountain ridges on either hand towering far up into cloudland, the tallest peaks crowned with snow which the sun never dissolved. The tiny stream wound like a silvery serpent through the stretch of green, succulent grass, narrowing gorge and obtruding rock and boulder. Now and then the path led across the water, which was so shallow that it only plashed about the fetlocks of the horses. Captain Dawson, in his impetuosity, kept a few paces in front of the other two, as if he were the leader. When the space increased too much he reined up his animal and waited until his friends joined him. They were grim, resolute and for most of the time had little to say to one another, though, as may be supposed, their thoughts were of anything but a pleasant nature. So long as the moon held her place near the zenith, the cañon was suffused and flooded with its soft radiance, but the rifts of clouds drifting before its face rendered the light at times treacherous and uncertain. The horses had rested so long, and had had such extensive browsing on the rich pasturage, that they were in fine condition, and the gallop seemed more grateful to them than an ordinary walking gait. The air was cool and the fine trail, at this portion of the journey, made all the conditions favorable. After a time however, the ascent and descent would appear, the ground would become rough and the best the animals could do would be to walk. When Parson Brush remarked that Lieutenant Russell had proved himself an idiot when he left these horses behind for his pursuers to use, the captain and Ruggles agreed with him. "I don't understand it," said Brush; "he must have expected we would be hot after him, within the very hour we learned of what he had done, or can it be that he and she concluded we would say, 'Depart in peace?' If so, the young man shall have a terrible awakening." "It seems to me," said Ruggles, "that it is more likely he believed that with the start he would gain, it didn't matter whether we follered or not, feelin' sure that he could keep out of reach and get to Sacramento so fur ahead of us, that he needn't give us a thought." "I am not very familiar with the trail," remarked the captain, "for, as you know, I have passed over it only twice; first, nearly five years ago, when I went to the war, and a few months since when I came back." "But you and Russell did not lose your way," said the parson. "That was because we did our traveling by day. We tried it once at night, but came within a hair of tumbling over a precipice a thousand feet deep. This will be easy enough, so long as we have the sun to help us." "You probably know as much about the trail as Wade and I, for neither of us has been over it often. Consequently, when we travel by night, we shall have to go it blind, or rather shall do so after awhile, since all is plain sailing now." "I ain't so sure of that," observed Ruggles doubtfully; "we must have come a mile already and ought to have made a turn by this time." Captain Dawson checked his horse and peered ahead. "Can it be we are off the track? We have come nearer two miles than one--ah!" Just then the moon emerged from the obscuring clouds and their field of vision so broadened that they saw themselves face to face with an impassable barrier. The cañon closed directly in front of them like an immense gate of stone. It was impossible to advance a hundred feet further. "Well, I'm blessed if this isn't a pretty situation!" exclaimed the captain. "We have passed the opening, but we haven't far to return, and you know that a bad beginning brings a good ending." "Humph! I would rather chance it on a good beginning." Ruggles was the first to wheel and strike his horse into a gallop, which he did with the remark that he knew where the right passage was located. His companions were almost beside him. The cañon was of that peculiar conformation that, while it terminated directly in front, it contained an abrupt angle between where the party had halted and the mining settlement. At that point it was so wide that the little stream, which might have served for a guide, was lost sight of. Had they followed the brook, they would not have gone astray. The only inconvenience was the slight delay, which in their restless mood tried their spirits to the utmost. Captain Dawson muttered to himself and urged his horse so angrily that he again placed himself in advance. His mood was no more savage than that of his companions, but he chafed at everything which caused delay, no matter how trifling, in the pursuit. Fearing that he might go wrong, Ruggles spurred up beside him. The distance passed was less than any one expected it to be, when Ruggles called out: "Here we are!" The exclamation was caused by the hoofs of their horses plashing in the water. They seemed to share the impatience of their riders; "all we have to do now is to keep to the stream; obsarve its turn." Its course was almost at right angles to that which they had been following. The animals were cantering easily, when suddenly a deeper gloom than usual overspread the valley like a pall. This came from a heavy bank of clouds sweeping before the moon. The steeds were drawn down to a walk, but the obscurity was not dense enough to shut out the chasm-like opening, where the mountains seemed to part, riven by some terrific convulsion ages before. The enormous walls drew back the door as if to invite them to enter and press the pursuit of the couple that were fleeing from a just and righteous wrath. The width of the cañon had now dwindled to a few yards, and the stream expanding and shallow, occupied so much of the space that the horses were continually splashing through it, but the rise and fall of the trail was so slight that the gallop might have continued with little danger of mishap. The formation of the party was in "Indian file," with Captain Dawson leading, Ruggles next and Brush bringing up the rear. All three animals were walking, for the light of the moon was variable and often faint, while the danger of a mis-step was ever present, and was likely to bring a fatal ending of the pursuit almost before it had fairly begun. Occasionally the gloom in the narrow gorge was so deep that they distinguished one another's figures indistinctly, but the animals were left mostly to themselves. They seemed to know what was expected of them and showed no hesitation. It was impossible for them to go wrong, for it was much the same as if crossing a bridge, with its protecting barrier on either hand. The horse of the captain showed his self-confidence once or twice by a faint whinney and a break from the walk into a trot, but his rider checked him. "Not yet; heaven knows that I am as anxious to push on as you, but we have already made one blunder and we can't afford another; when the time comes that it is safe to trot you shall do so and perhaps run." "Hush!" called Brush from the rear; "I hear a curious sound." "What does it seem to be?" "It is impossible to tell; let's stop for a moment." As the three animals stood motionless, the strange noise was audible. It was a deep, hollow roar rapidly increasing in volume and intensity, and resembled the warning of a tornado or cyclone advancing through the forest. The animals, as is the case at such times, were nervous and frightened. They elevated their heads, pricked their ears, snuffed the air and the animal of the parson trembled with terror. The three believed that something in the nature of a cyclone was approaching, or it might be a cloudburst several miles away, whose deluge had swollen the stream into a rushing torrent that would overwhelm them where they stood, caught inextricably in a trap. The terrifying roar, however, was neither in front nor at the rear, but above them,--over their heads! From the first warning to the end was but a few seconds. The sound increased with appalling power and every eye was instinctively turned upward. In the dim obscurity they saw a dark mass of rock, weighing hundreds of tons, descending like a prodigious meteor, hurled from the heavens. It had been loosened on the mountain crest a half mile above, and was plunging downward with inconceivable momentum. Striking some obstruction, it rebounded like a rubber ball against the opposite side of the gorge, then recoiled, still diving downward, oscillating like a pendulum from wall to wall, whirling with increasing speed until it crashed to the bottom of the gorge with a shock so terrific that the earth and mountain trembled. Landing in the stream, the water was flung like bird shot right and left, stinging the faces of the men fifty feet distant. They sat awed and silent until Ruggles spoke: "Now if that stone had hit one of us on the head it would have hurt." "Probably it would," replied the captain, who had difficulty in quieting his horse; "at any rate, I hope no more of them will fall till we are out of the way." "I wonder whether that could have been done on purpose," remarked the parson. "No," said Ruggles; "the leftenant couldn't know anything about our being purty near the right spot to catch it." "I alluded to Indians,--not to him." But Ruggles and the captain did not deem such a thing credible. A whole tribe of red men could not have loosened so enormous a mass of stone, while, if poised as delicately as it must have been, they would have known nothing of the fact. Sometimes an immense oak, sound and apparently as firm as any in the forest around it, suddenly plunges downward and crashes to the earth, from no imaginable cause. So, vast masses of rock on the mountain side which have held their places for centuries, seem to leap from their foundations and tear their way with resistless force into the valley below. This was probably one of those accidental displacements, liable to occur at any hour of the day or night, which had come so startlingly near crushing the three men to death. Captain Dawson drew a match from his pocket and scraping it along his thigh, held it to the face of his watch. "Just midnight and we are not more than half a dozen miles from home." "And how far do you suppose _they_ are?" asked the parson. "Probably five times as much, if not more." "But they will not travel at night, and by sunrise we ought to be considerably nearer to them than now." "You can't be certain about that. Lieutenant Russell knows me too well to loiter on the road; he has a good horse and the pony of Nellie is a tough animal; both will be urged to the utmost; for they must be sure the pursuit will be a hard one." The discomforting fact in the situation was that if the fugitives, as they may be considered, pushed their flight with vigor, there was no reason why they should not prevent any lessening of the distance between them and their pursuers, and since they would naturally fear pursuit, it was to be expected that they would use all haste. The hope was that on account of Nellie, the animals would not keep up the flight for so many hours out of the twenty-four, as the pursuers would maintain it. The trail steadily ascended and became so rough and uneven that the horses frequently stumbled. This made their progress slow and compelled the three men, despite themselves, to feel the prudence of resting until daylight, but not one of them wished to do so, since the night pursuit was the only phase of the business which brought with it the belief that they were really lessening the distance separating them from the two in advance. Eager as the couple were to get through the mountains and reach Sacramento, where for the first time they could feel safe from their pursuers, the young officer was too wise to incur the risk of breaking down their horses, for such a mishap would be a most serious one indeed, and fraught with fatal consequences. There was little fear of the pursuers going astray. Captain Dawson had an extraordinary memory for places, as he repeatedly proved by recalling some landmark that he had noticed on his previous trip. Furthermore, the gorge was so narrow that in a certain sense, it may be said, they were fenced in, and would have found it hard to wander to the right or left, had they made the effort. After an hour of steady climbing they reached an altitude which brought with it a sharp change of temperature. The air became so chilly that Ruggles and Brush flung their blankets about their shoulders and found the protection added to their comfort. The horses, too, began to show the effects of their severe exertion. Their long rest had rendered them somewhat "soft," though the hardening would be rapid. After a few days' work they would not mind such exertion as that to which they were now forced. When a sort of amphitheatre was reached, it was decided to draw rein for a brief while, out of sympathy for their panting animals. "I thought if we failed to find our horses," remarked the parson, "we wouldn't find it hard to keep up the pursuit on foot; I have changed my mind." He looked back over the sloping trail, which speedily vanished in the gloom and the eyes of the other two were turned in the same direction. At the moment of doing so, the animals again became frightened, so that, despite their fatigue, it was hard to restrain them. "There's something down there," remarked the captain slipping from his saddle; "Wade, you are the nearest, can you see anything?" Ruggles was out of the saddle in an instant, Winchester in hand. "I catched sight of something," he said in an undertone; "look after my horse, while I find out what it is." "Have a care," cautioned the parson; "it may be an Indian." "That's what I think it is," replied Ruggles, who instantly started down the trail rifle in hand, his posture a crouching one and his senses strung to the highest point. He passed from view almost on the instant, and his companions listened with intense anxiety for what was to follow. Suddenly the sharp crack of their friend's rifle rang out in the solemn stillness, the report echoing again and again through the gorge, with an effect that was startling even to such experienced men. It was the only sound that came to them, and, while they were wondering what it meant, Ruggles reappeared among them with the noiselessness of a shadow. "It was a bear," he explained; "I think he scented the animals and was follering on the lookout for a chance at 'em." "Did you kill him?" "Don't think I did; he must have heard me comin' and was scared; he went down the trail faster than I could; when I seen that I couldn't catch him, I let fly without taking much aim. Maybe I hit him; leastways, he traveled so much faster that I give it up and come back." The party lingered for half an hour more, but as the horses showed no further fear, they concluded that bruin had taken to heart the lesson he received and would bother them no further. The mountains still towered on every hand. The stream had long since disappeared among the rocks and the gorge had become narrower. Generally it was no more than a dozen feet in width, occasionally expanding to two or three times that extent. The moon had moved over so far that only its faint reflection against the dark walls and masses of rock availed the horsemen. The sky seemed to contain an increasing number of clouds and there were indications of a storm, which might not break for a day or two, and as likely as not would not break at all. The traveling, despite its difficulty, was comparatively safe. The trail did not lead along the sides of precipices, with a climbing wall on one side and a continuous descent on the other, but it was solid and extended across from one ridge to the other. Because of this fact the three pushed their animals hard, knowing that it would not be long before they would have to be favored. "I don't know whether we are wise to keep this up as we are doing," said the captain, "but I know there are few places where we can travel in the darkness and I feel like making the most of them." "It is only a question of what the horses are able to stand," replied Brush; "it is easy enough for us to ride, but a very different thing for them to carry us. We must guard against their breaking down." "I will look out for that, but it is strange that when we were making ready to start we forgot one important matter." "What was that?" "We did not bring a mouthful of food." "We shall have little trouble in shooting what game we need." "Perhaps not and perhaps we shall. The lieutenant and I found on our way from Sacramento that, although game appeared to be plenty, it had an exasperating habit of keeping out of range when we particularly needed it. Delay will be necessary to get food, and the reports of our guns are likely to give warning, just when it is dangerous." "It was a bad slip," assented the parson; "for there was plenty of meat and bread at home; but we shall have to stop now and then to rest our animals and to allow them to feed and we can utilize such intervals by getting something for ourselves in the same line." "It isn't that, so much as the risk of apprising the two of their danger. In addition, it will be strange if we get through the mountains without a fight with the Indians. According to my recollection, we shall strike a region to-morrow or on the next day, where there will be the mischief to pay." Two miles more of laborious work and another halt. For the first time Parson Brush showed excitement. "Do you know," he said, "that some one is following us? There may be several, but I am sure of one at least and he is on a horse." CHAPTER XVIII A CLOSE CALL Few situations are more trying than that of being followed at night by what we suspect is an enemy. The furtive glances to the rear show the foe too indistinctly for us to recognize him, and the imagination pictures the swift, stealthy attack and the treacherous blow against which it is impossible to guard. There was little of this dread, however, in the case of our friends, for they felt strong enough to take care of themselves. Moreover, all three formed an instant suspicion of the identity of the man. It was Felix Brush at the rear who first heard the faint footfalls, and, peering into the gloom, saw the outlines of a man and beast a few rods distant, coming steadily up the trail in the same direction with himself. A few minutes later the halt was made and all eyes were turned toward the point whence the man was approaching. He must have noticed the stoppage, but he came straight on until he joined the group. "Howdy, pards," was his greeting. "I thought it was you, Vose," said the captain, sharply; "what do you mean by following us?" "What right have you to get in front of me? Don't I have to make a trip to Sacramento three or four times each year?" "But you are not accustomed to start in the night time." "And I never knowed it was your custom to leave New Constantinople in the middle of the night; leastways I never knowed you to do it afore." "We have important business," added the captain brusquely, uncertain as yet whether he ought to be displeased or angered by the intrusion of Adams. "So have I." "What is it?" "Your good." "I don't understand you; explain yourself." "There ain't one of you three that knows the way through the mountains, and if you undertook it alone, it would take you three months to reach Sacramento." This was a new and striking view of the situation, but the parson said: "Each of us has been over it before." "Sartinly, but one trip nor half a dozen ain't enough. You lost your way the first hour in Dead Man's Gulch; if you hadn't done so, it would have took me a blamed sight longer to find you; there are half a dozen other places in the mountains ten times worse than the one where you flew the track. Howsumever, if you don't want me, I'll go back." And Vose Adams, as if his dignity had received a mortal hurt, began turning his mule around. "Hold on," interposed Captain Dawson; "you have put things in their true light; we are very glad to have you with us." "That makes it all right," was the cheery response of the good natured Vose; "I never like to push myself where I ain't wanted, but as you seem glad to see me, after having the thing explained, we won't say nothing more about it. Howsumever, I may add that I obsarved you started in such a hurry that I thought it warn't likely you fetched any vittles with you, so I made up a lunch and brought it with me, being as you may not always have time to spare to shoot game." The chilliness of Vose Adams' greeting changed to the warmest welcome. He had shown more thoughtfulness than any of them, and his knowledge of the perilous route through the mountains was beyond value. Indeed, it looked as if it was to prove the deciding factor in the problem. "Do you know our business, Vose?" asked the captain. "I knowed it the minute I seen you sneaking off like shadows toward the trail. I hurried to my cabin, got a lot of cold meat and bread together and then hunted up Hercules, my boss mule. He isn't very handsome, but he has a fine voice and has been through these mountains so many times that he knows the right road as well as me. I knowed you would travel fast and didn't expect to overhaul you afore morning, but you went past the right turn and that give me a chance to catch up sooner." "But how was it you suspected our errand?" persisted the captain. "How could I help it? What else could it be? I seen the miss and the leftenant start for Sacramento, and being as you took the same course it was plain that you was going there too, if you didn't overtake 'em first." "You saw them start!" thundered the father of Nellie Dawson; "why didn't you hurry off to me with the news?" "Why should I hurry off to you with the news?" coolly asked Vose Adams; "it wasn't the first time I had seen the two ride in that direction; sometimes she was with you, or with the parson or Ruggles, and once or twice with me. Would you have thought there was anything wrong if you had seen them?" "No, I suppose not," replied the captain, seeing the injustice of his words; "but I have been so wrought up by what has occurred that I can hardly think clearly. I ask your pardon for my hasty words." "You needn't do that, for I see how bad you feel and I'm sorry for you." "When was it they left?" "Early this afternoon." "There was no one with them of course?" "Nobody except that big dog they call Timon; he was frolicking 'round the horses, as if he enjoyed it as much as them." Every atom of news was painful, and yet the afflicted father could not restrain himself from asking questions of no importance. "About what hour do you think it was when they left?" "It must have been near two o'clock when the leftenant fetched up his horse and the pony belonging to the young lady. She must have been expectin' him, for she come right out of the house, without keeping him waitin' a minute. He helped her into the saddle, while they talked and laughed as happy as could be." This was wormwood and gall to the parent, but he did not spare himself. "Did you overhear anything said by them?" "I wouldn't have considered it proper to listen, even if they hadn't been so far off I couldn't catch a word that passed atween 'em." "Was there anything in their actions to show they intended to take a longer ride than usual?" "I don't see how there could be," replied the puzzled Adams, while Parson Brush, understanding what the distraught captain meant, explained: "Was there anything in their appearance which suggested that they meant to take anything more than an ordinary gallop?" "I didn't think of it at the time, but I can see now there was. Each of them had what seemed to be extra clothing and perhaps they had food, though I couldn't make sure of that. You know there has been something in the sky that looked like a coming storm, and I thought it was on that account that the clothing was took along. Then, as the leftenant had knocked off work, it might be he was not feeling very well." "The scoundrel made that very excuse for leaving me," bitterly commented Captain Dawson, "but he wouldn't have taken the clothing as part of the same design for there was no need of anything of the kind. They laid their plans carefully and everything joined to make it as easy as possible." "Your thoughts were precisely what ours would have been," said the parson, drawn toward the messenger unjustly accused by the captain in the tumult of his grief;" if we had seen the two start, we should have believed it was for one of the usual gallops which the young lady is so fond of taking; but, Vose, if we would have certainly gone astray in the mountains, without your guidance, how will it be with them, when she has never been over the trail and he has ridden over it but once?" "They are sure to have a tough time of it which will make it all the harder for us." "How is that?" "Some good luck may lead them right; more than likely, howsumever, they'll get all wrong; therefore, if we stick to the path we may pass 'em a half dozen times. You see it's the blamed onsartinty of the whole bus'ness." "I would not question your wisdom on such matters, Vose, but when I remember that each of them is riding a horse, and that the two must leave traces behind them, I cannot apprehend that we shall go very far astray in our pursuit. The most likely trouble as it seems to me is that they will travel so fast that it will be almost impossible to overtake them." "If they can manage to keep to the trail, it is going to be hard work to come up with them. You haven't forgot that when I'm pushing through the mountains I sometimes have to hunt a new trail altogether." "That is due to the trouble with Indians?" "Precisely; sometimes it's a long, roundabout course that I have to take, which may keep me off the main course for a couple of days, or it may be for only a part of the day, but Injins is something that you must count on every time." "And they are as likely to meet them as we?" "More so, 'cause they're just ahead of you. Oh, it was the biggest piece of tomfoolery ever heard of for them to start on such a journey, but what are you to expect of two young persons dead in love with each other?" This was not the kind of talk that was pleasing to the father, and he became morosely silent. It was equally repugnant to Ruggles and the parson to hear Nellie Dawson referred to as being in love with the execrated officer. Ruggles was grim and mute, and the parson deftly drew the conversation in another direction. "I would like to ask you, Vose, how it was that Lieutenant Russell did not take the other horses with him, so as to make it impossible for anything in the nature of pursuit?" "There might be two reasons; he may have thought it would be mean to hit you below the belt like that; he was too honorable--" "It warn't anything like _that_," fiercely interrupted Ruggles. "Then it must have been that if he had took all the animals with him, even though they was a considerable way down the gulch, the thing would have been noticed by others, who would have wanted to know what it meant." "No doubt you have struck the right reason. Had the start been in the night time, he would have made sure that not even the mules were left for us. But, Vose," added the parson gravely, "we would be much better pleased if when you referred to the lieutenant, you said nothing about 'honor.'" "Oh, I am as much down on him as any of you," airily responded Vose; "and, if I git the chance to draw bead on him, I'll do it quicker'n lightning. Fact is, the hope of having that same heavenly privilege was as strong a rope in pulling me up the trail after you as was the wish to keep you folks from gettin' lost. But, pards, Hercules is rested and I guess likely your animals are the same, so let's be moving." Although Captain Dawson had been silent during the last few minutes, he did not allow a word to escape him. He knew Vose Adams was talkative at times, due perhaps to his enjoyment of company, after being forced to spend weeks without exchanging a word with any one of his kind, but there was no overestimating his value, because of his knowledge of the long, dangerous route through the mountains. When, therefore, the party were about to move on, the captain said: "Vose, from this time forward you are the guide; the place for you is at the head; you will oblige me by taking the lead." Vose accepted the post of honor, which was also the one of peril, for it is the man in his position whose life hangs in the balance when Indians are concerned. But there was no hesitancy on his part, though he was well aware of the additional risks he incurred. "There's one good thing I can tell you," he said, just before they started. They looked inquiringly at him and he explained: "The hardest part of the climbing is over,--that is for the time," he hastened to add, seeing that he was not understood; "you'll have plenty more of it before we see Sacramento, but I mean that we have struck the highest part of the trail, and it will be a good while before there's any more climbing to do." "That is good news," said Ruggles heartily, "for it has been mighty tough on the animals; I 'spose too, the trail is smoother." Adams laughed. "I am sorry to say it's rougher." Ruggles muttered impatiently, but the four took up the task, Adams in the lead, with the rest stringing after him in Indian file. The declaration of Vose was verified sooner than was expected. While the mule was so sure-footed that he seemed to meet with no difficulty, it was excessively trying to the horses, who stumbled and recovered themselves so often that Captain Dawson began to fear one or more of them would go lame. Still in his anxiety to get forward, he repressed his fears, hoping that there would be some improvement and cheering himself with the belief that since all had gone well for so long, it would continue on the same line. * * * * * Once, however, his horse made such an abrupt stumble that the captain narrowly saved himself from being unseated. On the impulse of the moment he called to Adams in advance: "Vose, I am afraid this won't do!" The leader did not look around and acted as if he had not heard him. "I say, Vose, isn't it better that we should wait till our horses can see the way?" Since the leader took no notice of this demand, the captain concluded his fears were groundless and said no more. "If he thinks it safe for us to keep on, I shall not oppose." But Captain Dawson might have opposed, had he known the truth, for, strange as it may seem, Vose Adams did not hear the words addressed to him, because he was asleep on the back of his mule Hercules, as he had been many a time while riding over the lonely trail. In truth, there was some foundation for his declaration that he could sleep more soundly on the back of his animal than while wrapped up in his blanket in some fissure among the rocks. Fortunately for him, however, these naps were of short duration, and, while indulging in them, he relied upon his animal, which had acquired a wonderful quickness in detecting danger. The slightest lagging in his gait, a halt, a turning to one side or a whinny was sufficient to bring back on the instant the wandering senses of the rider. In the present instance his slumber was not interrupted until Hercules, seeing exactly where he was, dropped his walk to a lagging gait. On the very second Vose Adams opened his eyes. So naturally that no one suspected anything, he checked his animal and looked around. "Pards, we've reached a ticklish spot, and it's for you to say whether we shall wait for daylight afore trying it." "What is its nature?" asked the captain, as he and the two behind him also reined up their animals. "The trail winds through these peaks in front, and instead of being like that we've been riding over all along, keeps close to the side of the mountain. On the right is the solid rock, and on the left it slopes down for I don't know how many hundred feet, afore it strikes bottom. Once started down that slide, you'll never stop till you hit the rocks below like that mass of stone that tumbled over in front of you." "How wide is the path?" asked the parson. "There's more than a mile where it isn't wide enough for two of us to ride abreast, and there are plenty of places where a horse has got to step mighty careful to save himself. Hercules knows how to do it, for he larned long ago, but I have my doubts about your hosses." "It might have been better after all if we had brought the mules," said the captain. "Not a bit of it, for Hercules is the only one that knows how to git over such places." "How do the others manage it?" "They've never tried it in the night time; that's what I'm talking 'bout." Adams's description enabled the others to recall the place. It was all that had been pictured and they might well pause before assuming the fearful risk. One reason for wishing to press forward was the knowledge that at the termination of the dangerous stretch, the trail was so smooth and even that for a long distance it would be easy to keep their animals at a gallop, while still further the peril appeared again. Captain Dawson once more struck a match and looked at his watch. "Half-past three; in two hours it will begin to grow light; if no accident happens we shall be at the end of the ugly piece of ground by that time, where the traveling is good. It is a pity to lose the opportunity, but I will leave it to you, parson and Ruggles; what do you say?" "Our horses have been pushed pretty hard, but they are in good condition. I hate to remain idle." "Then you favor going ahead?" "I do." "And you, Ruggles?" "I feel the same way." "That settles it; lead on, Vose." "I'm just as well suited, but keep your wits about you," was the warning of the leader, whose mule instantly responded, stretching his neck forward and downward and occasionally snuffing the ground, as if he depended on his sense of smell more than that of hearing. The task was a nerve-wrenching one, and more than once each of the three regretted their haste in not waiting for daylight; but, having started, there was no turning back. To attempt to wheel about, in order to retrace their steps, was more perilous than to push on, while to stand still was hardly less dangerous. The moonlight gave such slight help that the four depended almost wholly upon the instinct of their animals. Hercules never faltered, but advanced with the slow, plodding, undeviating certainty of those of his kind who thread their way through the treacherous passes of the Alps. Once his hind hoof struck a stone which went bounding down the precipice on his left, until at the end of what seemed several minutes, it lay still at the bottom. Neither animal nor rider showed the least fear, for in truth both were accustomed to little slips like that. "I'm blessed if this isn't the most ticklish business that I ever attempted," muttered Captain Dawson; "I never had anything like it in the army; it reminds me of scouting between the lines, when you expect every second a bullet from a sharpshooter--" At that instant his horse stepped on a round, loose stone which turned so quickly that before he could recover himself the hoof followed the stone over the edge of the precipice. The horse snorted and struggled desperately, and the brave rider felt an electric shock thrill through him from head to foot, for there was one moment when he believed nothing could save them from the most frightful of deaths. The left hind leg had gone over the rocky shelf, which at that point was very narrow, and the hoof was furiously beating vacancy in the despairing effort to find something upon which to rest itself. His body sagged downward and the rider held his breath. "Steady, my boy!" he called, and with rare presence of mind allowed the rein to lie free so as not to disconcert the steed. The tremendous struggle of the intelligent animal prevailed and with a snort he recovered his balance and all four feet stood upon firm support. "That was a close call," observed the parson, whose heart was in his mouth, while the brief fight for life was going on. "It was so close that it couldn't have been any closer," coolly commented the captain, fully himself again. CHAPTER XIX A COLLISION At this moment, the cheery voice of Adams called: "There's only about a hundred yards more of this, but we've now struck the worst part of the whole trail." "If it is any worse than what we have just passed, it won't do to try it," replied Captain Dawson, with the memory of his recent thrilling experience still vivid with him. "We can do it, but we must foller a different plan." "What is that?" "We must lead our animals. There are plenty of places where you can get off your horses with more comfort, but we can't stand here doing nothing. Get to the ground the best way you know how." It was clear that the advice of the guide would have to be followed, and all four set about the task with the cool daring shown from the first. Since each man was to lead his animal, it was necessary to dismount in front, instead of slipping over the tail, as would have been easier. The beasts showed striking sagacity in this delicate task. The trail was so narrow that to dismount to the left, on the side of the dizzying precipice, made it impossible for a man to keep his poise, while to descend on the right, directly beside the body of the animal was almost certain to crowd him over into the gorge. Each, therefore, lowered himself with infinite care over the right shoulder of his steed, so well forward, that the horse by turning his head to the left afforded just enough room for the trick to be done. Every one dismounted in safety, each drawing a breath of relief when the exquisitely delicate task was accomplished. Looking around in the gloom, Vose Adams saw that his friends stood on the ground. "Are you all ready?" he asked. "Yes," replied Brush from the rear. "Hold the bridle so gentle that you can let go if your animal slips off: if he has to go over the precipice, there's no need of your follering him." Each man took his Winchester in hand, and loosely grasping the bridle rein, began stealing forward, the captain's loss compelling him to make his single arm answer for both purposes. The advance was necessarily slow, for it was made with the utmost care. The path could not have been more dangerous than for the brief stretch between them and the broad, safe support beyond. Several times the trail so narrowed that each trembled through fear of not being able to keep his balance, while it seemed absolutely impossible for a horse to do so; but one of the strange facts connected with that intelligent animal is that, despite his greater bulk, he is generally able to follow wherever his master leads. So it was that when a miner carefully turned his head, he saw his steed following slowly but unfalteringly in his footsteps. It was soon perceived that this perilous stretch did not take a straight course, but assumed the form of an immense, partial circle. When half way around, the plodders came in sight of a huge rent in the distant mountain wall, through which the sky showed nearly from the zenith to the horizon. In this immense V-shaped space shone the moon nearly at its full, and without a rift or fleck of cloud in front of its face. A flood of light streamed through and between the encompassing peaks, tinging the men and animals with its fleecy veil, as if some of the snow from the crests had been sprinkled over them. On their left, the craggy wall sloped almost vertically downward, the projecting masses of rock displaying the same, fairy-like covering, ending in a vast, yawning pit of night and blackness, into whose awful depth the human eye could not penetrate. On the right, the mass of stone, rock and boulder, rugged, broken and tumbled together, as if flung about by giants in sport, towered beyond the vision's reach, the caverns, abysses and hollows made the blacker and more impenetrable by the moonlight glinting against the protruding masses. It was as if a party of Titans had run their chisels along the flinty face of the mountain from the rear, gouging out the stone, with less and less persistency, until they reached the spot where the men and animals were creeping forward, when the dulled tools scarcely made an impression sufficient to support the hesitating feet. Captain Dawson was but a few paces to the rear of Vose Adams's mule, whose surety of step he admired and tried to imitate. "Training seems able to accomplish anything," reflected the captain; "I remember how Lieutenant Russell and I stopped on the further edge of this infernal place when we reached it one forenoon and spent several hours trying to find a safer path. It kept us in a tremor until we were across. Had any one told me that on the next journey I should try it in the night, I would have believed him crazy, but," he grimly added, "I would have thought the same, if I had been told that a necessity like this would compel us to do so." The bridle rein was looped over his elbow, which extended behind him, the same hand grasping his rifle, so that he advanced partly sideways over the treacherous trail. He attempted to do nothing but look after his own footsteps. Sometimes, when it was a little harder to pull the rein, he slackened his pace. It would not do to hurry the animal, since a slight disturbance might cause him to loose his footing. The horse knew what was required of him and would do it better by being left wholly to himself. It was because of this concentration of his mind upon the one thing that the captain failed to perceive that the mule in his front had stopped walking, until the rim of his slouched hat touched the tail of the motionless animal. "Helloa, Vose, what's the matter?" The guide said something, but kept his face turned away, and his words, instead of being in the nature of an answer, were addressed to some one who confronted him. Adams was of slight stature, so that, although he stood erect, it was easy for the captain to look over his head and see what was beyond. That which was thus revealed was another horseman leading his animal and coming toward them. He was advancing in the same manner as the miners, that is by leading his horse, and, meeting our friends thus face to face, it was impossible for either party to pass: one or the other must give way and retreat. A startling feature of this meeting was that the individual who thus confronted them was an Indian of gigantic stature. He was more than six feet in height and of massive proportions. He belonged to what were known as the "mountain Indians," who were brave and of irrestrainable ferocity. They were the most dangerous people met by the miners in the early days on the Pacific slope. Equity demanded that this particular specimen should back his horse over the few yards to the point where the trail broadened, for the task was possible of accomplishment, while the white men were unable to force their animals in safety for one-half of the distance behind them. Moreover, it was evident that this Indian had deliberately started over the trail, with the knowledge of the four white men approaching, so that a meeting was inevitable. He courted an encounter with them and was in a murderous mood. Vose Adams knew all this and recognized the warrior as one of the dreaded Indians, with whom he was better acquainted than were his friends. He had had several scrimmages with them on his trips through the mountains, and held them in such wholesome fear that he contrived to avoid a direct conflict. The diminutive miner overflowed with pluck, but in a hand to hand encounter, must be only a child in the grasp of the aboriginal giant. The present situation, however, was peculiar. There can be no doubt that this savage sought the meeting with the party, for on no other supposition can his acts be explained. He must have reasoned that on the narrow ledge his enemies would have to meet him one by one and engage him single handed. He was like a chamois that had lived all its life in these wild solitudes and was surer-footed than any white man. What a triumph it would be (and was it unreasonable to expect it?) for him to slay the insignificant pale face immediately in his front, shove his mule over the precipice, and then serve the remaining three in same fashion! "Get out of this!" were the words which Vose Adams addressed to the Indian, directly after the question of Captain Dawson to himself, and when the enemies were within six feet of each other; "there isn't room for both of us; you knew that before you started; one of us has got to give way and I'll be hanged if I do!" Inasmuch as the red man did not understand a word of English, it is not to be supposed that he grasped the whole meaning of this command, but the situation must have made it evident that he had been ordered to back his horse and to open a way for the white men, and inasmuch as he had come upon the trail for the express purpose of bringing about this encounter, it seems hardly necessary to say that he failed to obey the order. Instead, he repeated some words in his own language, which it is not unlikely were of the same import as those addressed to him, for he resolutely maintained his place. "I tell you," added Vose, raising his voice, as if that could help make his meaning clear; "if you don't do as I say, somebody is going to get hurt!" The warrior, who was carrying a rifle, stooped and gently let it fall beside him. At the same moment he let go of the thong which served as a bridle. Thus both hands were free and he crouched down with his hideous face thrust forward and took a slow, half-step toward Adams. The coarse black hair dangling loosely about his shoulders, the broad frightful countenance, which, however, was devoid of paint, the glittering, basilisk-like eyes, the sinewy half-bent finger, with the right fingers closed like a vise around the handle of the knife at his waist, while gently drawing it forth, the catlike advance,--all these made him so terrible an enemy that the bravest man might well doubt the result of a meeting with him. And yet the closest scrutiny of Vose Adams would not have discovered any tremor in his frame, or so much as a blanching of his face. He fully comprehended the nature of the peril that impended, but with the cool readiness of a veteran, he had fixed upon his line of action, in the same moment that he read the purpose of his formidable enemy. The preliminary actions of the guide were similar to that of the warrior. The bridle rein dropped from his hand, and, slightly stooping, he let his Winchester fall to the ground beside him. Then his knife flashed out and he was ready. Since only the mule was between Captain Dawson and the combatants, he observed all this and interpreted its meaning. "Vose, what do you mean to do?" he sharply asked. "Have a little dispute with the fellow," replied Adams, without removing his gaze from the face of the savage. "You mustn't do it." "It sorter looks as if it can't be helped, captain." "I shall prevent it." "How?" "Thus!" The captain had laid down his rifle and drawn his revolver, in the use of which he was an expert. While thus engaged, he stooped down, so that the interposing body of the mule, prevented the Indian from observing what he was doing. When his weapon was ready and just as he uttered his last word, he straightened up like a flash. Adams being of short stature and in a stooping posture, gave him just the chance he needed. His single arm was extended with the quickness of lightning and he fired. The bullet bored its way through the bronzed skull of the Indian, who, with an ear-splitting screech, flung his arms aloft, leaped several feet from the ground, toppled sideways over the edge of the trail and went tumbling, rolling and doubling down the precipice far beyond sight, into the almost fathomless abyss below. "That's what I call a low down trick!" was the disgusted exclamation of Adams, looking round with a reproachful expression. "Do you refer to the Indian?" asked the captain. "No; to you; I had just got ready for him and had everything fixed when you interfered." "Vose, you are a fool," was the comment of his friend. "And why?" "That fellow was twice as big as you and you hadn't an earthly chance in a fight with him." "Do you 'spose that is the first time I ever met a mountain Injin?" "You never fought one of that size in this spot." "What difference does the spot make?" "I want you to understand," said the captain with assumed gravity, "that I didn't interfere out of any regard for you." "What the mischief are you driving at?" demanded the puzzled guide. "Under ordinary circumstances, I would have stood by and watched the flurry, only wishing that the best man might win. That means, of course, that you would have been the loser. But we need some one to guide us through the mountains; you haven't done it yet; when your work is over you may go and live on wild Indians for all I care." Vose quickly regained his good nature. He returned his knife to its resting place, picked up his rifle, grasped the bridle rein and gently pulled. "Come, Hercules; I don't know whether they appreciate us or not; steady now!" "What are you going to do with that horse in front of you?" asked the captain. "Hang it! if I didn't forget about him; back with you!" he commanded with a gesture, moving toward the animal, who showed the intelligence of his kind, by retrograding carefully until he reached the broad safe place so anxiously sought by the others. There he wheeled and trotted off, speedily disappearing from sight. "Vose, you might have traded Hercules for him." "Not much! I wouldn't give that mule for a drove of horses that have belonged to these mountain Injins." "What's the matter with them? Aren't they as good as ours?" "They're too good; you can't tell what trick they'll sarve you; I was once riding through these very mountains, on the back of a horse that I picked up--it isn't necessary to say how--when his owner gave a signal and the critter was off like a thunderbolt. If I hadn't slipped from his back at the risk of breaking my neck, he would have carried me right into a camp of hostiles and you would have been without your invaluable guide on this trip." "That is important information--if true--helloa! it is growing light off there in the east!" "Yes,--day is breaking," added Vose. The captain looked at his watch and found the time considerably past five o'clock. They had been longer on the road than any one supposed, and the coming of morning was a vast relief to all. The party were now grouped together, for the trail was broad and safe. Parson Brush asked, as he pointed almost directly ahead: "Isn't that a light off yonder?" The guide gazed in that direction and replied: "Yes, but it comes from a camp fire, which isn't more than a half mile away." The men looked in one another's faces and the captain asked in a guarded voice, as if afraid of being overheard: "Whose fire is it?" "There's no saying with any sartinty, till we get closer, but I shouldn't be 'sprised if it belong to the folks you're looking for." The same thought had come to each. There was a compression of lips, a flashing of eyes and an expression of resolution that boded ill for him who was the cause of it all. In the early morning at this elevation, the air was raw and chilling. The wind which blew fitfully brought an icy touch from the peaks of the snow-clad Sierras. The party had ridden nearly all night, with only comparatively slight pauses, so that the men would have welcomed a good long rest but for the startling discovery just made. Over the eastern cliffs the sky was rapidly assuming a rosy tinge. Day was breaking and soon the wild region would be flooded with sunshine. Already the gigantic masses of stone and rock were assuming grotesque form in the receding gloom. The dismal night was at an end. The twinkling light which had caught the eye of Felix Brush appeared to be directly ahead and near the trail which they were traveling. This fact strengthened the belief that the fire had been kindled by the fugitives. The illumination paled as the sun climbed the sky, until it was absorbed by the overwhelming radiance that was everywhere. The pursuers felt well rewarded for the energy they had displayed in the face of discouragement and danger. Valuable ground had been gained, and even now when they had supposed they were fully a dozen miles behind the fugitives, it looked as if they had really caught up to them, or at least were within hailing distance. Every eye was fixed on the point which held so intense an interest for them. As the day grew, a thin, wavy column of smoke was observed ascending from the camp fire, which was partly hidden among a growth of scrub cedars, some distance to the right of the trail, whither it must have been difficult for the couple to force their horses. "That leftenant ought to have knowed better than to do that," remarked Vose Adams, "his fire can be seen a long way off." "What else could they do?" asked the captain. "The rocks give all the cover he needs." "But they could have no idea that we were so near," suggested the parson. "It isn't that, but the leftenant had 'nough 'sperience with Injins on his way through here before to know he's liable to run agin them at any time. I never dared to do a thing like that on my trips." "Let's push on," said the captain, who saw no reason for tarrying now that they had located the game. The ground was so much more favorable that the animals were forced to a canter, though all were in need of rest. Little was said, and Captain Dawson spurred forward beside Adams, who as usual was leading. Wade Ruggles and Parson Brush also rode abreast. They were far enough to the rear to exchange a few words without being overheard. "From the way things look," said Brush; "we shall have to leave everything with the captain and he isn't likely to give us anything to do." "He's mad clean through; I don't b'leve he'll wait to say a word, but the minute he can draw bead on the leftenant, he'll let fly." "He is a fine marksman, but he may be in such a hurry that he'll miss." "No fear of that; I wonder," added Ruggles, startled by a new thought, "whether Vose has any idee of stickin' in his oar." "Likely enough." "I must git a chance to warn him that we won't stand any nonsense like that! The best that we'll do is to promise him a chance for a crack after you and me miss." "That won't be any chance at all," grimly remarked the parson. "Wal, it's all he'll have and he mustn't forgit it. There's some things I won't stand and that's one of 'em." "We can't do anything now, but we may have a chance to notify him. If the opportunity comes to me, he shall not remain ignorant." They were now nearly opposite the camp and the two noticed with surprise that Adams and the captain were riding past it. "What's that fur?" asked the puzzled Ruggles. "That's to prevent them from fleeing toward Sacramento. When they find we are on the other side, they will have to turn back." This was apparently the purpose of the men in advance, for they did not draw rein until a hundred yards beyond the camp. Suddenly the two halted, and half-facing around, waited until Brush and Ruggles joined them. The explanation of the guide showed that his plan had been rightly interpreted by Parson Brush. CHAPTER XX THE CAMP FIRE The trail, as has been stated, was broad and comparatively level. The slope of the mountain to the right was so moderate that it could be climbed by a horse almost as readily as by a man. Its face was covered with a growth of cedars, continuing half way to the summit, when it terminated, only bleak masses of rock, sprinkled with snow, whose volume increased with the elevation, being visible above and beyond. When the four pursuers came together, their faces showed that they comprehended the serious business before them. It was seen that Captain Dawson was slightly pale, but those who had been with him in battle had observed the same peculiarity. Accompanied, as it was in this instance, by a peculiar steely glitter of his eyes, it meant that he was in a dangerous mood and the man who crossed his path did so at his peril. It was evident that he and Vose Adams had reached an understanding during the few minutes that they were riding in advance. The words of Vose Adams were spoken for the benefit of Ruggles and the parson. "You'll wait here till I take a look at things." "What do you mean to do?" asked Brush. "I'm going up the slope on foot to find out how the land lays." "And when you find that out, what next?" "He is to come back and report to me," interposed the captain. There was a world of meaning in these words. It showed that the captain allowed Adams to lead only when acting as a guide. In all other matters, the retired officer assumed control. The opportunity of Vose to pick off the offending lieutenant promised to be better than that of any one else, since he would first see him, but he had been given to understand that he must immediately return and let the captain know the situation. Adams had promised this and he knew Dawson too well to dare to thwart him. Brush and Ruggles could make no objection, keen though their disappointment was. They watched Adams, as he slipped off his mule, not deeming it worth while to utter the warning both had had in mind. It was the parson who said: "I suppose we have nothing to do except to wait here till you come back?" "It looks that way, but you must ask the captain." "You won't be gone long?" "I don't think so." "Be careful, but there's no need of waiting," said the captain. The three watched the guide until he disappeared from sight among the cedars, when the captain added: "Vose told me that it was possible that camp fire had been started by Indians, but it seems to me there is little likelihood of that." "Why?" "Those people are so skilled in woodcraft that they would have been on the alert against our approach, for a brief survey of the trail for the last half hour would have revealed us to them." "It may be," suggested the parson, "that with every reason to believe there is no danger of anything of the kind, for it must be rare that a white man passes along this trail, they did not keep a lookout." The captain shook his head. "From what I know of the American race, it is unlike them." "What knowledge have we that they have not maintained such a lookout and discovered us as soon as we noticed the camp fire itself? They may have formed an ambuscade at some point further along the trail." "It is a disturbing possibility and I would be alarmed, but for my confidence in Vose. He has been through this region so often and knows these wild people so thoroughly that he could not commit a blunder like that. It seems to me," added the captain a few minutes, later, "that he is absent a long time." "It's tough," remarked Ruggles, "that things are fixed so we won't have a chance to take any hand in this bus'ness." The captain looked inquiringly at him and he explained: "You and Vose have set it up atween you." "I have told you that if your help is needed, it will be welcome; I can add nothing to that." "The captain is right," interposed the parson, "but at the same time, he can see what a disappointment it is for us." "I admit that, but we are not out of the woods yet." Before he could make clear the meaning of this remark, Vose Adams emerged from the cedars, and the three breathlessly awaited his coming. He broke into a trot and quickly descended the slope to where they stood. The expression of his face showed before he spoke that he brought unwelcome news. "Confound it!" he exclaimed with a shake of his head, "they're not there!" "Then they have gone on up the trail," said the captain inquiringly. "No; they haven't been there; it isn't their camp." "Whose is it?" "Injins; there are five of 'em; they've just had their breakfast and are gettin' ready to make a start." "Didn't they see you?" "That isn't the way I do bus'ness," replied Vose rather loftily; "it's more'n likely, howsumever, they seen us all awhile ago when we was further down the trail. They're traveling eastward." "How can you know that?" asked the parson. "The Injin that took his dive off the trail 'bout the time the captain fired off his revolver, was going that way. He b'longed to the party and was sorter leading 'em; he was a chief or something of the kind." "Where are their ponies?" "They haven't any,--leastways he was the only one that had, which is why I said he was some kind of a chief. We shall hear from 'em agin." "Why?" "I mean after they find out about that little row." "Why need they find out about it?" "They can't help it; they'll miss their chief; they'll run across that horse of his and that'll give 'em the clue." This unexpected discovery put a new face on matters. Five mountain Indians, the bravest and most implacable of their race, were almost within stone's throw of the party. But for the occurrence of a brief while before, they probably would have permitted the white men to continue their journey unmolested, since the strength of the two bands, all things considered, was about equal, but when the hostiles learned of the death of their leader, they would bend every effort toward securing revenge. They would dog the miners, watchful, alert and tireless in their attempts to cut them off from the possibility of ever repeating the deed. "But that chief, as you seem to think he was," said Captain Dawson, "is gone as utterly as if the ground had opened and swallowed him. They will never have the chance to officiate at his funeral, so how are they to learn of the manner of his taking off?" "It won't take 'em long," replied Adams; "his pony will hunt them out, now that he is left to himself; that'll tell 'em that something is up and they'll start an investigatin' committee. The footprints of our horses, the marks on the rocks, which you and me wouldn't notice, the fact that we met the chief on that narrer ledge and that he's turned up missing will soon lay bare the whole story, and as I remarked aforesaid, we shall hear from 'em agin." "It looks like a case of the hunter hunting the tiger," said the parson, "and then awaking to the fact that the tiger is engaged in hunting him; it is plain to see that there's going to be a complication of matters, but I don't feel that it need make any difference to us." "It won't!" replied the captain decisively; "we haven't put our hands to the plough with any intention of looking back. What's the next thing to do, Vose?" "We've got to look after our animals." "But there's no grass here for them." "A little further and we'll strike a stream of water where we'll find some grass, though not much, but it's better than nothing." Vaulting into the saddle, the guide after some pounding of his heels against the iron ribs of Hercules, forced him into a gallop, which the others imitated. The trail continued comparatively smooth, and, being slightly descending, the animals were not crowded as hard as it would seem. A mile of this brought them to the water, where they were turned loose. The stream gushed from the mountain side, and, flowing across the trail, was lost among the rocks to the left. The moisture thus diffused produced a moderate growth of tough, coarse grass, which the animals began plucking as soon as the bits were removed from their mouths. They secured little nutriment, but as the guide remarked, it was an improvement upon nothing. The men bathed their faces in the cold, clear water, took a refreshing draught, and then ate the lunch provided for them by the thoughtful Adams. Though they ate heartily, sufficient was kept to answer for another meal or two, if it should be thought wise to put themselves on an allowance. They had just lighted their pipes, when Wade Ruggles uttered an exclamation. Without explaining the cause, he bounded to his feet and ran several rods to the westward, where he was seen to stoop and pick something from the ground. He examined it closely and then, as he turned about and came back more slowly it was perceived that he held a white handkerchief in his hand. His action caused the others to rise to his feet. "What have you there?" asked Captain Dawson, suspecting its identity. "I guess you have seen it before," replied Wade, handing the piece of fine, bordered linen to him. He turned it over with strange emotions, for he was quick to recognize it. "Yes," he said, compressing his lips; "it is hers; she dropped it there--how long ago, Vose?" The latter examined the handkerchief, as if looking for the answer to the question in its folds, but shook his head. "Even a mountain Injin could not tell that." The parson asked the privilege of examining the article. His heart was beating fast, though no one else was aware of it, for it was a present which he had made to Nellie Dawson on the preceding Christmas, having been brought by Vose Adams, with other articles, on his trip made several months before the presentation. There was the girl's name, written by himself in indelible ink, and in his neat, round hand. It was a bitter reflection that it had been in her possession, when she was in the company of the one whom she esteemed above all others. "It may have been," reflected the parson, carefully keeping his thoughts to himself, "that, when she remembered from whom it came, she flung it aside to please him. Captain," he added, "since this was once mine, I presume you have no objection to my keeping it." "You are welcome to it; I don't care for it," replied the parent. "Thank you," and the parson carefully put it away to keep company with the letter of Nellie Dawson which broke her father's heart; "I observe that it is quite dry, which makes me believe it has not been exposed to the dew, and therefore could not have lain long on the ground." "You can't tell anything by that," commented Vose; "the air is so dry up here, even with the snow and water around us, that there's no dew to amount to anything." All seemed to prefer not to discuss the little incident that had produced so sombre an effect upon the party. Wade Ruggles was disposed to claim the handkerchief, inasmuch as it was he who found it, but he respected the feelings of the parson too much to make any protest. The occurrence was of no special interest to the guide. He had said they were in danger from the Indians and he gave his thoughts to them. While the others kept their seats on the ground, he stood erect, and, shading his eyes with one hand, peered long and attentively over the trail behind them. The clump of cedars from amid which the thin column of vapor was slowly climbing into the sky and the narrow ledge which had been the scene of their stirring adventure were in view, though its winding course shut a portion from sight. "I expected it!" suddenly exclaimed Vose. The others followed the direction of his gaze and saw what had caused his words. The five Indians, whom Vose had discovered in camp, were picking their way along the ledge, with their faces turned from the white men, who were watching them. Despite the chilly air, caused by the elevation, not one of the warriors wore a blanket. Two had bows and arrows, three rifles, carried in a trailing fashion, and all were lithe, sinewy fellows, able to give a good account of themselves in any sort of fight. A curious fact noted by all of our friends was that while these warriors were thus moving away, not one of them looked behind him. Their long black hair hung loosely about their shoulders, and in the clear air it was observable that three wore stained feathers in the luxuriant growth on their crowns. "Is it possible that they have no suspicion of us?" asked the parson; "their action in not looking around would imply that." "Don't fool yourself," was the reply of Adams; "they knowed of us afore we knowed anything of them." "Why did they allow us to pass their camp undisturbed?" "Things weren't in the right shape for 'em. There are only three guns among 'em, though them kind of Injins are as good with the bow as the rifle, and they made up their minds that if we let them alone, they wouldn't bother us." "You said awhile ago that we should have trouble from them." "And so we shall; when they reasoned like I was sayin', they didn't know anything about the little accident that happened to their chief; it's that which will make things lively." "We can't see the point where that accident took place," said Captain Dawson. "No; the trail curves too much, but we can foller it most of the way; they're likely to go right on without 'specting anything, but when they find the horse, it'll set 'em to looking round. After that, the band will begin to play." While the party were watching the five Indians, the leader was seen to pass from view around the curve in the trail, followed by the next, until finally the fifth disappeared. All this time, not one of the warriors looked behind him. It was a singular line of action, and because of its singularity roused the suspicion of the spectators. While three of the miners resumed their seats on the boulders and ground, Vose Adams kept his feet. Doubling each palm, so as to make a funnel of it, he held one to either eye and continued scrutinizing the point where he had last seen the hostiles. He suspected it was not the last of them. Instead of imitating him, his friends studied his wrinkled countenance. The air in that elevated region was wonderfully clear, but it is hardly possible to believe the declaration which the guide made some minutes later. He insisted that, despite the great distance, one of the Indians, after passing from view, returned over his own trail and peeped around the bend in the rocks, and that the guide saw his black hair and gleaming snake-like eyes. The fact that Vose waited until the savage had withdrawn from sight, before making the astonishing declaration, threw some discredit on it, for it would have required a good telescope to do what he claimed to have done with the unassisted eye alone. "You see I was looking for something of the kind," he explained, "or mebbe I wouldn't have obsarved him." "Could you tell the color of his eyes?" asked the doubting Ruggles. "They were as black as coal." "It is safe to say that," remarked the parson, "inasmuch as I never met an Indian who had eyes of any other color." "There are such," said Vose, "and I've seen 'em, though I'll own they're mighty scarce and I never knowed of any in this part of the world. Howsumever, I won't purtend that I could see the color of a man's eyes that fur, but I did see his hair, forehead and a part of his ugly face. He knowed we was behind him all the time, and this one wanted to find out what we was doing. When he larned that, they kept on along the ledge, but there's no saying how fur they'll go afore they find something's gone wrong." Captain Dawson showed less interest in this by-play than the others. He was not concerned with what was behind them, so much as with what was in front. The belief was so strong with him that their persistent travel through the night had brought them close to the fugitives that he begrudged the time necessary for the animals to rest and eat. Parson Brush felt that Adams was acting wisely in giving attention to the rear. It would be the height of folly to disregard these formidable warriors when they meant trouble. Brush rose to his feet and using his palms as did the guide, scanned the country behind them. He saw nothing of any warrior peering around the rocks, but he did see something, which escaped even the keen vision of Vose Adams himself. Beyond the ledge and a little to the left, he observed a riderless horse, with head high in air, and gazing at something which the two white men could not see. The parson directed the attention of Vose to the animal. "By gracious! it's the chief's horse," he exclaimed; "do you see that?" The other two were now looking and all plainly saw a warrior advance into view, approaching the animal, which, instead of being frightened, seemed to recognize his friends, and remained motionless until the Indian came up and grasped the thong about his neck. Then the two passed from sight. The identical thing prophesied by Vose Adams had occurred under the eyes of the four pursuers. The steed of the dead chieftain had been recovered, and it would not take the hostiles long to penetrate the mystery of the matter. Vose was wise in taking the course he did, and his companions were now inclined to believe his astonishing assertion that he saw one of the number when he peeped around the curving ledge and watched their actions. However, it would have been absurd to wait where they were in order to learn every move of their enemies, for that would have been a voluntary abandonment of the advantage secured at the cost of so much labor and danger. Captain Dawson insisted that the pursuit should be pressed without any thought of the red men, and Vose consented. "But there's one thing we mustn't forget, captain," he said, "and that is that it is daytime and not night." "I do not catch your meaning," replied the captain, pausing on the point of moving off to secure his horse. "It is this: them people in front will keep as sharp an eye to the rear as to the front; more'n likely it will be sharper, and it will be a bad thing if they discover us when we're two or three miles off." "How shall we prevent it?" "We can do it, if we're careful. You'll remember that when you went over this route last, you come upon places where you could see for a mile or more, 'cause the trail was straight and broad, while there are others where you can't see more'n a hundred yards. Them that I've named last is where we must overhaul 'em." "That sounds well, Vose," said the captain, "but I am unable to see how you are going to manage so as to bring that about." "While you're getting the animals ready, I'll take a look ahead." This was not in the nature of an explanation, but the three willingly did their part. Vose disappeared almost instantly, and, though they took but a few minutes to prepare their animals for the resumption of travel, he was back among them, the expression of his face showing that he brought news of importance. "They ain't fur off," he said. "How far?" asked the captain. "I can't say anything more than that we're purty close to 'em. Let's push on!" CHAPTER XXI STRANGERS The signs of an approaching storm that had been noted with some apprehension the night before, passed away. The sky revealed hardly a cloud rift, and, when the sun had climbed the mountain crests, the scene was grand beyond description. But for the grim errand of the four men, holding relentlessly to the pursuit, they must have yielded to its impressive influence. The trail remained so favorable for a couple of miles further, that it was passed at the same easy, swinging gallop. Vose Adams retained his place a few paces in advance of the others, who saw him glance sharply to the right and left, often to the ground and occasionally to the rear, as if to assure himself that none of his friends was going astray. The moderate but continuous descent of the path took them so far downward that the change of temperature again became noticeable. The ground was rough and uneven and the animals dropped to a walk. Sometimes the course led around boulders, through sparse growths of cedar, beside brawling torrents, two of which they were compelled to ford, where it was hard for their animals to keep their feet. "Last fall," remarked the guide, at the most difficult of these passages, "I had to wait two days before I dared try to cross with Hercules and one of the other mules." His companions nodded their heads but made no other answer. They were not in the mood for talking. They were now making their way through a cañon similar to Dead Man's Gulch, with rents and yawning ravines opening on the right and left, before which the party might have halted in perplexity, had it been in the night time. But the path showed plainly and the familiarity of the guide prevented any mistake on his part. Adams had intimated that by a certain line of procedure the watchful fugitives could be prevented from discovering the approach of the pursuers until too late to escape them. In counting upon his ability to do this, he overestimated his skill, for the task was clearly impossible, and it was because of his efforts in that direction that he made a serious blunder. He had crossed for the third time a stream which was shallow, and, upon reaching the opposite bank, where the ground was moist and soft, he reined up with an exclamation of impatience. "What's the matter?" asked Captain Dawson, in the same mood. "We've passed 'em," was the reply; "they're somewhere behind us." "How far?" "That remains to be found out, but I don't think it's a great distance." The captain angrily wheeled his horse and re-entered the stream. "If they don't get away, it won't be our fault," was his ungracious comment; "we have done little else than throw away our chances from the first." The guide made no response, and the next minute the four were retracing their course, their animals at a walk, and all scanning the rocks on either hand as they passed them. It was clear by this time that the fugitives held one important advantage over their pursuers. The route that they were following was so devious and so varied in its nature, that only at rare intervals could it be traced with the eye for a quarter or half a mile. Certain of pursuit, Lieutenant Russell and his companion would be constantly on the lookout for it. They were more likely, therefore, to discover the horsemen than the latter were to observe them. Even if their flight was interrupted, there were innumerable places in this immense solitude where they could conceal themselves for an indefinite period. The question the pursuers asked themselves was whether the others had strayed unwittingly from the trail, or whether they had turned off to elude their pursuers, whose desperate mood they could not but know. The latter supposition seemed the more likely, since the path was marked so plainly that it could be lost only by unaccountable carelessness. At the first break in the side of the vast mountain walls Vose Adams again slipped from his mule and spent several minutes in studying the ground. "They haven't gone in here," was his comment, as he remounted. "Make certain that we are not too far back," said the captain. "I have made no mistake," was the curt reply of the guide. The party had gone less than twenty rods further, when another rent opened on the other side of the cañon, which was about an eighth of a mile wide. It would not do now to slight anything, and Adams headed his mule diagonally across the gorge, the animal walking slowly, while the rider leaned over with his eyes on the ground. Suddenly he exclaimed: "We've hit it this time! Here's where they went in!" All four leaped from the back of their animals. Adams pointed out the faint indentations made by the hoofs of two horses. Less accustomed than he to study such evidence, they failed to note that which was plain to him; the hoof prints of one of the animals were smaller than those of the other, since they were made by Cap, the pony belonging to Nellie Dawson. There could no longer be any doubt that the pursuers were warm on the trail of the fugitives. Such being the fact, the interest of the men naturally centered on the avenue through which the others had made their way. It was one of those fissures, sometimes seen among enormous piles of rock, that suggest that some terrific convulsion of nature, ages before, has split the mountain in twain from top to bottom. The latter was on a level with the main cañon itself, the chasm at the beginning being ten or twelve yards in width, but, occurring in a depression of the mountain spur, its height was no more than five or six hundred feet, whereas in other localities it would have been nearly ten times as great. The base was strewn with fragments of sandstone, some of the pieces as large as boulders, which had probably been brought down by the torrents that swept through the ravine in spring or when a cloudburst descended upon the upper portion. Standing at the entrance, it was observed that the gorge trended sharply to the left, so that the view was shut off at a distance of fifty yards. It was noticeable, too, that the path taken by the fugitives sloped upward at so abrupt an angle that it must have sorely tried the horses. "I thought so," was the comment of Vose Adams, when he returned from a brief exploration of the ravine; "they got off and led their animals." "Have you any idea of the distance they went?" asked Captain Dawson, who was in a more gracious mood, now that he appreciated the value of the services of their guide. "No; I've rid in front of that opening a good many times, but this is the first time I ever went into it." "Well, what is to be done?" asked Parson Brush. "Why, foller 'em of course," Wade Ruggles took upon himself to reply. "That won't do," replied Adams, "for it is likely to upset everything; I'll leave Hercules with you and sneak up the gorge far enough to find how the land lays. I'll come back as soon as I can, but don't get impatient if I'm gone several hours." Brush and Ruggles showed their displeasure, for, while admitting the skill of the guide, they could not see adequate cause for the impending delay. They had made so many slips that it seemed like inviting another. It was clear that they were close upon the fugitives, and the two believed the true policy was to press the pursuit without relaxing their vigor. But Captain Dawson, the one who naturally would have been dissatisfied, was silent, thereby making it apparent that Adams was carrying out a plan previously agreed upon by the two. Vose paid no heed to Ruggles and the parson, but started up the ravine, quickly disappearing from view. Believing a long wait inevitable, the three prepared to pass the dismal interval as best they could. Here and there scant patches of grass showed in the cañon, and the animals were allowed to crop what they could of the natural food. The men lounged upon the boulders at hand, smoked their pipes and occasionally exchanged a few words, but none was in the mood for talking and they formed a grim, stolid group. Hardly ten minutes had passed, when Ruggles, with some evidence of excitement, exclaimed in a guarded undertone: "Helloa! Something's up!" He referred to the horses, who are often the most reliable sentinels in the presence of insidious danger. Two of them had stopped plucking the grass, and, with their ears pricked, were staring up the cañon at some object that had attracted their attention and that was invisible to their owners in their present situation. Convinced that something unusual had taken place, Ruggles walked out into the cañon where he could gain a more extended view. One sweeping glance was enough, when he hurried back to his companions. "Thunderation! all Sacramento's broke loose and is coming this way!" The three passed out from the side of the gorge to where they had a view of the strange procession. There seemed to be about a dozen men, mounted on mules, with as many more pack animals, coming from the west in a straggling procession, talking loudly and apparently in exuberant spirits. "I don't like their looks," said Brush; "it is best to get our property out of their way." The counsel was good and was followed without a minute's delay. The four animals were rounded up and turned into the ravine, up which Vose Adams had disappeared. They gave no trouble, but, probably because of the steepness of the slope, none of the four went beyond sight. Had the three men been given warning, they would have placed them out of reach, for none knew better than they how attractive horses are to men beyond the power of the law. But it was too late now, and the little party put on a bold front. As the strangers drew near, they were seen to be nine in number and they formed a motley company. Their pack mules were so cumbrously loaded as to suggest country wagons piled with hay. The wonder was how the tough little animals could carry such enormous burdens, consisting of blankets, picks, shovels, guns, cooking utensils, including even some articles of furniture. Our older readers will recall that for years after the close of the war, tens of thousands of the blue army overcoats were in use throughout the country. It looked as if every man in the present company was thus provided, including in many instances trousers of the same material, though each person had discarded the army cap for a soft slouch hat, similar to those worn by the miners. All the garments were in a dilapidated condition, proving their rough usage as well as their poor quality. Many of the heavy boots disclosed naked toes, while the mules had not known a curry comb for weeks and perhaps months. The faces of the men were anything but attractive. Most of them were heavily bearded, with long, frowsy, unkempt hair, dangling about the shoulders. Every one displayed side arms, and there could be no mistake in setting them down as a reckless lot, whom a peaceable citizen would not care to meet anywhere. The leader of this mongrel gang was a massive man, who bestrode so small a mule that his feet were only a few inches from the ground. There was little semblance of discipline in the company, but a certain rude deference to the fellow, who kept his place at the head, and did the loudest talking, ornamented with plenty of expletives, indicated his prominence among his fellows. The mountain tramps had descried the three men standing at the side of the cañon, watching them as they approached. They ceased their boisterous talking and studied them as they drew near. "Howdy, pards?" called the leader, raising his two fingers to his forehead and making a military salute, to which our friends responded coolly, hoping the company would keep on without stopping. But they were disappointed. Colonel Briggs, as his men called him, suddenly shouted "Whoa!" in a voice that could have been heard a mile off, and pulled so hard on his bridle rein that he drew the jaws of the mule against his breast, while the rider lay back almost on the haunches of his animal, who showed his contrariness by walking round in a short circle before standing still. "Which way, pards?" asked the leader, while his followers, who with more or less effort succeeded in checking their mules, curiously surveyed the three miners. "We intend to visit Sacramento," replied Captain Dawson. "Huh! that's where we come from." "On your way to the diggings I presume?" continued the captain courteously. "That's what's the matter; we're going to New Constantinople, which is the name of a mining settlement in Dead Man's Gulch. Do you know anything of the place?" "We live there." "The deuce! Queer town, ain't it?" "In what respect?" "Don't like visitors; Red Tom and Missouri Mike, two of the gang with me, stopped there a year or so ago with the idee of staying; the best they could do was to sleep there one night and git fired the next morning. That went agin the grain," continued Colonel Briggs, "and the more the boys thought it over the madder they got. When they told the rest of us, we made up our minds that the trouble was the diggings had panned out so rich in them parts that the folks meant to keep 'em to themselves. I don't call that square, so we're going down to divvy with 'em. Big scheme, ain't it?" Our three friends were astounded. The addition of this gang to New Constantinople meant nothing less than its moral ruin. It would bring a peril from the first hour and doubtless precipitate a murderous conflict with a doubtful issue. "They are a peculiar people," said Captain Dawson, repressing all evidence of his anger; "it's a mistake to attribute their prejudice against immigrants to the richness of the diggings, for though they have been worked for years, they have not produced much. But they want no strangers among them, and I know they will not allow you and your friends to make your homes in their settlement." Colonel Briggs threw back his head, opened his enormous mouth and broke into uproarious laughter, most of his companions joining him to the extent of a broad grin. "Do you hear that, boys? Won't let us settle among 'em, eh? And there are nine of us and we hain't had a scrimmage since we left Sacramento, except with the Injins, which don't count. Stranger, we're yearning to hear your folks say we shan't jine 'em, 'cause if they try to stop it, it'll make things lively." It was not a pleasant recollection of our friends that, since their departure from New Constantinople, the force left behind would be hardly a match for this desperate gang of marauders, who no doubt were as eager for trouble as they professed to be. "Why not make a settlement of your own?" was the conciliating question of Parson Brush; "there's plenty of room in this country." "That would be too peaceable like; it don't suit us; we're looking for trouble." "And you'll find it powerful quick," said Wade Ruggles, "if you try to shove that gang of yours into New Constantinople." "That's music in our ears; that's what we're hungry for; we're ready to start an opposition hotel to the Heavenly Bower, too; we've got the stock to furnish it." "Wade," said the parson, "keep your temper; we can't afford to quarrel with these men." "It wouldn't take much for me to shoot that chap off his mule as he sets there." "Leave matters to the captain; it looks as if we shall have a fight, but it is best to keep cool." The observant trio had noticed an additional cause for uneasiness. More than one of the party were surveying the three horses and mule with admiring eyes. Some of them spoke to one another in low tones, and there could be no doubt they looked with envy upon the animals, which, tiring of their confinement in the ravine, had come forth as if with the purpose of passing under review, on their way to crop the grass from which they had been driven. "Colonel," called one of the men behind him, "them is likely animals." "I had obsarved that fact myself; strangers, I've made up my mind to buy them critters; what's your price?" "They are not for sale," replied Captain Dawson. "Why not?" "We need them for our own use." "Then we'll trade." "You won't do anything of the kind," said the captain, speaking with the utmost coolness, but with that paling of the countenance and glitter of the eyes that Colonel Briggs would have done well to heed. "Strikes me, stranger, you're rather peart in your observations," said the leader with an odd chuckle; "we ain't used to having people speak to us in that style." "It is my custom to say what I mean; it saves misunderstanding." "It's my opinion, stranger, you'd better say trade." "It is of no importance to me what your opinion is; we need the horses and the mule for our own use and we shall keep them." "But you've got one more than you want." "He belongs to a friend who is not far off and will soon return; we can't spare one of them." "If we give you four of ours for the lot, that'll make an even thing of it. Besides, we'll throw in something to boot." "I wouldn't give one of the horse's shoes for all the trash you have piled on top of your animals; the stuff isn't worth house room, but it is what I should expect to see in the hands of a lot of tramps like you and yours; I wouldn't trade our mule for the whole party which, to judge by their looks, ought to be in jail." Brush and Ruggles were amazed to hear the captain use such language, for it sounded as if he was trying to provoke instead of avoid a fight. The truth was the veteran was thoroughly enraged by the evident purpose of the fellow before him. Although his voice was low and deliberate, the captain's temper was at a white heat. The point had been reached where a desperate struggle seemed unavoidable, and he wished to precipitate the crisis, inasmuch as it had to come. Colonel Briggs did not laugh, but turning his head, talked for a minute with the man nearest him, their words so low that no one else heard them. Then the leader turned back in a quick, decisive way. "There don't seem much use in talking, stranger, so 'spose we make a fight of it." "As you prefer." The gang hardly expected so firm a front. Some of them muttered to one another. They were not a unit on the question, though it was evident that the majority preferred to fight. The three men stood with their backs almost against the mountain wall. Each had a Winchester and revolver and all were expert in the use of the weapons. The others were gathered in an irregular group around their leader. They, too, were provided with all the weapons they could use, not to mention the extra guns strapped upon the pack mules. They outnumbered our friends three to one. Captain Dawson could use his rifle as well with his single arm as formerly with two. "He can't fire before me," he said in an undertone to Brush, standing next to him; "when the shooting begins, I'll drop him off his mule before he knows what's coming. When I say the word, let fly as quick as lightning! Likely enough they'll win, but we'll make them pay high for their victory." "Do you notice that tall thin man at the rear?" asked Brush, in the same guarded voice; "his eyes shine like a rattlesnake's; he'll be _my_ first target." CHAPTER XXII FRIENDS Colonel Briggs was nonplussed for the moment. He had failed to scare the men whom he meant to despoil of their property and some of the mutterings behind him showed that he lacked the unanimous support of his followers. "Boys," he said, looking round in their faces; "you've heerd what these strangers say to my mild requests. Since they are too mean to trade, I leave it to you to say whether we shall let up on 'em or make 'em trade; which is it?" "Trade! trade!" was the response, given with such ardency that there seemed to be no dissent, though there was. "That hits me right; trade it shall be; the first one of the strangers that kicks, fill him full of holes." "And the first man that lays a finger on my property," said Captain Dawson, in the same deliberate voice, "will be shot down like a dog!" The person whom Parson Brush had selected a few minutes before for his first target and whom he was watching closely, now did an extraordinary thing. This individual was thin to emaciation. His beard was scant and scraggly, and his large black eyes gleamed like those of a wild animal. He had a very long body, and sat so upright in his saddle, with his Winchester resting across in front, that he towered head and shoulders above his companions. From the first, he fixed his penetrating eyes on Captain Dawson and studied him closely. It was this persistent intensity of gaze that attracted the notice of Brush, who set him down as being even more malignant than the leader of the disreputable party. When a collision was impending, and must have come the next second, the singular looking man, grasping his revolver, raised his hand above his head and called: "Hold on a minute!" His commanding voice and manner hushed every one. From his place at the rear, he spurred his mule straight toward the three men standing on the ground. "Keep off!" commanded the parson; "if you come any nearer I'll shoot!" The extraordinary looking individual gave him no heed, but forced his mule in front of Captain Dawson, upon whom he kept his eyes riveted. "Don't fire till I give the word," commanded the captain, who had become suddenly interested in the tall, slim man. Halting his mule directly before Dawson, and with no more than a couple of yards separating them, the stranger craned his head forward until his chin was almost between the long ears of his animal. He seemed to be trying to look the officer through, while every other man watched the curious proceeding. Suddenly the fellow resumed his upright posture in the saddle, his manner showing that he had solved the problem that perplexed him. Through his thin, scattered beard, he was seen to be smiling. "What's your name?" he asked. "Maurice Dawson." "Formerly captain of the Iowa ---- cavalry?" "The same at your service." "Don't you know me, captain?" The officer thus appealed to took a single step forward, and looked searchingly in the face of the man that had thus addressed him. "There is something familiar in your looks and voice, but I am unable to place you." "Did you ever hear of Corporal Bob Parker of the ---- Missouri?" "Yes; you are he! I recognize you now! I am glad to greet you." And shoving his Winchester under the stump of his arm, Captain Dawson extended his hand to his old comrade and shook it warmly, the two seeming to forget the presence of every one else. "Something in your face struck me," said the corporal, "but I wasn't sure. The last time I saw you, you had both arms." "Yes; I got rid of this one at the very close of the war." "Things were pretty well mixed up around Petersburg; I tried to get on your track, but failed; I knew you meant to come to California, and when we drifted here, I was hopeful of finding you, but I didn't think it would be in this style." While speaking the corporal had retained the hand of the captain, shaking it occasionally as he spoke. He now gave it a final pressure and dropped it. "Captain, you and I went through some pretty tough scrimmages and you were always dead true and game; when we lost our colonel and major, you took command and led the charge that day at Cold Harbor; Grant or Sheridan couldn't have done better." "It _was_ rather warm," smiled the captain, blushing at the compliment; "but, corporal, it looks as if we are going to have something of the kind here." Corporal Parker deliberately turned to the wondering group behind him. "Jim and Tom, you know what we agreed on, if this should prove to be my old commander. You two wore the gray, but you are true blue now." At this reminder, two of the company without a word rode forward and placed themselves beside the corporal. "Now, we'll face the other way." His suggestion was followed. The three wheeled their animals around, so that their riders, like the footmen, were in a line confronting Colonel Briggs and his astonished company. "Dress," said the corporal, looking down and moving his mule about until the alignment would have drawn a compliment from a West Point cadet. "Now, boys, are your shooting irons ready?" "They gin'rally air," was the significant response of one of the men. "All right, colonel," added the corporal making a military salute; "everything being in readiness please let the skirmish proceed." Colonel Briggs emitted a forceful exclamation. "What's the meaning of all this? I don't understand it." "There are six on each side; that evens matters; shall you start the music or do you prefer to have the captain fire the opening gun?" "But you haven't told me what this means." "It means that Captain Dawson and Corporal Bob Parker have drunk from the same canteen." It must be conceded that Colonel Briggs had one merit; no one was quicker than he to grasp a situation. So long as there were nine men on one side and three on the other, the success of the former was promising. He meant to crowd the defiant miners to the wall and would have done so but for the unprecedented turn of affairs. Now it was six to six and he knew the mettle of the three recruits that had joined the miners. Bob Parker was the most terrific fighter in the whole company. He was one of those men, occasionally seen, who was absolutely without fear. He would have stood up alone and fought the other eight. During that single week in Sacramento, he gained the name of a terror and caused a sigh of relief on the part of the authorities when he left for the mountains. The corporal always fired to kill, and his skill with rifle and pistol was marvelous. While talking with Colonel Briggs, he fixed his brilliant black eyes on him, as if to intimate that he had selected _him_ for his pet antagonist. All this was disconcerting. In this crisis, when every nerve was drawn tense and the question of life and death hung on the passing of a breath, Colonel Briggs leaned backward and elevating his chin in the way that had become familiar, emitted one of his resounding laughs. Then he abruptly snapped his jaws together like the springing of a trap. "Why, Bob, this puts a different face on things," he said cheerily; "if the man's a friend of yours, of course we can't quarrel with him." "I rather think not," replied the corporal. "I was in the army myself," added the colonel, "but didn't stay long; me and General Grant couldn't agree as to how the war should be run, and one night when no one was around, I resigned and left." "Then you didn't win your title in the service," remarked Captain Dawson, who felt that he could afford to show good will, now that the situation had taken so remarkable a turn. "Scarcely; the boys think that no officer lower than a colonel is fit to command this crowd, so that's how I got the handle." Captain Dawson could not forbear saying: "I think it much more befitting that a true and tried soldier, like Corporal Parker, should be in your place." "It was offered to me," said the corporal, "but I refused it." "No; we agreed to make him a full-fledged major-general, but he declined the honor with some sarcastic remarks," said the colonel; "howsumever, boys, now that things have been straightened out, do you intend to go with the captain or with us?" Corporal Parker addressed his two comrades. "Wheel and salute!" They faced their animals around, and, taking the cue from the corporal, made an elaborate military salutation to Captain Dawson and his companions. Then they wheeled again and rode back to their former places. "With my best regards," added the colonel, also saluting, while the rest half-nodded and grinned over the odd turn of affairs. Dawson, Brush and Ruggles unbent sufficiently to respond, but kept their places, side by side, and watched the curious procession until it passed out of sight beyond a sweeping curve in the cañon. "I wonder if we are likely to see any more of them," said the parson; "they are an ugly lot and badly want our horses." "Not badly enough to fight Corporal Parker and his two friends. The corporal is the bravest man I ever saw. I know he was disappointed when the colonel was so quick in backing down. He will go hungry for two or three days, for the sake of a fight. It is he and not the colonel or any one in the company that is spoiling for a row." "And I picked him out as the first one to shoot," grimly remarked Brush. "The chances are ten to one that he would have dropped you first, but it shows how easily one may be mistaken." "I tell you," said Ruggles earnestly, "when that gang strikes New Constantinople, there'll be trouble." "There's no doubt of it," commented Brush; "the forces will be about equal; if the boys at home could have warning of what is coming, they would make it so hot for Colonel Briggs and his tramps that they would be glad to camp somewhere else." "That wouldn't improve matters, for of necessity there would be passing back and forth, and there are some people at New Constantinople who would welcome the change. That's the worst of it; a good deal of this evil seed will fall on soil waiting for it." "We may be back in time to take a hand in the business," said the parson; "I don't know whether your friend, the corporal, can be secured as an ally." "It is doubtful, for about the only merits he has are his bravery and his loyalty to his friends." "In my 'pinion the same is considerable," commented Ruggles. "He would be a powerful friend to Nellie, because she is a female and because she is my daughter, but," added the father with a sigh, "I have my doubts whether I shall ever take her to the settlement again." This announcement strangely affected the two who heard it, for the dearest schemes which they secretly nourished included the spending of their days in the mining settlement. The hope of each had flickered into life once more with the prospect of recovering and punishing her abductor. They knew that she would bitterly mourn his loss, and would probably be inconsolable for a time, but the months and years would bring forgetfulness and then--who should say what _might_ come to pass? "We thought," remarked Ruggles, as they resumed their seats, "that we should have a weary wait for Vose, but it didn't prove so dull after all." The captain looked at his watch. "He has been gone more than an hour, and there's no saying when he will be back. He has his own way of managing this business, and, though I concede his skill and superior knowledge in this part of the world, it is hard to keep my patience when I see the hours slipping away without bringing any results." But the patience of the three men was tried more sorely than ever before, and to a greater extent than any one of them anticipated. Noon came and passed and without bringing Vose Adams. The party partook sparingly of their lunch, leaving enough for their absent friend, but the lagging hours wore away and they still waited. They said little to one another, but the captain, unable to restrain his restlessness, wandered down the cañon. The two left behind watched him until he passed from view in the direction taken by Colonel Briggs and his company. A few minutes later, the report of his rifle came back to them. "I wonder if _he's_ got into trouble," exclaimed the parson, rising to his feet and peering to their left, without seeing everything to explain the sound that had reached them. "I shouldn't wonder," replied Ruggles; "everything is going wrong; Vose wouldn't stay away so long, unless he, too, was in difficulty." "The captain may need us; he can't be far off." Gun in hand, the couple walked hurriedly down the cañon, on the alert for Indians, for it seemed more likely that if any danger threatened, it was from them. To their relief, however, they soon found their alarm groundless. The captain was seen coming, apparently as well as ever. "Nothing is wrong," he explained when they were within speaking distance; "I saw an antelope among the rocks and took a shot at him." "How near did you come to hitting him?" "He made only a single jump after he received my bullet; it's a pity he didn't make a couple of them." "Why?" "It would have brought him over the outer rock and into the ravine; then we should have had something for supper. Haven't you seen Adams yet?" Instead of answering directly the three looked toward the fissure in the side of the cañon, and there, to their unspeakable relief, they saw the man who had been absent for so many hours. As is the rule at such times, their ill-humor deepened. "Why didn't you wait till morning?" was the question of the captain. "I was afraid I would have to do so," replied the guide, whose flushed face and agitated manner proved that he brought important news; "but I didn't have to, and got away in time to reach you afore night." "Not much before," commented the parson; "you must have had a remarkable experience to detain you so long." "Rather, but I'm starving, give me something to eat, while I talk." The lunch was produced, and he fell to with avidity, but he saw they were in no mood for frivolity, and he did not presume upon their indulgence. "Wal, pards, after leaving you, I picked my way as best I could up the gorge, which runs back, with the bottom rising more or less all the way, for 'bout two hundred yards when you reach level ground. That is to say, the gorge ends, but the ground is anything but level." "And they went all that distance ahead of you with their animals?" asked Brush. "That's what they done; the tracks of the horses were so plain there couldn't be any mistake 'bout it. At the top of the gorge, the trail slanted off to the right, toward a big pile of rocks, caves and gullies, where it didn't look as if a goat could travel. There was so much stone that it was mighty hard to keep on the trail and I lost it." "And didn't you find it again?" demanded the captain. "Yes, but it took a good deal of time; that's one reason why I was gone so long, but it wasn't the only reason by a jug full. When I struck it agin, it led straight toward a high rocky place to the left, where I made up my mind the two were hidin'." "That would imply that they knew we were close behind them." "There can't be any doubt of that. What bothered me was to learn what they had done with their horses, fur the prints that I followed was made by the folks' feet. I couldn't figger out what they had done with the animals, and I spent some more time in trying to larn, but it was no use. "Bime by I struck better ground, where the trail was so clear I could have trotted over it." "Why didn't you do it?" asked Ruggles. Adams shook his head. "It wouldn't have done; as I said they must have found out, purty early in the day, that we was after them, for if they didn't, why did they turn off the reg'lar track?" "Never mind asking questions," replied the captain; "go on with your story." "Wal, pards, by that time I must have been a mile from here and it looked as if I'd have to go that much further. I had a good mind to come back after you, for time was important, but when another rocky, walled-up place showed in front of me, I was sartin I was close upon 'em. Their horses couldn't make their way through such a spot, and I was sure I had 'em fast." "Why didn't you come back at once?" said the captain, "but, never mind, go on with your account." "I thought it would be best to find out just how they was fixed. At the same time, it would never do to let 'em diskiver that I was about. So I was powerful careful and crept forward as if into an Injin camp. It wasn't long before I smelled burning wood. That told me they had come to a stop, built a fire and didn't dream I was anywhere in the neighborhood. "But I wasn't through with the bother yet; it took me another long time to find where that fire was burnin', but I hit it at last. A little faint streak of smoke was climbin' from behind a ridge, among a growth of pines. I begun creeping forward when I changed my mind. I thought that if one of 'em happened to be on the watch and see me, they would be off afore I could git anywhere near 'em. So I worked round to the other side to come upon 'em from that. Then you see if they took the alarm, they'd have to come back toward you or make another long circuit. Anyway, I was sure of a chance to meet 'em. "Wal, pards, I don't want to make a long story of what is a short one. I got round to tother side, but it took me a good while, and it's hardly an hour ago that I catched my first sight of their camp." "What passed between you and them?" asked the captain. "When I rested my eyes on the little bundle of wood burnin', there wasn't a man, woman or horse in sight." The listeners were dumbfounded for the moment. After the waste of the greater part of the day, they were no nearer seeing the fugitives than before. In a voice, husky with passion, Captain Dawson exclaimed: "It will take hard work to convince me that all this was not done on purpose by you." "What do you mean?" demanded Vose, showing more anger than at any time since the strange hunt had been begun. "If you had spent a week trying to fix things so as to help them get away from us, you couldn't have done any better than your own account shows you to have done. The whole day has been lost and we stand just as near success as we did twenty-four hours ago." "You ought to have returned to us as soon as you located them," added Brush in the effort to soothe the ruffled feelings of the two. "P'raps I didn't do the wisest thing," replied Adams with unexpected meekness; "but I ain't the first person in the world that has made a mistake. Howsumever, there won't be any more slips by me." His companions looked inquiringly at him. "I don't understand that remark," said the captain, "when you are sure to blunder as long as you attempt to manage things." "That's the p'int; I resign from this time forward; I haven't given satisfaction and you may now do the work to suit yourselves." "It's just as well," commented the captain, "for we can't make a greater mess of it than you." The story told by Vose Adams was a singular one, but the most singular feature about it was that it did not contain a grain of truth. Every statement was a falsehood, deliberately intended to deceive, and, seeing that he had succeeded in his purpose, he was satisfied. CHAPTER XXIII VOSE ADAMS Lieutenant Russell gave no hint to Nellie Dawson of the scheme upon which he had fixed his hopes, until after she had confessed her love for him, and he was certain beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he possessed the sole affection of her heart. Even then he hesitated for he knew the shock it would cause the gentle one, who was devotedly attached to her father. But the resolution of Captain Dawson to spend the remainder of his days at the mining settlement, and his intention of selecting her husband from among those that had made New Constantinople their home for years, crystallized the determination that had been vaguely shaping itself in his brain for weeks. As he expected, she recoiled shocked by the proposal to leave her father; but love is eloquent, and he won by convincing her that the separation would be only temporary. Her father would be quick to see the great wrong his course would inflict upon his child, and he would not only consent to the union, but would follow and make his home with them. It was this implicit belief which made her the companion of Lieutenant Russell in the flight from the mountain settlement. The project having been carefully planned and arranged, the preparations were more complete than those of their pursuers. They took sufficient extra clothing in the form of wraps and blankets, and enough food to last for several days. They were well mounted and had the companionship of the huge dog Timon, with his almost human intelligence. The lieutenant's memory of places was good, and, having a number of hours of daylight at command, he escaped the mistake of his pursuers. The turn from Dead Man's Gulch was made at the right point, and they were miles on their way before their flight was discovered by Captain Dawson and his friends. Both of the fugitives did not doubt they would be pursued. They knew the consuming anger that would take possession of her father, who would probably collect several companions and start after them with furious haste. He would take frightful vengeance upon the man that had dared to steal his daughter. Everything, therefore, must be done to keep beyond his reach until his wrath had time to cool. The intention was to make Sacramento ahead of him. At that city, the lieutenant would seek out his future father-in-law and plead his cause. When night closed around them, they had penetrated to a distance of perhaps fifteen miles in the Sierras. It was at sunset that they passed a spot, where horses and riders, the latter on foot, had to pick their way with extreme care, while even Timon, who clung faithfully to them, showed timidity, though he had been over the place before. The sagacious brute knew that a mis-step on his part meant death. The passage, however, was made without mishap, and Russell, as he helped his companion into the saddle, assured her that nothing so trying to the nerves was to be expected during the rest of the journey. There was no fear of pursuit until after nightfall, but Russell frequently pointed his glass backward and scanned the trail over his whole field of vision. When the gathering darkness shut out everything, he had seen nothing of enemies, either white or red. He could not forget that on his previous journey, he and the captain had desperate fighting with the Indians and the same peril still impended. Nellie was eager to cover all the ground possible, while the opportunity was theirs, and the flight was pushed longer than Russell would have advised. Finally, he insisted they should stop and rest themselves and horses for the remainder of the night. The halting place was selected with much care. The animals were turned loose, where the grass was growing and a small stream wound its way toward a larger one. Then the two, accompanied by Timon, pushed in among the rocks to where the final halt was made. They were in profound darkness. The lieutenant decided to start a fire, and, with much difficulty, gathered a sufficiency of dried branches. They were fortunate enough to find a partial cavern, so open in front that it would have given slight shelter in the event of a storm. When the blaze threw out its cheerful light, it served to dissipate the gloom which in spite of themselves had oppressed them with the coming of night. They partook of food and the lieutenant's spirits rose, for he saw nothing to prevent the full success of the dream which had inspired and thrilled him so long. His buoyancy was infectious, and he brought a smile to the beauteous countenance by his merry sallies, and his picture of the happy future that was close at hand. "Your father will be angry at first," he said; "it would be strange if he were not, but he loves you and I think has a pretty fair opinion of me. When he gains time to think over the matter, he will admit the wisdom of what we have done and we shall receive his blessing." It was this assurance, more than all else, that served to lift the gloom from her. Deep as was her love for the one at her side, it would not have sufficed to draw her from her adored parent, had she believed that his resentment against her would last. As it was, she grieved that even for a brief time, as she thought would be the case, he should hold harsh feelings toward her. No chivalrous knight of the Crusades could have been more scrupulously considerate of lady intrusted to his charge than Lieutenant Russell. He would have died before offending Nellie Dawson by act, word or presumptuous thought. When, as the night advanced, the bright eyes began to grow drowsy, he arranged a couch for her, saw that she was well provided with blankets and then turned to the immense dog, who had never left them and who looked as if he understood everything. "Now, Timon, you are to stay right here," he said, bending over and impressively shaking his finger at the animal; "you are not to venture a dozen feet from your mistress without permission. Do you understand?" A whine and wagging of the tail left no doubt that the wishes of his late master were clear to him. "You have your gun at your side," he added, turning to Nellie; "I do not think you will have any call to use it. We have not met any Indians and your father cannot overtake us before morning. Timon will be sure to give you warning of the approach of danger, and, if your gun goes off, I shall be here in a twinkling." He bade her good night and departed. Enough wood had been flung on the fire to keep it going for an hour or two, but long before it sank to ashes, the girl had drifted into dreamland. The lieutenant carefully selected his own sleeping quarters. He finally fixed upon a large flat boulder, at the rear of the cavern occupied by Timon and his charge; but, although beyond sight, he was near enough to reach the spot on the instant needed. Spreading out his blanket, he lay down upon it. "This recalls the old days in Virginia, when mud a foot deep, with the rain dashing in our faces, was what we had for weeks at a time. This couch doesn't equal a feather bed, but it will answer." The night passed without incident and it was hardly light when the young officer was astir. He visited the horses and found them cropping the grass, but he waited until Timon came to him before calling upon Nellie. She, too, had been awake for some time and they partook of their morning meal with rugged appetites. She was so eager to hurry on that he lost no time in taking the road again. Neither could doubt that their pursuers were on their trail, and, with the aid of his small glass, he carefully studied the country behind them. It was not long before he made the discovery he dreaded: four horsemen were following their footprints, and beyond them were the five Indians picking their way along the ledge in the opposite direction. The lieutenant passed the glass to his companion who scrutinized the party with the keenest interest. "They must have traveled all night," remarked her escort, while she still peered through the instrument. "That shows how dreadfully angry father is; I hope it will not last." "Can you make out the members of the party?" She studied them a minute or two more before answering: "I think that is father who is close to the man on a mule." "The one on a mule must be Vose Adams, for he is more accustomed to that sort of animal. I am sorry he is with the party." "Why?" asked Nellie, lowering the glass and looking at him. "He is so familiar with the trail, that it will be hard work to outwit him; he isn't the man to make mistakes. Did you recognize the others?" "I cannot be sure, but I suspect they are Mr. Ruggles and Mr. Brush." "I have no doubt you are right,--not because I was able to identify them, but because the two are partners and your father would naturally go to them first. I do not think any one of the four has a glass, so, despite their sharp eyes, we have a big advantage in that respect." "But they know the route better than we, and we are losing time." The course of the trail took them out of the field of vision of their pursuers. It was at the suggestion of Russell that the two turned aside from the cañon into the fissure-like gorge. This would have been a serious mistake, except for the plan he had in view, for it must place the pursuers in advance, the very thing which it would seem the fugitives ought if possible to prevent. The lieutenant had believed from the first that Vose Adams, in threading his way through the mountains, traveled a good many miles more than was necessary. It was quite likely that, if he could follow a straight line, he would shorten the distance one-half. Although this was impossible, the young man, nevertheless, was convinced that by changing the route, a good many miles could be saved: and it was in his mind to do that thing. The lieutenant's experience in campaigning had taught him the danger of going astray, when picking his way through an unfamiliar country, but the little compass attached as a charm to his watch chain would help him to keep track of the variations and windings, and he was confident of coming out right. He and Nellie were well mounted and armed, all of which being impressed upon his companion, she offered no objection to the radical change of plan which took them out of the cañon into the ravine that led them they knew not whither, but it was ominous of disaster that at the top of the fissure, when the two were leading their animals, a grievous mishap occurred. The pony of Nellie slipped and sprained his ankle so badly that he whined with pain and paused with his weight supported on three legs. [Illustration: THE LIEUTENANT PASSED THE GLASS TO HIS COMPANION, WHO SCRUTINIZED THE PARTY WITH THE KEENEST INTEREST.--PAGE 269.] "That's a bad go!" exclaimed the dismayed Russell; "it will be several days before he is able to travel." She examined the ankle, as best she could, trying to soothe the pain by passing her hand over the injured part, but it was plain that neither she nor her companion could give any help. "Poor fellow," she said sympathetically; "you cannot go any further; what shall be done, Fred?" "Only one thing seems possible,--take you on my horse." "And what will become of Cap?" "We must leave him behind." "What will happen to him?" "Some one will pick him up, or, after his leg recovers, he may find his way back to the settlement." The impulsive girl flung her arms about the animal's neck and touched her lips to the silken nose. "They shall not part us, Cap," she exclaimed with tears in her eyes. The lieutenant watched this by-play, full of sympathy for the girl, but he was in a quandary. Prudence seemed to demand that everything should be sacrificed to speed by abandoning the pony. In all probability, the latter would serve as a dinner for some of the bears, wolves or other denizens of the mountains, who would quickly harry him to death. To wait where they were until the animal was able to travel rendered certain a speedy meeting with their pursuers. The woodcraft of Vose Adams would enable him to discover with slight delay the point where the fugitives had left the cañon, and he would guide his companions with the skill of one of the mountain Indians themselves. On the other hand, the plan he had in view imposed prodigious work upon his own animal. Between the halting place and Sacramento were many miles of easy traveling, over which he could walk, but for long distances the beast would be compelled to carry double. In the event of close pursuit, this must prove a fatal handicap. In his perplexity, the lieutenant again examined the hurt of the pony. "It would be cruel to make him take a single step, but he may soon recover. I am afraid to leave him behind and to continue our flight with only my horse. You know how dangerous it is to linger, Nellie, when it is certain _they_ are not far off----" She caught his arm and whispered: "Look at Timon! he has discovered something!" The dog was standing a few paces in front of them, with his nose pointed toward the cañon. He emitted several growls and pricked up his ears in a way that left no doubt that he was angered. The lieutenant had hardly time to place himself in an attitude of defence with his Winchester, when a soft footfall was heard, and the next moment Vose Adams emerged from behind the pile of rocks and approached them. It was proof of the guide's woodcraft that he was able to come thus close before being detected by Timon, who advanced threateningly toward him. A word, however, from the lieutenant stayed the dog. "Well, Vose," said the young man, "this is unexpected." "So I jedge and I've a 'spicion that you ain't tickled half to death to see me." "We were always friends, but I can't say that either Nellie or I am glad to meet you under the circumstances; for in truth, we have been doing all we could to prevent such a meeting." "Things has that look," added Vose, standing on guard as may be said, for he was not free from misgiving concerning the young lieutenant whom he had managed to run down. His positive orders forbade him to assume the aggressive, but no one could forbid him to defend himself, and he did not mean that this handsome officer should catch him unprepared. "Whom have you with you?" asked Russell. "The captain, Wade Ruggles and the parson." "What we suspected; I presume no one of the three feels specially affectionate toward me." "It is all the captain can do to prevent the other two from quarrelin' as to which shall have the first chance to shoot you." "Why does Captain Dawson prevent them?" "'Cause he means to have the first chance himself." "How about _you_?" grimly asked Lieutenant Russell. "I'm left." "How's that?" "A low down trick was played onto me; as near as I can find out, the captain comes first, Wade and the parson next and me fourth. You can see for yourself that there won't be any chance at all left for me after them three is through." "It doesn't look so,--that's a fact. But where are the three?" "Along the main trail, down in the kenyon." "Why did they not come with you?" "I advised 'em to wait till I found out how the land laid and they won't leave the spot till I get back." Lieutenant Russell gave no expression to the thought that flashed upon him. Why not keep Vose Adams a prisoner? The loss of his services to the party would be irreparable, for, as it was, the present hiding place of the fugitives never would have become known to them without the help of the guide. It was a daring scheme, but there were so many objections to carrying it out, that the officer dismissed it. In truth he thought of a much better plan. "You have told me enough, Vose, to prove that the four men--for I may as well include yourself--feel bitterer toward me than I suspected: do you think this enmity of theirs will last?" "Not for long." "How long?" "They'll let up as soon as you're shot." Lieutenant Russell could not restrain a smile at this way of putting it, while Nellie was so horrified that she gasped and stared and listened in silence. "There can be little doubt that you are right, but I meant to ask whether you do not think the captain will moderate his anger when he is given time to think it over." "He has had all night to do that, and this mornin' he was hotter if anything, than at any time since he larned what you had done." "When did he learn it?" Thereupon, Vose told the facts which have already been made known to the reader, the most interesting feature of which was that Adams was not an original member of the pursuing party. But, although the guide was so pronounced in his opinion of the continuance of the enmity of Captain Dawson, the lieutenant believed otherwise. He was confident that if he and Nellie could reach Sacramento before meeting the irate father, the latter would be open to reason, and all would turn out well. Vose turned to the young woman. "Nellie, do you want a little advice from me?" "I am glad to have it at any time." "Howsumever, what I say is as much for the leftenant as for you, which the same is that both of you should give up this bus'ness." "But," said Nellie, "you have just told us that father is so angry with Lieutenant Russell that he will shoot him the moment they meet." "We can fix that easy 'nough; let the leftenant stay here while you go with me; I think we can explain matters to the captain and the others so they won't bother the leftenant." "And what am _I_ to do?" asked Russell. "Push on to Sacramento as fast as you can, for though I think I can fix it, I wouldn't advise you to take too many chances." "In other words, after Nellie and I have fled from the settlement and got this far on the road to safety, you urge me to give her up forever." "Wal, that's lookin' a little further ahead than I meant to, but I 'spose it amounts to that." "You mean well, Vose, but do you imagine that Nellie and I did not count the cost before turning our backs on New Constantinople? Don't you suppose we knew we should be pursued and were prepared for the consequences?" "I can't say as to that, but it strikes me that the plan I laid before you is the only one there is." "Why?" "You cannot get away from the captain and the men with him." "Well, there is no call for me to repeat my opinion, but I will say that the decision shall rest with Nellie herself. If she wishes to go with you I will interpose not a word of objection." He looked toward her as an invitation for her to speak. There was a world of affection and faith in the lustrous eyes, as she walked resolutely forward and placed herself by his side. "Only death shall separate us!" CHAPTER XXIV AN UNEXPECTED ALLY The lovelight shone in the eyes of Lieutenant Russell, as he looked down at the slight figure beside him. He tenderly passed his arm around the girl and touched his lips to her forehead. "It was not that I doubted you, Nellie," he said, "but that Vose might know the full truth." Then turning to the guide, he asked: "Do you still advise her to leave me?" Vose Adams was unaccustomed to scenes like this. He moved about uneasily, coughed, cleared his throat, and for a few minutes was at a loss for words. "I don't know what to advise," he finally said; "but don't you think, if she could go to the captain and let him see how she feels, he will give in? How would it do for both of you to walk back with your arms round each other's neck and sayin' sweet words--wouldn't that fetch him? Hanged, if I know what to tell you!" he exclaimed desperately, observing the smiles on their faces. "I am afraid your plan wouldn't work," said the lieutenant, "but you have proved yourself the very friend we need." These words were a hint of the scheme that had come into the brain of the young officer. Had he made a prisoner of Vose Adams, as he thought for a minute of doing, the guide would really be more dangerous, since there was no way of guarding against his treachery, but if he could be turned into a friend, it would be almost equivalent to saving the fugitives. It was that for which the young man planned, but he felt that the real work must be done by Nellie. He could not win the good will of Vose, but she could, for who was able to resist her appeals? It was a proof of the brightness of the girl that she caught the purpose of her escort the moment his last words were uttered, and she performed her part with a cleverness that could not have been surpassed. Tears were in the eyes of the emotional Nellie, but she stepped across the brief intervening space and laid her hand on the arm of Adams. "How glad I am, Vose, that you will help us, for you have told enough to show that it will not do for us to meet father for some time to come; we are now in your hands." "Blamed if I won't do anything I can! But what can _I_ do? 'Spose I sneak back, shoot the captain and then plug Ruggles and the parson? Will that suit you?" "Gracious; I should rather you would kill me than harm a hair of father's head." "Wal, 'spose I shoot you and the leftenant and the captain and the rest? No; that won't do; how the mischief shall I fix things?" The cooler headed Russell saw that the problem had been solved; Nellie Dawson had won over Vose Adams, as may be said, by the turn of her finger. He was eager to do all he could to help them, but in the flurry of the moment could not reason with his usual acumen. "We don't want any shooting, Vose; I am sure that if we can reach Sacramento without meeting the captain, his anger will pass away. In Sacramento, I shall be able to arrange a meeting between him and his daughter, and his love for her will break down the barriers and do the rest." "I'm in too deep water when you get to figgerin' that way, but there seems to be reason in what you say, but what about Ruggles and the parson?" "We'll leave them out; they are in this as the friends of Captain Dawson, and will not dare go contrary to his wishes, but if they do, it can make no difference to my plan." "They're just as savage as the captain," said Vose significantly; "and it won't do to forget 'em; but what did you expect to do, when you left the kenyon? If you come back, you would have been sartin to meet us, and what then?" "My intention was not to return, but to keep away from the main trail and hunt a shorter road through the mountains to Sacramento." Vose Adams gave a low whistle of astonishment. "That's the worst I ever heard!" "And why?" "You're not follerin' any trail at all; you would be sartin to get lost and would never find your way through the mountains; anyhow it would take you three or four years, which I ca'clate is longer than you want to wait." "How can you be so positive?" "It's true I never went to Sacramento and back, except by follerin' for most of the way the trail that I know so well, but other folks as smart as you have been lost in the mountains and you couldn't help it." "You advise against it then?" "I'm so sure of your goin' wrong that I won't try to help you unless you give up the idee." "Then I hereby give it up." Since Vose Adams had committed himself to Russell and Nellie's interests, there was no more talking at cross purposes. The object of the three was the same, and they sat down on the rocks for consultation. There was abundance of time in which to do this, since those whom they feared would not leave the cañon until the return of their guide, and he did not mean to go back until the day was so far spent that further delay was unavoidable. "They will be mad when they see me," he said with a grin, "but it won't do them any good and I'll fix up a yarn about gettin' on and then off your trail agin, that they'll have to be satisfied with." "That will serve for to-night, but you will all be astir at an early hour to-morrow morning." "They will still have to depend on me to guide 'em, and I rather think I can steer 'em off the track, so as to give you plenty of time to get out of the way." "How?" "As soon as they leave the kenyon, that is as soon as the way is clear, you must ride back to it and put on all steam for Sacramento, for I understand, leftenant, that you've give up your idee of finding a new route through the mountains." "I have." "You've got two good animals and you'll gain a full day's start." "You forget about poor Cap," said Nellie. "So I did! if he can't go with you, you'll have to leave him behind and ride double, but it will be rather tough on your horse, leftenant." "Nellie doesn't weigh enough to make any difference, and I expect to walk most of the distance." An unexpected piece of good fortune raised the spirits of the three. To the amazement of all, Cap, the pony, was seen hunting for grass and bearing upon the lame foot with little inconvenience. That which was thought to be a bad sprain was only a wrench, from which he promised speedily to recover. "He'll be as well as ever by to-morrow mornin'," said Vose Adams; "you'll need to humor him at first, but not for long." As has been intimated, the guide remained with them through most of the afternoon, for, if he had gone back to his friends earlier than he did, he would not have dared to offer any excuse for not leading them in the pursuit, and he meant to avert all possibility of that. The reader understands by this time why the guide formulated such an astounding fiction when attempting to explain the cause of his delay. Had his listeners been in cooler mood, they might have tangled him up with a few questions, but their exasperation and disgust prevented. Before parting with the fugitives, Vose assured them that he was confident their plans could not fail. "All they've got to do," he reflected, "is to do nothing afore to-morrow and then when the road is open, strike out over the main trail as hard as they can travel. I hope none of them Injins that we had the row with will be pokin' 'round to-night, for if there's to be any trouble, it'll come from them." It will be recalled that the story of Adams was received with such coolness that he indignantly resigned and told the captain to run matters himself. "And he'll make purty work of it," chortled Vose "he won't be able to come within miles of where they are hidin'." When the moody silence had lasted for some time, the guide was moved to remark in a more conciliatory spirit: "There's one thing that mustn't be forgot: Colonel Briggs and his folks won't make any trouble, but we're not done with them Injins." "Isn't there likelihood that Colonel Briggs will divert them?" asked the parson. "No; for the redskins can't be fooled; they'll know it wasn't any of the colonel's folks that give their chief his walkin' papers, but us, and they're the sort of people that don't forget a thing of that kind." "I was thinking of hunting up enough wood to start a fire," said the captain; "but we don't need it, and I suppose it will be safer without it." "It seems to me," observed Ruggles, "that what we've got the most to fear is that the Injins will run off with our animals: we would be left in a bad fix." "We must look out for that; I'll stand guard the first part of the night." Each was ready to take his turn, and it was arranged that Captain Dawson should act as sentinel until midnight, when he would awake Vose Adams, who would assume the duty till morning. Soon afterward, the three wrapped themselves in their blankets and stretched out on the ground, near the boulders, where they speedily sank into deep slumber. It seemed to Adams that he had slept less than an hour, when the captain touched him. Rising immediately to a sitting position, he asked: "Is it midnight?" "It's a half hour past." "Why didn't you awake me afore? Have you seen anything wrong?" "I am not sure; my doubt made me hold on a little longer, but I learned nothing of account." "What was it anyway?" "It is only that the animals appear to be uneasy, but it may mean nothing, or it may mean a good deal." "It's more'n likely it means something. Where are they?" "Lying down off there to the right, almost near enough to be seen." "They can't be too close; wal, you can sleep and I'll take my turn." Thus warned by Captain Dawson, Vose Adams assumed the duties of sentinel with his senses on the alert. He had become so accustomed to the delicate duty, when aware that the slightest slip on his part meant death, that he was better fitted for the task than any member of the party, though the experience of Ruggles and the captain in the army had given them the ability to awake at any moment fixed upon before sinking into slumber, and they were sensitive to the least disturbance while enjoying refreshing rest. Adams believed what he had remarked more than once that the little company of mountain Indians would do their utmost to revenge themselves upon the men who had taken off their chief. He suspected that the five were prowling in the neighborhood, looking for some such opportunity, and that they would strike a blow before the rising of the morrow's sun. Nothing was to be hoped for in the way of a diversion, created by the intrusion of Colonel Briggs and his vagrant miners. Not that the Indians were not eager to strike at any members of the hated race, but the all-controlling motive was lacking in the case of the larger party. Although the moon was in the sky, only a small part of its light penetrated the cañon. Peering into the darkness, Vose dimly made out the forms of the four animals, who, having ceased their cropping of the grass, had lain down for the remainder of the night. They were so near that they could not be stampeded or stolen without the effort being known to the sentinel. It would have been the height of rashness to start a camp fire, for all the figures within its circle of illumination must have formed the best of targets for their stealthy foes. As it was, an enemy would have to steal from the gloom and approach near enough to touch them, before striking a blow or firing a shot. Vose Adams, with his Winchester in his right hand and held close to his side, took his seat on the ground, resting his back against the nearest boulder. As a rule, a sentinel can keep awake for an extended time only by motion and exercise, such as walking to and fro, but the trained hunter often takes the risk and there is little danger of his succumbing, especially after he has just finished a nap, as was the case with the guide. Thus seated, with the boulder rising several feet above his head, Adams's only reliance was upon his keenness of hearing and sight. He had not waited long when he saw proof of what the captain had told him: the animals were restless, or rather one of them was. The quadruped thus affected was Hercules, his own mule, who, although lying down, twice rose to his feet, shifted his position and lay down again. Then he sniffed as if the air contained an odor that was displeasing to him. "I wouldn't think much of it, if it was one of the horses," reflected his master, "but Hercules has brains; he knows more'n all the others together, and yet it may be it ain't that after all." One of the singular facts regarding cattle and other quadrupeds is that they are sometimes troubled with disquieting dreams, the same as ourselves. This trifling cause has resulted many a time in the stampeding of a drove numbering tens of thousands. "I've knowed Hercules to kick and snort in his sleep, and one time he come mighty near breakin' a leg of mine; howsumever, I don't think that's the trouble with him to-night. I 'spect it's Injins this time!" When Captain Dawson lay down to sleep and Vose Adams assumed his place as sentinel, the moon was near the zenith, but the contour of the cañon shut out its beams. While Vose was striving to pierce the gloom, over and about the four animals, he noted a flickering tremor against the vast wall which formed the other side of the cañon. A faint, fleecy veil of moonlight having been lifted over the mountain crests, was now flung downward and caught against and suspended upon the projecting rocks and crags. It was but a frosty shimmer, but the veil dangled lower and lower, pendant here and there until the fringe rested on the bottom of the gorge. The sleeping miners and horses were wrapped in deep shadow, but the tremulous, almost invisible veil still fluttered on the further side of the cañon. By and by, the shifting moon would whisk it up again and all would be gloom as before. The sentinel lay flat on his face and peered over the prone animals toward the faint light across the cañon, and, looking thus, he saw the outlines of a man moving among the horses and mule. A shadow could not have been more noiseless. Not the faintest rustle betrayed his footsteps. "Just what I expected," thought Vose; "I'll wager Hercules against a dozen of the best horses in Sacramento that that shadder is one of them five Injins we seen stealin' along the ledge this mornin'. All the same, I can't imagine what the mischief he is driving at." The guide's first impulse was to bring his rifle to his shoulder and let fly. The intruder was so near that it was impossible to miss him, but two causes operated to prevent this summary course: Vose wished first to learn the business of the intruder, and there was a single possibility in a hundred that he was neither an Indian nor an enemy. The latter doubt could be solved by challenging the prowler with a threat to fire, if instant satisfaction was refused, while the firing could be made so promptly that the stranger would have no chance of whisking out of reach. Vose decided to wait until he got some idea of the other's business. He could still dimly discern the form, but it was so obscure that had it not been moving about, he would not have been able to distinguish it or make sure it was within his field of vision. While studying the phantom, the lower part of the veil of moonlight on the other side of the cañon was twitched up for a hundred feet. Lingering thus a minute, it was twitched still higher; then a third flirt snatched it out of the gorge. The shifting of the moon had left the cañon shrouded in darkness as before. Nothing could have attested more strikingly the marvelous stealth of the intruder than the fact that not one of the horses was awakened by him. The approach of the great Geronimo and several of his Apaches was betrayed under somewhat similar circumstances by the neighing of a horse that they awakened, apparently when making no noise at all. This prowler was a shadow in a world of shadows. If Hercules detected his presence, the man succeeded in soothing the fear of the hybrid. "_Halt or I'll fire!_" Vose Adams's voice was low, but in the tomb-like stillness a thunderclap could not have been more distinct. The hail, however, produced no response. The angered Vose drew his Winchester to a level, with his finger on the trigger, but when he ran his eye along the barrel, he failed to perceive any target. He lowered the muzzle a few inches and peered over the top. Nothing was discernible. "You're there somewhere and I'll find you!" Instead of rising erect, the sentinel advanced in a crouching posture, so that his head was no higher than if he were on his hands and knees. This clever strategy was thrown away. Within five seconds, he was at the side of Hercules, prepared and expecting to grapple with his enemy, who, to his exasperation, continued invisible. Vose did not require to have the matter explained to him, for he understood it. Upon being hailed, the intruder instead of throwing up his hands or starting to run, had also assumed a stooping position. It was as if he had quietly sunk below the surface of a sea of darkness through which he was wading, and swum with noiseless celerity to a point beyond reach. Vose was angered but took his defeat philosophically. "You was too smart for me that time; I never had it played finer on me, but I guess it's just as well; you've learned that we're on the lookout and you can't sneak into camp without _some_ risk of having a hole bored inter you." But Vose was not yet through with his nocturnal experiences. He held his seat for some fifteen or twenty minutes without seeing or hearing anything to cause the slightest misgiving. The horses still slept, and even the uneasy Hercules appeared to have become composed and to have made up his mind to slumber until morning. "I don't b'leve there'll be anything more to disturb me, onless some wild animal wants his supper----" The thought had hardly taken shape, when a shiver of affright ran through him, though the cause was so slight that it might have brought a smile, being nothing more than a pebble rolling down the ravine, up which the fugitives had passed the day before. The stone came slowly, loosening several similar obstructions, which joined with it, the rustling increasing and continuing until all reached the bottom and lay at rest a few feet from where he sat. Nothing could have been easier than for this to occur in the natural course of things, since hundreds of such instances were taking place at every hour of the day and night, but in the tense state of the sentinel's nerves, he was inclined to attribute it either to the Indian that had just visited camp and slunk away, or to one of his comrades trying to steal a march upon him. "I 'spose the next thing will be for him to climb over this boulder behind me and drop onto my head. Howsumever, if he does, he'll find me awake." Vose sat thus, depending almost wholly upon his sense of hearing to apprise him of the stealthy approach of an enemy, while the long silent hours gradually passed, without bringing additional cause for alarm. CHAPTER XXV INSTINCT OR REASON As the night wore away without bringing any further evidence of the presence of enemies, the solicitude of Vose Adams was transferred to the two, who, hardly a mile distant, were awaiting with equal anxiety the coming of morning. They and he had agreed upon the plan to be pursued, but now, with the crisis at hand, the guide became apprehensive about the final issue. Suppose the couple should leave their hiding place to return to the main trail before their pursuers were out of the way? Mutual discovery was certain with the dreadful catastrophe that none dreaded more than he. But it would seem that Lieutenant Russell was too cautious to run the risk of so fatal a mistake. He would reconnoitre the ground and keep out of sight until the coast was clear, but the restless Adams was astir at the first streakings of light in the cañon. He first visited the animals. It was possible that the stealthy prowler of the night before had done them injury, but, so far as he could ascertain, nothing of the kind had occurred. Except for what he had seen and heard during the darkness, he would not have known that a visitor had been in camp. It was not fully light when the others rose from their primitive couches. Water was at hand, and after drinking and ablution, the group sat down to their morning meal, which disposed of the last remnant furnished by Vose Adams. While they were eating, he told of the occurrences of the night and was surprised that his companions made light of them. To them it was of less importance than to him. "So long as they do no more than prowl about the camp," remarked Captain Dawson, "we need feel no concern." "It seems to me," said Brush, "that if the fellow intended mischief, he would have done it, but he has left no traces of anything of the kind." "Which was because the right kind of chance didn't show itself," said Vose; "if we don't have a lively fight before this bus'ness is over, I'm much mistook, but it's time we was moving." The guide seemed to have forgotten his resentment of the night before and his friends were too considerate to refer to it. It took but a short time to make the animals ready, when the procession started up the gorge, Vose, as usual, leading, with the captain next, then Wade Ruggles, while the parson brought up the rear, that position naturally falling to him. Men and beasts were refreshed by their rest and food, and it required but a brief while to reach the top of the gorge, where, as will be remembered, it terminated. It was here that Vose Adams began his fine work, and he showed no more hesitancy in drawing a "long bow," than on the previous night, when pretending to account for his long absence. "The trail leads to the right," he said, with a glance at the ground, as if to refresh his memory. His first thrill of misgiving came when he saw the parson pause and look searchingly at the ground. Had he possessed one-half the skill of Vose in trailing, he would have discovered that the guide was misleading them, but he did not have that cleverness nor did any other member of the party. The glance of the parson was perfunctory and his brief pause was to regain his breath after the short but laborious climb of the steep slope. Vose was watching him closely and quickly saw the meaning of his action, for, whatever Brush may have observed on the ground in front of him, it was not the faint impressions left on the stones by the fugitives. Neither the captain nor Ruggles so much as looked at the earth, accepting the dictum of their guide without question. It was not deemed best to mount the animals, because of the roughness of the ground and the belief that they were close upon the parties for whom they were searching. Vose took care to turn so sharply to the right that they were speedily out of sight of the spot where he had parted from the fugitives. Everything was going promisingly when Wade Ruggles startled his companions by the exclamation: "Helloa! there's that dog Timon!" A hundred yards to the left rose a pile of rocks, the highest of which reached an altitude of two hundred feet or more. Upon the crest of one of the lower rocks, which had only a slight height, the immense dog stood in plain sight. It looked as if he had started to ascend the rocks, when he discovered the party and paused to learn their business. The picture was a striking one. The enormous size of the brute gave the impression at first that he was a wolf or some wild animal that had challenged the advance of the four men. This error would have been made had not each been so familiar with the creature. As he stood, his formidable head raised, his forequarters being slightly higher than the remainder of his body, his position was diagonal. He was surveying his acquaintances, who surveyed him in turn with equal curiosity. Vose Adams's heart sank. What was the meaning of this? As he viewed it, the presence of the dog could have no other significance than that the lieutenant and Nellie Dawson were close at hand. Timon was in their company and would not have strayed far, so that he had betrayed them. From some cause, which the guide could not comprehend, Lieutenant Russell had made a change of plan and placed himself almost in the path along which Vose was leading the pursuers, in the belief that the fugitives were at a safe distance. The four men looked at the dog for several moments in silence, when the captain spoke: "We must be very near them." "You're dead right," added Ruggles in the same undertone; "we've got 'em cornered sooner than we expected." "They can't go far," said the parson, "without being stopped by the rocks, when we shall have them in the nicest trap that was ever set for any game." The reflection of Vose Adams was of a different nature. "If they make fools of themselves and upset all my plans, what can I do to help 'em? Why didn't they stay where they promised to stay, and why didn't they kill that blamed dog afore he played this trick on 'em?" Timon stood for two or three minutes so immovable that he suggested a stone image of himself, carved out of the rock on which he was perched. Then he emitted a single husky bark and leaped lightly down from where he had been standing. It was no more than a dozen feet, and he alighted as gracefully as a panther. He trotted part way to the horsemen, who were closely watching his movements, stopped, barked again and wheeling, trotted forward over precisely the course Vose Adams was taking when checked by the appearance of the canine. The men looked at one another in astonishment. The action of the dog was unaccountable, but Captain Dawson's explanation sounded reasonable. "That shows we are on the right track and he has come to guide us to where they are awaiting him." There could be no doubt of it. The actions of the brute said as plainly as so many words: "Come with me and I will take you straight to the people you want to see." Instead of following Timon at once, the party kept watch of him. He trotted a dozen steps and then paused and looked back. Observing that he was not understood, he emitted several more barks, took a couple of steps and then repeated the performance. His object was so evident that Captain Dawson said: "That's as plain as the nose on your face; the animal is worth a dozen guides like you, Vose." "Then why don't you foller him?" sulkily asked the latter. "That's what we shall do; come on." Observing that the captain left his horse standing, the parson inquired the reason. "They are of no use to us and will be only a bother; leave them here until we need them; I will follow the dog and you can take what order you choose, but," he added with unmistakable earnestness, "every one of you must keep in the background till I'm through." Timon held his motionless position until the four men had taken several steps toward him and there could be no error as to their intention. Vose Adams observed that he was following, without a hair's variation, the course he had in mind. "It serves 'em right," was his angry reflection; "when the leftenant spoke 'bout hunting up a new trail through the mountains, I oughter knowed he hain't no sense and was sure to make a mess of things. Now's he gone and sneaked off where these folks will stub their toes agin him; I'm 'sprised that the Queen didn't hammer a little sense into his head." The guide was in a torture of apprehension. The impending outcome was likely to betray the deception he had used, but it was not for that he cared. There could be no mistaking the deadly mood of Captain Dawson and the equally intense hatred of Ruggles and Brush. A meeting with Lieutenant Russell made a frightful tragedy inevitable, and no one could be more vividly aware of the fact than the young officer himself, for Vose had impressed it upon him, but the guide in his anguish of spirit, saw no possible escape from it. He stolidly followed, striving to brace himself for what must soon come. Meanwhile, the strange leadership continued. Timon seemed to be impatient, for occasionally he broke into a trot, abruptly pausing and looking back, as if to urge his followers to use more haste. Since they did not do so, he checked himself, when about to pass beyond sight and waited for them to draw near. He led them around boulders and masses of rocks, over ridges, down declivities, across one small stream, through a ravine and again among the precipitous piles of stone, until even the hardy men were well nigh exhausted. They had traveled fully a mile over a route that was of the most trying nature. It was about this time that an extraordinary suspicion began forming in the mind of Vose Adams. He hardly dared give credence to it, but it took greater hold upon him with every few rods of advance. Nothing in the world would have induced him to make known his suspicion, but it continued to grow. Suddenly Captain Dawson stopped. As he looked around his face was agitated. "Boys," said he, "there's something infernally strange about this." Vose Adams saw that his own suspicion had entered the mind of their leader, but the countenance of the guide was as blank as that of a child. "It's the worst tramp I ever had," remarked the parson, removing his hat and mopping his forehead. "If there's any harder work," added Ruggles, "count me out." Captain Dawson looked angrily at Vose. "Do you know the meaning of this?" Vose shook his head and prevaricated still further by adding: "Nor what you're driving at either." "That dog has misled us; instead of conducting us to the couple he has taken us away from them." It was true and every one of the four knew it. The suspicion of the guide had become certainty. Was it instinct or reason that controlled the animal? Who shall draw the line in explaining many of the actions of the brute creation? Vose Adams was silent a moment and then emitted a low whistle. "Hang me, if I don't b'leve you're right, captain. I've been told that that dog knowed more than a good many folks and there ain't no doubt of it now." The disgusted parson exclaimed: "Why didn't one of us think of that? The idea of all four being fooled by a dog!" "It wouldn't have been so bad if there had been two dogs," said Ruggles, who saw the grim humor of the thing, "but it is tough to have our eyes shet by only one." It was impossible for Vose Adams wholly to restrain all evidence of his pleasure. When in the depths of despair, he was awakened to the fact that the canine had performed one of the most brilliant exploits conceivable. He could not help smiling. The captain was in an ugly mood and in a threatening voice asked: "Did you have anything to do with this?" "Certainly; me and Timon fixed up the thing afore he left Dead Man's Gulch; it took us a good while; the dog didn't think it would work, but I stuck to it and finally he promised to have a try at it; certainly we fixed it up atween us." The guide did a clever thing in thus turning the fantastic belief of the captain into ridicule. Had he protested, he might have added to the suspicion against himself. It was further in his favor that it was known he had never had much to do with Timon. As already related, the brute had few friends among the miners and Vose Adams never sought his acquaintance. Nevertheless, it was impossible to brush out of sight one significant fact,--the long absence of Adams the day before. But for the last occurrence, nothing would have been thought of the former, but it was clear that Captain Dawson had begun to entertain doubts of the loyalty of his guide. "He'll never repeat his trick anyway," exclaimed the officer, facing about and bringing his rifle to his shoulder. But his intention of shooting Timon was frustrated, for the brute was nowhere in sight. Unreasonable as it might sound, it looked as if he suspected how things would turn out and took the occasion to place himself beyond danger from the indignant men. "In the army we shoot spies and traitors," remarked the captain, so angered by his repeated disappointments that he could not govern his feelings. In giving expression to the remark, the officer made a serious mistake, which he saw the moment the words left his lips. He was suspicious of Vose Adams, but he should have concealed all evidence of it, until the proof appeared. When that took place, he would shoot the man with no more hesitation that he would have shot the dog. But he had now put Vose on his guard and the difficulty of detecting him was increased tenfold. As if to obliterate the memory of his words, the captain said in the most matter of fact tone he could assume: "The mistake we made has taken us from the right spot; they must have been near the rocks where Timon showed himself." "No doubt," said the parson, "and were watching us." "The one thing to do is to retrace our steps; perhaps the two may be fools enough," bitterly added the captain, "to wait for us, since that seems to be the only way by which we shall ever come up with them." A single short bark startled them. The captain wheeled like a flash with his gun at his shoulder. But Timon was too cunning to show himself. It is not improbable that he meant the expression for a note of triumph over his inimitable exploit, while such a wonderful dog was too wise to run any risk of punishment from his indignant victims. The hunter is sustained against fatigue by the excitement of the chase; and, despite the severe labor of following the canine guide, all four men stood it far better than the return to the spot where the pursuit began. Angered, chagrined and in desperate mood, even the grim leader was forced occasionally to stop and rest. Nearly two hours passed before they descried the familiar pile of rocks in their front. "That's the spot," he said, "but what good can it do us? It's a wonder if they have not run off with our horses; it would be a fitting climax to this folly." It was the secret wish of Adams, from the moment of discovering the cleverness of Timon, that this very thing should be done. If Lieutenant Russell took such a precaution, it could not fail to be effective. Returning to the main trail after his pursuers were out of the way, he would have an open path through the mountains to Sacramento. If the lameness of Nellie's pony continued, her saddle could be transferred to one of the other horses, and, leading or driving the remainder of the animals, the four men would soon find their task a hopeless one. But the young officer was restrained from such action by a certain chivalry that governed all his actions. He could not consent to take so unfair an advantage of an enemy, even though the fate of one dearer than his own life was at stake. And yet it must be confessed that the lieutenant drew it very fine. His course did not win the respect of his enemies, who were inclined to attribute it to stupidity, rather than courtesy. But no time was to be lost in deciding their line of action. "I think we'd better make a hunt among them rocks," suggested Wade Ruggles. The others studied them with as much interest as if it were the first time they had been seen. If the couple had taken refuge among the caverns and crevices of this immense pile of stone, they must have left their animals on the ground below where they could be readily discovered. "We may as well have a look," remarked the captain; "what do you think, Vose?" "I don't think anything; don't ask me any questions." He never looked more angry. He had not forgotten the slur of the captain and had spirit enough to resent it. Dawson was too proud to apologize and he could not do so, when his suspicion of the fellow's loyalty was as strong as ever. On the contrary, having made his blunder, the officer drove the arrow home. "I am sorry you didn't take that resolution in the first place; it would have been better for all of us, though not so good for those we are looking for." The captain and Ruggles now turned to the right, while the other two took the opposite direction. They were thus enabled, after more hard work, practically to pass around the mass of rocks, returning to their starting point, without having discovered any traces of man, woman or their animals. On the journey, Adams and the parson exchanged few words, but it was different with the other couple. "What do you think of his long absence yesterday?" asked the captain. "It has a bad look,--worse than I thought when he come back." "Why so?" "I take it with the action of that dog. You didn't fail to notice that Timon took us along the exact route that Vose was leadin' us over and we found out that it was the wrong one." "And you believe he purposely misled us?" "It's almost sartin." "Suppose it _was_ certain, Wade?" "I'd shoot him quicker'n lightning." "So would I." "But you see we can't be sartin just yit; if Vose is in that kind of bus'ness, he'll give himself away purty soon." "I agree with you and we'll watch him." Thus was the momentous bargain made. When the four came together once more, the parson remarked: "It's my belief that after we were well out of the way, the two went down the gorge to the main trail and are now making haste to Sacramento." The exact line of action that had been agreed upon! Vose Adams was firmly convinced that this was the very thing that had taken place and the utmost he could do was to prevent the horsemen from acting on that theory until the fugitives were given opportunity to pass beyond reach. Except for the words of Captain Dawson, the guide would have striven to delay the pursuit, but he dared not attempt it after the warning. Ignoring the captain, he said to Felix Brush: "It's more'n likely you're right, parson; that would have been the most nat'ral thing for them to do and it's no use of our standing here and talking, when every minute counts." "We can quickly learn the truth; it isn't far to the gorge, where they must have left traces; leave the horses here, for we can soon return for them if it proves necessary." Forgetting their fatigue, the four walked back over their own trail. The forenoon was well advanced, and, by this time, the fugitives were probably a good way off. Adams was relieved because of this action, for it promised more delay. Reaching the beginning of the gorge, all began an examination of the ground, for the imprints of the horses' feet were plainly seen. To the amazement of every one, each hoof pointed upward, that is away from the cañon. There was no evidence that any quadruped had descended the slope. All had gone up. Vose Adams was in despair. "They have let their only chance go by," he bitterly reflected; "it's too late now to save them!" CHAPTER XXVI AT BAY Lieutenant Russell held a long consultation with Nellie Dawson, after the departure of Vose Adams. His first intention had been to press their flight with all possible vigor, and, as will be recalled, Adams carried away that belief with him. "My view of matters has undergone a change," he said after a time to his companion, who looked up in his face for an explanation. "Instead of waiting until we reach Sacramento for a meeting with your father, I believe it will be much better to have it as soon as possible." "Why?" she asked, though curious to say, she had been wavering for some time in her belief. "It will add to rather than lessen his anger, if he is obliged to follow us that far, and the fact that he is in a city instead of the mountains will not decrease his determination to do me injury." "What about those who are with him?" "Your father is the only one to be considered. My proposal is that we wait here till to-morrow morning until they come up; what is your opinion?" "I believe you are right; let us do so; I don't think father will cast me off when I go to him." The plan was carried out, though the young man felt more misgiving than his companion suspected. He remained on guard a part of the night, sharing the duty with Timon, whose almost human intelligence made him as reliable as a trained scout himself. Straight to the spot came the pursuers soon after daylight, when the horses were saddled and bridled. Nellie was in a state of feverish expectancy. When she caught sight of her father, leading the others, she joyfully uttered his name and ran toward him with outstretched arms. "Father, my own father, are you not glad to see your Nellie?" Still holding his Winchester half-raised, he glanced sternly at her and replied: "Come no nearer; you are no daughter of mine!" She stopped as if shot, and with hands still outstretched stood motionless, with her eyes fixed yearningly upon him. She was like a marble statue, without the breath of life in her body. All were silent. Even Timon looked from one to another without moving. The whole thing was beyond his comprehension. Then the dreadful truth seemed to force itself upon the consciousness of the girl, who staggered backward to the nearest boulder, upon which she sank and covered her face with her hands. She did not weep, for her grief was too deep. And who shall picture the sorrow that wrenched the heart strings of the parent? There was a strange look on his face and his massive frame trembled. But he quickly recovered his self-poise, and looking away from his child, fixed his eyes upon Lieutenant Russell. "It is with _you_ that I have to settle." "I am ready." The young officer was standing beside his pony, with one arm resting on the saddle, across which his rifle was supported, while the other hand lay idly on his hip, and his body was borne upon one foot. His pose was one of negligence, as if he and his animal had taken position before the camera, and the world contained no such thing as hatred and enmity. He looked calmly into the angered countenance, while he waited for the next words of the man who was impatient to send a bullet through his heart. Wade Ruggles and Felix Brush would have been glad of the privilege of doing this, but they felt that for the time they were out of it. The right of calling Lieutenant Russell to account lay with the father of Nellie. They had nothing to do or say until that tragedy was ended, and they stood apart, silent, grim and watchful of everything. The coolness of the young man disconcerted the captain for the moment. Feeling it unnecessary to hold his weapon, he lowered the point, but, never once removing his eyes from the face of the other, said: "I will give you the same chance as myself for your life; though you do not deserve to live, it shall never be said I took any advantage over you. Each of us has a revolver and knows how to use it; you may pace off the distance for yourself, but make it short." "Captain, I decline to fight you," replied Lieutenant Russell, without a change of pose and in his usual voice. "Why?" demanded the other. "You have saved my life on the battle field; we have been comrades; we have drank from the same canteen; shoot me if you wish; I will keep the position I now hold and you may stand where you are; you have your Winchester in your hands; you have but to raise it and it will be all over in a twinkling, but nothing that you can say or do will induce me to harm one of your gray hairs." This reply was unexpected to all, but it served if possible to intensify the wrath of Captain Dawson. He shook with tempestuous rage, and it was several seconds before he could command his voice. Ruggles, Brush and Adams did not stir or whisper a word to one another. The white-faced Nellie remained seated on the boulder, but she lowered her hands and stared at the two, as if she could not comprehend it all. Once she made a motion to rise, but sank back and stared with a fixidity of gaze that went to the hearts of the three spectators. "You are a sneaking scoundrel to use those words," said Captain Dawson, when able to command his voice; "all the past is wiped out except that of the last two days; I shall shoot you for stealing my child from me." The lieutenant looked calmly into the countenance of the man, and, lowering his tones almost to a whisper, that was perfectly audible to all, replied: "I am at your disposal." From the moment Captain Dawson learned of the flight of his child, he had been eager for but one thing,--the opportunity to draw bead on the miscreant, without giving him an instant to prepare for death. That opportunity was his but he hesitated. Something that he could not explain, but which incensed him, held his hand motionless. But perhaps the end would have been the same, when he rallied from the momentary struggle, had not his daughter awakened from the daze that had held her mute and motionless. Like Pocahontas, she sprang forward, with arms again outstretched, and with a faint shriek, flung them about the form of her lover. "Shoot father, if you will, but you shall kill me too!" Felix Brush shivered and turning away his head, muttered in a broken voice: "My God, Wade! I can't stand this!" Ruggles attempted to reply, but the words choked in his throat. Still he and Adams kept their eyes upon the three before them. Ruggles was on the point of interfering when Nellie Dawson averted the necessity. Lieutenant Russell was disconcerted. His lip quivered, and, with infinite tenderness, he sought to loosen the arms that entwined him, but she would not permit it. "No, no, no! He shall not part us! Let him slay us both! Do not repulse me! I will die with you!" The situation of Captain Dawson was awful. He was scarcely himself. The dainty form of his child could not fully shield the athletic figure of Lieutenant Russell, strive as much as she might, and the opening for the threatened shot was as clear as ever. Whether he would have persisted in his intention can never be known, for at that juncture the startling incidents were succeeded by one still more startling and unexpected. CHAPTER XXVII NO BRAVER DEED EVER WAS DONE The hearts of two of the party were wrung as never before. Wade Ruggles and Felix Brush saw with noonday clearness the dreadful mistake they had made in the past in hoping to win the heart of the maiden who had declared that if her beloved was to die she would die with him. It was contrary to nature and the laws of God, and it was characteristic of each that he felt a thrill of gratitude over the belief that no person suspected his secret. Both would have died rather than allow it ever to become known. With this awakening came a transformation of feeling toward the couple. They sympathized with Lieutenant Russell, but more than all, they pitied her whose soul was distraught with grief. They had never before seen her in the agony of distress and neither could stand it. "Brush," whispered Ruggles, "this must stop." "_Hold!_" called Brush in a loud voice, striding commandingly forward with his arm upraised; "I have something to say!" There was a majesty and an impressiveness of mien like that of the Hebrew prophet who hushed the tempest. Captain Dawson, without moving body or limb, turned and glared at the intruder; Ruggles kept his position; Nellie Dawson, with arms still clasping the neck of her betrothed, looked over her shoulder at her old friend; Lieutenant Russell reached up so as to hold the wrists of the girl, while still retaining his grip upon his rifle and fixed his eyes upon the tall, gaunt figure that halted between him and Captain Dawson and a little to one side of him. "Lieutenant Frederic Russell, do you love Nellie Dawson?" was the astounding question that fell from the lips of Brush. "Aye, more than my life," was the prompt response. "And you have started for Sacramento with the purpose of making her your wife?" "That was my resolve with the help of heaven." "And, Nellie, you agreed to this?" "Yes, yes; we shall not be parted in life or death." "Such being your feelings," continued Felix Brush, in the same loud, clear tones, "I pronounce you man and wife, and whom God hath joined together let not man put asunder!" It was a thunderclap. No one moved or spoke for a full minute. Felix Brush was the only one who seemed to retain command of his senses. Stepping forward, with a strange smile on his seamed countenance, he extended his hand to the groom. "Allow me to congratulate you, lieutenant; and, Nellie, I don't think you will deny me my fee." With which he bent over and tenderly kissed her. "O, Mr. Brush, are we really married?" she asked in a faint, wild voice. "As legally as if it were done by the archbishop of Canterbury and if--" But he got no further, for her arms were transferred from the neck of her husband to those of the parson, whom she smothered with her caresses. "Bless your heart! You are the nicest, best, sweetest, loveliest man that ever lived,--excepting Fred and father--" "And _me_," added Wade Ruggles, stepping forward. "Yes, and you, you great big angel," she replied, bestowing an equally warm embrace upon him. The two rugged fellows had won the greatest victory that can be achieved by man, for they had conquered themselves. When the great light broke in upon their consciousness, each resolved to let the dead past bury its dead and to face the future like the manly heroes they were. And no braver deed ever was done. Poor Captain Dawson! For a time he believed he was dreaming. Then, when he grasped the meaning of it all, his Winchester dropped from his nerveless grasp and he staggered and would have fallen, had not Lieutenant Russell leaped forward and caught him in his arms. He helped him to the boulder from which Nellie had risen and then he collapsed utterly. The soldier who had faced unmoved the hell blast of battle had fainted for the first time in his life. Nellie ran to the brook a few paces away, and catching some of the water in the hollow of her hand darted back and flung it into his face. "There, dear father; it is all right; rouse yourself; O, Mr. Brush, suppose he is dead!" she exclaimed, turning terrifiedly toward him. "He is as likely to die as you are, and you don't look just now as if you mean to put on wings and fly away." In a few minutes the veteran revived and looked confusedly around him. He seemed unable to comprehend what it all meant and his gaze wandered in a dazed way from one countenance to another without speaking. Nellie was still caressing him, while Lieutenant Russell stood back a couple of steps, looking pityingly into the face of the man who had suffered so much. Felix Brush was the hero of the occasion. Turning to the group, he said: "Leftenant, you and Nellie and Ruggles and Vose move off for a short distance and leave him with me for a little while." Understanding his purpose the three withdrew, and the two men were left alone. The captain instantly roused himself. "What does all this mean, Brush?" "It means that you and Ruggles and I have been the three infernalist fools that ever pretended to have sense." "How?" "How? In every way conceivable. Wade and I, as we told you, saw that those two were in love with each other; instead of persuading you to consent, we have helped you to prevent it. I must say, captain, that though Wade and I played the idiot, I think the championship belongs to you." "I begin to suspect it." "There's no doubt of it." "But, you see, parson, I had never thought of anything like this." "Which goes to prove the truth of what I have just said. If you hadn't been blind you would have seen it." "I got the belief into my head that his intentions were not honorable toward Nellie." "You never made a greater mistake; Lieutenant Russell is the soul of honor; heaven intended him for the husband of Nellie, and we were flying in the face of Providence when we tried to prevent it." "I suppose it is all right; but how is it possible for a man to make such a consummate ass of himself?" "You have just given a demonstration of how it is done, Wade and I adding material help in the demonstration." The captain looked to the ground in deep thought. When he raised his eyes there was an odd twinkle in them. "I say, parson, wasn't that a rather cheeky performance of yours, when you made them man and wife?" "The circumstances warranted it. There's no saying what might have happened, if it had been deferred for only a few minutes." "True," replied the veteran thoughtfully; "it begins to look as if the hand of Providence was in it." "It is in everything that occurs in this life. It was in your coming to New Constantinople; in the blessed influence of your child upon that barbarous community; in the impulse that led you to bring Lieutenant Russell to us, and now comes the crowning Providence of all in their marriage." "Parson, you ain't such a poor preacher after all." "Perhaps I can preach a little, but my practice has been away off, though I hope to get back one of these days to where I was, but--" He suddenly turned and beckoned to his friends to join them. They came smilingly forward, for they suspected what it meant. Captain Dawson rose to his feet, and, without speaking extended his single arm toward his child. With a glad cry she flew into his embrace and pillowed her head on his breast. No one spoke, but there was not a dry eye among the spectators, while the silent embrace lasted. Finally the daughter was released and then the captain reached his hand toward his son-in-law, who eagerly stepped forward and grasped it. "Yes, lieutenant, we have drunk from the same canteen," he said, "and now let's all go home." And it was accordingly so done. THE END 
22124	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 22124-h.htm or 22124-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/2/1/2/22124/22124-h/22124-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/2/1/2/22124/22124-h.zip) THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER: or, "Cobbler" Horn. by J.W. KEYWORTH, Author of "_Mother Freeman_," "_The Churchwarden's Daughter_," _&c._, _&c._ [Illustration: "'Come here, missy!'"--_Page 38._] London: J. Williams Butcher, 2 & 3, Ludgate Circus Buildings, Farringdon Street, E.C. Contents. Chapter Page I. BEREAVED! 1 II. AUNT JEMIMA 8 III. HOW MISS JEMIMA MANAGED HER BROTHER'S HOUSE 13 IV. "ME LUN AWAY" 19 V. "THE LITTLE TWIN BRETHREN" 22 VI. THE FATHER'S QUEST 25 VII. WHAT HAD BECOME OF THE CHILD? 36 VIII. THE SHOEMAKER BECOMES "GOLDEN" 41 IX. A STRANGE CLIENT FOR MESSRS. TONGS AND BALL 47 X. MISS JEMIMA IS VERY MUCH ASTONISHED 52 XI. "COBBLER" HORN ANSWERS HIS LETTERS, AND RECEIVES THE CONGRATULATIONS OF HIS FRIENDS 58 XII. "COBBLER" HORN PAYS A VISIT TO HIS LANDLORD 65 XIII. FREE COBBLERY 72 XIV. "THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER" WAITS UPON HIS MINISTER 76 XV. "COBBLER" HORN ENGAGES A SECRETARY 85 XVI. THE ATTACK ON THE CORRESPONDENCE 91 XVII. A PARTING GIFT FOR "THE LITTLE TWIN BRETHREN" 98 XVIII. THE NEW HOUSE 105 XIX. A TALK WITH THE MINISTER ABOUT MONEY 110 XX. "COBBLER" HORN'S VILLAGE 116 XXI. IN NEED OF REPAIRS 123 XXII. "THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER" INSTRUCTS HIS LAWYERS 129 XXIII. MEMORIES 138 XXIV. ON THE OCEAN 149 XXV. COUSIN JACK 163 XXVI. HOME AGAIN 176 XXVII. COMING INTO COLLISION WITH THE PROPRIETIES 184 XXVIII. BOUNDER GIVES WARNING 193 XXIX. VAGUE SURMISINGS 201 XXX. A NOVEL DIFFICULTY FOR A MAN OF WEALTH 207 XXXI. "COBBLER" HORN'S CRITICS 217 XXXII. "IN LABOURS MORE ABUNDANT" 232 XXXIII. TOMMY DUDGEON ON THE WATCH 239 XXXIV. A "FATHER" AND "MOTHER" FOR THE "HOME" 249 XXXV. THE OPENING OF THE "HOME" 255 XXXVI. TOMMY DUDGEON UNDERTAKES A DELICATE ENTERPRISE 267 XXXVII. BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH 275 XXXVIII. A LITTLE SHOE 285 XXXIX. A JOYOUS DISCOVERY 293 XL. TOMMY DUDGEON'S CONTRIBUTION 305 XLI. NO ROOM FOR DOUBT! 313 XLII. FATHER AND DAUGHTER 326 XLIII. THE TRAMP'S CONFESSION 339 THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER. CHAPTER I. BEREAVED! In a small house, in a back street, in the large manufacturing town of Cottonborough, the young wife of "Cobbler" Horn lay dying. It was the dusk of a wild evening in early winter; and the cruel cough, which could be heard every now and then, in the lulls of the wind, from the room upstairs, gave deepening emphasis to the sad fact that the youthful wife and mother--for such also she was--had fallen a victim to that fell disease which sweeps away so much of the fair young life of our land. "Cobbler" Horn himself was engaged just now in the duties of his calling, in the little workshop behind the kitchen. The house was very small. The kitchen and workshop were the only rooms downstairs, and above them were three small chambers. The one in which the dying woman lay was over the workshop, and the sound of her coughing came down with sharp distinctness through the boarded floor, which was the only ceiling of the lower room. "Cobbler" Horn knew that the death of his wife was probably a question of a few hours at most. But he had promised that the boots on which he was at work should be finished that night; and he had conscientiously withdrawn from his wife's bedside that he might keep his word. "Cobbler" Horn was a man of thirty or so. He was tall, and had somewhat rugged features and clear steadfast eyes. He had crisp black hair, and a shaven face. His complexion was dark, and his bare arms were almost as brown as his leathern apron. His firmly set lips and corrugated brow, as he bent now over his work, declared him to possess unusual power of will. Indeed a strength of purpose such as belongs to few was required to hold him to his present task. Meanwhile his chief misgiving was lest the noise he was compelled to make should distress his dying wife; and it was touching to see how he strove to modify, to the utmost degree which was consistent with efficient workmanship, the tapping of the hammer on the soles of the boots in hand. Sorrowing without bitterness, "Cobbler" Horn had no rebellious thoughts. He did not think himself ill-used, or ask petulantly what he had done that such trouble should come to him. His case was very sad. Five years ago he had married a beautiful young Christian girl. Twelve months later she had borne their little dark-eyed daughter Marian. Two years thereafter a baby boy had come and gone in a day; and, from that time, the mother had drooped and faded, day by day, until, at length, the end was close at hand. But "Cobbler" Horn was a Christian, and did not repine. His task was finished at last, and, with a sigh of relief, he rose to his feet. In that moment, he became aware of a tiny figure, standing in the open doorway of the kitchen. It was that of a little four-year-old girl, clad in a ruby-coloured dress, which matched to perfection her dark skin and black hair. Her crimson cheeks were dashed with tears, and she looked like a damask rose just sprinkled by a shower of rain. The light in her dark eyes, which glistened with intense excitement beneath her jet-black hair, indicated that her tears were those of indignation rather than grief. How long she had been standing there he could not tell; but, as soon as she saw that her father had finished his work, little Marian--for she it was--darted forward, and throwing her arms around his neck, with a sob, let her small dusky head fall upon the polished breast-piece of his leathern apron. "What's amiss with daddy's poppet?" asked the father tenderly, as he clasped the quivering little form more closely to his breast. The only answer was a convulsive movement of the little body within his arms. "Come, darling, tell daddy." Strange strugglings continued within the strong, encircling arms. This little girl of four had as strong a will as her father; and she was conquering her turbulent emotions, that she might be able to answer his questions. In a moment she broke away from his clasp, and, dashing the tears from her eyes with her little brown hands, stood before him with glowing face and quivering lip. "Me 'ant to see mammy!" she cried--the child was unusually slow of speech for her age. "Dey 'on't 'et Ma-an do upstairs." "Cobbler" Horn took the child upon his knee, and gently stroked the small dusky head. "Mammy is very ill, Marian," he said gently. "Me 'ant to see mammy," was the emphatic response. "By and bye, darling," replied the father huskily. "What 'oo going to c'y for, daddy?" demanded the child, looking up hastily into her father's face. "Poor daddy!" she continued, stroking his cheek with her small brown hand, "Isn't 'oo very well?" "I'm not going to cry, darling," said the father, bowing his head over his child, and taking into his strong hand the little fingers which still rested against his face. "You don't understand, my poor child!" There followed a brief pause. "P'ease, daddy," pleaded Marian presently, "Ma-an _must_ see mammy. Dere's such pitty fings in se shops, and me 'ants to do with mammy to see dem--in morning." The shops were already displaying their Christmas decorations. Marian's father gave a great gasp. "Marian shall see mammy now," he said solemnly, as he rose from his stool still holding the child to his breast. "I'se so glad!" and she gave a little jump in his arms. "Good daddy!" "But father's little poppet must be quiet, and not talk, or cry." "No," said Marian with childhood's readiness to make a required promise. The child had not seen her mother since the previous day, and the altered face upon the pillow was so strange to her, that she half turned away, as though to hide her face upon her father's shoulder. The gleaming eyes of the dying mother were turned wistfully towards her child. "See, poppet; look at mammy!" urged the father, turning the little face towards the bed. "Mother's darling!" There was less change in the mother's voice than in her face; and the next moment the little dark head lay on the pillow, and the tiny, nut-brown hand was stroking the hollow cheek of the dying woman. "'oo is my mammy, isn't 'oo?" "Yes, darling; kiss mammy good-bye," was the heart-breaking answer. "Me tiss 'oo," said the child, suiting the action to the word; "but not dood-bye. Me see 'oo aden. Mammy, se shops is so bootiful! Will 'oo take Ma-an to see dem? 'nother day, yes 'nother day." "Daddy will take Marian to see the shops," said the dying mother, in labouring tones. "Mammy going to Jesus. Jesus will take care of mother's little lamb." The mother's lips were pressed in a last lingering kiss upon the face of her child, and then Marian was carried downstairs. When the child was gone, "Cobbler" Horn sat down by the bedside, and took and held the wasted hand of his wife. It was evident that the end was coming fast; and urgent indeed must be the summons which would draw him now from the side of his dying wife. Hour after hour he sat waiting for the great change. As the night crept on, he watched the deepening shadow on the beloved face, and marked the gathering signs which heralded the brief triumph of the king of terrors. There was but little talk. It could not be otherwise; for, every moment, utterance became more difficult to the dying wife. A simple, and affectionate question and answer passed now and then between the two. At infrequent intervals expressions of spiritual confidence were uttered by the dying wife; and these were varied with a few calmly-spoken directions about the child. From the husband came, now and then, words of tender encouragement, mingled with morsels of consolation from the good old Book, with, ever and anon, a whispered prayer. The night had almost passed when the end came. The light of the grey December dawn was struggling feebly through the lattice, when the young wife and mother, whose days had been so few, died, with a smile upon her face; and "Cobbler" Horn passed out of the room and down the stairs, a wifeless husband and the father of a motherless bairn. CHAPTER II. AUNT JEMIMA. It was Aunt Jemima who stepped into the vacant place of Marian's mother. She was the only sister of "Cobbler" Horn, and, with the exception of a rich uncle in America, from whom they never heard, and a wandering cousin, a sad scapegrace, she was her brother's only living relative. "Cobbler" Horn's sister was not the person to whom he would have chosen to entrust the care of his motherless child, or the management of his house. But he had no choice. He had no other relative whom he could summon to his help, and Aunt Jemima was upon him before he had had time to think. She was hurt that she had not been called to the death-bed of her sister-in-law. But the omission rather increased, than diminished, the promptitude with which she wrote to announce that she would come to her bereaved brother without delay, and within a week she was duly installed as mistress of his house. "I thought I had better come at once," she said, on the night of her arrival. "There's no telling what might have happened else." "Very good of you, Jemima," was her brother's grave response. And so it was. The woman meant well. She loved her brother sincerely enough; and she had resolved to sacrifice, for his sake and his child's, the peace and freedom of her life. But Aunt Jemima's love was wont to show itself in unlovely ways. The fact of meaning well, though often a good enough excuse for faulty doing, is not a satisfactory substitute for the doing of that which is well. Your toleration of the rough handling inflicted by the awkwardness of inconsiderate love does not counteract its disastrous effects on the susceptible spirit and the tender heart, especially if they be those of a child. It is, therefore, not strange that, though "Cobbler" Horn loved his sister, he wished she had stayed away. She was his elder by ten years; and she lived by herself, on the interest of a small sum of money left to her by their father, at his death, in a far off village, which was the family home. "You'll be glad to know, Thomas," she said, "that I've made arrangements to stay, now I'm here." They were sitting by the fire, towards supper-time; and the attention of "Cobbler" Horn was divided between what his sister was saying and certain sounds of subdued sobbing which proceeded from upstairs. Very early in the evening Aunt Jemima had unceremoniously packed Marian off to bed, and the tiny child was taking a long time to cry herself to sleep in the cold, dark room. "Never mind the child," said Aunt Jemima sharply, as she observed her brother's restless glances towards the staircase door; "on no account must she be allowed to have her own way. It was high time she went to bed; and she'll soon be fast asleep." "Yes, Jemima," said the troubled father; "but I wish you had been more gentle with the child." "Fiddlesticks!" was the contemptuous exclamation of Aunt Jemima, as she regarded her brother severely through her spectacles; and she added, "Since you have wished me to take the oversight of your house and child, you must leave me to manage them as I think fit." "Cobbler" Horn did not venture to remind his sister that he had not expressed any such wish. Being so much his senior, and having at least as strong a will as his own, Jemima Horn had always maintained a certain predominance over her brother, and her ascendancy still prevailed to some extent. Making no further reference to the child, he sat listening by turns to a prolonged exposition of his sister's views on the management of children, and to the continued wailings which floated down from the room above, until, at length, as a more piteous cry than all frantically voiced his own name, "faver," his self-restraint gave way, and he rose hastily and went upstairs. Aunt Jemima watched him in grim silence to the foot of the stairs. "Mind," she then called after him, "she is not to come down." "Cobbler" Horn did not so far set his sister at defiance as to act in flat contradiction to her decree. Perhaps he himself did not think it well that the child should be brought downstairs again, after once having been put to bed. But, if Marian might not come down, Marian's father might stay up. As soon as his step sounded on the stairs the child's wailing ceased. "Zat zoo, daddy?" and the father felt, in the darkness, that two tiny arms were stretched out towards him in piteous welcome. Lighting the candle, which stood on the table by the window, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and, in a moment, Marian's little brown arms were tightly clasped about his neck. For a brief space he held the child to his breast; and then he gently laid her back upon the pillow, and having tucked the bed-clothes well about her, he kissed the little tear-stained face, and sat talking in the soothing tones which a loving parent can so well employ. Leaving him there, let us make a somewhat closer inspection of Miss Jemima, as she sits in solitary state before the fire downstairs. You observe that she is tall, angular, and rigid. Her figure displays the uprightness of a telegraph pole, and her face presents a striking arrangement of straight lines and sharp points. Her eyes gleam like points of fire beneath her positively shaggy brows. Her complexion is dark, and her hair, though still abundant, is already turning grey. Her dress is plainness itself, and she wears no jewelry, all kinds of which she regards with scorn. Her old-fashioned silver watch is a family heirloom, and a broad black ribbon is her only watch-guard. Yet there is nothing of malice or evil intent in Aunt Jemima's soul. She is no less strictly upright in character than in form. She cannot tolerate wickedness, folly, or weakness of any kind. So far well. The lack of her character is the tenderness which is woman's crowning grace. When she is kind it is in such a way that one would almost prefer for her to be unkind. Such is Aunt Jemima, as we see her sitting in front of her brother's fire, and as we know her to be. Need we wonder that, "Cobbler" Horn's heart misgave him as to the probable fate of his little Marian in such rough, though righteous, hands? When "Cobbler" Horn at length came downstairs, his sister was still sitting before the fire. On his appearance, she rose from her seat. "Thomas, I am ashamed of you," she said, as she began, in a masterful way, to make preparations for supper. "Such weakness will utterly spoil the child. But you were always foolish." "I am afraid, sister," was the quiet reply, "that we shall hardly agree with one another--you and I--on that point." CHAPTER III. HOW MISS JEMIMA MANAGED HER BROTHER'S HOUSE. On entering upon the management of her brother's house, Aunt Jemima laid down two laws, which were, that the house was to be kept spotlessly clean, and that everything was always to be in its right place; and her severe, and even fierce, insistence on the minute fulfilment of these unexceptionable ordinances soon threatened utterly to banish comfort from her brother's house. The restrictions this masterful lady placed upon her patient brother constituted a state of absolute tyranny. Lest her immaculate door-step should be soiled, she would rarely allow him to enter the house by the front-door. She placed a thick mat inside his workshop, at the doorway leading into the front-room; and she exercised a lynx-eyed supervision to ensure that he always wiped his feet before coming in. She would never permit him to go upstairs without putting off his boots. She removed his hat from the wall of the front-room, and hung it on a nail in a beam, which was just over his head as he sat at work in his shop; and whenever she walked, with her policeman-like tread, in the room above, the hat would fall down, and strike him on the head. He bore this annoyance for a day or two, and then quietly removed hat and nail to one of the walls. Strong-natured though he was, "Cobbler" Horn felt it no weakness to yield to his sister in trifles; and he bore with exhaustless patience such vexations as she inflicted on him alone. But he was firm as a rock where the comfort of any one else was concerned. It was beautiful to see his meek submission to every restriction which she laid upon him; it was sublime to behold his stern resistance to such harsh requirements as she proposed to lay upon others. More than one battle was fought between the brother and sister on this latter point. But it was on Marian's account that the contention was most frequent and severe. Sad to say, the coming of Aunt Jemima seemed likely to drive all happiness from the lot of the hapless child. Rigid and cruel rules were laid upon the tiny mite. Requirements were made, and enforced, which bewildered and terrified the little thing beyond degree. She was made to go to bed and get up at preternaturally early hours; and her employment during the day was mapped out in obedience to similarly senseless rules. Her playthings, which had all been swept into a drawer and placed under lock and key, were handed out by Aunt Jemima, one at a time, at the infrequent intervals, during which, for brief periods, and under strict supervision, the child was permitted to play. Much of the day was occupied with the doing of a variety of tasks few of which were really within the compass of her childish powers. Aunt Jemima herself undertook to impart to Marian elementary instruction in reading, writing, and kindred acts. Occasionally also the child was taken out by her grim relative for a stately walk, during which, however, she was not permitted, on any account, to linger in front of a shop window, or stray from Aunt Jemima's side. And then, in the evening, after their early tea, while Aunt Jemima sat at her work at the table, the poor little infant was perched on a chair before the fire, and there required to sit till her bed-time, with her legs dangling till they ached again, while the tiny head became so heavy that it nodded this way and that in unconquerable drowsiness, and, on more occasions than one, the child rolled over and fell to the floor, like a ball. One lesson which Aunt Jemima took infinite pains to lodge in Marian's dusky little head was that she must never speak unless she was first spoken to; and if, in the exuberance of child-nature, she transgressed this rule, especially at meal-times, Aunt Jemima's mouth would open like a pair of nut-crackers, and she would give utterance to a succession of such snappish chidings, that Marian would almost be afraid she was going to be swallowed up. A hundred times a day the child incurred the righteous ire of this cast-iron aunt. From morning to night the little thing was worried almost out of her life by the grim governess of her father's house; and Aunt Jemima even haunted her dreams. Marian had one propensity which Aunt Jemima early set herself to repress. The child was gifted with an innate love of rambling. More than once, when very young indeed, she had wandered far away from home, and her father and mother had thought her lost. But she had always, as by an unerring instinct, found her way back. This propensity it was, indeed, necessary to restrain; but Aunt Jemima adopted measures for the purpose which were the sternest of the stern. She issued a decree that Marian was never to leave the house, except when accompanied by either her father or Miss Jemima herself. In order that the object of this restriction might be effectually secured, it became necessary that Miss Jemima should take the child with her on almost every occasion when she herself went out. These events were intensely dreaded by Marian; and she would shrink into a corner of the room when she observed Aunt Jemima making preparations for leaving the house. But she made no actual show of reluctance; and it would be difficult to tell whether she was the more afraid of going out with Aunt Jemima, or of letting Aunt Jemima see that she was afraid. It was a terrible time for the poor child. On every side she was checked, frowned upon, and kept down. If she was betrayed into the utterance of a merry word she was snapped at as though she had said something bad; and ebullitions of childish spirits were checked again and again, until their occurrence became rare. And yet this woman thought herself a Christian, and believed that, in subjecting to a system of such complicated tyranny the bright little child who had been committed to her charge, she was beginning to train the hapless mite in the way she should go. It was a very simple circumstance which first indicated to "Cobbler" Horn the kind of training his child was beginning to receive. Happening to go, one morning, into the living-room, he found that his sister had gone out, and, for once, left Marian a prisoner in the house. The child was seated on a chair, with her chubby legs hanging wearily down, and a woe-begone expression on her face. Taking courage from the absence of her dreadful aunt, Marian asked her father to give her some of her toys, and to let her play. Finding, to his surprise, on questioning the child, that she had been forbidden to touch her playthings without express permission, and that they were put away in the drawer, he readily gave her such of them as she desired, and crowned her happiness by remaining to play with her till Aunt Jemima returned. This incident created a feeling of uneasiness in the father's mind; but it was a circumstance of another kind which fully revealed to him the actual state of things. Passing through the room one evening when Marian was on the point of going to bed, he paused to listen to the evening prayer of his child. She knelt, in her little night-clothes, at Aunt Jemima's knee. The father sighed, as he waited for the sound of the simple words which had been learnt at the dictation of the tender mother-voice which was now for ever still. What, then, were his astonishment and pain when Marian, instead of repeating her mother's prayer, entered upon the recital of a string of theological declarations which Aunt Jemima dictated to her one by one! "Cobbler" Horn strode forward, and laid a strong repressive hand upon the child; and Aunt Jemima will never forget the flash of his eye and the stern tones of his voice, as he demanded that Marian should be permitted to pray her mother's prayer. After this he noticed frequent signs of the tyranny of which Marian was the victim, and interposed at many points. But it was only in part that he was able to counteract the cruel discipline to which Aunt Jemima was subjecting his child. CHAPTER IV. "ME LUN AWAY." Winter passed drearily away--a wet one, as it happened, with never once the white gleam of snow, and scarcely a touch of the healthy sting of frost. "Cobbler" Horn had not ceased to sorrow for his dead wife; and, when the spring was well advanced, there befell him another, and scarcely less severe bereavement, though of a different kind. There had been no improvement in the relations between Aunt Jemima and the child. Aunt Jemima still maintained the harsh system of discipline which she had adopted at first; and the result was that the child had been led to regard her father's sister with as near an approach to hatred as was possible to her loving little heart. Marian's heart was big, almost to bursting, with concealed sorrow. Like her father, young as she was, she found it easier to bear grief than to tell it out. She did not want her father to know how miserable she was. Her childish soul was filled with bitterness, and her young life was being spoiled. Such of her pleasures as had not been taken from her were divested of all their charm. Almost her sole remaining joy was to snatch, now and then, a bit of clandestine love with her father, when, on some rare occasion, Aunt Jemima happened to be out of the way. Recognising the uselessness of resisting a hand so hard and strong as that of Aunt Jemima, Marian had lately meditated another way of escape from the wretchedness of her lot. She contemplated an expedient which occurs more readily than any other to the youthful victim of oppression, but which had probably never before presented itself to the mind of a child so young. The expedient is one, indeed, which seldom effects its purpose, and is usually productive of a plentiful crop of troubles. But Marian had no fear. She was full of one thought. She could not any longer endure Aunt Jemima; and she must make it impossible for Aunt Jemima to scold, or smack, or restrain her any more. She must escape, without delay, from the sound of Aunt Jemima's harsh voice, and place herself beyond the reach of Aunt Jemima's rough hand. True, there was her father. How could she leave him? This would have been impossible to her if she had realised what she was about to do. But it seemed so easy and pleasant to slip out into the bright spring morning, and trot away into the mysterious and delightful country, which lay outside the town. Nor did she dream of the hardships and danger which might be awaiting her out in the strange, unloving world, into which she had so lightly resolved to launch her little life. So it came to pass that, on a certain bright May morning, Marian took her opportunity, and went out into the world. Marian's opportunity was furnished by the fact that Aunt Jemima had gone out, leaving Marian at home, and, for once, had forgotten to lock the door. As soon as Aunt Jemima's back was turned, the child huddled her little pink print sun-bonnet upon her small black head, and, with one furtive glance over her shoulder towards her father's workshop, whence she could distinctly hear the quick "tap-tap" of his hammer, she opened the front-door, and slipped into the street. Her first action was to shoot a keen glance, from her sharp little eyes, to right and left. There was no one to be seen but one of the funny little twin men who kept a huckster's shop across the way. This little man was a great friend of Marian's, and he called to her now in joyous tones, as he stood in the doorway of his shop, to come over and see what he had in his pocket. Marian gave a decided shake of her head. "No; Ma-an going away. Tum another time." Then, murmuring to herself, "Me lun away," she set off down the street, with a defiant swagger of her small person, and her bonnet-strings streaming out upon the wind; and the little huckster watched her with an admiring gaze, little thinking into what wilds of sorrow those tiny twinkling feet had set off to run. CHAPTER V. "THE LITTLE TWIN BRETHREN." The name of the little hucksters across the way was Dudgeon. As to age, they were on the verge of thirty--Tommy having entered the world a few minutes previous to John. They were so much alike that it was difficult to distinguish them when apart. John was just a shade lighter in complexion than Tommy, and Tommy overtopped his brother by something like an inch. The twins were so small as to seem insignificant; but their meek amiability was an efficient set off against their physical deficiencies. If there was any measure of self-assertiveness between them, it belonged chiefly to Tommy. Though both the little men were kind to Marian, Tommy was her especial friend; and it was he who had watched her as she ran away. The twins were both bachelors; though John had kept company for several years with a young woman of exemplary patience. Tommy, who was a sincere Christian, was a member of the church to which "Cobbler" Horn belonged. John occasionally attended the services at the same place, but could not be persuaded to join the church. The close resemblance between the brothers was the cause of many ludicrous mistakes. In their boyhood, they had frequently been blamed for each other's faults and misdeeds; and it was characteristic of Tommy that he had quietly suffered more than one caning which his brother ought to have received. But, when it had been proposed to administer to him a dose of medicine which had been prescribed for John, he had quietly protested and explained the mistake. When the twins grew up, similar blunders continued to occur; and the little men had frequent opportunities of unlawfully profiting by the errors in which their close resemblance to each other often involved their friends. But, to the credit of these worthy little men be it said, they conscientiously declined to avail themselves of the opportunities of illegitimate benefit thus thrown in their way. It was a curious sight to see these two queer little men standing, sitting, or walking, side by side. The minister of their chapel would often speak of the first occasion on which he had seen John Dudgeon. It was one Sunday evening, shortly after he had assumed the pastorate of the church. The service had just commenced, and the eye of the minister happened to rest, for a moment, on the humble figure of Tommy Dudgeon, who was, as usual, in his place. The minister had already made the acquaintance of Tommy, but of the existence of John he was not yet aware. What, then, was his astonishment, the next moment, to see another Tommy Dudgeon, as it seemed, come in and take his place beside the one already in the pew! For a breathing space the new pastor imagined himself the victim of an optical illusion; and then he rubbed his eyes, and concluded that Tommy Dudgeon had a twin brother, and that this was he. It was not surprising that these two peculiar little men should have excited the amusement of those to whom they were known. Their amazing and almost indistinguishable resemblance to each other, and the consequent unconscious mutual mimicry of tone and gesture which prevailed between them, while they were a source of frequent perplexity, were also irresistibly provocative of mirth. What wonder that those who saw the little hucksters for the first time should have felt strongly inclined to regard them in a comic light; or that the mere mention of their names should have unfailingly brought a smile to the faces of those to whom their peculiarities were known! The boys of the Grammar School, which was situated in a neighbouring street, had, from time immemorial, furnished Tommy and John Dudgeon with an epithet accommodated from classic lore, and dubbed them, "the _little_ Twin Brethren." CHAPTER VI. THE FATHER'S QUEST. When Aunt Jemima came home, she was surprised, in no small degree, at the absence of Marian. With gathering indignation she called up the stairs, then searched the house, and finally presented herself before her brother, who was quite alone in his workshop, and sat calmly working on his stool. "Then she is not here?" "Who? Marian?" responded "Cobbler" Horn in no accent of concern, looking up for a moment from his work. "No, I thought she was with you." "No; I left her in the room for a moment, and now she is nowhere to be found." There seemed to "Cobbler" Horn no reason for alarm, and, as his sister returned to the kitchen, he quietly went on with his work. But Aunt Jemima's mind was ill at ease. Once more she searched the house, and called and called again. There was no response, and the silence which followed was profound and ominous. Swiftly she passed, with growing alarm, through her brother's workshop, and out into the yard. A glance around, and then a closer search; but still no sign of the missing child. The perturbed woman re-entered her brother's presence, and stood before him, erect and rigid, and with outstretched hands. "The child's gone!" was her gloomy exclamation. "Gone!" echoed "Cobbler" Horn blankly, looking up. "Where?" "I don't know; but she's gone quite away, and may never come back." Then "Cobbler" Horn perceived that his sister was alarmed; and, notwithstanding the occasion, he was comforted by the unwonted tenderness she had expressed. As for Marian, he knew her for a born rambler; and it was not the first time she had strayed from home. "Perhaps," he said placidly, "she has gone to the little shop over the way." Then he resumed his work, as though he had simply told his sister where she would be likely to find her spectacles. Aunt Jemima took the hint, as a drowning person catches at a straw. She made her way to the front-door, and having opened it, was on the point of crossing the street, when Tommy Dudgeon emerged from the shop, and came over towards where she stood. "Good morning, ma-am," he said, halting at a respectful distance. "You are looking for little miss?" "Well," snapped Aunt Jemima, "and if I am, what then? Do you know where she is?" "No, ma-am; but I saw her go away." Miss Jemima seized the arm of the little man with an iron grip. "Man! you saw her go away, and you let her go?" With difficulty Tommy freed his arm. "Well, ma-am, perhaps I ought----" "Of course you ought," rapped out the lady, sharply. "You must be a gabey." "No doubt, ma-am. But little miss will come back. She knows her way about. She will be home to dinner." Having spoken, Tommy was turning to recross the street. "Stop, man!" Tommy stopped and faced around once more. "Which way did she go?" "That way, ma-am," replied Tommy, pointing along the street, to Aunt Jemima's left-hand, and his own right. The troubled lady instantly marched, in the direction indicated, to the end of the street; but, finding that five ways branched off therefrom, she returned baffled to her brother's house, and sought his presence once more. "Thomas," she cried, almost fiercely, "the child has certainly run away!" Still "Cobbler" Horn was not alarmed. "Well," he said calmly, "never mind, Jemima. She has a habit of going off by herself. She knows her way about, and will not stray far. She will be back by dinner-time, no doubt." Though by no means satisfied, Miss Jemima was fain to accept this view of the case for the time. With a troubled mind, she resumed her suspended domestic duties. Unlikely as it might seem, she could not banish the dread that Marian had actually run away; and, as the morning passed, the fear grew stronger and stronger in the troubled lady's breast that she would see her little niece no more. Accordingly when dinner-time arrived, Aunt Jemima was not surprised that Marian did not appear. The dinner consisted of Irish stew--Marian's favourite dish. On the stroke of twelve it was smoking on the table. For the twentieth time the perturbed lady went to the door, and gazed wistfully up and down the street. Then, with a sigh, she re-entered the house, and called her brother to dinner. "Cobbler" Horn, feeling sure that Marian would soon return, had dismissed the fact of her disappearance from his mind; and when, on coming in to dinner, he found that she was still absent, he was taken by surprise. In reply to his inquiry, Aunt Jemima jerked out the opinion that the child would not come back at all. "Why shouldn't she?" he asked. "I've known her stay away longer than this, and there's no occasion for alarm." So saying, he addressed himself to his dinner with his usual gusto; but Miss Jemima had no appetite, and the show of eating that she made was but a poor pretence. "Don't be so much alarmed, Jemima," said her brother, making progress with his dinner. "I've no doubt the child is amongst her friends. By and bye I'll go out and hunt her up." He still had no fear that his little daughter would not soon return. He accordingly finished his dinner with his usual deliberation; and it was not until he had completed one or two urgent pieces of work, that he, at last, put on his hat and coat, and taking his stout blackthorn stick, set out in search of his missing child. All the weary afternoon, he went from house to house, amongst friends and friendly neighbours; but no one had seen Marian, or knew anything as to her whereabouts. Every now and then he returned home, to see if the child had come back. But each time he found only Aunt Jemima, sitting before the fire like an image of grim despair. She would look up with fierce eagerness, on his entrance, and drop her gaze again with a gasp when she saw that he was alone. Long before the afternoon was over the father's unconcern had given place to serious alarm. He was not greatly surprised that he had failed to find Marian in the house of any of their friends; but he wondered that she had not yet come home of her own accord. While he would not, even now, believe that Marian had run away, he was compelled to admit that she was lost. But what was that? He had turned once more towards home, and had entered his own street, and there was Marian, playing with some other children, on the pavement, just in front. Her back was towards him, as she bent down over her play. But there was no mistaking that thick, night-black hair, and the little plump brown legs which peeped out beneath the small frock. With the promptitude of absolute certainty, he put out his strong hands and lifted the child from the ground. Then he uttered a cry. It was not Marian after all! He put her down--he almost let her drop, and the startled child began to cry. "Cobbler" Horn hastily pushed a penny into her hand, and strode on. He staggered like one who has received a blow. It seemed almost as if he had actually had his little one in his arms, and she had slipped away again. When he reached home, his sister was still sitting in grim silence, before the now fireless grate. On her brother's entrance, she looked up as aforetime. "Cobbler" Horn sank despondently into a chair. "Nowhere to be found!" he said, with a deep sigh. "We must have the tea ready," he added, as though at the dictate of a sudden thought. "Ah, you are tired, and hungry." Aunt Jemima hesitated on the last word. Could her brother be hungry? She thought she would never wish to taste food again. "No," he said quickly; "but Marian will want her tea. Put the dinner away. It is cold, Jemima." "I put her plate in the oven," said Aunt Jemima, in a hollow voice, as she rose from her seat. "Ah!" gasped the father. The little plate had become hot and cold again, and its contents were quite dried up. Aunt Jemima put the plate upon the oven-top; and then turned, and looked conscience-stricken into her brother's face. Severe towards herself, as towards others, she unflinchingly acknowledged her great fault. "Brother, your child is gone; and I have driven her away." She lifted her hands on either side of her head, and gently swayed herself to and fro once--a grim gesture of despair. "I do not ask you to forgive me. It is not to be expected of you--unless she comes back again. If she does not, I shall never forgive myself." "Jemima," said "Cobbler" Horn, rising from his seat, and placing his hand lightly on her shoulder, "You are too severe with yourself. That the child is lost is evident enough; but surely she may be found! I will go to the police authorities: they will help us." He turned to the door, but paused with his hand on the latch. "Jemima," he said, gently, "you must not talk about my not forgiving you. I would try to forgive my greatest enemy, much more my own sister, who has but done what she believed to be best." The authorities at the police-station did what they could. Messages were sent to every police centre in the town; and very soon every policeman on his beat was on the look-out for the missing child. At the same time, an officer was told off to accompany the anxious father on a personal search for his little girl. First of all, they visited the casual ward at the workhouse, and astonished its motley and dilapidated occupants by waking them to ask if they had fallen in with a strayed child on any of the roads by which they had severally approached the town. When they had recovered from their first alarm beneath the gleam of the policeman's bulls-eye, these waifs of humanity, one and all, declared their inability to supply the desired information. The officer next conducted his companion into the courts and bye-ways of the town. Many a den of infamy was filled with a quiver of alarm, and many a haunt of poverty was made to uncover its wretchedness before the horrified gaze of "Cobbler" Horn. But the missing child was not in any of these. Next they went a little way out on one or two of the country roads. But here all was dark: and they soon retraced their steps. Having ascertained that nothing had been heard at the police-station of his child, "Cobbler" Horn at length turned homeward, in the early morning, with a weary heart. Miss Jemima was still sitting where he had left her, and he sadly shook his head in response to the appeal of her dark hollow eyes. During the hour or so which remained before dawn, "Cobbler" Horn restlessly paced the house, pausing, now and then, to open the front-door and step out into the street, that he might listen for the returning patter of the two little feet that had wandered away. Before it was fairly light, he left his sister, still distraught and rigid in her chair, and went into the streets once more. What could he do which he had not already done? From the first his heart had turned to God in prayer, and this seemed now his sole remaining resource. Yes, he could still pray; and, as he did so now, his belief grew stronger and stronger that, if not now, yet sometime, he would surely find his child again. Not many streets from his own he met a woman whom he knew. She lived, with her husband, in a solitary cottage on the London Road--the road into which "Cobbler" Horn's street directly led, and she was astir thus early, she explained, to catch the first train to a place some miles away. But what had brought Mr. Horn out so soon? "Cobbler" Horn told his sorrowful story, and the woman gave a sudden start. "Why," she said, "that reminds me. I saw the child yesterday morning. She passed our house, trotting at a great rate. It was washing day, and, besides, I had my husband's dinner in the oven, or I think I should have gone after her." "Cobbler" Horn regarded the woman with strange, wide-open eyes. "If you had only stopped her!" he cried. "But of course you didn't know." With that, he left the woman standing in the street, and hurried away. Very soon he was walking swiftly along the London Road. The one thought in his mind was that he was on the track of his child at last. He passed the wayside cottage where the woman lived who had seen Marian go by, and went on until, moved by a sudden impulse, he paused to rest his arms upon the top of a five-barred gate, and look upon the field into which it led. Then he uttered a cry, and, tearing open the gate, strode into the field. Lying amidst the grass was a little shoe. It was one of Marian's without a doubt. Had he not made it himself? He picked it up and hid it away in the pocket of his coat. Marian had evidently wandered that way, and was lost in the large wood which lay on the other side of the field. To reach the wood was the work of a few moments. Plunging amongst the trees, he soon came upon a pool, near the margin of which were some prostrate tree trunks. Near one of these the ground was littered with shreds of what might have been articles of clothing; and amongst them was a long strip of print, which had a familiar look. He picked it up and examined it closely. Then the truth flashed upon him. It was one of the strings of Marian's sun-bonnet! Holding it loosely between his finger and thumb, he gazed upon the foul green waters of the pond. Did they cover the body of his child? He had no further thought of searching the wood. With a shudder he turned away, and hurried home. Aunt Jemima had bestirred herself, and was moving listlessly about the house. "Jemima, do you know this?" She took the strip of print into her hand. "Yes," she said, "it is----" He finished her sentence. "----the string of her bonnet." "Yes." He told her where he had found it, and showed her the shoe. The pond was dragged, but nothing was discovered. They searched the wood, and scoured the country for miles around; but they came upon no further trace of the missing child. CHAPTER VII. WHAT HAD BECOME OF THE CHILD? When Marian left her father's house, she had but one idea in her mind. Her sole desire was to escape from Aunt Jemima; and it seemed to her that the most effectual method of doing so was to get into the country as fast as she could. It was not likely, she thought, that there would be any Aunt Jemimas in so pleasant a region as she had always understood the country to be. She knew vaguely which direction to take, and supposed that if she kept on long enough, she would ultimately reach her destination. What she would do when she got there she had not paused to think. At present she was simply thrilling with the sweet consciousness of liberty, and enjoying her scamper in the fresh spring morning air. It was not likely, perhaps, that Marian would run right away from home, and stay away. Like any other little chick, she would make for home at roosting time, if hunger did not constrain her to turn her steps thitherward at a much earlier hour. Marian's surmise that the way she had taken led into the country proved to be correct. The street widened out into a road, the houses became fewer and brighter till they ceased altogether; and the child realized, with a little tremor, that, at last, she was out in the country all alone. Her feeling was one of timid joy. All around her were the green fields and waving trees; and the only house in sight was a little white-washed cottage far on in front. It cost Marian an effort to pass a man with a coal cart who presently loomed in view; but when she found that he slouched by without taking any notice of her, she took heart again and tripped blithely on. Presently she found herself opposite to the little white-washed cottage; and she remembered that she had been there once or twice with her father. She would have been better pleased, just now, if the cottage had been on some other road. How could she pass it without being seen? This was plainly impossible; for there was the woman of the house--being the same whom Marian's father met the following morning--hanging out the clothes in the garden, close to the hedge. Marian trotted on, pretending not to know that there was any one near. Then she felt hot all over, as she became aware the woman had seen her, and was calling across the road. But she just gave her dusky little head a determined shake, and pursued her way. The woman, being weighted with an accumulation of domestic cares, without a second thought, and much to her subsequent regret, let the little runaway go by. When Marian had left the cottage out of sight behind, she began to feel lonely, and to be very much afraid. There was not a human being in sight, except herself; and the only dwelling she could see was a farm-house, perched on the top of a hill, away across the fields. She slackened her pace, and looked furtively around. Then she went on more quickly again; but, in a few moments, a slight bend in the road brought before her a sight at which she stopped short and uttered a cry of alarm. An exceedingly ill-favoured man, and a no more prepossessing woman, were sitting upon the bank, by the road-side, discussing a dinner of broken victuals. They were thorough-going tramps, of middle age. Marian would have fled; but their evil eyes held her to the spot. "What a pretty little lady!" said the man, holding out a very dirty hand. "Come here, missy!" But Marian shrank back with a smothered cry. "I've finished my dinner, I have," said the man, getting up. "So have I," echoed the woman, following his example; "and we'll go for a walk with little miss." "What a precious lonely road!" she remarked, when she had glanced this way and that, to make sure that no prying eyes were near. "Catch hold o' the little 'un, Jake; and we'll take a stroll in the fields." There was a perfect understanding between this precious pair; and Marian was promptly lifted over a five-barred gate, and led by the woman across a grass field, towards a wood on the other side, while the man followed stolidly in the rear. A few paces from the gate Marian's shoe came off; but she was as much too frightened to say anything about it, as she was to ask any questions of her captors, or to resist their will. Having reached the wood, they plunged into its recesses, and at length halted before a large pool, at the edge of which there lay upon the ground the trunks of some trees which had been cut down. Taking her seat on one of these, the woman drew Marian to her side, and, while the man stood by with an evil smile, proceeded to strip off some of the child's clothes. Marian began to cry, but was silenced with a rough shake and a threat of being thrown into the pond. Having divested the child of most of her garments, the woman took from a dirty bundle which she carried a draggled grey wool shawl, which she wrapped tightly, crosswise, around Marian's body, and tied in a hard knot behind her back. Perceiving that Marian had lost one of her shoes, the hag sent her husband back to look for it, while she proceeded with the metamorphosis of the hapless infant who had fallen into her hands. She smeared the little face with muddy water from the margin of the pool; she jerked out the semi-circular comb which held back Marian's cloud of dusky hair, and let the thick locks fall in disorder about her head and face; she dragged the little sun bonnet in the green slime at the margin of the pool, and, on pretence of tying it on the child's head, wrenched off one of the strings, which she heedlessly left lying on the ground. At this point the man returned without the missing shoe. "It doesn't matter," said his spouse. "Lend me your knife." She then proceeded to cut and slash Marian's remaining shoe in a most remorseless manner, after which she replaced it on the child's foot, and wrapped around the other foot a piece of dirty rag. "Come now," said the woman, having rolled up Marian's clothes with the rubbish in her bundle; "we wanted a little girl, and you'll just do." So saying, she took tight hold of the child's hand. "I want my daddy!" cried Marian, finding her voice at last. "That's your daddy now," said the woman, pointing to the man: "and I'm your mammy. Come along!" and, with the word, she set off at a vigorous pace, dragging the child, and, followed heavily by her husband, through the wood, and across the field, and then out upon the road, away and away, with their backs turned towards Marian's home. CHAPTER VIII. THE SHOEMAKER BECOMES "GOLDEN." One morning, about twelve years after the disappearance of Marian, there came to her father a great, and almost overwhelming surprise. It is not necessary to dwell on the manner in which the twelve years had passed. Nothing had ever been heard of Marian. The most thorough search was made, but without result; and at length, the stricken father was constrained to accept the conviction that his child was indeed gone from him into the great world, and, bowing his head in the presence of his God, he covered his bruised heart with the fair sheet of a dignified self-control, and settled down to his work again, like a man and a Christian. Yet he did not cease inwardly to grieve. If his child had gone to her dead mother, there would have been strong consolation, and, perhaps, in time, contentment might have come. But she was gone, not to her mother, but out into the cold, pitiless world; and his imagination dwelt grimly on the nameless miseries into which she might fall. Miss Jemima still kept her brother's house; but she had been greatly softened by her self-accusing grief. And now, as the brother and sister sat at breakfast one autumn morning, came the surprise of which we speak. It came in the form of a letter, which, before opening it, "Cobbler" Horn regarded, for some moments, with a dubious air. The arrival of a letter at his house was a rare event; and but for the fact that the missive bore his name and address, he would have thought there was a mistake, and, even now, the addition of the sign, "Esq." to his name left the matter in some doubt. The stoutness of the blue envelope, and the bold character of the handwriting, gave the packet a business-like look. For a moment, "Cobbler" Horn thought of his lost child. A slight circumstance was sufficient, even yet, to re-awaken his hopes; and he still clung to the conviction that, some day, his child would return. The letter, however, contained no reference to the great sorrow of his life; and, indeed, its contents were such that he forgot, for the time being, Marian, and everything else. He looked up with a gasp of astonishment; and then, turning his attention again to the letter, deliberately read it through, and, when he had finished, calmly handed it to his sister. She read a few words, and broke off with a cry. "Thomas!" "Yes, Jemima, I am a rich man, it seems. Read on, and say what you think;" and "Cobbler" Horn rose from his seat, and went quietly into his workshop. Miss Jemima devoured her brother's letter with greedy eyes. It was from a firm of London lawyers, and contained a brief announcement that the rich uncle of "Cobbler" Horn had died, in America, without a will; that "Cobbler" Horn was the lawful owner of all his wealth; and that they, the lawyers, awaited "Cobbler" Horn's commands. Would he call upon them at their office in London, or should they attend him at his private, or any other, address? In the meantime, he would oblige by drawing upon them for any amount of money he might require. With what breath she had left Miss Jemima hurried into her brother's workshop. "Thomas," she demanded, flourishing the letter in his face, "what are you going to do?" "Think," he answered concisely, without looking up from the hob-nailed boot between his knees, "and pray, and get on with my work." "But this letter requires an answer! And," with a glance of disgust around the rough shop with its signs of toil, "you are a rich man now, Thomas." "That," was the quiet reply, "does not alter the fact that I have half-a-dozen pairs of boots to mend, and two of them are promised for dinner-time. Leave me, now, Jemima, and we'll talk the matter over this evening. I don't suppose the gentlemen will be in a hurry." Miss Jemima withdrew as she was bidden, thinking that there was one gentleman, at least, who was not in a hurry. All day long "Cobbler" Horn quietly worked on in the usual way. He did this partly because he loved his work and was loath to give it up, partly because he had so much work on hand, and partly that he might think and pray, which he could always do best on his cobbler's stool. He found it difficult to realize what had taken place; but when, at last, he fairly grasped the fact that he was now a rich man, mingled feelings of joy and dread filled his breast. There was little taint of selfishness in "Cobbler" Horn's joy. It was no gratification to him to be relieved of the necessity to work. Nor was he fascinated with the prospect of luxury. His joy arose chiefly from the thought of the amount of good he would now be able to do. It was impossible that he should form anything like an adequate conception of the vast power for good which had been placed in his hands. The boundless ability to benefit his fellowmen with which he had been so suddenly endowed could not be realized in the first moments of his great surprise, yet he perceived faint glimmerings of possibilities of benevolence beyond his largest-hearted dreams. Thoughts of his long-lost child stole over him ever and anon. If she had been left to him, he would have rejoiced in his good fortune the more, on her account. But she was gone. The joy of "Cobbler" Horn was chastened by a solemn dread. A great responsibility had been laid upon him from which he would have infinitely rather been free. He prayed, with trembling, that he might prove worthy of so great a trust. At dinner-time Miss Jemima questioned her brother as to his intentions. His answers were brief and indefinite. The matter could not be settled in a moment. In the evening they would talk things over, and decide what to do. The evening came, and brother and sister sat before the fire. "Jemima," said "Cobbler" Horn, "I must accept this great responsibility." "You surely did not think of doing anything else?" exclaimed the startled lady. "Well--yes--I did. The burden seemed so great that, for a time, I shrank. But the Lord has shown me my duty. I could have desired that we might have remained as we were. But there is much consolation in the thought of all the good we shall be able to do; and--well, the will of the Lord be done!" Miss Jemima was astounded. Her brother had become rich beyond the dreams of avarice, and he talked of resignation to the will of God! "Then you will answer the letter at once?" she said. "Yes, to-morrow." "And you will go to London?" "Yes, next week, I think." "Next week! Why not this week? It's only Monday." "There is no need to hurry, Jemima. There might be some mistake. And it's as well to give the gentlemen time to prepare." "Lawyers don't make mistakes," said Miss Jemima: "And as for preparing, you may be sure they have done that already." But nothing could induce "Cobbler" Horn to hasten his movements; and his sister was fain to content herself with his promise to write to the lawyers the next day, which he duly fulfilled. CHAPTER IX. A STRANGE CLIENT FOR MESSRS. TONGS AND BALL. The day on which "Cobbler" Horn had proposed to the lawyers to pay them his promised visit, was the following Monday, at three o'clock in the afternoon, and by return of post there came a letter from the lawyers assenting to the arrangement. During the week which intervened, "Cobbler" Horn did not permit either himself or his sister to mention to a third person the change his circumstances had undergone. Nor did he encourage conversation between his sister and himself on the subject of his suddenly acquired wealth. And neither his manner of life nor the ordering of his house gave any indication of the altered position in which he was placed. He did not permit the astounding news he had received to interfere with the simple regularity of his life. Miss Jemima might have been inclined to introduce into her domestic arrangements some outward and visible sign of the altered fortunes of the house; but her brother's will prevailed, and all things continued as before. The "golden shoemaker" even continued to work at his trade in the usual way. And all the time he was thinking--thinking and praying; and many generous purposes, which afterwards bore abundant fruit, began to germinate in his mind. At length the momentous day arrived, and "Cobbler" Horn travelled by an early train to London, and, having dined frugally at a decent eating-house, presented himself in due time at the offices of Messrs. Tongs and Ball. The men of law were both seated in the room into which their new client was shown. One of them was a very little, round, rosy, middle-aged man, with an expression of countenance so cherubic that no one would have suspected him of being a lawyer; and the other was a tall, large-boned, parchment-faced personage, of whom almost any degree of heartlessness might have been believed. The two lawyers rose and bowed as "Cobbler" Horn was shown in. "Mr. Horn?" "Thomas Horn, at your service, gentlemen." "This is Mr. Tongs," said the tall lawyer with a waive of his hand towards his rotund partner; "and I am Mr. Ball," he added, drawing himself into an attitude which caused him to look much more like a bat than a ball, and speaking in a surprisingly agreeable tone. Upon this there was bowing all around, and then a pause. "Pray take a seat, Mr. Horn," besought Mr. Ball. "Cobbler" Horn modestly obeyed. "And now, my dear sir," said Mr. Ball, when he himself and his partner had also resumed their seats, "let us congratulate you on your good fortune." "Thank you, gentlemen," said "Cobbler" Horn gravely. "But the responsibility is very great. I am only reconciled to it by the thought that I shall now be able to do many things that I have long desired to do." "Ah," said Mr. Ball, "it is one of the gratifications of wealth that a man is able to follow his bent--whether it be travelling, collecting pictures, keeping horses, or what not." "Of course," echoed Mr. Tongs. "No, no, gentlemen," dissented "Cobbler" Horn, "I was thinking of the good I shall now be able to do. But let us get to business; for I should be sorry to waste your time." Both lawyers protested. Waste their time! They could not be better employed! "You are very kind, gentlemen." "Not at all," was the candid reply. "You have come into a very large fortune, Mr. Horn," continued Mr. Ball, as he began to untie a bundle of documents. "You are worth very many thousands; in fact you are almost a millionaire. I think I am right, Mr. Tongs?" "Yes," assented Mr. Tongs, "oh yes, certainly." "All the documents are here," resumed Mr. Ball, as he surveyed a sea of blue and white paper which covered the table; "and, with your permission, Mr. Horn, we will give you an account of their contents." The lawyer then proceeded to give his client a statement of the particulars of the fortune of which he had so unexpectedly become possessed. "We hope, Mr. Horn," he said, in conclusion, "that you may do us the honour to continue the confidence reposed in us by your late uncle." "I beg your pardon, sir?" said "Cobbler" Horn. "I ventured to hope that my partner and I might be so fortunate as to retain the management of your affairs. I believe you will find that since--" "Oh yes, of course," "Cobbler" Horn hastened to interpose. He had not dreamt of making any change. The lawyers bowed their thanks. "May we now ask," said Mr. Ball, "whether you have any special commands?" "I think there are one or two requests I should like to make. I have a sister, and I believe my uncle left another nephew." "A sad scrapegrace, my dear sir," interposed Mr. Ball, whose keen legal instinct gave him some scent of what was coming next. "Cobbler" Horn held up his hand. "Can you tell me, gentlemen, whether there are any other relatives of my uncle's who are still alive?" "We have every reason to believe that there are not." "Very well, then, I wish my uncle's property to be divided into three equal portions. One third I desire to have made over to my sister, and another to be reserved for my cousin. The remaining portion I will retain myself." "But, my dear sir," cried Mr. Ball, "the whole of the property is legally yours!" "True," was the quiet reply; "but the law cannot make that right which is essentially wrong, and my sister and cousin are as much entitled to my uncle's money as I am myself." Mr. Ball was dumfounded. "My dear sir," he gasped, "this is very strange!" But "Cobbler" Horn was firm. "You will find this scapegrace cousin of mine?" he asked. The lawyers said they would do their best; and, when some further arrangements had been made, with regard to the property, "Cobbler" Horn took his departure, leaving his two legal advisers to assure one another, as they stood together on the hearthrug, that he was the strangest client they had known. CHAPTER X. MISS JEMIMA IS VERY MUCH ASTONISHED. Miss Jemima Horn was sufficiently curious as to the result of her brother's visit to the lawyers, to render her restlessly eager for his return. He came back the same night. He had work to finish in the cobbling line; and besides he had no fancy for any bed but his own. After supper, the brother and sister sat down before the fire, for the talk to which Miss Jemima had been looking forward all day long. "Well, brother," she queried, "I suppose you've heard all about it?" "Yes, in a general way." "And what is the amount?" "I'm almost afraid to say. The gentlemen said little short of a million!" Miss Jemima threw up her hands with a little jerk of wonder, and gazed at her brother with incredulous surprise. "Where is it all?" was her next enquiry. "Some in England, and some in America." "It's not all in money, of course?" she asked, in doubtful tones. "No," said her brother, opening his eyes: "it's in all sorts of ways. A great deal of it is in house property. There's one whole village--or nearly so." "A whole village!" "Yes, the village of Daisy Lane. It was the family home at one time, you know." This was true. The village of Daisy Lane, in a Midland county, had been the cradle of the race of Horn. "Cobbler" Horn and his sister, however, had never visited the ancestral village. "Well?" queried Miss Jemima. "Well, uncle had a fancy for owning the village; so he bought it up bit by bit." "Only to think!" exclaimed Miss Jemima. "And what else is there?" "Well, there's money in all sorts of forms that I understand very little about." "It's simply wonderful!" declared Miss Jemima. "And then there's the old hall at Daisy Lane. Uncle meant to end his days there; but God has ordered otherwise, you see." "And you will go to live there?" "No," answered her brother, slowly; "I think not, Jemima." "But----" "Sister, I don't think we should be happy in a grand house--at any rate not all at once. But there's something else I want to talk about." Of late years the ascendancy had completely passed from Miss Jemima to her brother; and now, though she would fain have talked further about the old family mansion, she submissively turned her attention to what her brother was about to say. "It is probable, Jemima," he begun, "that there has never been a rich man who had so few relatives to whom to leave his wealth as had our uncle." "Yes: father and Uncle Ira were the only members of Uncle Jacob's family who ever married; and the brothers and sisters are all dead now. We are almost alone in the world." "Except one cousin, you know," said "Cobbler" Horn. "You mean Uncle Ira's scapegrace, Jack. But no one knows where he is. He may be dead for all we know." Somehow Miss Jemima did not seem to desire that there should be any other relatives of her uncle to the front, just now, but her brother and herself. "If Jack is dead," said "Cobbler" Horn, "there will be no more to say. But if he is alive, he must have his share of uncle's money; and I have left it with the legal gentlemen to find him if they can." "Thomas," protested Miss Jemima, "do you think it would be right to hand over uncle's hard-earned money to that poor wastrel?" "His right to the money, Jemima, is as good as ours." "Perhaps so; but I feel convinced that uncle would not have wished for any part of his money to go to Jack. It would be like flinging it into the sea." "Yes; but that cuts both ways, Jemima. Uncle would never have willed his money to me, any more than to Jack. But God has given it to me, and I mean to use it in the way of which I believe He will approve." "And that is not all," he hastily resumed. "I have another relative;" and he directed a look of loving significance towards his sister's face. "Do you think that, if I admit the claim of our poor scapegrace cousin to a share of our uncle's money, I shall overlook the right of the dear sister who has been my stay and comfort all these sorrowing years?" "But--but----" began Miss Jemima, in bewildered tones. "Yes, you are to have your share too, Jemima." "But, brother I don't desire it. If you have the money, it's all the same as though I had it myself." With all her severity, there was not an atom of selfishness in Miss Jemima Horn. "It's all arranged," was her brother's reply. "I instructed the lawyers to divide the property into three equal portions." Miss Jemima, supposing that an arrangement with the lawyers was like the laws of the Medes and Persians, which "altered not," felt compelled to submit; but it was with the understanding that her brother took entire management of her portion of the money, as well as his own. There was little further talk between "Cobbler" Horn and his sister that evening. Their early bed-time had arrived; and "Cobbler" Horn, having read a chapter in the Bible, offered a fervent prayer, in which he asked earnestly that his sister and himself might receive grace to use rightly the great wealth which had been entrusted to their charge. "If we should prove unfaithful, Lord," he said, "take it from us as suddenly as Thou hast given it." "Oh, brother," cried Miss Jemima, as they were going up to bed, "some letters came for you this morning." "Cobbler" Horn took the four or five letters, which his sister was holding out to him, with a bewildered air. "Are they really for me?" he asked. "Small doubt of that," said Miss Jemima. The opening of letters was, as yet, to "Cobbler" Horn, a ceremony to be performed with care. He drew a chair to the table, and deliberately took his seat. He took up the first letter, and, having read it slowly through, placed it in Miss Jemima's eager hand. It was a request, from a "gentleman in distress," for a loan of twenty pounds--a "trifle" to the possessor of so much wealth, but, to the writer "a matter of life or death." "This will never do!" pronounced Miss Jemima; and the lady's lips emitted a gentle whistling sound. "How soon it seems to have got wind!" exclaimed "Cobbler" Horn. "It's been in the papers, no doubt." "So it has," he said; "I saw it myself in a newspaper that I bought this evening, to read in the train. It called me the 'Golden Shoemaker.'" "Ah!" cried Miss Jemima. "I've no doubt it will go the round." The good lady was not greatly averse to such a pleasant publication of the family name. "Well," she resumed, "what do the other letters say?" They were all similar to the first. One was from a man who had invented a new boot sewing-machine, and would take out a patent; another purported to came from a widow with six young children, and begged for a little--ever so little--timely help: and the other two were appeals on behalf of religious institutions. "Penalty of wealth!" remarked Miss Jemima, as she took the letters from her brother's hand. "I suppose I must answer them to-morrow," groaned "Cobbler" Horn. "Answer them!" exclaimed Miss Jemima. "If you take my advice, you'll throw them into the fire. There will be plenty more of the same sort soon. Though," she added thoughtfully, "you'll have to read your letters, I suppose; for there'll be some you'll be obliged to answer." "Well," said "Cobbler" Horn quietly, as they turned to the stairs, "we shall see." CHAPTER XI. "COBBLER" HORN ANSWERS HIS LETTERS, AND RECEIVES THE CONGRATULATIONS OF HIS FRIENDS. When, after a somewhat troubled night, "Cobbler" Horn came down next morning, his attention was arrested by the letters lying, as he had left them, on the table, the night before. "Yes," he said, in answer to his thoughts; "I think I'll deal with them straight away." So saying, he drew a chair to the table, and, having found a few sheets of time-stained note paper, together with a penny bottle of ink, and an old crippled pen, he sat down to his unwelcome task. The undertaking proved even more troublesome than he had thought it would be. The pen persisted in sputtering at almost every word; and when, at crucial points, he took special pains to make the writing legible, the too frequent result was an indecipherable blotch of ink. When the valiant scribe had wrestled with his uncongenial task for half an hour or more, his sister came upon the scene. Quietly she stepped across the floor. "Ah!" she exclaimed, peeping over her brother's shoulder, "so you are answering them already!" "Cobbler" Horn started, and a huge blot fell from his pen into the midst of his half-finished letter. "I'm afraid I shall not be able to send this, now," he said, with a patient sigh. "No," said Miss Jemima, laconically, "I'm afraid not. You are writing to the 'widow,' I see; and you are promising her some help. That's very well. But, in nine cases out of ten, what strangers say of themselves requires confirmation--especially if they are beggars; so don't you think that, before sending money to this 'widow,' it would be as well to ask for the name of some reliable person who will vouch for the truth of her statements? You must not forget, what you often say, you know, that you are the steward of your Lord's goods." This was an argument which was sure to prevail with "Cobbler" Horn. "No doubt you are right, Jemima," he said; "and, however reluctantly, I must take your advice." "That's right," said Miss Jemima. "You haven't answered the other letters?" she then asked, with a glance over the table. "No." "Well, hadn't you better put them away now, and get to your work? After breakfast you must get a new pen and a fresh bottle of ink. Then we'll see what we can do together." In an emergency which demanded the exercise of the practical good sense, of which she had so large a share, Miss Jemima regained, to some extent, her old ascendency over her brother. He quietly gathered up his letters, and, placing them on the chimney-piece, retired to his workshop. At breakfast-time Miss Jemima's prognostication began to receive fulfilment in the arrival of the postman with another batch of letters. This time the number had increased to something like a dozen. Having received them from the hands of the postman, "Cobbler" Horn carried them towards his sister with a somewhat comical air of dismay. "So many!" exclaimed she. "Your cares are accumulating fast. You will have to engage a secretary. Well, we'll look at them by and bye." Scarcely was breakfast over than there came a modest knock at the door, which, on being opened by Miss Jemima, revealed the presence of the elder of the little twin hucksters, who still carried on business across the way. Miss Jemima drew herself up like a sentry; and little Tommy Dudgeon, finding himself confronted by this formidable lady, would have beaten a hasty retreat. But it was too late. "I beg your pardon, ma'am," he began humbly; "I came to see your brother." "I don't know," was the lady's lofty reply. "My brother has much business on hand." "No doubt, ma'am; but--but--" At this point "Cobbler" Horn himself came to the door, and Miss Jemima retreated into the house. "Good morning, Tommy," said "Cobbler" Horn heartily, "step in." "Thank you, Mr. Horn," was the modest reply, "I'm afraid I can't. Business presses, you know. But I've just come to congratulate you if I may make so bold. Brother would have come too; but he's minding the twins. It's washing day, you see. He'll pay his respects another time." John Dudgeon had been married for some years, and amongst the troubles which had varied for him the joys of that blissful state, there had recently come the crowning calamity of twins--an affliction which would seem to have run in the Dudgeon family. "We are glad you have inherited this vast wealth, Mr. Horn," said Tommy Dudgeon. "We think the arrangement excellent. The ways of Providence are indeed wonderful." "Cobbler" Horn made suitable acknowledgment of the congratulations of his humble little friend. "There is only one thing we regret," resumed the little man; "and that is that your change of fortune will remove you to another sphere." "Cobbler" Horn smiled. "Well, well," he said, "we shall see." Whereupon Tommy Dudgeon, feeling comforted, he scarcely knew why, said "Good morning" and ambled back to his shop. About the middle of the morning "Cobbler" Horn and his sister sat down to deal with the letters. First they glanced at those which had arrived that morning, and then laid them aside for the time, until, in fact, they had dealt with those previously received. First came that of the assumed widow, to which Miss Jemima induced her brother to write a cautious reply, asking for a reference. To the man who asked for the loan of twenty pounds, Miss Jemima would have sent no reply at all; but "Cobbler" Horn insisted that a brief but courteous note should be sent to him, expressing regret that the desired loan could not be furnished. It did not need the persuasion of his sister to induce "Cobbler" Horn to decline all dealings with the importunate inventor; but it was with great difficulty that she could dissuade him from making substantial promises to the religious institutions from which he had received appeals. "I think I shall consult the minister about such cases," he said. The investigation of the second batch of letters was postponed until the afternoon. During the morning, and at intervals throughout the day, others of "Cobbler" Horn's neighbours came to offer their congratulations, and were astonished to find him seated on his cobbler's stool, and quietly plying his accustomed task. To their remonstrances he would reply, "You see this work is promised; and if I am rich, I must keep my word. And then the habits of a lifetime are not to be given up in a day. And, to be honest with you, friends, I am in no haste to make the change. I love my work, and would as lief be sitting on this stool as anywhere else in the world." There came some of his poorer customers, who greatly bewailed what they regarded as his inevitable removal from their midst. They could not congratulate him as heartily as they desired. They would rather he had remained the poor, kind-hearted, Christian cobbler whom they had always known. Many a pair of boots had he mended free of charge for customers who could ill afford to pay; not a few were the small debts of poor but honest debtors which he had forgiven; and not seldom had clandestine gifts of money or food found their way from his hands to one or another of these regretful congratulators. Perceiving the grief upon the faces of his friends, "Cobbler" Horn contrived, by means of various hints, to let them know that he would still be their friend, and to remind them that his enrichment would conduce to their more effectual help at his hands. On one point all his visitors were agreed. Great wealth, they said, could not have come to any one by whom it was more thoroughly deserved, or who would put it to a better use. "The Lord," affirmed one quaint individual, "knew what He was about this time, anyhow." In the afternoon, "Cobbler" Horn and his sister set about the task of answering the second batch of letters. They were all, with one exception, of a similar character to those of the first. The exception proved to be a badly-written, ill-spelled, but evidently sincere, homily on the dangers of wealth, and ended with a fierce warning of the dire consequences of disregarding its admonition. It was signed simply--"A friend." "You'll burn that, I should think!" was Miss Jemima's scornful comment on this ill-judged missive. "No," said "Cobbler" Horn, putting the letter into his breast pocket; "I shall keep it. It was well meant, and will do me good." By tea-time their task was finished; and "Cobbler" Horn heaved a sigh of relief as he rose from his seat. But just then the postman knocked at the door, and handed in another and still larger supply of letters, at the sight of which the "Golden Shoemaker" staggered back aghast. The fame of his fortune had indeed got wind. "Ah," exclaimed his sister, who was setting the tea-things, "you'll have to engage a secretary, as I said." CHAPTER XII. "COBBLER" HORN PAYS A VISIT TO HIS LANDLORD. The day following his trip to London "Cobbler" Horn paid a visit to his landlord. His purpose was to buy the house in which he lived. Though he realized that he must now take up his actual abode in a house more suited to his altered circumstances, he wished to retain the possession and use of the one in which he had lived so long. The humble cottage was endeared to him by many ties. Here the best part of his life had been passed. Here his brief but blissful married life had been spent, and here his precious wife had died. Of this house his darling little Marian had been the light and joy; and her blithe and loving spirit seemed to haunt it still. These memories, reinforced by a generous purpose on behalf of the poor neighbours whom he had been wont to help, decided him to endeavour to make the house absolutely his own. "Cobbler" Horn did not tell his sister of his intention with regard to the house. He simply said, after breakfast, that he was going out for an hour; and, though Miss Jemima looked at him very hard, she allowed him to depart unquestioned. "Cobbler" Horn's landlord who was reputed to be enormously rich, lived in one of the most completely hidden parts of the town, which was approached by a labyrinth of very narrow and dirty streets. As "Cobbler" Horn pursued his tortuous way to this secluded abode, he pondered, with some misgiving, the chances that his errand would succeed. He knew his landlord to be a man of stubborn temper and of many whims; and he was by no means confident as to the reception with which his intended proposal would meet. It was characteristic that, as he thought of the difficulties of his enterprise, he prayed earnestly that, if God willed, he might obtain the gratification of his present desire. Then, with growing confidence and quickened step, he proceeded on his way, until, at length, he stood before his landlord's house. The house was a low, dingy building of brick, which stood right across the end of a squalid street, and completely blocked the way. Over the door was a grimy sign-board, on which could faintly be distinguished the vague yet comprehensive legend: "D. FROUD, DEALER." The paint upon the crazy door was blistered and had peeled off in huge mis-shapen patches; the door-step was almost worn in two; the windows were dim with the dust of many years. The door was opened by a withered crone, who, to his question whether Mr. Froud was in, answered in an injured tone, "Yes, he was in; he always was;" and, as she spoke, she half-pushed the visitor into a room on the left side of the entrance, and vanished from the scene. The room was very dark, and it was some time before "Cobbler" Horn could observe the nature of his surroundings. But, by degrees, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he perceived that the centre of the apartment was occupied with an old mahogany table, covered with a litter of books and papers. There stood against the wall opposite to the window an ancient and dropsical chest of drawers. Facing the door was a fire-place, brown with rust, innocent of fire-irons, and piled up with heterogeneous rubbish. The walls and chimney-piece were utterly devoid of ornaments. The paper on the walls was torn and soiled, and even hung in strips. On the chimney-piece were several empty ink and gum bottles, an old ruler, and a further assortment of similar odds and ends. The only provision for the comfort of visitors consisted of two battered wooden chairs. At first "Cobbler" Horn thought he was alone; but, the next moment, he heard himself sharply addressed, though not by name. "Well, it's not rent day yet. What's your errand?" It was a snarling voice, and came from the corner between the window and fire-place, peering in which direction, "Cobbler" Horn perceived dimly the figure of the man he had come to see. Mr. Daniel Froud had turned around from a high desk at which he had been writing in the gloom. How he contrived to see in so dark a corner was a mystery which belonged to the wider question as to the penetrating power of vision in general which he was known to possess. The small boys of the neighbourhood declared that he could see in the dark like a cat. He now moved a step nearer to "Cobbler" Horn, and stood revealed, an elderly, and rather undersized, grizzled, gnarled, and knotted man, dressed in shabby and antiquated clothes. "Good morning, Mr. Froud," said "Cobbler" Horn, extending his hand, "I've come to see you on a little business." "Of course you have," was the angry retort; and taking no notice of his visitor's proffered hand, the man stamped his foot impatiently on the uncarpeted floor. "No one ever comes to see me about anything else but business. And I don't want them to," he added with a grim chuckle. "Well, let us get it done. My time is valuable, if yours is not." "My time also is not without value," was the prompt reply. "I want to ask you, Mr. Froud, if you will sell me the house in which I live." If Daniel Froud was surprised, he completely concealed the fact. "If I would sell it," was his coarse rejoinder, "you, 'Cobbler' Horn, would not be able to buy it." "I am well able to buy the house, Mr. Froud," was the quiet response. Daniel Froud keenly scrutinized his visitor's face. "I believe you think you are telling the truth," he said. "Mending pauper's boots and shoes must be a profitable business, then?" "I have had some money left to me," said "Cobbler" Horn. The interest of Daniel Froud was awakened at once. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "that is it, is it? But sit down, Mr. Horn," and the grizzled reprobate pushed towards his visitor, who had hitherto remained standing, one of his rickety and dust-covered chairs. "Cobbler" Horn looked doubtfully at the proffered seat, and said that he preferred to stand. "If you are willing to sell me the house, Mr. Froud," he said, "name your price. It is not my intention to waste your time." Daniel Froud still pondered. It was no longer a question whether he should sell "Cobbler" Horn the house: he was beginning already to consider how much he should ask for it. "So you really wish to buy the house, Mr. Horn?" he asked. "Such is my desire." "And you think you can pay the price?" "I have little doubt on that point." "Well"--with a sudden jerk forward of his forbidding face--"what do you say to £600?" Unsophisticated as he was, "Cobbler" Horn felt that the proposal was exorbitant. "You are surely joking?" he said. "You think the price too small?" "I consider it much too large." "Well, perhaps I was joking, as you said. What do you think of £500?" "I'm afraid even that is too much. I'll give you £450." Daniel Froud hesitated for some minutes, but at last said, "Well, I'll take your offer, Mr. Horn; but it's a dreadful sacrifice." A few minutes sufficed to complete the agreement; and then, in taking his departure, "Cobbler" Horn administered a word of admonition to his grasping landlord. "Don't you know, friend," he said, "that it is a grievous sin to try to sell anything for more than it is worth? And how contemptible it is to be so greedy of money! It does not seem to me that money is to be so eagerly desired, and especially if it does one no more good than yours seems to be doing you. Good morning, friend; and God give you repentance." Mr. Froud had listened open-mouthed to this plain-spoken homily. When he came to himself, he darted forward, and aimed a blow with his fist, which just failed to strike the back of his visitor, who was in the act of leaving the room. Confronting him in the doorway was the old crone who kept his house. "Was that Horn, the shoemaker?" she asked. "Yes, woman." "Horn as has just come into the fortune?" "Well--somewhat." "'Somewhat!' It's said to be about a million of money! Look here!" and she showed him a begrimed and crumpled scrap of newspaper, containing a full account of "Cobbler" Horn's fortune. With a cry, Daniel Froud seized the woman, and shook her till it almost seemed as though the bones rattled in her skin. "You hell-cat! Why didn't you tell me that before?" The wretched creature fell back panting against the door on the opposite side of the passage. "Daniel Froud," she said, when she had sufficiently recovered her breath, "the next time you do that I shall give you notice." With which dreadful threat, she gathered herself together, and hobbled back to her own quarter of the dingy house, leaving Mr. Froud to bemoan the absurdly easy terms he had made with "the Golden Shoemaker." "If I had only known!" he moaned; "if I had only known!" That evening "Cobbler" Horn told his sister what he had done, and why he had done it; and she held up her hands in dismay. "First," she said, "I don't see why you should have bought the house at all; and, secondly, you have paid far more for it than it is worth." CHAPTER XIII. FREE COBBLERY. "I suppose you'll be looking out for a tenant for this house, when you've found somewhere for us to go?" queried Miss Jemima, at breakfast the next morning. "Well, no," replied her brother, "I think not." "Why," cried Miss Jemima, "I hope we are not to go on living in this poky little place!" "No, that is not exactly my intention, either," said "Cobbler" Horn. "We must, I suppose, remove to another house. But I wish this one to remain very much as it is; I shall want to use it sometimes." "Want to use it sometimes!" echoed Miss Jemima, in a mystified tone. "Yes; you see I don't feel that I can give up my lifelong employment all at once. So I've been thinking that I'll come to the old workshop, now and then, and do a bit of cobbling just for a change." Here he paused, and moved uneasily in his chair. "It wouldn't do to charge anything for my work now, of course," he continued; "so I've made up my mind to do little bits of jobs, now and again, without any pay, for some of the poor people round about, just for the sake of old times, you know." Miss Jemima's hands went up with their accustomed movement of dismay. "Why, that will never do," she cried. "You'll have all the thriftless loons in the town bringing you their boots and shoes to mend." "I must guard against that," was the quiet reply. "Well," continued Miss Jemima, in an aggrieved tone, "I altogether disapprove of your continuing to work as if you were a poor man. But you ought, at least, to make a small charge. Otherwise you will be imposed upon all round." Finding, however, that she could not move her brother from his purpose, Miss Jemima relinquished the attempt. "Well, Thomas," she concluded, "you can never have been intended for this world and its ways. There is probably a vacancy in some quite different one which you ought to have filled." The next few days were largely spent in house hunting; and, after careful investigation, and much discussion, they decided to take, for the present, a pleasantly situated detached villa, which stood on the road leading out past the field where, so many years ago, "Cobbler" Horn had found his little lost Marian's shoe. The nearness of the house to this spot had induced him, in spite of his sister's protest, to prefer it to several otherwise more eligible residences; and he was confirmed in his decision by the fact that the villa was no great distance from the humble dwelling he was so reluctant to leave. They were to have possession at once; and Miss Jemima was permitted to plunge without delay into the delights of buying furniture, engaging servants, and such like fascinating concerns. During these busy days, "Cobbler" Horn himself was absorbed in the arrangements for the rehabilitation of his old workshop. He subjected it to a complete renovation, in keeping with its character and use. A new tile floor, a better window, a fresh covering of whitewash on the walls, and a new coat of paint for the wood-work, effected a transformation as agreeable as it was complete. He kept the old stool; but procured a new and modern set of tools, and furnished himself with a stock of the best leather the market could supply. He had no difficulty in letting his poor customers know of his charitable designs, and he soon had as much work as he could do. As his sister had warned him, he had many applications from those who were unworthy of his help. He did not like to turn any of the applicants away; but he did so remorselessly in every instance in which, after careful investigation, the case broke down, his chief regret being that his gratuitous services were rarely sought by those who needed them most. But this is to anticipate. It was in connection with what was regarded as the _quixotic_ undertaking of Miss Jemima's brother to mend, free of charge, the boots and shoes of his poor neighbours, that he soon became generally known as "Cobbler" Horn. CHAPTER XIV. "THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER" WAITS UPON HIS MINISTER. "Cobbler" Horn's correspondence was steadily accumulating. Every day brought fresh supplies of letters; and the humble cottage was in danger of being swamped by an epistolary inundation, which was the despair of "Cobbler" Horn, and a growing vexation to his sister's order-loving soul. For some time "the Golden Shoemaker" persisted valiantly in his attempt to answer every letter he received. Miss Jemima's scornful disapproval was of no avail. In vain she declared her conviction that every other letter was an imposture or a hoax, and pointed out that, if people wanted their letters answered, they ought to enclose a stamp. Then, for the twentieth time, she repeated her suggestion that a secretary should be engaged. At first her brother waived this proposal aside; but at length it became imperative that help should be sought. "Cobbler" Horn was like a man who attempts, single-handed, to cut his way through a still-accumulating snow-drift. The man must perish, if help do not come; unless "Cobbler" Horn secured assistance in dealing with his letters, it was impossible to tell what his fate might be. It was now simply a question by what means the needed help might best be obtained; and both "Cobbler" Horn and his sister agreed that the wisest thing would be to consult the minister of their church. This, accordingly, "Cobbler" Horn resolved to do. "Cobbler" Horn's minister officiated in a sanctuary such as was formerly called a "chapel," but is now, more frequently designated a "church." His name was Durnford; and he was a man of strongly-marked individuality--a godly, earnest, shrewd, and somewhat eccentric, minister of the Gospel. He was always accessible to his people in their trouble or perplexity, and they came to him without reserve. But surely his advice had never been sought concerning difficulties so peculiar as those which were about to be laid before him by "Cobbler" Horn! It was about ten o'clock on the Monday morning following his visit to the lawyers, that "Cobbler" Horn sat in Mr. Durnford's study, waiting for the minister to appear. He had not long to wait. The door opened, and Mr. Durnford entered. He was a middle-aged man of medium height, with keen yet kindly features, and hair and beard of iron grey. He greeted his visitor with unaffected cordiality. "I've come to ask your advice, sir, under circumstances of some difficulty," said "Cobbler" Horn, when they were seated facing each other before a cheerful fire. This being a kind of appeal to which he was accustomed, the minister received the announcement calmly enough. "Glad to help you, if I can, Mr. Horn," he said. There was a breeziness about Mr. Durnford which at once afforded preliminary refreshment to such troubled spirits as sought his counsel. "Thank you, sir," said "Cobbler" Horn, "I'm sure you will. You have heard of the sudden and unexpected----" "To be sure!" broke in the minister, leaping to his feet, and grasping his visitor's hand, "Pardon me; I quite forgot. Let me congratulate you. Of course it's true?" "Yes, sir, thank you; it's true--too true, I'm afraid." Mr. Durnford laughed. "How if I were to commiserate you, then?" he said. "No, sir," said "Cobbler" Horn gravely, "not that either. It's the Lord's will after all; and it's a great joy to me to be able to do so much that I have long wished to do. It's the responsibility that I feel." "Very good," replied the minister; "such joy is the purest pleasure wealth can give. But the responsibility of such a position as yours, is, no doubt, as you say, very great." "Yes, sir; I feel that I hold all this wealth in trust from God; and I want to be a faithful steward. I am resolved to use my Lord's money exactly as I believe He desires that I should--in fact as He Himself would use it, if He were in my place." "Excellent, Mr. Horn!" exclaimed the minister; "you have spoken like a Christian." "Thank you, sir. But there's another thing; it seems so dreadful that one man should have so much money. Do you know, sir, I'm almost a millionaire?" He made this announcement in very much the same tone in which he would have informed the minister that he was stricken with some dire disease. "Is your trouble so great as that?" asked Mr. Durnford, in mock dismay. "Yes, sir; and it's a very serious matter indeed. It doesn't seem right for me to be so rich, while so many have too little, and not a few nothing at all." "That can soon be rectified," said Mr. Durnford. "Perhaps so, sir; though it may not be so easy as you suppose. But there's another matter that troubles me. I can't think that this great wealth has been all acquired by fair means. Indeed I have only too much reason to suspect that it was not. I feel ashamed that some of the money which my uncle made should have become mine. I feel as though a curse were on it." "Ah!" exclaimed the minister, with a long-drawn sigh, "such feelings do you credit, Mr. Horn; but don't you see that God means you to turn that curse into a blessing?" "Yes; and yet I am almost inclined to wish my uncle had taken his money with him." "Scarcely a charitable wish, from any point of view," said Mr. Durnford, smiling. "It seems to me that nothing could have been better than the arrangement as it stands." "Well, at any rate, I wish it were possible to restore their money to any persons who may have been wronged." "A laudible, but impossible wish, my dear sir; but, though you cannot restore your uncle's wealth to those from whom it may have been wrongfully acquired, you can, in some measure, make atonement for the evil involved in its acquisition, by employing it for the benefit of those in general who suffer and are in need." "Yes," assented "Cobbler" Horn, with emphasis; "if I thought otherwise, every coin of the money that I handled would scorch my fingers to the bone." After this there was a brief silence, and the minister sat back in his chair, with closed eyes, smiling gently. "I beg your pardon," he said, in another moment, starting forward, "I have been thinking of all the good that might be done, if every rich man were like you. But you came to ask my advice?" "Yes, sir," replied "Cobbler" Horn; "and I am keeping you too long." "Not at all, my dear sir! Your visit has refreshed me greatly. Your talk is like a cool breeze on a hot day. It is not often that a millionaire comes to discuss with me the responsibilities of wealth. But let me hear what the peculiar difficulty is of which you spoke." "Well, sir, there is a serious inconvenience involved in my new position, with which I am quite unable to grapple." "Ah," said the minister, raising his eye-brows, "what is that?" "Why it is just the number of letters I receive." "Of course!" cried the minister, with twinkling eyes. "The birds of prey will be upon you from every side; and your being a religious man will, by no means, mitigate the evil." "Ah, I have no doubt you are right, sir! And it's a sort of compliment to religion, isn't it?" "Of course it is," said Mr. Durnford; "and a very beautiful way of looking at it too." "Thank you, sir. Well, there are two sides to my difficulty. First I wish to answer every letter I receive; but I cannot possibly do it myself." "No," said the minister. "But surely many of them need not be answered at all." "Yes, sir, by your leave. My sister says that many of the letters are probably impostures. But you see I cannot tell certainly which are of that kind. She also points out that very few of them contain stamps for reply. But I tell her that a few stamps, more or less, are of no moment to me now." "I don't know," broke in the minister, "which more to admire--your sister's wisdom or your own goodness." "Cobbler" Horn deprecatingly waved his hand. "Now, sir," he resumed, "Jemima advises me to engage a secretary." "Obviously," assented the minister, "that is your best course." "I suppose it is, sir; but I am all at sea, and want your help." "And you shall have it," said the minister heartily. "There are scores of young men--and young women too--who would jump at the chance of such a post as that of your secretary would probably be." "Thank you, sir; but you said young _women_?" "Precisely. Young women often accept, and very efficiently fill, such posts." "Indeed? I don't know how my sister----" "Of course not. But suppose we look for a moment at the other side of your difficulty." "Very well, sir; the other trouble is that I find it hard to decide what answers to send to a good many of the letters. They are mostly applications for money; and it's not easy to tell whether they are genuine. Then there are a great many appeals on behalf of all sorts of good objects. May I venture to hope, sir, that you will give me your advice in these matters?" "With pleasure!" replied Mr. Durnford, with sparkling eyes. "Thank you, sir; thank you very much indeed," said "Cobbler" Horn, greatly relieved. "And will it be too much if I ask you to advise me, in due course, as to the best way of making this money of my uncle's do as much good as possible, in a general way?" "By no means," protested Mr. Durnford, "I am entirely at your service, my dear sir. But now," he added, after a pause, "I've been considering, and I think I can find you a secretary." "Ah! who is he, sir?" "It is she, not he." "But, sir!" "Yes, I know; but this is an exceptional young lady." "A _young_ lady?" "Yes, a capable, well-behaved, Christian young lady. I have known her for a good many years, and would recommend her to anybody. I know she is looking out for such a situation as this. She would serve you well--better than any young man, I know--and would be a most agreeable addition to your family circle. Besides, by engaging my friend, Miss Owen, you would be affording help in a case of real need and sterling merit. The girl has no parents, and has been brought up by some kind friends. But they are not rich, and she will have to make her own way. Now, look here; suppose the young lady were to run down and see you? She lives in Birmingham." "Do you really think it would be advisable?" "Indeed I do. She'll disarm Miss Horn at once. It'll be a case of love at first sight." "Well, sir, let it be as you say." "Then I may write to her without delay?" "If you please, sir." "Pray for me, Mr. Durnford," said "Cobbler" Horn, as he took his leave. "I will, my friend," was the hearty response. "It's not often," resumed "Cobbler" Horn, "that a Christian man is placed in circumstances of such difficulty as mine." The minister laughed heartily and long. "I really mean it, sir," persisted "Cobbler" Horn, with a deprecatory smile. "When I think of all that my having this money involves, I almost wish the Lord had been pleased to leave me in my contented poverty." "My dear friend," said the minister, "that will not do at all. Depend upon it, the joy of using your wealth for the Lord, and for His 'little ones,' will far more than make up for the vanished delights of your departed poverty." CHAPTER XV. "COBBLER" HORN ENGAGES A SECRETARY. On his way home from the minister's house, "Cobbler" Horn was somewhat exercised in his mind as to how he should tell his sister what he had done. He could inform her, without hesitation, that the minister had recommended a secretary; but how should he make known the fact that the commended secretary was a lady? He was not afraid of his sister; but he preferred that she should approve of his doings, and he wished to render his approaching announcement as little distasteful to her as might be. But the difficulty of doing this would be great. It would have been hard to imagine a communication likely to prove more unwelcome to Miss Jemima than the announcement that her brother contemplated the employment of a lady secretary. Nor was the difficulty of the situation relieved by the fact that the lady was young, and possibly attractive. It would have been as easy to impart a delectable flavour to a dose of castor-oil, as to render agreeable to his sister the announcement he must immediately make. Long before he reached home, he relinquished all attempt to settle the difficulty which was agitating his mind. He would begin by telling his sister that the minister had recommended a secretary, and then trust to the inspiration of the moment for the rest. Miss Jemima, encompassed with a comprehensive brown apron, stood at the table peeling the potatoes for dinner. "You've been a long time gone, Thomas," she said complacently--for Miss Jemima was in one of her most amiable moods. "Yes; we found many things to talk about." "Well, what did he say on the secretary question?" "Oh, he has recommended one to me who, he thinks, will do first-rate." "Ah! and who is the young man? For of course he is young; all secretaries are." "The person lives in Birmingham," was the guarded reply, "and goes by the name of Owen." Miss Jemima felt by instinct that her brother was keeping something back. She shot at him a keen, swift glance, and then resumed the peeling of the potato just then in hand, which operation she effected with such extreme care, that it was a very attenuated strip of peeling which fell curling from her knife into the brown water in the bowl beneath. "What is this young man's other name?" she calmly asked. "Well, now, I don't know," said "Cobbler" Horn, with a shrewd smile. "Just like you men!" whipped out Miss Jemima, pausing in her work; "but I suppose, as the minister recommends him, it will be all right." There was nothing for it now but a straightforward declaration of the dreadful truth. "Jemima," said "Cobbler" Horn, "I mustn't mislead you. It's not a young man at all." Miss Jemima let fall into the water, with a sudden flop, the potato she was peeling, and faced her brother, knife in hand, with a look of wild astonishment in her eyes. "Not a young man!" she almost shrieked, "What then?" Her brother's emphasis had been on the word _man_, and not on the word _young_. "Well, my dear," he replied, "a young----in fact, a young lady." Up went Miss Jemima's hands. "Thomas!" "Yes, Jemima; such is the minister's suggestion." Miss Jemima, who had resumed her work, proceeded to dig out the eye of a potato with unwonted prodigality. "Mr. Durnford," resumed "Cobbler" Horn, "tells me it is a common thing for young ladies to be secretaries now-a-days; and he very highly recommended this one in particular." Miss Jemima knew, that if her brother's mind was made up, it would be useless to withstand his will. "When is she coming?" was all she said. "I don't know. Mr. Durnford promised to write and ask her to come and see us first. You shall talk with her yourself, Jemima; and, believe me, if there is any good reason to object to the arrangement, she shall not be engaged." Miss Jemima permitted herself just one other word. "I am surprised at Mr. Durnford!" she said; and then the matter dropped. Two days later, in prompt response to the minister's letter, Miss Owen duly arrived. Mr. Durnford met her at the station, and conducted her to the house of "Cobbler" Horn. He had sent her, in his letter, all needful information concerning "Cobbler" Horn, and the circumstances which rendered it necessary for him to engage a secretary. "They reside at present," he said during the walk from the station, "in a small house, but will soon remove to a larger one." "Cobbler" Horn was busy in his workshop when they arrived; but Miss Jemima was awaiting them in solitary state, in the front-room. The good lady had meant to be forbidding and severe in her reception of the "forward minx," whom she had settled it in her mind the prospective secretary would prove to be. But the moment her eyes beheld Miss Owen she was disarmed. The dark-eyed, black-haired, modestly-attired, and even sober-looking girl, who put out her hand with a very simple movement, and spoke, with considerable self-possession truly, but certainly not with an impudent air, bore but scant resemblance to the "brazen hussey" who had haunted Miss Jemima's mind for the past two days. "Cobbler" Horn came in from his workshop, and greeted the young girl with an honest heartiness which placed her at her ease at once. With almost a cordial air, Miss Jemima invited the visitors to sit down. As Miss Owen glanced a second time around the room, a look of perplexity came into her face. "Do you know, Miss Horn," she said, "your house seems quite familiar to me. I almost feel as if I had been here before. Of course I never have. It's just one of those queer feelings everybody has sometimes, as if what you are going through at the time had all taken place before." She spoke out the thought of her mind with a simple impulsiveness which had its own charm. "No doubt," said Miss Jemima, with a start; but she was deterred from further remark by Mr. Durnford's rising from his seat. "I think I'll leave you," he said, "and call for Miss Owen in--say a quarter of an hour. With your permission, Mr. Horn, she will sleep at our house to-night." "Don't go, sir," said "Cobbler" Horn. "Your presence will be a help to us on both sides." It needed no further pursuasion to induce the minister to remain: with his assistance, "Cobbler" Horn soon came to terms with the young lady; and, as, upon a hint conveyed in the letter she had received from the minister, she had come to Cottonborough prepared, if necessary, to remain, it was arranged that she should commence her duties on the following day. "And would it not be as well for her to come to us to-night?" asked "Cobbler" Horn. "The sooner she begins to get used to us the better. And she can still spend the evening with you, Mr. Durnford." The minister looked enquiringly at Miss Owen, "What do you say, my dear?" "I am entirely in your hands, sir, and those of Mr. Horn." "Well," said Mr. Durnford, "if you really wish it. Mr. Horn, Miss Owen shall come to you to-night." And thus it was arranged. CHAPTER XVI. THE ATTACK ON THE CORRESPONDENCE. When "Cobbler" Horn's secretary awoke next morning, she experienced a return of the feeling of familiarity with her surroundings of which she had been conscious on first entering the house. The little white-washed bedroom, with its simple furniture, seemed like a vision of the past. She had a dreamy impression that she had slept in this little white room many times before. There was, in particular, a startling appearance of familiarity in a certain picture which hung upon the wall, beyond the foot of the bed. It was an old-fashioned coloured print, in a black frame, and represented Jacob's dream. For a long time she gazed at the picture. Then she gave herself a shake, and sighed, and laughed a low, pathetic little laugh. "What nonsense!" she thought. "As if I could ever have been here before, or set eyes on the picture! Though I may have seen one like it somewhere else, to be sure." Then she roused herself, and got out of bed. But when, having dressed, she went downstairs, the same sense of familiarity with her surroundings surged over her again. The boxed-up staircase seemed to her a not untrodden way; and when she emerged in the kitchen at its foot, and saw the round deal table spread for breakfast with its humble array, she almost staggered at the familiarity of the scene. "Cobbler" Horn was in his workshop, and Miss Jemima had gone into the yard; and, as the young girl gazed around the humble room it seemed, in some strange fashion, to have belonged to her past life. The very tap-tap of "Cobbler" Horn's hammer, coming cheerily from the workshop behind, awoke weird echoes in her brain, and helped to render her illusion complete. All breakfast-time she felt like one in a dream. She seemed to be drifting into a new life, which was not new but old; and she almost felt as if she had _come home_. She was utterly unable to imagine what might be the explanation of this strange experience. She had not a glimmering of the actual truth. She struggled against the feeling which possessed her, and partly overcame it; but it returned again and again during her stay in the house, though with diminished force. After breakfast, "Cobbler" Horn invited his secretary to attack the accumulated mass of letters which waited for despatch. "You see, Miss Owen," he said in half-apology for asking her to begin work so soon, "the pile gets larger every day; and, if we don't do something to reduce it at once, it will get altogether beyond bounds." Miss Owen turned her sparkling dark eyes upon her employer. "Oh, Mr. Horn," she exclaimed, as she took her seat at the table, "the sooner we get to work the better! I did not come here to play, you know." "Cobbler" Horn poured an armful of unanswered letters down upon the table, in front of his ardent young secretary. "There's a snow-drift for you, Miss Owen!" he said. "Thank you, sir," was the cheery response, "we must do our best to clear it away." Miss Owen was already beginning to feel quite at home with "Cobbler" Horn; and she even ventured at this point, to rally him on the dismay with which he regarded his piles of letters. "Don't you think, sir," she asked, with a radiant smile, "that a little sunshine might help us?" "Cobbler" Horn started, and glanced towards the window. The morning was dull. "Yes," he said; "but we can't command----" Then he perceived her meaning, and broke off with a smile. "To be sure; you are right, Miss Owen. It is wrong of me to be wearing such a gloomy face. But you see this kind of thing is all so new and strange to me; and you need not wonder that I am dismayed." "No," replied the secretary, with just the faintest little touch of patronage in her tone; "it's not surprising in your case. But I am not dismayed. Answering letters has always been my delight." "That's well," said "Cobbler" Horn, gravely; "And I think you will have to supply a large share of the 'sunshine' too, Miss Owen." "I'll try," she replied, simply, with a beaming smile; and she squared her shapely arms, and bent her dusky head, and set to work with a will, while "Cobbler" Horn, regarding her from the opposite side of the table, was divided between two mysteries, which were, how she could write so fast and well, and what it was which made him feel as if he had known her all his life? Most of the letters contained applications for money. Some few were from the representatives of well-known philanthropic societies; many others were appeals on behalf of local charities or associations; and no small proportion were the applications of individuals, who either had great need, or were very cunning, or both. The private appeals were of great variety. "Cobbler" Horn was amazed to find how many people were at the point of despair for want of just the help that he was able to give. It was past belief how large a number of persons he had the opportunity of saving from ruin, and with how small a sum of money, in each case, it might be done. What a manifold disclosure of human misery and despair those letters were, or seemed to be! Some of them, doubtless, had been written with breaking hearts, and punctuated with tears; but which? "I had no idea there was so much trouble in the world!" cried "Cobbler" Horn, in dismay. "Perhaps there is not quite so much as your letters seem to imply, sir," suggested the secretary. "You think not?" queried "Cobbler" Horn. "I feel sure of it," said the young girl, with a knowing shake of her head. "But we must do our best to discriminate. I should throw some of these letters into the fire at once, if I were you, Mr. Horn." "But they must be answered first!" "Must they, sir? Every one?" enquired the secretary, arching her dark eye-brows. "Why it will cost you a small fortune in stamps, Mr. Horn!" "But you forget how rich I am, Miss Owen. And I would rather be cheated a thousand times, than withhold, in a single instance, the help I ought to give." "Well, Mr. Horn, I'm your secretary, and must obey your commands, whether I approve of them or not." She spoke with a merry trill of laughter; and "Cobbler" Horn, far from being offended, shot back upon her a beaming smile. They took the letters as they came. Concerning some of the applications, "Cobbler" Horn felt quite able to decide himself. Appeals from duly-accredited philanthropic institutions received from him a liberal response, and so large were some of the amounts that the young secretary felt constrained to remonstrate. "You forget," he replied, "how much money I've got." "But--excuse me, sir--you seem resolved to give it all away!" "Yes, almost," was the calm reply. There was but little difficulty, moreover, in dealing with the applications on behalf of local interests. It was the private appeals which afforded most trouble. Every case had to be strenuously debated with Miss Owen, who maintained that not one of these importunate correspondents ought to be assisted, until "Cobbler" Horn had satisfied himself that the case was one of actual necessity, and real merit. By dint of great persistency, she succeeded in convincing her employer that many of these private appeals were not worthy of a moment's consideration. To each of the writers of these a polite note of refusal was to be despatched. With regard to the rest, it was decided that an application for references should be made. "I shall have to be your _woman_ of business, Mr. Horn," said Miss Owen, "as well as your secretary; and, between us, I think we can manage." She felt that there was a true Christian work for her in doing what she could to help this poor embarrassed Christian man of wealth. "Cobbler" Horn was enraptured with his secretary. She seemed to be fitting herself into a vacant place in his life. It appeared the most natural thing in the world that she should be there writing his letters. If his little Marian had not gone from him years ago, she might have been his secretary now. He sighed at the thought; and then, as he looked across at the animated face of Miss Owen, as she bent over her work, and swept the table with her abundant tresses, he was comforted in no small degree. Miss Jemima's respect for the proprieties, rendered her reluctant to absent herself much from the room where her brother and his engaging young secretary sat together at their interesting work; and she manifested, from time to time, a lively interest in the progress of their task. CHAPTER XVII. A PARTING GIFT FOR "THE LITTLE TWIN BRETHREN." The honest joy of "the little twin brethren" at the sudden enrichment of their friend, "Cobbler" Horn, was dashed with a deep regret. It was excellent that he had been made a wealthy man. As Tommy Dudgeon expressed it, "Providence had not made a mistake this time, anyhow." But, in common with the rest of "Cobbler" Horn's neighbours, the two worthy little men bitterly deplored the inevitable departure of their friend from their midst. It was "not to be supposed," said Tommy again--it was always Tommy who said things; to John had been assigned the honour of perpetuating the family name--it was "not to be supposed that a millionaire would live in a small house, in a narrow street, remain at the cobbler's bench, or continue to associate with poor folks like themselves." The little hucksters considered it a matter of course that "Cobbler" Horn would shortly remove to another and very different abode, and they mourned over the prospect with sincere and bitter grief. The little men had good reason for their sorrow, for to none of all his poor neighbours had "Cobbler" Horn been a better friend. And their regret in view of his approaching removal was fully reciprocated by "Cobbler" Horn himself. Of all the friends, in the network of streets surrounding his humble abode, whom he had fastened to his heart with the golden hooks of love, there were none whom he held more closely there than the two little tradesmen across the way. His intercourse with them had been one of the chief refreshments of his life; and he knew that he would sadly miss his humble little friends. And now the time had come for the removal, and the evening previous to the departure from the old home, "the Golden Shoemaker" paid his last visit, in the capacity of neighbour, to the worthy little twins. He had long known that they had a constant struggle to make their way. He had often assisted them as far as his own hitherto humble means would allow; and now, he had resolved that before leaving the neighbourhood, he would make them such a present as would lift them, once for all, out of the quagmire of adversity in which they had floundered so long. At six o'clock, on that autumn evening, it being already dusk, "Cobbler" Horn opened his front door, and stood for a moment on the step. Miss Jemima and the young secretary were both out of the way. If Miss Jemima had known where her brother was going and for what purpose, she would have held up her hands in horror and dismay, and might even, had she been present, have tried to detain him in the house by main force. "Cobbler" Horn lingered a moment on the door-step, with the instinctive hesitation of one who is about to perform an act of unaccustomed magnitude; but his soul revelled in the thought of what he was going to do. He was about to exercise the gracious privilege of the wealthy Christian man; and, as he handled a bundle of crisp bank-notes which he held in the side pocket of his coat, his fingers positively tingled with rapture. The street was very quiet. A milk girl was going from door to door, and the lamplighter was vanishing in the distance. Yet "Cobbler" Horn flitted furtively across the way, as though he were afraid of being seen; and, having glided with the stealth of a burglar through the doorway of the little shop, found himself face to face with Tommy Dudgeon. The smile of commercial satisfaction, which had been summoned to the face of the little man by the consciousness that some one was coming into the shop, resolved itself into an air of respectful yet genial greeting when he recognised "Cobbler" Horn. "Ah, good evening, Mr. Horn! You said you would pay us a farewell visit, and we were expecting you. Come in, sir." "Cobbler" Horn followed his humble conductor into the small but cosy living-room behind, which the large number of its occupants caused to appear even smaller than it was. John Dudgeon was there, and Mrs. John, and several offshoots of the Dudgeon tree. Mrs. Dudgeon was ironing at a table beneath the one small window, in the fading light. She was a staid and dapper matron, with here and there the faintest line of care upon her comely face. A couple of the children were rolling upon the hearthrug in the ruddy glow of the fire, and two or three others were doing their home-lessons by the aid of the same unsteady gleam. The father, swept to one side by the surges of his superabundant family, sat on a chair at the extreme corner of the hearthrug, with both the twins upon his knees. "Cobbler" Horn was greeted with the cordiality due to an old family friend. Even the children clustered around him and clung to his arms and legs. Mrs. John, as she was invariably called--possibly on the assumption that Tommy Dudgeon also would, in due time, take a wife, cleared the children away from the side of the hearth opposite to her husband, and placed a chair for the ever-welcome guest. Tommy Dudgeon, who had slipped into the shop to adjust the door-bell, so that he might have timely notice of the entrance of a customer, soon returned, and placing a chair for himself between his brother and "Cobbler" Horn, sat down with his feet amongst the children, and his gaze fixed on the fire. For a time there was no sound in the room but the click of Mrs. John's iron, as it travelled swiftly to and fro. Even the children were preternaturally quiet. At length Tommy spoke, in sepulchral tones, with his eyes still on the fire. "Only to think that it's the last time!" "What's the last time, friend?" asked "Cobbler" Horn, with a start. "Why this--that we shall see you sitting there so sociable like, Mr. Horn." "Indeed, I hope not," was the hearty response. "You're not going to get rid of me so easily as that, old friend." "Why," exclaimed Tommy, "I thought you were going to remove; and I'm sure no one could find fault with it." "Yes: but you surely don't suppose I'm going to turn my back on my old neighbours altogether?" "What you say is very kind," replied Tommy; "but, Mr. Horn, we can't expect to see you very often after this." "Well, friend, perhaps oftener than you think." Then he told them that he had bought the house in which he had lived amongst them, and meant to keep it up, and come there almost every day to mend boots and shoes, without charge for his poor customers. "Well, to be sure!" exclaimed Tommy Dudgeon, while John chuckled exultantly to the twins, and Mrs. John moved her iron more vigorously to and fro, and hastily raised her hand to brush away a grateful and admiring tear. Meanwhile "Cobbler" Horn was considering how he might most delicately disclose the special purpose of his visit. "But after all," he said at length, "this is a farewell visit. I'm going away, and, after to-morrow, I shall not be your neighbour any more." For some moments his hand had been once more in his pocket, fingering the bank-notes. He now drew them forth very much in the way in which a man entrapped into a den of robbers might draw a pocket-pistol, and smoothed them out upon his knee. "I thought, old friend," he said, turning to Tommy Dudgeon, "that perhaps you might be willing to accept a trifling memento of our long acquaintance. And, indeed, you mustn't say no." John Dudgeon was too deeply engaged with the twins to note what was said; Tommy but dimly perceived the drift of his friend; but upon Mrs. John the full truth flashed with the clearness of noon. The next moment the notes were being transferred to the hands of the astonished Tommy. John was still absorbed with his couple of babies. Mrs. John was ironing more furiously than ever. Tommy felt, with his finger and thumb, that there were many of the notes; and he perceived that he and his were being made the recipients of an act of stupendous generosity. Tears trickled down his cheeks; his throat and tongue were parched. He tried to thrust the bank-notes back into the hand of his friend. "Mr. Horn, you must not beggar yourself on our account." "Cobbler" laughed. In truth, he was much relieved. It seemed that his humble friend objected to his gift only because he thought it was too large. "'Beggar' myself, Tommy?" he cried. "I should have to be a very reckless spendthrift indeed to do that. You forget how dreadfully rich I am. Why these paltry notes are a mere nothing to such a wealth-encumbered unfortunate as I. But I thought the money would be a help to you. And you must take it, Tommy, you must indeed. The Lord told me to give it to you; and what shall I say to Him, if I allow you to refuse His gift?" And so the generous will of "the Golden Shoemaker" prevailed; and if he could have heard and seen all that took place by that humble fireside, after he was gone, he would have been assured that at least one small portion of his uncle's wealth had been well-bestowed. CHAPTER XVIII. THE NEW HOUSE. "Cobbler" Horn's new house, which was situated, as we have seen, on one of the chief roads leading out of the town, marked almost the verge, in that direction, of the straggling fringe of urban outskirts. Beyond it there was only the small cottage in which had lived, and still resided, the woman who had seen Marian as she trotted so eagerly away into the great pitiless world. "Cobbler" Horn had not deliberately set himself to seek a house upon this road. But, when he found there a residence to let which seemed to be almost exactly the kind of dwelling he required, the fact that it was situated in a locality so tenderly associated with the memory of his lost child, in no degree diminished his desire to make it his abode. "It was here that she went by," he said softly to himself, at the close of their visit of inspection, as he stood with Miss Jemima at the gate; "and it was yonder that she was last seen." What were Miss Jemima's thoughts, as she followed, with her eyes, the direction of her brother's gaze, may not be known; for an unwonted silence had fallen on her usually ready tongue. It was a good house, with a pleasant lawn in front, and a yard, containing coach-house and stables, behind. The house itself was well-built, commodious, and fitted with all the conveniences of the day. As most of the furniture was new, the removal of the family was not a very elaborate process. In this, as in all other things, "Cobbler" Horn found that his money secured him the minimum of trouble. He had simply given a few orders--which his sister, it is true, had supplemented with a great many more--; and, when the day of removal came, they found themselves duly installed in a house furnished with a completeness which left nothing to be desired. On their arrival, they were received in the hall by three smiling maids, a coachman, and a boy in buttons. "The Golden Shoemaker" almost staggered, as the members of his domestic staff paid due homage to their master. He half-turned to his sister, and saw that, she, unlike himself, was not taken by surprise. Then he hastily returned the respectful salutations of the beaming group, and passed into the house. It was afternoon when the removal took place, and the remainder of the day was spent in inspecting the premises, and settling down. With the aid of his indefatigable secretary, "Cobbler" Horn had disposed of his morning's letters before leaving the old house, and, as it happened, the later mails were small that day. Miss Jemima stepped into her new position as mistress of a large establishment with ease and grace; and, assisted by the young secretary, who was fast gaining the goodwill of her employer's sister, was already giving to the house, by means of a few slight touches here and there, that indescribable air of homeliness which money cannot buy, and no skill of builder or upholsterer can impart. To "Cobbler" Horn himself that evening was a restless time. He felt himself to be strangely out of place; and he was almost afraid to tread upon the thick soft carpets, or to sit upon the luxurious chairs. And yet he smiled to himself, as he contrasted his own uneasiness with the complacency with which his sister was fitting herself into her place in their new sphere. Under the guidance of the coachman, "Cobbler" Horn inspected the horses and carriages. The coachman, who was the most highly-finished specimen of his kind who could be obtained for money, treated his new master with an oppressive air of respect. "Cobbler" Horn would have preferred a more familiar bearing on the part of his gorgeously-attired servant; but Bounder was obdurate, for he knew his place. His only recognition of the somewhat unusual sociability of his master, was to touch his hat with a more impressive action, and to impart a still deeper note of respect to the tones of his voice. His bearing implied a solemn rebuke. It was as though he said, "If you, sir, don't know your place, I know mine." "The Golden Shoemaker," having completed his survey of his new abode and its surroundings, realized more fuller than hitherto the change his circumstances had undergone. The old life was now indeed past, and he was fairly launched upon the new. Well, by the help of God, he had tried to do his duty in the humble sphere of poverty; and he would attempt the same in the infinitely more difficult position in which he was now placed. Entering the house by the back way, he paused and lingered regretfully for a moment at the kitchen door. One of the maids perceived his hesitation, and wondered if master was of the interfering kind. He dispelled her alarm by passing slowly on. After supper, in the dining-room, Miss Jemima handed the old family Bible to her brother, and he took it with a loving grasp. Here, at least, was a part of the old life still. "Shall I ring for the servants?" asked Miss Jemima. "By all means," said her brother, with a slight start. Miss Jemima touched the electric bell, with the air of one who had been in the habit of ringing for servants all her life. In quick response, the door was opened; and the maids, the coachman, and the boy, who had all been well schooled by Miss Jemima, filed gravely in. The ordeal through which "Cobbler" Horn had now to pass was very unlike the homely family prayer of the old life. He performed his task, however, with a simplicity and fervour with which the domestics were duly impressed; and when it was over he made them a genial yet dignified little speech, and wished them all a hearty good night. "Brother," Miss Jemima ventured to remark, when the servants were gone, "I am afraid you lean too much to the side of familiarity with the servants." "Sister," was the mildly sarcastic response, "you are quite able to adjust the balance." Amongst the few things which were transferred from the old house to the new, was a small tin trunk, the conveyance of which Miss Jemima was at great pains personally to superintend. It contained the tiny wardrobe of the long lost child, which the sorrowing, and still self-accusing, lady had continued to preserve. It is doubtful whether "Cobbler" Horn was aware of his sister's pathetic hoard; but there were two mementos of his lost darling which he himself preserved. For the custody of papers, deeds, and other valuables, he had placed in the room set apart as his office, a brand new safe. In one of its most secure recesses he deposited, with gentle care, a tiny parcel done up in much soft paper. It contained a mud-soiled print bonnet-string, and a little dust-stained shoe. "They will never be of any more use to her," he had said to himself; "but they may help to find her some day." CHAPTER XIX. A TALK WITH THE MINISTER ABOUT MONEY. "Cobbler" Horn knew his minister to be a man of strict integrity and sound judgment; and it was with complete confidence that he sought Mr. Durnford's advice with regard to those of his letters with which his secretary and himself were unable satisfactorily to deal. The morning after the removal to the new house, he hastened to the residence of the minister with a bundle of such letters in his pocket. Mr. Durnford read the letters carefully through, and gave him in each case suitable advice; and then "Cobbler" Horn had a question to ask. "Will you tell me, sir, why you have not yet asked me for anything towards any of our own church funds?" "Well," replied the minister, with a shrewd twinkle in his eye, "you see, Mr. Horn, I thought I might safely leave the matter to your generosity and good sense." "Thank you, sir. Well, I am anxious that my own church should have its full share of what I have to give. Will you, sir," he added diffidently, "kindly tell me what funds there are, and how much I ought to give to each." As he spoke, he extracted from his pocket, with some difficulty, a bulky cheque-book, and flattened it out on the table with almost reverent fingers; for he had not yet come to regard the possession of a cheque-book as a commonplace circumstance of his life. "That's just like you, Mr. Horn," said the minister, with glistening eyes. He was a straightforward man, and transparent as glass. He would not manifest false delicacy, or make an insincere demur. "There are plenty of ways for your money, with us, Mr. Horn," he added. "But what is your wish? Shall I make a list of the various funds?" Mr. Durnford drew his chair to his writing-table, as he spoke, and took up his pen. "If you please, sir," said "Cobbler" Horn. No sooner said than done; and in a few moments the half-sheet of large manuscript paper which the minister had placed before him was filled from top to bottom with a list of the designations of various religious funds. "Thank you, sir," said "Cobbler" Horn, glancing at the paper. "Will you, now, kindly set down in order how much you think I ought to give in each case." With the very slightest hesitation, and in perfect silence, Mr. Durnford undertook this second task; and, in a few minutes, having jotted down a specific amount opposite to each of the lines in the list, he handed the paper again to "Cobbler" Horn. Mr. Durnford's estimate of his visitor's liberality had not erred by excess of modesty; and he was startled when he mentally reckoned up the sum of the various amounts he had set down. But "Cobbler" Horn's reception of the list startled him still more. "My dear sir," said "the Golden Shoemaker," with a smile, "I'm afraid you do not realize how very rich I am. This list will not help me much in getting rid of the amount of money of which I shall have to dispose, for the Lord, every year. Try your hand again." Mr. Durnford asked pardon for the modesty of his suggestions, and promptly revised the list. "Ah, that is better," said "Cobbler" Horn. "The subscriptions you have set down may stand, as far as the ordinary funds are concerned; but now about the debt fund? What is the amount of the debt?" "Two thousand pounds." "Well, I will pay off half of it at once; and, when you have raised two-thirds of the rest, let me know." "Thank you, sir, indeed!" exclaimed the minister, almost smacking his lips, as he dipped his pen in the ink, and added this munificent promise to the already long list. "It is a mere nothing," said "Cobbler" Horn. "It is but a trifling instalment of the debt I owe to God on account of this church, and its minister. But you are beginning to find, Mr. Durnford, that I am rather eccentric in money matters?" "Delightfully so!" exclaimed the minister. "Well, the right use of money has always been a point with me. Even in the days when I had very little money through my hands, I tried to remember that I was the steward of my Lord. It was difficult, then, to carry out the idea, because it often seemed as though I could not spare what I really thought I ought to give. My present difficulty is to dispose of even a small part of what I can easily spare." "Ah!" exclaimed the minister, in whose face there was an expression of deep interest. "Now," resumed "Cobbler" Horn, "will you, Mr. Durnford, help me in this matter? Will you let me know of any suitable channels for my money of which you may, from time to time, be aware?" "You may depend upon me in that, my dear sir," said the minister, with gusto. "Thank you, sir!" exclaimed "the Golden Shoemaker," as fervently as though his minister had promised to make him acquainted with chances of gaining money, instead of letting him know of opportunities of giving it away. "And now I think of it, Mr. Durnford, I should like to place in your hands a sum for use at your own discretion. You must meet with many cases of necessity which you would not care to mention to the authorities of the church; and it would be a distinct advantage to you to have a sum of money for use in such instances absolutely at your own command. Now I am going to write you a cheque for fifty pounds to be used as you think fit; and when it is done, you shall have more." "Mr. Horn!" exclaimed the startled minister. "Yes, yes, it's all right. All the money I've promised you this morning is a mere trifle to me. And now, with your permission, I'll write the cheques." Why "Cobbler" Horn should not have included the whole amount of his gifts in one cheque it is difficult to say. Perhaps he thought that, by writing a separate cheque for the last fifty pounds, he would more effectually ensure Mr. Durnford's having the absolute disposal of that amount. The writing of the cheques was a work of time. "There, sir," said "Cobbler" Horn, at last, as he handed the two precious slips of paper across the table, "I hope you will find them all right." "Thank you, Mr. Horn, again and again," said the minister, as he folded up the cheques and placed them in his pocket-book; "they are perfectly right, I am sure." "Has it occurred to you," he continued, "that it would be well if you were systematic in your giving?" "Yes; and I intend systematically to give away as much as I can." "But have you thought of fixing what proportion of your income you will give? Not," added the minister, laughing, "that I am afraid lest you should not give away enough." "Oh yes," responded "Cobbler" Horn, laughing in his turn; "I have decided to give proportionately; and the proportion I mean to give is almost all I've got." "I see you are incorrigible," laughed Mr. Durnford. "You'll find that I am. But now--" and "Cobbler" Horn regarded his minister with an expression of modest, friendly interest in his face--"I'm going to write another cheque." "You must be fond of the occupation, Mr. Horn." "Cobbler" Horn's enrichment had not, in any degree, caused the cordiality of his relations with his minister to decline. There was nothing in "Cobbler" Horn to encourage sycophancy; and there was not in Mr. Durnford a particle of the sycophant. "I believe I don't altogether dislike it, sir," assented "Cobbler" Horn in response to the minister's last remark. "But," he added, handing to him the cheque he had now finished writing, "will you, my dear sir, accept that for yourself? Your stipend is far too small; and I know Mrs. Durnford's illness in the spring must have been very expensive. Don't say no, I beg of you; but take it----as a favour to me." He had risen from his seat, and the next moment, with a hurried "good morning," he was gone, leaving the astonished minister in possession of a cheque for one hundred pounds! CHAPTER XX. "COBBLER" HORN'S VILLAGE. It was the custom of "Cobbler" Horn to spend the first hour of every morning, after breakfast, in the office, with his secretary. They would go through the letters which required attention; and, after he had given Miss Owen specific directions with regard to some of them, he would leave her to use her own discretion with reference to the rest. Amongst the former, there were frequently a few which he reserved for the judgment of Mr. Durnford. It was the duty of the young secretary to scan the letters which came by the later posts; but none of them were to be submitted to "Cobbler" Horn until the next morning, unless they were of urgent importance. One morning, about a week after the removal to the new house, the office door suddenly opened, and "Cobbler" Horn emerged into the hall in a state of great excitement, holding an open letter in his hand. "Jemima!" he shouted. The only response was a sound of angry voices from the region of the kitchen, amidst which he recognised his sister's familiar tones. Surely Jemima was not having trouble with the servants! Approaching the kitchen door, he pushed it slightly open, and peeped into the room. Miss Jemima was emphatically laying down the law to the young and comely cook, who stood back against the table, facing her mistress, with the rolling-pin in her hand, and rebellion in every curve of her figure and in every feature of her face. "You are a saucy minx," Miss Jemima was saying, in her sharpest tones. "'Minx' yourself," was the pert reply. "No mistress shan't interfere with me and my work, as you've done this last week. If you was a real lady, you wouldn't do it." "You rude girl, I'll teach you to keep your place." "Keep your own," rapped out the girl; "and it 'ull be the better for all parties. As for me, I shan't keep this place, and I give you warning from now, so there!" At this moment, the girl caught sight of her master's face at the door, and flinging herself around to the table, resumed her work. Miss Jemima, in her great anger, advanced a pace or two, with uplifted hand, towards the broad back of her rebellious cook: "Cobbler" Horn, observing the position of affairs, spoke in emphatic tones. "Jemima, I want you at once." Miss Jemima started, and then, without a word, followed her brother to the dining-room. "Brother," she said, snatching, in her anger, the first word, "that girl has insulted me grossly." "Yes, Jemima, I heard; but try to forget it for a moment. I have great news for you. This letter is about cousin Jack." In a moment Miss Jemima had forgotten her insubordinate cook. "So the poor creature is found!" she said when she had taken, and read, the letter. "Yes, and he proves to be in a condition which will render doubly welcome the good news he will shortly receive." "Then you persist in your intention to hand over to him a share of uncle's money?" "To be sure I do!" "Well," retorted Miss Jemima, somewhat acrimoniously, "it's a pity. That portion of the money will be dispersed in a worse manner even than it was gathered." "Don't say that, Jemima," said her brother gravely. "Well," asked Miss Jemima, dispensing with further protest, "what are you going to do?" "The first thing is to see Messrs. Tongs and Ball. You see they ask me to do so. I can't get away to-day. To-morrow I am to visit our village, you know; and, as it is on the way to London, the best plan will be to go on when I am so far." So it was settled, and Miss Owen was instructed to write the lawyers, saying that Mr. Horn would wait upon them on the morning of the third day from that time. The next morning, "Cobbler" Horn, having invested his young secretary with full powers in regard to his correspondence, during his absence, set off by an early train for Daisy Lane, en route for London. He had but a vague idea as to the village of which he was the chief proprietor. He was aware, however, that his property there, including the old hall itself, was, to quote Mr. Ball, "somewhat out of repair"; and he rejoiced in the prospect of the opportunity its dilapidation might present of turning to good account some considerable portion of his immense wealth. It was almost noon when the train stopped at the small station at which he was to alight. He was the only passenger who left the train at that station; and, almost before his feet had touched the platform, he was greeted by a plain, middle-aged man, of medium height and broad of build, whose hair was reddish-brown and his whiskers brownish-red, while his tanned and glowing face bore ample evidence of an out-door life. He had the appearance of a good-natured, intelligent, and trustworthy man. This was John Gray, the agent of the property; and "Cobbler" Horn liked him from the first. "It's only a mile and a half to the village sir," said the man, as they mounted the trap which was waiting outside the station; "and we shall soon run along." The trap was a nondescript and dilapidated vehicle, and the horse was by no means a thoroughbred. But the whole turn-out was faultlessly clean. "It's rather a crazy concern, sir," said Mr. Gray candidly. "But you needn't be afraid. It will hold together for this time, I think." "Cobbler" Horn smiled somewhat sadly, as he mounted to his seat. Here was probably an instalment of much with which he was destined to meet that day. "Wake up, Jack!" said Mr. Gray, shaking the reins. The appearance of the animal indicated that it was necessary for him to take his master's injunction in a literal sense. He awoke with a start, and set off at a walking pace, from which, by dint of much persuasion on the part of his driver, he was induced to pass into a gentle trot. "He never goes any faster than that," said the agent. "Ah!" ejaculated "Cobbler" Horn. "But we must try to get you something better to drive about in than this, Mr. Gray." "Thank you, sir. It will be a good thing." As they slowly progressed along the pleasant country road, the agent gave his new employer sundry particulars concerning the property of which he had become possessed. "Nearly all the village belongs to you, sir. There's only the church and vicarage, and one farm-house, with a couple of cottages attached, that are not yours. But you'll find your property in an awful state. I've done what I could to patch it up; but what can you do without money?" "I hope, Mr. Gray," said the new proprietor, "that we shall soon rectify all that." "Of course you will, sir," said the candid agent. "It's very painful," he added, "to hear the complaints the people make." "No doubt. You must take me to see some of my tenants; but you must not tell them who I am." "There's a decent house!" he remarked presently, as they came in sight of a comfortable-looking residence, which stood on their left, at the entrance of the village. "Ah, that's the vicarage," replied the agent, "and the church is a little beyond, and along there, on the other side of the road, is the farm-house which does not belong to you." They were now entering the village, the long, straggling street of which soon afforded "the Golden Shoemaker" evidence enough of his deceased uncle's parsimonious ideas. Half-ruined cottages and tumbledown houses were dispersed around; here and there along the main street, were two or three melancholy shops; and in the centre of the village stood a disreputable-looking public-house. "I could wish," said "Cobbler" Horn, as they passed the last-mentioned building, "that my village did not contain any place of that kind." "There's no reason," responded the agent, with a quiet smile, "why you should have a public-house in the place, if you don't want one." "Couldn't we have a public-house without strong drink?" "No doubt we could, sir; but it wouldn't pay." "You mean as a matter of money, of course. But that is nothing to me, and the scheme would pay in other respects. I leave it to you, Mr. Gray, to get rid of the present occupant of the house as soon as it can be done without injustice, and to convert the establishment into a public-house without the drink--a place which will afford suitable accommodation for travellers, and be a pleasant meeting place, of an evening, for the men and boys of the village." "Thank you, sir," said the agent, with huge delight. "Have I carte blanche?" "'Carte blanche'?" queried "Cobbler" Horn, with a puzzled air. "Let me see; that's----what? Ah, I know--a free hand, isn't it?" "Yes, sir," replied the agent gravely. "Then that's just what I mean." As they drove on, "Cobbler" Horn observed that most of the gardens attached to the cottages were in good order, and that some of the people had been at great pains to conceal the mouldering walls of their wretched huts with roses, honeysuckle, and various climbing plants. Glowing with honest shame, he became restlessly eager to wave his golden wand over this desolate scene. "This is my place, sir," said the agent, as they stopped at the gate of a dingy, double-fronted house. "You'll have a bit of dinner with us in our humble way?" "Thank you," said "the Golden Shoemaker," "I shall be very glad." CHAPTER XXI. IN NEED OF REPAIRS. After dinner, "Cobbler" Horn set out with his agent on a tour of inspection through the village. "We'll take this row first, sir, if you please," said Mr. Gray. "One of the people has sent for me to call." So saying he led the way towards a row of decrepit cottages which, with their dingy walls and black thatch, looked like a group of fungi, rather than a row of habitations erected by the hand of man. At the crazy door of the first cottage they were confronted by a stout, red-faced woman with bare beefy arms, who, on seeing "Cobbler" Horn, dropped a curtsey, and suppressed the angry salutation which she had prepared for Mr. Gray. "A friend of mine, Mrs. Blobs," said the agent. "Glad to see you, sir," said the woman to "Cobbler" Horn. "Will you please to walk in, gentlemen." "Just cast your eye up there, Mr. Gray," she added when they were inside. "It's come through at last." Sure enough it had. Above their heads was a vast hole in the ceiling, and above that a huge gap in the thatch; and at their feet lay a heap of bricks, mortar, and fragments of rotten wood. "Why the chimney has come through!" exclaimed Mr. Gray. "Little doubt of that," said Mrs. Blobs. "Was anybody hurt?" "No, but they might ha' bin. It was this very morning. The master was at his work, and the children away at school; but, if I hadn't just stepped out to have a few words with a neighbour, I might ha' bin just under the very place. Isn't it disgraceful, sir," she added, turning to "Cobbler" Horn, "that human beings should be made to live in such tumbledown places? I believe Mr. Gray, here, would have put things right long ago; but he's been kept that tight by the old skin-flint what's just died. They do say as now the property have got into better hands; but----" "Well, well, Mrs. Blobs" interposed the agent; "we shall soon see a change now I hope." "Yes," assented "Cobbler" Horn, "we'll have----that is, I'm sure Mr. Gray will soon make you snug, ma'am." "We must call at every house, sir," said Mr. Gray, as they passed to the next door. "There isn't one of the lot but wants patching up almost every day." "Cheer up, Mr. Gray," said "the Golden Shoemaker." "There shall be no more patching after this." In each of the miserable cottages they met with a repetition of their experience in the first. If the reproaches of the living could bring back the dead, old Jacob Horn should have formed one of the group in those mouldy and rotting cottages, to listen to the reiteration of the shameful story of his criminal neglect. Here the windows were bursting from their setting, like the bulging eyes of suffocating men; and here the door-frame was in a state of collapse. In one cottage the ceiling was depositing itself, by frequent instalments, on the floor; and in another the floor itself was rotting away. In every case, Mr. Gray made bold to promise the speedy rectification of everything that was wrong; and "Cobbler" Horn confirmed his promises in a manner so authoritative that it would have been a wonder if his discontented tenants had not caught some glimmering of the truth as to who he was. On leaving the cottages, Mr. Gray took his employer to one of the farm-houses which his property comprised. They found the farmer, a burly, red-faced, ultra-choleric man, excited over some recently-consummated dilapidations on his premises. He conducted his visitors over his house and farm-buildings, grumbling like an ungreased wagon. His abuse of "Cobbler" Horn's dead uncle was unstinted, and almost every other word was a rumbling oath. Mr. Gray assured him that all would be put right now in a very short time; and "Cobbler" Horn said, "Yes, he was sure it would." The farmer stared in surprise; but his blunter perception proved less penetrative than the keen insight of the women, and he simply wondered what this rather rough looking stranger could know about it, anyhow. He expressed a hope that it might be as Mr. Gray said. For himself he hadn't much faith. But, if there wasn't something done soon, the new landlord had better not show himself there, that was all; and the aggrieved farmer clenched his implied threat with the most emphatic oath he was able to produce. Their inspection of the remainder of the village revealed, on every side, the same condition of ruin and decay; and it was with a sad and indignant heart that "Cobbler" Horn at length sat down, in Mrs. Gray's front parlour, to a late but welcome cup of tea. "To-morrow," he said, "we'll have a look at the old hall." "The Golden Shoemaker" spent the evening in close consultation with his agent. The state of the property was thoroughly discussed, and Mr. Gray was invested with full power to renovate and renew. His employer enjoined him to make complete work. He was to exceed, rather than stop short of, what was necessary, and to do even more than the tenants asked. "You will understand, Mr. Gray," said "Cobbler" Horn, "that I want all my property in this village to be put into such thorough repair that, as far as the comfort and convenience of my tenants are concerned, nothing shall remain to be desired. So set to work with all your might; and we shall not quarrel about the bill----if you only make it large enough." Mr. Gray's big heart bounded within him, as he received this generous commission. "And don't forget your own house," added his employer. "I think you had better build yourself a new one while you are about it; and let it be a house fit to live in." Mr. Gray warmly expressed his thanks, and they proceeded to the consideration of the numberless matters which it was necessary to discuss. In the morning, under the guidance of the agent, "Cobbler" Horn paid his promised visit to the old Hall. It was a venerable Elizabethan mansion, and, like everything else in the village that belonged to him, was sadly out of repair. As he entered the ancient pile, and passed from room to room, a purpose with regard to the old Hall which already vaguely occupied his mind, took definite shape; and he seemed to hear, in the empty rooms, the glad ring of children's laughter and the patter of children's feet. In memory of his long-lost Marian, and for the glory of the Divine Friend of children, the old Hall should be transformed into a Home for little ones who were homeless and without a friend. As they drove to the station, a little later, he announced his attention, with regard to the Hall, to Mr. Gray. "I shall leave the business in your hands, Mr. Gray. You must consult those who understand such things, and visit similar institutions, and turn the old place into the best 'Children's Home' that can be produced." "Very well, sir; but the children?" "That matter I will arrange myself." The agent was getting used to surprises; but the next that came almost took his breath away. "I believe," said "Cobbler" Horn, at the end of a brief silence, "that your salary, Mr. Gray, is £150 a year?" "Yes, sir." "Well, I wish to increase the amount. Pray consider that you will receive, from this time, at the rate of £500 a year." "Mr. Horn!" cried the startled agent, "such generosity!" "Not at all; I mean you to earn it, you know. But let your horse move on, or I shall miss my train. And, by the way, will you oblige me, Mr. Gray, by procuring for yourself a horse and trap better calculated to serve the interests of my property than this sorry turn-out. Get the best equipment which can be obtained for money." The agent, not knowing whether he was touched the more by the kindness of the injunction, or by the delicacy with which it had been expressed, murmured incoherent thanks, and promised speedy compliance with his employer's commands. CHAPTER XXII. "THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER" INSTRUCTS HIS LAWYERS. "Cobbler" Horn reached London early the same evening, and the following morning, at the appointed hour, duly presented himself at the office of Messrs. Tongs and Ball. He was received with enthusiasm by the men of law. Long Mr. Ball was, as usual, the chief speaker; and round Mr. Tongs yielded meek and monosyllabic assent to all his partner's words. "And how are you by this time, my dear sir?" asked Mr. Ball, almost affectionately, when they had taken their seats. "Cobbler" Horn had a vague impression that the lawyer was asking his question on behalf of his partner as well as of himself. "Thank you, gentlemen," was his cordial reply. "I am thankful to say I never was better in my life; and I hope I find you the same?" "Thank you, my dear sir," answered Mr. Ball, "speaking for self and partner, I think I may say that we are well." "Yes," said Mr. Tongs. "But," resumed Mr. Ball, turning to the table, "your time is precious, Mr. Horn. Shall we proceed?" "If you please, gentlemen." "Very well," said the lawyer, taking up a bundle of papers; "these are the letters relating to the case of your unfortunate cousin. Shall I give you their contents in due order, Mr. Horn?" "If you please," and "Cobbler" Horn composed himself to listen, with a grave face. The letters were from the agents of Messrs. Tongs and Ball in New York; and the information they conveyed was to the effect that "Cobbler" Horn's scapegrace cousin had been traced to a poor lodging-house in that city, where he was slowly dying of consumption. He might last for months, but it was possible he would not linger more than a few weeks. "Cobbler" Horn listened to the reading of the letters with head down-bent. When it was finished, he looked up. "Thank you, gentlemen," he said; "have you done anything?" Mr. Ball gazed at his client through his spectacles, over the top of the last of the letters, which he still held open in his hand, and there was gentle expostulation in his eye. "Our instructions, Mr. Horn, were to find your cousin." "I see," said "Cobbler" Horn, with a smile; "and you have done that. Well now, gentlemen, will you be kind enough to do something more?" "We will attend to your commands, Mr. Horn," was the deferential response. "That is our business." "Yes," was the emphatic assent of Mr. Tongs. "The Golden Shoemaker" was becoming accustomed to the readiness of all with whom he had to do to wait upon his will. "Well, gentlemen," he said, "I wish everything to be done to relieve my poor cousin's distress, and even, if possible, to save his life. Be good enough to telegraph directions for him to be removed without delay to some place where he will receive the best care that money can procure. If his life cannot be saved, he may at least be kept alive till I can reach his bedside." "Your commands shall be obeyed, sir," said Mr. Ball; "but," he added with much surprise, "is it necessary for you to go to New York yourself?" "That you must leave to me, gentlemen," said "the Golden Shoemaker" in a tone which put an end to debate. "Now, gentlemen," he resumed, "kindly hand me those letters; and let me know how soon, after to-morrow, I can set out." "You don't mean to lose any time, sir," said Mr. Ball, handing the bundle of letters to his client. In a few moments, the lawyers were able to supply the information that a berth could be secured in a first-class steamer which would leave Liverpool for New York in two days' time; and it was arranged that a passage should be booked. "We await your further orders, Mr. Horn," said Mr. Ball, rubbing his hands together, as he perceived that his client still retained his seat. "I'm afraid I detain you, gentlemen." "By no means, my dear sir," protested Mr. Ball. "No," echoed Mr. Tongs. "I am glad of that," said "Cobbler" Horn. "I should be sorry to waste your valuable time." More than once a clerk had come to the door to announce that so-and-so or so-and-so, awaited the leisure of his employers; and, in every case, the answer had been, "let them wait." The time of Messrs. Tongs and Ball was indeed valuable, and no portion of it was likely to prove more so than that bestowed on the affairs of "Cobbler" Horn. Both the lawyers smiled amiably. "You could not waste our time, Mr. Horn," said Mr. Ball. "No," echoed Mr. Tongs. "That's very good of you, gentlemen. But at any rate I really have some business of the gravest importance still to discuss with you." "By all means, my dear sir," said Mr. Ball with gusto, settling himself in an attitude of attention, while Mr. Tongs also prepared himself to listen. "I wish, gentlemen," announced "the Golden Shoemaker," "to make my will." "To be sure," said Mr. Ball. "You see," continued "Cobbler" Horn, "a journey to America is attended with some risk." "Precisely," assented Mr. Ball. "And a man of your wealth, Mr. Horn, should not, in any case, postpone the making of his will. It was our intention to speak to you about the matter to-day." "To be sure," said "Cobbler" Horn. "Can it be done at once?" "Certainly," responded the lawyer, drawing his chair to the table, and preparing, pen in hand, to receive the instructions of his client. "You have no children, I think, Mr. Horn?" "Cobbler" Horn's cheeks blanched, and his lips quivered; but he instantly regained his self-control. "That is my difficulty," he said. "I had a child, but----" "Ah!" interrupted Mr. Ball, "I understand. Very sad." "No, sir," said "Cobbler" Horn sternly, "you do not understand. It is not as you think. But can I make my will in favour of a person who may, or may not, be alive?" Mr. Ball was in no wise abashed. "Do I take you, my dear sir? You----" "The person," interposed "Cobbler" Horn, "to whom I wish to leave my property is my little daughter, Marian, who wandered away twelve years ago, and has never been heard of since. Can I do it, gentlemen?" "I think you can, Mr. Horn," replied Mr. Ball. "In the absence of any proof of death, your daughter may be considered to be still alive. What do you say, Mr. Tongs?" "Oh yes; to be sure; certainly," exclaimed Mr. Tongs, who seemed to have been aroused from a reverie, and for whom it was enough that he was required to confirm some dictum of his partner. "Thank you, gentlemen. Then please to note that I wish my property to pass, at my death, to my daughter, Marian Horn." "Very good, sir," said Mr. Ball, making a note on a sheet of paper. "But," he added, with an enquiring glance towards his client, "in the event--that is to say, supposing your daughter were not to reappear, Mr. Horn?" "I am coming to that," was the calm reply. "If my daughter does not come back before my death, I wish everything to go to my sister, Jemima Horn, on the condition that she gives it up to my daughter when she does return." "Ah!" ejaculated Mr. Ball. "And may I ask, my dear sir?--If Miss Horn should die, say shortly after your own decease, what then?" "I have thought of that too. Would it be in order, to appoint a trustee, to hold the property, in such a case, for my child?" "Yes, quite in order. Have you the name ready, my dear sir?" "I will give you that of Rev. George Durnford, of Cottonborough." "And, for how long, Mr. Horn," asked Mr. Ball, when he had written down Mr. Durnford's name and address, "must the property be thus held?" "Till my daughter comes to claim it." "But, but, my dear sir----" "Very well," said "Cobbler" Horn, breaking in upon the lawyer's incipient protest; "put it like this. Say that, in the event of my sister's death, everything is to go into the hands of Mr. Durnford, to be held by him in trust for my daughter, and to be dealt with according to his own discretion." "That is all on that subject, gentlemen," he added, in a tone of finality; and, having summarily dismissed one matter of business, he as summarily introduced another. "And now," he said, "having made provision for my daughter in the event of my death, I wish also to provide for her in case she should come back during my life. I desire the sum of £50,000 to be set aside and invested in such a manner, that my daughter may have it--principal and interest--as her own private fortune during my life." Mr. Ball regarded his singular client with a doubtful look. "Is it necessary to do that, my dear sir? With your wealth, you will be able, at any time, to do for your daughter what you please." "Yes," said Mr. Tongs, who seemed to think it time to put in his word. "Gentlemen," said "Cobbler" Horn. "You must let me have my own way. It is my intention to turn my money to the best account, according to my light; and I wish to have the £50,000 secured to my child, lest, when she comes back, there should be nothing left for her." "Well, Mr. Horn, of course your wishes shall be obeyed," said Mr. Ball, with a sigh; "but it is not an arrangement which I should advise." With this final protest the subject was dismissed; but, for many days, the £50,000 to be invested for the missing daughter of his eccentric client remained a burden on the mind of Mr. Ball. "And now," said "the Golden Shoemaker," "there is just another thing before I go. I have been to see my village. I found it, as you warned me, in a sadly dilapidated condition; and I have desired Mr. Gray to make all the necessary repairs. Will you, gentlemen, give him all the help you can, and see that he doesn't want for money?" "We shall be delighted, my dear sir, as a matter of course." "Thank you: Mr. Gray will probably apply to you on various points; and I wish you to know that he has my authority for all he does." "Very good, sir," said Mr. Ball, in a respectful tone. "Then, while I was at Daisy Lane, I paid a visit to the old Hall." "Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Ball, "a splendid family mansion, Mr. Horn?" "Yes; I have desired Mr. Gray to have it renovated and furnished." "As a residence for yourself, of course?" "No; I have other designs." Then, in the deeply-attentive ears of the two men of law, "the Golden Shoemaker" recited his plans with regard to the old Hall. It would be a mild statement to say that Messrs. Tongs and Ball were taken by surprise; but their client afforded them slight opportunity to interpose even a comment on his scheme. "You must help Mr. Gray in this matter especially, gentlemen, if you please. Do all you can for him. I want it to be the best 'Children's Home' in the country. Don't spare expense. I wish everything to be provided that is good for little children. My friend, Mr. Durnford will, perhaps, help me to find a 'father and mother' for the 'Home;' you, gentlemen, shall assist me in the engagement of skilful nurses and trustworthy servants. In order that we may make the place as nearly perfect as possible, I have requested Mr. Gray to visit similar institutions in various parts of the country. He will look to you for advice; and I should be obliged, gentlemen, if you would put him on the right track." Then he paused, and looked at his lawyers with a glowing face. "It's for the sake," he said, and there was a catch in his voice, "of my little Marian, who went from me a wanderer upon the face of the earth." Then, having arranged to call in the morning, for the purpose of signing his will, previous to his departure from town, he took his leave. CHAPTER XXIII. MEMORIES. The following morning "Cobbler" Horn called at the office of Messrs. Tongs and Ball at the appointed time. The will was ready, and, having signed it, he said "good day" to the lawyers, and took the next train to Cottonborough, where he arrived early in the afternoon. Subsequently, at the dinner-table, he answered freely the questions of Miss Jemima concerning his doings during his absence. Nor did he feel the presence of his young secretary to be, in any degree, a restraint. Already she was as one of the family, and was almost as much in the confidence of "the Golden Shoemaker" as was Miss Jemima herself. "Cobbler" Horn told of the dilapidated condition in which he had found the village, and of the instructions he had given to the agent. At the recital of the latter, Miss Jemima held up her hands in dismay, while the eyes of the secretary glistened with unconcealed delight. But the climax was reached when "Cobbler" Horn spoke of his intentions with regard to the old Hall. Miss Jemima uttered a positive shriek, and shook her head till her straight, stiff side-curls quivered again. "Thomas," she cried, "you must be mad! It will cost you thousands of pounds!" "Yes, Jemima," was the quiet reply; "and surely they could not be better spent! And then there'll still be a few thousands left," he added with a smile. "It's a way of spending the Lord's money of which I'm sure He will approve. What do you say, Miss Owen?" "I think it's just splendid of you, Mr. Horn!" To do Miss Jemima justice, her annoyance arose quite as much from the annihilation of her dearly cherished hopes of becoming the mistress of an ideal country mansion, and filling the place of lady magnificent of her brother's village, as from the thought of the gigantic extravagance which his designs with regard to the old Hall would involve. But the poor lady was to be yet further astonished. "Oh, I forgot to tell you, Jemima," said her brother, after a brief pause, and speaking with a whimsical air of apology, "that I am to start for America to-morrow." He spoke as though he were announcing a trip into the next county; and Miss Jemima could scarcely have shown greater amazement, if he had declared his intention of starting for the moon. The good lady almost bounced from her seat. "Thomas!" She had not breath for more than that. In truth the announcement "the Golden Shoemaker" had made was startling enough. Even Miss Owen looked up in intense surprise; and the servant girl, who was in the act of taking away the meat, was so startled that she almost let it fall into her master's lap. "Cobbler" Horn alone was unmoved. "You see," he said calmly, "when I considered the sad plight of our poor cousin, I thought it would be best for me to go and see to him myself. There are the letters," he added, taking them from his pocket, and handing them to his sister. "You will see, Jemima, that the poor fellow is in sore straits--ill, and destitute in a low lodging-house in New York, Miss Owen! He will be informed, by now, of his change of fortune, and everything possible is to be done for him. But I feel that I can't leave him to strangers. And then there may be a chance of leading him to the Saviour, who can tell? Besides, Jemima, a journey to America is not so much of an undertaking now-a-days, you know; and I sha'n't be many weeks away." By this time, Miss Jemima had managed to recover her breath, and, in part, her wits. "But I can't get you ready by to-morrow, Thomas!" "My dear Jemima, that doesn't matter at all: whether you can get me ready or not, I must go. The lawyers will have taken my passage by this time." "But--but you can never take care of yourself in America, Thomas. It's such a large country, and so dreadful; and the Americans are such strange people." "Never mind, Jemima," was the pleasant reply, "Messrs. Tongs and Ball have sent a cablegram to their agent in New York, instructing him to look after me. And, besides, I've made my will." "What?" shouted Miss Jemima, "made your will?" To Miss Jemima it seemed a dreadful thing to make one's will. It was a last desperate resort. It was in view of death that people made their wills. It was evident her brother did not expect to get safely back. "Yes," repeated "Cobbler" Horn, with a quiet smile, "I've made my will. But, don't be alarmed, Jemima; I sha'n't die any the sooner for that. I did it as a wise precaution, with the approval of the lawyers. Even if I had not been going to America, I should have had to make my will sooner or later. Cheer up, Jemima! Our Heavenly Father bears rule in America, and on the sea, as well as here at home." Miss Jemima had relapsed into silence. She was beginning to realize the fact that her brother had made his will, which, after all, was not so very strange a thing. But what was the nature of the will? She did not desire to inherit her brother's property herself. She was rich enough already. But she was apprehensive that he might have made some foolish disposition of his money of which she would not be able to approve. To whom, or to what she would have desired him to leave his wealth, she could not, perhaps, have told; but she would not be easy till she knew the contents of his will. And yet she could not question her brother on the subject in the presence of his secretary. The girl might be very well, but must not be allowed to know too much. "If I don't come back, Jemima," said "Cobbler" Horn, as though he had read his sister's thoughts, "you will know what my will contains soon enough. If I do--of which I have little doubt--I will tell you all about it myself." After dinner, "Cobbler" Horn retired, with his secretary, to the office, for the purpose of dealing with the letters which had accumulated during his absence from home. As they proceeded with their work, Miss Owen learnt that, while her employer was away in America, she was to have discretionary powers with regard to the whole of the correspondence. With all her self-confidence, the young secretary was rather staggered by this announcement; but she could obtain no release from the firm decree. "You see, I have perfect confidence in you, Miss Owen," explained "Cobbler" Horn, simply; "and besides, you know very well that, in most cases, you are better able to decide what to do than I am myself. But, if there are any of the letters that you would rather not deal with till I come back, just let them wait." This matter had been arranged during the first half-hour, in the course of a dropping conversation, carried on in the pauses of their work. They had put in a few words here and there in the crannies and crevices of their business so to speak. In the same manner, "Cobbler" Horn now proceeded to tell his secretary of his interview with his lawyers, and of the making of his will. "The Golden Shoemaker" had already become wonderfully attached to his young secretary. She had exercised no arts; she had practised no wiles. She was a sincere, guileless, Christian girl. Shrewd enough she was, indeed, but utterly incapable of scheming for any manner of selfish or sordid end. With her divine endowment of good looks and her consecrated good nature, she could not fail to captivate; and there is small room for wonder that she had made large inroads upon "Cobbler" Horn's big heart. The degree to which his engaging young secretary had won the confidence of "Cobbler" Horn will appear from the fact that he was about to reveal to her, this afternoon, those particulars with regard to his recently-made will the communication of which to his sister he had avowedly postponed. It was not his intention to treat Miss Jemima with disrespect. He felt that he could freely talk to Miss Owen; with his sister it would be a matter of greater delicacy to deal. He often fancied that his young secretary was just such as his darling Marian would have been; and quite naturally, and very simply, he told her about his will, and even spoke of the money that was to be invested for his lost child. He was quite able now to talk calmly of the great sorrow of his life. The gentle and continued rubbing of the hand of time had allayed its sharper pang. "What do you think of it all, Miss Owen?" "I think, Mr. Horn," said the secretary, with the end of her penholder between her ruby lips, and a wistful look in her dark eyes, "that your daughter would be a very fortunate young lady, if she only knew it; and that there are not many fathers like you." "Then you think I have done well?" "I think, sir, that you have done better than well." After another spell of work, Miss Owen looked up again with an eager face. "What was your little Marian like, Mr. Horn?" she asked, in a tender and subdued tone. "Well, she was----" But the ardent girl took him up before he could proceed. "Would she have grown to be anything like me? I suppose she would be about my age." She was leaning forward now, with her elbows on the table, and her hands supporting her chin. Her richly-tinted cheeks glowed with interest; her large, dark eyes shone like two bright stars. The question she had asked could not be to her more than a subject of amiable curiosity; but no doubt the enthusiastic nature of the girl fully accounted for the eagerness with which she had spoken. Her sudden enquiry wafted "Cobbler" Horn back into the past; and there rose before him the vision of a bonny little nut-brown damsel of five summers, with eyes like sloes, and a mass of dusky hair. For an instant he caught his breath. He was startled to see, in the face of his young secretary what he would probably never have detected, if her question had not pointed it out. "Well, really, Miss Owen," he said, simply, "now you speak of it, you are something like what my little Marian may have grown to be by this time." "How delicious!" exclaimed Miss Owen. "Cobbler" Horn was gazing intently at his young secretary. What vague surmisings, like shadows on a window-blind--were flitting through his brain? What dim rays of hope were struggling to penetrate the gloom? Suddenly he started, and shook himself, with a sigh. Of course it could only be a fancy. How strange the frequent inability to perceive the significance of circumstances plainly suggestive of the fulfilment of some long-cherished hope! The joy, deferred so long comes, at last, in an hour when we are not aware, only to find us utterly oblivious that it is so near! "Well, Miss Owen," said "Cobbler" Horn, rising to his feet, "I must be going to my cobbling. If you want me, you will know where to come." "Yes, Mr. Horn." She was aware of his custom of resorting now and then to his old workshop. When he was gone, she paused for a moment, with her penholder once more between her lips. "How nice to think that I am like what that dear little Marian would have been! I wonder whether we should have been friends, if she had lived? Poor little thing, she's almost sure to be dead! Though, perhaps not--who can tell? How queer that Mr. Horn should have lost a little girl, just as I must have been lost, and about the same time too! As for my being like her--perhaps, after all, that's only a fancy of his. Well, at any rate, I must comfort and help him all I can. I can't step into his daughter's place exactly; but God has put it into my power to be to him, in many things, what little Marian would have been if he had not lost her; and for Christ's sake----" At this point, the young secretary's thoughts became too sacred for prying eyes. Very soon she turned to her writing again. Half an hour later, the afternoon post arrived, bringing, amongst other letters, one or two which necessitated an immediate interview with "Cobbler" Horn. To trip up to her bedroom and dress herself for going out was the work of a very few moments; and in a short time she was entering the street where "Cobbler" Horn and his sister had lived so long, and whence the hapless little Marian had so heedlessly set out into the great world, on that bright May morning so many years ago. As Miss Owen entered the narrow street, she involuntarily raised her hand to her forehead. The weird feeling of familiarity with the old house and its vicinity, of which she had already been conscious more than once, had crept over her again. "How very strange!" she said to herself. "But there can't be anything in it!" As she approached the house, she became aware of the unconcealed scrutiny of a little man who was standing in the doorway of a shop on the other side of the street. It was Tommy Dudgeon, who had just then come to the door to show a customer out, a civility which he was wont to bestow, if possible, upon every one who came to the shop. Lingering for a moment, in the hope of descrying another customer, he saw Miss Owen coming down the street. Tommy knew about "Cobbler" Horn's secretary; but he had not, as yet, had a fair view of the young lady. He had not even thought much about her, and he did not suspect that it was she who was now coming along the street, until she passed into the old house. But, as he saw her now, with her black hair and dark glowing face, walking along the pavement in her decided way, he felt, as he afterwards said, "quite all-overish like." It was, at first, the vaguest of impressions that he received. Then, as he gazed, he began to think that he had seen that figure before--though he continued to assure himself that he had not; and then, as Miss Owen drew nearer, he concluded that there must be some one of whom she reminded him--some one whom he had known long ago. Then, with a flash, came back to him the scene--never to be forgotten--on that long-ago May morning; and Tommy Dudgeon heaved a sigh, for he had obtained his clue. "What a rude little man!" thought Miss Owen. "And yet he looks harmless enough. Why he must be one of the little twin shopkeepers of whom I have heard Mr. Horn speak. That will account for his interest in me." The absorption of the young secretary in the duties of her office, during her stay in the old house, no doubt fully accounted for the fact that she had not become more familiar with the appearance of Tommy Dudgeon. By this time Tommy had withdrawn into his shop. But he continued to watch. Standing partly concealed behind some of the merchandise displayed in the shop window, he saw Miss Owen enter "Cobbler" Horn's former abode, and then waited for her once more to emerge. In ten minutes the young secretary again appeared. Pausing on the door-step, she looked this way and that, and then, with emphatic tread, stepped out in the very track of the little twinkling feet which Tommy had watched in their last departure on that ill-fated spring morning so long ago. The little man craned his neck to see the better through the window, and then, unable to restrain himself, he hurried to the doorway of the shop once more, and, with enlightened eyes, watched the figure of the girl till it passed out of sight. Then he turned, and rushed into the kitchen behind the shop. His brother was trying to put one of the twins to sleep by carrying it to and fro; his brother's wife was making bread. He raised his hands. "She's come back!" he cried. Then, recollecting himself, he said, more quietly, "I mean I've seen the sec'tary." CHAPTER XXIV. ON THE OCEAN. The evening of the next day saw "the Golden Shoemaker" steaming out of the Mersey, on board the first-rate Atlantic liner on which his passage had been taken by Messrs. Tongs and Ball. Miss Jemima had bidden her brother a reluctant farewell. In her secret soul, she nursed a doubt, of which, indeed, she was half-ashamed, as to the prospect of his safe return; and she endeavoured to fortify her timorous heart by the utterance of sundry sharp speeches concerning the folly of his enterprise. The voyage across the great ocean, in the splendid _floating hotel_ in which he had embarked was a new and delightful experience to "Cobbler" Horn. But his peace of mind sustained brief disturbance on his being shown to his quarters on board the vessel. His lawyers had, as a matter of course, taken for their wealthy client a first-class passage. It had not occurred to him to give them any instructions on the point, and they had taken it for granted that they were doing what he would desire. Perhaps, if they had asked him, he might, in his ignorance of such matters, have said, "Oh yes, first-class, by all means." But when he saw the splendid accommodation which his money had procured, he started back, and said to the attendant: "This is much too grand for me. Can't I make a change?" The attendant stared in surprise. "'Fraid not sir," he said, "every second-class berth is taken." "I don't mind about the money," said "Cobbler" Horn hastily. "But I should be more comfortable in a plainer cabin," and he looked around uneasily at the luxurious and splendid appointments of the quarters which had been assigned to him, as his home, for the next few days. The attendant, regarding with a critical eye the modest attire and unassuming demeanour of "Cobbler" Horn, inwardly agreed with what this somewhat eccentric passenger had said. "The only way, sir," said the man, at length, "is to get some one to change with you." "Ah, the very thing! How can it be managed?" The attendant mused with hand on chin. "Well, sir," he said, gliding into an interrogative tone, "if you really mean it----?" "Most certainly I do." "Then I think I can arrange it for you, sir. There is one second-class passenger who would probably jump at such a chance. He is an invalid; and it would be a great comfort to him to get into such quarters as these. I've heard a good bit about him since he came on board." "Then he's our man," said "Cobbler" Horn; and then, he added hesitatingly, "there'll be a sovereign for you, if you manage it at once. I'll wait here till you let me know." The attendant sped on his errand, and, before night, the desired exchange had been duly made--"Cobbler" Horn was established in the comfortable and congenial accommodation afforded by a second-class cabin, and the invalid passenger was blessing his unknown benefactor, as he sank to rest amidst the luxury of his new surroundings. It was late autumn, and the sea, though not stormy, was sufficiently restless to make the commencement of the passage unpleasant for all who were not good sailors. "Cobbler" Horn was not one of these; and, when, upon the second day out, he observed the deserted appearance of the decks and saloons, and, on making enquiry of an official, learnt that most of the passengers were sick, he realized with a healthy and grateful thrill of pleasure, that he was blessed with immunity from the almost universal tribulation which waylays the landsman who ventures on the treacherous deep. It will, therefore, be readily believed that "the Golden Shoemaker" keenly enjoyed the whole of the voyage. He breathed the fresh, briny air with much relish; the wonders of the sea furnished him with many instructive and pious thoughts; and the ship itself supplied him with an inexhaustible fund of interest. In particular, he paid frequent visits to the steerage, where large numbers of emigrants were bestowed. He spent many hours amongst these poor people; and, by entering into conversation with such of them as were disposed to talk, he became acquainted with many cases of necessity, which he was not slow to relieve. Nor did the gifts of money, which he bestowed with his usual large generosity, constitute the only form of help he gave. In a thousand nameless ways he ministered to the wants and relieved the difficulties of his humble fellow-passengers, who quickly came to look upon him as the good genius of the ship. As a matter of course, the whisper soon went round, "Who is he?" And when, in some inscrutable way, the truth leaked out, the poor people regarded him with a kind of awe. Some, indeed, criticised, and said he did not look much like a millionaire; but there were many in that motley crowd in whose hearts, during those few brief days on the ocean, "Cobbler" Horn made for himself a very sacred place. In the course of a day or two, the decks and saloons began to assume a more animated appearance. Hitherto "Cobbler" Horn had not greatly attracted the attention of the passengers with whom he was more immediately associated; but now that they were in a condition to think of something other than their own concerns, their interest in him began to awake. Who had not heard of "the Golden Shoemaker"--"The Millionaire Cordwainer"--"The Lucky Son of Crispin"--as he had been variously designated in the newspapers of the day? When it became known that so great a celebrity was on board, there was a general desire to make his acquaintance. Some vainly asked the captain to give them an introduction; some boldly introduced themselves. "Cobbler" Horn was courteous to all, in his homely way; but he showed no anxiety to become further acquainted with these obtrusive persons. The simplicity of his manners and the plainness of his dress caused much surprise; and the public interest concerning him sensibly quickened when whispers floated forth of the giving up of his berth to the invalid passenger, and of his charitable doings amongst the poor emigrants. During the voyage, "the Golden Shoemaker" spent much time in close and prayerful study of his Bible, which had ever been, and still was, his dearest, and well nigh his only, book. He was induced to do this not only by his love of the Book itself, but also by a definite desire to absorb, and transfuse into his own experience, all those teachings of the Word of God which bore upon the new position in which he had been so strangely placed. First of all, he turned to certain notable passages of Scripture which shot up before his memory like well-known beacon-lights along a rocky coast. There glared upon him, first of all, the lurid denunciation which opens the fifth chapter of the Epistle of James, commencing, "Go to now, ye rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that shall come upon you!" "God forbid," he cried, "that my 'gold and silver' should ever become 'cankered!' It would be a terrible thing for their 'rust' to 'witness against me,' and eat my 'flesh as it were fire'; and it would be yet more dreadful for the money which has such power for good to be itself given up to canker and rust!" Then he would meditate on the uncompromising declarations of Christ--"How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the Kingdom of God!" "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of God." He trembled as he read; but, pondering, he took heart again. Though hard, it was not impossible, for a man of wealth to enter into the Kingdom of God. "Camel!" "Eye of a Needle!" He did not know exactly what this strange saying meant; but he thought he had heard the minister say that it was intended to show the great difficulty involved in the salvation of a rich man. Then he read further, "How hard is it for them that trust in riches to enter into the Kingdom of God," and that seemed to make the matter plain. "Ah," he thought, "may I be saved from ever trusting in my riches!" He plucked an ear of wholesome admonition from the parable of the Sower. "The deceitfulness of riches!" he murmured. "How true!" And he subjected himself to the most vigilant scrutiny, lest he should be beguiled by the unlimited possibilities of self-indulgence which his wealth supplied. He turned frequently to the emphatic declaration of Paul to Timothy. "They that will be rich," it runs, "fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition. For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows." "Ah!" he would exclaim, "I didn't want to be rich. At the very most Agur's prayer would have been mine: 'Give me neither poverty nor riches.' But it's quite true that riches bring 'temptations' and are a 'snare,' whether people 'will' be rich or become rich against their will; and I must be on the watch. And then there's that about 'the love of money' being 'the root of all evil!'" As he spoke, he drew a handful of coins from his pocket, and eyed them askance. "Queer things to love!" he mused. And then, as he thought of his balance at the bank, his large rent-roll, and his many profitable investments, his face grew very grave. "Ah," he sighed, letting copper, silver, and gold, slide jingling back into his pocket, "I think I have an idea how some people get to love their money. Lord save _me_." He was very fond of the book of Proverbs. Its short, sententious sentences were altogether to his mind. "There is that scattereth," he read, "and yet increaseth; and there is that withholdeth more than is meet, but it tendeth to poverty." "I scatter," he said; "but I don't want to increase. Lord, spare me the consequences of my scattering! 'Withholdeth more than is meet'! Lord, by Thy grace, that will not I! I have no objection to poverty; but I would not have it come in that way!" "There is that maketh himself rich," he read again, "Yet hath nothing; there is that maketh himself poor, yet hath great riches." "Ah," he sighed, "to possess such riches, I would gladly make myself poor!" But there was one text in the book of Proverbs which "Cobbler" Horn could never read without a smile. "The poor," it ran "is hated even of his own neighbour; but the rich hath many friends." He thought of his daily shoals of letters, of the numerous visiting cards which had been left at the door of his new abode, and of the obsequious attentions he had begun to receive from the office-bearers and leading members of his church; and he called to mind the eagerness of his fellow-voyagers to make his acquaintance. "Ah" he mused shrewdly, "friends, like most good things, are chiefly to be had when you don't need them!" In these sacred studies, the days passed swiftly for "the Golden Shoemaker." Very different were the methods by which the majority of his fellow-passengers endeavoured to beguile the time. Amongst the least objectionable of these were concerts, theatricals, billiards, and all kinds of games. Much time was spent by the ladies in idle chat, to which the gentlemen added the seductions of cigar and pipe. There were not a few of the passengers, moreover, who resorted to the vicious excitement of betting; and "Cobbler" Horn marked with amazement and horror the eagerness with which they staked their money on a variety of unutterably trivial questions. The disposition of really large sums of money was made to depend, on whether a certain cloud would obscure the sun or not; whether a large bird, seen as they neared the land, would sweep by on one side of the ship or the other; whether the pilot would prove to be tall or short; and upon a multitude of other matters so utterly unimportant, that "the Golden Shoemaker" began to think he was voyaging with a company of escaped lunatics. To one gentleman, who proposed to take a bet with him as to the nationality of the next vessel they might happen to meet, he gave a characteristic reply. "Thank you," he said gravely, "I am not anxious on that subject; and, if I were, I should wait for the appearance of the vessel itself. Besides, I cannot think it right to risk my money in the way you propose. I dare not throw away upon a mere frivolity what God has given me to use for the good of my fellows. And then, if we were to bet, as you suggest, the one who happened to win would be receiving what he had no moral right to possess. I don't----" Thus far the would-be better had listened patiently. But it was a bet he wanted, and not a sermon. "I beg your pardon," he therefore said, at this point, "I see I have made a mistake;" and with a polite bow, he moved hastily away. One fine evening, towards the end of the voyage, as "Cobbler" Horn was taking the air on deck, he was accosted by the attendant who had arranged the transfer of his berth from first to second-class. "The gentleman, sir," he said, touching his cap, "who took your cabin----he----" "Yes," interrupted "Cobbler" Horn; "how is he? Better, I hope." "Much better, sir; and he thought, perhaps you would see him." "Do you know what he wants?" asked "Cobbler" Horn, in a hesitating tone. "Well, sir," replied the man, "he didn't exactly say; but I rather suspect it's a little matter of thanks. And, begging your pardon, sir, it's very natural." "Cobbler" Horn was not offended at the man's freedom of address, as another in his place might have been. "If that is all, then," he said, "I think he must excuse me. I deserve no thanks. I consulted my own inclination, as much as his comfort. I am glad he is better. Tell him he is heartily welcome, and ask him if there is anything more I can do." The next morning, as "Cobbler" Horn stood talking, for a minute or so, to the captain, the obsequious attendant once more appeared. Touching his cap with double emphasis, in honour of the captain, he handed a letter to "Cobbler" Horn. "From the gentleman in your cabin, sir. No answer, sir----I was told to say," and, once more touching his cap, the polite functionary marched sedately away. [Illustration: "'From the gentleman in your cabin, sir.'"--_Page 158._] "I must leave you to read your letter, Mr. Horn," said the captain; and, with the word, he withdrew to attend to his duties in another part of the ship. "Cobbler" Horn's letter was brief, and ran as follows: "DEAR SIR, "Though I may not in person express my gratitude for your great kindness, I have that to tell which you ought to know. Poverty, sickness, loss of dear ones, perfidy of professed friends, and ills of all imaginable kinds, have fallen to my lot. I am an American. I have a young wife, and a dear little girl in New York. I have been to Europe upon what has turned out a most disastrous business trip. I came on board this vessel a battered, broken man, not knowing, and scarcely caring, whether I should live to reach the other side. Faith in Christianity, in religion, in God Himself, I had utterly renounced. But I want to tell you that all that is changed. I now wish, and hope, to live; my health is vastly improved; and--will you let me say it without offence?--I find myself able once more to believe in God, and in such religion as yours. I will not again ask you to see me; but if, after reading this letter, you should feel inclined to pay me a visit, I need not tell you how delighted I should be. "I am, "Dear Sir, "Yours gratefully, "THADDEUS P. WALDRON." "Cobbler" Horn read this gratifying letter over and over again, with a secret joy. But it was not till the next day that he could bring himself to comply with the invitation of its closing sentence, and pay a visit to the writer. He found the young man, who was far on his way to recovery, full of thankfulness to him and of gratitude to God. It seemed that, previous to the accumulation of troubles beneath which his faith had given away, the young fellow had been a zealous Christian. "Cobbler" Horn found him sincerely penitent; and, during this, and succeeding interviews, he had the joy of leading him back to the Saviour. CHAPTER XXV. COUSIN JACK. As "Cobbler" Horn was leaving the vessel at New York, he witnessed the meeting of Thaddeus P. Waldron and his wife. Mrs. Waldron had come on board the steamer. She was a wholesome, glowing little woman, encumbered with no inconvenient quantity of reserve. She flung her arms impulsively around her husband's neck, and kissed him with a smack like the report of a pistol. "Why, Thad," she cried, "do tell! You've completely taken me in! I expected a scarecrow. What for did you frighten me with that letter I got last week? It might have been my death!" Then, with a little trill of a laugh, the happy woman hugged once more the equally delighted "Thad," and gave him another resounding kiss. By this time the attention of those who were passing to and fro around them began to be attracted; and, amongst the rest, "Cobbler" Horn, who was held for a few moments in the crowd, was watching them with deep interest. "Hold hard, little woman," exclaimed Thaddeus, "or I guess I sha'n't have breath left to tell you my news! And," he added, "it's better even than you think." "Oh, Thad, do tell!" she cried, still regarding her husband with admiring eyes. "Well, my health has been fixed up by the sea air, and the comfort and attention I've had during the voyage, which is all through the goodness of one man. I calculate that man 'ull have to show up before we leave this vessel. He wasn't out of sight five minutes ago." As he spoke, he looked round, and saw the figure of "Cobbler" Horn, who, evidently in dread of a demonstration on the part of his grateful friend, was modestly moving away amongst the crowd. One stride of Thaddeus P. Waldron's long legs, and he had his benefactor by the arm. "Here, stranger--no, darn it all, you aren't a stranger, no how you fix it--this way sir, if _you_ please." "Now, little woman," he exclaimed, triumphantly dragging his reluctant captive towards his wife, "this is the man you have to thank--this man and God! He gave up----" "Oh," interrupted "Cobbler" Horn, "you mustn't allow him to thank me for that, ma-am. I did it quite as much for my own sake." "Hear him!" exclaimed Thaddeus, with incredulous admiration. "Anyhow he made me think, little wife, that there was some genuine religion in the world after all. And that helped me to get better too. And the long and short of it is, I've been made a new man of, inside and out; and we're going to have some real good times! And now, old girl, you've just got to give the man whose done it all a hug and a buss, and then we'll come along." "Cobbler" Horn started back in dismay. But Mrs. Thaddeus was thoroughly of her husband's mind. What he had been, as she knew from his letters, and what she found him now, passed through her mind in a flash. She was modest enough, but not squeamish; and the honest face of "Cobbler" Horn was one which no woman, under the circumstances, need have hesitated to kiss. So, in a moment, to the amusement of the crowd, to the huge delight of the grateful Thaddeus, and to the confusion of "the Golden Shoemaker" himself, the thing was done. The next minute, the happy and grateful couple were gone, and "Cobbler" Horn had scarcely time to recover his composure before he found himself greeted by the agent of Messrs. Tongs and Ball, who, having been furnished by those gentlemen with a particular description of the personal appearance of their eccentric client, had experienced but little difficulty in singling him out. From this gentleman "Cobbler" Horn learnt that his ill-fated cousin had been removed from the wretched lodgings where he was found to the best private hospital in New York, where he was receiving every possible care. The agent had also engaged apartments for "Cobbler" Horn himself in a first-class hotel in the neighbourhood of the hospital. It was a great relief to "Cobbler" Horn that his conductor had undertaken the care of his luggage, and the management of everything connected with his debarkation. He was realizing more and more the immense advantages conferred by wealth. On being shown into the splendid apartments which had been engaged for him in the hotel, he shrank back as he had done from the first-class accommodation assigned to him on board the steam-boat. But this time he was obliged to submit. Wealth has its penalties, as well as its advantages. It was early in the forenoon when the vessel arrived; and, when "the Golden Shoemaker" was duly installed in his luxurious quarters at the hotel, the agent left him, having first promised to come back at three o'clock, and conduct him to the bedside of his cousin. At the appointed time the agent returned. "Cobbler" Horn was eager to be going, and they at once set out. A few minutes brought them to the hospital where his cousin lay. They were immediately shown in, and "Cobbler" Horn found himself entering a bright and airy chamber, where he presently stood beside his cousin's bed. The sick man had been apprised of the approaching visit of his generous relative from over the water, and he regarded "Cobbler" Horn now with a kind of dull wonder in his hollow eyes. At the same time he held out a hand which was wasted almost to transparency. "Cobbler" Horn took the thin fingers in his strong grasp; and, as he looked, with a great pity, on the sunken cheeks, the protruding mouth, the dark gleaming eyes, and the contracted forehead with its setting of black damp hair, he thought that, if ever he had seen the stamp of death upon a human face, he saw it now. "Well, cousin Jack," he said sadly, "it grieves me that our first meeting should be like this." Cousin Jack, struggling with strong emotion, regarded his visitor with a fixed look. His mouth worked convulsively, and it was some moments before he could speak. At length he found utterance, in hollow tones, and with laboured breath. "Have you--come all this way--across the water--on purpose to see me?" "Yes," replied "Cobbler" Horn, simply, "of course I have. I wanted you to know that you are to have your honest share of our poor uncle's money. And because I was determined to make sure that everything was done for you that could be done, and because I wished to do some little for you myself, I did not send, but came." "Uncle's money! Ah, yes, they told me about it. Well, you might have kept it all; and it's very good of you--very. But money won't be much use to me very long. It's your coming that I take so kindly. You see, I hadn't a friend; and it seemed so dreadful to die like that. Oh, it was good of you to come!" In his wonder at the loving solicitude which had brought his cousin across the water to his dying bed, he almost seemed to undervalue the act of rare unselfishness by which so much money had been relinquished which might have been kept without fear of reproach. "Cobbler" Horn was not hurt by the seeming insensibility of his poor cousin to the great sacrifice he had made on his behalf. He did not desire, nor did he think that he deserved, any credit for what he had done. He had simply done his duty, as a matter of course. But he was much gratified that his poor cousin was so grateful for his coming. He sat down, with shining eyes, by the bedside, and took the wasted hand in his once more. "Cousin," he asked, "have they cared for you in every way?" "Yes, cousin, they have done what they could, thanks to your goodness!" "Not at all. Your own money will pay the bill, you know." For a moment cousin Jack was perplexed. His own money? He had not a cent. in the world! He had actually forgotten that his cousin had made him rich. "My own money?" "Yes; the third part of what uncle left you know." A slight flush mantled the hollow cheeks. "Oh yes; what a dunce I am! I'm afraid I'm very ungrateful. But you see I seem to have done with such things. And yet the money is going to be of some use to me after all." "Yes, that it is! It shall bring you comfort, ease, and, if possible, health and life." The sick man shook his head. "No," he said, wistfully; "a little of the first two, perhaps, but none of the last. I know I can't live many weeks; and it's no use deceiving myself with false hopes." As "Cobbler" Horn looked at his cousin, he knew that he was not mistaken in his forecast. "Cobbler" Horn did not remain long with his sick cousin at this time. "There is one thing I should like," he said gravely, as he rose from his seat. "There is not much that I can deny you," replied Jack; "what is it?" He spoke without much show of interest. "I should like to pray with you before I go." Cousin Jack started, and again his pale face flushed. "Certainly," he said, "if you wish it; but it will be of no use. Nothing is of any use now." "The Golden Shoemaker" knelt down beside the bed, and prayed for his dying cousin, in his own simple, fervent way. Then, with a promise to come again on the following day, he passed out of the room. The prayer had been brief, and poor Jack had listened to it with heedless resignation; but it had struck a chord in his bruised heart which continued to vibrate long after his visitor was gone. The next day "Cobbler" Horn found his cousin in a more serious mood. The poor young man told him something of his sad history; and "Cobbler" Horn spoke many earnest and faithful words. It became increasingly evident to "Cobbler" Horn, day by day, that life was ebbing fast within his cousin's shattered frame; and he grew ever more anxious to bring the poor young fellow to the Saviour. But somehow the work seemed to drag. Jack would express a desire for salvation; and yet, somehow he seemed to be holding back. The hindrance was revealed, one day, by a stray question asked by "Cobbler" Horn. "How about your will, Jack?" Jack stared blankly. "My will? Why should I make a will?" "Because you have some money to leave." "Ah! Whose will it be, if I die without a will?" "Mine, I suppose," said "Cobbler" Horn reluctantly, after a moment's thought. "Well, then, let it be; nothing could be better." "But is there no one to whom you would like to leave your money?" Jack looked fixedly at the already beloved face of his cousin. Then his own face worked convulsively, and he covered it with his wasted fingers. "Yes, yes," he said, in tones of distress; "there is some one. That is---- You are sure the money is really my own?" He seemed all eagerness now to possess his share of the money. "To be sure it is," responded "Cobbler" Horn. "That is quite settled." "Well, then, there is a poor girl who would have given her life for mine; but I have behaved to her like a brute. She shall have every penny of it." "Cobbler" Horn listened with intense interest, and at once gave expression to a burning apprehension which had instantly pierced his mind. "Behaved like a brute!" he exclaimed. "Not in the worst way of all, I hope, Jack?" "No, no, not that!" cried Jack, in horror. "Thank God! But now, do you know where this poor girl is to be found?" "I think so. Her name is Bertha Norman, and her parents live in a village only a few miles from here. When I gave her up, I believe she left her situation, here in the city, and went home with a broken heart." "Well, Jack, your decision will meet with the approval of God. But, in the meantime, we must try to find this poor girl." "If you only would!" "Of course. But, with regard to the other matter--you would like to have the thing done at once?" "The thing?" "The will." "Oh yes; it would be better so." "Then we'll arrange, if possible, for this afternoon. Perhaps you know a lawyer?" "No. Amongst all my follies, I have kept out of the hands of the lawyers. But there is the gentleman who rescued me from that den, where I should have been dead by now. Perhaps he would do?" "Ah, the agent of my lawyers in London! Well, I'll see him at once." So the thing was done. That afternoon the lawyer came to receive instructions, and the next morning the will was presented and duly signed. When the lawyer was gone, Jack turned feebly to "Cobbler" Horn. "There's just one thing more," he said. "I must see her, and tell her about it myself." "Would she come" asked "Cobbler" Horn. "And do you think it would be well?" "'Come'? She would come, if I were dying at North Pole. And there will be no peace for me, till I have heard from her own lips that she has forgiven me." "Ah!" ejaculated "Cobbler" Horn. "Do you say so?" "Yes, cousin; I feel that it's no use to ask pardon of God, till Bertha has forgiven me. You know what I mean." "Yes," said "Cobbler" Horn gently; "I know what you mean, and I'll do what I can." "Thank you!" said Jack, fervently. "But it mustn't be by letter. You must go and see her yourself, if you will; and I don't think you will refuse." "Cobbler" Horn shrank, at first, from so delicate and difficult a mission, for which he pronounced himself utterly unfit. But the pathetic appeal of the dark, hollow eyes, which gleamed upon him from the pillow, ultimately prevailed. "Tell her," said Jack, as "Cobbler" Horn wished him good night, "that I dare not ask pardon of God, till I have her forgiveness from her own lips." In a village almost English in its rural loveliness "Cobbler" Horn found himself, the next morning, face to face, in the little front-room of a humble cottage, with a pale, sorrowful maiden, on whose pensively-beautiful face hope and fear mingled their lights and shadows while he delivered his tender message. "Would she go with him?" "Go?" she exclaimed, with trembling eagerness, "of course I will! But how good it is of you, sir--a stranger, to come like this!" So Bertha Norman came back with "Cobbler" Horn to the private hospital in New York. He put her into her cousin's room, closed the door, and then quietly came downstairs. Bertha did not notice that her conductor had withdrawn. She flew to the bedside. The dying man put out a trembling hand. "Forgive----" he began in broken tones. But she stifled his words with gentle kisses, and, sitting down by the bed, clasped his poor thin hand. "Ask God to forgive you, dear Jack. I've never stopped loving you a bit!" "Yes, I will ask God that," he said. "I can now. But I want to tell you something first, Bertha. I am a rich man." Then he told her the wonderful story. "Ah!" she exclaimed, "that was your friend who brought me here. I felt that he was good." "He is," said Jack. "And now Bertha, it's all yours. I've made my will, and the money is to come to you when I'm gone. You know I'm going, Bertha?" She tightened the grasp of her hand on his with a convulsive movement, but did not speak. "It 'ull be your very own, Bertha," he said. "Yes, thank you, dear Jack. But forgive me, if I don't think much about that just now." Then there was a brief silence, which was presently broken by Jack. "You won't leave me, yet, Bertha? You'll stay with me a little while?" "Jack I shall never leave you any more!" and there was a world of love in her gentle eyes. "Thank God!" murmured the dying man. "Till----till----you mean?" "Yes; but, Jack, you must come back to God!" "Yes, I will. But call cousin Thomas in." She found "the Golden Shoemaker" in a small sitting-room downstairs; and, having brought him up to the sick-chamber, stood before him in the middle of the room, and, taking his big hand, gently lifted it, with both her tiny white ones, to her lips. "In the presence of my dear Jack," she said, "I thank you. But, dear friend, I think you should take the money back when he is gone." "My dear young lady," protested "Cobbler" Horn, with uplifted hand, "how can I take it, seeing it is not mine? But," he added softly, "we will not speak of it now." True to her promise, Bertha did not leave her beloved Jack until the end; and the regular attendants, supplied by the house, so far from regarding her presence as an intrusion, were easily induced to look upon her as one of themselves. "Cobbler" Horn was rarely absent during the day-time; and, in the brief remaining space of poor Jack's chequered life, his gentle lover, and his high-souled cousin, had the great joy of leading him to entertain a genuine trust in the Saviour. The end came so suddenly, that they had no time for parting words; but they had good hope, as they reverently closed his eyes. When all was over, and he had been laid to rest in the cemetery, "Cobbler" Horn took Bertha back to her village home, and then set his face once more towards England, bearing in his heart a chastened memory, and the image of a sweet, pensive face. CHAPTER XXVI. HOME AGAIN. It was with feelings of deep gratitude to God that "Cobbler" Horn set foot once more upon his native land. After having been away no longer than four weeks, he landed at Liverpool on a bright winter's morning, and, taking an early train, reached Cottonborough about mid-day. He had telegraphed the time of his arrival, and Bounder, the coachman, was at the station to meet him with the dog-cart. He had sent his message for the purpose of preparing his sister for his arrival; for he knew she preferred not to be taken unawares by such events. If he had given the matter a thought, he would have told them not to send to meet him at the station. He would much rather have walked, than ridden, a distance so short. And then he shrank, at all times, from the idea of making a public parade of his newly-acquired state. And, if all the truth must be told, he was--not awed, but mildly irritated, by the imposing presence, and reproachful civility, of the ideal Bounder. Here was Bounder now, with his dignified salute. "Cobbler" Horn yearned to give the man a hearty shake of the hand, and ask him sociably how he had been getting on. This was obviously out of the question; but, just then, little Tommy Dudgeon happened to come up, on his way into the station. Here was an opportunity not to be let slip, and "Cobbler" Horn seized with avidity on his humble little friend, and gave him the hearty hand-shake which he would fain have bestowed upon the high and mighty Bounder. It was a means of grace to "the Golden Shoemaker" once more to clasp the hand of a compatriot and a friend. He stood talking to Tommy for a few minutes, while Bounder waited in his seat with an expression of very slightly veiled scorn on his majestic face. At length, quite oblivious of the contemptuous disapproval of his coachman, and greatly refreshed in spirit, "Cobbler" Horn bade his little friend "good day," and mounted to his seat. They drove off in silence. "Cobbler" Horn scarcely knew whether his exacting coachman would think it proper for his master to enter into conversation with him; and the coachman, on his part, would not be guilty of such a breach of decorum as to speak to his master when his master had not first spoken to him. Miss Jemima was standing in the doorway to receive her brother; and behind her, with a radiant face, modestly waited the young secretary. Miss Jemima presented her cheek, as though for the performance of a surgical operation, and "Cobbler" Horn kissed it with a hearty smack. At the same time he grasped her hand. "Well, Jemima," he exclaimed, "I'm back again safe and sound, you see!" "Yes," was the solemn response, "I'm thankful to see you, brother,--and relieved." "Cobbler" Horn laughed heartily, and kissed her on the other cheek. "Thankful enough, Jemima, let us be. But 'relieved'! well, I had no fear. You see, my dear sister, the whole round world lies in the hand of God. And, then, I didn't understand the way the Lord has been dealing with me of late to mean that he was going to allow me to be cut off quite so soon as that." This was said cheerily, and not at all in a preaching tone; and having said it, "Cobbler" Horn turned, with genuine pleasure, to exchange a genial greeting with his young secretary, who had remained sedately in the background. "Dinner is almost ready," said Miss Jemima, as they entered the house; "so you must not spend long in your room." "I promise you," said her brother, from the stairs, "that I shall be at the table almost as soon as the dinner itself." During dinner, "Cobbler" Horn talked much about his voyage to and fro, and his impressions of America. He had sent, by letter, during his absence, a regular report, from time to time, of the progress of the sorrowful business which had taken him across the sea; and with regard to that neither he nor his sister was now inclined to speak at large. After dinner, "Cobbler" Horn, somewhat to his sister's mortification, retired to the office, for the purpose of receiving, from his secretary, a report of the correspondence which had passed through her hands during his absence. Let it not be supposed that Miss Jemima was capable of entertaining suspicion with regard to her brother. She would frown upon his doings and disapprove of his opinions, with complete unreserve; but she would not admit concerning him a shadow of mistrust. When, therefore, it is recorded that his frequent and close intercourse with his young secretary occasioned his sister uneasiness of mind, it must not be supposed that any evil imagining intruded upon her thoughts. Miss Jemima was simply fearful lest this young girl should, perhaps inadvertently, steal into the place in her brother's heart which belonged to her. As "Cobbler" Horn and his secretary sat in counsel, from time to time, in their respective arm-chairs, at the opposite ends of the office table, neither of them had any suspicion of Miss Jemima's jealous fears. Miss Owen had dealt diligently, and with much shrewdness, with the ever-inflowing tide of letters. Her labour was much lightened now by reason of "Cobbler" Horn's having provided her with the best type-writer that could be obtained for money. With regard to some of the letters, she had ventured to avail herself of the advice of the minister; and she had also, with great tact, consulted Miss Jemima on points with reference to which the opinion of that lady was likely to be sound and safe. The consequence was that the letters which remained to be considered were comparatively few. First, Miss Owen gave her employer an account of the letters of which she had disposed; then she unfolded such matters as were still the subjects of correspondence; and lastly she laid before him the letters with which she had not been able to deal. The most important of all the letters were two long ones from Messrs. Tongs and Ball and Mr. Gray, respectively, relating to the improvements in progress at Daisy Lane in general, and in particular to the work of altering and fitting up the old Hall for the great and gracious purpose on which its owner had resolved. "The Golden Shoemaker" was gratified to learn, from these letters, that the work of renovating his dilapidated property had been so well begun, and that already, amongst his long-suffering tenants, great satisfaction was beginning to prevail. The remaining letters were passed under review, and then "Cobbler" Horn lingered for a few moment's chat. "I mean to take my sister and you to see the village and the Hall one day soon, Miss Owen," he said. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Horn!" enthusiastically exclaimed the young secretary. "You would like to go?" "I should love it dearly! I can't tell you, Mr. Horn, how much I am interested in that kind and generous scheme of yours for the old Hall." In her intercourse with her employer, "Cobbler" Horn's secretary was quite free and unreserved, as indeed he wished her to be. "It's to be a home for orphans, isn't it?" she asked. "Not for orphans only," he replied, tenderly, as he thought of his own lost little one. "It's for children who have no home, whether orphans or not,--little waifs, you know, and strays--children who have no one to care for them." "I'm doing it," he added, simply, "for the sake of my little Marian." "Oh, how good of you! And, do you know, Mr. Horn, its being for waifs and strays makes me like it all the more; because I was a waif and stray once myself." She was leaning forward, with her elbows on the table, and her pretty but decided chin resting on her doubled hands. As she spoke, her somewhat startling announcement presented itself to her in a serio-comic light, and a whimsical twinkle came into her eyes. The same impression was shared by "Cobbler" Horn; and, regarding his young secretary, with her neatly-clothed person, her well-arranged hair, and her capable-looking face, he found it difficult to regard as anything but a joke the announcement that she had once been, as she expressed it, "a waif and stray." "You!" he exclaimed, with an indulgent smile. "Yes, Mr. Horn, I was indeed a little outcast girl. Did not Mr. Durnford tell you that the dear friends who have brought me up are not my actual parents?" "Yes," replied "Cobbler" Horn, slowly, "he certainly did. But I did not suspect----" "Of course not!" laughed the young girl. "You would never dream of insulting me by supposing that I had once been a little tramp!" "No, of course not," agreed "Cobbler" Horn, with a perplexed smile. "It's true, nevertheless," affirmed Miss Owen. "Mr. and Mrs. Burton have been like parents to me almost ever since I can remember, and I always call them 'father' and 'mother'; but they are no more relations to me than are you and Miss Horn. They found me in the road, a poor little ragged mite; and they took me home, and I've been just like their own ever since. I remember something of it, in a vague sort of way." "Cobbler" Horn was regarding his secretary with a bewildered gaze. "You may well be astonished, Mr. Horn. But, do you know, sometimes I almost feel glad that I don't know my real father and mother. They must have been dreadful people. But, whatever they were, they could never have been better to me than Mr. and Mrs. Burton have been. They have treated me exactly as if I had been their own child." Many confused thoughts were working in the brain of "Cobbler" Horn. "But," said Miss Owen, resuming her work, "I must tell you about it another time." "Yes, you shall," said "Cobbler" Horn, rousing himself. "I shall want to hear it all." So saying, he left the room, and betook himself to his old workshop for an hour or two on his beloved cobbler's bench. He had placed the old house under the care of a widow, whom he permitted to live there rent free, and to have the use of the furniture which remained in the house, and to whom, in addition, he paid a small weekly fee. As he walked along the street, he could not fail to think of what his secretary had just said with reference to her early life. His thoughts were full of pathetic interest. Then she too had been a little homeless one! The fact endeared to him, more than ever, the bright young girl who had come like a stream of sunshine into his life. For to "Cobbler" Horn his young secretary was indeed becoming very dear. It could not be otherwise. She was just filling his life with the gentle and considerate helpfulness which he had often thought would have been afforded to him by his little Marian. And now, it seemed to draw this young girl closer to him still, when he learnt that she had once been homeless and friendless, as he had too much reason to fear that his own little one had become. He had a feeling also that the coincidence therein involved was strange. CHAPTER XXVII. COMING INTO COLLISION WITH THE PROPRIETIES. It is not surprising that, in his new station, "Cobbler" Horn should have committed an occasional breach of etiquette. It was unlikely that he would ever be guilty of real impropriety; but it was inevitable that he should, now and again, set at nought the so-called "proprieties" of fashionable life. In the genuine sense of the word, "Cobbler" Horn was a Christian gentleman; and he would have sustained the character in any position in which he might have been placed. But he had a feeling akin to contempt for the punctilious and conventional squeamishness of polite society. It was, no doubt, largely for this reason that "society" did not receive "the Golden Shoemaker" within its sacred enclosure. Not that it rejected him. He had too much money for that; half his wealth would have procured him the entrée to the most select circles. But the attitude he assumed towards the fashionable world rendered impossible his admission to its charmed precincts. He made it evident that he would not, and could not, conform to its customs or observe its rules. The world, indeed, courted him, at first, and would gladly have taken him within its arms. Fashion set to work to woo him, as it would have wooed an ogre possessed of his glittering credentials. But he repelled its advances with an amused indifference verging on contempt. "Cobbler" Horn foiled, by dint of sheer unresponsiveness, the first attempt to introduce itself to him made by the world. On his return from America, one of the first things which attracted his attention was a pile of visiting cards on a silver salver which stood on the hall table. Some of these bore the most distinguished names which Cottonborough or its vicinity could boast. There were municipal personages of the utmost dignity, and the representatives of county families of the first water. It had taken the world some little time to awake to a sense of its "duty" with regard to the "Cobbler" who had suddenly acceded to so high a position in the aristocracy of wealth. But when, at length, it realized that "the Golden Shoemaker" was indeed a fact, it set itself to bestow upon him as full and free a recognition as though the blood in his veins had been of the most immaculate blue. It was during his absence in America that the great rush of the fashionable world to his door had actually set in. But Miss Jemima had not been taken unawares. She had supplied herself betimes with a manual of etiquette, which she had studied with the assiduity of a diligent school-girl. She had also, though not without trepidation, ordered a quantity of visiting cards, and had them inscribed respectively with her own and her brother's names. And thus, when Society made its first advances, it did not find Miss Jemima unprepared. When "Cobbler" Horn espied the visiting cards on his hall table, he said to his sister: "What, more of these, Jemima?" "Yes, Thomas," she responded, with evident pride; "and some of them belong to the best people in the neighbourhood!" "And have all these people been here?" he asked, taking up a bunch of the cards between his finger and thumb, and regarding them with a mingling of curiosity and amusement. "Yes," replied Miss Jemima, in exultant tones, "they have all been here; but a good many of them happened to come when I was out." "Cobbler" Horn sighed. "Well," he said, "I suppose this is another of 'the penalties of wealth!'" "Say rather _privileges_, Thomas," Miss Jemima ventured delicately to suggest. "No, Jemima. It may appear to you in that light; but I am not able to regard as a privilege the coming to us of all these grand people. How much better it would be, if they would leave us to live our life in our own way! Do you suppose they would ever have taken any notice of us at all, if it had not been for this money?" Miss Jemima was unable to reply; for it was impossible to gainsay her brother's words. And yet it was sweet to her soul to have all the best people in the neighbourhood calling and leaving their cards. For the present, she let the matter rest. But, a day or two afterwards, the course of events brought the question to the surface again. Miss Jemima was brushing her brother's coat, in the dining-room, after dinner, previous to his setting out for his old workshop, when they saw a carriage drive up to the gate. "Here are some more of your grand friends, Jemima," said "Cobbler" Horn, with a sigh. "How ever am I to get out?" Miss Jemima was peeping out from behind the window-curtain, with the eagerness of a girl. "Why," she exclaimed, as the occupants of the carriage began to alight, "it's Mr. and Mrs. Brownlow, the retired b----." "Brewer" she was going to say but checked herself. "Surely you will not think of going out now, Thomas?" "Cobbler" Horn knew Mr. and Mrs. Brownlow very well by sight. He had known them before they rode in their carriage, and when they were much less splendid people than they had latterly become. He had never greatly desired their acquaintance when it was unattainable; and, now that it was being thrust upon him, he desired it even less than before. There was no reason why he should be intimate with this man. On what grounds had he called? "Cobbler" Horn could not refrain from regarding the visit as being an impertinence. "My dear Jemima," he said, "I must be going at once. These people cannot have any business with me; and I have a good deal of work to do. You have received the other people; and you can manage these. But, Jemima, do not encourage them to come again!" So saying, he moved towards the door; but Miss Jemima placed an agitated hand upon his arm. "Thomas," she cried, "what shall I say to them?" "Tell them I am obliged to go out. Do you think it would be right to keep my poor people waiting for their boots and shoes, while I spent the time in idle ceremony?" Miss Jemima ceased to remonstrate, and her brother again moved towards the door. But, before he reached it, a servant appeared with the cards of Mr. and Mrs. Brownlow, who were by this time installed in the drawing-room. Miss Jemima took the cards, and "Cobbler" Horn made for the front-door. "Not that way, Thomas!" she cried after him. "They'll see you!" "Cobbler" Horn looked around in surprise. "Why not, my dear? They will thus perceive that I have really gone out." The next moment he was gone, and Miss Jemima was left to face the visitors with the best excuses she could frame. The question of returning the numerous calls they had received occasioned much perplexity to Miss Jemima's mind. Nothing would induce her brother to accompany her on any expedition of the kind. While, therefore, in some cases, she was able to go by herself, in others she was obliged to refrain from going altogether, and, as a matter of course, offence was given. The natural consequence was that the number of callers rapidly diminished, and "the Golden Shoemaker's" reputation for eccentricity was thoroughly established. "Cobbler" Horn very rarely consented to see any company who came merely to pay a call. But one afternoon, when his sister was out, he went into the drawing-room to excuse her absence, and, in fact, to dismiss the callers. "My sister is not at home, ma'am," he said, addressing the buxom and magnificent lady, who, with her two slender and humble-looking sons, had awaited his coming. Having delivered his announcement, he stood at the open door, as though to show his visitors out. The lady, however, quite unabashed, retained her seat. "May I venture to say," she asked, "that, inasmuch as the absence of Miss Horn has procured us the pleasure of making the acquaintance of her brother, it is not entirely a matter of regret?" "Cobbler" Horn bowed gravely. "It is very good of you to say that, ma'am; but I'm afraid I must ask you to excuse me too. I'm very busy; and, besides, these ceremonies are not at all in my way." The lady, who bore a title, changed countenance, and rose to her feet. She was conscious that she had been dismissed. "Certainly, sir," she said, in accents of freezing politeness; "no doubt you have many concerns. We will retire at once." The lady's sons also rose, moving as she moved, like the satellites of a planet. "There is no need for you to go, ma'am," "Cobbler" Horn hastened to say, quite unaware that he had committed a grave breach of etiquette. "If you will only excuse me, and stay here by yourselves, for a little while, no doubt my sister will soon be back; and I'm sure she will be glad to see you." "Thank you," was the haughty response of the angered dame; "we have already remained too long. Be good enough, sir, to have us shown out." "Cobbler" Horn rang the bell; and, as the lady, followed by her sons, swept past him with a stately and disdainful bow, he felt that, in some way, he had grievously transgressed. Miss Jemima, on her return, a few moments later, heard, with great consternation, what had taken place. "I asked the good lady to wait till you came, Jemima; but she insisted on going away at once." "Oh, Thomas, what have you done!" cried Miss Jemima, in piteous tones. "What could I do?" was the reply. "You see, I could not think of wasting my time; and I thought they would not mind staying by themselves, for a few minutes, till you came in." "Oh, dear," cried Miss Jemima, "I'm afraid she'll never come again!" "Well, never mind, Jemima," said her brother; "I don't suppose it will matter very much." The foreboding of Miss Jemima was fulfilled; the outraged lady returned no more. And there were many others, who, when they found that the master of the house had little taste for fashionable company, discontinued their calls. Some few of her new-made acquaintances only Miss Jemima was able, by dint of her own careful and eager politeness, to retain. There were also other points at which "Cobbler" Horn came into collision with the customs of society. He persisted in habitually going out with his hands ungloved. He possessed a hardy frame, and, even in winter, he had rarely worn either gloves or overcoat; and now, as ever, almost his only preparation for going out was to take his hat down from its peg, and put it on his head. Miss Jemima pathetically entreated that he would at least wear gloves. But he was obdurate. His hands, he said, were always warm enough when he was out of doors; and he would try to keep them clean. Another of the whims of "Cobbler" Horn was his fondness for doing what his sister called "common" work. One morning, for example, on coming down to breakfast, the good lady, looking through the window, saw her brother, in his shirt sleeves, engaged in trimming the grass of the lawn. With a little scream, she ran out at the front-door, and caught him by the arm. "Thomas! Thomas!" she cried, "if you don't care about yourself, have a little thought for me!" "What is it, Jemima?" he asked straightening himself. "Is breakfast ready? I'm very sorry to have kept you waiting. I'll come at once." "No, no," exclaimed Miss Jemima; "it's not that! But for a man in your position to be working like a common gardener--it's shameful! Pray come in at once, before you are seen by any one going by! Without your coat too, on a sharp winter's morning like this!" "My dear Jemima," said "Cobbler" Horn, as he turned with her towards the house, "if I _were_ a common gardener, there would be no disgrace, any more than in my present position. There's no shame in a bit of honest work, anyhow, Jemima; and it's a great treat to me." Miss Jemima's chief concern was to get her unmanageable brother into the house as quickly as possible, and she paid little heed to what he said. CHAPTER XXVIII. BOUNDER GIVES WARNING. There was another personage to whom the unconventional ways of "the Golden Shoemaker" gave great offence; and that was Mr. Bounder, the coachman. As a coachman, Bounder was faultless. His native genius had been developed and matured by a long course of first-class experience. In matters of etiquette, within his province, Bounder was precise. Right behaviour between master and coachman was, in his opinion, "the whole duty of man." He held in equal contempt a presuming coachman and a master who did not keep his place. Bounder soon discovered that, in "Cobbler" Horn, he had a master of whom it was impossible to approve. Bounder "see'd from the fust as Mr. Horn warn't no gentleman." It was always the way with "them as was made rich all of a suddint like." And Bounder puffed out his red cheeks till they looked like two toy balloons. It was "bad enough to be kept waiting outside the station, while your master stood talking to a little feller as looked as like a rag and bone man as anythink; but when you was required to stop the kerridge and pick up every tramp as you overtook on the road, it was coming it a little too strong." This last was a slight exaggeration on the part of Bounder. The exact truth was that, on one occasion, his master had stopped the carriage for the purpose of giving a lift to a respectable, though not well-to-do, pedestrian, and in another instance, a working-class woman and her tired little one had been invited to take their seats on Bounder's sacred cushions, Bounder's master himself alighting to lift the bedusted child to her place. But this was not the worst. The woman who lived in the little cottage past which Marian had trotted so eagerly, on the morning of her disappearance so long ago, had a daughter who was a cripple from disease of the spine. She was the only daughter, and, being well up in her teens, would have been a great help to her mother if she had been well. "Cobbler" Horn was deeply moved by the pale cheeks and frail bent form of the invalid girl. He induced his sister to call at the cottage, and they took the poor suffering creature under their care. It was not unnatural that the young secretary should also be enlisted in this kindly service. First she was sent to the cottage with delicacies to tempt the appetite of the sick girl; and then she began to go there of her own accord. During one of her visits, the mother happened to say: "You see, miss, what she wants is fresh air. But how's she to get it? She can't walk only a few yards at a time; and even a mild winter's not the time for sitting out." The woman spoke without any special design; but her words suggested to the mind of Miss Owen a happy thought. The young secretary was so firmly established, by this time, in the regard of her employer that she was able to approach him with the least degree of reserve. So she spoke out her thought to him with the frankness of a favourite daughter. An actual daughter would have thrown her arms around his neck, and emphasized her suggestion with a kiss. Miss Owen did not do this; but the tone of respectful yet affectionate confidence in which she spoke served her purpose just as well. "Mr. Horn"--they were in the midst of their daily grapple with the correspondence--"the doctor says poor Susie Martin ought to have a great deal of fresh air. Don't you think a carriage drive now and then would be a good thing?" Her knowledge of "Cobbler" Horn assured her that her suggestion would be adopted. Otherwise she would have hesitated to throw it out. "Cobbler" Horn laid down the pen with which he had been making some jottings for the guidance of his secretary, and regarded her steadfastly for a moment or two. Then his face lighted up with a sudden glow. "To be sure! Why didn't I think of that? My dear young lady, you are my good angel!" That evening Miss Owen was desired to take a message to the cottage; and the next day Bounder was confounded by being ordered to convey Miss Owen and the invalid girl for a country drive, in the pony carriage. Bounder stared, became apoplectic in appearance, and stutteringly asked to have the order repeated. His master complied with his request; and Bounder turned away, with haughty mien, to do as he was bid. He was consumed with fierce mortification. He would bear it this time, but not again. He was like the proverbial camel, which succumbs beneath the last straw. Very soon the point would be reached at which long-suffering endurance must give way. It was a deep grievance with Bounder that he was seldom ordered to drive to big houses. He was required to turn the heads of his horses into many strange ways. He was almost daily ordered to drive down streets where he was ashamed to be seen, and to stop at doors at which he felt it to be an indignity to be compelled to pull up his prancing steeds. Bounder hailed with relief the occasions on which he was required to take Miss Jemima out. Then he was sure of not receiving an order to obey which would be beneath the dignity of a coachman who, until now, had known no service but of the highest class. Such occasions supplied salve to his wounded spirit. But his wound was reopened every day by some fresh insult at the hands of his master. He had submitted to the odious necessity of driving out in his carriage the crippled girl, and that not only once or twice. But the tide of rebellion was rising higher and higher in his breast, and gathering strength from day to day; and, at length, Bounder resolved to give his master "warning," and remove himself from so uncongenial a sphere. He did not quite like to make his master's kindness to the poor invalid girl his ostensible reason for desiring a change; and, while he was looking around for a plausible pretext, the course of events supplied him with exactly such an occasion as he sought. Bounder had not as yet become aware of the daily visits of his master to his old workshop. He had been kept in ignorance of the matter merely because there was no special reason why he should be informed. One afternoon, on leaving home, "Cobbler" Horn had left word with Miss Jemima for the coachman to come to the old house, with the dog-cart, at three o'clock. Bounder received the order with a feeling of apathetic wonder as to what new freak he was expected to countenance and aid. At the entrance of the street in which the old house stood, he involuntarily pulled up his horse. Then, with an air of ineffable disdain, he drove slowly on, and proceeded to the number at which he had been directed to call. Summoning a passing boy, he ordered him to knock at the door. The boy contemplated disobedience; but a glance at Bounder's whip induced him to change his mind, and he gave the door a sounding rap. The door speedily opened, and Bounder's master appeared. But such was his disguise that Bounder was necessitated to rub his eyes. Divested of his coat, and enfolded in a leathern apron, "the Golden Shoemaker" stood in the doorway, with bare arms, holding out a pair of newly-mended hob-nailed boots. "That's right," he said; "I'm glad you're punctual. Will you kindly take these boots to No. 17, Drake Street, round the corner; and then come back here;" and, stepping out upon the pavement, he placed the boots on the vacant cushion of the dog-cart, close to Bounder's magnificent person. Bounder touched his hat as usual; but there was an evil fire in his heart, and, as he drove slowly away, a lava-tide of fierce thought coursed through his mind. That he, Bounder, "what had drove real gentlemen and ladies, such as a member of Parliament and a _barrow-knight_," should have been ordered to drive home a pair of labourer's boots! This was "the last straw," indeed! Arrived at No. 17, Drake Street, Bounder altogether declined to touch the offending boots. He simply indicated them with his whip to the woman who had come to the door in some surprise, and ignoring her expression of thanks, turned the head of his horse, and drove gloomily away. That night, "Cobbler" Horn's outraged coachman sought speech with his master. "I wish to give you warning, sir," he said, touching his hat, and speaking in tones of perfect respect. Bounder's master started. He had intended to make the best of his coachman. "Why so, Bounder?" he asked. "Don't I give you money enough, or what?" "Oh," replied Bounder, "the money's all right; but, to make a clean breast of it, the service ain't ezactly what I've been used to. I ain't been accustomed to drive about in back streets, and stop at cottages and such; and to take up every tramp as you meets; and to carry labourer's boots on the seat of the dog-cart." "I'm afraid, Mr. Bounder," said "Cobbler" Horn, with a broad smile, "that I've hurt your dignity." "Well, as to that, sir," said the coachman, uneasily, "all as I wishes to say is that I've been used to a 'igh class service; and I took this place under a mis-happrehension." "Very well, Bounder," rejoined "Cobbler" Horn, more gravely, "then we had better part. For I can't promise you any different class of service, seeing it is my intention to use my carriages quite as much for the benefit of other people as for my own; and it is not at all likely that I shall drive about much amongst fashionable folks. When do you wish to go, Mr. Bounder?" This was business-like indeed. Bounder was in no haste to reply. "Because," resumed his master, "I will release you next week, if you wish." "Well, sir," replied Bounder slowly, "I shouldn't wish to go under the month." "Very well. But, you must know, Bounder, that I have no fault to find with you. It's you who have given me notice, you know." Bounder drew himself up to his full height. "Fault to find" with him! The mere suggestion was an insult. But Bounder put it into his pocket. "If you are in want of a character, now," resumed "Cobbler" Horn, "I shall----" "Thank you, sir," interposed Bounder with hauteur, "I am provided as to that. There's more than one gentleman who will speak for me," and Bounder faced about, and marched away with his nose turned towards the stars. CHAPTER XXIX. VAGUE SURMISINGS. The feeling of familiarity with the previous abode of her employer, and its surroundings, of which Miss Owen had been conscious at first, had become modified as the weeks went by. The removal to the new house had, no doubt, in part contributed to this result; and, very soon, if she did not forget the impression of revived remembrance of which she had been aware at first, she ceased to be conscious that any trace of it remained. She did not, indeed, forget that it had been; she remembered vividly the fact that, when she first entered the old house, she had almost felt as if she had come home. That feeling had now almost passed away. But she was beginning to ponder certain things which seemed to be connected with it in some vague way. Though she had often been told of the circumstances under which she had been rescued from a life of poverty and possible shame, her own recollection of the matter was very dim. She seemed to remember a time of great trouble, and then a sudden change, since which all had been happy and bright; and certainly, if she had not been definitely informed of the fact, she would never have suspected that the kind friends to whom she owed so much were not her actual parents. That vague reminiscence of early distress would have lingered with her as the memory of a troubled dream, and nothing more. Hitherto she had not been anxious for further information concerning her parentage and early life. There were times when she felt some small measure of dissatisfaction at the thought that she did not know who she really was. But this feeling was held in check by the consideration that, if her parents had been good and kind, she would probably not have been in a position to need the loving service which had been rendered to her by Mr. and Mrs. Burton; and she felt that she would a thousand times rather have them for her father and mother, than be compelled to give those dear names to such persons as it was more than likely her actual parents had been. For the most part, therefore, she had feared, rather than hoped, that her real father and mother might appear. Now, however, vague surmisings were being awakened in the mind of the young secretary. Her kind employer had mysteriously lost a little girl. This suggested to her a new set of possibilities as to her own past. It came to her mind that perhaps she also had been lost, and that the misery she vaguely remembered, had been inflicted by other hands than those of her parents. If, like little Marian, she had actually wandered away, it was probably no fault of theirs, and perhaps they had been mourning for her all these years. Then, almost for the first time, she was conscious of an ardent desire to know who her parents had been. Over this question she pondered often and long. She could do nothing more--except pray. And pray she did. She asked that, if it were right and best, the cloud of obscurity might be lifted from her earlier years. And yet, as day by day she persisted in this prayer, she had a feeling that the prayer itself, and the desire from which it proceeded, might, perhaps, constitute a species of disloyalty to the only parents she seemed ever to have known. To this feeling her great love and strong conscientiousness gave birth. Yet she could neither repress her desire nor refrain from her prayer. But there was another thing which "Cobbler" Horn had said. When his secretary asked him what little Marian would probably be like, if she were still alive, he, in all simplicity, and without perceiving the possible direction that might be given to her thoughts, had replied that his lost child, if living, would be not unlike what his secretary actually was. He probably intended no more than that there might be a general resemblance between the two girls; and he might be mistaken even in that. Miss Owen herself took such a view of the matter at the time, and passed it lightly by. But, afterwards, in the course of her ponderings, it came back again. The unpremeditated words, in which her employer had admitted the probability of a resemblance between herself and what his own lost child might most likely have become, seemed to find their place amongst the other strange things which were perplexing her mind. Very deeply Miss Owen pondered these many puzzling things, from day to day. A momentous possibility seemed to be dawning on her view; but she was like one who, being but half-awake, cannot decide whether the brightness of coming day may not, after all, be merely a dim dream-light which will presently fade away. It appeared to her sometimes as though she were on the verge of the momentous discovery which she had often wondered whether she would ever make. Could it be that the mystery of her parentage was about to be solved, and that with a result which would be altogether to her mind? But, as often as she reached this point, she pulled herself sharply up. Her name was Mary Ann Owen: that settled the question at once. But was it so? There came a time when she began to have doubts even as to her name. Perhaps the wish was father to the thought. At any rate, she had never liked the name by which she was known; and now she was conscious of a very definite reason for wishing that it might, in some way, turn out not to be her name after all. Was it certain that her name was Mary Ann Owen? She had a strange, weird feeling at the thought of what the question implied. And there was distinct ground for doubt. When she had been found by her adopted parents, her baby tongue, in answer to their questioning, had pronounced her name as best it could. But, as her speech was less distinct than is usually that of a child of her apparent years, they had never felt quite sure about her name. The name by which she forthwith became known to them was the best interpretation they could put upon her broken words, and it had been accepted by the child herself without objection; but in the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Burton there had always been a lingering doubt. Miss Owen had been aware of this, but had given it little heed. Now, however, the fact that there was uncertainty as to her name came vividly to her mind. And yet, if her name was not Mary Ann Owen, it might be something else quite as far from her desires. But stay, might it not be supposed that her real name, whatever it might be, was similar in sound to the name her baby tongue had been thought to pronounce? She had tried to tell her kind friends her name; and they had understood her to say that it was Mary Ann Owen. If they were mistaken, what other name was there of similar sound? Ah, there was one! Then she thrilled with almost a delirium of delight, which quickly gave place to a guilty feeling--as though she had put forth her hand towards that which was too sacred for her touch. "What silly day-dreams have come into my head!" she cried. "The Golden Shoemaker" too had his ponderings, in these days. Of late he had been thinking more about his little Marian than for many years past; and, if he had searched for the reason of this, he would have discovered it in the fact that his young girl secretary daily reminded him, in various ways, of his long lost child. Miss Owen was--or so he fancied--very much like what his darling would have become. There was, to be sure, not much in that, after all; and the same might have been the case with many another young girl. But the points of resemblance between the history of his young secretary and the early fate of his little Marian constituted another circumstance of strange import. Like his own child, Miss Owen had been an outcast. Kind friends had given her a home. Might it not be that similar happiness had fallen to the lot of his little Marian? If he could think so, he would almost be reconciled to the prospect of never seeing her again. And every day he felt that his young secretary was making for herself a larger place in his heart. CHAPTER XXX. A NOVEL DIFFICULTY FOR A MAN OF WEALTH. The trouble with most people, rich and otherwise, is to know how to keep their money; how to get rid of it was the difficulty with which "the Golden Shoemaker" was beset. "Cobbler" Horn's unalterable purpose was to retain no more than a comparatively small portion of his wealth for his own use. Since he had entered upon his fortune, he had already given away a great deal of money; but it seemed to him a very trifling amount in proportion to the vast sum he possessed. He was, moreover, aware that he was getting richer every day. Since the property had come into his hands, the investments it comprised were yielding better than ever before; and he could not endure that such vast sums of money should be accumulating upon him, while there was so much misery and want in the world. He believed that his immense wealth had been given him, in trust, by God; and that it was not absolutely his own. The purpose of God, in bestowing it upon him, was that he should use it for the benefit of all who had any need which might be supplied by its means; and, by so much, it belonged, not to "Cobbler" Horn himself, but, under God, to those who possessed any such claim to its use. He was convinced that no preacher had ever been more definitely or solemnly called to the ministration of the "Word" than was he, "the Golden Shoemaker," to the ministry of wealth. And it was a ministry after his own heart. Full of Christ-like love and pity for the needy, the sad, and the sinful, he revelled in the gracious opportunities which now crowded his life. He had few greater pleasures, in these days, than that afforded him by the signing of cheques. To negotiate a contribution from him for some worthy object was a means of grace;--so hearty and joyous was his response to the appeal, and so thankful did he seem for the opportunity it had brought. Never, perhaps, were the functions of a Christian man of wealth more clearly comprehended, or the possibilities of blessedness involved in the possession of riches more fully realized, than by "Cobbler" Horn. He often told himself that, by making others happy with his money, he secured the highest benefit it was able to impart. Thus bestowed, his wealth afforded him infinitely greater satisfaction, than if he had devoted it entirely to his own personal ends. But "the Golden Shoemaker" was not satisfied. His money was not going fast enough. The amounts he had already dispensed appeared but as a few splashes of foam from the sea. He wanted channels for his benevolence. His difficulty was rare. Most men of means find that they have not the wherewithal to supply the demands of their own many-handed need. He was able to satisfy almost unlimited necessities beyond his own, but was sadly troubled to know how it might be done. Yet he was determined that he would not rest, until he had found means of disposing, in his Lord's service, of every penny that remained to him, after his own modest wants had been supplied. Actuated by this purpose, "Cobbler" Horn resolved to pay another visit to his minister. Mr. Durnford had helped him before, and would help him again. Of set purpose, he selected Monday morning for his visit. Unless his business had been very urgent indeed, he would not have run the risk of disturbing Mr. Durnford at his studies by going to see him on any other morning than this. But he knew that, on Monday morning, the minister was accustomed to throw himself somewhat on the loose, and was rather glad, than otherwise, to welcome a congenial visitor at that time. Mr. Durnford, as usual, gave his friend a cordial greeting. There was not a member of his church who occupied a higher place in his regard than did "Cobbler" Horn. "Glad to see you, Mr. Horn!" he said, entering the dining-room, whither his visitor had been shown by the maid; and he heartily shook "the Golden Shoemaker" by the hand. "This is a regular 'Blue Monday' with me, as, indeed, most of my Mondays are; and a little brotherly chat will give me a lift. How go the millions?" By this time they were seated opposite to each other, in two comfortable chairs, before a cheerful fire. The minister's half-joking question touched so closely the trouble just then upon "Cobbler" Horn's mind, that he took it quite seriously, and returned a very grave reply. "The 'millions,' sir, are not going fast enough; in fact, they go very slowly indeed. And, to make a clean breast of it, that is what has brought me here this morning." "Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Durnford, with deep interest. "But, sir," added "Cobbler" Horn, half-rising, and putting out his hand, "don't let me hinder you. I can come another time, if you are busy just now." "Don't speak of such a thing, my dear friend!" cried the minister, putting out his hand in turn. "Keep your seat. I'm never busy on a Monday morning--if I can help it. I am always ready, between the hours of nine and one on Monday, for any innocent diversion that may come in my way. I keep what is called 'Saint Monday'--at least in the morning. If I am disturbed on any other morning, I--well, I don't like it. But any reasonable person who finds me at home on a Monday morning--against which, I must admit, the chances are strong, for I frequently go off on some harmless jaunt--is quite welcome to me for that time." "I had an idea of that, sir," responded "Cobbler" Horn. "Ah, you are a most considerate man! But now, about the millions?" "The Golden Shoemaker" smiled. "Not 'millions,' sir--hardly one million yet--indeed a great deal less now, actually in my own hands; though I am seriously afraid of what it may become. All my investments are turning out so well, that the money is coming in much faster than I can get rid of it! It's positively dreadful! I shall have to increase my givings very largely in some way." The minister held up his hands in mock astonishment; and there was a twinkle of honest pleasure in his keen, grey eyes. "Mr. Horn, I believe you are the first man, since the foundation of the world, who has been troubled because his money didn't go fast enough!" "Well, sir, that is the case." His unwieldy wealth weighed too heavily upon his heart and conscience to permit of his adopting the half-humorous view of the situation which Mr. Durnford seemed to take. "But surely, Mr. Horn," urged the minister, becoming serious, "there are plenty of ways for your money. To get money is often difficult; it should be easy enough to get rid of it." "Yes, sir, there are plenty of ways. My poor, devoted secretary knows that as well as I do. But the puzzle is, to find the right ways. If I merely wanted to get rid of my money, the letters of a single week would almost enable me to do that." "Yes, yes," said Mr. Durnford, "of course. I know exactly how it is. You could make your money up in a bag, and toss it into the sea at one throw, if that were all." "Yes," replied "Cobbler" Horn, with a quiet smile; and he sighed faintly, as though he wished it were permissible to rid himself thus easily of his golden encumbrance. "But that is not all, Mr. Durnford," he then said. "No, Mr. Horn, you feel that it would not do to cast your bread on the waters in that literal sense. You are constrained to cast it, not into the sea, but, like precious seed, into the soil of human hearts and lives--soil that has been prepared by the plough of poverty and the harrow of suffering. Isn't that it, my friend?" "Cobbler" Horn leaned forward in his chair, with glistening eyes. "Yes, sir; go on; you are a splendid thought reader." "You feel that merely to dispose of your money anyhow--without discrimination--would be worse than hoarding it up?" "That I do, sir!" "It is not your money, but the Lord's; and you wish to dispose of every penny in a way He would approve?" "Yes, sir," was "Cobbler" Horn's emphatic confirmation; "and I'm so anxious about it that often I can't sleep at nights. I expect the Lord gave me all this money because He knew I should want to use it for Him; and I'm determined not to disappoint Him. I feel the more strongly on the subject, because there's so much of the Lord's money in the world that he never gets the benefit of at all." The minister listened gravely. "So you want my advice?" "Yes, sir; and your help. My difficulty is that it is the unworthy who are most eager to ask for help. Those who are really deserving are often the last to cry out; and many of them would rather die than beg. Now, sir, I want you to help me to find out cases of real need, to tell me of any good cause that comes to your knowledge; and suggest as many ways as you can of making a good use of my money. Will you do this for me, sir? Although you have helped me so much already, I don't think you will refuse my request." The minister listened to this appeal from "the Golden Shoemaker" with a feeling of holy joy. "No, my dear friend," he said, "I will not refuse your request. How can I? Believing, with you, that your wealth is a Divine trust, I regard your appeal as a call from God Himself. Besides, you could not have demanded from me a more congenial service. You shall have all the help I can give; and between us," he added, with a reviving flicker of his previous facetiousness, "we shall make the millions fly." "Thank you, heartily, sir. But I must warn you that you have undertaken no light task. We shall have to dispose of many thou----" "We will make them vanish," broke in the minister, "like half-pence in the hands of a conjuror." "I know," said "Cobbler" Horn, with a smile, "that you ministers are well able to dispose of the money." "Yes, I suppose we are. But, dear friend, let it be understood, at the outset, that I can be no party to your defrauding yourself." "It is all the Lord's money," said "the Golden Shoemaker." "Yes; but, if you employ it for Him, He means you to have your commission." "Oh, as to that, a very little will serve. My wants are few." "My dear friend," remonstrated the minister, "are you not in danger of falling into a mistake? God has given you the power to acquire a great deal of the good of this world; and I don't think it would be right for you not to make a pretty complete use of your opportunities. Though you should be ever so generous to yourself, and live a very full and abundant life, you will still be able to give immense sums of money away; and such a life would fit you all the better to serve God in your new sphere." "You think that, do you, sir?" asked "Cobbler" Horn, evidently impressed. "I certainly do." "Well, I will consider it; for I dare say you are right. But to return to what we were talking about just now, perhaps, sir, you could give me a hint or two, this morning, with regard to my money?" Thus invited, Mr. Durnford ventured to mention several cases of individual necessity with which he was acquainted, and to indicate various schemes of wide-spread benevolence in which a man of wealth might embark. "Cobbler" Horn listened attentively; and, having entered in his note-book the names Mr. Durnford had given him, promised also to consider the more general suggestions he had made. "I am very much obliged to you, sir," he said; "and shall often come to you for advice of this kind." "As often as you like, Mr. Horn," laughed the minister; "it doesn't cost much to give advice. It is those who follow it that have to pay." "Yes," rejoined "Cobbler" Horn; "and that will I do most gladly." So saying, he rose from his seat, and held out his hand. "Good morning, sir!" "Good morning, my dear sir!" said the minister, grasping the proffered hand. "By the way, how is Miss Owen getting on?" "My dear sir, I owe you eternal gratitude for having made me acquainted with that young lady!" "I'm glad of that, but not a bit surprised." "She is a greater help to me than I can tell. And what a sad history she seems to have had--in early life, that is! Her childhood appears to have been a sad time." "Ah, she has told you, then?" "Yes, it came out quite by accident. She didn't obtrude it in any way." "I am sure she wouldn't." "And the fact that she was once a little outcast girl increases my interest in her very much." "That," said the minister, "is a matter of course." CHAPTER XXXI. "COBBLER" HORN'S CRITICS. The months passed. Christmas came, and was left behind, and now spring had fairly set in. "The Golden Shoemaker" had become a person of great consideration to the dignitaries of his church. It is true there were those amongst its wealthy members by whom he was unsparingly criticised behind his back. But this did not deter them from paying him all manner of court to his face. He was startled at the importance which he had suddenly acquired. His acquaintance was sought on every side; and he found himself the subject of a variety of polite attentions to which he had been an entire stranger until now. Men of wealth and position who, though they were his fellow-members in the church, had never yet shaken him by the hand, suddenly discovered that he was their dear friend. There was one rich man whose pew in the church was next to that of "Cobbler" Horn. Though this man had sat side by side with his poor brother for many years, in the house of God, he had seemed unaware of his existence. But no sooner did "Cobbler" Horn become "the Golden Shoemaker" than the attitude of his wealthy neighbour underwent a change. The first sign of recognition he bestowed upon his recently-enriched fellow-worshipper was a polite bow as they were leaving the church; next he ventured to show "Cobbler" Horn the hymn, when the latter happened to come late one day; and, at length, on a certain Sunday morning, as they were going out, he stepped into the aisle, and proffered his hand to "the Golden Shoemaker," for a friendly shake. "Cobbler" Horn started, and drew back. It was not in his nature to be malicious; and to decline the offered civility was the furthest thing from his thoughts. He was simply lost in amazement. The gentleman who was offering to shake hands with him was one of the most important men in Cottonborough. But his great astonishment arose from the fact that this mighty personage, after sitting within reach of him in the house of God for so many years, without bestowing upon him the slightest sign of recognition, should suddenly desire to shake him by the hand! The man noticed his hesitation, and was turning away with offended dignity. But "Cobbler" Horn quickly recovered himself, and, taking the hand which had been offered to him, gave it a heartier shake than it had, perhaps, ever received before. "It was not that, Mr. Varley," he said, "I'm glad enough to shake hands with you, as I should have been long ago. But it did seem such a queer thing that we should have been sitting side by side here all these years, and you should never have thought of shaking hands with me before. I suppose the reason why you do it now is that the Lord has seen fit to make me a rich man. Now I really don't think I'm any more fit to be shaken hands with on that account. Personally, I'm very much the same as I've been any time these twenty years past; and it does seem to me a bit strange that you and others should appear to think otherwise." "Cobbler" Horn spoke in a pleasant tone, and there was a twinkle of amusement in his eye. But Mr. Varley was not amused. Regarding "Cobbler" Horn with an expression of countenance which was very much like a scowl, he turned upon his heel and withdrew; and, during the week, he arranged for a sitting in another part of the church. Mr. Varley was not the only rich and influential member of the church who had recently discovered in "Cobbler" Horn a suitable object of friendly regard. But the most cordial and obsequious of his wealthy fellow-members were ready enough to criticise him behind his back. With the advice and help of the minister, he had begun to "make the millions fly," in good earnest; and his phenomenal liberality--prodigality, it was called by some--could not, in the nature of things, escape notice. It soon became, in fact, the talk of the town and of the country round. But it was by the members of his church that "Cobbler" Horn's lavish benefactions were most eagerly discussed. Various opinions were expressed, by his fellow-Christians, of "the Golden Shoemaker," and of the guineas with which he was so free. Some few saw the real man in their suddenly-enriched friend, and rejoiced. Others shook their heads, and said the "Shoemaker" would not be "Golden" long at that rate; and some scornfully curled their lips, and declared the man to be a fool. But the most bitter of "Cobbler" Horn's critics were certain of his wealthy brethren who seemed to regard his abundant liberality as a personal affront. There were many wealthy members in Mr. Durnford's church. The minister sometimes thought, in his inmost soul, that his church would have been but little poorer, in any sense of the word, for the loss of some of the rich men whose names were on its roll. With all their wealth, many of them were not "rich towards God." But Mr. Durnford was circumspect. It was his endeavour, without failing in his duty, either to his Divine Master, or to these gilded sheep of his, to make what use of them he might in connection with his sacred work. There was little, it is true, to be got out of these wealthy men but their money, and they could not be persuaded to part with much of that; but the minister did not give them much rest. One pleasant spring evening, Mr. Durnford set out on one of what he called his "financial tours" amongst this section of his members. The first house to which he went--and, as it proved, the last--was that of a very rich brewer, who was one of the main pillars of the Church. There were other members of Mr. Durnford's flock who were of the same trade. This was not gratifying to Mr. Durnford; but what could he do? The brewers were blameless in their personal behaviour, regular in their attendance in the sanctuary, and exact in their fulfilment of the conditions of church membership; and he could not unchurch them merely because they were brewers. If he began there, it would be difficult to tell where he ought to stop. Nor did he scorn their gifts of money to the cause of God. He was pleased that they were willing to devote some portion of their gains to so good a purpose; his regret was that the portion was so small. Mr. Durnford did not hesitate to tell his rich members what he conceived to be the just claims of the cause of God upon their wealth; and, on the evening of which we speak, he called first, for this purpose, on the aforesaid brewer, Mr. Caske. This gentleman lived in a large, square, old-fashioned, comfortable house, surrounded with its own grounds, which were extensive and well laid out. The entire premises were encompassed with a high brick wall, which might well have been supposed to hide a workhouse or a prison, instead of the paradise it actually concealed. Perhaps Mr. Caske had selected this secluded abode from an instinctive disinclination to obtrude the abundance and comfort which he had derived from the manufacture and sale of beer; perhaps he had bought this particular house simply because it was in itself such a dwelling as he desired. At any rate, there he was, with his abundance and luxury, within his encircling wall; and one was tempted to wonder whether there was as much mystery in connection with the article of his manufacture, as seemed to be associated with his place of abode. The minister let himself in at a small door in the boundary wall, and made his way, through the grounds, to the front-door of the house. "Mr. Caske has company to-night, sir," said the maid who opened the door. "Any one I know, Mary?" "Yes, sir; Mr. Botterill and Mr. Kershaw." "Oh, well, I want to see them too. Where are they?" "In the smoke-room, sir." "Well, show me in. It will be all right." As Mr. Durnford was a frequent and privileged visitor, the girl promptly complied with his request. The smoke-room was a good-sized, comfortable apartment, furnished with every convenience that smokers are supposed to require. It looked out, by two long windows, on a wide sweep of lawn which stretched away from the end of the house. In this room, in chairs of various luxurious styles, sat Mr. Caske and his two friends. Each of the three men was smoking a churchwarden pipe; and at the elbow of each stood a little three-legged, japanned smoker's table, on which was a stand of matches, an ash-tray, and a glass of whisky. The three smokers slowly turned their heads, as the minister entered the room, and, on recognising him, they all rose to their feet. "Good evening, sir," said Mr. Caske, advancing, with his pipe in his left hand, and his right hand stretched out; "you have surprised us at our devotions again." "Which you are performing," rejoined the minister, "with an earnestness worthy of a nobler object of worship." Mr. Caske laughed huskily; and the minister turned to greet Messrs. Botterill and Kershaw, who were waiting, pipes in hand, to resume their seats. Mr. Botterill was a wine and spirit merchant, and Mr. Kershaw was a draper in a large way. When they had all taken their seats, a few moments of silence ensued. This was occasioned by the necessity which arose for the three smokers vigorously to puff their pipes, which had burnt low; and perhaps there was some little reluctance, on the part of Mr. Caske and his friends, to resume the conversation which had been in progress previous to the entrance of Mr. Durnford. When the pipes had been blown up, and were once more in full blast, there was no longer any excuse for silence. Mr. Caske, being the host, was then the first to speak. He had known his minister too well to invite him to partake of the refreshment with which he was regaling his friends. He was a small, rotund man, with shining, rosy cheeks, and a husky voice. "All well with you, Mr. Durnford?" "Yes, thank you, Mr. Caske; but I am afraid I intrude?" He was conscious of some constraint on the part of the company. "I fear," he resumed, "that I have interrupted some important business?" and he looked around with an air of enquiry. Mr. Caske airily waved his long pipe. "Oh no, sir," he said, lightly, "nothing of consequence"--here he glanced at his friends--"we were, ah--talking about our friend, ah--'the Golden Shoemaker.'" Mr. Caske was secretly anxious to elicit the minister's opinion of "Cobbler" Horn. "Ah," exclaimed Mr. Durnford, with an intonation in which sarcasm might not have been difficult to detect, "and what about 'the Golden Shoemaker'?" Mr. Caske looked at Mr. Botterill and Mr. Kershaw; and Mr. Kershaw and Mr. Botterill looked first at each other, and then at Mr. Caske. "Well," replied Mr. Caske, at length, "he's being more talked about than ever." "Well, now," asked the minister, "as to what in particular?" "Chiefly as to the way he's squandering his money." "Oh, I wasn't aware Mr. Horn had become a spendthrift! You must have been misinformed, Mr. Caske," and Mr. Durnford looked the brewer intently in the face. "Ah," said Mr. Caske, somewhat uneasily, "you don't take me, sir. It's not that he spends his money. It's the rate at which he gives it away. He's simply flinging it from him right and left!" As he spoke, Mr. Caske swelled with righteous indignation. Money, in his eyes, was a sacred thing--to be guarded with care, and parted with reluctantly. No working man could have been more careful with regard to the disposal of each individual shilling of his weekly wages, than was Mr. Caske in the handling of his considerable wealth. "He's simply tossing his money from him, sir," he reiterated, "as if it were just a heap of leaves." "Yes," said Mr. Botterill, "and it doesn't seem right." Mr. Botterill was a tall man, with glossy black hair and whiskers, and an inflamed face. He seemed never to be quite at ease in his mind, which, perhaps, was not matter for surprise. Mr. Kershaw next felt that it was his turn to speak. "Ah," he said, "this kind of thing makes a false impression, you know!" Though a man of moderate bodily dimensions, Mr. Kershaw had a largeness of manner which seemed to magnify him far beyond his real proportions. He spread himself abroad, and made the most of himself. He had actually a large head, which was bald on the top, with dark bushy hair round about. His face, which was deeply pitted with small-pox, was adorned with mutton-chop whiskers, from between which a very prominent nose and chin thrust themselves forth. "Yes," broke in Mr. Caske, "people will be apt to think that everybody who has a little bit of money ought to do as he does. But, if that were the case, where should I be, for instance?" and Mr. Caske swelled himself out more than ever. Mr. Durnford had hitherto listened in silence. Though inclined to speak in very strong terms, he had restrained himself with a powerful effort. He knew that if he allowed these men to proceed, they would soon fill their cup. "Well, gentlemen," he now remarked quietly, "there is force in what you say." Mr. Caske and his two friends regarded their minister with a somewhat doubtful look. Mr. Caske seemed to think that Mr. Durnford's remark made it necessary for him to justify the attitude he had assumed with regard to "Cobbler" Horn. "Perhaps, sir," he said, "you don't know in what a reckless fashion our friend is disposing of his money?" "Well, Mr. Caske, let us hear," said the minister, settling himself to listen. "Well, sir, you know about his having given up a great part of his fortune to some girl in America, because she was the sweetheart of a cousin of his who died." "Yes," said Mr. Durnford, quietly, "I've heard of that." "Well, there was a mad trick, to begin with," resumed Mr. Caske, in a severe tone. "And then there's that big house in the village which, it's said, all belongs to him. He's fitting it up to be a sort of home for street arabs and gipsy children; and it's costing him thousands of pounds that he'll never see again!" "Yes, I know about that too." "Then, you will, of course, be aware, sir, that he gives more to our church funds than any half-dozen of us put together." "Yes," broke in Mr. Kershaw, with his obtrusive nose. "He thinks to shame the rest of us, no doubt. And they say now that he's going to employ two town missionaries and a Bible-woman out of his own pocket. Is it true, think you, sir?" "It is not unlikely," was the quiet reply. There was a note of warning in both Mr. Durnford's words and tone; but the admonitory sign passed unobserved. "Well, then," resumed Mr. Caske, "think of the money he gave away during the winter. He seemed to want to do everything himself. There was hardly anything left for any one else to do." Mr. Durnford smiled inwardly at the idea of Mr. Caske making a grievance of the fact that there had been left to him no occasion for benevolence. "It was nothing but blankets, and coals, and money," continued Mr. Caske. "And then the families he has picked out of the slums and sent across the sea! And it's said he'll pay anybody's debts, and gives to any beggar, and will lend anybody as much money as they like to ask." At this point Mr. Botterill once more put in his word. "I heard, only the other day, that Mr. Horn had announced his intention of presenting the town with a Free Library and a Public Park." "It's like his impudence!" exclaimed Mr. Kershaw. "After that I can believe anything," cried Mr. Caske. "The man ought to be stopped. It's very much to be regretted that he ever came into the money. And what a fool he is from his own standpoint! When he has got rid of all his money, it will be doubly hard for him to go back to poverty again." Mr. Caske was speaking somewhat at random. "Don't you think, sir," he concluded, with a facetious air, "that Providence sometimes makes a mistake in these matters?" The question was addressed to the minister. "No, never!" exclaimed Mr. Durnford, with an emphasis which caused Mr. Caske to start so violently, that the stem of his pipe, which he had just replaced in his mouth, clattered against his teeth. "No, never! And least of all in the case of friend Horn." The three critics of "the Golden Shoemaker" stared at the minister in amazement. They had been led to think Mr. Durnford was substantially in agreement with their views. "No, gentlemen," he resumed, "my opinion is quite the reverse of yours. I believe this almost unlimited wealth has been given to our friend, because he is eminently fitted to be the steward of his Lord's goods." This declaration was followed by an awkward pause, which Mr. Caske was the first to break. "Perhaps you think, sir," he said, in an injured tone, "that this upstart fellow is an example to us?" "Mr. Caske," responded the minister, "you have interpreted my words to a nicety." The three critics shuffled uneasily in their chairs. "Yes," continued Mr. Durnford, "an example and a reproach! Mr. Horn has the true idea of the responsibilities of a Christian man of wealth; you have missed it. He is resolved to use his money for God, to whom it belongs; you spend yours on yourselves--except in as far as you hoard it up you know not for whom or what. He is never satisfied that he is giving enough away; you grumble and groan over every paltry sovereign with which you are induced to part. He will be able to give a good account of his stewardship when the Lord comes; there will be an awkward reckoning for you in that day." The three friends had ceased to smoke, and were listening to Mr. Durnford's deliverance open-mouthed. They respected their minister, and valued his esteem. They were rather conscience-stricken, than offended now. "But, surely, sir," said Mr. Kershaw, presently, finding breath first of the three, "you wouldn't have us fling away our money, as he does?" "I shouldn't be in haste to forbid you, Mr. Kershaw, if you seemed inclined to take that course," said the minister, with a smile. "But, if you come within measurable distance of the example of our friend, you will do very well." "But," pleaded Mr. Botterill, "ought we not to consider our wives and families?" "You do, Mr. Botterill, you do," was the somewhat sharp reply. "But there still remains ample scope for the claims of God." Upon this, there ensued a pause, which was at length broken by Mr. Caske, who, whatever might be his shortcomings, was not an ill-natured man. "Well, sir," he remarked, good-humouredly, "you've hit us hard." "I am glad you are sensible of the fact," was the pleasant reply. "No doubt you are!" rejoined Mr. Caske, in a somewhat jaunty tone. "And I suppose you intend now to give us an opportunity of following your advice?" "Why, yes," said Mr. Durnford, with a smile, "I really came to ask you for the payment of certain subscriptions now due. It is time I was making up some of the quarterly payments. But, perhaps, after what has been said, you would like to take a day or two----?" "No, for my part," interposed Mr. Caske, "I don't want any time. I'll double my subscriptions at once." "Same here," said Mr. Kershaw, concisely. "Thank you, gentlemen!" said Mr. Durnford, briskly, entering the amounts in his note book. "Now, Mr. Botterill." "Well," was the reluctant response, "I suppose I shall have to follow suit." Mr. Durnford smiled. "Thank you, gentlemen, all," he said. "Keep that up, and it will afford you more pleasure than you think." When, shortly afterwards, the minister took his departure, the three friends resumed their smoking; but they did not return to their criticism of "the Golden Shoemaker." CHAPTER XXXII. "IN LABOURS MORE ABUNDANT." Unlike many wealthy professors of religion, "the Golden Shoemaker" did not suppose that, in giving his money to the various funds of the church, he fulfilled, as far as he was concerned, all the claims of the Cause of Christ. He did not imagine that he could purchase, by means of his monetary gifts, exemption from the obligation to engage in active Christian work. He did not desire to be thus exempt. His greatest delight was to be directly and actively employed in serving his Divine Lord; and so little did he think of availing himself of the occasion of his sudden accession to wealth to withdraw from actual participation in the service of Christ, that he hailed with intense joy the richer opportunities of service with which he was thus supplied. For some years "Cobbler" Horn had been a teacher in a small Mission Sunday School, which was carried on in a low part of the town by several members of Mr. Durnford's church. But, about a year previous to the change in his circumstances, he had been persuaded by the minister to transfer his services to the larger school. He always made the conversion of his scholars his chief aim; and very soon after he entered on his new sphere, one of the boys in his class, a bright little fellow about nine years old, named Willie Raynor, had been very remarkably converted to God. The boy was promising to become a very thorough-going Christian, and no one rejoiced more than he in the good fortune of "Cobbler" Horn. There was considerable speculation, amongst the friends and fellow-teachers of "the Golden Shoemaker," as to whether his altered circumstances would lead to the relinquishment of his work in the school. Little Willie Raynor heard some whisper of this talk, and was much distressed. His relations with his beloved teacher were very close; and, without a moment's hesitation, he went straight to "Cobbler" Horn, and asked him what he was going to do. "Mr. Horn, you won't leave the school now you are a rich man, will you? Because I don't think we can do without you!" "Cobbler" Horn was taken by surprise. The idea of leaving the school had never occurred to his mind. For one moment, there was a troubled look in his face. "Who has put such nonsense into your head, laddie?" "Oh, I've heard them talking about it. But I said I was sure they were wrong." "Why, of course they were, dear lad. Why should I leave the school? Haven't I more reason than ever to work for the Lord?" "Oh, I'm so glad!" And Willie went home with a bounding heart. Meanwhile curiosity continued to be felt and expressed on every hand, as to the course "the Golden Shoemaker" would actually pursue; and no little surprise was created as, Sunday after Sunday, he was still seen sitting in the midst of his class, as quietly and modestly as though he were still the poor cobbler whom everybody had known so well. Nor was he content simply to continue the work he had been accustomed to do for Christ during his previous life. The larger leisure which his wealth had brought, enabled him to multiply his religious and benevolent activities to an almost unlimited extent. He went about doing good from morning to night. He rejoiced to exercise for God the all but boundless influence which his money enabled him to exert. His original plan--which he persistently followed--of mending, free of charge, the boots and shoes of the poorer portion of his former customers was but one amongst many means by which he strove to benefit his necessitous fellowmen. He never gave money for the relief of distress, without ascertaining whether there was anything that he could do personally to help. He made it a point also to offer spiritual consolation to those upon whom he bestowed temporal benefactions. Hardly a day but found him in the abode of poverty, or in the sick-room; and not one of his numberless opportunities of speaking the words which "help and heal" did he let slip. One evening, as he was passing through a poor part of the town, he came into collision with a drunken man, who was in the act of entering a low public-house. The wretched creature looked up into "Cobbler" Horn's face, and "Cobbler" Horn recognised him as a formerly respectable neighbour of his own. "Richard," he cried, catching the man by the arm, "don't go in there!" "Shall if I like, Thomas," said the man, thickly, recognising "Cobbler" Horn in turn. "D'yer think 'cause ye're rich, yer has right t' say where I shall go in, and where I shan't go in?" "Oh, no, Richard," said "Cobbler" Horn, with his hand still on the man's arm. "But you've had enough drink, and had better go quietly home." As he spoke, he gradually drew his captive further away from the public-house. The man struggled furiously, talking all the time in rapid and excited tones. "Let me a-be!" he exclaimed with a thickness of tone which was the combined result of indignation and strong drink. "You ha' no right to handle me like this! Ain't this a free country? Where's the perlice?" "Come along, Richard; you'll thank me to-morrow," persisted "Cobbler" Horn quietly, moving his captive along another step or two. But, by this time, a crowd was beginning to gather; and it seemed likely that, although Richard himself might not be able effectually to resist his captor, "Cobbler" Horn's purpose would be frustrated in another way. In fact the crowd--a sadly dilapidated crew--had drawn so closely around the centre of interest, as to render almost impossible the further progress of the struggling pair. At this point, some one recognised "Cobbler" Horn. "Yah!" he cried, "it ain't a fight, after all! It's 'the Golden Shoemaker' a-collarin' a cove wot's drunk!" At the announcement of "the Golden Shoemaker," the people crowded up more closely than ever. While all had heard of that glittering phenomenon, perhaps few had actually seen him, and the present opportunity was not to be lost. "Cobbler" Horn grasped the situation, and resolved, under the inspiration of the moment, to turn it to good account. He was not afraid that these people would interfere with his present purpose. He could see that they were regarding him with too much interest and respect for that. Moreover, since Richard belonged to another part of the town, his fortunes would not awaken any special sympathy in the breasts of the crowd. On the other hand, there was a possibility that the delay caused by the gathering of the crowd might enable "Cobbler" Horn to make a deeper impression on his poor degraded friend, than if he had simply dragged him home from the public-house. Exerting, therefore, all his strength, he thrust the hapless Richard forth at arm's length, and, in emphatic tones, bespoke for him the attention of the crowd. "Look at him!" he exclaimed. "Once he was a respectable man, tidy and bright; and he wasn't ashamed to look anybody in the face. And now see what he is!" The crowd looked, and saw a slovenly and dissipated man, who hung his head, with a dull feeling of shame. The people gazed upon the wretched man in silence. They were awed by the solemn and impressive manner in which they had been addressed. "This man," resumed "Cobbler" Horn, "once had a thriving business and a comfortable home. Now his business has gone to the dogs, and his home has become a den. His wife and children are ragged and hungry; and I question if he has a penny piece left that he can justly call his own. The most complete ruin stares him in the face, and he probably won't last another year." The crowd still gazed, and listened in silence. "And, do you ask," continued "Cobbler" Horn, "what has done all this? No, you don't; you know too well. It's drink--the stuff that many of you love so much. For there are many of you,"--and he swept the crowd with a scrutinizing glance--"who are far on the same downward way as this poor fool. He was my neighbour and friend; and he had as nice a little wife as ever brightened a home. But it would make the heart of a stone bleed to see her as I saw her but a few days ago. But, there; go home, Richard! And may God help you to become a man once more!" So saying, he released his captive; and the wretched creature, partially sobered with astonishment and shame, crept through the crowd, which parted for him to pass, and staggered off on his way towards home. Then, like some ancient prophet, upon whom the Spirit of the Lord had come, "the Golden Shoemaker" turned and preached, from the living text of his besotted friend, a telling impromptu Temperance sermon to the motley crowd. The whole incident was quite unpremeditated. He had never dreamt that he would do such a thing as he was doing now. But that by no means lessened the effect of his burning words, which went home to the hearts, and even to the consciences of not a few of those by whom they were heard. When he had finished, he passed on, and left his hearers to their thoughts. But, for himself, there had been shown to him yet another way in which he might work for God; and, thereafter, "the Golden Shoemaker" was often seen at the corners of back streets, and in the recesses of the slums, preaching, to all who would hear, that glorious Gospel of which the message of mercy to the victims of strong drink is, after all, only a part. CHAPTER XXXIII. TOMMY DUDGEON ON THE WATCH. It will be remembered that, after bursting into the back-room with the declaration, "She's come back!" Tommy Dudgeon had suddenly pulled himself up and substituted the commonplace statement that he had "seen the sec'tary." In fact, though, on marking the manner in which Miss Owen had stepped out of the house and walked along the street, he had, for an instant, imagined that little Marian had actually returned, the calmer moments which followed had shown him what seemed the folly of such a supposition. What real resemblance could there be between a child of five and a young woman of eighteen? He had, indeed, seemed to see, this afternoon, the very same determined look, and the pretty purposeful step, with which the little maid whom he had loved had passed out of his sight so long ago. But he now assured himself that "it was only the sec'tary after all." The child, for whom he had not ceased to mourn, would certainly come back, but not like that. It was inevitable that unimaginative Tommy Dudgeon should at first dismiss the possibility that little wild-flower Marian should have returned in the person of the lady-secretary. But, none the less, the sight of the secretary had brought back to him the vision of little Marian as he had seen her last; and thenceforth he was supplied with matter for much perplexing thought. Fortunately the occupants of the room into which he had burst with his hasty exclamation, who consisted of his brother and his brother's wife alone, had but indistinctly caught his words. Consequently no one was any the wiser, and he was able to assure himself that his first impression with regard to the "sec'tary" was still the secret of his own breast. It was a secret, however, which gave him no little trouble. The vanishing of the child had occasioned him bitter grief. He had not only mourned in respectful sympathy with the stricken father, but he had also sorrowed on his own account. He had very tenderly loved little Marian Horn. She had come to him like a fairy, scattering clouds of care, and diffusing joy; and, since her departure, it had seemed as though the sunshine had ceased to visit the narrow street upon which he looked out through the window, and from the doorway, of his little shop. And Tommy's regret for the loss of the child was rendered keener by a haunting consciousness that a measure of responsibility for it belonged to himself. Might he not have prevented her departure? He could not, indeed, have been supposed to know that she was running away. But he did not allow himself to plead any excuse on that account. He ought to have known, was his continual reflection, that she would come to harm--going away by herself like that; and, at least, he might have questioned her as to where she was going. Through all the years, he had not ceased to afflict himself with such thoughts as these. Once he actually mentioned his self-accusing thoughts to "Cobbler" Horn. It was on one of the rare occasions when the afflicted father had spontaneously spoken of his lost child to his humble friend. He gazed blankly at the little huckster, for a moment, as though he had not understood. Then, perceiving his drift, he gently answered, "My dear friend, you could not help it. Please do not speak of it again." Tommy had always yearned for the recovery of the child; and, the wish being father to the thought, he fully shared with "Cobbler" Horn himself the expectation that she would eventually return. This expectation kept him on the alert; and there is little cause to wonder that even so slight a sign as the poise of the secretary's head, or the manner in which she walked, should have induced him to think, for some passing moments, that his long-cherished desire had been fulfilled at last. And now, although he had dismissed that belief, it had left him more vigilant than ever. It may be questioned, indeed, whether he had actually dismissed it, or whether, having been dismissed, it had really gone away. There are visitors who will take no hint to depart. It would seem that here was such a visitor. The discarded impression that little Marian had come back in the person of "Cobbler" Horn's secretary refused to be banished from Tommy Dudgeon's mind. Henceforth he would have no peace until he had set the fateful question at rest once for all. To this end he watched for the young secretary day by day. A hundred times a day he went to the shop-door, to gaze along the street; and at frequent intervals he craned his neck to get a better view through the window. He would leave the most profitable customer, at the sound of a footstep without, or at the shutting of a neighbouring door. He gave himself to deep ponderings, in the midst of which he became oblivious of all around. His anxiety told upon his appetite, and affected his health. His friends became alarmed; but, when they questioned him, he only shook his head. His very character seemed to be changed. Hitherto he had been the most transparent of men; now he moved about with the air of a conspirator, and bore himself like one on whose heart some mysterious secret weighed. It was a long time before Tommy's watching and pondering produced any definite result. Miss Owen seldom visited the street in which "the little Twin Brethren" had their shop. By the desire of her employer she never came to him in his old workshop, except upon business which could not be delayed. Two or three times only, hitherto, had Tommy Dudgeon been privileged to feast his eyes on the dainty little figure, which, on his first sight of it, had awakened such tender memories in his mind. On each occasion those memories had returned as vividly as before; but the only result had been that his perplexity was sensibly increased. All through the winter, the perturbation of the little huckster's mind remained unallayed; but there came a day in early spring which set his questionings at rest. In that joyous season there was born to Mr. and Mrs. John Dudgeon an eighth child. The fact that, this time, the arrival did not consist of twins was no less gratifying to the happy father, than to his much-enduring spouse. But the child was a fine one, and his birth almost cost his mother's life. As may be supposed, "the Golden Shoemaker" did not forget his humble friends in their trouble. He engaged for them the ablest doctor, and the most efficient nurse, that money could command. Every day he sent messages of enquiry, and the messengers were never empty-handed. Sometimes it was a servant who came; and sometimes it was the coachman--not Bounder, but his successor, who was quite a different man--with the carriage. On the day of which we speak, the carriage had stopped at the door, and Tommy Dudgeon, on the watch as usual, observed that a young lady was sitting amongst its cushions. It was the four-wheeler, and its fair occupant, basket in hand, alighted nimbly as soon as it stopped. Tommy vigorously rubbed his eyes. Yes, it was the "sec'tary!" Now, perhaps, his opportunity had come. As yet, he had never spoken to the "sec'tary," or heard her speak. He made his most polite bow, as she stepped into his shop. But how his heart thumped! He was shy with ladies at the best; but now, hope and fear, and a vague feeling that, with the entrance of this sprightly little lady, the past had all come back, increased his habitual nervousness a hundredfold. Surely it was not the first time that little tossing dusky head, with its black sparkling eyes, had presented itself in his doorway! She paused a moment on the step, gazed around with a bewildered air, and shot a startled glance into the honest, eager face of the little man, who quivered from head to foot as he met her gaze. "That strange feeling again!" she thought, "I can never have been _here_ before, at any rate!" Tommy Dudgeon's own confusion prevented his perceiving the momentary discomposure of his visitor. The next minute, however, she was speaking to the little man in her cordial, unaffected way. "You are Mr. Dudgeon, I expect," she said, holding out her neatly-gloved hand. "How are you, this afternoon? But," she continued after a pause, "which Mr. Dudgeon is it--the one with a wife, or the one without? My name," she added in her lively way, "is Owen--Mr. Horn's secretary, you know. You've heard of me, no doubt, Mr. Dudgeon?" Tommy Dudgeon had not yet found his tongue. "But," she broke out again, "I'm not giving you a chance to tell me who you are. Is it Mr. Dudgeon, or Mr. John? You see I know all about you." Tommy Dudgeon was in no condition to answer Miss Owen's question, even yet, simple though it was. If the sight of her had brought back the past, what thronging memories crowded upon him at the sound of her voice--wooing, wilful, joyously insistent! But that she was so womanly and ladylike, and that he knew she was "only the sec'tary," he would have been ready to advance upon her with outstretched hands, and ask her if she had quite forgotten Tommy Dudgeon--her old friend, Tommy? As it was, he stood staring like one bewitched. Miss Owen, wondering at his silence, and his fixed gaze, repeated her question in another form. "I don't wish to be rude; but are you the husband, or is it your brother?" Tommy pulled himself together with a gasp. "My name is Thomas, miss. It is my brother who is married, and whose wife is ill." "Then, Mr. Thomas, I'm glad to make your acquaintance. How is your brother's wife to-day? I've brought a few little things from Miss Horn, with her respects." Miss Owen herself would have said "love," rather than respects. But it was a great concession on the part of Miss Jemima to send anything at all to "those Dudgeons," with or without a message of any kind, and was quite a sign of grace. "It's very kind of Miss Horn," said Tommy, who was still perturbed; "and of you as well, miss. Perhaps you will see my sister-in-law? She's much better, and sitting up--and able to converse." As he spoke, he led the way into the kitchen, in the doorway of which the young girl once more paused, and looked around in the same bewildered way as before. But she instantly recovered herself; and, at the invitation of a woman who was in attendance, proceeded to mount the narrow stairs. Miss Owen was performing a thoroughly congenial errand. It was her delight to be, in any way, the instrument of the wide-spread benevolence and varied Christian ministrations of her beloved employer. Nor was it an insignificant service which she therein performed. Her tender companionship had been of scarcely less benefit to the crippled girl than the almost daily rides which the generosity of "Cobbler" Horn enabled the poor invalid to enjoy; and her presence and sensible Christian talk were quite as helpful to Mrs. John Dudgeon, as were the delicacies from Miss Jemima's kitchen. John Dudgeon, who was acting as temporary nurse, rose to his feet as the secretary entered, and stole modestly downstairs. Miss Owen followed him with her eyes in renewed perplexity. What could it all mean? These dear, funny little men! Had she known them in a former state of existence, or what? She came downstairs when she was ready to leave, and in the kitchen she paused once more. On one side of the fire-place was an old arm-chair with a leather cushion. Seized with a sudden fancy, Miss Owen addressed the woman, who was waiting to see her out. "May I sit in that chair a moment?" she asked. "Certainly, miss," was the civil reply; and, in another moment, the young secretary had crossed the room, and seated herself in the chair. "How strange!" she murmured. "How familiar everything is!" At that moment, Tommy Dudgeon came in from the shop; and, on seeing Miss Owen in the old arm-chair, he stopped short, and uttered a cry. "I beg your pardon, miss; I thought----" It was in that very chair, standing in exactly the same spot as now, that little Marian had been accustomed to sit, when she used to come in and delight the two little bachelors with her quaint sayings, and queen it over them in her pretty wilful way. For her sake, the old chair had been carefully preserved. "You thought I was taking a liberty, no doubt, sir," said Miss Owen, jumping to her feet, with a merry laugh; "and quite right too." Tommy was horrified at the bare suggestion of such a thing. He begged her to sit down again, and she laughingly complied, insisting that he should sit in the opposite chair. Presently John came in, and stood looking calmly on. He was visited by no disturbing memories. Having chatted gaily, for a few minutes, with the two little men, Miss Owen took her leave. "It's all so strange!" she thought, as the carriage bore her swiftly away. Then she knitted her brows, and clenched her hands in her lap. "Oh," she half-audibly exclaimed, "what if I _have_ been here before? What if----" and she shivered with the excitement of the thought. * * * * * As for Tommy Dudgeon, all his doubts were put to flight at last. CHAPTER XXXIV. A "FATHER" AND "MOTHER" FOR THE "HOME." About six weeks after this, the old Hall at Daisy Lane was ready for opening as a "Home" for waifs and strays. "Cobbler" Horn had visited Daisy Lane, from time to time, and he had also taken his sister and his young secretary to see the village and the old Hall. He had been much pleased with the progress of the improvements, and had marked with satisfaction the transformation which, in pursuance of his orders, was being effected in the Hall. It was clear that Mr. Gray was not only a most capable agent, but also a man after his employer's own heart; and it was evident that Messrs. Tongs and Ball had assisted the agent in every possible way. The old Hall seemed likely to become an ideal Children's Home. The arrangements were most complete. A staff of capable nurses, and a bevy of maid-servants, had been engaged; to whom were added a porter and two boys, together with a head gardener and three assistants, to make, and keep, beautiful the spacious grounds. A number of children had already been selected as inmates of the "Home." Setting aside the majority of the appeals, which had been many, from relatives who had children left on their hands by deceased parents, "Cobbler" Horn had adhered to his original purpose of receiving chiefly stray children--little ones with no friends, and without homes. With the aid of his lawyers, and of Mr. Durnford, he had much communication with workhouse and parish authorities, and even with the police; and, as the opening day of the "Home" drew near, he had secured, as the nucleus of his little family, some dozen tiny outcasts, consisting of six or seven boys, and about as many girls. It now remained that a "father" and "mother" should be found. On this subject "the Golden Shoemaker" had talked much with his minister. He shrank from the thought of advertising his need. He was afraid of bringing upon himself an avalanche of mercenary applications. His idea was to fix upon some excellent Christian man and woman who might be induced to accept the post as a sacred and delightful duty. They must be persons who loved children, and who were not in search of a living; and it would be none the worse if it were necessary for them to make what would be considered a sacrifice, in order to accept the post. "Cobbler" Horn looked around. He had no acquaintances in whom it seemed likely that his ideal would be realized. He mentioned his views to his lawyers, and they smiled in their indulgent way. Messrs. Tongs and Ball had already learnt to respect their eccentric client. But it was difficult for their legal minds to regard the question of the appointment of a master and matron to the "Home" exactly in the light in which it presented itself to "Cobbler" Horn. He spoke of his cherished desire to Mr. Durnford. "If I get the right man and woman, you know, sir, I shall be willing to pay them almost any amount of money. But I don't want them to know this beforehand. I must have a _father_ and _mother_ for my little family. It would be just as well," he added in faltering tones, "if they had lost a little one of their own. And I should like them to be some good Christian man and his wife, who would undertake the work without asking about salary at all, and would leave it to me to make that all right. Do you think they would trust me so far, Mr. Durnford?" Mr. Durnford smiled in his shrewd way. "If they knew you, Mr. Horn, they would rather trust you in the matter than suggest an amount themselves." "No doubt," responded "the Golden Shoemaker," with a smile. "But now, Mr. Durnford," he persisted for the twentieth time, "do you know of such a couple as I want?" They were in the minister's study. Mr. Durnford sat musing, with his arms resting upon his knees, and his hands together at the finger-tips. Suddenly he looked up. "You want a couple who have lost a child, Mr. Horn? I can tell you of some good people who have found one." "Cobbler" Horn gave a slight start. "Found a child! What child?" Such were the thoughts which darted, like lightning, through his brain. Then he smiled sadly to himself. Of course what he had imagined, for an instant, could not be. "Well" he said calmly, "who are they? Let me hear!" For one moment only, Mr. Durnford hesitated to reply. "You will, perhaps, be startled, Mr. Horn, but must not misunderstand me, if I say that they are the excellent friends who have been as father and mother to your secretary, Miss Owen." "Cobbler" Horn was indeed startled. His thoughts had not turned in the direction indicated by the minister's suggestion--that was all. But he was not displeased. "Ah!" he exclaimed. "Well, if they are anything like my little secretary, they will do." "Mr. and Mrs. Burton do not know that I have any thought of suggesting them to you, Mr. Horn. Nor have I the least idea whether or not they would accept the post. Mr. Burton holds a good position on the railway, in Birmingham, which I know he has no present intention of relinquishing. But there is not another couple of my acquaintance who would be likely to meet your wishes as well as these good friends of mine. You know, of course, that Miss Owen was found and rescued by them, when she was quite a little thing?" "Yes," was the thoughtful reply; "and you really think they are the kind of persons I want?" "I do, indeed." "Well, well! But might I ask them, do you think?" "Perhaps," said Mr. Durnford, "it would be as well to mention it to Miss Owen first." "Might I do that, think you?" "By all means!" "Then I will." He spoke to his secretary that very day. Miss Owen was delighted with the proposal, and approved of it with all her heart. She hoped Mr. and Mrs. Burton would consent, and felt almost sure that they would. After that the minister agreed to convey the request of "the Golden Shoemaker" to his good friends. For this purpose, he made a journey to Birmingham, and, on the evening of his return, called on "Cobbler" Horn. "Well?" enquired the latter eagerly, almost before the minister had taken his seat. "Our friends are favourably disposed," replied Mr. Durnford; "but they would like to have a personal interview first." "By all means. When can they see me? And where?" "Well, it would be a great convenience to Mr. Burton if you would go there. He cannot very well get away. But he could arrange to meet you at his own house." Acting upon this suggestion, "Cobbler" Horn paid a visit to Birmingham, the outcome of which was the engagement of Mr. and Mrs. Burton as "father" and "mother" of the "home." CHAPTER XXXV. THE OPENING OF THE "HOME." At length the day arrived for the opening of the "Home." It was early in June, and the weather was superb. All the inhabitants of Daisy Lane, whether tenants of "Cobbler" Horn or not, were invited to the opening ceremony, and to the festivities which were to occupy the remainder of the day. There was to be first a brief religious service in front of the Hall, after which Miss Jemima was to unlock the great front door with a golden key. Then would follow a royal feast in a marquee on the lawn; and, during the afternoon and evening, the house and grounds would be open to all. The religious service was to be conducted by Mr. Durnford. The parish clergyman had been invited to take part, but had declined. Many of his brother-clergymen would have hailed with joy such an opportunity of fulfilling the spirit of their religion; but the Vicar of Daisy Lane regarded the matter in a different light. In due course "Cobbler" Horn, Miss Jemima, the young secretary, Tommy Dudgeon--to whom had been given a very pressing invitation to join the party,--and Mr. Durnford, alighted from the train at the station which served for Daisy Lane, and were met by Mr. Gray. "Well, Mr. Gray," said "the Golden Shoemaker," who was in a buoyant, and almost boisterous mood, "How are things looking?" "Everything promises well, sir," replied the agent, who was beaming with pleasure. "The arrangements are all complete; and everybody will be there--that is, with the exception of the vicar. Save his refusal to be present, there has not, thus far, been a single hitch." "I wish," said "Cobbler" Horn, "that we could have got the poor man to come--for his own sake, I mean." "Yes, sir; he will do himself no good. It's well they're not all like that." Mr. Gray had brought his own dog-cart for the gentlemen; and he had provided for the ladies a comfortable basket-carriage, of which his son, a lad of fifteen, had charge. The dog-cart was a very different equipage from the miserable turn-out with which the agent had met his employer on the occasion of his first visit. Everything was of the best--the highly-finished trap, the shining harness, the dashing horse; and "Cobbler" Horn was thankful to mark the honest pride with which the agent handled the reins. A few minutes brought them to Daisy Lane. Here indeed was a change! An unstinted expenditure of money, the toil of innumerable workmen, and the tireless energy and ever-ready tact of Mr. Gray, had converted the place into a model village. Instead of dropsical and rotting hovels, neat and smiling cottages were seen on every side. The vicarage, and the one farm-house not included in the property of "Cobbler" Horn, which had, aforetime, by their respectability and good repair, aggravated the untidiness and dilapidation of the rest of the village, were now rendered almost shabby by the fresh beauty of the renovated property of "the Golden Shoemaker." On every hand there were signs of rejoicing. It was evidently a gala day at Daisy Lane. Over almost every garden gate there was an arch of flowers. Streamers and garlands were displayed at every convenient point. Such a quantity of bunting had never before fluttered in the breezes of Daisy Lane. As they approached the farm-house which "Cobbler" Horn had inspected on the occasion of his first visit, their progress was stayed by the farmer himself, who was waiting for them at his gate, radiant and jovial, a farmer, as it seemed, without a grievance! He advanced into the road with uplifted hand, and Mr. Gray and his son reined in their horses. The farmer approached the side of the dog-cart. "Let me have a shake of your fist, sir," he said, seizing the hand of "the Golden Shoemaker." "You're a model landlord. No offence; but it's hard to believe that you're anyways related to that 'ere old skin-flint as was owner here afore you." The farmer wore on his breast a huge red rosette, almost as big as a pickling cabbage, as though the occasion had been that of an election day, or a royal wedding, or some other celebration equally august. "I'm glad you're satisfied with what Mr. Gray has done, Mr. Carter," said "Cobbler" Horn. "Satisfied! That ain't the word! And, as for Gray--well, he's a decent body enough. But it's little as he could ha' done, if you hadn't spoke the word." Then they drove on, and the farmer followed in their wake, occupying, with the roll of his legs, and the flourish of his big stick, as much of the road as the carriages themselves. As they proceeded, they passed several groups of villagers, in gala dress, who were making their way towards the gates of the Hall grounds. "These are the laggards," explained the agent, "the bulk of the people are already on the ground." "Cobbler" Horn was recognised by the people, most of whom knew him well by sight; and, while the men touched their hats, and the boys made their bows, the women curtseyed, and each girl gave a funny little bob. Of all the novel sensations which his wealth had brought to "the Golden Shoemaker," this was the most distinctly and entirely new. It had not seemed to him more strange, though it had been less agreeable, to be the object of Bounder's obsequious attentions, than it did now to receive the worship of these simple villagers. In due course they reached the Hall gates, and entered the grounds. A large marquee, with its fluttering flags, had been erected on one side of the lawn, which was almost like a small field. The people were dispersed about the grass in gaily-coloured groups, though few of them had wandered very far from the gates. When the carriages were seen approaching, the various parties gathered more closely together; and the people arranged themselves in lines on either side of the drive. The horses were immediately brought to a walking pace; and then, a jolly young farmer leading off, the villagers rent the air with their shouts of welcome. It was the spontaneous tribute of these simple people to the man, whose coming had restored long unaccustomed comfort to their lives, and awakened new hope in their despondent breasts. "The Golden Shoemaker" raised his hat and waved his hand; and, inasmuch as the acclamations of the people were evidently intended for the ladies also, the young secretary nodded around with beaming smiles, and even Miss Jemima perceptibly bent her rigid neck. At length the joyous procession arrived in front of the Hall steps. Here Mr. and Mrs. Burton were waiting to receive them. In response to their smiling welcome, "Cobbler" Horn shook these good people heartily by the hand, and, having introduced them to Miss Jemima, turned aside for a moment, that they might greet their adopted daughter. In a few moments, he turned to them again, and enquired if everything was to their mind. "Everything, sir," said Mr. Burton. "The arrangements are perfect." "And our little family are all here," added Mrs. Burton, pointing, with motherly pride, to a row of clean and radiant boys and girls, who were ranged at the top of the steps. "Cobbler" Horn's face was illumined with a ray of pleasure, as he looked up, at Mrs. Burton's words; and yet there was a pensive shade upon his brow. Miss Jemima scrutinised the little regiment, and actually uttered a grunt of satisfaction. Miss Owen glanced from the happy child-faces to that of "Cobbler" Horn with eyes of reverent love. The children were not uniformly dressed; and they might very well have passed for the actual offspring of the kindly man and woman whom they were to know as "father" and "mother" from henceforth. "Is everything ready, Mr. Gray?" asked "Cobbler" Horn. "Yes, sir." "Then let us begin." At a signal from Mr. Gray, the people drew more closely up to the foot of the steps; and it was noticeable that Tommy Dudgeon had withdrawn to a modest position amongst the crowd. A hymn was then announced by Mr. Durnford, and sung from printed papers which had been distributed amongst the people. Then, while every head was bowed, the minister offered a brief, but fervent and appropriate prayer. Next came an address from "Cobbler" Horn, in which, after explaining the purpose to which the Hall was to be devoted, he took the opportunity of assuring those of his tenants who were present that he would, as their landlord, do his utmost to promote their welfare. His hearty words were received with great applause, which was redoubled when he led Miss Jemima to the front. The minister then stepped forward, and presented Miss Jemima with a golden key, with which she deftly unlocked the great door, and, having pushed it open, turned to the people, and bowing gravely in response to their cheers, made, for the first and last time in her life, a public speech. She had much pleasure, she said, in declaring the old Hall open for the reception of friendless children, many of whom, she trusted, would find a happy home within its walls, and be there trained for a useful life. Here Miss Jemima stopped abruptly, and looked straight before her, with a very stern face, as though angry with herself for what she had done. And then, under cover of the renewed cheers of the people, she withdrew into the background. The simple ceremony being over, the people were invited to enter the building and pass through the rooms. This invitation was freely accepted; and soon the various apartments of the renovated Hall were filled with people, who did not hesitate to express their admiration of what they saw. When all the visitors had passed through the rooms, and admired to their hearts' content, the ringing of a large hand-bell on the lawn announced that dinner was ready. At the four long tables which ran the whole length of the marquee there was room for all, and very soon every seat was occupied. The grace was announced by Mr. Durnford, and sung by the people, with a heartiness which might have been expected of hungry villagers, who had been summoned to an unaccustomed and sumptuous feast. Then the carvers got to work, and, as the waiters carried round the laden plates, comparative quiet reigned; but, when the plates began to reach the guests, the clatter of crockery, the rattle of knives and forks, and the babel of voices, made such a festive hubbub as was grateful to the ear. After dinner, there was speech-making and merriment; and then the people left the tent, and dispersed about the grounds. While the former part of this process was in progress, Miss Owen heard a fragment of conversation which caused her to tingle to her finger-tips. She had just moved towards one of the tables for the purpose of helping an old woman to rise from her seat, and her presence was not perceived by the speakers, whose faces were turned the other way. They were two village gossips, a middle-aged woman and a younger one. "Is she his daughter?" were the words that fell upon the young secretary's ears, spoken by the elder woman in a stage whisper. "No," replied the other, in a similar tone. "He never had but one child--her as was lost. This one's the secretary, or some such." "Well, I do say as she'd pass for his own daughter anywhere." Miss Owen was not nervous; but her heart beat tumultuously at the thoughts which this whispered colloquy suggested to her mind. She placed her hand upon the table to steady herself, as the two women, all unconscious of the effect of their gossiping words, moved slowly away. "The Golden Shoemaker" and his friends arrived at Cottonborough late that night. A carriage was waiting for them at the station; and, having said "good night" to Mr. Durnford and Tommy Dudgeon, they were soon driven home. They were a quiet--almost silent--party. The events of the day had supplied them with much food for thought. The image of his little lost Marian presented itself vividly to the mind of "Cobbler" Horn to-night. Miss Jemima's thoughts dwelt on what was her one tender memory--that of the tiny, dark-eyed damsel who had so mysteriously vanished from the sphere of her authority so long ago. And Miss Owen? Well, when she had at last reached her room, her first act was to lock the door. Then she knelt before her small hair-covered travelling trunk, and, having unlocked it, she slowly raised the lid and placed it back against the wall. For a moment she hesitated, and then, plunging her arm down at one corner of the trunk, amongst its various contents, she brought up, from the hidden depths, a small tissue paper parcel. This she opened carefully, and disclosed a tiny shoe, homely but neat, a little child's chemise, and an old, faded, pink print sun-bonnet, minus a string. In the upper leather of the shoe were several cuts, the work of some wanton hand. Sitting back upon her heels, she let the open parcel fall into her lap. "What would I not give," she sighed, "to find the fellow of this little shoe! But no doubt it has long ago rotted at the bottom of some muddy ditch!" Then, for the hundredth time, she examined the little chemise, at one corner of which were worked, in red cotton, the letters "M.H." "They have told me again and again that I had this chemise on when I was found. Of course that doesn't prove that it was my own, and I have never supposed that those two letters stand for my name. But now--well, may it not be so, after all? It was really no more than a guess, on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Burton, that my name was Mary Ann Owen; and, from what I can see, it's just as likely to have been anything else. Let me think; what name might 'M.H.' stand for? Mary Hall? Margaret Harper? Mari----. No, no, I dare not think that--at least, not yet!" Once more she wrapped up her little parcel of relics, and returned it to its place at the bottom of her trunk. "Heigho!" she exclaimed, as, having closed and locked the trunk, she sprang to her feet. "How I do wonder who I am!" [Illustration: "A tiny shoe."--_Page 264._] CHAPTER XXXVI. TOMMY DUDGEON UNDERTAKES A DELICATE ENTERPRISE. The time which had elapsed since the first visit of Miss Owen to the house of "the little Twin Brethren" had constituted, for Tommy Dudgeon, a period of mental unrest. If he had been perturbed before, he was twice as uneasy now. He had made the joyous discovery which he had been expecting to make almost ever since he had seen the young secretary walking in her emphatic way along the street. But, joyous as the discovery was, the making of it had actually increased the perturbation of his mind. His trouble was that he could not tell how he would ever be able to make his discovery known. He did not doubt that, to his dear friend, "Cobbler" Horn, and to the young secretary, the communication of it would impart great joy. But he was restrained by a fear, which would arise, notwithstanding his feeling of certainty, lest he should prove to be mistaken after all; and his fear was reinforced by an inward persuasion which he had that he was the most awkward person in the world by whom so delicate a communication could be made. Yet he told himself he was quite sure that the young secretary was no other than little Marian come back. His doubts had vanished when he had seen her sitting in the old arm-chair, just as when she was a child; and every time he had seen her since that day his assurance had been made more sure. But, as long as he was compelled to keep his discovery to himself, it was almost the same as though he had not made it at all. Tommy almost wished that some one else had made the great discovery, as well as himself. His thoughts had turned to his brother John; and he had resolved to put him to the test, which he had subsequently done with considerable tact. On the evening of the day following that of the first visit of Miss Owen to their house, the brothers had been sitting by the fire before going to bed. "John," Tommy had said, seizing his opportunity, "you saw the young lady who was here the other day?" "Yes." "She's the secretary, you know." "Yes," said John again, yawning; for he was sleepy. "Well, what did you think of her?" John started, and regarded his brother with a stare of astonishment. It was the first time Tommy had ever asked his opinion on such a subject. Was he thinking of getting married, or what? John Dudgeon had a certain broad sense of humour which enabled him to perceive such ludicrous elements of a situation as showed themselves on the surface. "Ah!" he exclaimed slyly; "are you there?" Tommy put out his hands in some confusion. "No, no," he said, "not what you think! But did you notice anything particular about the young lady?" "Well no," replied John, "except that I thought she was a very nice young person. But, Tommy, isn't she rather too young? If you really are thinking of getting married, wouldn't it be better to choose some one a little nearer your own age?" John would not be dissuaded from the idea that his brother was intent on matrimonial thoughts. Tommy waved his hand, in a deprecatory way, and rising from his chair, said "good night," and betook himself to bed. It was plain that he was quite alone in his discovery. What was he to do? To speak to Miss Owen on the subject was out of the question. The only alternative was to communicate the good news to "Cobbler" Horn himself. But there seemed to be stupendous difficulties involved in such a course. He was aware that there was nothing his friend would more rejoice to know than that which he had to tell. From various hints thrown out by "Cobbler" Horn, Tommy knew that he regarded Miss Owen with much of the fondness of a father; and it was not likely that the joy of finding his lost child would be diminished in the least by the fact that she had presented herself in the person of his secretary. But this consideration did not relieve the perplexity with which the little huckster contemplated the necessity of making known his secret to "Cobbler" Horn. For, to say nothing of the initial obstacle of his own timidity, he feared it would be almost impossible to convince his friend that his strange surmise was correct. If "Cobbler" Horn had not discovered for himself the identity of his secretary with his long-lost child, was it likely that he would accept that astounding fact on the testimony of any other person? It is needless to say that Tommy Dudgeon made his perplexity a matter of prayer. He prayed and pondered, night and day; and, at length a thought came to him which seemed to point out the way of which he was in search. Might he not give "Cobbler" Horn some covert hint which would put him on the track of making the great discovery for himself? Surely some such thing, though difficult, might be done! He must indeed be cautious, and not by any means reveal his design. The suggestion must seem to be incidental and unpremeditated. There must be no actual mention of little Marian, and no apparently intentional indication of Miss Owen. Something must be said which might induce "Cobbler" Horn to associate the idea of his little lost Marian with that of his young secretary--to place them side by side before his mind. And it must all arise in the course of conversation, the order of which--he Tommy Dudgeon, must deliberately plan. The audacity of the thought made his hair stand up. It was a delicate undertaking indeed! The little man felt like a surgeon about to perform a critical operation upon his dearest friend. He was preparing to open an old wound in the heart of his beloved benefactor. True, he hoped so to deal with it that it should never bleed again. But what if he failed? That would be dreadful! Yet the attempt must be made. So he set himself to his task. His opportunity came on the afternoon of the day following that of the opening of the "Home." Watching from the corner of his window, as he was wont, about three o'clock, Tommy saw "the Golden Shoemaker" come along the street, and enter his old house. Then the little man turned away from the window, and became very nervous. For quite two minutes he stood back against the shelves, trying to compose himself. When he had succeeded, in some degree, in steadying his quivering nerves, he reached from under the counter a brown-paper parcel containing a pair of boots, which had, for some days, been lying in readiness for the occasion which had now arrived, and, calling John to mind the shop, slipped swiftly into the street. A minute later he was standing in the doorway of "Cobbler" Horn's workshop. "The little Twin Brethren" had, at first, been disposed to refrain from availing themselves of the gratuitous labours of their friend; but, perceiving that it would afford him pleasure, they had yielded with an easy grace, and now Tommy was glad to have so good an excuse for a visit to "the Golden Shoemaker," as was supplied by the boots in the parcel under his arm. "Cobbler" Horn perceived the nervousness of his visitor, and thinking it strange that the bringing of a pair of boots to be mended should have occasioned his humble little friend so much trepidation, he did his best, by adopting a specially sociable tone, to put him at his ease. "Ah, Tommy, what have we there?" he asked. "More work for the 'Cobbler,' eh?" "Just an old pair of boots which want mending, Mr. Horn," said Tommy, in uncertain tones, as he unwrapped the boots and held them out with a shaking hand--"that is, if you are not too busy." "Not by any means," said "Cobbler" Horn, with a smile. "Put them down." Tommy obeyed. There stood against the wall, a much-worn wooden chair from which the back had been sawn off close. "I'll sit down, if you don't mind," gasped Tommy, depositing himself upon this superannuated seat. "By all means," said "Cobbler" Horn cordially; "make yourself quite at home." "Thank you," said Tommy, drawing from his pocket a red and yellow handkerchief, with which he vigorously mopped his brow. "Cobbler" Horn waited calmly for his perturbed visitor to become composed; and Tommy sat for some minutes, staring helplessly at "Cobbler" Horn, and still rubbing his forehead. What had become of the astute plan of operations which the little man had laid down? "You have surely something on your mind, friend?" said "Cobbler" Horn, in an enquiring tone. "Yes, I have," said Tommy, somewhat relieved; "it's been there for some time." "Well, what is it? Can I help you in any way?" "Oh, no; I don't want help." His utterly incapacitated demeanour belied him; but he was speaking of financial help. "I've been thinking of the past, Mr. Horn," he managed to say, making a faint effort to direct the conversation according to his original design. "Ah!" sighed "Cobbler" Horn. "Of the past!" With the word, his thoughts darted back to that period of his own past towards which they so often sadly turned. "I somehow can't help it," continued Tommy, gathering courage. "There seems to be something that keeps bringing it up." "Cobbler" Horn fixed his keen eyes on the agitated face of his visitor. He knew what it was in the past to which Tommy referred, and appreciated his delicacy of expression. "Yes, Tommy," he said, "and I, too, often think of the past. But is there anything special that brings it to your mind just now?" Upon this, all Tommy Dudgeon's clever plans vanished into air. His scheme for leading the conversation up to the desired point utterly broke down. He cast himself on the mercy of his friend. "Oh," he cried, in thrilling tones, "can't you see it? Can't you feel it--every day? The sec'tary! The sec'tary! If it is so plain to me, how can you be so blind?" Then he darted from the room, and betook himself home with all speed. CHAPTER XXXVII. BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. "Cobbler" Horn's first thought was that the strain of eccentricity in his humble little friend had developed into actual insanity. But, on further consideration, he was disposed to take another view. He felt bound to admit that, though there had been a strangeness in the behaviour of the little man throughout his visit, it had not afforded any actual ground for the suspicion of insanity, until he had so suddenly rushed away home. It was, therefore, possible that there might prove to be some important meaning in what he had said. At first "Cobbler" Horn had gathered nothing intelligible from the impassioned apostrophe of his excited little friend; but, by degrees, there dawned upon him some faint gleam of what its meaning might be. "The sec'tary!" That was the quaint term by which Tommy was wont to designate Miss Owen. But their conversation had been drifting in the direction of his little lost Marian. Why, then, should Miss Owen have been in Tommy's mind? Ah, he saw how it was! His humble friend had perceived that Miss Owen was a dear, good girl; and he had noticed her evident attachment to him--"Cobbler" Horn, and his fondness for her, and no doubt the little man had meant to suggest that she should take the place of the lost child. It was characteristic of his humble friend that he should seek, by such a hint, to point out a course which, no doubt, seemed to him, likely to afford satisfaction to all concerned; and "Cobbler" Horn could not help admiring the delicacy with which it had been done. "The Golden Shoemaker" was quite persuaded that he had hit upon the right interpretation of the little huckster's words; and he was not altogether displeased with the suggestion he supposed them to convey. Of course Marian would ultimately come back; and no one else could be permitted permanently to occupy her place. But there was no reason why he should not let his young secretary take, for the time being, as far as possible, the place which would have been filled by his lost child. In fact, Miss Owen was almost like a daughter to him already; and he was learning to love her as such. Well, he would adopt the suggestion of his little friend. His secretary should fill, for the time, the vacant place in his life. Yet he would never leave off loving his precious Marian; and her own share of love, which could never be given to another, must be reserved for her against her return, when he would have two daughters instead of one. Thus mused "the Golden Shoemaker," until, suddenly recollecting himself, he started up. He had promised to visit one of his former neighbours, who was sick, and it was already past the time at which the visit should have been made. He hastily threw off his leathern apron, and put on his coat and hat. At the same moment, he observed that heavy rain was beating against the window. It was now early summer; and, misled by the fair face of the sky, he had left home without an umbrella. What was he to do? He passed into the kitchen, and opening the front door, stood looking out upon the splashing rain. Behind him, in the room, sat, at her sewing, the good woman whom he had placed in charge of the house. She was small, and plump, and shining, the very picture of content. Her manner was respectful, and, as a rule, she did not address "Cobbler" Horn until he had spoken to her. To-day, however, she was the first to speak. "Surely, sir, you won't go out in such a rain!" As she spoke, the shower seemed suddenly to gather force, and the rain to descend in greater volume than ever. "Thank you, Mrs. Bunn," replied "Cobbler" Horn, looking round. "I think I will wait for a moment or two; but I have no time to spare, and must go soon, in any case." The rain had turned the street into a river, upon the surface of which the plumply-falling drops were producing multitudes of those peculiar gleaming white splashes which are known to childhood as "sixpences and half-crowns." All at once the downpour diminished. The sky became lighter, and the sun showed a cleared face through the thinning clouds. "I think I may venture now," said "Cobbler" Horn. "Better wait a little longer, sir; it 'ull come on again," said Mrs. Bunn, with the air of a person to whom the foibles of the weather were fully known. But "Cobbler" Horn was already in the street, and had not heard her words. It was some distance to the house of his sick friend, and he walked along at a rapid pace. But before he had proceeded far, the prophecy of Mrs. Bunn was fulfilled. In a moment, the sky grew black again; and, after a preliminary dash of heavy drops, the rain came down in greater abundance than before. It almost seemed as though a water-spout had burst. In two minutes, "the Golden Shoemaker" was wet to the skin. He might have returned to the house, from which he was distant no more than a few hundred yards; but he thought that, as he was already wet through, he might as well go on. Besides, "Cobbler" Horn's promise was sacred, and it had been given to his sick friend. So he plunged on through the flooded and splashing streets. When he reached his destination, he was glad that he had not turned back. His poor friend was much worse, and it was evident that he had not many hours to live. Forgetful of his own discomfort, and heedless of danger from his wet clothes, "Cobbler" Horn took his place at the bedside, and remained for many hours with the dying man. His friend was a Christian, and did not fear to die. He had never been married, was almost without relatives, and had scarcely a friend. As, hour after hour, he held the hand of the dying man, "Cobbler" Horn whispered in his ear, from time to time, a cheering word, or breathed a fervent prayer. The feeble utterances of the dying man, which became less frequent as the hours crept away, left no doubt as to the reality of his faith in God, and, about midnight, he passed peacefully away. "Cobbler" Horn lingered a few moments' longer, and set out for home. The rain had long ceased, and the sky was without a cloud. The semi-tropical shower had been followed by a rapid cooling of the atmosphere, and he shivered in his still damp clothes, as he hurried along. He found Miss Jemima and the young secretary anxiously awaiting his return. They knew of his intention of visiting his sick friend, and were not much surprised that he was so late. But his sister was greatly concerned to find that he had remained so long with his clothes damp. He went at once to bed, and Miss Jemima insisted upon bringing to him there a steaming basin of gruel. He took a few spoonfuls, and then lay wearily back upon the bed. Miss Jemima shook up his pillows, arranged the bed-clothes, and reluctantly left him for the night. In the morning it was evident that "the Golden Shoemaker" was ill. The wetting he had received, followed by the effect of the chill night air, had found out an unsuspected weakness in his constitution, and symptoms of acute bronchitis had set in. The doctor was hastily summoned, and, after the manner of his kind, gravely shook his head, by way of intimating that the case was much more serious than he was prepared verbally to admit. The condition of the patient, indeed, was such as to justify the most alarming interpretation of the doctor's manner and words. Now followed a time of painful suspense. In spite of all that money could do, "Cobbler" Horn grew worse daily. The visits of the doctor, though repeated twice, and even three times a day, produced but little appreciable result. Could it be that this man, into whose possession such vast wealth had so recently come, was so early to be called to relinquish it again? Was it possible that all this money was so soon to drop from the hands which had seemed more fit to hold it than almost any other hands to which had ever been entrusted the disposal of money? Miss Jemima did not ask herself such questions as these. She moved about the house, trying, in her grim way, to crush down within her heart the anguished thought that her beloved and worshipped brother lay at the point of death. And Miss Owen--with what emotions did she contemplate the possibility of that dread event the actual occurrence of which became more probable every day? She went about her duties like one in a dream. What would it mean to her if he were to die? She would lose a great benefactor, and a dear friend; and that would be grief enough. But was there not something more that she would lose--something which had seemed almost within her grasp, which it had hitherto been the hope, and yet the fear, of her life that she might find, but which, of late, she had desired to find with an ardent and unhalting hope? It was with a sick heart that the young secretary discharged, from day to day, her now familiar duties. She was now so well acquainted with the mind of her employer, that she could deal with the correspondence almost as well without, as with, his help. But she missed him every moment, and the thought that he might never again take his place over against her at the office table filled her with bitter grief. There were others who were anxious on account of the peril which threatened the life of "the Golden Shoemaker." Mr. Durnford was weighted with grave concern. He called every day to see his friend; and each time he left the sick-chamber, he was uncertain whether his predominant feeling was that of sorrow for the illness and danger of so good a man, or rejoicing that, in his pain and peril, "Cobbler" Horn was so patient and resigned. In the breasts of many who were accustomed to receive benefits at the hands of "the Golden Shoemaker," there was great distress. Every day, and almost every hour, there were callers, chiefly of the humbler classes, with anxious enquiries on their lips. Not the least solicitous of these were "the Little Twin Brethren." Tommy Dudgeon almost continually haunted the house where his honoured friend lay in such dire straits. The anxiety of the little man was intensified by a burning desire to know whether his desperate appeal on the subject of the "sec'tary" had produced its designed effect on the mind of "Cobbler" Horn. Public sympathy with "Cobbler" Horn and his anxious friends ran deep; and every one who could claim, in any degree, the privilege of a friend, made frequent enquiry as to the sufferer's state. But neither public sympathy nor private grief were of much avail; and it seemed, for a time, as though the earthly course of "the Golden Shoemaker" was almost run. There came a day when the doctors confessed that they could do no more. A few hours must decide the question of life or death. Dreadful was the suspense in the stricken house, and great the sorrow in many hearts outside. Mr. Durnford, who had been summoned early in the morning, remained to await the issue of the day. Little Tommy Dudgeon, who had been informed that the crisis was near, came, and lingered about the house, on one pretence or another, unable to tear himself away. But how was it with "the Golden Shoemaker" himself? From the first, he had been calm and patient; and, even now, when he was confronted with the grim visage of death, he did not flinch. Long accustomed to leave the issues of his life to God, willing to live yet prepared to die, he realized his position without dismay. No doctor ever had a more tractable patient than was "Cobbler" Horn; and he yielded himself to his nurses like an infant of days. In the earlier stages of his illness, he had thought much about the mysterious words and strange behaviour of his friend Tommy Dudgeon, on the day on which he had been taken ill. Further consideration had not absolutely confirmed "Cobbler" Horn's first impression as to the meaning of the little huckster's words. Pondering them as he lay in bed, he had become less sure that his humble little friend had intended simply to suggest the admirable fitness of the young secretary to take the place of his lost child. Surely, he had thought, the impassioned exclamation of the eccentric little man must have borne some deeper significance than that! And then he had become utterly bewildered as to what meaning the singular words of Tommy Dudgeon had been intended to convey. And then there came a glimmering--nothing more--of the idea his faithful friend had wished to impart. But, just when he might have penetrated the mystery, if he could have thought it out a little more, he became too ill to think at all. After this his mind wandered slightly, and once or twice a strange fancy beset him that his little Marian was in the room, and that she was putting her soft hands on his forehead; but, in a moment, the fancy was gone, and he was aware that the young secretary was laying her cool gentle palm upon his burning brow. It had been a wonderful comfort to the girl that she had been permitted to take a spell of nursing now and then. CHAPTER XXXVIII. A LITTLE SHOE. That which happens now and then occurred in the case of "Cobbler" Horn. The doctors proved to be mistaken; and thanks to a strong and unimpaired constitution, and to the blessing of God on efficient nursing and medical skill, "the Golden Shoemaker" survived the crisis of his illness, and commenced a steady return to health and strength. Great was the joy on every side. But, perhaps, the person who rejoiced most was Miss Owen. Not even the satisfaction of Miss Jemima at the ultimate announcement of the doctors, that their patient might now do well, was greater than was that of the young secretary. Miss Owen rejoiced for very special reasons of her own. During the convalescence of "Cobbler" Horn, the young secretary was with him very much. He was glad to have her in his room; and, as his strength returned, he talked to her often about herself. He seemed anxious to know all she could tell him of her early life. "Sit down here, by the bed," he would say eagerly, taking her plump, brown wrist in his wasted fingers, "and tell me about yourself." She would obey him, laughing gently, less at the nature of the request, than at the eagerness with which it was made. "Now begin," he said one evening, for the twentieth time, settling himself beneath the bed-clothes to listen, as though he had never heard the story before; "and mind you don't leave anything out." "Well," she commenced, "I was a little wandering mite, with hardly any clothes and only one shoe. I was----" His hand was on her arm in an instant. This was the first time she had mentioned the fact that, when she was found by the friends by whom she had been brought up, one of her feet was without a shoe. "Only one shoe, did you say?" asked "Cobbler" Horn, in tremulous tones. "Yes," she replied, not suspecting the tumult of thoughts her simple statement had excited in his mind. In truth, her statement had agitated her listener in no slight degree. He did not, as yet, fully perceive its significance. But the coincidence was so very strange! One shoe! Only one shoe! His little Marian had lost one of her shoes when she strayed away. A wonderful coincidence, indeed! "I was very dirty, and my clothes were torn," resumed Miss Owen; "and I was altogether a very forlorn little thing, I have no doubt. I don't remember much about it, myself, you know; but Mrs. Burton has often told me that I was crying at the time, and appeared to have been so engaged for some time. It was one evening in June, and getting dusk. Mr. and Mrs. Burton had been for a walk in the country, and were returning home, when they came upon me, walking very slowly, poking my fists into my eyes, and crying, as I said. When they asked me what was the matter, I couldn't tell them much. I seemed to be trying to say something about a 'bad woman,' and my 'daddy.' They couldn't even make out, with certainty, what I said my name was. Little as you might think it, Mr. Horn. I was a very bad talker in those days. 'Mary Ann Owen' was what my kind friends thought I called myself; and 'Mary Ann Owen' I have been ever since. "Well, these dear people took me home; and, after they had washed me, and found some clothes for me which had belonged to a little girl they had lost--their only child--they gave me a good basin of bread and milk, and put me to bed. "The next day they tried to get me to tell them something more, but it was no use; and as I couldn't tell them where I lived, and they didn't even feel sure about my name, they naturally felt themselves at a loss. But I don't think they were much troubled about that; for I believe they were quite prepared to keep me as their own child. You see they had lost a little one; and there was a vacant place that I expect they thought I might fill. They did, at first, try to find out who I was. But they altogether failed; and so, without more ado, they just made me their own little girl. They taught me to call them 'father' and 'mother'; and they have always been so good and kind!" Though several points in Miss Owen's story had touched him keenly, "Cobbler" Horn quickly regained his composure after the first start of surprise. Feeling himself too weak to do battle with agitating thoughts, he put aside, for the time, the importunate questions which besieged his mind. "Thank you," he said quietly, when the narrative was finished. "To-morrow we will talk about it all again. I think I can go to sleep now. But will you first, please, read a little from the dear old book." The young girl reached a Bible which stood always on a table by the bedside, and, turning to one of his favourite places, read, in her sweet clear tones, words of comfort and strength. Then she bade him "good night," and moved towards the door. But he called her back. "Will you take these letters?" he said, with his hand on a bundle of letters which lay on the table at his side; "and put them into the safe." They were letters of importance, to which he had been giving, during the evening, such attention as he was able. During his illness, he had allowed his secretary to keep the key of the safe. Miss Owen took the letters, and went downstairs. Going first into the dining-room, she told Miss Jemima that "Cobbler" Horn seemed likely to go to sleep, and then proceeded to the office. Without delay, she unlocked the safe, and was in the act of depositing the bundle of letters in its place, when, from a recess at the back, a small tissue-paper parcel, which she had never previously observed, fell down to the front, and became partially undone. As she picked it up, intending to restore it to the place from which it had fallen, her elbow struck the side of the safe, and the parcel was jerked out of her hand. In trying to save it, she retained in her grasp a corner of the paper, which unfolded itself, and there fell out upon the floor a little child's shoe, around which was wrapped a strip of stained and faded pink print. At a sight so unexpected she uttered a cry. Then she picked up the little shoe, and, having released it from its bandage, turned it over and over in her hands. Next she gave her attention to the piece of print. She was utterly dazed. Suddenly the full meaning of her discovery flashed upon her mind. She dropped the simple articles by which she had been so deeply moved, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into a paroxysm of joyous tears. But her agitation was brief. Hastily drying her eyes, she picked up the little shoe. No need to wait till she had compared it with the one which lay in the corner of her box! The image of the latter was imprinted on her mind with the exactness of a photograph, with its every wrinkle and spot, and every slash it had received from that unknown, wanton hand. She _could_ compare the two shoes here and now, as exactly as though she actually saw them side by side. Yes, this little shoe was indeed the fellow of her own! And the strip of print--what was it but her missing bonnet-string? She had found what she had so often longed to find. And she herself was--yes, why should she hesitate to say it?--the little Marian of whom she had so often heard! How wonderful it was! Here was truth stranger than fiction, indeed! She laughed--a gentle, trilling laugh, low and sweet. But ah, she could not tell him! She could not say to him, "I am the daughter you lost so long ago. I have seen in your safe the fellow of the shoe I wore when I was found by my kind friends." Of course it would convince him; but she could not say it. She must wait until he found out the truth for himself. But would he ever find it out? She hoped and thought he would. Had he not marked what she said about her having had on only one shoe when she was found? And would not that lead him to think and enquire? Meanwhile, she herself knew the wonderful truth; and she could afford to wait. It would all come right, of course it would; any other thought was too ridiculous to be entertained. Very quietly, and with almost reverent fingers, she wound the faded bonnet-string once more around the little shoe, and wrapped them up again in the much-crumpled paper. "How often must he have unfolded it!" was the thought that nestled in her heart, as she replaced the precious parcel in the safe, and closed and locked the ponderous door. From the office, the young secretary went directly to her own room. To open her trunk, and plunge her hand down into the corner where lay her own little parcel of relics, was the work of a moment. There was certainly no room for doubt. The little, stout, leather shoe which she had treasured so long was the fellow of the one she had just seen in the safe downstairs. There was the very same curve of the sole, made by the pressure of the little foot--her own, and similar inequalities in the upper part. With a sudden movement, she lifted the tiny shoe to her lips. And here was her funny old sun-bonnet! How often she had wondered what had become of its other string! Last of all, she took up the little chemise, which completed her simple store of relics, and gazed intently upon the red letters with which it was marked. All uncertainty as to their meaning was gone. What could "M.H." stand for but "Marian Horn"? With a grateful heart, she rolled up her treasures, and, having consigned them once more to their place in the trunk, went downstairs. Miss Jemima was indisposed; and, having seen the nurse duly installed in the sick-room, she had retired for the night. Accordingly, Miss Owen, much to her relief, had supper by herself. She felt that she did not wish to talk to any one just at present, and to Miss Jemima least of all. When the young secretary fell asleep that night, she was lulled with the sweetness of the thought that she had not only found her father, but had discovered him in the person of the best man she had ever known. The discovery of her father might have proved a bitter disappointment; it was actually such as to fill her with unspeakable gratitude. She did not greatly regret that she had not found her mother, as well as her father. It would probably have caused her real grief, if any one had appeared to claim the place in her heart which was held by the woman from whom she had always received, in a peculiar degree, a mother's love and a mother's care. One could find room for any number of fathers--provided they were worthy. But a mother!--her place was sacred; there could be no sharing of her throne. CHAPTER XXXIX. A JOYOUS DISCOVERY. It was long that night before "Cobbler" Horn fell asleep. He was free from pain, and felt better altogether than at any time since the beginning of his illness. Yet he could not sleep. The story of his young secretary, as she had told it this evening, had supplied him with thoughts calculated to banish slumber from the most drowsy eyes. Miss Owen had told him her simple story many times before; but this evening she had introduced certain new particulars of a startling kind; and it was as the result of the thoughts thereby suggested that he was unable to sleep. The few additional details which the young secretary had included in her narrative this evening had given a new aspect to the story. There was the solitary shoe she had worn at the time when she had come into the kind hands of Mr. and Mrs. Burton, and the fact that she was a very indistinct talker at the time. The entire story, too, seemed to correspond so well--why should he not admit it?--with what might not improbably have been the history of his little Marian; and Marian would be, at that time, about the same age as was Miss Owen when she was found by the friends whose adopted child she became. But the solitary shoe! He wondered whether it was still in her possession. He would ask her in the morning. And then the indistinct talk of which she had spoken! How well he remembered the pretty broken speech of his own little pet! Then there returned to him that gleam of intelligence with regard to the meaning of the strange words of Tommy Dudgeon with which he had been visited at the beginning of his illness. Surely this was what his faithful friend had meant! From the great affection of the little huckster for Marian, it was likely that he would have a vivid recollection of the child; and no doubt the little man had already discerned what the father himself was only now, after so many hints, beginning to perceive. Thus he pondered through the night. Strange to say, he felt neither sleepy nor tired. He was refreshed by the gracious prophecy of coming joy which the story of his young secretary had supplied; and when, after falling asleep in the early hours of the morning, he awoke towards eight o'clock, he felt as though he had slept all night. It was the custom for the young secretary to pay a visit to her employer's room soon after breakfast, for the purpose of laying before him any of the morning's letters to which it was imperative that his personal attention should be given. Most frequently Miss Owen's visit was, as far as business was concerned, a mere formality, or little more. There were few of the letters with which she herself was not able to deal; and all that was necessary, as a rule, was for her to make a general report, which "Cobbler" Horn invariably received with an approving smile. Then the favoured young secretary would linger for a few moments in the room. She would hover about the bed; asking how he had passed the night; performing a variety of tender services, which, though he had not previously realized the need of them, increased his comfort to a wonderful extent; and talking, all the while, in her merry, heartsome way, like a privileged child, with now and then a gentle, cooing little laugh. There was nothing, in the whole course of the day, that "the Golden Shoemaker" enjoyed so much as the morning visit of his fresh young secretary. But he had never before anticipated it as eagerly as he did this morning. He had long looked upon this young girl rather in the light of a devoted daughter, than of a paid secretary. What if, unconsciously to them both, she had thus grown into her rightful place! As the time approached for her appearance, he had insensibly brought himself to face more fully the wonderful possibility which had been presenting itself to his mind during the last few hours. The nurse was surprised that, though he seemed to be even better than usual, he could scarcely eat any breakfast. All the time, he was watching the door, and listening for the slightest sound. He wondered whether Miss Owen still had in her possession the little shoe of which she had spoken. He must ask her that at once. And how he yearned to search her face, with one long, scrutinising gaze! At last she came, radiant, as usual! Did he notice that a slight shyness veiled her face, and that there was an unusual tremor in her voice as she wished him "good morning"? If "Cobbler" Horn perceived these signs, he paid them but scant regard. He was too much absorbed in his own thoughts, to consider what those of his young secretary might be; and he was too busily engaged in scrutinising the permanent features of her face, to give much heed to its transient expression. What he saw did not greatly assist in the settlement of the question which occupied his mind. And small wonder that it should be so; for, when he had last seen his Marian, she was a little girl of five. No less eagerly than "Cobbler" Horn scanned the countenance of his young secretary, did her eyes, that morning, seek his face. She too had passed a broken night. But it had not seemed wearisome or long. Happy thoughts had rendered sleep an impertinence at first; and, when healthy youthful nature had, at length, asserted itself, the young girl had slept only in pleasant snatches, waking every now and then from some delicious dream, to assure herself that the sweetest dream could not be half so delightful as the glad reality which had come into her life. If these two people could have read each other's thoughts---- But that might not be. She wished him "good morning," in her own bright way; and he responded with his usual benignant smile. Then they proceeded to business. There was one very important letter, which demanded some expenditure of time. The secretary was not altogether herself. Her hand trembled a little, and there was a slight quaver in her voice. Her employer noticed these signs of discomposure, and spoke of them in his kindly way. "Surely you are not well this morning!" he said, placing his hand lightly on her wrist. His secretary was usually so self-possessed. "Oh yes," she said, with a start, "I am quite well--quite." She smiled at the very idea of her not being well, knowing what she did. "Come and sit down beside me for a little while," said "Cobbler" Horn, when their business was finished; "and let us have some talk." It was the ordinary invitation; but there was something unusual in the tone of his voice. As the young girl took her seat at the bedside, her previous agitation in some degree returned. "Cobbler" Horn's fingers closed upon her hand, with a gentle pressure. "My dear young lady, there is something that I wish to ask you." There was just the slightest tremor in his voice; and the young secretary was distinctly conscious of the beating of her heart. "Yes, sir," she said, faintly, trembling a little. "Don't be agitated," he continued, for it was impossible to overlook the fact of her excitement. "It's a very simple matter." He did not know--how could he?--that her thoughts were running in the same direction as his own. "You said," he pursued, "that, when you were found by your good friends, you were wearing only one shoe. Did you--have you that shoe still?" It was evident that he was agitated now. Miss Owen started, and he could feel her hand quiver within his grasp, like a frightened bird. "Yes," she answered in a whisper, above which she felt powerless to raise her voice, "I have kept it ever since." "Then," he resumed, having now quite recovered his self-possession, "would you mind letting me see it?" With a strong effort, she succeeded in maintaining her self-control. "Oh no, not at all, sir!" she said, rising, and moving towards the door; "I'll fetch it at once. But it isn't much to look at now," she added over her shoulder, as she left the room. "'Not much to look at'!" laughed "the Golden Shoemaker" softly to himself. There was nothing that he had ever been half so anxious to see! Five minutes later he was sitting up in bed, turning over and over in his hands the fellow of the little shoe which he had cherished for so many years as the dearest memento of his lost child. Could there be any doubt? Was it not his own handiwork? It had evidently received several random slashes with a knife, and it still bore traces of mud. But he knew his own work too well; and had he not looked upon the fellow of this shoe every day for the last twelve years? Strange to say, so completely absorbed was "Cobbler" Horn in contemplating the shoe which his Marian had worn, that, for the moment, he did not think of Marian herself. At length he looked up. But he was alone. Discretion, and the tumult of her emotions, had constrained the young secretary to withdraw from the room. Putting a strong hand upon herself, she had retired to the office, where she was, at that moment, diligently at work. "Cobbler" Horn sighed. But perhaps it was better that the young girl had withdrawn. There was little room for doubt; but he must make assurance doubly sure. He touched the electric bell at the head of the bed, and the nurse immediately appeared. "Will you be so good as to tell Miss Horn I should like to see her at once." The nurse, marking the eagerness with which the request was uttered, and observing the little shoe on the counterpane, perceived that the occasion was urgent, and departed on her errand with all speed. "I don't think he is any worse this morning," she said to Miss Jemima when she had delivered her message. "Indeed he seems, quite unaccountably, to be very much better. But it is evident something has happened." Without waiting to hear more, Miss Jemima hurried to her brother's room. Sitting up in bed, with a happy face, he was holding in his hand a dilapidated child's shoe, which he placed in his sister's hands as soon as she approached the bed. "Jemima, look at that!" he said joyously. Thinking it was the shoe which her brother had always preserved with so much care, she took it, and examined it with much concern. "Whoever can have cut it about like that?" she cried. "Cobbler" Horn hastened to rectify her mistake. "No, Jemima," he said, in a tone of reverent exultation; "it's the other shoe--the one we've been wanting to find all these years!" The first thought of Miss Jemima was that her brother had gone mad. Then she examined the shoe more closely. "To be sure!" she said. "How foolish of me! Those cuts were made long ago." As she spoke, she put her hand on the table at the bedside, to steady herself. "Brother," she demanded, in trembling tones, "where did you get this shoe? Did it come by the morning post?" "Cobbler" Horn answered deliberately. He would give his sister time to take in the meaning of his words. "It has been in the possession of Miss Owen. She brought it to me just now." "Miss Owen?" Miss Jemima's first impulse was towards indignation. What had Miss Owen been doing with the shoe? But the next moment, she reflected that there must be some reasonable explanation of the fact that the shoe had been in the possession of her brother's secretary--though what that explanation might be Miss Jemima could not, as yet, divine. "She has had it," resumed "Cobbler" Horn, in the same quiet tone as before, "ever since she was a little girl. She was wearing it when she was found by the good people by whom she was adopted." Then light came to Miss Jemima, clear and full. She grasped her brother's shoulder, and remembered his weakness only just in time to refrain from giving him a vigorous shake. "Brother, brother," she cried, "do you understand what your words may mean?" "Yes, Jemima--in part, at least. But we must make sure. First we will put the two shoes together, and see that they really are the same." "Why, surely, Thomas, you have no doubt?" "There seems little room for it, indeed; but we cannot make too sure!" He wanted to give himself time to become accustomed to the great joy which was dawning on his life. "You know where the other shoe is, Jemima?" "Yes, in the safe." "Yes; and you know that, while I have been up here, Miss Owen has kept the key of the safe?" "Yes." Miss Jemima had undergone much mental chafing by reason of that knowledge. "Well, will you go to her in the office, and say I wish you to bring me something out of the safe? She will not know what you bring. She will just hand you the key, and go on with her work." "Yes, I will go, brother. But are you sure she knows or suspects nothing? She may have seen the shoe." "Oh no; it is well wrapped up, and I am sure she would not touch the parcel. I can trust my secretary," he added, with a new-born pride. As Miss Jemima went down stairs, she wondered she had not long ago lighted on the discovery which her brother had now made. It explained many things. The tones and gestures which had so often startled her by their familiarity; the vague feeling that, at some time, she must have known this young girl before; the growing resemblance--evident to Miss Jemima's eyes, at least--of the young secretary to "Cobbler" Horn--these things, which, with many kindred signs, Miss Jemima had hidden in her heart, had their explanation in the discovery which had just been made. Miss Owen yielded the key of the safe without question. Though she appeared to take no notice of Miss Jemima's doings, she knew, as by instinct, what Miss Jemima was taking out of the safe; and she told herself that she must not, and would not, let it appear that she supposed anything unusual was going on. She went on quietly with her work; but it was by dint of such an effort of self-control, as few human beings have ever found it necessary to make, or could have made. As the result of the young secretary's effort of self-repression, there appeared in her face, at the moment when Miss Jemima turned to leave the room, an expression so much like that assumed by the countenance of "Cobbler" Horn at times when he was very firm, that the heart of Miss Jemima gave a mighty bound. Meanwhile Miss Jemima's brother was eagerly awaiting her return. She had been absent less than five minutes, when she once more entered his room. "There," she said, holding the two little shoes out towards her brother, side by side, "there can be no doubt about the shoes, at any rate. They are a pair, sure enough. Why," she continued, turning up the shoe that Miss Owen had produced, "I remember noticing, that very morning, that half the leather was torn away from the heel of one of the child's shoes, just like that." As she spoke, she held out the shoe, and showed her brother that its heel had been damaged exactly as she had described. Then a strange thing happened to Miss Jemima. She dropped the little shoes upon the bed, and, covering her face with her hands, cried gently for a few moments. "The Golden Shoemaker" gazed at his sister in some wonder; and then two large tears gathered in his own eyes, and rolled down his cheeks. All at once Miss Jemima almost fiercely dashed her hand across her eyes. "Brother," she cried, "I've often heard of tears of joy; but I didn't think I should live to say they were the only ones I had shed since I was a little child! But there's no mistake about those shoes. And there's no doubt about anything else either." "Cobbler" Horn was, perhaps, quite as confident as his sister; but he was a little more cautious. "Yes, Jemima," he said; "but we must be careful. A mistake would be dreadful--both on our own account, and on that of--of Miss Owen. We must send for Mr. and Mrs. Burton at once. Mr. Durnford will telegraph. It will be necessary, of course, to tell him of our discovery; but he may be trusted not to breathe it to any one else." Miss Jemima readily assented to her brother's proposal. Mr. Durnford was sent for, and came without delay. His astonishment on hearing the wonderful news his friends had to tell was hardly as great as they expected. It is possible that this arose from the fact that he was acquainted with the story of Miss Owen, and that his eyes and ears had been open during the last few months. It was, however, with no lack of heartiness that he complied with the request to send a telegram summoning Mr. and Mrs. Burton to "Cobbler" Horn's bedside. CHAPTER XL. TOMMY DUDGEON'S CONTRIBUTION. After the despatch of the telegram, the words of Tommy Dudgeon, with reference to the young secretary, recurred once more to the mind of "Cobbler" Horn, and he mentioned them to his sister. "This must have been what the good fellow meant," he said. "You remember, Jemima, how fond they were of each other--Tommy and the child?" "Yes," responded Miss Jemima, reluctantly; for she still retained her dislike for "those stupid Dudgeons." "Do you know, Jemima, I have it on my mind to send for Tommy at once, and ask him what he really meant." "Send for him--to come in here?" "Yes; why not?" "Well, you must do as you like, I suppose." A moment's reflection had convinced the good lady that she had really no sound reason to advance against the proposal her brother had made; and she knew that, in any case, he would do as he thought fit. Accordingly a messenger was despatched for Tommy Dudgeon with all speed; and the little huckster turned over to his brother, without compunction, an important customer whom he happened to be serving at the time, and hurried away to the bedside of his honoured friend. The servant who, in obedience to orders received, showed Tommy up at once to "Cobbler" Horn's room, handed in at the same time a telegram which had just arrived from Mr. Burton, saying that he and Mrs. Burton might be expected about three o'clock in the afternoon. "Cobbler" Horn placed the pink paper on the little table by his bedside, and turned to Tommy, who stood just within the doorway, nervously twisting his hat between his hands. "Come in, Tommy, come in!" said "the Golden Shoemaker," encouragingly, "you see I am almost well." Tommy advanced into the room; but being arrested by the sight of Miss Jemima, who stood at the bed-foot, he stopped short half-way between the bed and the door, and honoured that formidable lady with a trembling bow. Miss Jemima's mood this morning was complacency itself, and she acknowledged the obeisance of the little huckster with a not ungracious nod. Greatly encouraged, Tommy moved a pace or two nearer to the bed. "I'm deeply thankful, Mr. Horn," he said, "to see you looking so well." "Thank you, Tommy," responded "Cobbler" Horn, with a smile, as he reached out his hand. "The Lord is very good. No doubt He has more work for me to do yet." As Tommy almost reverently took the hand of his beloved and honoured friend he thought to himself, "I wonder whether he has considered what I said?" "The last time we met, Tommy," began "Cobbler" Horn, as though in answer to the unspoken question of the little man--"But, sit down, friend, sit down." Tommy protested that he would rather stand; but, being overborne, he effected a compromise, by placing himself quite forward on the edge of the chair, and depositing his hat on the floor, between his feet. "You remember the time?" resumed "Cobbler" Horn. "Oh yes; quite well!" "It was the afternoon of the day I was taken ill." "Yes; and Mrs. Bunn said you _would_ go out in that dreadful rain." Tommy did not add that he himself, watching through his shop window, in the hope that his friend would come across to ask the meaning of his mysterious words, had, with a sinking heart, seen him walk off in the opposite direction through the drenching shower. "Well," said "Cobbler" Horn, with a smile, "I've had to pay for that, and shall be all the wiser, no doubt. But there was something you said that afternoon that I want to ask you about. At the time I thought I knew what you meant. But I am inclined now to think I was mistaken, and that your words referred to something quite different from what I then supposed. Do you remember what you said?" It was impossible for Tommy Dudgeon to conceal the agitation of his mind. He rejoiced at the opportunity to make known his great discovery to his friend; and yet he trembled lest he should prove unequal to the task. He thought, for a moment, that he would gain time by seeming not to understand the reference his friend had made. "What words do you speak of, chiefly, Mr. Horn?" he asked tremulously, "I said so many----" But Tommy Dudgeon could not dissemble. He stammered, stopped, wiped his forehead, and stretched out his hands as though in appeal to the mercy of his hearers. "Of course I know what words you mean!" he cried. "I wanted to tell you of something I had seen for weeks, but that you didn't seem to see. And I can see it still; and there's no mistake about it. I'm as certain sure of it, as that I am sitting on this chair. It was about the sec'tary, and some one else; and yet not anybody else, because they're both the same. May I tell you, Mr. Horn? Can you bear it, do you think?" "The Golden Shoemaker" regarded the eager face of his little friend with glistening eyes; and Miss Jemima, leaning towards him over the framework of the iron bedstead, listened with an intent countenance, from which all trace of disfavour had vanished away. "Yes," said "Cobbler" Horn, in grave, calm tones; "tell us all. We are not unprepared." "Thank you," said the little man, fervently. "But, oh, I wish you knew! I wish God had been pleased to make it known to you," he added with a reminiscence of his Old Testament studies, "in a dream and vision of the night. Oh, my dear friend, don't you see that what you've been longing and praying for all these years has come to pass--as we always knew it would; and--and that she's come back! she's come back? There, that's what I meant!" "Then it really was so," said "Cobbler" Horn. "I'm surprised I did not perceive your meaning at the time." Tommy thought him wonderfully calm. "But I must tell you, Tommy, that we have now very much reason to think that your surmise is correct." "_Surmise_ is not the word, Mr. Horn; I know she's come back!" "Of course you do," interposed Miss Jemima, in emphatic tones. Tommy looked gratefully towards the hitherto dreadful lady; and she regarded him with eyes which seemed to say, "you have won my favour once for all." "Can you tell us, Tommy," asked "Cobbler" Horn, "what has made you so very sure?" "Yes," replied Tommy, with energy, "I'll tell you. Everything has made me sure--the way she walks along the street, with her head up, and putting her foot down as if a regiment of soldiers wouldn't stop her; and her manner of coming into the shop and saying, 'How are you to-day, Mr. Dudgeon?' and her sitting in the old arm-chair, and putting her head on one side like a knowing little bird, and asking questions about everything, and letting her eyes shine on you like stars. Begging your pardon, Mr. Horn, she's just the little lassie all over. Why I should know her with my eyes shut, if she were only to speak up, and say, 'Well, Tommy, how are you, to-day?'" "But," asked "Cobbler" Horn, whose heart, secretly, was almost bursting with delight, "may you not be mistaken, after all?" "I am not mistaken," replied Tommy firmly. "But it's such a long while ago," suggested "Cobbler" Horn; "and--and she will be very much altered by this time. You _can't_ be sure that a young woman is the same person as a little girl you haven't seen for more than a dozen years." Herein, perhaps, "Cobbler" Horn's own chief difficulty lay. "How," he asked, "can I think of Marian as being other than a little girl?" Tommy Dudgeon did not seem to be troubled in that way at all. "Yes," he said, "I can be quite sure when I have known the little girl as I knew that one; and when I have watched, and listened to, the young woman, as I have been watching and listening to the sec'tary for these months past." "Cobbler" Horn and Miss Jemima exchanged glances. "This is truly wonderful!" said he. "Not at all!" retorted she. "The wonder is, Thomas, that you and I have been so blind all this time." "The Golden Shoemaker" smiled gently, as he lay back upon his pillows. The image of a small, dark-eyed child held possession of his mind; and he had not been able readily to bring himself to see his little Marian in any other form. As for any real doubt, there was only a shred of it left in his mind now. Yet he still said to himself that he must make assurance doubly sure. "Well, Tommy," he said, "we are very much obliged to you. And now, will you do us another kindness? We are expecting some friends this afternoon who may be able to give us a good deal of light on this subject. Will you come, when we send for you, and hear what they have to say?" "That I will!" was the hearty response, "I'll come, Mr. Horn, whenever you send." "You have met these friends before, Tommy," said "Cobbler" Horn. "They are Mr. and Mrs. Burton--at the 'Home,' you know." Tommy nodded. "They found Miss Owen when she was a very little girl; and brought her up as their own child; and we hope that what they may tell us about her will help us to decide whether what we think is true." Tommy nodded again with beaming eyes, and shortly afterwards took his leave. "Now, brother," said Miss Jemima, "you must take some rest, or we shall have you ill again." "Not much danger of that!" replied "Cobbler" Horn, smiling. "I think, please God, I've found a better medicine now, than all the doctors in the world could give me." "Yes; but you are excited, and the reaction will come, if you do not take care." "Well, perhaps you are right, Jemima. But first, don't you think she had better be out of the way when Mr. and Mrs. Burton come?" "Yes, I've thought of that; she can take that poor girl along the road for a drive." "A capital idea. Have it arranged, Jemima." "Very well. I'll go and see about it at once; and you get to sleep." CHAPTER XLI. NO ROOM FOR DOUBT! At the appointed time, Mr. and Mrs. Burton arrived. Being, as yet, ignorant of the purpose for which their presence was desired, they were full of conjectures. Miss Jemima received them in the dining-room, downstairs. The first question they asked related to "Cobbler" Horn's health. "Was he worse?" "No," said Miss Jemima; "he is much better. But he wishes to consult you about a matter of great importance." Then, upon their protesting that they were in no immediate need of refreshment, Miss Jemima conducted her visitors upstairs to her brother's room. Though "Cobbler" Horn had not been to sleep since the morning, he was greatly refreshed by the quiet hours he had passed. He turned to greet Mr. and Mrs. Burton, as they came in. "This is very good of you," he said, putting out his hand. Miss Jemima placed chairs for the visitors, and they took their seats near the bed. "I think I must sit up," said "Cobbler" Horn. Miss Jemima helped him to raise himself upon his pillows, and then sat down on a chair at the opposite side of the bed. "There now," said "the Golden Shoemaker," "we shall do finely. But, Jemima, how about our friend, Tommy?" "He'll be here directly" was the concise reply. Mr. and Mrs. Burton waited patiently for "Cobbler" Horn to speak. Mrs. Burton was a shrewd-looking, motherly body; and her husband had the appearance of a capable and kindly man. They were both conscious of some curiosity, and even anxiety, with regard to what "Cobbler" Horn might be about to say. The peculiarity of the situation was that he should have sent for them both. Perhaps each had some vague prevision of the communication he was about to make. "Now, dear friends," he said, at last, "no doubt you will be wondering why I have sent for you in such a hurry." Both Mr. Burton and his wife protested that they were always at the service of Mr. Horn, and expressed the assurance that he would not have sent for them without good cause. "Thank you," he said. "I think you will admit that, in this instance, the cause is as good as can be." Looking upon the kindly faces of these good Christian people, "Cobbler" Horn wondered how they would receive the news he would probably have to impart. He must proceed cautiously. At the same time, he was thankful that his little lost child--if, indeed, it were so--had been committed by the great Father to such kindly hands. "You will not mind, dear friends," he resumed, "if I ask you one or two questions about the circumstances under which my--Miss Owen came into your charge when a child?" "By no means, sir!" The startling nature of the question caused no hesitation in the reply. Indeed, though startled, these good people were not so very much surprised. They had not, perhaps, been actually expecting that this would prove to be the subject on which they had been summoned to confer. But, ever since their adopted daughter had entered the household of this man, whose own little daughter had been lost, just about the time that she must have left her home, both Mr. and Mrs. Burton had secretly thought that perhaps, as the result, she would find her own parent, and they would lose their child. Perhaps it was on account of the vagueness of this thought, or because of the painful anticipations to which it gave rise, or for both these reasons, that the good couple had made no mention to each other of its presence in their respective minds. They glanced at one another now; and, by some subtle influence, each became aware that the other's mind had been occupied by this disturbing thought. "You will believe," said "Cobbler" Horn, "that I have good reasons for the questions I am going to ask?" "We are sure of that, sir," responded Mr. Burton. "Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Burton. "Well, can you tell me in what year, and at what time of the year, you found the child?" "It was on the 2nd of June, 18--" said Mrs. Burton, promptly. "Cobbler" Horn and Miss Jemima exchanged glances. It was the very year in which, on that bright May morning, little Marian had vanished, like a flash of departing sunshine, from their lives. "About what age would you suppose the child to have been at the time?" "She told us her age," said Mr. Burton. "Yes," pursued his wife, "she was a very indistinct talker, and her age was almost the only thing we could actually make out. She said she was five; and that was about what she looked." "Do you think, now," continued "Cobbler" Horn, with another glance at his sister, "that you could give us anything like a description of the child?" "My wife can do that very well," said Mr. Burton. "She has often told Miss Owen what she looked like when we found her crying in the road." "Yes," said Mrs. Burton, "I remember exactly what she was like. She had black hair--as she has now, and her eyes were very dark; her skin was even browner than it is now, being so dirty; and she had very rosy cheeks. It was evident that some of her clothes had been stolen. Indeed they were almost all gone, and she had scarcely anything on but an old, and very dirty shawl, which was wrapped round her body so tightly that it must have hurt her very much. She had lost one of her shoes, and her foot was bound up with a filthy piece of rag. She had both her socks on, but they were in dreadful holes. She was wearing a torn sun-bonnet, which was covered with mud; and--let me see--one of its strings was missing. And, yes, her one shoe was cut about over the top, as if it had been done on purpose with a knife. She had evidently been in very bad hands, poor little mite!" and the honest, kindly face was darkened with a frown, as Mrs. Burton clenched her plump fist in her lap. Miss Jemima had been listening with intense interest, from her position on the other side of the bed; and now interposed with a question, in her own quick way. "What was the pattern of the sun-bonnet? Was it a small, pink sprig, on a white ground?" "Why, you must have seen it, ma'am!" was Mrs. Burton's startled reply. "That was the very thing!" "Perhaps I have," responded Miss Jemima, "and perhaps I haven't." Mrs. Burton hardly knew what to say. "Well," she resumed, at last, "Miss Owen has kept the sun-bonnet, and the one shoe, and two or three other little things; and I'm sure she will be glad to let you see them. But, may I ask, Miss Horn, what----" But "Cobbler" Horn interrupted her. "I think, Jemima, we had now better tell our kind friends why we are asking these questions." "Yes," said Miss Jemima; "I should have told them at first." "Well," resumed "Cobbler" Horn, turning to Mr. and Mrs. Burton, and speaking with an emotion which he could no longer conceal, "we have reason to believe that your adopted daughter--don't let me shock you--is our little lost Marian, of whom you have several times heard me speak; and we are anxious to make sure if this is really the case." In the nature of things, Mr. and Mrs. Burton were not so much surprised as they would have been if the course of events had not, in some measure, prepared them for the announcement which "Cobbler" Horn had now made. Yet they experienced a slight shock; for even an expected crisis cannot be fully realized till it actually arrives. For a moment, there was silence in the room. Then Mrs. Burton was the first to speak. "Excuse us, dear sir," she said calmly, "if we are somewhat startled at what you have said. And yet we are not altogether surprised. You will not think that strange?" "No, ma'am," said "Cobbler" Horn, in a musing tone, "not altogether strange, perhaps. But, shall I explain a little further? It was only last evening that I was led to entertain the thought that Miss Owen might actually prove to be my lost child. She was telling me, as she had done several times before, all about how you found her, and of your goodness to her; and she spoke last night, for the first time, of the one shoe she was wearing when you found her in the road. Now you may judge how I was startled, on hearing this, when I tell you that, just after Marian was lost, we picked up one of her shoes in a field, over which she must have wandered away. So, this morning, without telling her my reason, I asked her to let me see the little shoe she had worn so long ago. She at once fetched it; and here it is, and with it the one we found in the field." So saying, he drew, from underneath the bed-clothes, the two little shoes; and placed them side by side upon the counterpane. Mr. and Mrs. Burton rose and approached the bed. "Yes," said Mr. Burton, "that is undoubtedly Miss Owen's little shoe." "And this," said Mrs. Burton, "is unquestionably its fellow," and, taking up the shoes, she held them towards her husband. "You are certainly right, my dear." Then there was silence for a brief space, while these two simple-hearted people bent, with deep emotion, over the little baby shoes which seemed to prove so much. Mrs. Burton was the first to speak. "Well," she said, calmly, but with a quivering lip, "we are to lose our child; but the will of the Lord be done." Mr. Burton's only utterance was a deep sigh. "Nay," said "Cobbler" Horn, "if it really be as I cannot help hoping it is, you will, perhaps, not lose so much as you think. But I am sure you will not begrudge me the joy of finding my child." "No, indeed, dear sir. On the contrary, we will rejoice with you as well as we can--and with her." These were the words of Mrs. Burton, and they received confirmation from her husband. At this point, Tommy Dudgeon quietly entered the room, and took his seat, at a motion from Miss Jemima, behind the chairs on which Mr. and Mrs. Burton were sitting. "I have been anxious," resumed "Cobbler" Horn, "thoroughly to assure myself that there was no mistake. Here is our friend, Dudgeon, now. You saw him the day we opened the 'Home.'" Perceiving Tommy for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Burton gave him a hearty greeting. "Our friend knows," continued "Cobbler" Horn, "that I've been very sceptical about the good news." "Very much so!" said Tommy, nodding his head. "Cobbler" Horn smiled. "He was the first to find it out. You must know that he took much kind interest in my little girl; and it was a great grief to him that she was lost. And when your adopted daughter came to us, he was not long in forming conjectures as to who she might be. In a very short time, as a matter of fact, he had quite made up his mind. He tried to tell me about it; but I was too stupid to understand him, and so it was left for me to find out the happy truth by accident. Tell our friends, Tommy, how you came to discover who Miss Owen really was." Thus enjoined, Tommy, nothing loath, recounted once more the story of his great discovery. Mr. and Mrs. Burton listened with deep attention, and, having put several questions to Tommy, admitted that what he had said afforded much confirmation to the supposition that Miss Owen was the long-lost Marian. "I have a thought about the child's name," said Mrs. Burton after a brief pause. "It comes to me that what she gave us as her name sounded quite as much like _Marian Horn_ as _Mary Ann Owen_." "Why yes," said Miss Jemima, "now I think of it, she used to pronounce her name very much as though it had been something like _Mary Ann Owen_. As well as I can remember, it was 'Ma--an O--on.'" "I believe you are right, Jemima," said her brother. "It must be admitted," interposed Mr. Burton quickly, "that _Mary Ann Owen_ was a very reasonable interpretation of that combination of sounds." "Undoubtedly it was," assented "Cobbler" Horn. "Yes," said Mrs. Burton, "what you say, Miss Horn, is very much like the way in which the child pronounced her name. And there's another thing which may serve as a further mark. She had on, beneath the old shawl, a little chemise, on which were worked, in red, the letters 'M.H.'" "I know it!" cried Miss Jemima. "I always marked her clothes like that. You used to laugh at me, Thomas; but what do you say now?" "Well, well!" said "the Golden Shoemaker" softly. "And listen to me," resumed Miss Jemima. "I am beginning to recollect, too. Marian's hair was very stubborn; and there were two or three tufts at the back which always would stand up, like black feathers." "I remember that very well," said Mrs. Burton, with a smile. "Of course," agreed her husband; "and many a joke we used to have about it. I called her my little blackbird." "And then," continued Miss Jemima, "there was another thing. A few days before the child's disappearance, she fell down and hurt her knee; and there were two scars, one on the knee, and another just below." "Ah," said Mrs. Burton, "I remember those scars. Don't you, John?" "Yes; and I used to tell her she was an old soldier, and had been in the wars." "So you did; and--dear me, how old memories are beginning to come back!--she talked a great deal, not only of her 'daddy,' but of 'Aunt 'Mima.' I wonder I didn't think of that before. Perhaps, ma'am----" "That's me!" cried Miss Jemima. "My name's Jemima; and 'Aunt 'Mima' was what she always called me. There, Thomas, do you want any further proof?" "Cobbler" Horn was lying with his hands over his face, and the bed was shaking with his convulsive efforts to repress his strong emotion. Fear had impelled him to withstand his growing conviction that his long-lost child had been restored to him--fear of the consequences of a mistake, both to himself, and to the bright young girl whom he had already learnt to love as though she were indeed his child. But now, one after another, his doubts had been beaten down. He had listened eagerly to every word that had been spoken around his bed, and conviction had taken absolute possession of his mind. Yet, for the moment, the shock of his great joy seemed almost more than his weakened nerves could bear. His friends stood around the bed, fearing for him. But, in a few moments, he withdrew his hands from his face, which was wet with the gracious tears of joy. He clasped his hands, and looked reverently upward. "'My soul doth magnify the Lord; and my spirit hath rejoiced in God, my Saviour.'" That was all. "You would like us to leave you, brother?" asked Miss Jemima. "For a very short time." He was quite himself again. "She is out still, isn't she?" "Yes," replied Miss Jemima. "She will be in soon, no doubt. You would like to see her. Well, leave that to me." Then they left him to his blissful thoughts. For many minutes, he gratefully communed with God. He was thankful his child had come back to him so beautiful, and clever, and good. He could regard her with as much pride as love; though he told himself he would have loved her, and done all in his power to make her happy, whatever she had proved to be. And then, how glad he was that she had found her way into his heart before he knew she was his child. Great, indeed, was the joy of "the Golden Shoemaker!" That very day he was to clasp his long-lost child to his heart! The door of his room had been left ajar. Presently he heard the front-door open downstairs; and then there were voices in the hall, one of which he recognised as hers. The next moment he knew that she was coming upstairs. They had not told her the great news yet, of course? No; she was going direct to her own room. He took up the little shoes, which had been left lying on the bed. How well he remembered making them! He had selected for the purpose the very best bit of leather in his stock. He was proceeding to examine more closely the shoe that had been mutilated, when he heard the sound of a door being opened which he knew to be that of his young secretary's room. Would she come to him before going downstairs? In truth, he wished not to see her until she had been told the great news. He breathed more freely when he heard her foot on the stairs. When "Cobbler" Horn had been alone about half an hour, Miss Jemima returned to the room. Mrs. Burton, she said, was in the dining-room, with----Marian. There was just the slightest hesitation in Miss Jemima's pronunciation of the name. Her brother's tea would come up in a few minutes. After he had taken it, he would perhaps be ready for the interview he so much desired. "Tea!" "Oh, but," said his matter-of-fact sister, "you must try to take it--as a duty." "I'll do my best," he said; "but I must be up and dressed before she comes, Jemima." Miss Jemima demurred, but ultimately agreed. "I should like Mr. Durnford to be here," he continued, "and Tommy Dudgeon, and Mr. and Mrs. Burton." "They shall all be present," said Miss Jemima. "And you, Jemima, you will take care to be in the room at the time." "Brother," responded the lady, "you may trust me for that." CHAPTER XLII. FATHER AND DAUGHTER. Mrs. Burton, closeted with her adopted daughter, in the dining-room, found, to her surprise, that Miss Owen was not unprepared for the communication she was about to receive. Since her discovery of the little shoe--the fellow of her own--in her employer's safe, and the startling conclusion at which she had thereupon arrived, the young secretary had been in a vaguely expectant state of mind. The great fact she had discovered could not long remain concealed from the person whom, next to herself, it most concerned. Of course, it was impossible for her to speak out. But she had only to wait, and all would come right. She saw now why "Cobbler" Horn had been so much agitated to hear that, when she was found by Mr. and Mrs. Burton, she was wearing only one shoe; and she was not surprised, the next morning, when he asked to see the shoe itself. As the day passed, she was instinctively aware that something unusual was going on. The visit of Tommy Dudgeon; the circumstance that she was not summoned to "Cobbler" Horn's room as usual, during the day; and her being unexpectedly despatched to take Susie Martin for a drive--were all signs pointing in one direction; and when, on her return from the drive, she was greeted with the announcement that Mrs. Burton was waiting to see her in the dining-room, she felt sure that the great secret was known. And she could not be much surprised, therefore, when, in the end, Mrs. Burton proceeded to make in set terms, the communication with which she was charged. "My dear," said the good lady, fondly kissing her adopted daughter, "I'm sure you will be surprised to see me." "I'm delighted, at any rate, dear mother," was the pardonably evasive reply. "Not more than I am!" exclaimed the good creature. Notwithstanding the loss she expected to sustain through the discovery which had been made, she had schooled herself to rejoice in the happiness which had come to her child. "But," she added, "you, my dear, will be more delighted still, when you hear the news I have to tell." As she spoke, she led the young secretary to a chair, and, having caused her to be seated, sat down on another chair by her side. Then she took her companion's hand and held it tenderly in her lap. "My dear, I want to ask you something." The good lady tried to be calm, but her tones grew tremulous as she spoke. Miss Owen, too, was becoming excited, in spite of herself. "Yes, mother dear," and the girl seemed to put special and loving emphasis on the word "mother." "Do you remember," continued Mrs. Burton, "how, when you were all at Daisy Lane, at the opening of the 'Home,' we were talking about Mr. Horn having lost his little girl in some mysterious fashion; and you said, laughing, what fun it would be, if you turned out to be that very little girl?" "Yes, mother," was the reply, uttered in low and agitated tones, "I remember very well." "You didn't think that such a wonderful thing would ever come to pass, did you, dear?" asked Mrs. Burton, gently stroking the back of the plump little brown hand, which lay passive in her lap. "No," replied the girl, "I certainly did not; and it was just a mad joke, of course." As she spoke her whole frame quivered, and she made as though she would have withdrawn her hand and risen to her feet. Mrs. Burton tightened her grasp upon the fluttering hand in her lap, and gently restrained the agitated girl. "I haven't finished yet, dear," she said. "You know the saying that 'many a true word is spoken in jest'?" "Yes, yes----" "Well--try to be calm, my child--it has been found out----" "I know what you are going to say, mother," broke in the young girl. "It is that I have found my father--my very own; though I can never forget the only father I have known these years, and I haven't found another mother, and don't want to." Then the woman and the child--for she was little more--became locked in a close embrace. After some minutes, Mrs. Burton unclasped the young arms from her neck, and, sitting hand in hand with her adopted daughter, she told her all the wondrous tale. "So you see, my child," she concluded, "your name is not Owen after all; it is not even Mary Ann." "No," said the girl, with a bewitching touch of scorn. "Mary Ann Owen, forsooth! I always had my doubts. Horn is not much better in itself. But it is my father's name; and Marian is all that could be desired. And so I really am that little Marian of whom I have heard so many charming things! How sweet! But, mother, you must be the very same to me as ever; and I must find room for two fathers now, instead of one." "Yes, my dear, I feel sure you will not love us any the less for this great change." "Mother, mother, never speak of that again! If it had not been for you, I might never have come to know anything about myself, to say nothing of all the dreadful things which might have happened. Oh, God is good!" "He is indeed, dear! But you will be longing to go to your father." "Yes," said the girl, with a quiver of shy delight; "what does he say?" "My dear, he is thankful beyond measure." "But can he bear to see me just yet?" "He is preparing to receive you now. Come!" "Cobbler" Horn had finished his tea, and was dressed, and sitting in an easy-chair in his bedroom. Those about him had feared that the coming effort would be too much for his strength. But there was no need for their apprehension. Joy was proving a splendid tonic. He sat calm and collected, awaiting the appearance of his child. His friends were all around him. Mr. Durnford, Tommy Dudgeon, Mr. Burton--all were there; and there, too, was Miss Jemima, no longer grim, but subdued almost to meekness. Then it was done in a moment. The door opened, and Mrs. Burton entered, leading the young secretary by the hand. An instant later the girl ran forward, with a little cry, and flung herself into the outstretched arms of her waiting father. For some seconds they remained thus. Then she gradually slipped down upon her knees, and let her head fall upon his breast, while her arms embraced him still, and his hand held closely to him her nestling face. Speech was impossible on either side. She was weeping the sweet tears of joy, while he vainly struggled to find utterance for his love. One by one, their friends had stolen out of the room. Even Miss Jemima had been content to go. The memory of that chastened lady was very vivid to-night, and she felt humbled and subdued. Observing the silence, "Cobbler" Horn looked up, and perceived that they were alone. "They have all gone, Marian," he said, gently. "Won't you look up, and let father see your face?" She lifted her face, bedewed yet radiant; and he took it tenderly between his hands. "It is indeed the face of my little Marian," he said, fondly. "How blind I must have been!" He gazed long and lovingly--feasting his eyes upon the brown, glowing face, in every feature of which he could now trace so plainly those of his little Marian of days gone by. The hope which he had never quite relinquished was fulfilled at last! His gracious Lord had justified his confidence, as, indeed, there had never been any reason to doubt that He would. "You feel quite sure about it, my dear; don't you?" he asked. "Yes, father dear," she answered, in a thoughtful, contented tone. "There are so many things that help to make me sure." Then she told him of her strange feeling of familiarity with the old house and street. She spoke of the little shoes, and of her having seen the one in the safe. She told him what she had overheard in the tent at Daisy Lane about her resemblance to himself. "And besides," she concluded, "after all that----mother has told me, how can I doubt? But now, daddy--I may call you that, mayn't I?" "The Golden Shoemaker" pressed convulsively the little hand he held. "That is what Marian--what you always called me when you were a child, my dear. Nothing would please me better." "Then 'daddy' it shall be. And now, do you know, daddy, I'm beginning to remember things in a vague sort of way. I'm just like some one waking up after a good sleep. Things, you know, that happened before one went to sleep, come back by degrees at such a time; and, in the same way, recollections are growing on me now of my childhood, and especially of the time when I was lost. Let me see, now! I'm like some one looking into a magic crystal to see the future, only I want to recall the past. After thinking very hard, I've been able to call up some remembrance of the day I ran away from home. I seem to remember being very angry with someone, and wanting to get away. Then there was a woman, and a man, but chiefly a woman, and some dark place that I was in. And I think they must have treated me badly in some way." "Cobbler" Horn thought for a moment. "Why," he said, "that dark place must have been the wood, on the other side of the field where I found your shoe." "Yes, no doubt; and wasn't it in that wood that you picked up the string of my sun-bonnet?" "To be sure it was!" "Yes; and perhaps it was there that I was stripped of my clothes. When I fell into the hands of Mr. and Mrs. Burton, my chief garment was an old ragged shawl. My one shoe, and my socks, and my sun-bonnet, were almost all I had besides. I've kept all the things except the socks, and you must see them by and bye, daddy." "Of course I must." But, having found his child, he did not greatly care just now about anything else. Presently she spoke again. "Daddy!" "Yes, Marian?" "I'm so thankful it has turned out to be you!" "Yes, my dear?" responded the happy father, in a tone of enquiry. "I mean I'm glad it's you who are my father. It might have been somebody quite different, you know." "Yes," he answered again, with a beaming face. "I'm glad, you know, daddy, just because you're exactly the kind of father I want--that's all." "And I also am glad that it is you, little one," he responded. "And how thankful we ought to be that we learnt to love one another before getting to know who we were!" "Yes," she said, "it would have been queer, and----not at all nice, if we had first been introduced to each other as father and daughter, and told it was our duty to love one another without delay. And then there's another thing. Though, at first, it seemed cruel to you, daddy, that your little girl should have been lost for so many years, when I think how much more--very likely--we shall love one another, than we ever should have done if I had not been lost, and how much happier we shall be together, it seems quite kind of God to have allowed us to be separated for a little while--especially as He found such good friends to take care of me in the meantime." "Cobbler" Horn gently stroked the dark head, which still nestled against his breast. "We at least, little one," he said, "can say that 'all things work together for good.' But now, there are other things that we must talk about. You have come back, Marian, to a very different home from the one you left. Your father was a poor man when you went away; he is a rich one now. Are you glad?" "Oh yes, daddy," she answered, simply, "for your sake, and because I think my daddy is just the best man in the world to have charge of money. And you know," she added, archly, "that, in that respect, your daughter is after your own heart." "I know that well." "You must let me help you more than ever, daddy." She seemed scarcely to have realized the fact that she was heiress to all his wealth. "You shall, my dear," he said, fondly; "but you mustn't forget that all I have will be yours one day." She started violently. "Well now, I declare!" she gasped. "I had scarcely thought of that. I was so glad and thankful to have found my father, that I forgot he had brought me a fortune. Well, daddy, that won't make any difference. We'll still do our best to put all this money to the right use. And, as for my being your heiress--you must understand, sir, that you've got to live for ever; so there's an end of that." She had withdrawn herself from his embrace, and, kneeling back, was looking at him with dancing eyes. "Well, darling," he said, with an indulgent smile, "we must leave that. But there is something else that I must tell you. When I was arranging about the disposal of all this money, in case I should be taken away, I thought of my little Marian; and I had it set down in my will that you were to have everything after me, if you should be found. But, beside that, I directed the lawyers to invest for you the sum of £50,000. But, let me see, I think I must have told you about this at the time." "Of course you did, daddy, the very day you came back from London, just before you went to America!" "So I did. Well, now, Marian, that money is all your own from this time." "Oh, daddy! daddy! How shall I thank you? So I shall be able to do something on my own account now!" Did no stray thought flit through her mind of all the gaiety and pleasure so much money might buy? Perhaps; but she was her father's own child. After a little more loving talk, the young secretary suddenly sprang to her feet. "I am forgetting myself sadly! The evening letters will be in." "Cobbler" Horn started. He had forgotten that she was his secretary. "I shall have to look out for another secretary, now," he said, with a comical air of mock dismay. "And, pray sir, why?" she demanded, standing before him in radiant rebellion. "I would have you to know there is no vacancy." Then she laughed in her bewitching way. "But, my dear----" "Say no more, daddy; it's quite settled. I shall very likely ask for an increase of salary; but there must be no talk of dismissal." Again she laughed; and, in spite of himself, the happy father joined in her merriment. "Well now, I must go," she said, with a parting kiss. "I'll send Miss Horn---- Why, she's my aunt! I declare I'd quite overlooked that!" "Yes, my dear; and a very kind aunt you'll find her." "I'm sure of that. But I'm afraid she'll be thinking me a very undutiful niece." At this moment, the door opened, and Miss Jemima herself walked in. "I thought it was time I came," she said, in her usual matter-of-fact way. "You must be thinking of getting back to bed, Thomas." Her niece interrupted her by throwing her arms around her neck, and giving her a hearty kiss. "Aunt Jemima, I have to beg your pardon," and she kissed her again; "but you didn't give me time, you were all off like a flock of sheep." "I think it is my place to beg your pardon, and not yours to beg mine," replied Miss Jemima, in the most natural way in the world. "I fear it was largely through me that you ran away from home." "Did I actually run away, then?" "I think there's little doubt of it. But, whether you ran away or not, the fact remains that my treatment of you had been anything but kind. I meant well, but was mistaken; and I'm thankful to have the opportunity of asking you to forgive me." "Don't say another word about it, auntie!" cried Marian, kissing her once more. "It's literally all forgotten. And I dare say I was a troublesome little thing. But let me see. You haven't seen my treasures yet--except the shoe. I'll fetch them." In a few moments she had brought her little sun-bonnet, and the other relics of her childhood which she had preserved. It will not be difficult to imagine the tender interest with which Aunt Jemima, and even "Cobbler" Horn himself, gazed on those simple mementos of the past. The severed bonnet-string was lying on the bed. Marian caught it up, and fitted it upon the bonnet. "I must sew my bonnet-string on," she said, gaily. Her father laughed indulgently, and even Aunt Jemima smiled. "Ah," she said, "and I too have a store of treasures to display," and she told of the little box in which she had kept the tiny garments Marian had worn in the days of old. "How delicious?" cried the girl. "You will let me see them, by and bye, auntie, won't you? But now I really must be off to my letters." CHAPTER XLIII. THE TRAMP'S CONFESSION. Before "the Golden Shoemaker" had returned to his bed the doctor arrived, and despotically demanded how he had dared to leave it without the permission of his medical man. At first the doctor prognosticated serious consequences from what he was pleased to call his patient's "intemperate and unlicensed haste." But, when he came the next day, and found "Cobbler" Horn considerably better, instead of worse, he changed his mind. "My dear sir," he said, "what have you been doing?" "I've been taking a new tonic, doctor," replied "Cobbler" Horn, with a smile; and he told him the great news. "Well, well," murmured the doctor; "so it has actually turned out like that! I have often thought that there were many less likely things; and ever since you told me how closely the young lady's early history resembled that of your own child, I have had a sort of expectation that I should one day hear the announcement you have just made. Well, my dear sir, I congratulate you both--as much on the fitness of the fact, as on the fact itself." "Cobbler" Horn's "new tonic" acted liked magic, and he was soon out of the doctor's hands. In a few days' time he was downstairs; and at the end of a fortnight he had resumed his ordinary routine of life. As far as outward appearances were concerned, the great discovery which had been made produced but little difference in the house. The servants had, indeed, been informed of the change in the position of the young secretary. It was also understood that she was to have things pretty much her own way. It was moreover tacitly admitted that almost unlimited arrears of filial privilege were due to the newly-recovered daughter of the house; and she herself evidently felt that the arrears of filial duty lying to her charge were quite equal in amount. "The Golden Shoemaker" regarded his new-found child with a very tender love; and even Miss Jemima manifested towards her an indulgent, if somewhat prim, affection. The gentle affectionateness of the girl towards both her father and her aunt was beautiful in the extreme. Yet, even towards Miss Jemima, she was delightfully free from constraint; and it would have been difficult to decide whether to admire more the loving familiarity of the niece, or the complaisancy of the aunt. In the matter of the secretaryship Marian was firmness itself. "Cobbler" Horn wished her to give it up; and Miss Jemima was shocked at the idea that she should propose to retain it for a single day. But she dismissed their remonstrances with a fine scorn. What did they take her for? Was she any less fit for the post of secretary than she had been before? Her duties had been a pleasure from the first; they would afford her greater delight than ever now. And why should they bring in a stranger to pry into their affairs? They might give her more salary, if they liked--and here she laughed merrily; but she wasn't going to give up the work she liked more than anything else in the world. One perplexing question yet remained unsolved--What had happened to Marian between the day when she had left home and the time when she had been found by Mr. and Mrs. Burton? The girl's own vague memories of that unhappy period, together with the condition in which she had been found, indicated that she had fallen into the hands of bad characters of some kind. Was the mystery ever to be fully solved? To this question the course of events brought very speedily a complete reply. One evening, about a fortnight after the last-recorded events, an elderly tramp was sitting against a haystack upon some farm premises, at no great distance from the town of Cottonborough. His age might be sixty, or, allowing for the rough life he had led, something less. He looked jaded and unwell. The day had been very warm, and the man was eating, with no great appetite, a sumptuous supper of German sausage and bread. The sausage had been wrapped in a piece of newspaper, which spread out upon his knees, was now doing duty as a tablecloth. Having finished his meal, the man lazily glanced at the paper; but finding its contents, at first, to possess no particular interest, he was about to crumple it up and throw it away, when his eye lighted on a paragraph which induced him to pause. He smoothed out the paper, and raised it nearer to his eyes. "Well," he muttered, "I ain't much of a scholard; but I means to get to the bottom o' this 'ere." With intense eagerness, he began to spell out the words of the paragraph which had arrested his attention. It was headed, "'The Golden Shoemaker' recovers his daughter, supposed to have been stolen by tramps in her childhood." From line to line he laboured painfully on. Many times his progress was stayed by some formidable word; and again and again he was interrupted by a violent cough; but at length he had ascertained the contents of the paragraph. It contained as much as was known of the history of Marian Horn. It told how, at the age of five, she had, as was supposed, run away from home, and, as recently-discovered circumstances seemed to indicate, fallen into the hands of evil persons; and how all trace of her had then been lost until a few weeks afterwards, when, as had now become known, she was found, a wretched little waif, upon the highway, and adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Burton. The circumstances of her after life were then set forth; and the narrative concluded with a glowing account of her re-union with her friends. The tramp deeply pondered this romantic story. "Ah," he said to himself, "that must ha' been the little wench as me and the old woman took to. It was somewhere here away. I remember about the shoe as she'd lost. They must ha' found it. The old woman cut the other shoe, same as it says here. It were a bad thing of us to take the kid, that it were." At this point the man was seized with a violent fit of coughing. When it had subsided, he resumed his half-muttered meditations. "Well, I'm glad as the little 'un got took care on, arter all, and has got back to her own natural born father at last; for she were a game little wench, and no mistake. She were a poor people's child when we got hold on her. But I've heerd tell o' 'the Golden Shoemaker,' as they calls him. It must ha' been arter she was lost that he got his money. Well, I feels sorry, like, as we didn't try to find her friends. But the old gal were that onscrupulous, she didn't stick at nothink, she didn't. As sure as my name's Jake Dafty, this 'ere's a queer go." Thus mused Jake, the tramp, sitting against the haystack; and his musings were, ever and anon, disturbed by his racking cough. He felt indisposed to move. As he brooded over the past, his mind became uneasy, he was conscious of a vague desire to make confession of the evil he had done. Did he feel that the sands of his life were almost sped? And was conscience waking at last? At length, between his fits of coughing, he was overtaken by sleep. The night was chilly after the warm day. The sun went down, and the stars peeped out serenely upon the frowzy and wretched tramp asleep against the haystack; and the dew settled thickly on his ragged beard and tattered clothes. Every now and then he was shaken by his cough; but he was weary, and remained asleep. And, in his sleep, the past came back more vividly than it had ever re-visited him in his waking hours. He seemed to be present at the despoiling and ill-using of a dark-eyed child, whom he might have delivered, and did not; and, from time to time, he moved uneasily in his sleep, and groaned aloud. Thus passed the night; and, in the morning, Jake, being found by the farm people, in his place against the haystack, delirious, and evidently ill, was conveyed to the workhouse. The next day "the Golden Shoemaker" received word that a man who was dying in the workhouse begged to see him at once. "Cobbler" Horn ordered his closed carriage, and drove to the workhouse without delay. The man, who was Jake, the tramp, had not long to live. His delirium was over now, and he was quite himself. His eyes were fixed eagerly upon the face of "Cobbler" Horn, as the latter entered the room. "Are you 'the Golden Shoemaker'?" he asked. "So I am sometimes called," replied "Cobbler" Horn, with a smile. "Well--I ain't got much time--I'm the bloke wot stole your little 'un; me and the old woman." "Cobbler" Horn uttered an exclamation of surprise. "Yes. The old woman's gone. She died in quod. I don't know what they had done to her. Perhaps nothink: maybe her time was come. I warn't that sorry; she'd got to be a stroke too many for me. But I want to tell you about the little 'un. I'm a going to die, and it 'ull be as well to get it off my mind. There ain't no mistake; cos I see'd it in the paper, and it tallies. I've got it here." As he spoke, he drew from beneath his pillow the crumpled piece of newspaper on which he had read of the restoration of Marian to her father. "There," he said, "yer can read it for yerself." "Cobbler" Horn took the paper, and glanced at its contents. He had seen in various newspapers, if not this, several similar accounts of the adventures of his child. "Ah," he said, handing back to the man the greasy and crumpled paper, "tell me about it." "Well, you knows that field where you found one of her shoes?" "Yes." "Well, we wos a sitting under the hedge, near that field, one morning, a-dining, when the kid came along. She stopped when she see'd us; and we invited her to go along with us, and somehow she seemed as if she didn't like to refuse. Arter that, we took her into the wood; and the old woman stripped off her clothes, and did her up like as she was when she was found. She'd lost one of her shoes, and I went back for it; but I couldn't find it nowheres. You may be sure as we got out o' these parts as fast as we could. We thought as the kid 'ud be a rare help in the cadging line. But she was that stubborn and noisy, we soon got sorry as we'd ever taken on with her; and, if she hadn't took herself right away, one arternoon when we was having of our arter-dinner nap in a dry ditch, I do believe as the old woman 'ud ha' found some means o' putting her on one side." Having finished his story, the dying tramp lay still for awhile, with his eyes closed. "Cobbler" Horn looked down with pity upon the seamed and wrinkled face, from which almost all expression, except that of utter weariness, seemed to have been worn away. Presently the dying man opened his eyes. "That's all as I has to tell, master," he said faintly. "Do yer think, now, as yer could find it in yer heart to forgive a cove, like? It 'ud be none the worse for me, if yer could; nor, mayhap, for yourself neither. I'se sorry I done it." "Cobbler" Horn was deeply moved. But, as he now knew as much of what had happened to Marian as was likely ever to come to light, he could afford to let the matter rest; and already he found himself thinking more of the miserable case of the dying waif before him, than of the confession the poor creature had made. So he gave himself fully to the congenial task of trying to bring this miserable being, into a fitting frame of mind in which to meet the solemn change which he must so soon undergo. "I forgive you freely," he said. "But won't you ask pardon of God? My forgiveness will be of little use without His." The dying tramp looked up with a listless stare. "It's wery good o' yer," he said, "to say as yer forgives me. But, as for God, I've never had much to do with Him, yer see; and it ain't likely as He'll mind me now. And I don't seem to care about it a deal." "Cobbler" Horn was troubled, but not surprised. Breathing a prayer for Divine guidance and help, he set himself to make clear to this dark soul the way of life. In the simplest words at his command, he strove to make the wretched man understand and feel his need of a Saviour; and, when, at length, he quitted the chamber of death, he had good reason to hope that his efforts had not been altogether in vain. Marian was profoundly interested to hear of the dying tramp and the story he had told, which latter agreed so well with her own vague remembrances, that she joined her father and aunt in regarding it as indicating what had been the actual course of events. Little, now, remains to be told. Father and daughter united to render the vast wealth which God had intrusted to their charge a source of greater and yet greater blessing to increasing multitudes of needy and suffering people; and Aunt Jemima insisted on participating in all their generous schemes. Marian is still secretary; but, as she receives many offers of marriage, it is possible the post may become vacant even yet. * * * * * FLETCHER AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, NORWICH. 
21363	----	Quicksilver; or, The Boy With No Skid To His Wheel, by George Manville Fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ I don't know where they get titles for books from. The subtitle is "The Boy with no Skid to his Wheel", and that is the only mention of the word "skid" in the entire book. The only "wheel" mentioned is when the boy hero does cartwheels round the drawing-room. And the said boy is referred to as "a globule of quicksilver". So I suppose it is something the author had in his mind before he began the book. Unlike most of Fenn's books, which involve dire situations with pirates in the China Seas, and other such places, the entire action of this book takes place in a small English village. The local doctor, having retired childless, decides he would like to adopt a boy. Being a Governor of the local Institute for the Poor he goes there and selects a boy who at the age of two had been a foundling, and who is now eleven or twelve. Everyone is keen to make this work, but there is a big difference in social manners between a boy brought up in an Institute, and the boy the doctor would like to have. So a certain amount of retraining has to take place. Of course this is successful in the end, but there are a lot of blips long the way. Our hero makes friends with a local boy who is definitely "non-U". They run away together in a boat they have nicked for the purpose. For a few days they have various adventures, some enjoyable, but most of them not. On being brought back our hero is sent to a small private school run by a clergyman, who beats the boy mercilessly, so that he runs away from the school, back to the doctor's, but remains hidden in an out-house. He is found, but becomes very ill, so the whole household is taken to a rented house in the Isle of Wight, where he eventually recovers. At which point it is discovered who his real parents are, and he is "U" after all, so everyone feels good about it. ________________________________________________________________________ QUICKSILVER; OR, THE BOY WITH NO SKID TO HIS WHEEL, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. A VERY STRANGE PAIR. He was very grubby, and all about his dark grey eyes there were the marks made by his dirty fingers where he had rubbed away the tickling tears. The brownish red dust of the Devon lanes had darkened his delicate white skin, and matted his shiny yellow curls. As to his hands, with their fat little fingers, with every joint showing a pretty dimple, they looked white and clean, but that was due to the fact that he was sitting in a bed of moss by the roadside, where the water came trickling down from the red rocks above, and dabbling and splashing the tiny pool, till the pearly drops hung among his dusty curls, and dotted, as if with jewels, the ragged old blue jersey shirt which seemed to form his only garment. This did not fit him, in spite of its elasticity, for it was what a dealer would have called "man's size," and the wearer was about two and a half, or at the most three; but the sleeves had been cut so that they only reached his elbows, and the hem torn off the bottom and turned into a belt or sash, which was tied tightly round the little fellow's waist, to keep the jersey from slipping off. Consequently the plump neck was bare, as were his dirty little legs, with their dimpled, chubby knees. While he splashed and dabbled the water, the sun flashed upon the drops, some of which jewelled the spreading ferns which drooped over the natural fount, and even reached as high as the delicate leafage of stunted overhanging birch, some of whose twigs kept waving in the soft summer breeze, and sweeping against the boy's curly hair. When the little fellow splashed the water, and felt it fly into his face, he laughed--burst after burst of silvery, merry laughter; and in the height of his enjoyment he threw back his head, his ruddy lips parted, and two rows of pearly teeth flashed in the bright sunshine. As dirty a little grub as ever made mud-pies in a gutter; but the water, the ferns, moss, and flowers around were to his little soul the most delightful of toys, and he seemed supremely happy. After a time he grew tired of splashing the water, and, drawing one little foot into his lap, he pursed up his lips, an intent frown wrinkled his shining forehead, and he began, in the most serio-comic manner, to pick the row of tiny toes, passing a chubby finger between them to get rid of the dust and grit. All this while the breeze blew, the birch-tree waved, and the flowers nodded, while from out of a clump of ling and rushes there came, at regular intervals, a low roar like the growl of a wild beast. After a few minutes there was the _pad, pad_--_pad, pad_ of a horse's hoofs on the dusty road; the rattle of wheels; and a green gig, drawn by a sleepy-looking grey horse, and containing a fat man and a broad woman, came into sight, approached slowly, and would have passed had not the broad woman suddenly laid her hand upon the reins, and checked the grey horse, when the two red-faced farming people opened their mouths, and stared at the child. "Sakes alive, Izick, look at that!" said the woman in a whisper, while the little fellow went on picking his toes, and the grey horse turned his tail into a live chowry to keep away the flies. "Well, I am!" said the fat man, wrinkling his face all over as he indulged in a silent laugh. "Why, moother, he's a perfeck picter." "The pretty, pretty little fellow," said the woman in a genuine motherly tone. "O Izick, how I should like to give him a good wash!" "Wash! He's happy enough, bless him!" said the man. "Wonder whose he be. Here, what are you going to do?" "I'm going to give un a kiss, that's what I'm a-going to do," said the woman getting very slowly out of the gig. "He must be a lost child." "Well," grumbled the man, "we didn't come to market to find lost children." Then he sat forward, with his arms resting upon his knees, watching his wife as she slowly approached the unconscious child, till she was in the act of stooping over him to lay her fat red hand upon his golden curls, when there was a loud roar as if from some savage beast, and the woman jumped back scared; the horse leaped sidewise; the farmer raised his whip; and the pair of simple-hearted country folks stared at a fierce-looking face which rose out of the bed of ling, its owner having been sleeping face downward, and now glowering at them above his folded arms. It was not a pleasant countenance, for it was foul without with dirt and more foul within from disease, being covered with ruddy fiery blotch and pimple, and the eyes were of that unnatural hue worn by one who has for years been debased by drink. "Yah!" roared the man, half-closing his bleared eyes. "Leave the bairn alone." "O Izick!" gasped the woman. "Here, none o' that!" cried the farmer fiercely. "Don't you frighten my wife." "Let the bairn alone," growled the man again. "How came you by him!" said the woman recovering herself. "I'm sure he can't be your'n." "Not mine!" growled the man in a hoarse, harsh voice. "You let the bairn be. I'll soon show you about that. Hi! chick!" The little fellow scrambled to him, and putting his tiny chubby arms about the man's coarse neck, nestled his head upon his shoulder, and turned to gaze at the farmer and his wife. "Not my bairn!" growled the man; "what d'yer say to that?" "Lor, Izick, only look," said the woman in a whisper. "My!" "Well, what are yer starin' at?" growled the man defiantly; "didn't think he were your bairn, did you!" "Come away, missus," said the farmer; and the woman reluctantly climbed back into the gig. "It don't seem right, Izick, for him to have such a bairn as that," said the woman, who could not keep her eyes off the child. "Ah, well! it ar'n't no business of our'n. Go along!" This was to the horse, who went off directly in a shambling trot, and the gig rattled along the road; but as long as they remained in sight, the farmer's wife stared back at the little fellow, and the rough-looking tramp glared at her from among the heather and ling. "Must be getting on--must be getting on," he growled to himself; and he kept on muttering in a low tone as he tried to stagger to his feet, but for a time his joints seemed to be so stiff that he could only get to his knees, and he had to set the child down. Then after quite a struggle, during which he kept on muttering in a strange incoherent manner, he contrived to get upon his feet, and stood holding on by a branch of the birch-tree, while the child stared in his repellent face. The next minute he staggered into the road and began to walk away, reeling strangely like a drunken man, talking wildly the while; but he seemed to recall the fact that he had left the child behind, and he staggered back to where a block of stone lay by the water-side, and sat down. "Here, chick!" he growled. His aspect and the tone of his voice were sufficient to frighten the little fellow away, but he did not seem in the least alarmed, and placed his tiny hands in the great gnarled fists extended to him. Then with a swing the man threw the child over his shoulder and on to his back, staggering and nearly overbalancing himself in the act. But he kept his feet, and growled savagely as his little burden uttered a whimpering cry. "Hold on," he said; and the next minute the pretty bare arms were clinging tightly round his neck, the hands hidden in the man's grizzly tangled beard; and, pig-a-back fashion, he bore him on along the road. The sun beat down upon the fair curly head; the dust rose, shuffled up by the tramp's uncertain step, while the chats and linnets twittered among the furze, and the larks sang high overhead. This and the heat, combined with the motion, sufficed to lull the tiny fellow to rest, and before long his head drooped sidewise, and he was fast asleep. But he did not fall. It was as if the natural instinct which enables the young life to maintain its hold upon the old orang-outang was in force here, so that the child clung tightly to the staggering man, who seemed thenceforth oblivious of his existence. The day passed on: the sun was setting fast, and the tramp continued to stagger on like a drunken man, talking wildly all the time, now babbling of green leaves, now muttering angrily, as if abusing some one near. Then came the soft evening-time, as he tottered down a long slope towards the houses lying in a hollow, indicating the existence of a goodly town. And now groups of people were passed, some of whom turned to gaze after the coarse-looking object with disgust, others with wonder; while the more thoughtless indulged in a grin, and made remarks indicating their impressions of where the tramp had been last. He did not seem to see them, however, but kept on the same incoherent talking in a low growl, and his eyes glared strangely at objects unseen by those he passed. All at once, though, he paused as he reached the broad marketplace of the town, and said to one of a group of idlers the one word-- "Workus?" "Eh?" "Workus!" said the tramp fiercely. "Oh! Straight avore you. Zee a big wall zoon as yer get over the bridge." The man staggered on, and crossed the swift river running through the town, and in due course reached the big wall, in which was a doorway with a bell-pull at the side. A few minutes later the door had been opened, and a stalwart porter seemed disposed to refuse admission, but his experienced eyes read the applicant's state, and the door closed upon the strangely assorted pair. CHAPTER TWO. THE TRAMP'S LEGACY. The doctor shook his head as he stood beside a plain bed in a whitewashed ward where the tramp lay muttering fiercely, and the brisk-looking master of the workhouse and a couple of elderly women stood in a group. "No, Hippetts," said the doctor; "the machinery is all to pieces and beyond repair. No." Just then there was a loud cry, consequent upon one of the women taking the child from where it had been seated upon the foot of the bed, and carrying it toward the door. In a moment the sick man sprang up in bed, glaring wildly and stretching out his hands. "Quick! take the boy away," said the master; but the doctor held up his finger, watching the sick man the while. Then he whispered a few words to the master, who seemed to give an unwilling consent, and the boy was placed within the tramp's reach. The man had been trying to say something, but the words would not come. As he touched the child's hand, though, he gave vent to a sigh of satisfaction, and sank back upon the coarse pillow, while the child nestled to his side, sobbing convulsively, but rapidly calming down. "Against all rule and precedent, doctor," said the master, in an ill-used tone. "Yes, my dear Mr Hippetts," said the doctor, smiling; "but I order it as a sedative medicine. It will do more good than anything I can give. It will not be for long." The master nodded. "Mrs Curdley," continued the doctor, "you will sit up with him." "Yes, sir," said one of the old women with a curtsey. "Keep an eye to the child, in case he turns violent; but I don't think he will--I don't think he will." "And send for you, sir, if he do!" "Yes." The little party left the workhouse infirmary, all but Mrs Curdley, who saw to lighting a fire for providing herself with a cup of tea, to comfort her from time to time during her long night-watch, and then all was very still in the whitewashed place. The child took the bread and butter the old woman gave him, and sat on the bed smiling at her as he ate it hungrily, quite contented now; and the only sounds that broke the silence after a time were the mutterings of the sick man. But these did not disturb the child, who finished his bread and butter, and drank some sweet tea which the old woman gave him, after which his little head sank sidewise, his eyes closed, and he fell fast asleep on the foot of the bed. The night was warm, and he needed no coverlet, while from time to time the hard-faced old woman went to look at her patient, giving him a cursory glance, and then stopping at the bedside to gently stroke the child's round cheek with her rough finger, and as the little fellow once broke into a crowing laugh in his sleep, it had a strange effect upon the old nurse, who slowly wiped the corners of her eyes with her apron, and bent down and kissed him. Hour after hour was chimed and struck by the great clock in the centre of the town; and as midnight passed, the watchful old nurse did her watching in a pleasant dream, in which she thought that she was once more young, and that boy of hers who enlisted, went to India, and was shot in an encounter with one of the hill tribes, was young again, and that she was cutting bread and butter from a new loaf. It was a very pleasant dream, and lasted a long time, for the six o'clock bell was ringing before she awoke with a start and exclaimed-- "Bless me! must have just closed my eyes. Why, a pretty bairn!" she said softly, as her hard face grew soft. "Sleeping like a top, and-- oh!" She caught the sleeping child from the bed, and hurried out of the place to lay him upon her own bed, where about an hour after he awoke, and cried to go to the tramp. But there was no tramp there for him to join. The rough man had gone on a long journey, where he could not take the child, who cried bitterly, as if he had lost the only one to whom he could cling, till the old woman returned from a task she had had to fulfil, and with one of her pockets in rather a bulgy state. Her words and some bread and butter quieted the child, who seemed to like her countenance, or read therein that something which attracts the very young as beauty does those of older growth, and the addition of a little brown sugar, into which he could dip a wet finger from time to time, made them such friends that he made no objection to being washed. "Yes, sir; went off quite quiet in his sleep," said the old nurse in answer to the doctor's question. "And the child?" "Oh, I gave him a good wash, sir, which he needed badly," said the woman volubly. "Poor little wretch!" muttered the doctor as he went away. "A tramp's child--a waif cast up by the way. Ah, Hippetts, I was right, you see: it was not for long." CHAPTER THREE. DOCTOR GRAYSON'S THEORY. "I want some more." "Now, my dear Eddy, I think you have had quite as much as is good for you," said Lady Danby, shaking her fair curls at her son. "No, I haven't, ma. Pa, may I have some pine-apple!" "Yes, yes, yes, and make yourself ill. Maria, my dear, I wish you wouldn't have that boy into dessert; one can hardly hear one's-self speak." "Sweet boy!" muttered Dr Grayson of the Manor House, Coleby, as he glanced at Sir James Danby's hopeful fat-faced son, his mother's idol, before which she worshipped every day. The doctor glanced across the table at his quiet lady-like daughter, and there was such a curious twinkle in his eye that she turned aside so as to keep her countenance, and began talking to Lady Danby about parish work, the poor, and an entertainment to be given at the workhouse. Dr Grayson and his daughter were dining at Cedars House that evening, greatly to the doctor's annoyance, for he preferred home. "But it would be uncivil not to go," said Miss Grayson, who had kept her father's house almost from a child. So they went. "Well, doctor," said Sir James, who was a comfortable specimen of the easy-going country baronet and magistrate, "you keep to your opinion, and I'll keep to mine." "I will," said the doctor; "and in two years' time I shall publish my book with the result of my long studies of the question. I say, sir, that a boy's a boy." "Oh yes, we all agree to that, doctor," said Lady Danby sweetly. "Edgar, my dear, I'm sure you've had enough." "Pa, mayn't I have half a glass of Madeira!" "Now, my dear boy, you have had some." "But that was such a teeny weeny drop, ma. That glass is so thick." "For goodness' sake, Maria, give him some wine, and keep him quiet," cried Sir James. "Don't you hear that Dr Grayson and I are discussing a point in philosophy!" "Then you mustn't ask for any more, Eddy dear," said mamma, and she removed the decanter stopper, and began to pour out a very thin thread of wine, when the young monkey gave the bottom of the decanter a tilt, and the glass was nearly filled. "Eddy, for shame!" said mamma. "What will Miss Grayson think?" "I don't care," said the boy, seizing the glass, drinking some of the rich wine, and then turning to the thick slice of pine-apple his mother had cut. The doctor gave his daughter another droll look, but she preserved her calm. "To continue," said the doctor: "I say a boy's a boy, and I don't care whose he is, or where he came from; he is so much plastic clay, and you can make of him what you please." "You can't make him a gentleman," said Sir James. "I beg your pardon." "And I beg yours. If the boy has not got breed in him--gentle blood-- you can never make him a gentleman." "I beg your pardon," said the doctor again. "I maintain, sir, that it is all a matter of education or training, and that you could make a gentleman's son a labourer, or a labourer's son a gentleman." "And are you going to put that in your book, doctor?" "Yes, sir, I am: for it is a fact. I'm sure I'm right." Sir James laughed. "And I'm sure you are wrong. Look at my boy, now. You can see in an instant that he has breed in him; but if you look at my coachman's son, you will see that he has no breeding at all." _Crork, crork, crork, crork_. "Oh!" from her ladyship, in quite a scream. "Good gracious!" cried Sir James; and the doctor and Helen Grayson both started to their feet, while Master Edgar Danby kept on making the most unearthly noises, kicking, gasping, turning black in the face, and rolling his eyes, which threatened to start from their sockets. "What is it?" cried Sir James. Crash went a glass. A dessert-plate was knocked off the table, and Master Edgar kept on uttering his hoarse guttural sound of _crork, crork, crork_! He was choking, and the result might have been serious as he sat struggling there, with papa on one side, and mamma on the other, holding his hands, had not Dr Grayson come behind him, and given him a tremendous slap on the back which had a beneficial effect, for he ceased making the peculiar noise, and began to wipe his eyes. "What was it, dear? what was it, my darling?" sobbed Lady Danby. "A great piece of pine-apple stuck in his throat," said the doctor. "I say, youngster, you should use your teeth." "Edgar, drink some water," said Sir James sternly. Master Edgar caught up his wine-glass, and drained it. "Now, sir, leave the room!" said Sir James. "Oh, don't, don't be harsh with him, James," said her ladyship pathetically. "The poor boy has suffered enough." "I say he shall leave the room," cried Sir James in a towering fury; and Master Edgar uttered a howl. "Really, James, I--" Here her ladyship had an hysterical fit, and had to be attended to, what time Master Edgar howled loudly till the butler had been summoned and he was led off like a prisoner, while her ladyship grew worse, but under the ministrations of Helen Grayson, suddenly becoming better, drank a glass of water, and wiped her eyes. "I am so weak," she said unnecessarily, as she rose from the dessert-table and left the room with Helen Grayson, who had hard work once more to keep her countenance, as she encountered her father's eye. "Spoils him, Grayson," said Sir James, as they settled down to their port. "Noble boy, though, wonderful intellect. I shall make him a statesman." "Hah!" ejaculated the firm-looking grey-haired doctor, who had taken high honours at his college, practised medicine for some years, and since the death of his wife lived the calm life of a student in the old Manor House of Coleby. "Now, you couldn't make a statesman of some boys whom you took out of the gutter." "Oh yes, I could," said the doctor. "Oh yes, sir." "Ah, well; we will not argue," said Sir James good-humouredly. "No," said the doctor, "we will not argue." But they did argue all the same, till they had had their coffee, when they argued again, and then joined the ladies in the drawing-room, where Master Edgar was eating cake, and dropping currants and crumbs between the leaves of a valuable illustrated book, which he turned over with fingers in a terrible state of stick,--the consequence being that he added illustrations--prints of his fingers in brown. "Have you settled your debate, Dr Grayson!" said Lady Danby, smiling. "No, madam; I shall have to prove my theory to your husband, and it will take time." "My dear James, what is the matter!" said her ladyship as a howl arose. "Pa says I'm to go to bed, ma, and it's only ten; and you promised me I might sit up as long as I liked." "How can you make such foolish promises, Maria?" said Sir James petulantly. "There, hold your tongue, sir, and you may stay another half-hour." "But ma said I might stop up as long as I liked," howled Master Edgar. "Then for goodness' sake stop up all night, sir," said Sir James impatiently; and Master Edgar stayed till the visitors had gone. "Enjoyed your evening, my dear?" said the doctor. "Ye-es, papa," said his daughter; "I--" "Might have enjoyed it more. Really, Helen, it is absurd. That man opposed my theory tooth and nail, and all the time he kept on proving it by indulging that boy. I say you can make what you like of a boy. Now what's he making of that boy?" "Sir James said he should make him a statesman," said Helen, smiling. "But he is making him a nuisance instead. Good-night." "Good-night, papa." "Oh, by the way, my dear, I shall have to prove my theory." "Indeed, papa!" "Yes. Good-night." CHAPTER FOUR. THE CHOICE OF A BOY. Next morning Dr Grayson took his gold-headed cane, and walked down to the workhouse. Upon dragging at the bell the porter opened the gate obsequiously, and sent a messenger to tell the master Dr Grayson had called. "Good morning, Hippetts," said the doctor, who being a Poor-Law Guardian, and a wealthy inhabitant of the place, was received with smiles by the important master. "Good morning, sir. Called to look round." "No, Hippetts, no," said the doctor, in the tone and manner of one making an inquiry about some ordinary article of merchandise; "got any boys?" "Boys, sir; the house swarms with them." "Ah, well, show me some." "Show you some, sir?" "Yes. I want a boy." "Certainly, sir. This way, sir. About what age, sir!" "Eleven or twelve--not particular," said the doctor. Then to himself: "About the age of young Danby." "I see, sir," said the master. "Stout, strong, useful boy for a buttons." "Nonsense!" said the doctor testily, "I want a boy to adopt." "Oh!" said the master staring, and wondering whether rich philosophical Dr Grayson was in his right mind. He led the way along some whitewashed passages, and across a gravel yard, to a long, low building, from which came the well-known humming hum of many voices, among which a kind of chorus could be distinguished, and from time to time the sharp striking of a cane upon a desk, followed by a penetrating "Hush! hush!" As the master opened the door, a hot puff of stuffy, unpleasantly close air came out, and the noise ceased as if by magic, though there were about three hundred boys in the long, open-roofed room. The doctor cast his eye round and saw a crowd of heads, the schoolmaster, and besides these--whitewash. The walls, the ceiling, the beams were all whitewashed. The floor was hearth-stoned, but it seemed to be whitewashed, and even the boys' faces appeared to have been touched over with a thin solution laid on with the whitewash brush. Every eye was turned upon the visitor, and the doctor frowned as he looked round at the pallid, wan-looking, inanimate countenances which offered themselves to his view. The boys were not badly fed; they were clean; they were warmly clad; but they looked as if the food they ate did them no good, and was not enjoyed; as if they were too clean; and as if their clothes were not comfortable. Every face seemed to have been squeezed into the same mould, to grow it into one particular make, which was inexpressive, inanimate, and dull, while they all wore the look of being on the high-road to old-manism without having been allowed to stop and play on the way, and be boys. "Hush! hush!" came from the schoolmaster, and a pin might have been heard to fall. The boys devoured the doctor with their eyes. He was a stranger. It was something to see, and it was a break in the horrible monotony of their existence. Had they known the object of the visit, a tremendous yell would have arisen, and it would have been formed of two words--"Take me." It was considered a model workhouse school, too, one of which the guardians were proud. There was no tyranny, no brutality, but there was endless drill and discipline, and not a scrap of that for which every boy's heart naturally yearns;--"Home, sweet home." No amount of management can make that and deck it with a mother's love; and it must have been the absence of these elements which made the Coleby boys look like three hundred white-faced small old men. "Now, let me see, sir," said the master; "of course the matter will have to be laid before the Board in the usual form, but you will make your selection now. Good light, sir, to choose." Mr Hippetts did not mean it unkindly; but he too spoke as if he were busy over some goods he had to sell. "Let me see. Ah! Coggley, stand out." Coggley, a very thin boy of thirteen, a little more whitewashy than the rest, stood out, and made a bow as if he were wiping his nose with his right hand, and then curving it out at the doctor. He was a nice, sad-looking boy, with railways across his forehead, and a pinched-in nose; but he was very thin, and showed his shirt between the top of his trousers and the bottom of his waistcoat, instead of upon his chest, while it was from growth, not vanity, that he showed so much ankle and wrist. "Very good boy, sir. Had more marks than any one of his age last year." "Won't do," said the doctor shortly. "Too thin," said Mr Hippetts to himself. "Bunce!" he shouted. Bunce stood out, or rather waddled forth, a stoutly-made boy with short legs,--a boy who, if ever he had a chance, would grow fat and round, with eyes like two currants, and a face like a bun. Bunce made a bow like a scoop upside down. "Another excellent boy, sir," said Mr Hippetts. "I haven't a fault to find with him. He is now twelve years old, and he--" "Won't do," said the doctor crossly. "Go back, Bunce," cried the master. "Pillett, stand out. Now here, sir, is a lad whom I am sure you will like. Writes a hand like copperplate. Age thirteen, and very intelligent." Pillett came forward eagerly, after darting a triumphant look at Coggley and Bunce. He was a wooden-faced boy, who seemed to have hard brains and a soft head, for his forehead looked nubbly, and there were rounded off corners at the sides. "Let Dr Grayson hear you say--" "No, no, Hippetts; this is not an examination," cried the doctor testily. "That is not the sort of boy I want. He must be a bright, intelligent lad, whom I can adopt and take into my house. I shall treat him exactly as if he were my own son, and if he is a good lad, it will be the making of him." "Oh! I see, sir," said Mr Hippetts importantly. "Go back, Pillett. I have the very boy. Gloog!" Pillett went back, and furtively held up his fist at triumphant Gloog, who came out panting as if he had just been running fast, and as soon as he had made the regulation bow, he, from old force of habit, wiped his nose on his cuff. "No, no, no, no," cried the doctor, without giving the lad a second glance, the first at his low, narrow forehead and cunning cast of features being quite enough. "But this is an admirably behaved boy, sir," protested Mr Hippetts. "Mr Sibery here can speak very highly of his qualifications." "Oh yes, sir," put in the schoolmaster with a severe smile and a distant bow, for he felt annoyed at not being consulted. "Yes, yes," said the doctor; "but not my style of boy." "Might I suggest one, sir!" said Mr Sibery deferentially, as he glanced at the king who reigned over the whole building. "To be sure," said the doctor. "You try." Mr Hippetts frowned, and Mr Sibery wished he had not spoken; but the dark look on the master's brow gave place to an air of triumph as the schoolmaster introduced seven boys, one after the other, to all of whom the visitor gave a decided negative. "Seems a strange thing," he said, "that out of three hundred boys you cannot show one I like." "But all these are excellent lads, sir," said the master deprecatingly. "Humph!" "Best of characters." "Humph!" "Our own training, sir. Mr Sibery has spared no pains, and I have watched over the boys' morals." "Yes, I dare say. Of course. Here, what boy's that?" He pointed with his cane to a pair of round blue eyes, quite at the back. "That, sir--that lame boy!" "No, no; that young quicksilver customer with the curly poll." "Oh! that, sir! He wouldn't do," cried the two masters almost in a breath. "How do you know!" said the doctor tartly. "Very bad boy indeed, sir, I'm sorry to say," said the schoolmaster. "Yes, sir; regular young imp; so full of mischief that he corrupts the other boys. Can't say a word in his favour; and, besides, he's too young." "How old?" "About eleven, sir." "Humph! Trot him out." "Obed Coleby," said the master in a severe voice. "Coleby, eh?" "Yes, sir. Son of a miserable tramp who died some years ago in the House. No name with him, so we called him after the town." "Humph!" said the doctor, as the little fellow came, full of eagerness and excitement, after kicking at Pillett, who put out a leg to hinder his advance. The doctor frowned, and gazed sternly at the boy, taking in carefully his handsome, animated face, large blue eyes, curly yellow hair, and open forehead: not that his hair had much opportunity for curling--the workhouse barber stopped that. The boy's face was as white as those of his companions, but it did not seem depressed and inanimate, for, though it was thin and white, his mouth was rosy and well-curved, and the slightly parted lips showed his pearly white teeth. "Humph!" said the doctor, as the bright eyes gazed boldly into his. "Where's your bow, sir?" said the master sternly. "Oh! I forgot," said the boy quickly; and he made up for his lapse by bowing first with one and then the other hand. "A sad young pickle," said the master. "Most hopeless case, sir. Constantly being punished." "Humph! You young rascal!" said the doctor sternly. "How dare you be a naughty boy!" The little fellow wrinkled his white forehead, and glanced at the schoolmaster, and then at Mr Hippetts, before looking back at the doctor. "I d'know," he said, in a puzzled way. "You don't know, sir!" "No. I'm allus cotching it." "Say _sir_, boy," cried the master. "Allus cotching of it, sir, and it don't do me no good." "Really, Dr Grayson--" "Wait a bit, Mr Hippetts," said the doctor more graciously. "Let me question the boy." "Certainly, sir. But he has a very bad record." "Humph! Tells the truth, though," said the doctor. "Here, sir, what's your name?" "Obed Coleby." "_Sir_!" cried the master. "Obed Coleby, _sir_," said the boy quickly, correcting himself. "What a name!" ejaculated the doctor. "Yes, ain't it? I hates it, sir." "Oh! you do?" "Yes; the boys all make fun of it, and call me Bed, and Go-to-bed, and Old Bedstead, and when they don't do that, they always call me Old Coal bag or Coaly." "That will do, sir. Don't chatter so," said Mr Sibery reprovingly. "Please, sir, he asked me," said the boy in protest; and there was a frank, bluff manner in his speech which took with the doctor. "Humph!" he said. "Would you like to leave this place, and come and live with me!" The boy puckered up his face, took a step forward, and the master made a movement as if to send him back; but the doctor laid his hand upon his arm, while the boy gazed into his eyes for some moments with wonderfully searching intentness. "Well?" said the doctor. "Will you?" The boy's face smoothed; a bright light danced in his eyes; and, as if full of confidence in his own judgment, he said eagerly-- "Yes; come along;" and he held out his hand. "And leave all your schoolfellows!" said the doctor. The boy's bright face clouded directly, and he turned to gaze back at the crowd of closely cropped heads. "He'll be glad enough to go," said the schoolmaster. "Yes," said Mr Hippetts; "a most ungrateful boy." The little fellow--stunted of his age--swung sharply round; and they saw that his eyes were brimming over as he looked reproachfully from one to the other. "I didn't want to be a bad un, sir," he said. "I did try, and--and-- and--I'll stop here, please, and--" He could say no more, for his face was working, and, at last, in shame and agony of spirit, he covered his face with his hands, and let himself drop in a heap on the stone floor, sobbing hysterically. "Coleby! Stand up, sir!" cried the master sternly. "Let him be, Mr Hippetts, if you please," said the doctor, with dignity; and he drew in a long breath, and remained for some moments silent, while the whole school stared with wondering eyes, and the two masters exchanged glances. "Strange boy," said Mr Hippetts. Then the doctor bent down slowly, and laid his hand upon the lad's shoulder. The little fellow started up, flinching as if from a blow, but as soon as he saw who had touched him, he rose to his knees, and caught quickly at the doctor's extended hand, while the look in the visitor's eyes had so strange an influence upon him that he continued to gaze wonderingly in the stern but benevolent face. "I think you'll come with me?" said the doctor. "Yes, I'd come. But may I?" "Yes; I think he may, Mr Hippetts?" said the doctor. "Yes, sir; of course, sir, if you wish it," said the master, with rather an injured air; "but I feel bound to tell you the boy's character." "Yes; of course." "And to warn you, sir, that you will bring him back in less than a week." "No, Mr Hippetts," said the doctor quietly; "I shall not bring him back." "Well, sir; if you are satisfied I have nothing to say." "I am satisfied, Mr Hippetts." "But he is not so old as you said, sir." "No." "And you wanted a boy of good character." "Yes; but I recall all I said. That is the boy I want. Can I take him at once?" "At once, sir!" said the master, as the little fellow, with his face a study, listened eagerly, and looked from one to the other. "I shall have to bring your proposal before the Board." "That is to say, before me and my colleagues," said the doctor, smiling. "Well, as one of the Guardians, I think I may venture to take the boy now, and the formal business can be settled afterwards." "Oh yes, sir; of course. And I venture to think, sir, that it will not be necessary to go on with it." "Why, Mr Hippetts?" "Because," said the master, with a peculiar smile which was reflected in the schoolmaster's face; "you are sure to bring him back." "I think I said before I shall not bring him back," replied the doctor coldly. The master bowed, and Mr Sibery cleared his throat and frowned at the boys. "Then I think that's all," said the doctor, laying his hand upon the boy's head. "Do I understand you, sir, to mean that you want to take him now?" "Directly." "But his clothes, sir; and he must be--" "I want to take him directly, Mr Hippetts, with your permission, and he will need nothing more from the Union." "Very good, sir; and I hope that he will take your kindness to heart. Do you hear, Coleby? And be a very good boy to his benefactor, and--" "Yes, yes, yes, Mr Hippetts," said the doctor, cutting him short. "I'm sure he will. Now, my man, are you ready?" "Yes, sir," cried the boy eagerly; "but--" "Well?" said the doctor kindly. "I should like to say good-bye to some of the chaps, and I've got something to give 'em." "Indeed! what?" "Well, sir; I want to give Dick Dean my mouse, and Tommy Robson my nicker, and share all my buttons among the chaps in my dormitory; and then I've six pieces of string and a pair of bones, and a sucker." "Go and share them, and say good-bye to them all," said the doctor, drawing a breath full of satisfaction; and the boy darted away full of excitement. "May I say a word to the boys, Mr Sibery?" said the doctor, smiling. "Certainly, sir." "Will you call for silence?" The master called, and the doctor asked the lads to give their old schoolfellow a cheer as he was going away. They responded with a shout that made the windows rattle. "And now," said the doctor, "I'm going to ask Mr Hippetts to give you all a holiday, and I am leaving threepence a piece to be distributed among you, so that you may have a bit of fun." Mr Hippetts smiled as he took the money, and the boys cheered again, in the midst of which shouts the doctor moved off with his charge, but only for his _protege_ to break away from him, and run to offer his hand to Mr Sibery, who coughed slightly, and shook hands limply, as if he were conferring a great favour. The boy then held out his hand to the master, and he also shook hands in a dignified way. "Shall I send the boy on, sir?" said Mr Hippetts. "Thanks, no, Hippetts; I'll take him with me." "Would you like a fly, sir?" "No, Hippetts; I'm not ashamed for people to see what I do. Come along, my lad." "Please, sir; mayn't I say good-bye to Mother Curdley?" "Mother Curdley? Who is she!" "Nurse, sir." "The woman who had charge of him when he was a tiny fellow." "Ah! to be sure. Yes, certainly," said the doctor. "He may, of course?" "Oh! certainly, sir. Run on, boy, and we'll follow." "No larks," said the boy sharply, as he looked at the doctor. "No; I shall not run away, my man." The boy darted down a long whitewashed passage, and the doctor said:-- "I understand you to say that he has no friends whatever!" "None, sir, as far as we know. Quite a foundling." "That will do," said the doctor; and while the boy was bidding good-bye to the old woman who had tended the sick tramp, the master led the way to the nursery, where about a dozen children were crawling about and hanging close to a large fire-guard. Others were being nursed on the check aprons of some women, while one particularly sour creature was rocking a monstrous cradle, made like a port-wine basket, with six compartments, in every one of which was an unfortunate babe. "Which he's a very good affectionate boy, sir," said a woman, coming up with the doctor's choice clinging to her apron; "and good-bye, and good luck, and there, God bless you, my dear!" she said, as she kissed the boy in a true motherly way, he clinging to her as the only being he had felt that he could love. That burst of genuine affection won Mother Curdley five shillings, which she pocketed with one hand, as she wiped her eyes with the other, and then had a furtive pinch of snuff, which made several babies sneeze as if they had bad colds. "Very eccentric man," said Mr Hippetts. "Very," assented Mr Sibery. "But he'll bring the young ruffian back." The doctor did not hear, for he was walking defiantly down the main street, waving his gold-headed cane, while the boy clung to his hand, and walked with bent head, crying silently, but fighting hard to keep it back. The doctor saw it, and pressed the boy's hand kindly. "Yes," he said to himself; "I'll show old Danby now. The very boy I wanted. Ah," he added aloud; "here we are." CHAPTER FIVE. A "REG'LAR" BAD ONE. Maria, the doctor's maid, opened the door, and as she admitted her master and his charge, her countenance was suggestive of round O's. Her face was round, and her eyes opened into two round spots, while her mouth became a perfectly circular orifice, as the doctor himself took off the boy's cap, and marched him into the drawing-room, where Helen Grayson was seated. On his way to the house, and with his young heart swelling at having to part from the only being who had been at all kind to him--for the recollection of the rough tramp had become extremely faint--the boy had had hard work to keep back his tears, but no sooner had he passed the doctor's door than the novelty of all he saw changed the current of his thoughts, and he was full of eagerness and excitement. The first inkling of this was shown as his eyes lit upon Maria's round face, and it tickled him so that he began to smile. "Such impidence!" exclaimed Maria. "And a workus boy. My! what's master going to do with him?" She hurried to the housekeeper's room, where Mrs Millett, who had kept the doctor's house, and attended to the cooking as well, ever since Mrs Grayson's death, was now seated making herself a new cap. "A workhouse boy, Maria?" she said, letting her work fall upon her knees, and looking over the top of her spectacles. "Yes; and master's took him into the drawing-room." "Oh! very well," said Mrs Millett tartly. "Master's master, and he has a right to do what he likes; but if there's anything I can't abear in a house it's a boy in buttons. They're limbs, that's what they are; regular young imps." "Going to keep a page!" said Maria, whose eyes looked a little less round. "Why, of course, girl; and it's all stuff." "Well, I don't know," said Maria thoughtfully. "There's the coal-scuttles to fill, and the door-bell to answer, a deal more than I like." "Yes," said Mrs Millett, snipping off a piece of ribbon viciously; "I know. That boy to find every time you want 'em done, and a deal less trouble to do 'em yourself. I can't abear boys." While this conversation was going on in the housekeeper's room, something of a very different kind was in progress in the drawing-room, where the daughter looked up from the letter she was writing, and gazed wonderingly at the boy. For her father pushed the little fellow in before him, and said: "There!" in a satisfied tone, and looked from one to the other. "Why, papa!" said Helen, after looking pleasantly at the boy. "Yes, my dear, that's him. There he is. From this hour my experiment begins." "With this boy?" said Helen. "Yes, my dear, shake hands with him, and make him at home." The doctor's sweet lady-like daughter held out her hand to the boy, who was staring about him at everything with wondering delight, till he caught sight of an admirably drawn water-colour portrait of the doctor, the work of Helen herself, duly framed and hung upon the wall. The boy burst into a hearty laugh, and turned to Helen, running to her now, and putting his hand in hers. "Look there," he cried, pointing with his left hand; "that's the old chap's picture. Ain't it like him!" The doctor frowned, and Helen looked troubled, even though it was a compliment to her skill; and for a few moments there was a painful silence in the room. This was however broken by the boy, who lifted Helen's hand up and down, and said in a parrot-like way-- "How do you do?" Helen's face rippled over with smiles, and the boy's brightened, and he too smiled in a way that made him look frank, handsome, and singularly attractive. "Oh, I say, you are pretty," he said. "Ten times as pretty as Miss Hippetts on Sundays." "Hah! yes. Never mind about Miss Hippetts. And look here, my man, Mr Hippetts said that you were anything but a good boy, and your schoolmaster said the same." "Yes; everybody knows that I am a reg'lar bad boy. The worst boy in the whole school." Helen Grayson's face contracted. "Oh, you are, are you!" said the doctor drily. "Yes, Mr Sibery told everybody so." "Well, then, now, sir, you will have to be a very good boy." "All right, sir." "And behave yourself very nicely." "But, I say: am I going to stop here, sir?" "Yes; always." "What, in this room?" "Yes." "And ain't I to go back to the House to have my crumbs!" "To have your what?" "Breakfasses and dinners, sir?" "No, you will have your meals here." "But I shall have to go back to sleep along with the other boys?" "No, you will sleep here; you will live here altogether now." "What! along of you and her?" cried the boy excitedly. "Yes, always, unless you go to a good school." "But live here along o' you, in this beautiful house with this nice lady, and that gal with a round face." "Yes, of course." "Ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ri-i-kee!" cried the boy in a shrill, piercing voice; and, to the astonishment of the doctor and his daughter, he made a bound, and then, with wonderful skill and rapidity, began turning the wheel, as it is called, going over and over on hands and feet, completely round the room. "Here, stop, sir, stop!" cried the doctor, half-angry and half-amused. "I can do it t'other way too," cried the boy; and, as he had turned before commencing upon his left hand, he began with his right, and completed the circuit of the room in the opposite direction. "There!" he cried, as he stopped before the doctor and his daughter, flushed and proud. "There isn't a chap in the House can do it as quick as I can. Mr Sibery caught me one day, and didn't I get the cane!" There was such an air of innocent pride displayed by the boy, that after for the moment feeling annoyed, Helen Grayson sat back in her chair and laughed as much at the boy as at her father's puzzled look, of surprise. "That's nothing!" cried the boy, as he saw Helen's smiles. "Look here." He ducked down and placed his head on the hearthrug, his hands on either side in front, and threw his heels in the air, to the great endangerment of the chimney ornaments. "Get down, sir! get down!" cried the doctor. "I mean, get up." "It don't hurt," cried the boy, "stand on my head longer than you will for a penny." "Will you get up, sir!" The boy let his feet go down into their normal position upon the carpet, and rose up with his handsome young face flushed, and a look of proud delight in his eyes. "I can walk on my hands ever so far," he shouted boisterously. "No, no; stop!" "You look, miss, and see me run like a tomcat." Before he could be stopped, he was down on all-fours running, with wonderful agility, in and out among the chairs, and over the hearthrug. "That's what I do to make the boys laugh, when we go to bed. I can go all along the dormitory, and jump from one bed to the other. Where's the dormitory? I'll show you." "No, no; stop!" cried the doctor, and he caught hold of the boy by the collar. "Confound you, sir: are you full of quicksilver!" "No. It's skilly," said the boy, "and I ain't full now I'm ever so hungry." The doctor held him tightly, for he was just off again. Helen Grayson tried to look serious, but was compelled to hold her handkerchief before her mouth, and hide her face; but her eyes twinkled with mirth, as her father turned towards her, and sat rubbing his stiff grey hair. The doctor's plan of bringing up a boy chosen from the workhouse had certainly failed, she thought, so far as this lad was concerned; and as the little prisoner stood tightly held, but making all the use he could of his eyes, he said, pointing to a glass shade over a group of wax fruit-- "Is them good to eat!" "No," said Helen, smiling. "I say, do you have skilly for breakfast!" "I do not know what skilly is," replied Helen. "Then, I'll tell you. It's horrid. They beats up pailfuls of oatmeal in a copper, and ladles it out. But it's better than nothing." "Ahem!" coughed the doctor, who was thinking deeply. The boy glanced at him sharply, and then turned again to Helen-- "You mustn't ask for anything to eat at the House if you're ever so hungry." "Are you hungry?" said Helen. "Just!" "Would you like a piece of cake!" "Piece o' cake? Please. Here, let go." He shook himself free from the doctor and ran to Helen. "Sit down on that cushion, and I'll ring for some." "What, have you got a big bell here? Let me pull it, will you?" "It is not a big bell, but you may pull it," said Helen, crossing to the fireplace. "There, that will do." She led the way back to the chair where she had been seated, and in spite of herself felt amused and pleased at the way in which the boy's bright curious eyes examined her, for, outside of his school discipline, the little fellow acted like a small savage, and was as full of eager curiosity. "I say," he said, "how do you do your hair like that? It is nice." Just then Maria entered the room. "Bring up the cake, Maria, and a knife and plate--and--stop--bring a glass of milk." "Yes, miss," said Maria, staring hard at the boy with anything but favourable eyes. "I say, do you drink milk?" said the boy. "Sometimes. This is for you." "For me? Oh, I say! But you'll put some water to it, won't you!" "No; you can drink it as it is. No, no! Stop!" Helen Grayson was too late; in the exuberance of his delight the boy relieved his excited feelings by turning the wheel again round the room, stopping, though, himself, as he reached the place where the doctor's daughter was seated. "Well, why do you look at me like that?" "I d'know. Feels nice," said the boy. "I say, is that round-face gal your sister?" "Oh no; she's the servant." "I'm glad of that," said the boy thoughtfully; "she won't eat that cake, will she!" Helen compressed her lips to control her mirth, and glanced at her father again, where he sat with his brow knit and lips pursed up thinking out his plans. Maria entered now with the cake and milk, placing a tray on a little table, and going out to return to the housekeeper, saying-- "Pretty pass things is coming to when servants is expected to wait on workus boys." In the drawing-room the object of her annoyance was watching, with sparkling eyes, the movements of the knife with which Helen Grayson cut off a goodly wedge of the cake. "There," she said; "eat that, and sit quite still." The boy snatched the piece wolfishly, and was lifting it to his mouth, but he stopped suddenly and stretched out his hand-- "Here; you have first bite," he said. Helen shook her head, but felt pleased. "No," she said. "It is for you." "Do," said the boy, fighting hard with the longing to begin. "No; eat it yourself." "Would he have a bit if I asked him!" said the boy, torturing himself in his generous impulse. "No, no. You eat it, my boy." Once more the cake was within an inch of the bright sparkling teeth, but the bite was not taken. Instead of eating, the boy held out the cake to his hostess. "Cut it in half, please," he said; "fair halves." "What for?" "I'm going to eat one bit; t'other's for Billy Jingle. He's had measles, and been very bad, and he's such a good chap." "You shall have a piece to send to your schoolfellow," said Helen, with her eyes a little moist now, for the boy's generous spirit was gaining upon her, and she looked at him with more interest than she had displayed a few minutes before. The boy took a tremendous bite, and began to munch as he sat upon a velvet-covered hassock; but he jumped up directly, and held out the bitten cake again, to say, with his mouth full-- "Oh, do have a bit. It's lovely." Helen smiled, and laid her hand upon the boy's shoulder, as she shook her head, when to her surprise he caught the soft white hand in his left, gazed hard at it, and then pressed it against his cheek, making a soft purring noise, no bad imitation of a cat. Then he sat eating and holding the hand which was not taken away, till, as the little stranger munched on in the full enjoyment of the wondrous novelty, the doctor said sharply, "Helen, come here." The boy stared, but went on eating, and the doctor's daughter crossed the room to where her father sat. CHAPTER SIX. A QUICKSILVER GLOBULE. "Well, papa?" she said, looking into his face in a half-amused way. "Well, Helen," said the doctor, taking her hand and drawing her to him; "about this boy?" "Yes, dear. You have made up your mind to adopt and bring one up," she said, in a low tone which the lad could not hear. "Yes," said the doctor, taking his tone from her, "to turn the raw material into the polished cultured article." "But of course you will take this one back, and select another!" "And pray why!" said the doctor sharply. "I thought--I thought--" faltered Helen. "Oh, nonsense! Better for proving my theory." "Yes, papa, but--" "A little wild and rough, that's all; boy-like; high-spirited; right stuff in him." "No doubt, papa; but he is so very rough." "Then we'll use plenty of sand-paper and make him smooth. Moral sand-paper. Capital boy, my dear. Had a deal of trouble in getting him--by George! the young wolf! He has finished that cake." "Then you really mean to keep him, papa?" said Helen, glancing at the boy, where he sat diligently picking up a few crumbs and a currant which he had dropped. "Mean to keep him? Now, my dear Helen, when did you ever know me undertake anything, and not carry it out!" "Never, papa." "Then I am not going to begin now. There is the boy." "Yes, papa," said Helen rather sadly; "there is the boy." "I mean to make him a gentleman, and I must ask you to help me with the poor orphan--" "He is an orphan, then!" said Helen quickly. "Yes. Son of some miserable tramp who died in the casual ward." "How dreadful!" said Helen, glancing once more at the boy, who caught her eye, and smiled in a way which made his face light up, and illumined the sallow cheeks and dull white pinched look. "Dreadful? Couldn't be better for my theory, my dear." "Very well, papa," said Helen quietly; "I will help you all I can." "I knew you would, my dear," said the doctor warmly; "and I prophesy that you will be proud of your work, and so shall I. Now, then, to begin," he added loudly. "All in--all in--all in!" shouted the boy, jumping up like a grasshopper, and preparing to go through some fresh gymnastic feat. "Ah! ah! Sit down, sir. How dare you!" shouted the doctor; and the boy dropped into his seat again, and sat like a mouse. "There!" said the doctor softly; "there's obedience. Result of drilling. Now, then, what's the first thing? He must have some clothes." "Oh yes; at once," said Helen. "And, look here, my dear," said the doctor testily; "I never use anything of the kind myself, but you girls rub some stuff--pomade or cream--on your hair to make it grow, do you not?" "Well, yes, papa." "Then, for goodness' sake, let a double quantity be rubbed at once upon that poor boy's head. Really it is cut so short that he is hardly fit to be seen without a cap on." "I'm afraid you will have to wait some time," said Helen, with a smile. "Humph! yes, I suppose so," said the doctor gruffly. "That barber ought to be flogged. Couldn't put the boy in a wig, of course." "O papa! no." "Well, I said no," cried the doctor testily. "Must wait, I suppose; but we can make him look decent." "Are you--are you going--" faltered Helen. "Going? Going where!" "Going to have him with us, papa, or to let him be with the servants?" said Helen rather nervously; but she regretted speaking the next moment. "Now, my dear child, don't be absurd," cried the doctor. "How am I to prove my theory by taking the boy from the lowest station of society and making him, as I shall do, a gentleman, if I let him run wild with the servants!" "I--I beg your pardon, papa." "Humph! Granted. Now, what's to be done first? The boy is clean?" "Oh yes." "Can't improve him then, that way; but I want as soon as possible to get rid of that nasty, pasty, low-class pallor. One does not see it in poor people's children, as a rule, while these Union little ones always look sickly to me. You must feed him up, Helen." "I have begun, papa," she said, smiling. "Humph! Yes. Clothes. Yes; we must have some clothes, and--oh, by the way, I had forgotten. Here, my boy." The lad jumped up with alacrity, and came to the doctor's side boldly-- looking keenly from one to the other. "What did you say your name was!" "Bed--Obed Coleby." "Hah!" cried the doctor; "then we'll do away with that at once. Now, what shall we call you!" "I d'know," said the boy, laughing. "Jack?" "No, no," said the doctor thoughtfully, while Helen looked on rather amused at her father's intent manner, and the quick bird-like movements of their visitor. For the boy, after watching the doctor for a few moments, grew tired, and finding himself unnoticed, dropped down on the carpet, took four pebbles from his pocket, laid them on the back of his right hand, and throwing them in the air, caught them separately by as many rapid snatches in the air. "Do that again," cried the doctor, suddenly becoming interested. The boy showed his white teeth, threw the stones in the air, and caught them again with the greatest ease. "That's it, Helen, my dear," cried the doctor triumphantly. "Cleverness of the right hand--dexterity. Capital name." "Capital name, papa?" "Yes; Dexter! Good Latin sound. Fresh and uncommon. Dexter--Dex. Look here, sir. No more Obed. You shall be called Dexter." "All right," said the boy. "And if you behave yourself well, perhaps we shall shorten it into Dex." "Dick's better," said the boy sharply. "No, it is not, sir; Dex." "Well, Dix, then," said the boy, throwing one stone up high enough to touch the ceiling, and in catching at it over-handed, failing to achieve his object, and striking it instead, so that it flew against the wall with a loud rap. "Put those stones in your pocket, sir," cried the doctor to the boy, who ran and picked up the one which had fallen, looking rather abashed. "Another inch, and it would have gone through that glass." "Yes. Wasn't it nigh!" cried the boy. "Here, stop! Throw them out of that window." The boy's brow clouded over. "Let me give them to some one at the school; they're such nice round ones." "I said, throw them out of the window, sir." "All right," said the boy quickly; and he threw the pebbles into the garden. "Now, then; look here, sir--or no," said the doctor less sternly. "Look here, my boy." The doctor's manner influenced the little fellow directly, and he went up and laid his hand upon his patron's knee, looking brightly from face to face. "Now, mind this: in future you are to be Dexter." "All right: Dexter Coleby," said the boy. "No, no, no, no!" cried the doctor testily. "Dexter Grayson; and don't keep on saying `All right.'" "All--" The boy stopped short, and rubbed his nose with his cuff. "Hah! First thing, my dear. Twelve pocket-handkerchiefs, and mark them `Dexter Grayson.'" "What? twelve handkerchies for me--all for me?" "Yes, sir, all for you; and you are to use them. Never let me see you rub your nose with your cuff again." The boy's mouth opened to say, "All right," but he checked himself. "That's right!" cried the doctor. "I see you are teachable. You were going to say `all right.'" "You told me not to." "I did; and I'm very pleased to find you did not do it." "I say, shall I have to clean the knives?" "No, no, no." "Nor yet the boots and shoes?" "No, boy; no." "I shall have to fetch the water then, shan't I?" "My good boy, nothing of the kind. You are going to live with us, and you are my adopted son," said the doctor rather pompously, while Helen sighed. "Which?" queried the boy. "Which what?" said the doctor. "Which what you said?" "I did not say anything, sir." "Oh my! what a story!" cried the boy, appealing to Helen. "Didn't you hear him say I was to be his something son?" "Adopted son," said the doctor severely; "and, look here, you must not speak to me in that way." "All--" Dexter checked himself again, and he only stared. "Now, you understand," said the doctor, after a few minutes' hesitation; "you are to be here like my son, and you may call me--yes, father, or papa." "How rum!" said the boy, showing his white teeth with a remarkable want of reverence. "I say," he added, turning to Helen; "what am I to call you!" Helen turned to her father for instructions, her brow wrinkling from amusement and vexation. "Helen," said the doctor, in a decided tone. "We must have no half measures, my dear; I mean to carry out my plan in its entirety." "Very well, papa," said Helen quietly; and then to herself, "It is only for a few days." "Now, then," said the doctor, "clothes. Ring that bell, Dexter." The boy ran so eagerly to the bell that he knocked over a light chair, and left it on the floor till he had rung. "Oh, I say," he exclaimed; "they go over a deal easier than our forms." "Never mind the forms now, Dexter. I want you to forget all about the old school." "Forget it?" said the boy, with his white forehead puckering up. "Yes, and all belonging to it. You are now going to be my son." "But I shall want to go and see the boys sometimes." "No, sir; you will not." "But I must go and see Mother Curdley." "Humph!" ejaculated the doctor. "Well, we shall see. Perhaps she will be allowed to come and see you." "Hooray!" cried the boy excitedly; and turning to Helen he obtained possession of her hand. "I say, save her a bit of that cake." "She shall have some cake, Dexter," said Helen kindly, for she could not help, in spite of her annoyance, again feeling pleased with the boy's remembrance of others. "And I say," he cried, "when she does come, we'll have a ha'porth o' snuff screwed up in a bit o' paper, and--has he got any gin?" "Hush, hush!" whispered Helen. "But she's so fond of a drop," said the boy earnestly. "And now," said the doctor; "the next thing is clothes. Ah, Maria, send Cribb to ask Mr Bleddan to come here directly." "Yes, sir," said Maria; and after a glance at the boy she closed the door. In less than a quarter of an hour Mr Bleddan, the tailor of Coleby, was there; and Dexter stood up feeling tickled and amused at being measured for some new clothes which the tailor said should be ready in a week. "A week!" said the doctor; "but what am I to do now? The boy can't go like that." "Ready-made, sir? I've plenty of new and fashionable suits exactly his size." "Bring some," said the doctor laconically; "and shirts and stockings and boots. Everything he wants. Do you understand!" Mr Bleddan perfectly understood, and Dexter stood with his eyes sparkling as he heard the list of upper and under garments, boots, caps, everything which the tailor and clothier considered necessary. The moment the man had gone, Dexter made a dash to recommence his Ixion-like triumphal dance, but this time Helen caught his hand and stopped him. "No, no, not here," she said quietly; and not in the least abashed, but in the most obedient way, the boy submitted. "It was because I was so jolly glad: that's all." "Hah!" said the doctor, smiling. "Now, I like that, Helen. Work with me, and all that roughness will soon pass away." "I say, will that chap be long?" cried Dexter, running to the window and looking out. "Am I to have all those things for my own self, and may I wear 'em directly?" "Look here, my lad; you shall have everything that's right and proper for you, if you are a good boy." "Oh, I'll be a good boy--least I'll try to be. Shall you give me the cane if I ain't?" "I--er--I don't quite know," said the doctor. "I hope you will not require it." "Mr Sibery said I did, and he never knew a boy who wanted it worse, but it didn't do me no good at all." "Well, never mind that now," said the doctor. "You will have to be very good, and never want the cane. You must learn to be a young gentleman." "Young gentleman?" said Dexter, holding his head on one side like a bird. "One of them who wears black jackets, and turn-down collars, and tall hats, and plays at cricket all day? I shall like that." "Humph! Something else but play cricket, I hope," said the doctor quietly. "Helen, my dear, I shall begin to make notes at once for my book, so you can take Dexter in hand, and try how he can read." The doctor brought out a pocket-book and pencil, and Helen, after a moment's thought, went to a glass case, and took down an old gift-book presented to her when she was a little girl. "Come here, Dexter," she said, "and let me hear you read." The boy flushed with pleasure. "Yes," he said. "I should like to read to you. May I kneel down and have the book on your knees!" "Yes, if you like," said Helen, who felt that the boy was gaining upon her more and more: for, in spite of his coarseness, there was a frank, merry, innocent undercurrent that, she felt, might be brought to the surface, strengthened and utilised to drive the roughness away. "Read here!" said the boy, opening the book at random. "Oh, here's a picture. What are these girls doing?" "Leave the pictures till afterwards. Go on reading now." "Here?" "Yes; at the beginning of that chapter." "I shall have to read it all, as there's no other boy here. We always stand up in a class at the House, and one boy reads one bit, and another boy goes on next, and then you're always losing your place, because it's such a long time before it comes round to your turn, and then old Sibery gives you the cane." "Yes, yes; but go on," said Helen, with a feeling of despair concerning her father's _protege_. Dexter began to read in a forced, unnatural voice, with a high-pitched unpleasant twang, and regardless of sense or stops--merely uttering the words one after the other, and making them all of the same value. At the end of the second line Helen's face was a study. At the end of the fourth the doctor roared out-- "Stop! I cannot stand any more. Saw-sharpening or bag-pipes would be pleasant symphonies in comparison." At that moment Maria entered. "Lunch is on the table, if you please, sir." "Ah, yes, lunch," said the doctor. "Did you put a knife and fork for Master Dexter?" "For who, sir!" said Maria, staring. "For Master Dexter here," said the doctor sharply. "Go and put them directly." Maria ran down to her little pantry, and then attacked Mrs Millett. "Master's going mad, I think," she said. "Why, he's actually going to have that boy at the table to lunch." "Never!" "It's a fact," cried Maria; "and I've come down for more knives and forks." "And you'd better make haste and get 'em, then," said the housekeeper; "master's master, and he always will have his way." Maria did make haste, and to her wonder and disgust Dexter was seated at the doctor's table in his workhouse clothes, gazing wonderingly round at everything: the plate, cruets, and sparkling glass taking up so much of his attention that for the moment he forgot the viands. The sight of a hot leg of lamb, however, when the cover was removed, made him seize his knife and fork, and begin tapping with the handles on either side of his plate. "Errum!" coughed the doctor. "Put that knife and fork down, Dexter, and wait." The boy's hands went behind him directly, and there was silence till Maria had left the room, when the doctor began to carve, and turned to Helen-- "May I give you some lamb, my dear?" "There, I knowed it was lamb," cried Dexter excitedly, "'cause it was so little. We never had no lamb at the House." "Hush!" said the doctor quietly. "You must not talk like that." "All right." "Nor yet like that, Dexter. Now, then, may I send you some lamb!" "May I say anything?" said the boy so earnestly that Helen could not contain her mirth, and the boy smiled pleasantly again. "Of course you may, my boy," said the doctor. "Answer when you are spoken to, and try and be polite." "Yes, sir, I will; I'll try so hard." "Then may I send you some lamb!" "Yes; twice as much as you give her. It does smell nice." The doctor frowned a little, and then helped the boy pretty liberally. "Oh, I say! Just look at the gravy," he cried. "Have you got plenty, Miss!" "Oh yes, Dexter," said Helen. "May I--" "Don't give it all to me, Mister," cried the boy. "Keep some for yourself. I hate a pig." "Errum!" coughed the doctor, frowning. "Miss Grayson was going to ask if you would take some vegetables!" "What? taters? No thankye, we got plenty o' them at the House," cried the boy; and he began cutting and devouring the lamb at a furious rate. "Gently, gently!" cried the doctor. "You have neither bread nor salt." "Get's plenty o' them at the House," cried the boy, with his mouth full; "and you'd better look sharp, too. The bell'll ring directly, and we shall have to--no it won't ring here, will it!" he said, looking from one to another. "No, sir," said the doctor sternly; "and you must not eat like that. Watch how Miss Grayson eats her lunch, and try and imitate her." The boy gave the doctor a sharp glance, and then, in a very praiseworthy manner, tried to partake of the savoury joint in a decent way. But it was hard work for him. The well-cooked succulent meat was so toothsome that he longed to get to the end of it; and whenever he was not watching the doctor and his daughter he kept glancing at the dish, wondering whether he would be asked to have any more. "What's that rum-looking stuff?" he said, as the doctor helped himself from a small tureen. "Mint sauce, sir. Will you have some?" "I don't know. Let's taste it." The little sauce tureen was passed to him, and he raised the silver ladle, but instead of emptying it upon his plate he raised it to his lips, and drank with a loud, unpleasant noise, suggestive of the word _soup_. The doctor was going to utter a reproof, but the sight of Helen's mirth checked him, and he laughed heartily as he saw the boy's face full of disgust. "I don't like that," he said, pushing the tureen away. "It ain't good." "But you should--" "Don't correct him now, papa; you will spoil the poor boy's dinner," remonstrated Helen. "He said it was lunch," said Dexter. "Your dinner, sir, and our lunch," said the doctor. "There, try and behave as we do at the table, and keep your elbows off the cloth." Dexter obeyed so quickly that he knocked a glass from the table, and on leaving his seat to pick it up he found that the foot was broken off. The doctor started, and uttered a sharp ejaculation. In an instant the boy shrank away into a corner, sobbing wildly. "I couldn't help it. I couldn't help it, sir. Don't beat me, please. Don't beat me this time. I'll never do so any more." "Bless my soul!" cried the doctor, jumping up hastily; and the boy uttered a wild cry, full of fear, and would have dashed out of the open window into the garden had not Helen caught him, the tears in her eyes, and her heart moved to pity as she read the boy's agony of spirit. In fact that one cry for mercy had done more for Dexter's future at the doctor's than a month's attempts at orderly conduct. "Hush, hush!" said Helen gently, as she took his hands; and, with a look of horror in his eyes, the boy clung to her. "I don't mind the cane sometimes," he whispered, "but don't let him beat me very much." "Nonsense! nonsense!" said the doctor rather huskily. "I was not going to beat you." "Please, sir, you looked as if you was," sobbed the boy. "I only looked a little cross, because you were clumsy and broke that glass. But it was an accident." "Yes, it was; it was," cried the boy, in a voice full of pleading, for the breakage had brought up the memory of an ugly day in his young career. "I wouldn't ha' done it, was it ever so; it's true as goodness I wouldn't." "No, no, Maria, not yet," cried Helen hastily, as the door was opened. "We will ring." Maria walked out again, and the boy clung to Helen as he sobbed. "There, there," she said. "Papa is not cross. You broke the glass, and you have apologised. Come: sit down again." If some one had told Helen Grayson two hours before that she would have done such a thing, she would have smiled incredulously, but somehow she felt moved to pity just then, and leading the boy back to his chair, she bent down and kissed his forehead. In a moment Dexter's arms were about her neck, and he was clinging to her with passionate energy, sobbing now wildly, while the doctor got up and walked to the window for a few moments. "There, there," said Helen gently, as she pressed the boy down into his seat, and kissed him once again, after seeing that her father's back was turned. "That's all over now. Come, papa." The doctor came back, and as he was passing the back of the boy's chair, he raised his hand quickly, intending to pat him on the head. The boy flinched like a frightened animal anticipating a blow. "Why, bless my soul, Dexter! this will not do," he said huskily. "Here, give me your hand. There, there, my dear boy, you and I are to be the best of friends. Why, my dear Helen," he added in French, "they must have been terribly severe, for the little fellow to shrink like this." The boy still sobbed as he laid his hand in the doctor's, and then the meal was resumed; but Dexter's appetite was gone. He could not finish the lamb, and it was only with difficulty that he managed a little rhubarb tart and custard. "Why, what are you thinking about, Dexter!" said Helen after the lunch; and somehow her tone of voice seemed to indicate that she had forgotten all about the workhouse clothes. "Will he send me back to the House?" the boy whispered hoarsely, but the doctor heard. "No, no," he said quickly; and the boy seemed relieved. That night about eleven, as she went up to bed, Helen Grayson went softly into a little white bedroom, where the boy's pale face lay in the full moonlight, and something sparkled. "Poor child!" she said, in a voice full of pity; "he has been crying." She was quite right, and as she bent over him, her presence must have influenced his dreams, for he uttered a low, soft sigh, and then smiled, while, forgetting everything now but the fact that this poor little waif of humanity had been stranded, as it were, at their home, she bent over him and kissed him. Then she started, for she became aware of the fact that her father was at the door. The next moment she was in his arms. "Bless you, my darling!" he said. "This is like you. I took this up as a whim as well as a stubborn belief; but somehow that poor little ignorant fellow, with his rough ways, seems to be rousing warmer feelings towards him, and, please God, we'll make a man of him of whom we shall not be ashamed." Poor Dexter had cried himself to sleep, feeling in his ignorant fashion that he had disgraced himself, and that the two harsh rulers were quite right,--that he was as bad as ever he could be; but circumstances were running in a way he little thought. CHAPTER SEVEN. TAMING THE WILD. "Ah!" said the doctor, laying down his pen and rubbing his hands. "That's better;" and he took off his spectacles, made his grey hair stand up all over his head like tongues of silver fire, and looked Dexter over from top to toe. Thanks to Helen's supervision, the boy looked very creditable. His hair was of course "cut almost to the bone," and his face had still the Union look--pale and saddened, but he was dressed in a neat suit which fitted him, and his turn-down collar and black tie seemed to give his well-cut features quite a different air. "What did I say, Helen!" said the doctor, with a chuckle. "You see what we have done already. Well, sir, how do you feel now!" "Not very jolly," said the boy, with a writhe. "Hem!" coughed the doctor; "not very comfortable you mean!" "Yes, that's it," said Dexter. "Boots hurts my feet, and when the trousers ain't rubbin' the skin o' my legs, this here collar feels as if it would saw my head off." "Humph!" ejaculated the doctor stiffly. "You had better put on the old things again." "Eh? No, thankye," cried Dexter eagerly. "I like these here ever so much. Please may I keep 'em!" "Of course," said the doctor; "and take care of them, like a good boy." "Yes. I'm going to be a very good boy now, sir. She says I am to." He nodded his head in the direction of Helen, and stood upon one leg to ease the foot which the shoe pinched. "That's right, but don't say _she_. You must look upon Miss Grayson now as if she were your sister." "Yes, that I will," said the boy warmly. Helen flushed a little at her father's words, and a serious look came into her sweet face; but at that moment she felt Dexter steal his hand into hers, and then it was lifted and held against the boy's cheek, as, in feline fashion, he rubbed his face against it, and a smile came into her eyes again, as she laid the hand at liberty upon the closely cropped head. "I say, ain't she pretty, and don't she look nice?" said Dexter suddenly; and his free and easy way made the doctor frown: but he looked at the boy's appearance, and in the belief that he would soon change the manners to match, he nodded, and said, "Yes." Helen looked at her father, as if asking him what next, but the doctor joined his finger-tips and frowned, as if thinking deeply. "Dexter and I have been filling his drawers with his new clothes and linen," she said. "Yes; such a lot of things," cried the boy; "and is that always to be my bedroom?" "Yes; that's to be your room," said the doctor. "And I've got three pairs of boots. I mean two pairs of boots, and one pair of shoes," cried Dexter. "One pair on, and two in the bedroom; and I shall get up at six o'clock every morning, and clean 'em, and I'll clean yours too." "Hem!" coughed the doctor. "No, my boy, your boots will be cleaned for you, and you will not have to dirty your hands now." The boy stared wonderingly, as the doctor enunciated a matter which was beyond his grasp. But all the time his eyes were as busy as those of a monkey, and wandering all over the study, and taking in everything he saw. "May I leave Dexter with you now!" said Helen, "as I have a few little matters to see to." "Yes, yes; of course, my dear. We are beginning capitally. Dexter, my boy; you can sit down on that chair, and amuse yourself with a book, while I go on writing." The boy looked at the chair, then at the doctor, and then at Helen. "I say, mayn't I go with you?" he said. "Not now, Dexter, I am going to be very busy. By and by I will take you for a walk." Helen nodded, and left the room. "You'll find some books on that shelf," said the doctor kindly; and he turned once more to his writing, while Dexter went to the bookcase, and, after taking down one or two works, found a large quarto containing pictures. He returned to the chair the doctor had pointed out, opened the book upon his knees, turned over a few leaves, and then raised his eyes to have a good long wondering stare at the doctor, as he sat frowning there very severely, and in the midst of a great deal of deep thought put down a sentence now and again. Dexter's eyes wandered from the doctor to a dark-looking bust upon the top of a book-shelf. From thence to a brown bust on the opposite shelf, at which he laughed, for though it was meant for Cicero, it put him greatly in mind of Mr Sibery, and he then fell a-wondering what the boys were doing at the workhouse school. Just then the black marble timepiece on the shelf chimed four quarters, and struck eleven. "No matter what may be the descent," wrote the doctor, "the human frame is composed of the same element." "I say," cried Dexter loudly. "Eh? Yes?" said the doctor, looking up. "What time are you going to have dinner!" "Dinner? One o'clock, sir. Why, it's not long since you had breakfast." "Seems a long time." "Go on looking at your book." Dexter obeyed, and the doctor went on writing, and became very interested in his work. So did not the boy, who yawned, fidgeted in his seat, rubbed his neck impatiently, and then bent down and tried to ease his boot, which evidently caused him pain. There was a pause during which Dexter closed the book and fidgeted about; now one leg went out, now the other. Then his arms moved about as if so full of life and energy that they must keep on the jerk. There was another yawn, but the doctor did not hear it, he was too much intent upon the chapter he was writing. Then a happy thought occurred to Dexter, and he raised the heavy quarto book he had upon his knees, placed it upon his head, and balanced it horizontally. That was too easy, there was no fun or excitement in the feat, so he placed it edgewise. That was better, but very easy--both topwise and bottomwise. Harder when tried with the front edges upon his crown, for the big book demonstrated a desire to open. But he dodged that, and felt happier. He glanced at the doctor, and smiled at his profile, for in his intentness the writer's thick bottom lip protruded far beyond the upper, and seemed to Dexter as if trying to reach the tip of his nose. What should he do next? Could he balance that book on its back? Dexter held it between his hands and cogitated. The back was round, therefore the feat would be more difficult, and all the more enjoyable, but would the book keep shut? He determined to try. Up went the book, his hands on either side keeping it close. Then there was a little scheming to get it exactly in equilibrium; this was attained, and as the boy sat there stiff-necked and rigid of spine, with his eyes turned upwards, there was nothing left to do now but to remove his hands. This he proceeded to do by slow degrees, a finger at a time, till the heavy work was supported only by the left and right forefingers, the rounded back exactly on the highest point of his cranium. "All right," said Dexter to himself, supremely happy in his success, and with a quick movement he let his hands drop to his lap. For one solitary moment the great quarto volume remained balanced exactly; then, as a matter of course, it opened all at once. _Flip! flop! bang_! The book had given him two boxes on the sides of the head, and then, consequent upon his sudden effort to save it, made a leap, and came heavily upon the floor. Dexter's face was scarlet as he dropped upon his knees to pick it up, and found the doctor gazing at him, or, as in his own mind he put it, threatening a similar caning to that which Mr Sibery gave him a year before, when he dropped the big Bible on the schoolroom floor. "Be careful, my boy, be careful," said the doctor dreamily, for he was half lost in thought. "That damages the bindings. Take a smaller book." Dexter felt better, and hastily replaced the work on the shelf, taking one of a smaller size, and returning to his seat to bend down and thrust a finger inside his boot. "How they do hurt!" he thought to himself; and he made a sudden movement. Then he checked himself. No; 'twas a pity. They were so new, and looked so nice. Yes, he would: they hurt so terribly; and, stooping down, he rapidly unlaced the new boots, and pushed them off, smiling with gratification at the relief. Then he had another good look round for something to amuse himself with, yawned, glanced at the doctor, dropped down on hands and knees, went softly to the other side of the centre table, and began to creep about with the agility of a quadruped or one of the monkey tribe. This was delightful, and the satisfied look on the boy's face was a study, till happening to raise his eyes, he saw that the doctor had risen, and was leaning over the writing-table, gazing down at him with a countenance full of wonder and astonishment combined. "What are you doing, sir?" said the doctor sternly. "Have you lost something?" Dexter might have said, "Yes, a button--a marble;" but he did not; he only rose slowly, and his late quadrupedal aspect was emphasised by a sheepish look. "Don't do that on the carpet, sir. You'll wear out the knees of your trousers. Why, where are your boots?" "On that chair, sir," said Dexter confusedly. "Then put them on again, and get another book." Dexter put on his boots slowly, laced them up, and then fetched himself another book. He returned to his seat, yawning, and glanced at the doctor again. _Booz, booz, booz, boom_--_'m_--_'m_. A bluebottle had flown in through the open window, bringing with it the suggestion of warm sunshine, fields, gardens, flowers, and the blue sky and waving trees. "_Booz_!" said the bluebottle, and it dashed away, leaving a profound silence, broken by the scratching of the doctor's pen. "I say," cried Dexter excitedly; "is that your garden?" "Yes, my boy, yes," said the doctor, without looking up from his writing. "May I go out in it?" "Certainly, my boy. Yes," said the doctor, without looking up, though there was the quick sound of footsteps, and, with a bound, Dexter was through the open French window, and out upon the lawn. The doctor did not heed the lapse of time, for he was intent upon his writing, and an hour had passed when the door opened and Helen returned. "Now I am at liberty, papa," she said; "and--where is Dexter?" "Eh? The boy? Bless me, I thought he was here!" _Smash! Tinkle_! The sound of breaking glass, and the doctor leaped to his feet, just as a loud gruff voice sounded-- "Here, you just come down." "Copestake!" cried the doctor. "Why, what is the matter out there!" CHAPTER EIGHT. OLD DAN'L IS WROTH. Mr Grayson's was the best garden for twenty miles round. The Coleby people said so, and they ought to have known. But Dan'l Copestake said it was all nonsense. "Might be made a good garden if master wasn't so close," he used to say to everybody. "Wants more money spent on it, and more hands kept. How'm I to keep a place like that to rights with only two--me and a lab'rer, under me, and Peter to do the sweeping?" Keep it to rights or not, it was to Helen Grayson four acres of delight, and she was to blame for a great deal which offended Dan'l Copestake, the head-gardener. "Papa," it would be, "did you give orders for that beautiful privet hedge to be cut down!" "Eh? no, my dear, Copestake said it kept the light off some of those young trees, and I said he might cut it down." "Oh, do stop him," cried Helen. "It will take years to grow up, and this past year it has been delightful, with its sweet-scented blossom and beautiful black berries." So it was with scores of things. Helen wanted to see them growing luxuriantly, Dan'l Copestake loved to hash and chop them into miserably cramped "specimints," as he called them, and the doctor got all the blame. But what a garden! It was full of old-fashioned flowers in great clumps, many of them growing, to Dan'l's disgust, down among the fruit and vegetables. There were flowering shrubs and beautiful conifers, a great mulberry-tree on the mossy lawn, and a huge red brick wall all round, literally covered with trained trees, which in their seasons were masses of white bloom, or glowing with purple and golden plums, and light red, black, or yellowy pink cherries, and great fat pears, while, facing the south, there were dozens of trees of peaches, nectarines, and downy golden apricots. As to the apples, they grew by the bushel, almost by the ton; and for strawberries and the other lower fruits there was no such garden near. Then there was Helen's conservatory, always full of sweet-scented flowers, and the vinery and pits, where the great purple and amber bunches hung and ripened, and the long green cucumber and melon came in their good time. But Dan'l grumbled, as gardeners will. "Blights is offle," he said. "It's the blightiest garden I ever see, and a man might spend all his life keeping the birds down with a gun." But Dan'l did not spend any part of his life, let alone all, keeping the birds down with a gun. The doctor caught him shooting one day, and nearly shot him out of the place. "How dare you, sir?" he cried. "I will not have a single bird destroyed." "Then you won't get no peace, sir, nor not a bit of fruit." "I shall have the place overrun with slugs and snails, and all kinds of injurious blight, sir, if you use that gun. No, sir, you'll put nets over the fruit when it's beginning to ripen. That will do." The doctor walked away with Helen, and as soon as they were out of sight, behind the great laurustinus clump, Helen threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him for saving her pet birds. Consequently, in addition to abundance of fruit, and although it was so close in the town, there was always a chorus of song in the season; and even the nightingale came from the woodlands across the river and sang within the orchard, through which the river ran. That river alone half made the place, for it was one of those useless rivers, so commercial men called it, where the most you could do was pleasure-boating; barges only being able to ascend to Coleby Bridge, a sort of busy colony from the town, two miles nearer the sea. "Yes, sir," Sir James Danby had been known to say, "if the river could be deepened right through the town it would be the making of the place." "And the spoiling of my grounds," said the doctor, "so I'm glad it runs over the solid rock." This paradise of a garden was the one into which Dexter darted, and in which Dan'l Copestake was grumbling that morning-- "Like a bear with a sore head, that's what I say," said Peter Cribb to the under-gardener. "Nothing never suits him." "Yes, it do," said Dan'l, showing a very red face over a clump of rhododendron. "Master said you was to come into the garden three days a week, and last week I only set eyes on you twice, and here's half the week gone and you've only been once." "Look here," said Peter Cribb, a hard-looking bullet-headed man of five-and-twenty; and he leaned on his broom, and twisted one very tightly trousered leg round the other, "do you think I can sit upon the box o' that there wagginette, drivin' miles away, and be sweeping this here lawn same time!" "Master said as it was your dooty to be in this garden three days a week; and t'other three days you was to do your stable-work--there." "Didn't I go out with the carriage every day this week?" "I don't know when you went out with the carriage, and when you didn't," said Dan'l; "all I know is as my lawn didn't get swept; and how the doctor expects a garden like this here to be kept tidy without help, I should be glad to know." "Well, you'd better go and grumble at him, and not worry me, and--pst! Lookye there." He pointed with his broom, and both men remained paralysed at the sight which met their eyes. It was not so much from its extraordinary nature as from what Dan'l afterwards spoke of as its "imperence." That last, he said, was what staggered him, that any human boy should, in the very middle of the day, dare to do such a thing in his garden. He said _his_ garden, for when speaking of it the doctor seemed to be only some one who was allowed to walk through it for a treat. What the two men gazed at was the figure of a boy, in shirt and trousers, going up the vinery roof, between where the early and the late houses joined and there was a sloping brick coping. From this they saw him reach the big wall against which the vinery was built, and there he sat for a few moments motionless. "Why, who is he?" said Peter, in a whisper. "He went up that vinery just like a monkey." Peter had never seen a monkey go up the roof of a vinery, but Dan'l did not notice that. "Hold your row," said Dan'l, in a low voice; "don't speak, and we'll ketch my nabs. Now we know where my peaches went last year." "But who is he!" whispered Peter. "I don't know, and I don't care, but I mean to have him as sure as he's there. Now if master hadn't been so precious 'tickler about a gun, I could ha' brought him down like a bird." "Lookye there," cried Peter. "See that?" "Oh yes, I see him," said Dan'l, as the figure ran easily along the top of the twelve-foot wall on all-fours. "I see my gentleman. Nice little game he's having. I'll bet a shilling he's about gorged with grapes, and now he's on the look-out for something else. But let him alone; wait a bit and we'll put salt on his tail before he can say what's what. I knowed some grapes was a-going. I could about feel it, like." "Well, I never!" whispered Peter, peering through the laurustinus, and watching the boy. "See that?" "Oh yes, I see him. Nice un he is." This last was consequent upon the boy running a few yards, and then holding tightly with his hands, and kicking both legs in the air two or three times before trotting on along the wall again as easily as a tomcat. "See that?" said Peter. "Oh yes, I can see," said Dan'l. "He's so full o' grapes it makes him lively," and he stared at the boy, who had suddenly stopped, and planting his hands firmly, stood up on them, balancing himself, with his legs spread wide in the air. "He'll break his neck, that's what he'll do," said Peter. "Good job too, I says," grumbled Dan'l. "Boys like that ought to be done away with. He's one on 'em out o' the town. Now look here, Peter, we've got to get him, that's what we've got to do." "Ah, that's better," said Peter, who had been nervous ever since a horse ran away with him. "I don't like to see a boy doing dangerous things that how." "Don't call a thing like that a boy, do yer!" said Dan'l. "I calls it monkey rubbidge. Now you step round the house, and through the stable, and get down that side o' the wall, and I'll go this. Don't you seem to see him till you hear me whistle. Then grab." "But how am I to grab when he's up there!" said Peter. "Ah! 'tis high up," said Dan'l. "Wish I'd got one o' them grappling-irons as hangs down by the bridge; I'd fetch him off pretty quick." "Shall I get a fruit-ladder?" suggested Peter. "Nay, we don't want no fruit-ladders," grumbled Dan'l. "We'll soon fetch his lordship down. Now then, you be off." "Stop a moment," said Peter, as he watched the boy intently. "Look at him! Well, I never did!" It was a very true remark. Peter certainly never did, and very few boys would have cunning enough to perform such a feat with so much ease. For, after running about fifty yards along the top of the wall, the little fellow turned quickly and ran back again, made offers as if he were going to leap down, and then suddenly squatted down in exact imitation of a cat, and began licking his arms, and passing them over his head. "Well, he caps me!" cried Peter. "I never see a boy do anything like that since I was at a show at Exeter, and then it was a bigger chap than him." "Look here," said Dan'l; "I've got it. You get a big strong clothes-prop, and I'll get another, and we'll poke him off. If he comes down your side, mind this: he'll be like a rat, and off as quick as quick; but don't you let him go. Drop your prop, and throw yourself on him; we'll ketch him, and take him in to the gov'nor, and he'll know now where the fruit goes. You couldn't net chaps like this." In happy ignorance of the doctor's plans, Peter and Dan'l each provided himself with a clothes-prop, and in due time made for the appointed sides of the wall; but no sooner did the boy catch sight of his pursuers than he started off on another all-fours run; but this took him away from the house, and before he had gone far he turned and ran back. Dan'l whistled, and Peter made a poke at the runner from one side of the wall, while Dan'l made a savage poke from the other. The boy, who seemed as active as a squirrel, dodged them both, ran along toward the vinery, and as fast as the various trees would allow the two men followed. Peter was soon out of the race, for a lean-to shed on his side of the wall put a stop to further pursuit, and Dan'l, who looked as malicious as a savage after a wild beast, had the hunt all to himself. "Ah!" he shouted, as he stopped panting, "now I've got you, my fine fellow." This was untrue, for he was as far off his quarry as ever, he being at the front of the vinery, and the boy on the top of the wall right at the back of the glass slope. "Now, then, none o' yer nonsense, and down yer come." Down the boy did not come, for he squatted there at the top, in a sitting position, with his arms round his knees, gazing coolly but watchfully at the gardener. "D'yer hear? come down!" The Yankee 'coon in the tree, when he saw the celebrated Colonel Crockett taking aim at him, and in full possession of the hunter's reputation as a dead shot, is reported to have said, "Don't shoot; I'll come down;" and the boy might have said something of the kind to Dan'l Copestake. But he had no faith in the gardener, and it is expecting too much of a boy who is seated in a safe place, to conclude that he will surrender at the first summons, especially to a fierce-looking man, who is armed with a very big stick. This boy had not the least intention of giving himself up as a prisoner, and he sat and stared at Dan'l, and Dan'l stared at him. "Do you hear me?" cried Dan'l; but the boy did not move a muscle, he only stared. "Are you over there, Peter?" shouted Dan'l. "Ay! All right!" "You stop there, then, and nip him if he comes your way. I'll get a ladder, and will soon have him down." "All right!" came from Peter again; and the boy's eyes watched keenly the old gardener's movements. "Do you hear what I say!" continued Dan'l. "Am I to fetch that ladder, or will you come down without!" The boy did not move. "Let's see: I can reach you with this here, though," Dan'l went on. "Not going to have any more of your nonsense, my fine fellow, so now then." The boy's eyes flashed as he saw the gardener come close up to the foot of the glass slope, and reach toward him with the long ash clothes-prop; but he measured mentally the length of that prop, and sat still, for, as he had quickly concluded, the gardener could not, even with his arm fully extended, reach to within some feet of where he sat. Dan'l pushed and poked about, and nearly broke a pane of glass, but the boy did not stir. "Oh, very well: only you'd better get down; you'll have it all the worse if I do fetch that ladder." Still the boy made no sign. He merely glanced to right and left, and could have dashed along the wall at once, but that would have taken him down the garden, toward the river, and that was the direction in which he did not want to go. To his left there was a portion of the house, the wall rising a good height, so that there was no escape in that direction. His way was either by the garden wall, or else down the slope of the vinery, as he had gone up. But, like a lion in his path, there at the foot of this slope stood Dan'l, with the great clothes-prop, and the boy, concluding that he was best where he was, sat and stared at the gardener, and waited. "Oh, very well then, my fine fellow: ladder it is," cried Dan'l; and, sticking the prop into the ground with a savage dig, he turned and ran off. It was only a feint, and he turned sharply at the end of a dozen steps, to find, as he expected, that the boy had moved, and begun to descend. Dan'l ran back, and the boy slipped into his former place, and sat like a monument of stone. "Oh, that's your game, is it!" said Dan'l. "But it won't do, my fine fellow. Now, are you coming down?" No reply. Dan'l reflected. If he went off to fetch the ladder from the stable-yard, the boy would slide down the top of the vinery and escape. That would not do. If he called to Peter to fetch the ladder, the boy would wait till the groom was gone, and slip over the wall, drop, and escape that way. That would not do either. Hah! There was the labourer. He could call him. It was past twelve, and he had gone to his dinner, Dan'l, like Peter, taking his at the more aristocratic hour of one. Dan'l was in a fix. He meant to have that boy, and make an example of him, but a great difficulty stared him in the face. There was no one to call, unless he waited till the doctor came. If the doctor came, he would perhaps take a lenient view of the matter, and let the boy go, and, unless Dan'l could first give the prisoner a sound thrashing with a hazel stick, one of a bundle which he had in his tool-shed, all his trouble would have been in vain. So he would not call the doctor. He made two or three more feints of going, and each time the boy began to descend, but only to dart back as the gardener turned. "Oh, that's your game, is it!" said Dan'l. "Very well; come down, but you can't get out of the garden if you do." The next time, after a few minutes' thought, Dan'l turned and ran as hard as he could, with every appearance now of going right off for the ladder. But he had made his plans with no little calculation of probabilities; and his idea was now to go right on till he had given the boy time to descend, and make for one of the entrances, when he meant to return, run him down, and seize him, before the young scamp, as he called him, had time to clamber up any other place. Dan'l ran on, and the boy watched him; and as soon as the gardener showed by his movements that he was evidently going away, began to descend. Hardly, however, had he reached the ground than Dan'l turned, saw him, and made a fresh dash to capture him. If the gardener had waited a couple more minutes he would have had a better chance. As it was, the boy had time to reach the dividing wall of the vinery wall again, but just as he was scrambling up, Dan'l was upon him, and was in the act of grasping one arm, when it was snatched away. In the effort the boy lost his composure, and the steady easy-going confidence which had enabled him to trot along with such facility; and the consequence was that as he made a final bound to reach the back wall his right foot slipped, went through a pane of glass, and as this startled him more, he made another ill-judged attempt, and, slipping, went through the top of the vinery, only saving himself from dropping down inside by spreading his arms across the rafters, and hanging, caught as if in a trap. "Here, just you come down!" Directly after the doctor appeared in the study window, and, closely followed by Helen, hurried toward the front of the vinery, where the gardener stood. CHAPTER NINE. A RELEASE. "Glad you've come, sir," said the old gardener, telling a tremendous fib. "Got one on 'em at last." "Got one of them?" cried the doctor. "Why--" "O papa dear! look!" cried Helen. "One of them nippers as is always stealing our fruit," continued Dan'l. "Why, Dexter," cried the doctor; "you there!" He stared wildly at the boy, who, with his legs kicking to and fro in the vinery in search of support, looked down from the roof of the building like a sculptured cherub, with arms instead of wings. "Yes, it's all right," said the boy coolly. "Ain't much on it broken," while Dan'l stared and scratched his head, as he felt that he had made some mistake. "You wicked boy!" cried Helen, with a good deal of excitement. "How did you get in such a position!" "I couldn't help it," said Dexter. "He chivied me all along the top o' the wall with that great stick, and there's another chap t'other side. He was at me too." "Is this true, Copestake!" cried the doctor angrily. "Well, yes, sir; I s'pose it is," said the gardener. "Me and Peter see him a-cuttin' his capers atop o' that wall, and when we told him to come down, he wouldn't, and fell through our vinery." "Who was going to come down when you was hitting at him with that big stick?" said Dexter indignantly. "You had no business atop of our wall," said the gardener stoutly. "And now look at the mischief you've done." "Tut--tut--tut--tut!" ejaculated the doctor. "Please, sir, I didn't know as he was any one you knew." "No, no, of course not," said the doctor pettishly. "Tut--tut--tut! Dear me! dear me!" "I say, ain't some one coming to help me down?" said Dexter, in an ill-used tone. "Yes, yes, of course," said the doctor. "Keep still, sir, or you'll cut yourself." "I have cut myself, and it's a-bleeding," said the boy. "Look here, if one of you goes inside this place, and holds up that big long prop, I can put my foot in the fork at the end, and climb up again." "Get a ladder quickly, Copestake, and call the groom." "Yes, sir," said Dan'l; and he went off grumbling, while the doctor seized the prop, and went into the vinery. "Are you much hurt, Dexter?" said Helen sympathisingly. "I d'know," he replied. "It hurts a bit. I slipped, and went through." "Now, sir, keep your legs still," cried the doctor from inside, as he raised the prop. "All right," said the boy, and the next moment one of his feet rested in the fork of the ash prop; but, though the prisoner struggled, and the doctor pushed, there was no result. "I wants some one to lend a hand up here," said Dexter. "If I try I shall break some more glass. Is that old chap coming back-- him as poked me!" "Yes, yes," cried Helen. "Keep still; there's a good boy." "No, I ain't," he said, smiling down at her in the most ludicrous way. "I ain't a good boy. I wish I was. Will he give it me very much?" He tapped with his hand on the glass, as he pointed down at the doctor, who was still supporting the boy's foot with the prop. Helen did not reply, for the simple reason that she did not know what to say; and the boy, feeling bound, was making a fresh struggle to free himself, when Dan'l came in sight, round the end of the house, with a light ladder, and just behind him came Peter, with a board used when glass was being repaired. "Here they come," said Dexter, watching the approach eagerly. "I am glad. It's beginning to hurt ever so." Dan'l laid the ladder against the vinery at some distance from the front, so that it should lie upon the roof at the same angle, and then, holding it steady, Peter, who was grinning largely, mounted with the board, which he placed across the rafters, so that he could kneel down, and, taking hold of Dexter, who clasped his hands about his neck, he bodily drew him out, and would have carried him down had the boy not preferred to get down by himself. As he reached the foot of the ladder the doctor was standing ready for him, armed with the clothes-prop, which he held in his hand, as if it were a weapon intended for punishment. The boy looked up in the stern face before him, and the doctor put on a tremendous frown. "Please, sir, I'm very sorry, sir," said Dexter. "You young rascal!" began the doctor, seizing his arm. "Oh, I say, please, sir, don't hit a fellow with a thing like that." "Bah!" ejaculated the doctor, throwing down the prop, which fell on the grass with a loud thud. "Copestake!--Peter!--take those things away, and send for the glazier to put in those squares. Here, Dexter; this way." The doctor strode away half a dozen steps, and then stopped and gazed down. "Where is your jacket, sir? and where are your boots?" "I tucked 'em under that tree there that lies on the grass," said the boy, pointing to a small cedar. "Fetch them out, sir." Dexter went toward the tree, and his first instinct was to make a dash and escape, anywhere, so as to avoid punishment, but as he stooped down and drew his articles of attire from beneath the broad frond-like branches, he caught sight of Helen's eyes fixed upon him, so full of trouble and amusement that he walked back, put his hand in the doctor's, and walked with him into the house. Helen followed, and as she passed through the window Dan'l turned to Peter with-- "I say, who is he?" "I dunno. Looks like a young invalid." "Ay, that's it," said the gardener. "Hair cut short, and looks very white. He's a young luneattic come for the governor to cure. Well, if that's going to be it, I shall resign my place." "Oh, I wouldn't do that," said Peter, who was moved to say it from the same feeling which induced the old woman to pray for long life to the tyrant--for fear they might get a worse to rule over them. "Doctor'll make him better. Rum-looking little chap." As they spoke, they were carrying the ladder and board round to the back of the house, and, in doing so, they had to pass the kitchen door, where Maria was standing. "See that game!" said Peter. "Oh yes. I saw him out of one of the bedroom windows." "Young patient, ain't he?" said Peter. "Patient! Why, he's a young workhouse boy as master's took a fancy to. I never see such games, for my part." Peter whistled, and the head-gardener repeated his determination to resign. "And he'll never get another gardener like me," he said. "That's a true word, Mr Copestake, sir," said Peter seriously. And then to himself: "No, there never was another made like you, you old tyrant. I wish you would go, and then we should have a little peace." CHAPTER TEN. DEXTER IS VERY SORRY. Dexter walked into the doctor's study, and Helen came as rearguard behind. "Now, sir," said the doctor sternly, "I suppose you know that I'm very much displeased with you." "Yes, sir, of course you are," said the boy seriously. "I don't wonder at it." Dr Grayson bit his lip. "Are you going to cane me?" "Wait and see, sir. Now, first thing, you go up to your room and wash your hands, and dress yourself properly. Then come down to me." Dexter glanced at Helen, but she kept her eyes averted, and the boy went slowly out, keeping his gaze fixed upon her all the time. "A young scamp!" said the doctor, as soon as they were alone. "I'm afraid I shall have to send him back." Helen looked at him. "I expected him to be a little wild," continued the doctor; "but he is beyond bearing. What do you say, my dear? Too bad, is he not?" Helen was silent for a few moments. "It is too soon to say that, papa," she replied at last. "There is a great deal in the boy that is most distasteful, but, on the other hand, I cannot help liking the little fellow." "Yes; that's just it," cried the doctor. "I feel as if I should like to give him a sound thrashing, but, at the same time, I feel that I could not raise a hand against him. What's to be done? Shall I send him back, and choose another?" "No, no, papa. If you intend to adopt a boy, let us keep this one, and see what he turns out." Just then the bell rang for lunch, and a minute after Dexter came running down into the room, with a smile, as if nothing was the matter, shining out of his eyes. "I say, wasn't that the dinner-bell?" he cried. "I am so precious hungry." "And have you no apologies to make, sir? Aren't you sorry you were so mischievous, and broke the top of my vinery?" "Yes; I'm very sorry, sir; but it was that old chap's fault. He made me run and slip. I say, what would he have done if he had caught me?" "Punished you, or brought you in to me, sir. Now, then, I've been talking about sending you back to the workhouse. You are too mischievous for me." "Send me back!" "Yes, of course. I want a boy who will be good." "Well, I will." "So you said before, but you are not good. You are about as mischievous a young rascal as I ever saw in my life." "Yes, sir; that's what Mr Sibery used to say," replied the boy quietly. "I don't want to be." "Then why are you, sir?" The boy shook his head, and looked up at the doctor thoughtfully. "I suppose it's in me," he said. Helen bit her lip, and turned away, while her father gave his head a fierce rub, as if he was extremely vexed. "Shall you send me back, sir!" said Dexter at last; and his look was full of wistful appeal. "Well, I shall think about it," said the doctor. "I don't want to go," said the boy thoughtfully. "You don't want me to go, do you?" he continued, turning to Helen. "Here, the lunch is getting cold," said the doctor. "Come along." As he spoke he half-pushed Dexter before him, and pointed to a chair. The boy hesitated, but a sharp command from the doctor made him scuffle into his place, after which the grace was said, and the dinner commenced for Dexter--the lunch for his patron and friend. Roast fowl most delicately cooked, with a delicious sauce; in addition to that made with bread; and there was an ornamentation round the dish of tempting sausages. The odour from the steaming dishes was enough to have attracted any coarsely-fed workhouse boy, just as a flower, brings a bee from afar. Helen was helped to a couple of choice slices from the breast, and then the doctor, looking stern all the while, carved off the liver wing, with a fine long piece of juicy breast adhering, and laid it on a plate, with the biggest sausage, gravy, and sauce, Maria carrying the plate afterwards to Helen to be well supplied with vegetables. Then, according to custom, Maria departed with her nose in the air, and her bosom overcharged with indignant remonstrances, which she was going to let off at Mrs Millett. The meal was commenced in silence, Dexter taking up his knife and fork, and watching by turns the doctor and Helen, to see how they handled theirs. Then he cut the sausage in half, just as the doctor had cut his, and looked hard at him, but the doctor was gazing down at his plate and frowning. Dexter looked at Helen, but she was gazing at her father, and everything was very still in the dining-room, while from without, faintly heard, there came the rippling song of a lark, far away over the meadow across the river. That fowl smelt delicious, and looked good in the extreme, but Dexter laid down his knife and fork, and sat perfectly still. Helen saw everything, but she did not speak, and the annoyance she had felt began to diminish, for the boy was evidently suffering keenly. "Hallo!" said the doctor. "Don't you like chicken!" The boy started, and looked up at him with a troubled face. "I say, don't you like chicken, sir!" Dexter tried to answer, but the words would not come; and he sat there with the tears gathering in his eyes, though he tried hard to choke his emotion down. The doctor was very angry, and sadly disappointed; but he said no more, only went on with his lunch. "Eat your dinner," said Helen, after a time; and she leant over toward the boy, and whispered the words kindly. He gave her a quick, grateful look, but he could not speak. "Come, sir, eat your dinner," said the doctor at last. "Please, sir, I can't," the boy faltered. "Why not?" Dexter had to make another fight to keep down his tears before he could say-- "Please, sir, I never could eat my breakfast when I knew I was going to have the cane." The doctor grunted, frowned, and went on eating, while the boy directed a pitiful appealing look at Helen. "Yes," she said at last, "what do you want?" "May I go up to that place where I slept last night?" Helen glanced at her father, who nodded shortly, and went on with his dinner, while the required permission being given by Helen, the boy rose hastily, and hurried out of the room. Doctor Grayson was silent for a few minutes, and then he took a glass of sherry. "A young scoundrel!" he said. "It's not pleasant to have to say so, but I've made a mistake." "And are you going to give up your project, papa?" said Helen. "_No_," he thundered. "Certainly not. It's very awkward, for that bullet-headed drill-sergeant Hippetts will laugh at me, and say `I told you so,' but I shall have to take the boy back." Helen was silent. "He told me I should," he continued; "but I would not believe him. The young dog's face attracted me. He looked so frank and ingenuous. But I'll soon pick out another. My theory is right, and if I have ten thousand obstacles, I'll carry it out, and prove to the world that I knew what I was at." Helen went on slowly with her lunch, thinking deeply the while. "Well?" said the doctor angrily, "why don't you speak? Are you triumphing over my first downfall!" Helen looked up at her father, and smiled reproachfully. "I was thinking about Dexter," she said softly. "A confounded ungrateful young dog! Taken him from that wretched place, clothed him, offered him a home of which he might be proud, and he turns upon me like that!" "It was the act of a high-spirited, mischievous boy," said Helen quietly. "Mischievous! I should think it was. Confound him! But I'll have no more of his tricks. Back he goes to the Union, and I'll have one without so much spirit." Helen continued her lunch, and the doctor went on with his, but only to turn pettishly upon his child. "I wish to goodness you'd say something, Helen," he cried. "It's so exasperating to have every one keeping silence like that." Helen looked up and smiled. "Yes, and that's just as aggravating," said the doctor. "Now you are laughing at me." "No, no; I was thinking very seriously about your project." "One which I mean to carry out, madam." "Of course, papa," said Helen quietly; "but I would not be damped at the outset." "What do you mean, Helen?" "I mean that I should not take that poor boy back to the life from which you have rescued him, just because he has displayed a few pranks, all due to the exuberance of his nature. Coming from such a place, and making such a change, he is sure to feel it strongly. He is, so to speak, bubbling over with excitement and--" "Here, stop a moment," said the doctor, in astonishment. "I give up. You had better write that book." "Not I, papa dear," said Helen, smiling. "And if you are really bent upon this experiment--" "And I am," said the doctor. "Nothing shall change me." "Then I think you have selected the very boy." "You do!" said the doctor excitedly. "Yes. He is just the wild little savage for you to reclaim." "But--but a little too bad, Helen?" "No, papa, I think not; and I think you are not justified in saying bad. I believe he is a very good boy." "You do?" "Yes; full of mischief as a boy can be, but very, very affectionate." "Yes. I think he is," assented the doctor. "I think he will be very teachable." "Humph!" "And it was plain to see that he was touched to the heart with grief at our anger." "Or is it all his artfulness!" "Oh no, papa! Certainly not that. The boy is frank and affectionate as can be." "Then you think it is possible to make a gentleman of him?" "If it is possible of any boy whom you could get from the Union, papa." "And you really think he is frank and tender-hearted?" Helen pointed to the boy's untouched plate. "And you would not exchange him for something a little more tractable?" "I don't think you could. I really begin to like the mischievous little fellow, and I believe that in a very short time we should see a great change." "You do?" "Yes; but of course we must be prepared for a great many more outbreaks of this kind." "Unless I stop them." "No, no, you must not stop them," said Helen quietly. "These little ebullitions must not be suppressed in that way--I mean with undue severity." "Then you really would not take--I mean send him back?" "No," said Helen. "I think, perhaps, I could help you in all this." "My dear Helen," cried the doctor eagerly. "My dear child, you don't know how pleased you make me. I felt that for your sake I must take him back." "For my sake?" exclaimed Helen. "Yes; that it was too bad to expose you to the petty annoyances and troubles likely to come from keeping him. But if you feel that you could put up with it till we have tamed him down--" Helen rose from her chair, and went behind her father's, to lay her hands upon his shoulders, when he took them in his, and crossed them upon his breast, so as to draw her face down over his shoulder. "My dear father," she said, as she laid her cheek against his, "I don't know--I cannot explain, but this boy seems to have won his way with me very strangely, and I should be deeply grieved if you sent him away." "My dear Helen, you've taken a load off my mind. There, go and fetch the poor fellow down. He wanted his dinner two hours ago, and he must be starved." Helen kissed her father's forehead, and went quietly up to Dexter's room, listened for a few moments, heard a low sob, and then, softly turning the handle of the door, she entered, to stand there, quite taken aback. The boy was crouched in a heap on the floor, sobbing silently, and with his breast heaving with the agony of spirit he suffered. For that she was prepared, but the tears rose in her eyes as she grasped another fact. There, neatly folded and arranged, just as the Union teaching had prompted him, were the clothes the boy had worn that day, even to the boots placed under the chair, upon which they lay, while the boy had taken out and dressed himself again in his old workhouse livery, his cap lying on the floor by his side. Helen crossed to him softly, bent over him, and laid her little white hand upon his head. The boy sprang to his feet as if he had felt a blow, and stood before her with one arm laid across his eyes, as, in shame for his tears, he bent his head. "Dexter," she said again, "what are you going to do?" "Going back again," he said hoarsely. "I'm such a bad un. They always said I was." "And is that the way to make yourself better?" "I can't help it," he said, half defiantly. "It's no use to try, and I'm going back." "To grieve me, and make me sorry that I have been mistaken?" "Yes," he said huskily, and with his arm still across his eyes. "I'm going back, and old Sibery may cut me to pieces," he added passionately. "I don't care." "Look up at me, Dexter," said Helen gently, as she laid her hand upon the boy's arm. "Tell me," she continued, "which will you do?--go back, or try to be a good boy, and do what you know I wish you to do, and stay!" He let her arm fall, gazed wildly in her eyes, and then caught her hand and dropped upon his knees, sobbing passionately. "I will try; I will try," he cried, as soon as he could speak. "Take me down to him, and let him cane me, and I won't cry out a bit. I'll take it all like Bill Jones does, and never make a sound, but don't, don't send me away." Helen Grayson softly sank upon her knees beside the boy, and took him in her arms to kiss him once upon the forehead. "There, Dexter," she said gently, as she rose. "Now bathe your eyes, dress yourself again, and come downstairs to me in the dining-room, as quickly as you can." Helen went to her own room for a few moments to bathe her own eyes, and wonder how it was that she should be so much moved, and in so short a time. The doctor was anxiously awaiting her return. "Well!" he said; "where is the young scamp!" "In his room," replied Helen, "and--" "Well--well!" said the doctor impatiently. "Oh no, father dear," said Helen quietly, but with more emotion in her voice than even she knew. "We must not send him back." Then she told what had passed, and the doctor nodded his head. "No," he said; "we must not send him back." Just then there was a knock at the door, and Maria entered to clear away. "Not yet, Maria," said Helen quietly. "Take that chicken back, and ask Mrs Millett to make it hot again." "And the vegetables, ma'am!" "Yes. I will ring when we want them." Maria took the various dishes away with a very ill grace, and dabbed them down on the kitchen table, almost hard enough to produce cracks, as she delivered her message to Mrs Millett, who looked annoyed. "You can do as you please, Mrs Millett," said Maria, giving herself a jerk as if a string inside her had been pulled; "but I'm a-going to look out for a new place." CHAPTER ELEVEN. MASTER GRAYSON GOES FOR A WALK. "Couldn't have believed it," said the doctor one evening, when a week had passed away. "It's wonderful." Helen smiled. "A whole week, and the young dog's behaviour has been even better than I could wish. Well, it's very hopeful, and I am extremely glad, Helen, extremely glad." Helen said nothing, but she thought a good deal, and, among other things, she wondered how Dexter would have behaved if he had been left to himself. Consequently, she felt less sanguine than the doctor. The fact was that she had given up everything to devote the whole of her time to the boy, thus taking care that he was hardly ever left to himself. She read to him, and made him read to her, and battled hard to get him out of his schoolboy twang. Taken by his bright, handsome face, and being clever with her brush, she had made him sit while she painted his likeness; that is, she tried to make him sit, but it was like dealing with so much quicksilver, and she was fain to give up the task as an impossibility after scolding, coaxing, and bribing, coming to the conclusion that the boy could not keep still. She played games with him; and at last risked public opinion very bravely by taking the boy out with her for a walk, when one of the first persons she met was Lady Danby. "I say, what did she mean!" said Dexter, as they walked away. "That lady--Lady Danby!" "Yes. Why did she look sorry for me, and call me a _protege_?" "Oh," said Helen, smiling; "it is only a French word for any one who is adopted or protected, as papa is protecting you." "But is it a funny word!" "Funny? Oh dear no!" "Then why did she laugh, curious like?" Helen could not answer that question. "She looked at me," said Dexter, "as if she didn't like me. I've seen ladies look like that when they've come to see the schools, and us boy's used to feel as if we'd like to throw slates at them." "You have no occasion to trouble yourself about other people's opinions, Dexter," said Helen quietly; "and of course now you couldn't throw stones or anything else at a lady." "No; but I could at a boy. I could hit that chap ever so far off. Him as was with that Lady Danby." "Oh, nonsense! come along; we'll go down by the river." "Yes; come along," cried Dexter excitedly; "but I don't see why he should sneer at me for nothing." "What? Master Danby!" "Yes, him. All the time you two were talking, he kept walking round me, and making faces as if I was physic." "You fancied it, Dexter." "Oh no, I didn't. I know when anybody likes me, and when anybody doesn't. Lady Danby didn't like me, and she give a sneery laugh when she called me a _protege_, and when you weren't looking that chap made an offer at me with the black cane he carried, that one with a silver top and black tassels." "Did he?" "Didn't he just! I only wish he had. I'd ha' given him such a oner. Why, I could fight two like him with one hand tied behind me." Helen's face grew cloudy with trouble, but she said nothing then, only hurried the boy along toward the river. In spite of her determination she avoided the town main street, and struck off by the narrow turning which led through the old churchyard, with its grand lime-tree avenue and venerable church, whose crocketed spire was a landmark for all the southern part of the county. "Look, look!" cried Dexter. "See those jackdaws fly out? There's one sitting on that old stone face. See me fetch him down." "No, no," cried Helen, catching his arm. "You might break a window." "No, I wouldn't. You see." "But why throw at the poor bird? It has done you no harm." "No, but it's a jackdaw, and you always want to throw stones at jackdaws." "And at blackbirds and thrushes and starlings too, Dexter?" said Helen. The boy looked guilty. "You didn't see me throw at them?" "Yes, I did, and I thought it very cruel." "Don't you like me to throw stones at the birds?" "Certainly I do not." "Then I won't," said Dexter; and he took aim with the round stone he carried at the stone urn on the top of a tomb, hitting it with a sounding crack. "There, wasn't that a good aim!" he said, with a smile of triumph. "It couldn't hurt that. That wasn't cruel." Helen turned crimson with annoyance, for she had suddenly become aware of the fact that a gentleman, whom she recognised as the Vicar, was coming along the path quickly, having evidently seen the stone-throwing. She was quite right in her surmise. It was the Vicar; and not recognising her with her veil down, he strode toward them, making up an angry speech. "Ah, Miss Grayson," he said, raising his hat, and ceasing to make his stick quiver in his hand, "I did not recognise you." Then followed the customary hand-shakings and inquiries, during which Dexter hung back, and gazed up at the crocketed spire, and at the jackdaws flying in and out of the slits which lit the stone staircase within. "And who is this?" said the Vicar, raising his glasses to his eyes, but knowing perfectly well all the time, he having been one of the first to learn of the doctor's eccentricity. "Ah, to be sure; Doctor Grayson's _protege_. Yes, I remember him perfectly well, and I suppose you remember me!" "Yes, I remember you," said Dexter. "You called me a stupid boy because I couldn't say all of _I desire_." "Did I? Ah, to be sure, I remember. Well, but you are not stupid now. I dare say, if I asked you, you would remember every word." "Don't think I could," said the boy; "it's the hardest bit in the Cat." "But I'm not going to ask you," said the Vicar. "Miss Grayson here will examine you, I'm sure. There, good day. Good day, Miss Grayson;" and, to Helen's great relief, he shook hands with both. "And I'm to ask you not to throw stones in the churchyard," he added, shaking his stick playfully. "My windows easily break." He nodded and smiled again, as Helen and her young companion went on, watching them till they had passed through the further gate and disappeared. "A mischievous young rascal!" he said to himself. "I believe I should have given him the stick if it had been anybody else." As he said this, he walked down a side path which led past the tomb that had formed Dexter's target. "I dare say he has chipped the urn," he continued, feeling exceedingly vexed, as a Vicar always does when he finds any wanton defacement of the building and surroundings in his charge. "No," he said aloud, and in a satisfied tone, "unhurt. But tut--tut-- tut--tut! what tiresome young monkeys boys are!" He turned back, and went thoughtfully toward the town. "Singular freak on the part of Grayson. Most eccentric man," he continued. "Danby tells me--now really what a coincidence! Sir James, by all that is singular! Ah, my dear Sir James, I was thinking about you. Ah, Edgar, my boy, how are you?" He shook hands warmly with the magistrate and his son. "Thinking about me, eh!" said Sir James, rather pompously. "Then I'll be bound to say that I can tell you what you are thinking." "No, I believe I may say for certain you cannot," said the Vicar, smiling. "Of calling on me for a subscription." "Wrong this time," said the Vicar good-humouredly. "No; I have just met Miss Grayson with that boy." "Indeed!" "Yes; very eccentric of Grayson, is it not!" "Whim for a week or two. Soon get tired of it," said Sir James, laughing. "Think so?" "Sure of it, sir; sure of it." "Well, I hope not," said the Vicar thoughtfully. "Fine thing for the poor boy. Make a man of him." "Ah, but he is not content with that. He means to make a gentleman of him, and that's an impossibility." "Ah, well," said the Vicar good-humouredly; "we shall see." "Yes, sir," said Sir James; "we shall see--we shall see; but it's a most unpleasant episode in our midst. Of course, being such near neighbours, I have been on the most intimate terms with the Graysons, and Lady Danby is warmly attached to Helen Grayson; but now they have this boy there, they want us to know him too." "Indeed!" said the Vicar, looking half-amused, half puzzled. "Yes, sir," said Sir James; "and they want--at least Grayson does--Edgar here to become his playmate." "Ah!" ejaculated the Vicar. "Sent word yesterday that they should be glad if Edgar would go and spend the afternoon. Awkward, sir; extremely awkward." "Did he go?" "Go? no, sir; decidedly not. Edgar refused to go, point-blank." Master Edgar was walking a little way in front, looking like a small edition of his father in a short jacket, for he imitated Sir James's stride, put on his tall hat at the same angle, and carried his black cane with its two silken tassels in front of him, as a verger in church carries a wand. "I wasn't going," said Master Edgar importantly. "I don't want to know a boy like that." "What would you do under the circumstances?" said Sir James. "Do?" said the Vicar; "why I should--I beg your pardon--will you excuse me? I am wanted." He pointed to a lady who was signalling to him with a parasol, and hurried off. "How lucky!" he said to himself. "I don't want to offend Sir James; but 'pon my word, knowing what I do of his young cub, I would rather have Grayson's _protege_ on spec." "Where are we going for a walk, pa!" said Master Edgar importantly. "Through the quarry there, and by the windmill, and back home." "_No_; I meant to go down by the river, pa, to see if there are any fish." "Another day will do for that, Eddy." "No, it won't. I want to go now." "Oh, very well," said Sir James; and they took the way to the meadows. Meanwhile Helen and Dexter had gone on some distance ahead. "There, you see, Dexter; how easy it is to do wrong," said Helen, as, feeling greatly relieved, she hurried on toward the meadows. "I didn't know it was doing wrong to have a cockshy," said Dexter. "Seems to me that nearly everything nice that you want to do is wrong." "Oh no," said Helen, smiling at the boy's puzzled face. "Seems like it," said Dexter. "I say, he was going to scold me, only he found I was with you, and that made him stop. Wish I hadn't thrown the stone." "So do I," said Helen quickly. "Come, you have broken yourself off several bad habits this last week, and I shall hope soon to find that you have stopped throwing stones." "But mayn't I throw anything else?" "Oh yes; your ball." "But I haven't got a ball." "Then you shall have one," said Helen. "We'll buy one as we go back. There, it was a mistake, Dexter, so remember not to do it again." They were now on the banks of the glancing river, the hay having been lately cut, and the way open right to the water's edge. "Yes, I'll remember," said Dexter. "Look--look at the fish. Oh, don't I wish I had a rod and line! Here, wait a moment." He was down on his chest, reaching with his hand in the shallow water. "Why, Dexter," said Helen, laughing, "you surely did not think that you could catch fishes with your hand!" "No," said the boy, going cautiously forward and striking an attitude; "but you see me hit one." As he spoke he threw a large round pebble which he had picked out of the river-bed with great force, making the water splash up, while, instead of sinking, the stone skipped from the surface, dipped again, and then disappeared. As the stone made its last splash, the reality of what he had done seemed to come to him, and he turned scarlet as he met Helen's eyes. "Dexter!" she said reproachfully. The boy took off his cap, looked in it, rubbed his closely cropped head in a puzzled way, and put his cap slowly on again, to stand once more gazing at his companion. "I can't tell how it is," he said dolefully. "I think there must be something wrong in my head. It don't go right. I never mean to do what you don't like, but somehow I always do." "Look there, Dexter," said Helen quickly; "those bullocks seem vicious; we had better go back." She pointed to a drove of bullocks which had been put in the newly-cut meadows by one of the butchers in the town, and the actions of the animals were enough to startle any woman, for, being teased by the flies, they were careering round the field with heads down and tails up, in a lumbering gallop, and approaching the spot where the couple stood. They were down by the water, both the stile they had crossed and that by which they would leave the meadow about equidistant, while, as the bullocks were making straight for the river to wade in, and try to rid themselves of their torment, it seemed as if they were charging down with serious intent. "Come: quick! let us run," cried Helen in alarm, and she caught at Dexter's hand. "What! run away from them!" cried the boy stoutly. "Don't you be afraid of them. You come along." "No, no," cried Helen; "it is not safe." But, to her horror, Dexter shook himself free, snatched off his cap, and rushed straight at the leading bullock, a great heavy beast with long horns, and now only fifty yards away, while the drove were close at its heels. The effect was magical. No sooner did the great animal see the boy running forward than it stopped short, and began to paw up the ground and shake its head, the drove following the example of their leader, while, to Helen, as she stood motionless with horror, it seemed as if the boy's fate was sealed. For a few moments the bullock stood fast, but by the time Dexter was within half a dozen yards, he flung his cap right in the animal's face, and, with a loud snort, it turned as on a pivot, and dashed off toward the upper part of the field, now driving the whole of the rest before it. "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Dexter, picking up his cap, and coming back panting. "That's the way to serve them. Come along." Helen was very white, but the colour began to come in her cheeks again as she saw the boy's bright, frank, animated face; and, as they crossed the second stile, and rambled on through the pleasant meads, it began to dawn upon her that perhaps it would not prove to be so unpleasant a task after all to tame the young savage placed in her hands. CHAPTER TWELVE. A PLEASANT LESSON. One minute Helen Grayson was delighted at the freshness of nature, and the genuine delight and enthusiasm displayed by her companion, the next there came quite a cloud over everything, for it seemed to her that here was a bright young spirit corroded and spoiled by the surroundings to which it had been accustomed. "What's that? What flower's this? Oh, look at that butterfly! Here, Miss Grayson, see here--a long thin fly with his body all blue; and such lovely wings. There's another with purple edges to it. Oh, how lovely!" Helen's eyes brightened, and she began to enjoy her walk, and forget the stone-throwing, when Dexter damped her enjoyment. "Oh, here's a lark!" he cried, plunging down into a ditch, and reappearing after a hunt in the long wet grass with a large greenish frog. "What have you found, Dexter!" "A jolly old frog. Look here; I'll show you how the boys do up there at the House." "I think you had better not," said Helen, wincing. "But it's such a game. You get a flat piece of wood, about so long, and you lay it across a stone. Then you set the frog on one end, and perhaps he hops off. If he does, you catch him again, and put him on the end of the wood over and over again till he sits still, and he does when he is tired. Then you have a stick ready, as if you were going to play at cat, and you hit the end of the stick--" "Oh!" ejaculated Helen. "I don't mean the end where the frog is," cried Dexter quickly, as he saw Helen's look of disgust; "I mean the other end; and then the frog flies up in the air ever so high, and kicks out his legs as if he was swimming, and--" Dexter began his description in a bright, animated way, full of gesticulation; but as he went on the expression in his companion's face seemed to chill him. He did not understand what it meant, only he felt that he was doing or saying something which was distasteful; and he gradually trailed off, and stood staring with his narrative unfinished, and the frog in his hand. "Could you do that now, Dexter!" said Helen suddenly. "Do it?" he faltered. "Yes; with the frog." "I haven't got a bit of flat wood, and I have no stick, and if I had-- I--you--I--" He stopped short, with his head on one side, and his brows puckered up, gazing into Helen's eyes. Then he looked down, at the frog, and back at Helen. "You don't mean it?" he said sharply. "You don't want me to? I know: you mean it would hurt the frog." "Would it hurt you, Dexter, if somebody put you on one end of a plank, and then struck the other end!" The boy took off his cap and scratched his head with his little finger, the others being closed round the frog, which was turned upside down. "The boys always used to do it up at the House," he said apologetically. "Why!" said Helen gravely. "Because it was such fun; but they always made them hop well first. They'd begin by taking great long jumps, and then, as the boys hunted them, the jumps would get shorter and shorter, and they'd be so tired that it was easy to make them sit still on the piece of wood." "And when they had struck the wood, and driven it into the air, what did they do to the poor thing then?" "Sent it up again." "And then?" "Oh, they caught it--some of the boys did--caught it like a ball." "Have you ever done so?" Dexter shuffled about from foot to foot, and looked at the prospect, then at the frog, and then slowly up at the clear, searching eyes watching him. "Yes," he said, with a sigh; "lots of times." "And was it to save the poor thing from being hurt by the fall on the hard ground!" Dexter tried hard to tell a lie, but somehow he could not. "No," he said slowly. "It was to put it back on the stick, so as the other boys could not catch it first." "What was done then!" Dexter was silent, and he seemed to be taking a wonderful deal of interest in the frog, which was panting hard in his hot hand, with only its comical face peeping out between his finger and thumb, the bright golden irised eyes seeming to stare into his, and the loose skin of its throat quivering. "Well, Dexter, why don't you tell me!" "Am I to?" said the boy slowly. "Of course." There were a few more moments of hesitation, and then the boy said with an effort-- "They used--" He paused again. "We used to get lots of stones and shy at 'em till they was dead." There was a long silence here, during which Helen Grayson watched the play in the boy's countenance, and told herself that there was a struggle going on between the good and evil in the young nature, and once more she asked herself how she could hesitate in the task before her. Meanwhile it was very uncomfortable for the frog. The day was hot; Dexter's hand was hotter still; and though there was the deliciously cool gurgling river close at hand, with plenty of sedge, and the roots of water grasses, where it might hide and enjoy its brief span of life, it was a prisoner; and if frogs can think and know anything about the chronicles of their race, it was thinking of its approaching fate, and wondering how many of its young tadpoles would survive to be as big as its parent, and whether it was worth while after all. "Dexter," said Helen suddenly, and her voice sounded so clear and thrilling that the boy started, and looked at her in a shame-faced manner. "Suppose you saw a boy--say like--like--" "That chap we saw with the hat and stick? him who sneered at me?" Helen winced in turn. She had young Edgar Danby in her mind, but was about to propose some other young lad for her illustration; but the boy had divined her thought, and she did not shrink now from the feeling that above all things she must be frank if she wished her companion to be. "Yes; young Danby. Suppose you saw him torturing a frog, a lowly reptile, but one of God's creatures, in that cruel way, what would you say, now?" "I should say he was a beast." Helen winced again, for the declaration was more emphatic and to the point than she had anticipated. "And what would you do?" he continued. "I'd punch his head, and take the frog away from him. Please, Miss Grayson," he continued earnestly; "I didn't ever think it was like that. We always used to do it--we boys always did, and--and--" "You did not know then what you know now. Surely, Dexter, you will never be so cruel again." "If you don't want me to, I won't," he said quickly. "Ah, but I want you to be frank and manly for a higher motive than that, Dexter," she said, laying her hand upon his shoulder. "There, I will not say any more now. What are you going to do!" "Put him in the river, and let him swim away." The boy darted to the side of the rippling stream, stooped down, and lowered the hand containing the frog into the water, opened it, and for a moment or two the half-dead reptile sat there motionless. Then there was a vigorous kick, and it shot off into the clear water, diving right down among the water weeds, and disappearing from their view. "There!" said Dexter, jumping up and looking relieved. "You are not cross with me now!" "I have not been cross with you," she said; "only a little grieved." "Couldn't he swim!" cried the boy, who was anxious to turn the conversation. "I can swim like that, and dive too. We learned in our great bath, and--Oh, I say, hark at the bullocks." Helen listened, and could hear a low, muttering bellow in the next meadow, accompanied by the dull sounds of galloping hoofs, which were near enough to make the earth of the low, marshy bottom through which the river ran quiver slightly where they stood. Just then there was a piercing shriek, as of a woman in peril, and directly after a man's voice heard shouting for help. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. RAMPANT BEEF. "Here's something the matter!" cried Dexter; and, forgetting everything in the excitement of the moment, he ran back as hard as he could tear to the footpath leading to the stile they had crossed, the high untrimmed hedge between the fields concealing what was taking place. Helen followed quickly, feeling certain the while that the drove of bullocks in the next meadow were the cause of the trouble and alarm. Dexter reached the stile far in advance; and when at last Helen attained to the same post of observation, it was to see Sir James Danby at the far side standing upon the next stile toward the town, shouting, and frantically waving his hat and stick, while between her and the stout baronet there was the drove of bullocks, and Dexter approaching them fast. For a few moments Helen could not understand what was the matter, but directly after, to her horror, she saw that young Edgar Danby was on the ground, with one of the bullocks standing over him, smelling at the prostrate boy, and apparently trying to turn him over with one of its horns. "Here! Hi!" shouted Dexter; "bring me your stick." But Sir James, who had been chased by the leading bullock, was breathless, exhausted, and too nervous to attempt his son's rescue. All he seemed capable of doing was to shout hoarsely, and this he did more feebly every moment. Dexter made a rush at the bullocks, and the greater part of the drove turned tail; but, evidently encouraged by its success, the leader of the little herd stood firm, tossed its head on high, shook its horns, and uttered a defiant bellow. "Here, I can't do anything without a stick," said Dexter, in an ill-used tone, and he turned and ran toward Sir James, while, still more encouraged by what must have seemed to its dense brain like a fresh triumph, the bullock placed one of its horns under Edgar Danby and cleverly turned him right over. "Here, give me your stick!" shouted Dexter, as he ran up to Sir James. "You shouldn't be afraid o' them." "The boy will be killed," cried Sir James, in agony; and he shouted again, "Help! help!" "No, he won't," cried Dexter, snatching the magistrate's heavy ebony stick from his hand. "I'll make 'em run." Raising the stick in the air, Dexter ran toward where the whole drove were trotting back, and gathering round their leader, who now began to sing its war-song, throwing up its muzzle so as to straighten its throat, and emitting a bellow that was, in spite of its size, but a poor, feeble imitation of the roar of a lion. As Dexter ran up, the drove stood firm for a few moments; then the nearest to him arched its back, curved its tail, executed a clumsy gambol, turned, and fled, the rest taking their cues from this, the most timid in the herd, and going off in a lumbering gallop, their heads now down, and their tails rigid, excepting a few inches, and the hairy tuft at the end. But the leader stood fast, and shaking its head, bellowed, looked threatening, and lowering one of its long horns, thrust it into the earth, and began to plough up the soft, moist soil. "Oh, you would, would you?" cried Dexter, who did not feel in the slightest degree alarmed, from ignorance probably more than bravery; and, dashing in, he struck out with the ebony stick so heavy a blow upon the end of the horn raised in the air that the ebony snapped in two, and the bullock, uttering a roar of astonishment and pain, swung round, and galloped after its companions, which were now facing round at the top of the field. "Broke his old stick," said Dexter, as he bent over Edgar. "Here, I say; get up. They're gone now. You ain't hurt." Hurt or no, Edgar did not hear him, but lay there with his clothes soiled, and his tall hat trampled on by the drove, and crushed out of shape. "I say," said Dexter, shaking him; "why don't you get up?" Poor Edgar made no reply, for he was perfectly insensible and cadaverous of hue. "Here! Hi! Come here!" cried Dexter, rising and waving his hands, first to Helen, and then to Sir James. "They won't hurt you. Come on." The effect of the boy's shout was to make the spot where he now knelt down by Edgar Danby the centre upon which the spectators sought to gather. Helen set off first; Sir James, feeling very nervous, followed her example; and the drove of bullocks, with quivering tails and moistening nostrils, also began to trot back, while Dexter got one arm beneath the insensible boy, and tried hard to lift him, and carry him to the stile nearest the town. But the Union diet had not supplied him with sufficient muscle, and after getting the boy well on his shoulder, and staggering along a few paces, he stopped. "Oh, I say," he muttered; "ain't he jolly heavy?" A bellow from the leader of the bullocks made Dexter look round, and take in the position, which was that the drove were again approaching, and that this combined movement had had the effect of making Helen and Sir James both stop some forty yards away. "Here, come on!" cried Dexter. "I'll see as they don't hurt you." And Helen obeyed; but Sir James hesitated, till, having somewhat recovered his nerve, and moved by shame at seeing a young girl and a boy perform what was naturally his duty, he came on slowly, and with no little trepidation, toward where Dexter was waiting with his son. "That's right!" cried Dexter. "Come along. You come and carry him. I ain't strong enough. I'll soon send them off." The situation was ludicrous enough, and Sir James was angry with himself; but all the same there was the nervous trepidation to overcome, and it was a very hard fight. "Let me try and help you carry him," said Helen quickly. "No, no; you can't," cried the boy. "Let him. Oh, don't I wish I'd got a stick. Here, ketch hold." This last was to Sir James, whose face looked mottled as he came up. He obeyed the boy's command, though: took his son in his arms, and began to retreat with Helen toward the stile. Meanwhile the bullocks were coming on in their customary stupid way. "That's right; you go, sir," cried Dexter. "I'll talk to them," and, to Helen's horror, he went down on his hands and knees and ran at the drove, imitating the barking of a dog, not very naturally, but sufficiently true to life to make the drove turn tail again and gallop off, their flight being hastened by the flight of Edgar's damaged hat, which Dexter picked up and sent flying after them, and spinning through the air like a black firework till it dropped. "'Tain't no good now," said the boy, laughing to himself; "and never was much good. Only done for a cockshy. I'll take them back, though." This last was in allusion to the broken stick, which he picked up, and directly after found Master Edgar's tasselled cane, armed with which he beat a retreat toward the group making for the stile, with Helen beckoning to him to come. The bullocks made one more clumsy charge down, but the imitation dog got up by Dexter was enough to check them, and the stile was crossed in safety just as a butcher's man in blue, followed by a big rough dog, came in sight. Sir James was at first too indignant and too much upset to speak to the man. "It's of no use, Miss Grayson," he said, "but his master shall certainly be summoned for this. How dare he place those ferocious bulls in a field through which there is a right of way? O my poor boy! my poor boy! He's dead!--he's dead!" "He ain't," said Dexter sharply. "Shall I carry him, sir?" said the butcher's man, forgetful of the fact that he would come off terribly greasy on the helpless boy's black clothes. "No, man," cried Sir James. "Go and watch over those ferocious beasts, and see that they do not injure any one else." "Did they hurt him, sir!" said the man eagerly. "Hurt him! Look," cried Sir James indignantly. "He ain't hurt," said Dexter sturdily. "Only frightened. There was a chap at our school used to go like that. He's fainting, that's what he is doing. You lay him down, and wait till I come back." Dexter ran to the river, and, without a moment's hesitation, plunged in his new cap, and brought it back, streaming and dripping, with as much water as he could scoop up. Too nervous even to oppose the boy's order, Sir James had lowered his son to the ground, and, as he lay on the grass, Helen bathed and splashed his face with the water, till it was gone. "I'll soon fetch some more," cried Dexter. But it was not needed, for just then Edgar opened his eyes, looked wildly round, as if not comprehending where he was, and then exclaimed with a sob-- "Where's the bull?" "Hush! hush! my boy; you are safe now; thanks to the bravery of this gallant lad." Dexter puckered up his forehead and stared. "Where's my hat!" cried Edgar piteously. "Scrunched," said Dexter shortly. "Bullocks trod on it." "And my silver-topped cane!" "There it lies on the grass," said Dexter, stooping down and picking it up. "Oh, look at my jacket and my trousers," cried Edgar. "What a mess I'm in!" "Never mind, my boy; we will soon set that right," said Sir James. "There, try and stand up. If you can walk home it will be all the better now." "The brutes!" cried Edgar, with a passionate burst of tears. "Do you feel hurt anywhere?" said Helen kindly. "I don't know," said the boy faintly, as he rose and took his father's arm. "Can I help you, Sir James?" said Helen. "No, no, my dear Miss Grayson, we are so near home, and we will go in by the back way, so as not to call attention. I can never thank you sufficiently for your kindness, nor this brave boy for his gallantry. Good-bye. Edgar is better now. Good-bye." He shook hands warmly with both. "Shake hands with Miss Grayson, Eddy," said Sir James, while the butcher's man sat on the stile and lit his pipe. Edgar obeyed. "Now with your gallant preserver," said Sir James. Edgar, who looked extremely damp and limp, put out a hand unwillingly, and Dexter just touched it, and let his own fall. "You shall hear from me again, my man," said Sir James, now once more himself; and he spoke with great dignity. "Good day, Miss Grayson, and thanks." He went on quickly with his son, while Helen and Dexter took another footpath, leading to a stile which opened upon the road. As they reached this, Dexter laid his arm upon the top rail, and his forehead upon his wrist. "What is the matter, Dexter?" cried Helen, in alarm. "Nothing: I was only laughing," said the boy, whose shoulders were shaking with suppressed mirth. "Laughing?" "Yes. What a game! They were both afraid of the bullocks, and you've only got to go right at 'em, and they're sure to run." "I think you behaved very bravely, Dexter," said Helen warmly; "and as I've scolded you sometimes, it is only fair that when I can I ought to praise. You were very brave indeed." "Tchah! that isn't being brave," said the boy, whose face was scarlet. "Why, anybody could scare a few bullocks." "Yes, but anybody would not," said Helen, smiling. "There, let's make haste home. I was very much frightened too." "Were you!" said Dexter, with wide open eyes. "Yes; weren't you?" "No," said Dexter; "there wasn't anything to be frightened about then. But I'm frightened now." "Indeed! What, now the danger is past?" "No, not about that." "What then, Dexter?" "Look at my new cap." He held up his drenched head-covering, all wet, muddy at the bottom, and out of shape. "'Tain't so bad as his chimney-pot hat, but it's awful, ain't it? What will he say?" "Papa? Only that you behaved exceedingly well, Dexter. He will be very pleased." "Think he will?" "Yes; and you shall have a new cap at once." "Let's make haste back, then," cried the boy eagerly, "for I'm as hungry as never was. But you're sure he won't be cross?" "Certain, Dexter. I will answer for that." "All right. Come along. I was afraid I was in for it again." CHAPTER FOURTEEN. MR. DENGATE IS INDIGNANT, AND DEXTER WANTS SOME "WUMS." Mr Grayson was delighted when he heard the narrative from Helen. "There! what did I tell you!" he cried. "Proofs of my theory." "Do you think so, papa?" "Think, my dear? I'm sure. Why, there it all was; what could have been better? Young Danby has breed in him, and what did he do? Lay down like a girl, and fainted. No, my dear, you cannot get over it. Pick your subject if you will, but you may make what you like of a boy." "I hope so, papa." "That's right, my dear. Brave little fellow! Afraid I should scold him about his cap? Thoughtless young dog, but it was all chivalrous. Couldn't have been better. He shall have a hundred caps if he likes. Hah! I'm on the right track, I'm sure." The doctor rubbed his hands and chuckled, and Helen went to bed that night better pleased with her task. Sir James Danby, who was the magnate of Coleby, sent a very furious letter to Dengate the butcher, threatening proceedings against him for allowing a herd of dangerous bullocks to be at large in one of his fields, and ordering him to remove them at once. Dengate the butcher read the letter, grew red in the face, and, after buttoning up that letter in his breast-pocket, he put on his greasy cap, and went to Topley the barber to get shaved. Dengate's cap was greasy because, though he was a wealthy man, he worked hard at his trade, calling for orders, delivering meat, and always twice a week, to use his own words, "killing hisself." Topley lathered Dengate's red round face, and scraped it perfectly clean, feeling it all over with his soapy fingers, as well as carefully inspecting it with his eye, to make sure that none of the very bristly stubble was left. While Topley shaved, Dengate made plans, and as soon as the operation was over he went back home, and what he called "cleaned hisself." That is to say, he put on his best clothes, stuck a large showy flower in his button-hole, cocked his rather broad-brimmed hat on one side of his head, and went straight to Dr Grayson's. Maria opened the door, stared at the butcher, who generally came to the back entrance, admitted him, received his message, and went into the study, where the doctor was writing, and Dexter busily copying a letter in a fairly neat round hand, but could only on an average get one word and a half in a line, a fact which looked awkward, especially as Dexter cut his words anywhere without studying the syllables. Dexter had just left off at the end of a line, and finished the first letters of the word toothache, leaving "toot" as his division, and taking a fresh dip of ink ready for writing "hache." "Don't put your tongue out, Dexter, my boy." "All right," said Dexter. "And I would not suck the pen. Ink is not wholesome." "All right, I won't," said Dexter; and he put the nibs between his lips. "Mr Dengate, sir," said Maria. "Dengate? What does he want, Maria? Let him see Mrs Millett or Miss Helen." Maria looked scornfully at Dexter, as if he had injured her in some way. "Which is what I said to him, sir. `Master's busy writing,' I says; but he says his dooty, sir, and if you would see him five minutes he would be greatly obligated." The doctor said, "Send him in." Maria left the room, and there was a tremendous sound of wiping shoes all over the mat, although it was a dry day without, and the butcher's boots were speckless. Then there was another burst of wiping on the mat by the study door as a finish off, a loud muttering of instructions to Maria, and the door was opened to admit the butcher, looking hot and red, with his hat in one hand, a glaring orange handkerchief in the other, with which he dabbed himself from time to time. "Good morning, Dengate," said the doctor; "what can I do for you?" "Good morning, sir; hope you're quite well, sir. If you wouldn't mind, sir, reading this letter, sir. Received this morning, sir. Sir James, sir." "Read it? ah, yes," said the doctor. He ran through the missive and frowned. "Well, Dengate," he said, "Sir James is a near neighbour and friend of mine, and I don't like to interfere in these matters." "No, sir, of course you wouldn't, sir, but as a gentleman, sir, as I holds in the highest respect--a gentleman as runs a heavy bill with me." "Hasn't your account been paid, Dengate!" said the doctor, frowning, while Dexter looked hard at the butcher, and wondered why his face was so red, and why little drops like beads formed all over his forehead. "No, sir, it hasn't, sir," said the butcher, with a chuckle, "and I'm glad of it. I never ask for your account, sir, till it gets lumpy. I always leave it till I want it, for it's good as the bank to me, and I know I've only to give you a hint like, and there it is." "Humph!" ejaculated the doctor. "What I have come about is them bullocks, sir, hearing as your young lady, sir, and young shaver here--" "Mr Dengate," said the doctor, frowning, "this young gentleman is my adopted son." "Beg pardon, sir, I'm sure," said the butcher obsequiously. "I had heared as you'd had taken a boy from the--" "Never mind that, Dengate," said the doctor shortly, as the butcher dabbed himself hurriedly,--"business." "Exactly, sir. Well, sir, it's like this here: I'm the last man in the world to put dangerous beasts in any one's way, and if I knowed that any one o' them was the least bit risky to a human being, he'd be bullock to-day and beef to-morrow. D'yer see?" "Yes, of course," said the doctor, "and very proper." "But what I holds is, sir, and my man too says is, that there ain't a bit o' danger in any on 'em, though if there was nobody ought to complain." "Well, there I don't agree with you, Dengate," said the doctor haughtily, as Dexter came and stood by him, having grown deeply interested. "Don't you, sir? Well, then, look here," said the butcher, rolling his yellow handkerchief into a cannon ball and ramming it into his hat, as if it were a cannon that he now held beneath his left arm. "There's a path certainly from stile to stile, but it only leads to my farrest medder, and though I never says nothing to nobody who thinks it's a nice walk down there by the river to fish or pick flowers or what not, though they often tramples my medder grass in a way as is sorrowful to see, they're my medders, and the writing's in my strong-box, and not a shilling on 'em. All freehold, seven-and-twenty acres, and everybody as goes on is a trespasser, so what do you say to that?" The butcher unloaded the imaginary cannon as he said this triumphantly, and dabbed his face with the ball. "Say?" said the doctor, smiling; "why, that I'm a trespasser sometimes, for I like to go down there for a walk. It's the prettiest bit out of the town." "Proud to hear you say so, sir," said the butcher eagerly. "It is, isn't it? and I'm proud to have you go for a walk there, sir. Honoured, I'm sure, and if the--er--the young gentleman likes to pick a spot out to keep ground baited for a bit o' fishing, why, he's hearty welcome, and my man shall save him as many maddicks for bait as ever he likes." "I'll come," cried Dexter eagerly. "May I go?" he added. "Yes, yes; we'll see," said the doctor; "and it's very kind of Mr Dengate to give you leave." "Oh, that's nothing, sir. He's welcome as the flowers in May; but what I wanted to say, sir, was that as they're my fields, and people who comes is only trespassers, I've a right to put anything I like there. I don't put danger for the public: they comes to the danger." "Yes; that's true," said the doctor. "Of course, now you mention it, there's no right of way." "Not a bit, sir, and I might turn out old Billy, if I liked." "I say, who is old Billy?" said Dexter. "Hush, my boy! Don't interpose when people are speaking." "Oh, let him talk, sir," said the butcher, good-naturedly. "I like to hear a boy want to know. It's what my boy won't do. He's asleep half his time, and I feed him well too." "Humph!" ejaculated the doctor. "Billy's my old bull, as I always keeps shut up close in my yard, because he is dangerous." "And very properly," said the doctor. "Quite right, sir, quite right; and I want to know then what right Sir James has to come ordering me about. He's no customer of mine. Took it all away and give it to Mossetts, because he said the mutton was woolly, when I give you my word, sir, that it was as good a bit o' mutton as I ever killed." "Yes, yes, Dengate, but what has all this to do with me?" said the doctor testily. "Well, sir, begging your pardon, only this: your young lady and young gentleman was there, and I want to know the rights of it all. My man says the beasts are quiet enough, only playful, and I say the same; but I may be making a mistake. I went in the medder this morning, with my boy Ezry, and he could drive 'em anywheres, and he's only ten. Did they trouble your young folks, sir?" "Well, Dexter: you can answer that," said the doctor. "Trouble us?--no!" said Dexter, laughing. "Miss Grayson was a bit afraid of 'em, but I ran the big one, and he galloped off across the fields." "There," said the butcher; "what did I say? Bit playful, that's all." "And when we heard a noise, and found one of 'em standing over that young Danby, he was only turning him over, that's all." "Yes; he was running away, and fell down, and the beasts came to look at him," said Dengate, laughing. "And Sir James was over on the stile calling for help. Why, as soon as I ran at the bullocks they all galloped off, all but the big one, and I give him a crack on the horn, and soon made him go." "Of course. Why, a child would make 'em run. That's all, sir, I only wanted to know whether they really was dangerous, because if they had been, as I said afore, bullock it is now, but beef it should be. Good morning, sir." "What are you going to do!" said the doctor. "Do, sir? I'm a-going to let Sir James do his worst. My beasts ain't dangerous, and they ain't on a public road, so there they stay till I want 'em for the shop. Morning, young--er--gentleman. You're not afraid of a bullock?" "No," said Dexter quietly, "I don't think I am." "I'm sure you ain't, my lad, if you'll 'scuse me calling you so. Morning, sir, morning." The butcher backed out, smiling triumphantly, but only to put his head in again-- "Beg pardon, sir, only to say that if he'd asked me polite like, I'd ha' done it directly; but he didn't, and I'll stand upon my medder like a man." "Humph!" said the doctor, as soon as they were alone; "and so you were not afraid of the bullocks, Dexter?" "There wasn't anything to be afraid of," said the boy. "I'm ever so much more afraid of you." "Afraid?" "Yes, when you look cross, sir, only then." "Well, you must not make me look cross, Dexter; and now get on with your copying. When you've done that you may go in the garden if you'll keep out of mischief." "And when may I go fishing?" "When you like." "Down the meadows!" "Why not fish down the garden; there's a capital place." "All right," said Dexter. "I'll go there. But I want a rod and line." "There is an old rod in the hall, and you can buy a line. No, Helen is going out, and she will buy you one." Dexter's eyes glistened at the idea of going fishing, and he set to work most industriously at the copying, which in due time he handed over to the Doctor, who expressed himself as highly satisfied: though if he really was, he was easily pleased. Helen had received her instructions, and she soon afterwards returned with the fishing-line, and a fair supply of extra hooks, and odds and ends, which the doctor, as an old angler, had suggested. "These--all for me!" cried the boy joyfully. The doctor nodded. "Recollect: no mischief, and don't tumble in." "All right, sir," cried the boy, who was gloating over the new silk line, with its cork float glistening in blue and white paint brought well up with varnish. "Do you know how to fish!" "Yes, I know all about it, sir." "How's that? You never went fishing at the workhouse." "No, sir; but old Dimsted in the House used to tell us boys all about it, and how he used to catch jack and eels, and roach and perch, in the river." "Very well, then," said the doctor. "Now you can go." Dexter went off in high glee, recalling divers instructions given by the venerable old pauper who had been a fishing idler all his life, the river always having more attractions for him than work. His son followed in his steps, and he again had a son with the imitative faculty, and spending every hour he could find at the river-side. It was a well-known fact in Coleby that the Dimsteds always knew where fish was to be found, and the baskets they made took the place of meat that other fathers and sons of families would have earned. Rod, line, and hooks are prime necessaries for fishing; but a fish rarely bites at a bare hook, so one of Dexter's first proceedings was to obtain some bait. Mr Dengate had said that his man should save plenty of gentles for him; but Dexter resolved not to wait for them that day, but to try what he could do with worms and paste. So his first proceeding was to appeal to Mrs Millett for a slice or two of bread. Mrs Millett was not in the kitchen, but Maria was, and on being appealed to, she said sharply that she was not the cook. Dexter looked puzzled, and he flushed a little as he wondered why it was that the maid looked so cross, and always answered him so snappishly. Just then Mrs Millett, who was a plump elderly female with a pleasant countenance and expression, appeared in the doorway, and to her Dexter appealed in turn. Mrs Millett had been disposed to look at Dexter from the point of view suggested by Maria, who had been making unpleasant allusions to the boy's birth and parentage, and above all to "Master's strange goings on," ever since Dexter's coming. Hence, then, the old lady, who looked upon herself as queen of the kitchen, had a sharp reproof on her tongue, and was about to ask the boy why he hadn't stopped in his own place, and rung for what he wanted. The frank happy expression on his face disarmed her, and she smiled and cut the required bread. "Well, I never!" said Maria. "Ah, my dear," said Mrs Millett; "I was young once, and I didn't like to be scolded. He isn't such a bad-looking boy after all, only he will keep apples in his bedroom, and make it smell." "What's looks!" said Maria tartly, as she gave a candlestick she was cleaning a fierce rub. "A deal, my dear, sometimes," said the old housekeeper. "Specially if they're sweet ones, and that's what yours are not now." Dexter was not yet armed with all he wanted, for he was off down the kitchen-garden in search of worms. His first idea was to get a spade and dig for himself; but the stern countenance of Dan'l Copestake rose up before him, and set him wondering what would be the consequences if he were to be found turning over some bed. On second thoughts he determined to find the gardener and ask for permission, the dread of not succeeding in his mission making him for the moment more thoughtful. Dan'l did not need much looking for. He had caught sight of Dexter as soon as he entered the garden, and gave vent to a grunt. "Now, what mischief's he up to now?" he grumbled; and he set to and watched the boy while making believe to be busy cutting the dead leaves and flowers off certain plants. He soon became aware of the fact that Dexter was searching for him, and this altered the case, for he changed his tactics, and kept on moving here and there, so as to avoid the boy. "Here! Hi! Mr Copestake!" cried Dexter; but the old man had been suddenly smitten with that worst form of deafness peculiar to those who will not hear; and it was not until Dexter had pursued him round three or four beds, during which he seemed to be blind as well as deaf, that the old man was able to see him. "Eh!" he said. "Master want me?" "No. I'm going fishing; and, please, I want some worms." "Wums? Did you say wums!" said Dan'l, affecting deafness, and holding his hand to his ear. "Yes." "Ay, you're right; they are," grumbled Dan'l. "Deal o' trouble, wums. Gets inter the flower-pots, and makes wum castesses all over the lawn, and they all has to be swept up." "Yes; but I want some for fishing." "'Ficient? Quite right, not sufficient help to get 'em swep' away." "Will you dig a few worms for me, please?" shouted Dexter in the old man's ear. "Dig wums? What for? Oh, I see, thou'rt going fishing. No; I can't stop." "May I dig some!" cried Dexter; but Dan'l affected not to hear him, and went hurriedly away. "He knew what I wanted all the time," said the boy to himself. "He don't like me no more than Maria does." Just then he caught sight of Peter Cribb, who, whenever he was not busy in the stable, seemed to be chained to a birch broom. "Will you dig a few worms for me, please?" said Dexter; "red ones." "No; I'm sweeping," said the groom gruffly; and then, in the most inconsistent way, he changed his tone, for he had a weakness for the rod and line himself. "Going fishing!" "Yes, if I can get some worms." "Where's old Copestake!" "Gone into the yard over there," said Dexter. "All right. I'll dig you some. Go behind the wall there, by the cucumber frames. Got a pot!" Dexter shook his head. "All right. I'll bring one." Dexter went to the appointed place, and in a few minutes Peter appeared, free from the broom now, and bearing a five-pronged fork and a small flower-pot; for the fact that the boy was a brother angler superseded the feeling of animosity against one who had so suddenly been raised from a lowly position and placed over his head. Peter winked one eye as he scraped away some of the dry straw, and then turned over a quantity of the moist, rotten soil, displaying plenty of the glistening red worms suitable for the capture of roach and perch. "There you are," he said, after putting an ample supply in the flower-pot, whose hole he had stopped with a piece of clay; "there's as many as you'll want; and now, you go and fish down in the deep hole, where the wall ends in the water, and I wish you luck." CHAPTER FIFTEEN. DEXTER MAKES A FRIEND. "I like him," said Dexter to himself, as he hurried down the garden, found the place, and for the next ten minutes he was busy fitting up his tackle, watching a boy on the other side of the river the while, as he sat in the meadow beneath a willow-tree fishing away, and every now and then capturing a small gudgeon or roach. The river was about thirty yards broad at this spot, and as Dexter prepared his tackle and watched the boy opposite, the boy opposite fished and furtively watched Dexter. He was a dark, snub-nosed boy, shabbily-dressed, and instead of being furnished with a bamboo rod and a new line with glistening float, he had a rough home-made hazel affair in three pieces, spliced together, but fairly elastic; his float was a common quill, and his line of so many hairs pulled out of a horse's tail, and joined together with a peculiarly fast knot. Before Dexter was ready the shabby-looking boy on the other side had caught two more silvery roach, and Dexter's heart beat fast as he at last baited his hook and threw in the line as far as he could. He was pretty successful in that effort, but his cork float and the shot made a loud splash, while the boy opposite uttered a chuckle. "He's laughing at me," said Dexter to himself; and he tried the experiment of watching his float with one eye and the boy with the other, but the plan did not succeed, and he found himself gazing from one to the other, always hurriedly glancing back from the boy to the float, under the impression that it bobbed. He knew it all by heart, having many a time drunk in old Dimsted's words, and he remembered that he could tell what fish was biting by the way the float moved. If it was a bream, it would throw the float up so that it lay flat on the water. If it was a roach, it would give a short quick bob. If it was a perch, it would give a bob, and then a series of sharp quick bobs, the last of which would be right under, while if it was a tench, it would glide slowly away. But the float did nothing but float, and nothing in the way of bobbing, while the shabby boy on the other side kept on striking, and every now and then hooking a fish. "Isn't he lucky!" thought Dexter, and he pulled out his line to find that the bait had gone. He began busily renewing it in a very _nonchalant_ manner, as he was conscious of the fact that the boy was watching him keenly with critical eyes. Dexter threw in again; but there was no bite, and as the time went on, it seemed as if all the fish had been attracted to the other side of the river, where the shabby-looking boy, who fished skilfully and well, kept on capturing something at the rate of about one every five minutes. They were not large, but still they were fish, and it was most tantalising to one to be patiently waiting, while the other was busy landing and rebaiting and throwing in again. At last a happy thought struck Dexter, and after shifting his float about from place to place, he waited till he saw the boy looking at him, and he said-- "I say?" "Hullo!" came back, the voices easily passing across the water. "What are you baiting with?" "Gentles." "Oh!" Then there was a pause, and more fishing on one side, waiting on the other. At last the shabby boy said-- "You're baiting with worms, ain't you?" "Yes." "Ah, they won't bite at worms much this time o' day." "Won't they?" said Dexter, putting out his line. "No. And you ain't fishing deep enough." "Ain't I!" "No. Not by three foot." "I wish I'd got some gentles," said Dexter at last. "Do you!" "Yes." "Shall I shy some over in the box?" "Can you throw so far?" "Yers!" cried the shabby boy. "You'll give me the box again, won't you?" "Yes; I'll throw it back." The boy on the other side divided his bait by putting some in a piece of paper. Then putting a stone in his little round tin box, he walked back a few yards so as to give himself room, stepped forward, and threw the box right across, Dexter catching it easily. "Now, you try one o' them," said the donor of the fresh bait. Dexter eagerly did as was suggested, and five minutes after there was a sharp tug, which half drew his float below the surface. "Why, you didn't strike," said the boy sharply. "Well, you can't strike 'em till you've got hold of them," retorted Dexter; and the shabby-looking boy laughed. "Yah!" he said; "you don't know how to fish." "Don't I! Why, I was taught to fish by some one who knows all about it." "So it seems," said the boy jeeringly. "Don't even know how to strike a fish. There, you've got another bite. Look at him; he's running away with it." It was no credit to Dexter that he got hold of that fish, for the unfortunate roach had hooked itself. As the float glided away beneath the surface, Dexter gave a tremendous snatch with the rod, and jerked the fish out of the water among the branches of an overhanging tree, where the line caught, and the captive hung suspended about a foot below a cluster of twigs, flapping about and trying to get itself free. Dexter's fellow-fisherman burst into a roar of laughter, laid down his rod, and stamped about on the opposite bank slapping his knees, while the unlucky fisherman stood with his rod in his hand, jigging the line. "You'll break it if you don't mind," cried the shabby boy. "But I want to get it out." "You shouldn't have struck so hard. Climb up the tree, get out on that branch, and reach down." Dexter looked at the tree, which hung over the water to such an extent that it seemed as if his weight would tear it from its hold in the bank, while the water looked terribly deep and black beneath. "I say," cried the shabby boy jeeringly; "who taught you how to fish!" "Why, old Dimsted did, and he knew." "Who did!" cried the boy excitedly. "Old Dimsted." "Yah! That he didn't. Why, he's been in the House these ten years-- ever since I was quite a little un." "Well, I know that," shouted back Dexter. "He taught me all the same." "Why, how came you to know grandfather!" cried the shabby boy. Dexter ceased pulling at the line, and looked across at his shabbily-dressed questioner. For the first time he glanced down at his well-made clothes, and compared his personal appearance with that of the boy opposite, and in a curiously subtle way he began to awake to the fact that he was growing ashamed of the workhouse, and the people in it. "Yah! you didn't know grandfather," cried the boy mockingly; "and you don't know how to fish. Grandfather wouldn't have taught you to chuck a fish up in the tree. You should strike gently, like that." He gave the top of his rod a slight, quick twitch, and hooked a good-sized roach. Dexter grinning to see him play it till it was feeble enough to be drawn to the side and lifted out. "That's the way grandfather taught me how to fish," continued the boy, as he took the hook from the captive's mouth, "I say, what's your name!" "Dexter Grayson," was the answer, for the boy felt keenly already that the names Obed Coleby were ones of which he could not be proud. "Ever been in the workus!" "Yes." "Ever see grandfather there!" "Yes, I've seen him," said Dexter, who felt no inclination to enlighten the boy further. "Ah, he could fish," said the boy, baiting and throwing in again. "My name's Dimsted--Bob Dimsted. So's father's. He can fish as well as grandfather. So can I," he added modestly; "there ain't a good place nowheres in the river as we don't know. I could take you where you could ketch fish every swim." "Could you?" said Dexter, who seemed awed in the presence of so much knowledge. "Course I could, any day." "And will you?" said Dexter eagerly. "Ah dunno," said the boy, striking and missing another fish. "You wouldn't care to go along o' me?" "Yes, I should--fishing," cried Dexter. "But my line's fast." "Why don't you climb up and get it then? Ain't afraid, are you!" "What, to climb that tree?" cried Dexter. "Not I;" and laying the rod down with the butt resting on the bank, he began to climb at once. "Mind yer don't tumble in," cried Bob Dimsted; "some o' them boughs gets very rotten--like touchwood." "All right," said Dexter; and he climbed steadily on in happy ignorance of the fact that the greeny lichen and growth was not good for dark cloth trousers and vests. But the bole of the tree was short, for it had been pollarded, and in a minute or two he was in a nest of branches, several of which protruded over the water, the one in particular which had entangled the fishing-line being not even horizontal, but dipping toward the surface. "That's the way," shouted Bob Dimsted. "Look sharp, they're biting like fun." "Think it'll bear?" said Dexter. "Bear? Yes; half a dozen on yer. Sit on it striddling, and work yourself along till you can reach the line. Got a knife?" "Yes." "Then go right out, and when you git far enough cut off the little bough, and let it all drop into the water." "Why, then, I should lose the fish." "Not you. Ain't he hooked? You do as I say, and then git back, and you can pull all out together." Dexter bestrode the branch, and worked himself along further and further till an ominous crack made him pause. "Go on," shouted the boy from the other side. "He'll think I'm a coward if I don't," said Dexter to himself, and he worked himself along for another three feet, with the silvery fish just before him, seeming to tempt him on. "There, you can reach him now, can't you?" cried the boy. "Yes; I think I can reach him now," said Dexter. "Wait till I get out my knife." It was not so easy to get out that knife, and to open it, as it would have been on land. The position was awkward; the branch dipped at a great slope now toward the water, and Dexter's trousers were not only drawn half-way up his legs, but drawn so tightly by his attitude that he could hardly get his hand into his pocket. It was done though at last, the thin bough in which the line was tangled seized by the left hand, while the right cut vigorously with the knife. It would have been far easier to have disentangled the line, but Bob Dimsted was a learned fisher, and he had laid down the law. So Dexter cut and cut into the soft green wood till he got through the little bough all but one thin piece of succulent bark, dancing up and down the while over the deep water some fifteen feet from the bank. _Soss_! That last vigorous cut did it, and the bough, with its summer burden of leaves, dropped with a splash into the water. "There! What did I tell you!" cried Dexter's mentor. "Now you can get back and pull all out together. Fish won't bite for a bit after this, but they'll be all right soon." Dexter shut up his knife, thrust it as well as he could into his pocket, and prepared to return. This was not so easy, for he had to go backwards. What was more, he had to progress up hill. But, nothing daunted, he took tight hold with his hands, bore down upon them, and was in the act of thrusting himself along a few inches, when--_Crack_! One loud, sharp, splintering crack, and the branch, which was rotten three parts through, broke short off close to the trunk, and like an echo to the crack came a tremendous--_Plash_! That water, as already intimated, was deep, and, as a consequence, there was a tremendous splash, and branch and its rider went down right out of sight, twig after twig disappearing leisurely in the eddying swirl. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. "THEM AS IS BORN TO BE HANGED." It might have been presumed that Bob Dimsted would either have tried to render some assistance or else have raised an alarm. Bob Dimsted did nothing of the kind. For certain reasons of his own, and as one who had too frequently been in the hot water of trouble, Master Bob thought only of himself, and catching his line in his hand as he quickly drew it from the water, he hastily gathered up his fishing paraphernalia, and ran off as hard as he could go. He had time, however, to see Dexter's wet head rise to the surface and then go down again, for the unwilling bather had one leg hooked in the bough, which took him down once more, as it yielded to the current, and the consequence was that when Dexter rose, breathless and half-strangled, he was fifty yards down the stream. But he was now free, and giving his head a shake, he trod the water for a few moments, and then struck out for the shore, swimming as easily as a frog. A few sturdy strokes took him out of the sharp current and into an eddy near the bank, by whose help he soon reached the deep still water, swimming so vigorously that before long he was abreast of the doctor's garden, where a group beneath the trees startled him more than his involuntary plunge. For there, in a state of the greatest excitement, were the doctor and Helen, with Peter Cribb, with a clothes-prop to be used for a different purpose now. Further behind was Dan'l Copestake, who came panting up with the longest handled rake just as Dexter was nearing the bank. "Will he be drowned?" whispered Helen, as she held tightly by her father's arm. "No; he swims like a water-rat," said the doctor. "No, no," shouted Dexter, beginning to splash the water, and sheering off as he saw Dan'l about to make a dab at him with the rake. There was more zeal than discretion in the gardener's use of this implement, for it splashed down into the water heavily, the teeth nearly catching the boy's head. "Here, catch hold of this," cried Peter Cribb. "No, no; let me be," cried Dexter, declining the offer of the clothes-prop, as he had avoided it before when he was on the top of the wall. "I can swim ashore if you'll let me be." This was so self-evident that the doctor checked Dan'l as he was about to make another skull-fracturing dash with the rake; and the next minute Dexter's hand clutched the grass on the bank, and he crawled out, with the water streaming down out of his clothes, and his short hair gummed, as it were, to his head. "Here!" he cried; "where's my fish?" "Fish, sir!" cried the doctor; "you ought to be very thankful that you've saved your life." "O Dexter!" cried Helen. "I say, don't touch me," cried the boy, as she caught at his hand. "I'm so jolly wet." He was like a sponge just lifted out of a pail, and already about him there was a pool. "Here, quick, sir; run up to the house and change your clothes," cried the doctor. "But I must get my fish, sir." "Fish!" cried the doctor angrily; "that's not the way to fish." "Yes, it was, sir; and I caught one." "You caught one!" "Yes, sir; a beauty." "Look here, Dexter," cried the doctor, catching him by his wet arm; "do you mean to tell me that you dived into the river like that and caught a fish!" "No, sir; I fell in when I was getting my line out of the tree." "Oh, I see." "Beg pardon, sir," said Dan'l sourly; "but he've broke a great branch off this here tree." "Well, I couldn't help it," said Dexter, in an ill-used tone. "I caught my line in the tree, and was obliged to get up and fetch it, and--stop a minute. I can see it. All right." He ran off along the river-bank till they saw him stoop just where the wall dipped down into the river. There he found the rod floating close to the edge, and, securing it, he soon after drew in the loose branch he had cut off the tree, and disentangled his line, with the little roach still on the hook. "There!" he cried in triumph, as he ran back with rod, line, and fish; "look at that, Miss Grayson, isn't it a beauty, and--What are you laughing at!" This was at Peter Cribb, who was grinning hugely, but who turned away, followed by Dan'l. "Them as is born to be hanged'll never be drowned," grumbled the old gardener sourly, as the two men went away. "No fear of him being drowned," said Peter. "Swims like a cork." "It's disgusting; that's what I say it is," growled Dan'l; "disgusting." "What's disgusting?" said Peter. "Why, they cuddles and makes a fuss over a boy as is a reg'lar noosance about the place, just as any other varmint would be. Wish he had drowned himself. What call was there for me to come and bring a rake!" "Ah, he's a rum un, that he is," said Peter. "And master's a rum un; and how they can take to that boy, Miss Helen specially, and have him here's more'n I can understand. It caps me, that it do." "Wait a bit, my lad, and you'll see," cried the old gardener. "He's begun his games just as such a boy would, and afore long this here garden will be turned into such a wreck as'll make the doctor tear his hair, and wish as he'd never seen the young rascal. He's a bad un; you can see it in his eye. He's got bad blood in him, and bad blood allus comes out sooner or later. Peter Cribb, my lad--" "Yes." "We're getting old fellow-servants, though you're only young. Peter, my lad, I'm beginning to tremble for my fruit." "Eh?" "Yes; that I am, my lad," said Dan'l in a whisper. "Just as I expected--I was watching of him--that rip's took up with bad company, Poacher Dimsted's boy; and that means evil. They was talking together, and then young Dimsted see me, and run away." "Did he?" "Did he? Yes, he just did; and you mark my words, Peter Cribb, it will not be long before the gov'ner gets rid of him." "Oh yes; it's a very beautiful fish," said the doctor testily; "but make haste in. There, run and get all your wet things off as quickly as you can." Dexter was so deeply interested in the silvery scales and graceful shape of his fish that he hardly heard the doctor's words, which had to be repeated before the boy started, nodded shortly, and ran off toward the house, while his patron walked to a garden chair, sat down, and gazed up at Helen in a perplexed way. Helen did not speak, but gazed back at her father with a suppressed laugh twinkling about the corners of her lips. "You're laughing at me, my dear," said the doctor at last; "but you mark my words--what I say is true. All this is merely the froth of the boy's nature, of which he is getting rid. But tut, tut, tut! All this must be stopped. First a new cap destroyed by being turned into a bucket, and now a suit of clothes gone." "They will do for a garden suit, papa," said Helen, speaking as if she had had charge of boys for years. "Well, yes: I suppose so," said the doctor. "But there: I am not going to worry myself about trifles. The cost of a few suits of clothes are as nothing compared to the success of my scheme. Now let's go in and see if the young dog has gone to work to change his things." The doctor rose and walked up the garden, making comments to his daughter about the course of instruction he intended to pursue with Dexter, and on reaching the house and finding that the object of his thoughts was in his bedroom, he went on to the study just as Maria came from the front door with a letter. "Letter, eh? Oh, I see. From Lady Danby!" The doctor opened the letter. "Any one waiting!" he said. "Yes, sir. Groom waiting for an answer." "I'll ring, Maria," said the doctor, and then he smiled and looked pleased. "There, my deaf," he cried, tossing the note to his daughter. "Now I call that very kind and neighbourly. You see, Sir James and Lady Danby feel and appreciate the fine manly conduct of Dexter over that cattle, and they very wisely think that he not only deserves great commendation, but that the present is a favourable opportunity for beginning an intimacy and companionship." "Yes, papa," said Helen, with rather a troubled look. "Danby sees that he was wrong, and is holding out the right hand of good fellowship. Depend upon it that we shall have a strong tie between those two boys. They will go to a public school together, help one another with their studies, and become friends for life. Hah! Yes. Sit down, my dear," continued the doctor, rubbing his hands. "My kind regards to Sir James and Lady Danby, that I greatly appreciate their kindness, and that Dexter shall come and spend the day with Edgar on Friday." Helen wrote the note, which was despatched, and the doctor smiled, and looked highly satisfied. "You remember how obstinate Sir James was about boys?" "Yes, papa. I heard a part of the conversation, and you told me the rest." "To be sure. You see my selection was right. Dexter behaved like a little hero over that adventure." "Yes," said Helen; "he was as brave as could be." "Exactly. All justification of my choice. I don't want to prophesy, Helen, but there will be a strong friendship between those boys from that day. Edgar, the weak, well-born boy, will always recognise the manly confidence of Dexter, the er--er, well, low-born boy, who in turn will have his sympathies aroused by his companion's want of--er--well, say, ballast." "Possibly, papa." "My dear Helen, don't speak like that," said the doctor pettishly. "You are so fond of playing wet blanket to all my plans." "Oh no, papa; I am sure I will help you, and am helping you, in all this, but it is not in my nature to be so sanguine." "Ah, well, never mind that. But you do like Dexter!" "Yes; I am beginning to like him more and more." "That's right. I'm very, very glad, and I feel quite grateful to the Danbys. You must give Dexter a few hints about behaving himself, and, so to speak, keeping down his exuberance when he is there." "May I say a word, papa!" "Certainly, my dear; of course." "Well, then, I have an idea of my own with respect to Dexter." "Ah, that's right," said the doctor, smiling and rubbing his hands. "What is it!" "I have been thinking over it all a great deal, dear," said Helen, going to her father's side and resting her hand upon his shoulder; "and it seems to me that the way to alter and improve Dexter will be by example." "Ah yes, I see; example better than precept, eh!" "Yes. So far his life has been one of repression and the severest discipline." "Yes, of course. Cut down; tied down, and his natural growth stopped. Consequently wild young shoots have thrust themselves out of his nature." "That is what I mean." "Quite right, my dear; then we will give him as much freedom as we can. You will give him a hint or two, though." "I will do everything I can, papa, to make him presentable." "Thank you, my dear. Yes, these boys will become great companions, I can see. Brave little fellow! I am very, very much pleased." The doctor forgot all about the broken branch, and Dexter's spoiled suit of clothes, and Helen went to see whether the boy had obeyed the last command. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. DAN'L IS TOO ATTENTIVE. Things were not quite so smooth as Dr Grayson thought, for there had been stormy weather at Sir James's. "Well, my dear, you are my husband, and it is my duty to obey," said Lady Danby; "but I do protest against my darling son being forced to associate with a boy of an exceedingly low type." "Allow me, my dear," said Sir James importantly. "By Dr Grayson's act, in taking that boy into his house, he has wiped away any stigma which may cling to him; and I must say that the lad displayed a great deal of animal courage--that kind of brute courage which comes from an ignorance of danger." "Is it animal courage not to be afraid of animals, ma?" said Master Edgar. "Yes, my dear, of course," said Lady Danby. "I wish Edgar would display courage of any kind," said Sir James. "Why, you ran away from the bulls too, papa," said Master Edgar. "I am a great sufferer from nervousness, Edgar," said Sir James reprovingly; "but we were not discussing that question. Dr Grayson has accepted the invitation for his adopted son. It is his whim for the moment, and it is only becoming on my part to show that we are grateful for the way in which the boy behaved. By the time a month has gone by, I have no doubt that the boy will be back at the--the place from which he came; but while he is at Dr Grayson's I desire that he be treated as if he were Dr Grayson's son." "Very well, James," said Lady Danby, in an ill-used tone of voice. "You are master here, and we must obey." The day of the invitation arrived. Dexter was to be at Sir James's in time for lunch, and directly after breakfast he watched his opportunity and followed Helen into the drawing-room. "I say," he said; "I can't go there, can I?" "Why not?" said Helen. "Lookye here." "Why, Dexter!" cried Helen, laughing merrily; "what have you been doing!" "Don't I look a guy!" There was a change already in the boy's aspect; his face, short as the time had been, was beginning to show what fresh air and good feeding could achieve. His hair had altered very slightly, but still there was an alteration for the better, and his eyes looked brighter, but his general appearance was comical all the same. Directly after breakfast he had rushed up to his room and put on the clothes in which he had taken his involuntary bath. These garments, as will be remembered, had been obtained in haste, and were of the kind known in the trade as "ready-mades," and in this case composed of a well-glazed and pressed material, containing just enough wool to hold together a great deal of shoddy. The dip in the river had been too severe a test for the suit, especially as Maria had been put a little more out of temper than usual by having the garments handed to her to dry. Maria's mother was a washerwoman who lived outside Coleby on the common, and gained her income by acting as laundress generally for all who would intrust her with their family linen; but she called herself in yellow letters on a brilliant scarlet ground a "clear starcher." During Maria's early life at home she had had much experience in the ways of washing. She knew the smell of boiled soap. She had often watched the steam rising from the copper, and played among the clouds, and she well knew that the quickest way to dry anything that has been soaked is to give it a good wringing. She had therefore given Dexter's new suit a good wringing, and wrung out of it a vast quantity of sticky dye which stained her hands. Then she had--grumbling bitterly all the time--given the jacket, vest, and trousers a good shake, and hung them over a clothes-horse as near to the fire as she could get them without singeing. Mrs Millett told her to be sure and get them nice and dry, and Maria did get them "nice and dry." And now Dexter had put them on and presented himself before Helen, suggesting that he looked a guy. Certainly his appearance was suggestive of the stuffed effigy borne about on the fifth of November, for the garments were shrunken so that his arms and legs showed to a terrible extent, and Maria's wringing had given them curves and hollows never intended by the cutter, the worst one being in the form of a hump between the wearer's shoulders. "The things are completely spoiled. You foolish boy to put them on." "Then I can't go to that other house." "Nonsense! You have the new clothes that came from the tailor's--those for which you were measured." "Yes," said Dexter reluctantly; "but it's a pity to put on them. I may get 'em spoiled." "Then you do not want to go, Dexter," said Helen, smiling. "No," he cried eagerly. "Ask him to let me stop here." "No, no," said Helen kindly. "Papa wishes you to go there; it is very kind of the Danbys to ask you, and I hope you will go, and behave very nicely, and make great friends with Edgar Danby." "How?" said Dexter laconically. "Well, as boys generally do. You must talk to him." "What about?" "Anything. Then you must play with him." "What at?" "Oh, he'll be sure to suggest something to play at." "I don't think he will," said Dexter thoughtfully. "He don't look the sort of chap to." "Don't say chap, Dexter; say boy." "Sort of boy to play any games. He's what we used to call a soft Tommy sort of a chap--boy." "Oh no, no, no! I don't suppose he will be rough, and care for boisterous sports; but he may prove to be a very pleasant companion for you." Dexter shook his head. "I don't think he'll like me." "Nonsense! How can you tell that? Then they have a beautiful garden." "Can't be such a nice one as this," said Dexter. "Oh yes, it is; and it runs down to the river as this one does, and Sir James has a very nice boat." "Boat!" cried Dexter, pricking up his ears. "And may you go in it!" "Not by yourselves, I suppose. There, I'm sure you will enjoy your visit." Dexter shook his head again. "I say, you'll come too, won't you?" he cried eagerly. "No, Dexter; not this time." The boy's forehead grew wrinkled all over. "Come, you are pretending that you do not want to go." "I don't," said the boy, hanging his head. "I want to stay here along with you." "Perhaps I should like you to stay, Dexter," said Helen; "but I wish you to go and behave nicely, and you can tell me all about it when you come back." "And how soon may I come back?" "I don't suppose till the evening, but we shall see. Now, go and change those things directly. What would papa say if he saw you?" Dexter went slowly up to his room, and came down soon after to look for Helen. He found her busy writing letters, so he went off on tiptoe to the study, where the doctor was deep in his book, writing with a very severe frown on his brow. "Ah, Dexter," he said, looking up and running his eye critically over the boy, the result being very satisfactory. "Let's see, you are to be at Sir James's by half-past twelve. Now only ten. Go and amuse yourself in the garden, and don't get into mischief." Dexter went back into the hall, obtained his cap, and went out through the glass door into the verandah, where the great wisteria hung a valance of lavender blossoms all along the edge. "He always says don't get into mischief," thought the boy. "I don't want to get into mischief, I'm sure." Half-way across the lawn he was startled by the sudden appearance of Dan'l, who started out upon him from behind a great evergreen shrub. "What are you a-doing of now?" snarled Dan'l. "I wasn't doing anything," said Dexter, staring. "Then you were going to do something," cried the old man sharply. "Look here, young man; if you get meddling with anything in my garden there's going to be trouble, so mind that. I know what boys is, so none of your nonsense here." He went off grumbling to another part of the garden, and Dexter felt disposed to go back indoors. "He's watching me all the time," he thought to himself; "just as if I was going to steal something. He don't like me." Dexter strolled on, and heard directly a regular rustling noise, which he recognised at once as the sound made by a broom sweeping grass, and sure enough, just inside the great laurel hedge, where a little green lawn was cut off from the rest of the garden, there was Peter Cribb, at his usual pursuit, sweeping all the sweet-scented cuttings of the grass. Peter was a sweeper who was always on the look-out for an excuse. He was, so to speak, chained to that broom so many hours a day, and if he had been a galley slave, and the broom an oar, it is morally certain that he would have been beaten with many stripes, for he would have left off rowing whenever he could. "Well, squire," he said, laying his hands one over the other on the top of the broom-handle. "Well, Peter. How's the horse?" "Grinding his corn, and enjoying himself," said Peter. "He's like you: a lucky one--plenty to eat and nothing to do." "Don't you take him out for exercise?" said Dexter. "Course I do. So do you go out for exercise." "Think I could ride?" said Dexter. "Dersay you could, if you could hold on." "I should like to try." "Go along with you!" "But I should. Will you let me try!" Peter shook his head, and began to examine his half-worn broom. "I could hold on. Let me go with you next time!" "Oh, but I go at ha'-past six, hours before you're awake. Young gents don't get up till eight." "Why, I always wake at a quarter to six," said Dexter. "It seems the proper time to get up. I say, let me go with you." "Here, I say, you, Peter," shouted Dan'l; "are you a-going to sweep that bit o' lawn, or am I to come and do it myself. Gawsiping about!" "Hear that?" said Peter, beginning to make his broom swing round again. "There, you'd better be off, or you'll get me in a row." Dexter sighed, for he seemed to be always the cause of trouble. "I say," said Peter, as the boy was moving off; "going fishing again?" "No; not now." "You knows the way to fish, don't you? Goes in after them." Dexter laughed, and went on down to the river, examined the place where the branch had broken off, and then gazed down into the clear water at the gliding fish, which seemed to move here and there with no more effort than a wave of the tail. His next look was across the river in search of Bob Dimsted; but the shabby-looking boy was not fishing, and nowhere in sight either up or down the stream. Dexter turned away with another sigh. The garden was very beautiful, but it seemed dull just then. He wanted some one to talk to, and if he went again to Peter, old Dan'l would shout and find fault. "It don't matter which way I go," said Dexter, after a few minutes, during which time he had changed his place in the garden again and again; "that old man is always watching me to see what I am going to do." He looked round at the flowers, at the coming fruit, at everything in turn, but the place seemed desolate, and in spite of himself he began thinking of his old companions at the great school, and wondering what they were doing. Then he recalled that he was to go to Sir James Danby's soon, and he began to think of Edgar. "I shan't like that chap," he said to himself. "I wonder whether he'll like me." He was standing thinking deeply and gazing straight before him at the high red brick wall when he suddenly started, for there was a heavy step on the gravel. Dan'l had come along the grass edge till he was close to the boy, and then stepped off heavily on to the path. "They aren't ripe yet," he said with an unpleasant leer; "and you'd best let them alone." Dexter walked quickly away, with his face scarlet, and a bitter feeling of annoyance which he could not master. For the next quarter of an hour he was continually changing his position in the garden, but always to wake up to the fact that the old gardener was carrying out a purpose which he had confided to Peter. This the boy soon learned, for after a time he suddenly encountered the groom, still busy with the broom. "Why, hullo, youngster!" he said; "what's the matter!" "Nothing," said Dexter, with his face growing a deeper scarlet. "Oh yes, there is; I can see," cried Peter. "Well, he's always watching me, and pretending that I'm getting into mischief, or trying to pick the fruit." "Hah!" said Peter, with a laugh; "he told me he meant to keep his eye on you." Just then there was a call for Dan'l from the direction of the house, and Mrs Millett was seen beyond a laurel hedge. Directly after the old man went up to the house, and it seemed to Dexter as if a cloud had passed from across the sun. The garden appeared to have grown suddenly brighter, and the boy began to whistle as he went about in an aimless way, looking here and there for something to take his attention. He was not long in finding it, for just at the back of the dense yew hedge there were half a dozen old-fashioned round-topped hives, whose occupants were busy going to and fro, save that at the hive nearest the cross-path a heavy cluster, betokening a late swarm, was hanging outside, looking like a double handful of bees. Dexter knew a rhyme beginning-- "How doth the little busy bee--" and he knew that bees made honey; but that was all he did know about their habits, save that they lived in hives; and he stood and stared at the cluster hanging outside. "Why, they can't get in," he said to himself. "Hole's stopped up." He stood still for a few minutes, and then, as he looked round, he caught sight of some bean-sticks--tall thin pieces of oak sapling, and drawing one of these out of the ground he rubbed the mould off the pointed end, and, as soon as it was clean, took hold of it, and returned to the hive, where he watched the clustering bees for a few minutes, and then, reaching over, he inserted the thin end of the long stick just by the opening to the hive, thrust it forward, and gave it a good rake to right and left. There was a tremendous buzz and a rush, and the next moment Dexter, stick in hand, was running down the path toward the river, pursued by quite a cloud of angry bees. Dexter ran fast, of course, and as it happened, right down one of the most shady paths, beneath the densely growing apple-trees, where the bees could not fly, so that by the time he reached the river-side he was clear of his pursuers, but tingling from a sting on the wrist, and from two more on the neck, one being among the hair at the back, and the other right down in his collar. "Well, that's nice," he said, as he rubbed himself, and began mentally to try and do a sum in the Rule of Three--if three stings make so much pain, how much pain would be caused by the stings of a whole hiveful of bees? "Bother the nasty vicious little things!" he cried, as he had another rub, and he threw the bean-stick angrily away. "Don't hurt so much now," he said, after a few minutes' stamping about. Then his face broke up into a merry smile. "How they did make me run!" Just then there was a shout--a yell, and a loud call for help. Dexter forgot his own pain, and, alarmed by the cries, ran as hard as he could back again towards the spot from whence the sounds came, and to his horror found that Old Dan'l was running here and there, waving his arms, while Peter had come to his help, and was whisking his broom about in all directions. For a few moments Dexter could not comprehend what was wrong, then, like a flash, he understood that the bees had attacked the old gardener, and that it was due to his having irritated them with the stick. Dexter knew how a wasp's nest had been taken in the fields by the boys one day, and without a moment's hesitation he ran to the nearest shrub, tore off a good-sized bough, and joined in the task of beating down the bees. It is pretty sport to fight either bees or wasps in this way, but it requires a great deal of courage, especially as the insects are sure to get the best of it, as they did in this case, putting their enemies to flight, their place of refuge being the tool-house, into whose dark recesses the bees did not attempt to come. "Much stung, Dan'l!" said Peter. "Much stung, indeed! I should think I am. Offle!" "You got it much, youngster?" said Peter. "I've got three stings," replied Dexter, who had escaped without further harm. "And I've got five, I think," said Peter. "What was you doing to 'em, Dan'l!" "Doin' to 'em!" growled Dan'l, who was stamping about and rubbing himself, and looking exceedingly like the bear in the old fable. "I wasn't doin' nothin' to 'em. One o' the hives have been threatenin' to swarm again, and I was just goin' by, when they come at me like a swarm o' savidges, just as if some one had been teasing them." Dexter was rubbing the back of his neck, and feeling horribly guilty, as he asked himself whether he had not better own to having disturbed the hive; but there was something so unpleasantly repellent about the old gardener, and he was looking so suspiciously from one to the other, that the boy felt as if he could not speak to him. If it had been Peter, who, with all his roughness, seemed to be tolerant of his presence, he would have spoken out at once; but he could not to Dan'l, and he remained silent. "They stings pretty sharp," said Peter, laughing. "Blue-bag's best thing. I shall go up and get Maria to touch mine up. Coming?" "Nay, I'm not coming," growled Dan'l. "I can bear a sting or two of a bee without getting myself painted up with blue-bags. Dock leaves is good enough for me." "And there aren't a dock left in the garden," said Peter. "You found fault with me for not pulling the last up." So Peter went up to the house to be blue-bagged, Dan'l remained like a bear in his den, growling to himself, and Dexter, whose stings still throbbed, went off across the lawn to walk off the pain, till it was time to go to Sir James's. "Who'd have thought that the little things could hurt so much!" Then the pain began to diminish till it was only a tingle, and the spots where the stings went in were round and hard, and now it was that Dexter's conscience began to prick him as sharply as the bees' stings, and he walked about the garden trying to make up his mind as to whether he should go and confess to Dan'l that he stirred the bees up with a long stick. But as soon as he felt that he would do this, something struck him that Dan'l would be sure to think he had done it all out of mischief, and he knew that he could not tell him. "Nobody will know," he said to himself; "and I won't tell. I didn't mean to do any harm." "Dexter! Dexter!" He looked in the direction from whence the sounds came, and could see Helen waving her handkerchief, as a signal for him to come in. "Time to go," he said to himself as he set off to her. "Nobody will know, so I shan't tell him." And then he turned cold. Only a few moments before he had left Dan'l growling in his den, and now here he was down the garden, stooping and picking up something. For a few moments Dexter could not see what the something was, for the trees between them hindered the view, but directly after he made out that Dan'l had picked up a long stick, which had been thrown among the little apple-trees, and was carefully examining it. The colour came into Dexter's cheeks as he wondered whether Dan'l would know where that stick came from. The colour would have been deeper still had he known that Dan'l had a splendid memory, and knew exactly where every stick or plant should be. In fact, Dan'l recognised that stick as having been taken from the end of the scarlet-runner row. "A young sperrit o' mischief! that's what he is," muttered the old man, giving a writhe as he felt the stinging of the bees. "Now what's he been up to with that there stick? making a fishing-rod of it, I s'pose, and tearing my rows o' beans to pieces. I tell him what it is--" Dan'l stopped short, and stared at the end of the stick--the thin end, where there was something peculiar, betraying what had been done with it. It was a sight which made him tighten his lips up into a thin red line, and screw up his eyes till they could be hardly seen, for upon the end of that stick were the mortal remains of two crushed bees. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. DEXTER SPENDS A PLEASANT AFTERNOON. Dexter went up to where Helen was waiting for him, and found her dressed. "Going out!" he said. "Yes; I thought I would walk up to Sir James's with you," she said; and she cast a critical eye over him, and smiled upon seeing that he only needed a touch with a brush to make him presentable. This was given, and they set off together, the doctor only giving Dexter a friendly nod in accordance with a promise made not to upset the boy with a number of hints as to how he was to behave. "It must come by degrees, papa," Helen said; "and any advice given now would only make him more conscious." Dexter's hair still looked horribly short, but his face did not quite resemble now that of a boy who had just risen from a sick-bed. He looked brighter and more animated, and in nowise peculiar; but all the same, in their short walk, Helen was conscious of the fact that they were being observed by every one they passed, and that plenty of remarks were made. All at once she noticed that Dexter as she was speaking to him gave quite a start, and following the direction of his eyes, she saw that he was looking at a rough-looking boy, who was approaching them with a fishing-rod over his shoulder, and a basket in his hand. The boy's mouth widened into a grin as he passed, and Helen asked Dexter if he knew him, the friendly look he had given speaking volumes of a new difficulty likely to be in their way. "I don't know whether I know him--or not," said Dexter. "I've spoken to him." "Where? At the schools!" "No; he was fishing on the other side of the river that day I tumbled in." "Oh!" said Helen coldly. "Here we are." She turned through a great iron gate, walked up a broad flight of steps, and knocked. "There, Dexter," she said, as the door was opened. "I hope you will enjoy yourself." "Ain't you going in with me!" he whispered excitedly, as a footman in a blue and yellow livery opened the door. "No; good-bye." She nodded pleasantly, and went down the steps, leaving Dexter face to face with the footman, who had become possessed of the news of the young guest's quality from no less a personage than Master Edgar himself. "Will you come in, please," he said, drawing back, and holding the door open with an air that should have made him gain for wages--kicks. Dexter said, "Yes, sir," as respectfully as if he were the workhouse porter, and took off his cap and went in. "This way, hif you please," said the supercilious gentleman. "You may leave your cap here." Dexter put down his cap, and followed the man to a door at the further end of the hall. "What name!" said the footman. Dexter stared at him. "What name shall I announce?" said the man again with chilling dignity. "Please, I don't know what you mean," said the boy, feeling very much confused. The man smiled pityingly, and looked down with a most exasperating kind of condescension at the visitor,--in a way, in fact, that stamped him mentally as a brother in spirit, if not in flesh, of Maria, the doctor's maid. "I 'ave to announce your name to her ladyship," said the footman. "Oh, my name," cried Dexter, "Obed Cole--I mean Dexter Grayson." He turned more red than ever in his confusion, and before he could say another word to add to his correction the door was thrown open. "Master Obed Cole Dextry Grayson," said the footman, in a loud voice; and the boy found himself standing in a large handsomely furnished room in the presence of Lady Danby, who rose with a forced smile, and looked very limp. "How do you do, Master Grayson!" she said sadly, and she held out her hand. Dexter in his confusion made a dash at it, and caught it tightly, to find that it felt very limp and cold, but the sensation did not last long, for the thin white fingers were snatched away. "Eddy, dear," said Lady Danby. There was no answer, and Dexter stood there, feeling very uncomfortable, and staring hard at the tall lady, who spoke in such an ill-used tone of voice. "Eddy, my darling," she said a little more loudly, as she turned and looked toward a glass door opening into a handsome conservatory; "come and shake hands with Master Grayson." There was no reply, but a faint rustling sound fell upon Dexter's quick ears, telling plainly enough that some one was in the conservatory. Lady Danby sighed, and there was a very awkward pause. "Perhaps you had better sit down, Master Grayson," she said. "My son will be here soon." Just at that moment there was a loud important sounding cough in the hall, the handle of the door rattled loudly, and Sir James entered, walking very upright, and smiling with his eyes half-closed. "Aha!" he exclaimed. "Here you are, then. How do you do--how do you do--how do you do!" He shook hands boisterously, nodding and smiling the while, and Dexter wondered whether he ought to say, "Quite well, thank you, sir," three times over, but he only said it once. "That's right," said Sir James. "Quite safe here, eh? No bullocks to run after us now." "No, sir," said Dexter uneasily. "But where's Eddy!" cried Sir James. "He was here a little while ago, my dear," said Lady Danby uneasily. "I think he has gone down the garden." "No; I think not," said Sir James. "Here, Eddy! Eddy!" "Yes, pa," came out of the conservatory. "Why, where are you, sir? Come and shake hands with our young friend." Master Edgar came slowly into sight, entered the drawing-room, and stood still. "Well; why don't you welcome your visitor? Come here." Master Edgar came a little more forward. "Now, then, shake hands with your friend." Master Edgar slowly held out a white thin hand in the direction of Dexter, who caught it eagerly, and felt as if he were shaking hands with Lady Danby again. "That's better," said Sir James. "Now the ice is broken I hope you two will be very great friends. There, we shall have an early dinner for you at three o'clock. Better leave them to themselves, my dear." "Very well, my love," responded Lady Danby sadly. "Take Dexter Grayson and show him your games, and your pony, and then you can take him round the garden, but don't touch the boat." "No, pa," said Edgar slowly. "He's a little shy, Dexter," said Sir James. "No, I ain't, ma," said Edgar, in a whisper. "We are very glad to see you, Dexter," continued Sir James. "There, now, go and enjoy yourself out in the garden, you'll find plenty to see. Come, Eddy." Master Edgar looked slowly and sulkily up at his father, and seemed to hesitate, not even glancing at his visitor. "Well!" said Sir James sharply. "Why are you hesitating? Come: run along. That way, Dexter, my lad. You two will soon be good friends." Dexter tried to smile, but it was a very poor apology for a look of pleasure, while Sir James, who seemed rather annoyed at his son's shrinking, uncouth conduct, laid his hand upon the boy's shoulder and led him into the conservatory. "Come, Eddy," he said bluffly. "Must I go, ma!" whispered Eddy. "Yes, my dear, certainly. Papa wishes it, and you must behave like a young gentleman to your guest." "Come, Eddy," shouted Sir James from the conservatory. Master Edgar went out sidewise in a very crabby way, and found Sir James waiting. "There, no more shyness," said Sir James bluffly. "Go out and enjoy yourselves till dinner-time." He nodded and smiled at them, gave his son a push toward Dexter, and returned to where Lady Danby was seated, with her brow all in wrinkles. "They will soon make friends," said Sir James. "It's Grayson's whim, of course, and really, my dear, this seems to be a decent sort of boy. Very rough, of course, but Eddy will give him polish. This class of boy is very quick at picking up things; and if, after a few weeks, Grayson is disappointed and finds out his mistake, why, then, we have behaved in a neighbourly way to him and Helen, and there's an end of it." "But it seems so shocking for poor Eddy, my dear," remonstrated Lady Danby. "Fish! pooh! tchah! rubbish! not at all!" "Eddy may pick up bad language from him, and become rude." "He had better not!" said Sir James. "He knows differently. The other young dog will learn from him. Make him discontented, I'm afraid; but there--it is not our doing." Lady Danby sighed. "They'll come back in a hour or two quite companions," continued Sir James. "Boys like that are a little awkward at their first meeting. Soon wear off. I am going to write letters till three. After their dinner perhaps I shall take them in the boat down the river." Lady Danby sighed again, and Sir James went to see to his letters for the post. By this time Master Edgar had walked softly out on to the lawn, with his right hand in his pocket, and his left thumb playing about his mouth, looking the while in all directions but that occupied by Dexter, who followed him slowly, waiting for his young host to speak. But Eddy did not seem to have the slightest intention of speaking. He only sidled away slowly across the lawn, and then down one of the winding paths among the shrubs and ornamental trees. This went on for about ten minutes, during which they got to be further and further from the house, not a word being spoken; and though Dexter looked genial and eager as he followed his young host, the silence chilled him as much as did the studied way in which his companion avoided his eyes. "What a beautiful garden you've got!" said Dexter at last. There was no reply. Eddy picked up a stone, and threw it at a thrush. "It's bigger than Dr Grayson's," said Dexter, after a pause. Eddy picked a flower, gave a chew at the stalk; then picked it to pieces, and threw it away. Then he began to sidle along again in and out among the trees, and on and on, never once looking at his companion till they were at the bottom of the garden. A pleasant piece of lawn, dotted with ornamental trees, sloped down to the river where, in a Gothic-looking boat-house, open at either end, a handsome-looking gig floated in the clear water. "That your boat?" said Dexter eagerly, as his eyes ran over the cushioned seats, and the sculls of varnished wood lying all ready along the thwarts. Edgar made no reply, only moved nearer to the water, and threw himself on a garden seat near the edge. "Isn't this a good place for fishing?" said Dexter, trying another tack. No answer, and it was getting very monotonous. But Dexter took it all good-humouredly, attributing the boy's manner more to shyness than actual discourtesy. "I say, don't you fish sometimes!" No reply. "Have you got any rods and lines!" Eddy gave a contemptuous sniff, which might have meant anything. "There's lots at Dr Grayson's," said Dexter eagerly, for the sight of the roach gliding about in the clear water in the shade of the boat-house excited the desire to begin angling. "Shall I go and fetch the rods and lines?" Eddy leaned back in the garden seat, and rested his head upon his hand. In despair Dexter sighed, and then recalled Sir James's words about their enjoying themselves. It was a lovely day; the garden was very beautiful; the river ran by, sparkling and bright; but there was very little enjoyment so far, and Dexter sat down upon the grass at a little distance from his young host. But it was not in Dexter's nature to sit still long, and after staring hard at the bright water for a few minutes, he looked up brightly at Edgar. "I say," he cried; "that bullock didn't hurt you the other day, did it?" Edgar shifted himself a little in his seat, so that he could stare in the other direction, and he tried to screw up his mouth into what was meant to be a supercilious look, though it was a failure, being extremely pitiful, and very small. Dexter waited for a few minutes, and then continued the one-sided conversation-- "I never felt afraid of bullocks," he said thoughtfully. "If you had run after them with your stick--I say, you got your stick, didn't you?" No reply. "Oh, well," said Dexter; "if you don't want to talk, I don't." "I don't want to talk to a boy like you," said Edgar, without looking. Dexter started, and stared hard. "I'm not accustomed to associate with workhouse boys." Dexter flinched. Not long back the idea of being a workhouse boy did not trouble him in the least. He knew that there were plenty of boys who were not workhouse boys, and seeing what freedom they enjoyed, and how much happier they seemed, something of the nature of envy had at times crept into his breast, but, on the whole, he had been very well contented till he commenced his residence at the doctor's; and now all seemed changed. "I'm not a workhouse boy," he said hotly. "Yes, you are," retorted Edgar, looking at him hard, full in the face, for the first time. "I know where you came from, and why you were fetched." Dexter's face was burning, and there was an angry look in his eyes, as he jumped up and took a couple of steps toward where Edgar sat back on the garden seat. But his pleasant look came back, and he held out his hand. "I'm not ashamed of it," he said. "I used to be at the workhouse. Won't you shake hands!" Edgar sniffed contemptuously, and turned his head away. "Very well," said Dexter sadly. "I don't want to, if you don't." Edgar suddenly leaped up, and went along by the side of the river, while Dexter, after a few moments' hesitation, began to follow him in a lonely, dejected way, wishing all the time that he could go back home. Following out his previous tactics, Edgar sidled along path after path, and in and out among the evergreen clumps, all the while taking care not to come within sight of the house, so that his actions might be seen; while, feeling perfectly helpless and bound to follow the caprices of his young host, Dexter continued his perambulation of the garden in the same unsatisfactory manner. "Look here," cried Edgar at last; "don't keep following me about." "Very well," said Dexter, as he stood still in the middle of one of the paths, wondering whether he could slip away, and return to the doctor's. That seemed a difficult thing to do, for Sir James might see him going, and call him back, and then what was he to say? Besides which, when he reached the doctor's there would be a fresh examination, and he felt that the excuse he gave would not be satisfactory. Dexter sighed, and glanced in the direction taken by Edgar. The boy was not within sight, but Dexter fancied that he had hidden, and was watching him, and he turned in the other direction, looking hopelessly about the garden, which seemed to be more beautiful and extensive than the doctor's; but, in spite of the wealth of greenery and flowers, everything looked cheerless and cold. Dexter sighed. Then a very natural boyish thought came into his head. "I wonder what's for dinner," he said to himself; but at the same time he knew that it must be a long while yet to dinner-time, and, sighing once more, he walked slowly down the path, found himself near the river again, and went and sat on a stump close to the boat-house, where he could look into the clear water, and see the fish. It was very interesting to him to watch the little things gliding here and there, and he wished that he had a rod and line to try for some of them, when all at once he started, for a well-aimed stone struck him upon the side of the head, and as it reached its goal, and Dexter started up angrily, there was a laugh and a rustle among the shrubs. As the pain went off, so did Dexter's anger, and he reseated himself upon the stump, thinking, with his young wits sharpened by his early life. "I don't call this coming out to enjoy myself," he said drily. "Wonder whether all young gentleman behave like this?" Then he began thinking about Sam Stubbs, a boy at the workhouse school, who was a terrible bully and tyrant, knocking all his companions about. But the sight of the clean-looking well-varnished boat, floating so easily in the shade of the roof of its house, took his attention, and he began thinking of how he should like a boat like that to push off into the stream, and go floating along in the sunshine, looking down at the fish, and fastening up every now and then to the overhanging trees. It would be glorious, he thought. "I wish Dr Grayson had a boat," he thought. "I could learn to row it, and--" _Whack_! Dexter jumped up again, tingling with pain; and then with his face scarlet he sat down once more writhing involuntarily, and drawing his breath hard, as there was a mocking laugh. The explanation was simple. Master Edgar was dissatisfied. It was very pleasant to his spoiled, morbid mind to keep on slighting and annoying his guest by making him dance attendance upon him, and dragging him about the garden wherever he pleased to go; but it was annoying and disappointing to find that he was being treated with a calm display of contempt. Under these circumstances Master Edgar selected a good-sized stone--one which he thought would hurt--and took excellent aim at Dexter, where he sat contemplating the river. The result was most satisfactory: Dexter had winced, evidently suffered sharp pain, but only submitted to it, and sat down again twisting himself about. Edgar laughed heartily, in fact the tears stood in his eyes, and he retreated, but only to where he could watch Dexter attentively. "He's a coward," said Edgar to himself. "All that sort of boys are." And with the determination of making his visitor a kind of captive to his bow and spear, or, in plainer English, a slave to his caprices, he went to one of the beds where some sticks had lately been put to some young plants, and selecting one that was new, thin, and straight, he went back on tiptoe, watched his opportunity, and then brought the stick down sharply across Dexter's back. He drew back for a few moments, his victim's aspect being menacing; but Dexter's young spirit had been kept crushed down for a good many years, and his custom had been under many a blow to sit and suffer patiently, not even crying aloud, Mr Sibery objecting to any noise in the school. Dexter had subsided again. The flashes that darted from his eyes had died out, and those eyes looked subdued and moist. For the boy was mentally, as well as bodily hurt, and he wondered what Helen would say, and whether Sir James would correct his son if he saw him behaving in that manner to his visitor. "Hey: get up!" said Edgar, growing more bold, as he found that he could ill-use his guest with impunity; and as he spoke he gave him a rough poke or two with the sharp end of the stick, which had been pointed with the gardener's pruning-knife. His treatment of Dexter resembled that which he had been accustomed to bestow upon an unfortunate dog he had once owned--one which became so fond of him that at last it ran away. "Do you hear!" cried Edgar again. "Get up." "Don't: you hurt." "Yes: meant to hurt," said Edgar, grinning. "Get up." He gave Dexter so sharp a dig with the stick that the latter jumped up angrily, and Edgar drew back; but on seeing that the visitor only went on a few yards to where there was a garden seat, and sat down again, the young tyrant became emboldened, and went behind the seat with a malicious look of satisfaction in his eyes. "Don't do that," said Dexter quietly. "Let's have a game at something. Do you think we might go in that boat?" "I should think not indeed," cried Edgar, who now seemed to have found his tongue. "Boats are for young gentlemen, not for boys from the Union." Dexter winced a little, and Edgar looked pleased. "Get up!" he shouted; and he made another lunge with the stick. "I'm always getting into trouble," thought Dexter, as the result of the last few days' teachings, "and I don't want to do anything now." "Do you hear, blackguard? Get up!" There was another sharp poke, a painful poke, against which, as he moved to the other end of the seat, Dexter uttered a mild protest. "Did you hear me say, `Get up'?" shouted Edgar. Dexter obeyed, and moved a little nearer to the water's edge. "I wish it was time to go," he said to himself. "I am so miserable here." "Now, go along there," said Edgar sharply. "Go on!" The boy seemed to have a donkey in his mind's eye just then, for he thrust and struck at Dexter savagely, and then hastily threw down the stick, as an angry glow was gathering in his visitor's countenance. For just then there was a step heard upon the gravel. "Ah, Eddy, my darling," said a voice; and Lady Danby walked languidly by, holding up a parasol. "At play, my dear?" She did not glance at Dexter, who felt very solitary and sad as the lady passed on, Master Eddy throwing himself on the grass, and picking it off in patches to toss toward the water till his mother was out of sight, when he sprang up once more, and picked the stick from where he had thrown it upon a bed. As he did this he glanced sidewise, and then stood watching for a few minutes, when he made a playful kind of charge at his visitor, and drove the point of the stick so vigorously against his back that the cloth gave way, making a triangular hole, and causing the owner no little pain. "Don't," cried Dexter appealingly; "you hurt ever so. Let's play at some game." "I'm going to," cried Edgar, with a vicious laugh. "I'm going to play at French and English, and you're the beggarly Frenchman at Waterloo. That's the way to charge bayonets. How do you like that, and that, and that!" "Not at all," said Dexter, trying hard to be good-humoured. "Then you'll have to like it, and ever so much more, too. Get up, blackguard. Do you hear?" Dexter rose and retreated; but, with no little agility, Edgar got before him, and drove him toward the water, stabbing and lunging at him so savagely, that if he had not parried some of the thrusts with his hands his face must have been torn. Edgar grew more and more excited over his work, and Dexter received a nasty dig on one hand, another in the cheek, while another grazed his ear. This last was beyond bearing. The hurt was not so bad as several which he had before received; but, perhaps from its nearness to his brain, it seemed to rouse Dexter more than any former blow, and, with an angry cry, he snatched at and caught the stick just as it came near his face. "Let go of that stick! Do you hear?" cried Edgar. For response Dexter, who was now roused, held on tightly, and tried to pull the stick away. "Let go," cried Edgar, tugging and snatching with all his might. Dexter's rage was as evanescent as it was quick. It passed away, and as his enemy made another furious tug at the stick Dexter suddenly let go, and the consequence was the boy staggered back a few yards, and then came down heavily in a sitting position upon the grass. Edgar sat and stared for a few moments, the sudden shock being anything but pleasant; but, as he saw Dexter's mirthful face, a fit of rage seized him, and, leaping up, he resumed his attack with the stick. This time his strokes and thrusts were so malicious, and given with so decided a desire to hurt his victim as much as was possible, that, short of running away, Dexter had to do everything possible to avoid the blows. For the most part he was successful; but at last he received so numbing a blow across the arm that he quivered with pain and anger as he sprang forward, and, in place of retreating, seized the stick, and tried to wrest it away. There was a brief struggle, but pretty full of vigour. Rage made Edgar strong, and he fought well for his weapon, but at the end of a minute's swaying here and there, and twistings and heavings innumerable, Edgar's arms felt as if they were being torn from his body, the stick was wrenched away, and as he stood scarlet with passion, he saw it whirled into the air, to fall with a loud splash into the river. Edgar ground his teeth for a moment or two, and then, as white with anger as his adversary was red, he flew at him, swaying his arms round, and then there was a furious encounter. Edgar had his own ideas about fighting manoeuvres, which he had tried again and again upon his nurse in bygone times, and upon any of the servants with whom he had come in contact. His arms flew round like flails, or as if he had been transformed into a kind of human firework, and for the next five minutes he kicked, scratched, bit, and tore at his adversary; the next five minutes he was seated upon the grass, howling, his nose bleeding terribly, and the crimson stains carried by his hands all over his face. For Dexter was not perfect: he had borne till it was impossible to bear more, and then, with his anger surging up, he had fought as a down-trodden English boy will sometimes fight; and in this case with the pluck and steadiness learned in many a school encounter, unknown to Mr Sibery or Mr Hippetts, the keen-eyed and stern. Result: what might be expected. Dexter felt no pain, only an intense desire to thrash the virulent little tyrant who had scratched his face, kicked his shins, torn at his hair--it was too short still for a good hold--and, finally, made his sharp, white teeth meet in his visitor's neck. "Served you right!" muttered Dexter, as he knelt down by the river, and bathed his hands and face before dabbing them dry with his pocket-handkerchief. "No business to treat me like that." Then, as he stood rubbing his face--very little the worse for the encounter--his anger all passed away, and the consequences of his act dawned upon him. "Look here," he said; "it was all your fault. Come to the water; that will soon stop bleeding." He held out his hand, as he bent over the fallen tyrant, meaning to help him to rise, when, quick as lightning, Edgar caught the hand proffered to him and carried it to his teeth. Dexter uttered a cry of pain, and shook him off, sending him backwards now upon the grass, just as a shadow fell across the contending boys, and Sir James stood frowning there. CHAPTER NINETEEN. MASTER EDDY "HOLLERS WAHOO!" "What is the meaning of this!" cried Sir James furiously. Dexter was speechless, and he shrank back staring. Edgar was ready with an answer. "He's knocking me about, pa. He has done nothing but knock me about ever since he came." "Oh!" cried Dexter in a voice full of indignant astonishment. "I didn't. He begun it, and I didn't, indeed." "Silence, sir!" cried Sir James, in his severest magisterial tones. "How dare you tell me such a falsehood? I saw you ill-using my son as you held him down." "Why, he had got hold of my hand!" cried Dexter indignantly. "Got hold of your hand, sir? How dare you? How dare you, sir, I say? I've a great mind to--" Sir James did not finish his speech, but made a gesture with the walking-cane he carried; and just then there was a loud hysterical shriek. For Lady Danby had realised the fact that something was wrong from the part of the garden where she was promenading, parasol in hand, and she came now panting up, in the full belief that some accident had happened to her darling, and that he was drowned. "Eddy, Eddy!" she cried, as she came up; and then as soon as she caught sight of his anything but pleasant-looking countenance, she shrieked again wildly, and flung herself upon her knees beside him. "What is it? What is it, my darling?" she sobbed, as she caught him to her heart. "That horrid boy! Knocking me about," he cried, stopping his howling so as to deliver the words emphatically; and then looking at his stained hands, and bursting into a howl of far greater power than before. "The wretch! The wretch!" cried Lady Danby. "I always knew it. He has killed my darling." At this dire announcement Edgar shook himself free from his mother's embrace, looked at his hands again, and then in the extremity of horror, threw himself flat upon his back, and shrieked and kicked. "O my darling, my darling!" cried Lady Danby. "He isn't hurt much," cried Dexter indignantly. "How dare you, sir!" roared Sir James. "He's killed; he's killed!" cried Lady Danby, clasping her hands, and rocking herself to and fro as she gazed at the shrieking boy, who only wanted a cold sponge and a towel to set him right. "Ow!" yelled Edgar, as he appreciated the sympathy of his mother, but believed the very worst of his unfortunate condition. The lady now bent over him, said that he was killed, and of course she must have known. Edgar had never read _Uncle Remus_. All this was before the period when that book appeared; but his conduct might very well be taken as a type of that of the celebrated Brer Fox when Brer Rabbit was in doubt as to whether he was really dead or only practising a ruse, and proceeded to test his truth by saying, as he saw him stretched out-- "Brer Fox look like he dead, but he don't do like he dead. Dead fokes hists up de behime leg, en hollers _wahoo_!" Edgar, according to Brer Rabbit's ideas, was very dead indeed, for he kept on "histing up de behime leg, en hollering _wahoo_!" with the full power of his lungs. By this time the alarm had spread, and there was the sound of steps upon a gravel walk, which resulted in the appearance of the supercilious footman. "Carry Master Edgar up to the house," said Sir James, in his severest magisterial tones. "Carefully--very carefully," wailed her ladyship piteously; and she looked and spoke as if she feared that as soon as the boy was touched he would tumble all to pieces. Dexter looked on, with his eyes turning here and there, like those of some captured wild animal which fears danger; and as he looked he caught sight of the footman gazing at him with a peculiar grin upon his countenance, which seemed to be quite friendly, and indicated that the man rather enjoyed the plight in which his young master was plunged. Master Edgar howled again as he was raised, and directly after began to indulge in what the plantation negroes used to call "playing 'possum"-- that is to say, he suddenly became limp and inert, closing his eyes, and letting his head roll about, as if there were no more bone left in his body, while his mother wrung her hands, and tried then to hold the head steady, as the footman prepared to move toward the house. "Now, sir," said Sir James sternly, "come here. We will have a few words about this in my library." Accustomed for years past to obey, Dexter took a step forward to accompany the stern-looking man before him to the house; but such a panorama of troublous scenes rose before his mind's eye directly, that he stopped short, gave one hasty glance round, and then, as Sir James stretched forth his hand, he made one bound which landed him in a clump of hollyhocks and dahlias; another which took him on to the grass; and then, with a rush, he dashed into a clump of rhododendrons, went through them, and ran as hard as he could go toward the house. For a few moments Sir James was too much astounded to speak. This was something new. He was accustomed to order, and to be obeyed. He had ordered Dexter to come to him, and for answer the boy had dashed away. As soon as Sir James could recover his breath, taken away in his astonishment, he began to shout-- "Stop, sir! Do you hear? How dare you?" If a hundred Sir Jameses had been shouting it would not have stayed Dexter, for he had only one idea in his head just then, and that was to get away. "Put down Master Edgar, and go and fetch that boy back." "Carefully! Oh, pray, put him down carefully," cried Lady Danby passionately. Just then Master Edgar uttered a fresh cry, and his mother wailed loudly. "No, never mind," cried Sir James, "carry him up to the house; I will fetch that young rascal." He strode off angrily, evidently believing in his own mind that he really was going to fetch Dexter back; but by that time the boy had reached the house, ran round by the side, dashed down the main street, and was soon after approaching the bridge over the river, beyond which lay the Union and the schools. CHAPTER TWENTY. AN EXPLANATION. For a few moments Dexter's idea was to go to the great gates, ring the porter's bell, and take sanctuary there, for he felt that he had disgraced himself utterly beyond retrieving his character. Certainly, he never dared go back to the doctor's. He felt for a moment that he had some excuse, for Edgar Danby had brought his punishment upon himself; but no one would believe that, and there was no hope for the offender but to give up everything, and go back to his former life. But, as the boy reached the gloomy-looking workhouse entrance, and saw the painted bell-pull, through whose coating the rust was eating its way, he shivered. For there rose up before him the stern faces of Mr Hippetts and Mr Sibery, with the jeering crowd of schoolfellows, who could laugh at and gibe him for his downfall, and be sure to call him Gentleman Coleby, as long as they were together, the name, under the circumstances, being sure to stick. No, he could not face them there, and beside, though it had never seemed so before, the aspect of the great building was so forbidding that he shrank away, and walked onward toward the outskirts of the town, and on, and on, till he found himself by the river. Such a sensation of misery and despair came over him, that he began walking along by the bank, seeing nothing of the glancing fish and bright insects which danced above the water. He had room for nothing but the despondent thoughts of what he should do now. "What would the doctor think of him? What would Helen say?" He had been asked out to spend the day at a gentleman's house, and he had disgraced himself, and-- "Hullo!" Dexter looked up sharply, and found that he had almost run against his old fishing friend of the opposite side of the river. "Hullo!" stammered Dexter in reply. "Got dry again?" said the boy, who was standing just back from the water's edge, fishing, with his basket at his side, and a box of baits on the grass. "Got dry?" said Dexter wonderingly. "Yes! My!" cried the boy, grinning, "you did have a ducking. I ran away. Best thing I could do." "Yes," said Dexter quietly; "you ran away." "Why, what yer been a-doing of? Your face is scratched, and your hands too. I know: you've been climbing trees. You'll ketch it, spoiling your clothes. That's got him." He struck and landed a small fish, which he took from the hook and dropped into his basket, where there were two more. "They don't bite to-day. Caught any down your garden!" "No," said Dexter, to whom the company of the boy was very cheering just then. "I haven't tried since." "You are a fellow! Why, if I had a chance like you have, I should be always at it." "I say, what did you say your name was?" "Bob Dimsted--Bob," said the fisher, throwing in again. "I know what yours is. You come out of the workus." "Yes," said Dexter sadly, as he wondered whether he did not wish he was there now. "I came out of the workus--workhouse," he added, as he remembered one of Helen's teachings. "Why don't you get your rod some day, and a basket of something to eat, and come right up the river with me, fishing? There's whackers up there." "I should like to," said Dexter thoughtfully, for the idea of the fishing seemed to drive away the troubles from which he suffered. "Well, come then. I'd go any day, only you must let me have all you caught." "All?" said Dexter, as he began to think of trophies. "Yes. As I showed you the place where they're caught, I should want to take them home." "All right," said Dexter. "You could have them." "Ah, it's all very well," said the boy, "but there wouldn't be many that you caught, mate. Ah! No, he's off again. Keep a little furder back." Dexter obeyed, and sat down on the grass, feeling in a half-despairing mood, but as if the company of this rough boy was very pleasant after what he had gone through, and that boys like this were more agreeable to talk to than young tyrants of the class of Edgar Danby. "Fish don't half bite to-day," said Bob Dimsted. "I wish you'd got a rod here, I could lend you a line--single hair." "But I haven't got a rod." "Well, run home and fetch it," said Bob. "Run home and fetch it?" How could he run home and fetch it? How could he ever go back to the doctor's again? "No," he said at last, as he shook his head. "I can't go and fetch it." "Then you can't fish," said the boy, "and 'tain't much use. It's no fun unless they bite, and some days it don't matter how you try, they won't." "Won't they?" said Dexter, and then he started to his feet, for a familiar voice had spoken close to his ear-- "Why, Dexter!" The voice was as full of astonishment as the pleasant face which looked in his. "I thought you were at Sir James Danby's! Is Edgar out here, in the meadows!" "No--no," faltered Dexter; and Bob Dimsted began to gather up his tackle, so as to make a strategic movement, there being evidently trouble in the rear. "But what does this mean?" said Helen firmly. "Who is that boy?" "Bob--Bob Dimsted." "And do you know him?" "He--he was fishing opposite our--your--garden the day I fell into the river," faltered Dexter; and he looked longingly at Bob, who was quickly moving away, and wished that those eyes did not hold him so firmly, and keep him from doing the same. "Was he at your school?" "No," faltered Dexter. "Then I am sure papa would not like you to be making acquaintance with boy's like that. But come, Dexter. What is the meaning of all this? I left you at Sir James Danby's." "Yes," said Dexter, shuffling from foot to foot. "Then why are you not there now--playing with Edgar?" Dexter did not answer, but seemed to be admiring the prospect. "Why, Dexter, your face is all scratched!" Dexter looked up at her, with the scratched face scarlet. "How is that!" continued Helen sternly. "Fighting," said Dexter grimly. "Fighting? Oh, shame! And with that rough boy!" "No!" cried Dexter quickly. "He didn't knock me about." "Then who did!" "That young Danby." Dexter's lips were well opened now, and he went on talking rapidly. "I never did anything to him, but he went on for an hour walking all round the garden, and wouldn't speak; and when I was tired and sat down, he got a stick and knocked me about, and poked me with the point. I stood it as long as I could, and then, when he got worse and worse, I pitched into him, and I'm sure you would have done the same." Helen did not look as if she would have done the same, but stood gazing at the young monkey before her, wondering whether he was deserving of her sympathy, or had really misbehaved himself, and was trying to palliate his conduct. "There, Dexter," she said at last. "I really do not know what to do with you. You had better come on and see papa at once." She took a step toward the town, and then waited, but Dexter stood firm, and cast a glance toward the country. "Dexter, did you hear what I said!" The boy looked at her uneasily, and then nodded sullenly. "Come home with me, then, at once," said Helen quickly. "It's no use for me to come home along of you," said Dexter surlily. "He'll hit me, and I don't want to go." Helen hesitated for a few moments, and then laid her hand upon the boy's shoulder. "I wish you to come, Dexter." He shook his head. "Come," she cried, "if you have been in fault confess it frankly." "But I haven't," cried the boy angrily. "I couldn't help fighting when he knocked me about as he did. He bit me too. Look there!" He hastily drew up his sleeve, and displayed a ruddy circle on his white skin, which bore pretty strong witness to the truth of his words. "Then, if you were not to blame, why should you shrink from coming to papa?" "'Cause he mightn't believe me. Mr Sibery never would, neither," muttered Dexter. "Tell the truth and papa will be sure to believe you," cried Helen indignantly. "Think he would!" said Dexter. "I am sure of it, sir." "All right then," cried the boy quickly. "I'll come. Oh, I say!" "What is the matter?" "Look! Here he comes!" He pointed quickly in the direction of the town, and, wresting himself from Helen's grasp, set off at a sharp run. But he had not gone a dozen yards before he turned and saw Helen gazing after him. He stopped directly, and came slowly and reluctantly back. "Did you call me!" he said sheepishly. "No, Dexter; I think it must have been your conscience spoke and upbraided you for being such a coward." "Yes, it was cowardly, wasn't it?" cried the boy. "I didn't mean to run away, but somehow I did. I say, will he hit me!" "No, Dexter." "Will he be very cross with me?" "I am afraid he will, Dexter; but you must submit bravely, and speak the simple truth." "Yes, I'm going to," said Dexter, with a sigh; and he glanced behind him at the pleasant stretch of meadows, and far away down among the alders and willows, with Bob Dimsted fishing, and evidently quite free from the care which troubled him. The doctor strode up, looking very angry. "So you are there, are you, sir?" he cried austerely. "Do you know of this disgraceful business!" "Dexter has been telling me," said Helen gravely. "Humph!" grunted the doctor. "I knew you had come down here, so I thought I would come and tell you of the terrible state of affairs." "Terrible, papa!" "Ah! then you don't know. It was not likely he would tell you. Sir James came straight to me, and told me everything. It seems that the two boys were sent down the garden together to play, and that as soon as they were alone, Dexter here began to annoy and tease Edgar." "Here, just say that again, will you?" cried Dexter sharply. "I repeat that Dexter here began to annoy and tease Edgar." "Oh!" ejaculated Dexter. "And at last, after the poor boy had tried everything to keep his companion from the line of conduct he had pursued, he resolved to go down and sit by the river, leaving Dexter to amuse himself. But unfortunately the spirit of mischief was so strong in him that this boy took out a dahlia-stick with a sharp point--Sir James showed it to me-- and then, after stabbing at him for some time, began to use his fists, and beat Edgar in the most cruel way." "Oh, my!" ejaculated Dexter; and then, giving his right foot a stamp, "Well, of all the--Oh, my! what a whopper!" The low slangy expression was brought out with such an air of indignant protest that Helen was unable to keep her countenance, and she looked away, while the doctor, who was quite as much impressed, frowned more severely to hide the mirth aroused by the boy's ejaculations, and turned to him sharply-- "What do you mean by that, sir!" he cried. "Mean?" cried Dexter indignantly, and without a shade of fear in his frank bold eyes; "why there isn't a bit of it true. He didn't like me because I came from over yonder, and he wouldn't speak to me. Then he kept on hitting me, and I wouldn't hit him back, because I thought it would make her cross; but, last of all, he hurt me so that I forgot all about everything, and then we did fight, and I whipped--and that's all." "Oh, that's all, is it, sir!" said the doctor, who was angry and yet amused. "Yes, that's all," said Dexter; "only I've got a bite on my arm, and one on my neck, and one on my shoulder. They didn't bleed, though, only pinched and hurt. I only hit him one good un, and that was on the nose, and it made it bleed." "Humph!" ejaculated the doctor. "Now, look here, Dexter, is every word of that true!" "Yes, sir, every bit," cried the boy eagerly. "You will see if it ain't." The doctor's face wrinkled a little more, as to conceal a smile he turned to his daughter-- "Now," he said, "do you think this is true?" "I feel sure it is," said Helen. "I am convinced that Dexter would not tell either of us a falsehood." "There!" cried the boy, smiling triumphantly, as he crept to Helen's side and laid his hand in hers. "Hear that? Of course I wouldn't. I wanted to be all right, but--I say, does my head bleed there?" He took off his cap, and held down his head, while Helen looked at the spot he pointed out, and shuddered slightly. "That's where he stuck his nails into my head, just like a cat. It did hurt ever so, but I soon forgot it." "Let's go home," said the doctor gravely. "It is unfortunate, but of course Dexter could not submit to be trampled upon by any boy." "I say, you do believe me, don't you!" said Dexter quickly. "Yes, my boy. I believe you on your honour." "On my honour," said Dexter quickly. "That will do," said the doctor. "It is unfortunate, but unavoidable. Let us go home to lunch." "And you will not send me back to the--you know!" "Certainly not," said the doctor. "And may I come out here to fish by and by!" "Certainly," said the doctor. "If you are a good boy." "No, I think not," said Helen, making a shadow cross the boy's countenance. "Dexter cannot come out fishing alone; I will come with him." Dexter gave her a meaning look, as he understood why she had said that; and then walked quietly home with the doctor and his daughter to a far more agreeable meal than he would have enjoyed at the baronet's house. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. A RECORD OF CARES. "Hang his impudence!" said the doctor. "What do you think he told me?" "Sir James?" "Yes, my dear. Told me I was a regular modern Frankenstein, and that I had made a young monster to worry me to death. Such insolence! Dexter's growing a very nice lad, and I feel as if I could make a nobleman of him if I liked, but I think I'll send him to a good school for a bit. You see, he's full of promise, Helen." "Yes, papa," said Helen, suppressing her mirth. "Ah! now you are laughing at me. I mean full of the promise that will some day mean performance. But--yes, I will send him to a good school." A good school was selected, and Dexter duly sent down to it, leaving Helen very unwillingly, but holding up manfully, and the doctor said he would come back at the holiday-time vastly improved. In six weeks Dr Grayson received a letter asking him to fetch Dexter away to save him from being expelled. The Doctor looked very angry as he went down to Cardley Willows, and the inquiries took a stern, rather bitter turn. "Has the boy been a young blackguard?" he said. "No," said the principal. "Dishonest?" "Oh dear no!" "Well, what is it then--disobedient!" "Oh dear no! He'll promise anything." "Humph! yes," said the doctor to himself. "I'm very sorry, Dr Grayson," continued the principal; "but the boy is incorrigible, and you must take him away." The doctor took the boy away, and he had a very stern talking-to at home. Two months passed away. "There, Helen," said the doctor one morning; "what do you say to him now? Wonderfully improved, has he not? Good natural boy's colour in his cheeks--better blood, you see, and nice curly hair. Really he is not like the same." "No, papa; he is greatly changed," said Helen, as she followed the direction of her father's eyes to where Dexter was out on the lawn watching old Dan'l, while old Dan'l, in a furtive manner, was diligently watching him in return. "Greatly changed," said the doctor thoughtfully, as he scratched the side of his nose with his penholder, "in personal appearance. Sir James seems very sore still about that little affair. Says I ought to have thrashed Dexter, for he behaved brutally to young Edgar." "And what did you say, papa?" "Well, not exactly all I thought. Dreadful young limb that Edgar. Spoiled boy, but I could not tell Danby so with such a catalogue of offences as Master Dexter has to show on my black list. You see, Helen, we do not get any further with him." Helen shook her head sadly. "There's something wrong in his brain; or something wanting. He'll promise amendment one hour, and go and commit the same fault the very next." "It is very sad," replied Helen thoughtfully; "but I'm sure he means well." "Yes, my dear; of course," said the doctor, looking perplexed; "but it's a great drawback to one's success. But there: we must persevere. It seems to me that the first thing to do is to wean him from that terrible love of low companions." "Say companion," said Helen, smiling. "Well, a companion, then. I wish we could get that young fishing scoundrel sent away; but of course one cannot do that. Oh, by the way, what about Maria? Is she going away?" "No," said Helen. "I had a long talk to her about her unreasoning dislike to Dexter, and she has consented to stay." "Well, it's very kind of her," said the doctor testily. "I suppose Mrs Millett will be giving warning next." "Oh no," said Helen; "she finds a good deal of fault, but I think, on the whole, she feels kindly toward the poor boy." "Don't!" cried the doctor, giving the writing-table so angry a slap with his open hand that a jet of ink shot out of the stand and made half a dozen great splashes. "Now, look there, what you've made me do," he continued, as he began hastily to soak up the black marks with blotting-paper. "I will not have Dexter called `the poor boy.' He is not a poor boy. He is a human waif thrown up on life's shore. No, no: and you are not to call him a human waif. I shall well educate him, and place him on the high-road toward making his way properly in life as a gentleman should, and I'll show the whole world that I'm right." "You shall, papa," said Helen merrily; "and I will help you all I can." "I know you will, my dear, and you are helping me," cried the doctor warmly; "and it's very good of you. But I do wish we could make him think before he does anything. His mischievous propensities are simply horrible. And now, my dear, about his education. We must do something more, if it is only for the sake of keeping him out of trouble. You are doing nobly, but that is not enough. I did mean to read classics with him myself, but I have no time. My book takes too much thought. Now, I will not send the poor boy--" "`Poor boy,' papa!" said Helen merrily. "Eh? Did I say `poor boy'!" cried the doctor, scratching his nose again. "Yes." "Ah, well; I did not mean it. I was going to say I will not send him to another school. He would be under too many disadvantages, so I think we will decide upon a private tutor." "Yes, papa; a very excellent arrangement." "Yes, I think it is; and--well, Maria, what is it!" "Dan'l, sir," said that young lady, who spoke very severely, as if she could hardly contain her feelings; "and he'd be glad to know if you could see him a minute." "Send him in, Maria," said the doctor; and then, as the housemaid left the room, "Well, it can't be anything about Dexter now, because he is out there on the--" The doctor's words were delivered more and more slowly as he rose and walked toward the open window, while Helen felt uneasy, and full of misgivings. "Why, the young dog was here just now," cried the doctor angrily. "Now, really, Helen, if he has been at any tricks this time, I certainly will set up a cane." "O papa!" "Yes, my dear, I certainly will, much as I object to corporal punishment. Well, Daniel, what is it!" Old Dan'l had a straw hat in his hand--a hat that was rather ragged at the edge, and with which, as if it was to allay some irritation, he kept sawing one finger. "Beg pardon, sir--pardon, Miss," said Dan'l apologetically; "but if I might speak and say a few words--" "Certainly, Daniel; you may do both," said the doctor. "Thanky, sir--thanky kindly, Miss," said the gardener, half-putting his hat on twice so as to have it in the proper position for making a bow; "which I'm the last man in the world, sir, to make complaints." "Humph!" ejaculated the doctor. "Serving you as I have now for over twenty year, and remembering puffickly well, Miss, when you was only a pink bit of a baby, as like one o' my tender carnations as could be, only more like a Count dee Parish rose." "Well, what's the matter, Daniel?" said the doctor hastily, for he wanted to bring the old man's prosings to an end. "Well, sir, heverythink, as you may say, is the matter. Look at me, sir; I've suffered more in that garden than mortal man would believe!" "Oh, have you!" said the doctor, taking off his glasses. "You don't look so very bad, Daniel, for a man of sixty-five." "Sixty-four and three-quarters, begging your pardon, sir; but I have suffered. I've laid awake nights and nights thinking of what was best for planting them borders with s'rubs, as is now a delight to the human eye; and I've walked that garden hundreds o' nights with a lanthorn in search o' slugs, as comes out o' they damp meadows in in counted millions; and I've had my cares in thrips and red spider and green fly, without saying a word about scale and them other blights as never had no name. But never in my life--never in all my born days--never since I was first made a gardener, have I suffered anythink like as I've suffered along o' that there boy." "Nonsense, Daniel! nonsense!" cried the doctor pettishly. "Well, sir, I've served you faithful, and took such a pride in that there garden as never was, and you may call it nonsense, sir, but when I see things such as I see, I say it's time to speak." "Why, you are always coming to me with some petty complaint, sir, about that boy." "Petty complaint, sir!" cried Dan'l indignantly. "Is Ribstons a petty complaint--my chycest Ribstons, as I want for dessert at Christmas? And is my Sturmer pippins a petty complaint--them as ought to succeed the Ribstons in Febbery and March?" "Why, what about them?" cried the doctor. "Oh, nothing, sir; only as half the town's t'other side o' the river, and my pippins is being shovelled over wholesale." The doctor walked out into the hall and put on his hat, with Dan'l following him; and, after a moment's hesitation, Helen took up a sunshade, and went down the garden after her father. She overtook him as he was standing by a handsome espalier, dotted with the tawny red-streaked Ribstons, while Dan'l was pointing to a couple of newly-made footmarks. "Humph! Not all gone, then?" said the doctor, frowning. "Not yet!" growled Dan'l. "And see there, Miss; there was four stunners on that there little branch this mornin', and they're all gone!" "Where is Master Dexter?" said the doctor. Dan'l made a jerking motion with his thumb over his right shoulder, and the doctor walked on over the grass toward the bottom of the grounds. The little party advanced so noiselessly that they were unheard, and in another minute they were near enough to hear Dexter exclaim-- "Now, then; this time--catch!" The doctor stopped short in time to see, according to Dan'l's version, the Ribstons and Sturmers thrown across the river to half the town. "Half the town," according to Dan'l, consisted of Bob Dimsted, who had laid down his rough fishing-rod, and was holding half an apple in one hand, munching away the while, as he caught another deftly; and he was in the act of stuffing it into his pocket as he caught sight of the doctor, and stood for a few moments perfectly motionless. Then, stooping quickly, he gathered up his tackle and ran. "What's the matter!" cried Dexter. Bob made no reply, but ran off; and as he did so, Dexter laughingly took another apple from his pocket--a hard green Sturmer pippin, which he threw with such force and accuracy that it struck Bob right in the middle of the back, when the boy uttered a cry of alarm, ran more swiftly, and Dexter stood for a moment roaring with laughter, and then turned to find himself face to face with the trio who had come down the garden. "And them pippins worth twopence apiece at Christmas, sir!" cried Dan'l. "What are you doing, Dexter!" cried the doctor sternly. "I was only giving him an apple or two," said the boy, after a few moments' hesitation. "Come in, sir," cried the doctor. "A month's notice, if you please, sir, from to-day," said Dan'l, frowning angrily; but no one paid any heed to him, for the doctor had laid his hand upon Dexter's shoulder, and marched him off. "And I've never said nothing yet about our bees," grumbled Dan'l. "A young tyke! Raddled 'em up with a long stick on purpose to get me stung to death, he did, as is a massy I warn't. Well, a month to-day. Either he goes or I do. Such whims, to have a boy like that about the place. Well, I'm glad I've brought it to a head, for the doctor won't part with me." "Now, sir," said the doctor, as he seated himself in his chair, and Helen took up her work, carefully keeping her eyes off Dexter, who looked at her appealingly again and again. "Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?" Dexter looked at the doctor, and his countenance was so unpleasantly angry that the ceiling, the floor, and the various objects around seemed preferable, and were carefully observed in turn. "Do you hear, sir? What have you to say for yourself!" "What about?" faltered Dexter at last. "What about, sir? Just as if you did not know! Weren't you forbidden to touch those apples!" "Only by Daniel, sir; and he said I was never to touch any fruit at all; but you said I might." "Yes--I did. I said you might have some fruit." "Apples is fruit," said Dexter. "_Are_ fruit--_are_ fruit, sir," cried the doctor, in an exasperated tone. "Apples _are_ fruit," said Dexter. "But I did not tell you to pick my choice pippins and throw them across the river to every blackguard boy you see." "But he hasn't got a beautiful garden like we have," protested Dexter. "What has that got to do with it, sir?" cried the doctor angrily. "I don't grow fruit and keep gardeners on purpose to supply the wants of all the little rascals in the place." "He asked me to get him some apples, sir." "Asked you to get him some, indeed! Look here, sir; I've tried very hard to make you a decent boy by kindness, but it does no good. You were told not to associate with that boy any more." "Please, sir, I didn't," cried Dexter. "I didn't, indeed, sir." "What? Why, I saw you talking to him, and giving him fruit." "Please, sir, I couldn't help it. I didn't 'sociate with him; he would come and 'sociate with me." "Bah!" ejaculated the doctor. "And he said if I didn't give him some apples and pears he'd come and stand in front of the windows here and shout `workus' as loud as he could." "I shall have to send the police after him," said the doctor fiercely; "and as for you, sir, I've quite made up my mind what to do. Kind words are thrown away. I shall now purchase a cane--and use it." "Oh, I say, don't," cried Dexter, giving himself a writhe, as he recalled sundry unpleasant interviews with Mr Sibery. "It does hurt so, you don't know; and makes black marks on you afterwards, just as if it had been dipped in ink." Helen bent down over the work she had taken up. "Don't?" said the doctor sharply. "Then what am I to do, sir? Words are of no use. I did hope that you were going to be a better and more tractable boy." "Well, but ain't I?" said Dexter, looking puzzled, and rubbing his curly head. "Better? No, sir; much worse." Dexter rubbed his head again thoughtfully. "I haven't torn my clothes this week, and I haven't been down on my knees; and I haven't been on the top of the wall, and I did want to ever so badly." "No, Dexter; but you climbed right to the top of the big pear-tree," said Helen quickly; "and it was a terribly dangerous thing to do." "Now you've begun at me!" said the boy in a lachrymose tone. "I'm afraid I'm a regular bad one, and you'd better send me back again." The doctor looked at Helen, and she returned the glance with a very serious aspect, but there was a merry light in her eyes, as she saw her father's discomfiture. He read her looks aright, and got up from his seat with an impatient ejaculation. "I'm going out, my dear," he said shortly. "Are you going to get a cane!" cried Dexter excitedly. "I say, don't, and I will try so hard to do what you want." "I was not going to buy a cane, sir," said the doctor, who was half-angry, half-amused by the boy's earnestness. "One of my walking-sticks would do very well when I give you a good sound thrashing. Here, Helen, my dear, you can speak to Dexter a bit. I will have another talk to him to-night." The doctor left the room, and Dexter stood listening as his step was heard in the hall. Then the door closed, and Helen bent thoughtfully over her work, while the boy stood first on one foot, then on the other, watching her. The window was open, the sun shone, and the garden with its lawn and bright flowers looked wonderfully tempting, but duty and the disgrace he was in acted as two chains to hold the boy there. "I say," he said at last. "Yes, Dexter," said Helen, looking up at him sadly. "Oh, I say, don't look at me like that," he cried. "You force me to, Dexter," she said gravely. "But ain't you going to talk to me!" "If I talk to you, it will only be to scold you very severely." Dexter sighed. "Well," he said, after a pause, during which he had been gazing intently in the earnest eyes before him; "you've got to do it, so let's have it over. I was always glad when I had been punished at school." "Glad, Dexter?" "Yes, glad it was over. It was the worst part of it waiting to have your whack!" "Do you want to oblige me, Dexter?" said Helen, wincing at the boy's words. "Yes, of course I do. Want me to fetch something?" "No. Once more I want you to promise to leave off some of those objectionable words." "But it's of no use to promise," cried the boy, with a look of angry perplexity. "I always break my word." "Then why do you!" "I dunno," said Dexter. "There's something in me I think that makes me. You tell me to be a good boy, and I say I will, and I always mean to be; but somehow I can't. I think it's because nobody likes me, because--because--because I came from there." "Do I behave to you as if I did not like you?" said Helen reproachfully. The boy was on his knees beside her in a moment, holding her hand against his cheek as he looked up at her with his lip working, and a dumb look of pitiful pleading in his eyes. "I do not think I do, Dexter." He shook his head, and tried to speak. Then, springing up suddenly, he ran out of the study, dashed upstairs, half-blind with the tears which he was fighting back, and then with his head down through the open door into his bedroom, when there was a violent collision, a shriek followed by a score more to succeed a terrific crash, and when in alarm Helen and Mrs Millet ran panting up, it was to find Dexter rubbing his head, and Maria seated in the middle of the boy's bedroom with the sherds of a broken toilet pail upon the floor, and an ewer lying upon its side, and the water soaking into the carpet. "What is the matter?" cried Helen. "I won't--I won't--I declare I won't put up with it no longer!" cried the maid in the intervals of sundry sobs and hysterical cries. "But how did it happen!" said Mrs Millet. "It's--sit's--sit's--sit's--sit's--sit's--his tricks again," sobbed Maria. "Dexter!" cried Helen. "Yes--es--Miss--es--ma'am," sobbed Maria. "I'd dide--I'd dide--I'd-- just half--half--half filled the war--war--war--ter--jug, and he ran-- ran--ran at me with his head--dead in the chest--and then--then--then-- then knocked me dud--dud--dud--down, and I'll go at once, I will-- there." "Dexter," said Helen sternly; "was this some trick?" "I don't know," said the boy sadly. "I s'pose so." "But did you run at Maria and try to knock her down?" "No," said Dexter. "I was going into my room in a hurry, and she was coming out." "He did it o' purpose, Miss," cried Maria viciously. "That will do, Maria," said Helen with dignity. "Mrs Millet, see that these broken pieces are removed. Dexter, come down to the drawing-room with me." Dexter sighed and followed, feeling the while that after all the Union School was a happy place, and that he certainly was not happy here. "It is very unfortunate that you should meet with such accidents, Dexter," said Helen, as soon as they were alone. "Yes," he said piteously, "ain't it? I say--" "Well, Dexter!" "It's no good. I know what he wants to do. He said he wanted to make a gentleman of me, but you can't do it, and I'd better be 'prenticed to a shoemaker, same as lots of boys have been." Helen said nothing, but looked at the boy with a troubled gaze, as she wondered whether her father's plan was possible. "You had better go out in the garden again, Dexter," she said after a time. The trouble had been passing off, and Dexter leaped up with alacrity; but as he reached the window he saw Dan'l crossing the lawn, and he stopped short, turned, and came back to sit down with a sigh. "Well, Dexter," said Helen, "why don't you go?" He gave her a pitiful look which went right to her heart, as he said slowly-- "No. I shan't go. I should only get into trouble again." CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLE. "I say," said Dexter, a few days later, as he followed Helen into the drawing-room. "What have I been doing now!" "I hope nothing fresh, Dexter. Have you been in mischief!" "I don't know," he said; "only I've been in the study, and there's a tall gent." "Say gentleman, Dexter." "Tall gentleman with a white handkerchief round his neck, and he has been asking me questions, and every time I answered him he sighed, and said, `Dear me!'" "Indeed!" said Helen, smiling. "What did he ask you?" "If I knew Euclid; and when I said I didn't know him, he said, `Oh dear me!' Then he asked me if I knew Algebra, and I said I didn't, and he shook his head at me and said, `Dear me! dear me!' and that he would have to pull me up. I say, what have I done to be pulled up!" "Don't you know that Euclid wrote a work on Geometry, and that Algebra is a study by which calculations are made!" "No," said Dexter eagerly. "I thought they were two people. Then why did he say he would have to pull me up?" "He meant that you were very much behind with, your studies, and that he would have to teach you and bring you forward." "Oh, I see! And is he going to teach me?" "Yes, Mr Limpney is your private tutor now; and he is coming every day, so I hope you will be very industrious, and try hard to learn." "Oh yes, I'll try. Mr Limpney; I don't think he much liked me, though." "Nonsense, Dexter; you should not think such things." "All right. I won't then. It will be like going to school again, won't it?" "Much pleasanter, I hope." Time glided rapidly on after its usual fashion, and Dexter grew fast. There was a long range of old stabling at the doctor's house, with extensive lofts. The first part was partitioned off for a coachman's room, but this had not been in use for half a century, and the whole place was ruinous and decayed. Once upon a time some one with a love of horses must have lived there, for there were stalls for eight, and a coach-house as well, but the doctor only kept two horses, and they occupied a new stable built in front of the old. The back part was one of Dexter's favourite hunting-grounds. Here he could be quite alone, and do pretty well as he liked. Peter the groom never noticed his goings-out and comings-in, and there was no one to find fault with him for being untidy. Here then he had quite a little menagerie of his own. His pocket-money, as supplied by the doctor, afforded him means for buying any little thing he fancied, and hence he had in one of the lofts a couple of very ancient pigeons, which the man of whom he bought them declared to be extremely young; a thrush in a cage; two hedge-sparrows, which were supposed to be linnets, in another; two mice in an old cigar-box lined with tin; and a very attenuated rat, which had been caught by Peter in a trap, and which was allowed to live _minus_ one foreleg that had been cut short off close to the shoulder, but over which the skin had grown. No one interfered with Dexter's pets, and in fact the old range of stabling was rarely visited, even by the gardeners, so that the place became not only the boy's favourite resort in his loneliness, but, so to speak, his little kingdom where he reigned over his pets. There was plenty of room, especially in the lofts with their cross-beams and ties; and here, with his pets, as the only spectators, Dexter used to go daily to get rid of the vitality which often battled for exit in the confinement of the house. Half an hour here of the performance of so many natural gymnastic tricks seemed to tame him down--these tricks being much of a kind popular amongst caged monkeys, who often, for no apparent object, spring about and hang by hands or feet, often by their tail. But he had one piece of enjoyment that would have driven a monkey mad with envy. He had discovered among the lumber a very large old-fashioned bottle-jack, and after hanging this from a hook and winding it up, one of his greatest pleasures was to hang from that jack, and roast till he grew giddy, when he varied the enjoyment by buckling on a strap, attaching himself with a hook from the waist, and then going through either a flying or swimming movement as he spun slowly round. Then he had a rope-trick or two contrived by means of a long piece of knotted together clothes-line, doubled, and hung from the rafters to form a swing or trapeze. Dexter had paid his customary morning visit to his pets, and carefully fed them according to his wont; his plan, a very regular one among boys, being to give them twice as much as was good for them one day, and a starving the next--a mode said to be good with pigs, and productive of streaky bacon, but bad for domestic pets. Then he had returned to the house to go through his lessons, and sent long-suffering Mr Limpney, BA, almost into despair by the little progress he had made, after which he had gone down the garden with the expectation of meeting Dan'l at some corner, but instead had come upon Peter, busy as usual with his broom. "Yer needn't look," said the latter worthy; "he's gone out." "What! Dan'l has?" "Yes; gone to see a friend who's a gardener over at Champney Ryle, to buy some seeds." It was like the announcement of a holiday, and leaving the groom making the usual long stretches with his broom, Dexter went on aimlessly to the river-side, where, for the first time for many months, he found Bob Dimsted fishing. "Hullo, old un!" was the latter's greeting, "how are you!" Dexter gave the required information, and hesitated for a few moments, something in the way of a collection of Helen's warnings coming vaguely to his hand; but the volunteered information of the boy on the other side of the river, that he had got some "glorious red wums," and that the fish were well on the feed, drove everything else away, and in a few minutes Dexter was sitting upon the crown of a willow pollard, ten feet out over the river, that much nearer to the fisher, and in earnest conversation with him as he watched his float. Once more the memory of words that had been spoken to him came to Dexter, but the bobbing of the float, and the excitement of capturing a fish, drove the thoughts away--the fascination of the fishing, and the pleasant excitement of meeting a companion of near his own age, cut off, as he was, from the society of boys, being too much for him; and he was soon eagerly listening, and replying to all that was said. "Ever go fishing in a boat?" said Bob, after a time. "No." "Ah! you should go in a boat," said Bob. "You sit down comfortable, with your feet all dry, and you can float over all the deep holes and best places in the river, and catch all the big fish. It's lovely!" "Did you ever fish out of a boat?" asked Dexter. "Did I ever fish out of a boat? Ha! ha! ha! Lots of times. I'm going to get a boat some day, and have a saucepan and kettle and plate and spoon, and take my fishing-tackle, and then I shall get a gun or a pistol, and go off down the river." "What for!" "What for? Why, to live like that, catching fish, and shooting wild ducks and geese, and cooking 'em, and eating 'em. Then you have a 'paulin and spread it over the boat of a night, and sleep under it--and there you are!" Dexter looked at the adventurous being before him in wonder, while he fished on and talked. "I should make myself a sail, too, and then I shouldn't have to row so much; and then I could go right on down to the end of the river, and sail away to foreign countries, and shoot all kinds of wonderful things. And then you could land sometimes and kill snakes, and make yourself a hut to live in, and do just as you liked. Ah, that is a fine life!" "Yes," said Dexter, whose eager young mind rapidly painted an illustration to everything his companion described. "A man I know has been to sea, and he says sometimes you come to places where there's nothing but mackerel, and you can almost ladle 'em out with your hands. I should boil 'em over a fire. They are good then." Dexter's eyes grew more round. "Then out at sea you have long lines, and you catch big cod-fish, and soles almost as big as the boat." "And are you going to have a boat?" "To be sure I am. I get tired of always coming out to catch little roach and dace and eels. I mean to go soon." Dexter sighed. "That man says when you go far enough away, you come to islands where the cocoa-nuts grow; and then, all you've got to do is go ashore and pull your boat up on the sands, and when you are hungry you climb a tree and get a cocoa-nut; and every one has got enough meat and drink in it for a meal." "Do you?" "Yerrrs! That you do. That's the sort of place to go and live at. I'm tired o' Coleby." "Why don't you go and live there, then!" said Dexter. "I'm going to, some day. It's no use to be in too much of a hurry; I want to save a little money first, and get some more tackle. You see, you want big hooks for big fish, and some long lines. Then you must have a boat." The idea of the unknown countries made Dexter thrill, and he listened eagerly as the boy went on prosing away while he fished, taking out his line from time to time, and dropping the bait in likely places. "Haven't made up my mind what boat I shall have yet, only it must be a good one." "Yes," said Dexter; "you'd want a good big boat." "Not such a very big un," said Bob. "I should want a nice un with cushions, because you'd have to sit in it so long." "And sleep in it too?" "Oh yes; you'd have to sleep in it." "Should you light the fire, and cook in it!" said Dexter innocently. "Yah! No, o' course not. You'd go ashore every time you wanted to cook, and light a fire there with a burnin'-glass." "But suppose the sun didn't shine!" "Sun always shines out there," said Bob. "That sailor chap told me, and the birds are all sorts of colours, and the fish too, like you see in glass globes. I mean to go." "When shall you go?" "Oh, some day when I'm ready. I know of a jolly boat as would just do." "Do you?" "Yes; I dessay you've seen it. Belongs to Danby's, down the river. Lives in a boat-house." "Yes, I've seen it," said Dexter eagerly. "It is a beauty!" "Well, that's the sort of boat I mean to have. P'r'aps I shall have that." "You couldn't have that," cried Dexter. "Why not? They never use it, not more'n twice a year. Dessay they'd lend it." "That they wouldn't," cried Dexter. "Well, then, I should borrow it, and bring it back when I'd done with it. What games you could have with a boat like that!" "Yes," sighed Dexter; "wish we had one!" "Wouldn't be such a good one as that if you had. That's just the boat I've made up my mind to have." "And shall you sail right away to a foreign country!" said Dexter, from his nest up in the willow. "Why, how can you sail away to another place without a mast and sail, stoopid!" cried Bob. "If you call me stupid," said Dexter sharply, "I'll come and punch your head." "Yah! Yer can't get at me." "Can't I? I could swim across in a minute, and I would, if it wasn't for wetting my clothes." "Yah!" cried Bob scoffingly. "Why, I could fight yer one hand." "No, you couldn't." "Yes, I could." "Well, you'd see, if I came across." "But yer can't get across," laughed Bob. "I know of a capital mast." Dexter looked sulky. "It's part of an old boat-hook my father found floating in the river. I shall smooth it down with my knife if I can't borrow a spokeshave." "And what'll you do for a sail?" said Dexter, his interest in the expedition chasing away his anger. "Oh, I shall get a table-cloth or a sheet. Sheets make beautiful sails. You just hoists 'em up, and puts an oar over the stern to steer with, and then away you go, just where you like. Sailing along in a boat's lovely!" "Ever been in a boat sailing?" asked Dexter. "No; but I know it is. That sailor told me. He says when you've got all sail set, you just cruises along." "Do you?" "Yes. I know; and I mean to go some day; but it's no use to be in a jolly hurry, and you ought to have a mate." "Ought you?" "Yes, so as he could steer while a chap went to sleep; because sometimes you'd be a long way from the shore." Dexter sat very thoughtful and still, dreaming of the wonders of far-off places, such as could be reached by Bob Dimsted and his companion, the impracticability of such a journey never once occurring to him. Bob had been about all his life free to go and come, while he, Dexter, seemed to have been always shut up, as it were, in a cage, which had narrowed his mind. "Some chaps would be glad of such a chance," said Bob. "It'll be a fine time. My, what fishing I shall have!" "Shall you be gone long!" said Dexter, after a time. "Long? Why, of course I shall; years and years. I shan't come back till I've made a fortune, and am a rich man, with heaps of money to spend. Some chaps would be glad to go." "Yes, of course," said Dexter dreamily. "I want to get a mate who isn't afraid of anything. Dessay we should meet lions sometimes, and big snakes." "What! in England!" "England! Yah! Who's going to stop in England? I'm going to sail away to wonderful places all over the world." "But would the boat be big enough to cross the great sea?" "Who's going to cross the great sea?" cried Bob. "Of course I shouldn't. I should only go out about six miles from shore, and keep close in, so as to land every night to get grub, or anything else. P'r'aps to go shooting. My father's got an old gun--a fine un. Think I don't know what I'm about? Shoots hares with it, and fezzans. "There's another!" he exclaimed, as he hooked and landed an unfortunate little perch, which he threw into his basket with a look of disgust. "I'm sick of ketching such miserable little things as these. I want to get hold of big sea-fish of all kinds, so as to fill the boat. Some chaps would be glad to go," he said again, as he threw his line in once more. "Yes," said Dexter thoughtfully; "I should like to go." "You!" said Bob, with a mocking laugh. "You! Why, you'd be afraid. I don't believe you dare go in a boat!" "Oh yes, I dare," said Dexter stoutly. "Not you. You're afraid of what the doctor would say. You daren't even come fishing with me up the river." "They said I was not to go with you," said Dexter quietly; "so I couldn't." "Then what's the use of your saying you'd like to go. You couldn't." "But I should like to go," said Dexter excitedly. "Not you. I want a mate as has got some pluck in him. You'd be afraid to be out all night on the water." "No, I shouldn't. I should like it." "Well, I don't know," said Bob dubiously. "I might take you, and I mightn't. You ain't quite the sort of a chap I should want; and, besides, you've got to stay where you are and learn lessons. Ho! ho! ho! what a game, to be obliged to stop indoors every day and learn lessons! I wonder you ain't ashamed of it." Dexter's cheeks flushed, and he looked angrily across the river with his fists clenched, but he said nothing. "You wouldn't do. You ain't strong enough," said Bob at last. "I'm as strong as you are." "But you daren't come." "I should like to come, but I don't think they'd let me." "Why, of course they wouldn't, stoopid. You'd have to come away some night quietly, and get in the boat, and then we'd let her float down the river, and row right away till morning, and then we could set the sail, and go just wherever we liked, because we should be our own masters." "Here's some one coming after you," said Bob, in a low voice; and he shrank away, leaving Dexter perched up in the crown of the tree, where he stopped without speaking, as he saw Helen come down the garden, and she walked close by him without raising her eyes, and passed on. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. THE TROUBLE GROWS. Dexter got down out of the willow-tree with a seed in his brain. Bob Dimsted had dropped that seed into his young mind, and there it had struck root directly, and continued to grow. A hard fight now commenced. So long as he was with Helen or the doctor, he could think of nothing but the fact that they were so kind to him, and took so much interest in his welfare, that it would be horribly ungrateful to go away without leave, and he vowed that he would not go. But so sure as he was alone, a series of dissolving views began to float before his vivid imagination, and he saw Sir James Danby's boat managed by Bob Dimsted and himself, gliding rapidly along through river and along by sunlit shores, where, after catching wonderfully tinted fish, he and the boy landed to light a fire, cook their food, and partake of it in a delightful gipsy fashion. Then they put to sea again, and glided on past wondrous isles where cocoa-nut palms waved in the soft breeze. Try how he would, Dexter could not keep these ideas out of his head, and the more he thought, the brighter and more attractive they became; and day after day found him, whenever he had an opportunity, waiting about by the river-side in the expectation of seeing Bob Dimsted. Bob did not come, but as Dexter climbed up into his nest in the willow pollard his vivid imagination supplied the words he had said, and he seemed to see himself sailing away, with the boy for his companion, down the river, and out into the open sea; a portion of this globe which he formed out of his own fancy, the result being wonderfully unlike the truth. Bob did not come, but Helen noticed how quiet and thoughtful the boy seemed, and also how he affected that portion of the garden. "Why don't you fish, Dexter?" she said to him one day, as she saw him gazing disconsolately at the river. He had not thought of this as an excuse for staying down by the river, but he snatched at the idea now, and for the next week, whenever he could get away from his lessons or their preparation, he was down on the bank, dividing his time between watching his float and the opposite shore. But still Bob Dimsted did not come; and at last Dexter began to settle down seriously to his fishing, as the impressions made grew more faint. Then all at once back they came; for as he sat watching his float one day, a voice said sharply-- "Now then! why don't you strike!" But Dexter did not strike, and the fish went off with the bait as the holder of the rod exclaimed-- "Why haven't you been fishing all this time!" "What was the good?" said Bob, "I was getting ready to go, and talking to my mate, who's going with me." "Your mate!" exclaimed Dexter, whose heart sank at those words. "Yes, I know'd you wouldn't go, so. I began to look out for a chap who would." "But I didn't say that I really would not go," said Dexter, as he laid his tackle under the bushes. "Oh yes, you did; I could see what you meant. Do they bite to-day!" "I don't know," said Dexter dolefully. "But, I say, you couldn't have that boat if you wanted to." "Oh yes, I could if I liked." "But it isn't yours." "Tchah! couldn't you borrow it!" Dexter did not see how, and he climbed into the willow, while Bob went on fishing. "I hate a chap who is always trying to find out things to stop a fellow from doing anything. Why don't you say you won't go and ha' done with it?" Dexter sighed as he thought of the wonderful fish to be caught, and the great nuts on the trees, each of which nuts would make a meal. Then of the delight of sailing away in that beautiful boat down the river, and then out to sea, where they could land upon the sands and light their fire; and it seemed to him that such a life would be one long time of delight. He sat in his nest picking the buds off the willow twigs, and bending and lacing them together, furtively glancing at grubby-looking Bob Dimsted, whose appearance was not attractive; but what were appearances to a boy who possessed such gifts of knowledge in fishing and managing a boat, and had learned so much about foreign lands? Dexter sighed again, and Bob gave him a furtive look, as with evident enjoyment he took a red worm out of some moss and stuck his sharp hook into it, drew the writhing creature over the shank, and then passed the point through again and again. So to speak, he had impaled Dexter on a moral hook as well, the barb had gone right in so that it could not be drawn out without tearing; and Dexter writhed and twined, and felt as if he would have given anything to get away. Bob went on fishing, throwing the twisting worm just down among the roots of a willow-tree, and the float told directly after that the cast was not without avail, for there was a quick bobbing movement, then a sharp snatch, Bob struck, and, after a good deal of rushing about and splashing, a good-sized perch was landed, with its sharp back fin erect, and its gilded sides, with their black markings, glistening in the sunshine. "What a beauty!" cried Dexter enthusiastically, as for the moment the wonders of the boating expedition were forgotten. But they were brought back directly. "Pooh!" exclaimed Bob contemptuously. "That's nothing; only a little perch. Why, if we went off fishing in that boat, you'd chuck a fish like that in again." But Bob did not "chuck" that perch in again; he placed it in his basket, and directly after caught up his various articles of fishing-gear and ran off. Dexter was about to speak, but just then he heard a harsh cough, and, glancing through the screen of willow twigs which surrounded him, he saw old Dan'l coming hastily down over the grass path towards the tree. "Yes, I can see yer," he shouted, as he reached the water's edge; and, to Dexter's surprise, he found that it was not he the old gardener was addressing. "You come over there fishing again, I'll send the police arter yer." Bob, safe at a distance, made a derisive gesture. "None of your sarse, you poaching young vagabond. I know what you came there for. Be off with you." "Shan't," cried Bob, as he settled down to fish a hundred yards away. "Always coming here after that boy," grumbled Dan'l. "If I could have my way I'd bundle 'em both out of the town together. Young robbers,-- that's what they are, the pair of 'em." Dexter's face flushed, and he was about to respond, but the old gardener began to move away. "Doctor ought to be ashamed of himself," he grumbled, as he stood for a moment or two looking round in search of Dexter, but never looking above the brim of his broad straw hat, and the next moment Dexter was left alone seated in the crown of the old willow, very low-spirited and thoughtful, as he came down from his perch, brushed the bits of green from his clothes, and then walked slowly up toward the house, taking the other side of the garden; but of course coming right upon Dan'l, who followed him about till he took refuge in the doctor's study, with a book whose contents seemed to be a history of foreign lands, and the pictures records of the doings of one Dexter Grayson and his companion Bob. For the old effervescence consequent upon his having been kept down so long was passing off, and a complete change seemed to be coming over the boy. Quicksilver--by George Manville Fenn CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. THE PLEASANT WAYS OF LEARNING. "Now, Master Grayson," said Mr Limpney, "what am I to say to the doctor!" The private tutor threw himself back in his seat in the study, vacated by the doctor, while Dexter had his lessons, placed his hands behind his head, and, after wrinkling his forehead in lines from his brow to right on the top, where the hair began, he stared hard at his pupil. "I say again, sir, what am I to tell the doctor!" "I don't know," said Dexter dolefully. Then, plucking up a little spirit: "I wrote out all my history questions, and did the parsing with a little help from Miss Grayson, and I did the sum you set me all by myself." "Yes; but the Algebra, the Classics, and the Euclid! Where are they?" "There they are," said Dexter, pointing dismally to some books on the table. "Yes, sir, there they are--on that table, when they ought to be in your head." "But they won't go in my head, sir," cried Dexter desperately. "Nonsense, sir! you will not let them, and I warn you plainly, that if we do not make better progress, I shall tell the doctor that I will not continue to take his payment for nothing." "No; I say; don't do that," said Dexter piteously. "He wouldn't like it." "I cannot help that, sir. I have my duty to perform. Anybody can do those childish history and grammatical questions; it is the classical and mathematical lessons in which I wish you to excel. Now, once more. No, no, you must not refer to the book. `In any right-angled triangle, the square of the side--' Now, go on." Dexter took up a slate and pencil, wrinkled up his forehead as nearly like the tutor's as he could, and slowly drew a triangle. "Very good," said Mr Limpney. "Now, go on." Dexter stared at his sketch, then helplessly at his instructor. "I ought to write _ABC_ here, oughtn't I, sir?" "Yes, of course. Go on." Dexter hesitated, and then put a letter at each corner. "Well, have it that way if you like," said Mr Limpney. "I don't like it that way, sir," said Dexter. "I'll put it your way." "No, no. Go on your way." "But I haven't got any way, sir," said Dexter desperately. "Nonsense, nonsense! Go on." "Please, sir, I can't. I've tried and tried over and over again, but the angles all get mixed up with the sides, and it is all such a muddle. I shall never learn Euclid. Is it any use?" "Is it any use!" cried the tutor scornfully. "Look at me, sir. Has it been any use to me!" Dexter looked at the face before him, and then right up the forehead, and wondered whether learning Euclid had made all the hair come off the top of his head. "Well, go on." "I can't, sir, please," sighed the boy. "I know it's something about squares, and _ABC_, and _BAC_, and _CAB_, and--but you produce the lines." "But you do not produce them, sir," cried Mr Limpney angrily; "nor anything else! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir!" "I am," said Dexter innocently. "I'm a dreadfully stupid boy, sir, and I don't think I've got any brains." "Are you going through that forty-seventh problem this morning, sir?" Dexter made a desperate attempt, floundered on a quarter of a minute, and broke down in half. "Tut--tut--tut!" ejaculated Mr Limpney. "I'm sure you have not looked at it since I was here." "That I have, sir," cried Dexter, in a voice full of eager protest. "Hours and hours, sir, I walked up and down the garden with it, and then I took the book up with me into my loft, and made a chalk triangle on the floor, and kept on saying it over and over, but as fast as I said it the words slipped out of my head again. I can't help it, sir, I am so stupid." "Algebra!" said Mr Limpney, in a tone of angry disgust. "Am I not to try and say the Euclid, sir?" "Algebra!" cried Mr Limpney again, and he slapped the table with a thin book. "Now then, where are these simple equations?" Dexter drew a half-sheet of foolscap paper from a folio, and rather shrinkingly placed it before his tutor, who took a pair of spectacles from his pocket, and placed them over his mild-looking eyes. "Let me see," he said, referring to a note-book. "The questions I gave you were: `A spent 2 shillings and 6 pence in oranges, and says that three of them cost as much under a shilling as nine of them cost over a shilling. How many did he buy?'" Mr Limpney coughed, blew his nose loudly, as if it were a post-horn, and then went on-- "Secondly: `Two coaches start at the same time for York and London, a distance of 200 miles, travelling one at nine and a half miles an hour, the other at nine and a quarter miles; where will they meet, and in what time from starting?'" He gave his nose a finishing touch with his handkerchief, closed his note-book, and turned to Dexter. "Now then," he said. "Let us see." He took the sheet of paper, looked at one side, turned it over and looked at the other, and then raised his eyes to Dexter's, which avoided his gaze directly. "What is this?" he cried. "The equations, sir," said Dexter humbly. "Tut--tut--tut!" ejaculated Mr Limpney. "Was there ever such a boy? _plus_ where it ought to be _minus_, and--why, what's this!" "This, sir?" said Dexter. "Half-crowns." "But it was to be oranges. How many did he buy? and here you say he bought ninety-seven half-crowns. I don't know how you arrived at it, or what you mean. A man does not go to a shop to buy half-crowns. He spent half a crown in oranges." "Yes, sir." "I believe it's sheer obstinacy. You do not want to do these equations--simple equations too, mind you! Now then, about the stage-coaches. When did they meet, and in what time from starting? Now then--there are your figures, where did they meet? Look and tell me." Dexter took the half-sheet of paper, stared at it very doubtfully, and then looked up. "Well!" said Mr Limpney. "Where did they meet?" "Peterborough, sir." "Where!" cried Mr Limpney in astonishment. "Peterborough, sir." "Now, will you have the goodness to tell me how you found out that?" "On the map, sir." "Bless my soul!" exclaimed the tutor. "Well, go on. At what time from starting!" "About ten o'clock, sir." "Better and better," said the tutor sarcastically. "Now, will you kindly explain--no, no, don't look at your figures--Will you kindly explain how you arrived at this sapient conclusion?" Dexter hesitated, and shifted one foot over the other. "Well, sir, I am waiting," cried Mr Limpney, in a tone of voice which made Dexter think very much resembled that of Mr Sibery when he was angry. "I--I--" "Don't hesitate, sir. Have I not told you again and again that a gentleman never hesitates, but speaks out at once? Now then, I ask you how you arrived at this wonderful conclusion?" "I tried over and over again, sir, with the _a's_ and _b's_, and then I thought I must guess it." "And did you guess it?" "No, sir, I suddenly recollected what you said." "And pray, what did I say!" "Why, sir, you always said let _x_ represent the unknown quantity, and-- and _x_ stands for ten--ten o'clock." Mr Limpney snatched the paper from the boy's hand, and was about to tear it up, when the door opened and Dr Grayson entered. "Well," he said pleasantly, "and how are we getting on?" "Getting on, sir?" said Mr Limpney tartly. "Will you have the goodness to ask my pupil!" "To be sure--to be sure," said the doctor. "Well, Dexter, how are you getting on? Eh? what's this? Oh, Algebra!" he continued, as he took the half-sheet of paper covered with the boy's calligraphy. "Oh, Algebra! Hah! I never was much of a fist at that." "Only simple equations, sir," said the tutor. "Ah, yes. Simple equations. Well, Dexter, how are you getting on?" "Very badly, sir." "Badly? Nonsense!" "But I am, sir. These things puzzle me dreadfully. I'm so stupid." "Stupid? Nonsense! Nothing of the kind. Scarcely anybody is stupid. Men who can't understand some things understand others. Now, let's see. What is the question? H'm! ah! yes, oranges. H'm! ah! yes; not difficult, I suppose, when you know how. And--what's this? London and York--stage-coaches. Nine and a half miles, nine and a quarter miles, and--er--h'm, yes, of course, where would they meet?" "Peterborough, sir," said Mr Limpney sarcastically, and with a peculiar look at Dexter. "H'm! would they now?" said the doctor. "Well, I shouldn't have thought it! And how is he getting on with his Latin, Mr Limpney!" "Horribly, sir!" exclaimed the tutor sharply. "I am very glad you have come, for I really feel it to be my duty to complain to you of the great want of diligence displayed by my pupil." "Dear me! I am very sorry," exclaimed the doctor. "Why, Dexter, my boy, how's this? You promised me that you would be attentive." "Yes, sir, I did." "Then why are you not attentive?" "I do try to be, sir." "But if you were, Mr Limpney would not have cause to complain. It's too bad, Dexter, too bad. Do you know why Mr Limpney comes here?" "Yes, sir," said the boy dismally; "to teach me." "And you do not take advantage of his teaching. This is very serious. Very sad indeed." "I am sure, Dr Grayson, that no tutor could have taken more pains than I have to impart to him the various branches of a liberal education; but after all these months of teaching it really seems to me that we are further behind. He is not a dull boy." "Certainly not. By no means," said the doctor. "And I do not give him tasks beyond his powers." "I hope not, I am sure," said the doctor. "And yet not the slightest progress is made. There is only one explanation, sir, and that is want of diligence." "Dear me! dear me! dear me!" exclaimed the doctor. "Now, Dexter, what have you to say?" "Nothing, sir!" said the boy sadly; "only I think sometimes that my brains must be too wet." "Good gracious! boy: what do you mean!" "I mean too wet and slippery, sir, so that they will not hold what I put into them." The doctor looked at the tutor, and the tutor looked at the doctor, as if he considered that this was impertinence. "I am very sorry--very sorry indeed, Dexter," said the doctor. "There, sir, you can go now. I will have a talk to Mr Limpney. We must see if we cannot bring you to a better frame of mind." CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. DEXTER'S DUMB FRIENDS. Dexter went out into the hall feeling exceedingly miserable, for he had left the occupants of the study talking about him, and, as the saying goes, it made his ears burn. "I couldn't help it," he said dolefully: "I did try. I'll go and tell Miss Grayson all about it, and ask her to take my part." He went into the drawing-room, but Helen was not there, so he ran upstairs, and was in the act of tapping at her bedroom door, when Maria came out of another room. It was a curious fact, but there it was: Dexter always had the effect upon Maria that a dog has upon a cat. The dog may be of the most amiable disposition, and without the slightest desire to fight or worry, but as soon as he is seen, up goes the cat's back in an arch, the tail becomes plumose and the fur horrent, while, with dilated eyes and displayed teeth glistening, puss indulges in the bad language peculiar to cats. Maria being of a different physique did not display these signs of aggression exactly, but she invariably became vicious and metaphysically showed her teeth. "It's of no use your knocking there, Master Dexter. Miss Helen isn't at home, and I'm quite sure if she was that she wouldn't approve of your trapesing up out of the garden in your muddy and dirty shoes. I've got enough to do here without cleaning up after you." "But I haven't been in the garden, Maria," said Dexter, apologetically. "I have just come out of the study." "Don't I tell you she ain't at home," said Maria spitefully. "Do you know when she will be back!" "No, I don't," said Maria, and then sarcastically: "I beg your pardon, _sir_--no I don't, _sir_." Maria went along the passage like a roaring wind, she made so much noise with her skirts, and then hurried downstairs, as if in great haste to get hold of a door that she could bang; and as soon as she did reach one, she made so much use of her opportunity that a picture in the hall was blown sidewise, and began swinging to and fro like a great square pendulum. Dexter sighed, and felt very miserable as he stole downstairs again, and past the study door, where the murmur of voices talking, as he knew, about him made him shiver. He was obliged to pass that door to get his cap, and then he had to pass it again to get to the garden door. Mr Limpney was talking, and Mr Limpney, being accustomed to lecture and teach, spoke very loudly, so that Dexter heard him say-- "I must have more authority, sir, and--" Dexter heard no more, for he fled into the garden, but he knew that having authority meant the same as it meant with Mr Sibery, and it sounded like going backwards. He felt more miserable as he went out into the garden. "Nobody hardly seems to like me, or care for me here," he said dolefully; and, led by his inclination, he began to make his way down the long green path toward the river, half fancying that Bob Dimsted might be fishing. But before he had gone far he saw Dan'l, who was busy doing up a bed, and his appearance seemed to be the signal for the old man to put down his tools and take out his great pruning-knife, as if he meant mischief, but only to stoop from time to time to cut off a dead flower as an excuse, so it seemed, for following Dexter wherever he went. It was impossible to go about the garden under these circumstances, so Dexter went down a little way, passed round a large _Wellingtonia_, and walked slowly back toward the house, but, instead of entering, went by the open window of the study, where the voice of Mr Limpney could still be heard talking loudly, and, as it seemed to the listening boy, breathing out threatenings against his peace of mind. The voice sounded so loud as he went by that he half-expected to hear himself called in, and in great dread he hurried on by the conservatory, and round the house to the old stable-yard. As he reached this he could hear a peculiar hissing noise--that which Peter always made when he was washing the carriage, or the horses' legs--to blow away the dust, so he said. For a moment Dexter felt disposed to go into the new stable and talk to Peter, but the opportunity was not tempting, and, hurrying on, the boy reached the old buildings, looked round for a moment, and, thus satisfied that he was not observed, he made a spring up to a little old window, caught the sill, scrambled up directly, and, passing through, disappeared inside. He uttered a sigh as of relief, and crossing the damp stones of the gloomy old place he reached a crazy flight of steps, which led up to a loft, on either side of which were openings, through which, when the stable had been in use, it had been customary to thrust down the stored-up hay. Dexter stopped here in the darkness for a few minutes listening, but no one was following him, and he walked along to a second ladder which led to a trap-door through which he passed, closed the trap, and then, in the long roof a place greatly resembling in shape the triangle over whose problem of squares he had that day stumbled, he seemed once more himself. His first act was to run quietly along some boards laid over the loft ceiling, and, making a jump that would not have disgraced an acrobat, he caught at a rope, pendent from the highest portion of the rafters, twisted his legs about it, and swung easily to and fro. The motion seemed to give him the greatest satisfaction, and as the impetus given died out, he dropped one foot, and with a few vigorous thrusts set himself going again till he was tired. But that was not very soon, and he did not leave off till there were sundry scratchings and squeakings, which drew his attention to his pets, all of which were eager for food. They were a heterogeneous collection, but, for the most part, exceedingly tame, and ready to allow themselves to be handled, constant familiarity with the gentle hand so often thrust into their boxes or cages having robbed it of its terrors. Dexter's happiest moments were passed here, saving those which Helen continued to make pleasant to the boy; and as soon as his pets had drawn his attention, he took off his jacket and vest, rolled up his sleeves, and began to attend to their wants. His rabbits--two which he had bought through Bob Dimsted, who made a profit of a hundred per cent, by the transaction--were lifted out of the packing-case they occupied, and in which they were kept by the lid being closed within half an inch, by their pink ears, and immediately stood up on their hind-legs, with drooping fore-paws, their pink noses twitching as they smelt their owner's legs, till he gave them a couple of red carrots, a portion of Dan'l's last year's store. The next to be taken out was a hedgehog, a prize of his own discovering, and captured one day asleep and tightly rolled up beneath one of the Portugal laurels. The minute before its box was open, the hedgehog was actively perambulating its dark prison, but the moment it was touched it became a ball, in which form it was rolled out on to the rough floor close to a flower-pot saucer of bread and milk, smuggled up directly after breakfast each morning. Next came the large grey rat, captured originally in the steel trap, and whose first act might have been anticipated. It did not resent its owner's handling; but the moment it was set down it darted under the loose boards, and remained there until tempted forth by the smell of the bread and milk, and a tempting piece of candle-end, the former of which it helped the hedgehog to eat. The mice, which lived in the old cigar-box--not white mice, nor those furry little sleepers given to hiding away in nooks and corners for elongated naps, but the regular grey cheese-nibblers--next, after a good deal of scratching, took Dexter's attention. As soon as the lid was open, and the boy's hand thrust in, they ran up his fingers, and then along his arm to his shoulder, wonderfully active and enterprising with their sharp little noses, one even venturing right up the boy's head after a pause by one ear, as if it looked like the cavernous entrance to some extremely snug hiding-place. "Quiet! Don't tickle," cried Dexter, as he gently put up one hand for the mouse to run upon; and every movement was made so gently that the little creatures were not alarmed, but rested gently upon the boy's hand, as he lifted them down to where he had placed some scraps of cheese and a biscuit, all articles of provender being derived from the stores situated in his trousers-pockets, and that of his jacket. The list was not yet complete, for an old wire trap had been turned into a cage, and here dwelt Dexter's greatest favourite--about the shabbiest-looking squirrel that ever exhibited bare patches upon its skin, and a tail from which the plume-like hair had departed. It cost five shillings, all the same, at a little broker's shop down in the most poverty-stricken part of Coleby. It had been bought by the broker at a sale in company with a parrot, a cockatoo, and a canary, all being the property of a lady lately deceased. The canary died before he reached home, and the parrot and cockatoo, on the strength of being able to screech and say a few words, soon found owners, but the squirrel, being shabby-looking, hung on hand, or rather outside the little shop, in a canary's cage, to which it had been promoted after its own revolving wire home had been sold, the purchaser declining to buy the squirrel because he was so shabby. The poor little brute did not improve afterwards, for he rubbed the hair off his face by constantly trying to get through either the seed or water hole, and every time he--for the sake of exercise--whisked round the cage, it was to the disadvantage of his tail, which daily grew more and more like that of Dexter's rat. This little unfortunate might have been bought for a shilling by such a boy as Bob Dimsted, but the superfine broadcloth of Dexter's jacket and trousers sent it up to five, and pocket-money had to be saved for weeks before it finally came into the boy's possession, to be watched with the greatest attention to see if its hair would grow. The squirrel's nose was thrust between the bars of the old wire rat-trap, and when this was not the case, the active little animal performed a kind of evolution suggestive of its trying to make the letters SS in its prison, as skaters contrive them upon the ice, till the wire door was open, and with one bound it was upon its owner's shoulder, then up in the rafters, along one beam and down another, till the first wild excitement of freedom was over, when it dropped upon the floor, and began to forage for food. Dexter was so truly happy among his little subjects that he sat down upon the edge of an old box, forgetful of other claimants while he attended to the wants of these, calling them by endearing names, giving the rabbits oats from his pockets, a handful of which grain came now and then from Peter. The boy had intuitively discovered the way to tame his various pets. Fear will accomplish a great deal with dumb animals, but the real secret of winning their confidence is quietness, the art of never alarming them, but by perfectly passive behaviour, and the most gentle of movements, accustom the timid creatures to our presence. The rest was merely habituating them to the fact that their owner was the sole source from which food was to be obtained. No one told Dexter all this; he learned it in his solitary communings with the animal world. For somehow it seems to be the law of nature that every moving thing goes about in dread of losing its life from something else which either preys upon or persecutes it. The house-sparrow, the most domestic of wild birds, gives a look-out for squalls between every peck, but it will soon learn to distinguish the person who does not molest and who feeds it, even to coming at his call, while fish, those most cold-blooded of creatures, which in an ordinary way go off like a silver flash at the sight of a shadow, will grow so familiar that they will rise to the surface and touch the white finger-tips placed level with the water. So Dexter sat smiling and almost without movement among his subjects, with the rabbits begging, the mice coming and going, now feeding and now taking a friendly walk up his legs and about his chest, and the squirrel bounding to him from time to time after nuts, which were carried up to the beam overhead, and there rasped through with its keen teeth, the rat the while watching it from the floor till furnished with another nut, as it had pounced upon one the squirrel dropped. There was yet another pet--one which had been very sluggish all through the winter, but now in fine sunshiny days fairly active, and ready upon this occasion to come forth and be fed. Dexter rose very slowly, talking gently the while to the mice, which he coaxed to his hand with a piece of cheese, and then placed them upon the floor, while he went to a corner where, turned upside down upon a slate, stood one of Dan'l's large flower-pots, the hole being covered with a piece of perforated zinc. The pot was lifted, slate and all, turned over, and the slate lifted off, to display quite a nest of damp moss, which, as the boy watched, seemed for a few minutes uninhabited, but all at once it began to heave in one part; there was an increasing movement, as if something was gliding through it, and then from among the soft moss a smooth glistening head with two bright eyes appeared, and a curious little tongue darted out through an opening between the tightly-closed jaws. There was no doubt of the nature of the creature, which glided forth more and more till it developed itself into a snake of a bright olive green, about thirty inches long, its singular markings and mottlings looking as bright as if it had been varnished. Dexter watched the curious horizontal undulating movement of the little serpent for some time before he touched it, and then taking it up very gently, its tail hung swinging to and fro, while the front portion curved and undulated, and searched about for a place to rest till it found one upon the boy's arm, up which it began to glide as if the warmth were pleasant, ending by nestling its head in the hollow of the elbow-joint. Meanwhile there was another rustling and movement of the moss, but nothing showed for a time. Dexter smoothed and stroked the snake, which seemed to be perfectly content when it was moved, but soon after began to insinuate its blunt rounded head here and there, as if in search of something, till its owner bore it to a large pickle-jar standing upon a beam nearly level with the floor, and upon his placing the reptile's head on a level with the mouth, it glided in at once, inch by inch, over the side, and through Dexter's hands, till it disappeared, the finely-graduated tail passing over the edge, and it was gone, the jar being its larder, in which were stored, ready for consumption, half a dozen of Dan'l's greatest enemies--the slugs. As Dexter turned to the heap of moss once more, at which one of the rabbits was sniffing, there was another heaving movement, followed by a sharp rap on the boards, the alarm signal of the rabbit which bounded away, while a blunt, broad head and two glistening eyes slowly appeared; then what looked like a short sturdy arm with outstretched fingers pressed down the moss, then another arm began to work, and by slow degrees a huge toad, which seemed to be as broad as it was long, extricated itself from the soft vegetable fibre, and crept away on to the boards, all in the most deliberate manner, as if it was too fat to move fast. "Hallo, Sam!" said Dexter, laughing. "Why, you've been asleep for a month." The toad seemed to be looking up at him in an unblinking fashion, but did not move, and Dexter stooped down to touch it, but the moment his hand approached, the reptile rose on its legs, arched its back, lowered its head, swelled itself up, and uttered a low, hissing sound. Dexter waited for a moment, and then softly began to scratch its side, the result evidently being so satisfactory to the toad that it began by leaning over toward the rubbing fingers, and then more and more, as if the sensation were agreeable in the extreme. A little coaxing then induced it to crawl slowly into its master's hand, which it more than filled, sitting there perfectly contented till it was placed in another pickle-jar to feed, this one being furnished with wood-lice, pill millipedes, and other luxuries dear to a toad. The striking of a clock roused Dexter from his communings with his pets, and hastily restoring them to their various habitations, he resumed his jacket, and after a quick glance round descended the steps. "I couldn't take them with me," he said sadly, as he stood for a few minutes in the old dark stable; "and if I left them without setting them at liberty they would all die." CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. THE GROWING CLOUD. "Dexter, I want to talk to you," said Helen, a few weeks later. The boy sighed. "Ah! you are afraid I am going to scold you," she said. "I don't mind you scolding me," he replied; "but I don't think I have done anything this time, except--" "Except what?" said Helen, for the boy paused. "Except talk to Bob Dimsted." "Have you been out to meet him?" "No, that I haven't," cried Dexter. "He came to the bottom of the river to fish, and he spoke to me; and if I had not answered, it would have seemed so proud." Helen was silent for a few moments, not knowing what to say. "It was not about that," she said, at last, "but about your lessons. Mr Limpney has again been complaining very bitterly to papa about your want of progress." "Yes," said Dexter, "and he is always scolding me." "Then why don't you try harder?" "I do, but I am so stupid." "You are not, Dexter. You always learn easily enough with me." "Yes, with you," said the boy quickly, "but you don't want me to say angle _ABC_ is equal to the angle _CBA_, and all such stuff as that." "Don't call it stuff," said Helen, smiling in spite of herself; "it is Geometry." "But it is rum stuff all the same. What's the use of my learning about straight lines and squares and angles?" "But you are behind with your Algebra too." "Yes," sighed Dexter, "I'm just as stupid over that." "Now, Dexter!" "But I am, quite. Why can't I go on finding out things by Arithmetic, as we used at the schools? It was bother enough to learn that. Oh, what a lot of caning I had over nine times!" "Over nine times!" said Helen. "Over a hundred, I should say," cried Dexter. "I mean with strokes on the hand, and taps on the head, and over the shoulders--counting 'em altogether; and wasn't I glad when I knew it all, and twelve times too, and somebody else used to get it instead of me." "Dexter, papa wishes you to learn these things." "Do you?" said the boy. "Yes, very much. I should like to see you master them all." "Then I will. See if I don't," he cried. "That's right. Try and please Mr Limpney by being energetic." "Yes, I'll try," said Dexter; "but I don't think he'll be pleased." "I shall be. Now, get out your last lessons over which you failed so dismally, and I'll try and help you." "Will you?" cried the boy, in delighted tones, and he hurriedly obtained his folio, pens, and ink, feeling in such high spirits that if Bob Dimsted had been at hand to continue his temptations they would have been of no avail. The orange question was first debated, and tried in two or three different ways without success. Then it was laid aside for the time being, while the stage-coaches were rolled out and started, one from London to York, the other from York to London. "Look here," said Dexter, "I'll try the one that starts from London, while you try the one from York." That was only another simple equation, but in its novelty to Helen Grayson, as difficult as if it had been quadratic, and for a time no sound was heard but the busy scratching of two pens. "It's of no good," said Dexter suddenly, and with a look of despair upon his face. "I'm so terribly stupid." "I'm afraid, Dexter," said Helen merrily, "if you are stupid, I am too." "What! can't you do it!" "No." "Are you sure?" "Yes, Dexter. Algebra is beyond me." "Hooray!" cried the boy, leaping from his seat, and dancing round the room, ending by relieving his excitement by turning head over heels on the hearthrug. "Is that to show your delight at my ignorance, Dexter?" said Helen, smiling. "No," he cried, colouring up, as he stood before her out of breath. "It was because I was glad, because I was not so stupid as I thought." "You are not stupid, Dexter," said Helen, smiling. "We must go back to the beginning, and try and find out how to do these things. Does not Mr Limpney explain them to you?" "Yes," said Dexter dismally, "but when he has done, I don't seem to see what he means, and it does make me so miserable." "Poor boy!" said Helen gently. "There, you must not make your studies a trouble. They ought to be a great pleasure." "They would be if you taught me," said Dexter eagerly. "I say, do ask Dr Grayson to send Mr Limpney away, and you help me. I will try so hard." "A pretty tutor I should make," cried Helen, laughing. "Why, Dexter, I am as ignorant, you see, as you!" Dexter's face was a study. He seemed hurt and pleased at the same time, and his face was full of reproach as he said-- "Ignorant as me! Oh!" "There, I'll speak to papa about your lessons, and he will, I have no doubt, say a few words to Mr Limpney about trying to make your tasks easier, and explaining them a little more." "Will you!" cried the boy excitedly, and he caught her hands in his. "Certainly I will, Dexter." "Then I will try so hard, and I'll write down on pieces of paper all the things you don't want me to do, and carry 'em in my pockets, and take them out and look at them sometimes." "What!" cried Helen, laughing. "Well, that's what Mr Limpney told me to do, so that I should not forget the things he taught me. Look here!" He thrust his hand into his trousers-pocket, and brought out eagerly a crumpled-up piece of paper, but as he did so a number of oats flew out all over the room. "O Dexter! what a pocket! Now what could you do with oats?" "They were only for my rabbits," he said. "There, those are all nouns that end in _us_, feminine nouns. Look, _tribus, acus, porticus_. Isn't it stupid?" "It is the construction of the language, Dexter." "Yes; that's what Mr Limpney said. There, I shall put down everything you don't like me to do on a piece of paper that way; and take it out and read it, so as to remember it." "Try another way, Dexter." "How?" he said wonderingly. "By fixing these things in your heart, and not on paper," Helen said, and she left the room. "Well, that's the way to learn them by heart," said the boy to himself thoughtfully, as with brow knit he seated himself by a table, took a sheet of paper, and began diligently to write in a fairly neat hand, making entry after entry; and the principal of these was-- "Bob Dimsted: not to talk to him." The next day the doctor had a chat with Mr Limpney respecting Dexter and his progress. "You see," said the doctor, "the boy has not had the advantages lads have at good schools; and he feels these lessons to be extremely difficult. Give him time." "Oh, certainly, Doctor Grayson," said Mr Limpney. "I have only one wish, and that is to bring the boy on. He is behind to a terrible extent." "Yes, yes, of course," said the doctor; "but make it as easy for him as you can--for the present, you know. After a time he will be stronger in the brain." Mr Limpney, BA, looked very stern. He was naturally a good-hearted, gentlemanly, and scholarly man. He thoroughly understood the subjects he professed to teach. In fact, the ordinary routine of classic and mathematical study had, by long practice, grown so simple to him, that he was accustomed to look with astonishment upon a boy who stumbled over some of the learned blocks. In addition, year upon year of imparting knowledge to reckless and ill-tempered as well as stupid boys had soured him, and, in consequence, the well-intentioned words of the doctor did not fall on ground ready to receive them quite as it should. "Complaining about my way of teaching, I suppose," he said to himself. "Well, we shall see." The result was that Mr Limpney allowed the littleness of his nature to come uppermost, and he laboriously explained the most insignificant portions of the lessons in a sarcastic manner which made Dexter writhe, for he was not slow to find that the tutor was treating him with contempt. To make matters worse, about that time Dan'l watched him more and more; Peter was unwell and very snappish; there was a little difficulty with Mrs Millett over some very strong camomile-tea which Dexter did not take; and on account of a broken soap-dish which Maria took it into her head Dexter meant to lay to her charge,--that young lady refused even to answer the boy when he spoke; lastly, the doctor seemed to be remarkably thoughtful and stern. Consequently Dexter began to mope in his den over the old stable, and at times wished he was back at the Union Schools. The wish was momentary, but it left its impression, and the thought that, with the exception of Helen, no one liked him at the doctor's house grew and grew and grew like the cloud that came out of the fisherman's pot when Solomon's seal was removed, and that cloud threatened to become the evil genii that was to overshadow the boy's life. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. DEXTER WRITES A LETTER. Dexter watched his chance one afternoon when the study was empty, and stole in, looking very guilty. Maria saw him going in, and went into the kitchen and told Mrs Millett. "I don't care," she said, "you may say what you like, but it's in him." "What's in him!" said the old housekeeper, raising her tortoise-shell spectacles so as to get a good look at Maria, who seemed quite excited. "Master may have tutors as is clergymen to teach him, and Miss Helen may talk and try, but he's got it in him, and you can't get it out." "Who are you talking about, Maria," said the old lady testily. "That boy," said Maria, shaking her head. "It's of no good, he's got it in him, and nothing won't get it out." "Bless my heart!" cried Mrs Millett, thinking first of mustard and water, and then of castor-oil, "has the poor fellow swallowed something?" "No-o-o-o!" ejaculated Maria, drawing the word out to nearly a foot in length. "But you said he'd got something in him, Maria. Good gracious me, girl! what do you mean!" "Sin and wickedness, Mrs Millett. He comes of a bad lot, and Dan'l says he's always keeping bad company." "Dan'l's a chattering old woman, and had better mind his slugs and snails." "But the boy's always in mischief; see how he spoiled your silk dress." "Only spotted it, Maria, and it was clean water. I certainly thought it rained as I went under his window." "Yes, and you fetched your umbrella." "I did, Maria. But he's better now. Give him his physic regular, and it does him good." "Did you find out what was the matter with those salts and senny!" "No, Maria, I did not. I had to break the glass to get it out; set hard as a stone. It was a good job he did not take it." Mrs Millett never did find out that Dexter had poured in cement till the glass would hold no more, and his medicine became a solid lump. "Ah, you'll be tired of him soon," said Maria. "No, I don't think I shall, Maria. You see he's a boy, and he does behave better. Since I told him not, he hasn't taken my basting-spoon to melt lead for what he calls nickers; and then he hasn't repeated that wicked cruel trick of sitting on the wall." "Why, I see him striddling the ridge of the old stable, with his back to the weathercock, only yesterday." "Yes, Maria, but he wasn't fishing over the wall with worms to try and catch Mrs Biggins's ducks, a very cruel trick which he promised me he wouldn't do any more; and he hasn't pretended to be a cat on the roof, nor yet been to me to extract needles which he had stuck through his cheeks out of mischief; and I haven't seen him let himself down from the stable roof with a rope; and, as I told him, that clothes-line wasn't rope." "Ah, you always sided with the boy, Mrs Millett," said Maria; "but mark my words, some of these mornings we shall get up and find that he has let burglars into the house, and Master and Miss Helen will be robbed and murdered in their beds." "Maria, you're a goose," said the old housekeeper. "Don't talk such rubbish." "Ah, you may call it rubbish, Mrs Millett, but if you'd seen that boy just now stealing--" "Stealing, Maria?" "Yes 'm, stealing into Master's study like a thief in the night--and after no good, I'll be bound,--you wouldn't be so ready to take his part." "Gone in to write his lessons," said Mrs Millett. "There, you go and get about your work." Maria snorted, stuck out her chin, and left the kitchen. "Yes, she may talk, but I say he's after no good," muttered the housemaid; "and I'm going to see what he's about, or my name ain't what it is." Meanwhile Dexter was very busy in the study, but in a furtive way writing the following letter in a bold, clear hand, which was, however, rather shaky in the loops of the letters, while the capitals had an inclination to be independent, and to hang away from the small letters of the various words:-- Sir, Me and a friend have borrowed your boat, for we are going a long journey; but as we may keep it all together, I send to you fourteen shillings and a fourpny piece, which I have saved up, and if that isn't quite quite enough I shall send you some more. I hope you won't mind our taking your boat, but Bob Dimsted says we must have it, or we can't get on. Yours af--very truly, Obed Coleby, or To Sir Jhames Danby, Dexter Grayson. Dexter's spelling was a little shaky here and there, but the letter was pretty intelligible; and, as soon as it was done, he took out his money and made a packet of it, and doubled it up, a task he had nearly finished, when he became aware that the door was partly opened, and as he guiltily thrust the packet into his pocket the door opened widely, and Maria entered, with a sharp, short cough. "Did I leave my duster here, Master Dexter!" she said, looking round sharply. Before Dexter could reply, she continued-- "No, I must have left it upstairs." She whisked out and closed the door with a bang, the very opposite of the way in which she had opened it, and said to herself triumphantly-- "There, I knew he was doing of something wrong, and if I don't find him out, my name ain't Maria." Dexter hurriedly finished his packet, laying the money in it again after further consideration--in and out amongst the paper, so that the money should not chink, and then placing it in the enclosure with the letter, he tied it up with a piece of the red tape the doctor kept in a little drawer, sealed it, and directed it in his plainest hand to Sir James Danby. Dexter felt better after this was done, and the jacket-pocket a little bulgy in which his missive was stuffed. He had previously felt a little uneasy about the boat; but though not quite at rest now, he felt better satisfied, and as if this was a duty done. That same evening, just before it grew dusk, Dexter watched his opportunity, and stole off down the garden, after making sure that he was not watched. There was no one visible on the other side, and it seemed as if Bob Dimsted was not coming, so after waiting a few minutes Dexter was about to go back to the house, with the intention of visiting his pets, when there was a loud chirping whistle from across the river. Dexter looked sharply through the gathering gloom; but still no one was visible, and then the chirp came again. "Are you there, Bob?" "Why, course I am," said that young gentleman, rising up from where he had lain flat behind a patch of coarse herbage. "I'm not the sort of chap to stay away when I says I'll come. Nearly ready!" "Ye-es," said Dexter. "No gammon, you know," said Bob. "I mean it, so no shirking out." "I mean to come too," said Dexter with a sigh. "Well, you do sound jolly cheerful; you don't know what a game it's going to be." "No, not quite--yet," said Dexter. "But how are we going to manage!" "Well, if ever!" exclaimed Bob. "You are a rum chap, and no mistake. Of course we shall take the boat, and I've got that table-cloth ready for a sail, and a bit of rope to hoist it up." Dexter winced about that table-cloth, one which he had borrowed at Bob's wish from the housekeeper's room. "But must we take that boat?" "Why, of course, but we shall send it back some day as good as new, hanging behind a ship, and then have it sent up the river. I know lots of fellows who'll put it back for me if I ask 'em." Dexter felt a little better satisfied, and then listened to his companion's plans, which were very simple, but effective all the same, though common honesty did not come in. The conversation was carried on across the river, and to ensure its not being heard, Dexter lay down on the grass and put his lips close to the water, Bob Dimsted doing the same, when, it being quite a still evening, conversation became easy. "What are your people doing now?" said Bob, after they had been talking some time. "Dr Grayson is writing, and Miss Grayson reading." "Why, we might go now--easy." "No," said Dexter. "If we did, it would be found out directly, and we should be fetched back, and then, I dare say, they'd send me again to the school." "And yer don't want to go there again, do you!" "No," said Dexter, with a shudder. "Don't forget the ball of string I told you about?" "No, I've got that," replied Bob sharply. "And p'r'aps that won't be long enough. It's very deep in the sea. Now mind, you're here." "Yes, I'll mind." "If yer don't come, I won't never forgive you for making a fool of me." "I won't do that," said Dexter; and then after a little more hesitation as to something he particularly wanted to do, and which he saw no other way of doing, he whispered-- "Bob!" "Hullo!" "Will you do something for me before you come!" "Yes, if I can. But I say, don't you forget to bring a big bundle of your clothes and things, and if you don't want 'em all, I can wear some of 'em." Dexter was silent. "And as much money as you can; and, I say, the old un never give you a watch, did he?" "No." "You wouldn't like to borrow his, would you!" "No, of course not," said Dexter indignantly. "Oh, I don't want you to, unless you like. Only watches is useful at sea. Sailors find out where they are by their watches. I don't quite know how, but we could soon find out. Whatcher want me to do!" "I want you to take a little parcel to Sir James Danby's." "I ain't going to carry no parcels," said Bob importantly. "It's only a very little one, as big as your hand. You know the letter-box in Sir James's big door!" "I should just think I do," said Bob, with a hoarse laugh. "Me and two more boys put a lighted cracker in last fift' o' November." "I want you to go there last thing," said Dexter, as he could not help wondering whether the cracker made a great deal of noise in the letter-box; "and to drop the packet in just as if it was a letter. I mean just before you come." "But what for?" "Because it must be taken there. I want it taken." "O very well. Where is it?" "Here," said Dexter, taking out his carefully tied and sealed packet. "Chuck it across." "Get up, then, and be ready to catch it." "All right! Now then, shy away." Dexter drew back from the river, and aiming carefully at where he could see Bob's dim figure, he measured the distance with his eye, and threw. _Slap_! "Got it!" cried Bob. And then, "Oh!" There was a splash. "Just kitched on the top o' my finger, and bounced off," whispered the boy excitedly. "O Bob, what have you done!" "Well, I couldn't help it. I ain't a howl.--How could I see in the dark!" "Can't you see where it fell in!" "Why, ain't I a-trying. Don't be in such a fuss." Dexter felt as if their expedition was at an end, and he stood listening with a breast full of despair as Bob lay down at the edge of the river, and rolling up his sleeve began feeling about in the shallow water. "It's no good," he said. "It's gone." "O Bob!" "Well, what's the good of `O Bobbing' a fellow? I couldn't help it. It's gone, and--Here: I got it!" Bob rose up and gave his arm a whirl to drive off some of the moisture. "It's all right," he said. "I'll wrap it in my hankychy, and it'll soon dry in my pocket, I say, what's inside?" "Something for Sir James." "Oh! S'pose you don't know!" "Is the paper undone?" said Dexter anxiously. "No, it's all right, I tell yer, and it'll soon get dry." "And you'll be sure and take it to Sir James's." "Now?" "No, no, last thing to-night, just before you come, and don't ring, only drop the thing in the letter-box." "All right. Didn't I get my arm wet! There, I'm going home to get it dry, and put the rest of my things ready. Mind you bring yours all right." Dexter did not answer, but his companion's words made him feel very low-spirited, for he had a good deal in his mind, and he stood listening to Bob, as that young worthy went off, whistling softly, to make his final preparations for the journey down the river to sea, and then to foreign lands, and the attempt seemed now to begin growing very rapidly, till it was like a dense dark cloud rising higher and higher, and something seemed to keep asking the boy whether he was doing right. He felt that he was not, but, at the same time, the idea that he was thoroughly misunderstood, and that he would never be happy at the doctor's, came back as strongly as ever. "They all look upon me as a workhouse boy," he muttered, "and Bob's right. I'd better go away." CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. PREPARATIONS FOR FLIGHT. Dexter listened till Bob Dimsted's whistle died away, and then stole from the place of appointment to go back to the house, where he struck off to the left, and made his way into the loft, where he took a small piece of candle from his pocket, lit it, and set it in an old ginger-beer bottle. The light roused the various occupants of the boxes and cages. That and the step were suggestive of food, and sundry squeakings and scratchings arose, with, from time to time, a loud rap on the floor given by one of the rabbits. There was a lonely desolate feeling in Dexter's breast as he set the rat at liberty, for the furtive-looking creature to hurry beneath the boards which formed the rough floor. Then the mice were taken out of their box, and the first movement of the little creatures was to run all over their master, but he hurriedly took them off him, feeling more miserable than ever, and ready to repent of the step he was about to take. The rabbits were carried downstairs, and turned out into the yard, Dexter having a belief that as they had once grown tame perhaps, many generations back, they might now as easily grow wild, and if in the process they made very free with old Dan'l's vegetables, until they escaped elsewhere, it would not be very serious. As it was, they crept here and there over the stones for a few moments, and then went off investigating, and evidently puzzled by their freedom. The hedgehog and squirrel were brought down together, and carried right into the garden, where the former was placed upon one of the flower-beds, and disappeared at once; the latter held up to a branch of the ornamental spruce, into which it ran, and then there was a scuffling noise, and Dexter ran away back to the stable, afraid to stop, lest the little ragged jacketed animal should leap back upon him, and make him more weak than he was. He climbed again to the loft, hearing a series of tiny squeaks as he mounted--squeaks emanating from his mice, and directly after he nearly crushed the rat, by stepping upon it as the little animal ran up to be fed. He had come for the toad and snake, and hurriedly plunging his hand into the big pot he found Sam the toad, seated right at the top, evidently eager to start on a nocturnal ramble, but the snake was coiled up asleep. It was a curious pet, that toad, but somehow, as it sat nestled up all of a squat in the boy's warm hand, he felt as if he should like to take it with him. It was not big, and would take up little room, and cost nothing to feed. Why not? He hesitated as he descended and crossed the yard to the garden, and decided that he would not. Bob Dimsted might not like it. He reached the garden, and crossed the lawn to the sunny verbena bed. That seemed a suitable place for the snake, and he tenderly placed it, writhing feebly, among the thin pegged-down strands. Then came the other reptile's turn. They had been friends and even companions together in the big flower-pot, Dexter argued, so they should have the chance of being friends again in the flower-bed. The toad was in his left hand, and going down on one knee he separated the verbenas a little, and then placed his hand, knuckles downward, on the soft moist earth, opening his fingers slowly the while. "Good-bye, Sam," he said, in a low voice. "You and I have had some good fun together, old chap, and I hope you will be very happy when I'm gone." He slowly spread his hand flat, so that his fingers and thumb ceased to form so many posts and rails about the reptile, or a fleshly cage. In imagination he saw the dusky grey creature crawl off his hand gladly into the dewy bed, and it made him more sad to find how ready everything was to be free, and he never for a moment thought about how he was going to play as ungrateful a part, and march off too. "Good-bye, Sam," he said, as he recalled how he had played with and tickled that toad, and how it had enjoyed it all, and turned over to be rubbed. Then he seemed to see it walk in its heavy, cumbrous way slowly off, with its bright golden eyes glistening, till it sat down in a hollow, and watched him go. But it was all fancy. The toad did not crawl out of his hand among the verbenas, nor go right away, but sat perfectly motionless where it was, evidently, from its acting, perfectly warm, comfortable, and contented. "Well, Sam, why don't you go!" said Dexter softly. "Do you hear?" He gave his hand a jar by striking the back on the earth, but the toad did not move, and when he touched it with his right hand, it was to find the fat squat reptile squeezed up together like a bun. He stroked it, and rubbed it, as he had rubbed it scores of times before, and the creature once more pressed up against his fingers, while Dexter forgot everything else in the gratification of finding his ugly pet appreciate his attentions. "Now then! off you go!" he cried quickly; but the creature did not stir. "Are you going?" said Dexter. "Come: march." Again it did not stir. "He don't want to go," cried the boy, changing it from, one hand to the other; and the next moment he was holding it, nose downward, over his jacket-pocket, when the toad, pretty actively for one of its kind, began to work its legs and dived slowly down beneath the pocket-handkerchief crumpled-up there, and settled itself at the bottom. "It seems to know," cried Dexter. "And it shall go with me after all." Curious boy! some one may say, but Dexter had had few opportunities for turning his affections in ordinary directions, and hence it was that they were lavished upon a toad. Indoors, when he stole back after setting all his pets at liberty to shift for themselves, Dexter felt very guilty. He encountered Mrs Millett in the hall, and a thrill ran through him as she exclaimed-- "Ah, there you are, Master Dexter, I just want a few words with you." "Found out!" thought the guilty conscience, which needs no accuser. "Now just you look here, sir," said the old housekeeper, in a loud voice, as she literally button-holed the boy, by hooking one thin finger in his jacket, so that he could not get away, "I know all." "You--you know everything," faltered the boy. "Yes, sir. Ah, you may well look 'mure. You little thought I knew." "How--how did you find out?" he stammered. "Ah! how did I find out, indeed! Now, look here, am I to go straight to the doctor and tell him!" "No, no, pray don't," whispered Dexter, catching her arm. "Well, then, I must tell Miss Helen." "No, no, not this time," cried Dexter imploringly; and his tone softened the old lady, who shook the borders of her cap at him. "Well, I don't know what to say," said Mrs Millett softly. "They certainly ought to know." Dexter gazed at her wildly. He knew that everything must come out, but it was to have been in a few hours' time, when he was far away, and deaf to the angry words and reproaches. To hear them now seemed more than he could bear. It could not be. Bob Dimsted must think and say what he liked, and be as angry and unforgiving as was possible. It could not be now. He must plead to the old housekeeper for pardon, and give up all idea of going away. "Ah!" she said. "I see you are sorry for it, then." "Yes, yes," he whispered. "So sorry, and--and--" "You'll take it this time, like a good boy!" "Take it?" "Yes, sir. Ah! you can't deceive me. Last time I saw the empty glass I knew as well as could be that you hadn't taken it, for the outside of the glass wasn't sticky, and there were no marks of your mouth at the edge. I always put plenty of sugar in it for you, and that showed." "The camomile-tea!" thought Dexter, a dose of which the old lady expected him to take about once a week, and which never did him any harm, if it never did him any good. "And you'll take it to-night, sir, like a good boy!" "Yes, yes, I will indeed," said Dexter, with the full intention of keeping his word out of gratitude for his escape. "Now, that's like being a good boy," said the old lady, smiling, and extricating her fingers from his button-hole, so as to stroke his hair. "It will do you no end of good; and how you have improved since you have been here, my dear, your hair's grown so nicely, and you've got such a good pink colour in your cheeks. It's the camomile-tea done that." Mrs Millett leaned forward with her hands on the boy's shoulder, and kissed him in so motherly a way that Dexter felt a catching of the breath, and kissed her again. "That's right," said the old lady. "You ain't half so bad as Maria pretends you are. `It's only a bit of mischief now and then,' I says to her, `and he's only a boy,' and that's what you are, ain't it, my dear?" Dexter did not answer. "I shall put your dose on your washstand, and you mind and take it the moment you get out of bed to-morrow morning." "Yes," said Dexter dismally. "No! you'll forget it. You've got to take that camomile-tea to-night, and if you don't promise me you will, I shall come and see you take it." "I promise you," said Dexter, and the old lady nodded and went upstairs, while the boy hung about in the hall. How was it that just now, when he was going away, people were beginning to seem more kind to him, and something began to drag at his heart to keep him from going? He could not tell. An hour before he had felt a wild kind of elation. He was going to be free from lessons, the doctor's admonitions, and the tame regular life at the house, to be off in search of adventure, and with Bob for his companion, going all over the world in that boat, while now, in spite of all he could do, he did not feel so satisfied and sure. There was something else he knew that he ought to do. He could not bid Helen good-bye with his lips, but he felt that he must bid her farewell another way, for she had always been kind to him from the day he came. He crept into the study again, this time without being seen. There was a faint light in the pleasant room, for the doctor's lamp had been turned down, but not quite out. A touch sent the flame brightly round the ring, and the shade cast a warm glow on the boy's busy fingers as he took out paper and envelope; and then, with trembling hand, sore heart, and a pen that spluttered, he indited another letter, this time to Helen. My dear Miss Grayson, I am afraid you will think me a very ungrateful boy, but I am obliged to go away to seek my fortune all over the world. You have been so kind to me, and so has Doctor Grayson sometimes, but everybody else has hated me, and made game of me because I was a workhouse boy, and I could not bear it any longer, and Bob Dimsted said he wouldn't if he was me, and we are going away together not to come back again any more.--I am, Your Affec Friend. Dexter Grayson. _PS_--I mean Obed Coleby, for I ought not to call myself Dexter any more, and I would have scratched it out, only you always said it was better not to scratch out mistakes because they made the paper look so untidy. I like you very much, and Mrs Millett too, but I can't take her fiz-- physick to-night. Is physick spelt with a k? There was a tear--a weak tear in each of Dexter's eyes as he wrote this letter, for it brought up many a pleasant recollection of kindnesses on Helen's part. He had just finished, folded and directed this, when he fancied he heard a door open across the hall. Thrusting the note into his pocket so hastily that one corner went into the toad, he caught up a piece of the doctor's foolscap, and began rapidly to make a triangle upon it, at whose sides and points he placed letters, and then, feeling like the miserable impostor he was, he rapidly let his pen trace a confused line of _A's_ and _B's_ and _C's_, and these backwards and forwards. This went on for some minutes, so that there was a fair show upon the paper, when the door softly opened, Helen peered in, and then coming behind him bent down, and, in a very gentle and sisterly way, placed her hands over his eyes. "Why, my poor hard-working boy," she said gently. "So this is where you are; and, oh dear, oh dear! Euclid again. That Mr Limpney will wear your brains all away. There, come along, I am going to play to papa, and then you and I will have a game at draughts." Dexter rose with his heart beating, and that strange sensation of something tugging at his conscience. Why were they all so kind to him to-night, just when he was going away? "Why, you look quite worn out and dazed, Dexter," said Helen merrily. "There, come along." "Eh? Where was he? In mischief?" said the doctor sharply, as they entered the drawing-room. "Mischief? No, papa: for shame!" cried Helen, with her arm resting on the boy's shoulders. "In your study, working away at those terrible sides and angles invented by that dreadful old Greek Euclid." "Work, eh? Ha! that's good!" cried the doctor jovially. "Bravo, Dexter! I am glad." If ever a boy felt utterly ashamed of himself, Dexter did then. He could not meet the doctor's eye, but was on his way to get a book to turn over, so as to have something to look at, but this was not to be. "No, no, you have had enough of books for one day, Dexter. Come and turn over the music for me. Why! what's that?" "That?" said Dexter slowly, for he did not comprehend. "Yes, I felt it move. You have something alive in your pocket." He felt prompted to lie, but he could not tell a falsehood then, and he stood with his teeth set. "Whatever have you got alive in your pocket?" said the doctor. "I know. A young rabbit, for a guinea." "Is it?" cried Helen. "Let me look: they are such pretty little things." "Yes, out with it, boy, and don't pet those things too much. Kill them with kindness, you know. Here, let me take it out." "No, no!" cried Dexter hastily. "Well, take it out yourself." A spasm of dread had run through the boy, as in imagination he saw the doctor's hand taking out the letter in his pocket. "It isn't a young rabbit," he faltered. "Well, what is it, then? Come, out with it." Dexter hesitated for a few moments, and now met the doctor's eye. He could not help himself, but slowly took out his pocket-handkerchief, as he held the note firmly with his left hand outside the jacket. Then, diving in again, he got well hold of Sam, who was snug at the bottom, and, with burning cheeks, and in full expectation of a scolding, drew the toad slowly forth. "Ugh!" ejaculated Helen. The doctor, who was in a most amiable temper, burst into a roar of laughter. "Well, you are a strange boy, Dexter," he said, as he wiped his eyes. "You ought to be a naturalist by and by. There, open the window, and put the poor thing outside. You can find plenty another time." Dexter obeyed, glad to be out of his quandary, and this time, as he put Sam down, the reptile crawled slowly away into the soft dark night. He closed the window, and went back to find the doctor and Helen all smiles, and ready to joke instead of scold. Then he went to the piano, and turned over the music, the airs and songs making him feel more and more sad, and again and again he found himself saying-- "Why are they so kind to me now, just as I am going away?" "Shall I stop!" he said to himself, after a time. "No: I promised Bob I would come, and so I will." CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN ACT OF FOLLY. Bedtime at last, and as Dexter bade the doctor and his daughter "good-night," it seemed to him that they had never spoken so kindly to him, and the place had never appeared to be so pleasant and homelike before. His heart sank as he went up to his room, and he felt as if he could not go away. The lessons Mr Limpney had given him to write out were not done; but he had better stop and face him, and every other trouble, including the window he had broken, and never owned to yet. It was impossible to go away and leave everybody who was so kind. A harsh word would have kept him to the point; but now he wavered as he sat down on the edge of his bed, with his mind in a whirl. Then, as he sat there, he pictured in his own mind the figure of Bob Dimsted, waiting for him, laden with articles of outfit necessary for their voyage, and behind Bob loomed up bright sunny scenes by sea and land; and with his imagination once more excited by all that the boy had suggested, Dexter blinded himself to everything but the object he had in view. He had planned in his own mind what he would take with him, but now it had come to the point he felt a strange compunction. Everything he possessed seemed to him as if it belonged to the doctor, and, finally, he resolved to take nothing with him but the clothes in which he stood. He began walking about the room in a listless way, looking about at the various familiar objects that he was to see no more, and one of the first things to strike him was a teacup on the washstand, containing Mrs Millett's infusion, bitter, nauseous, and sweetened to sickliness; and it struck Dexter that the mixture had been placed in a cup instead of a glass, so as to make it less objectionable in appearance. He could not help smiling as he took up the cup and smelt it, seeing at the same time the old dame's pleasant earnest face--a face that suddenly seemed to have become very loving, now he was to see it no more. He set down the cup, and shook his head, and then, as if nerving himself for the task, he went to the drawers, took out a key from his pocket, and then, from the place where it lay, hidden beneath his clean linen, brought forth the old clothes-line twisted and knotted together--the line which had done duty in the loft as a swing. He listened as he crossed to the door, but all was still downstairs, and it was not likely that any one would come near his room that night; but still he moved about cautiously, and taking the line with his hands, about two feet apart, snapped it again and again with all his might, to try if it was likely to give way now beneath his weight. It seemed firm as ever, but he could not help a shiver as he laid it by the window, and thought of a boy being found in the shrubbery beneath, with a broken leg, or, worse still, neck. Then as he waited for the time to glide by, so that all might be in bed before he made his escape, a sudden chill ran through him. He had remembered everything, as he thought; and yet there was one thing, perhaps the simplest of all, forgotten. He was going to take no bundle, no money, nothing which the doctor had in his kindness provided for him; but he could not go without a cap, and that was hanging in the hall, close to the drawing-room door. The question arose whether he should venture down to get it now, or after the doctor had gone to bed. It took him some time to make up his mind; but when he had come to a decision he opened his door softly, listened, and stole out on to the landing. All was very still as he looked over the balustrade to where the lamp shed its yellow rays all round, and to his mind more strangely upon the object he wanted to obtain than elsewhere. It was a very simple thing to do, and yet it required a great deal of nerve, for if the drawing-room door were opened just as he reached the hat-stand, and the doctor came out, what should he say? Then there was the risk of being heard, for there were, he knew, two of the old oaken stairs which always gave a loud crack when any one passed down, and if they cracked now, some one would be sure to come out to see what it meant. Taking a long catching breath he went quickly to the top of the stairs, and was about to descend in a desperate determination to go through with his task, when an idea struck him, and bending over the balustrade he spread his hands, balanced himself carefully, and then slid down the mahogany rail, round curve after curve as silently as could be, and reaching the curl at the bottom dropped upon the mat. Only five or six yards now to the hat-stand, and going on tiptoe past the entrance to the drawing-room, he was in the act of taking down the cap, when the handle rattled, the door was thrown open, and the hall grew more light. In his desperation Dexter snatched down the cap, and stood there trying to think of what he should say in answer to the question that would be asked in a moment-- "What are you doing there!" It was Helen, chamber-candlestick in hand, and she was in the act of stepping out, when her step was arrested by words which seemed to pierce into the listener's brain:-- "Oh, about Dexter!" "Yes, papa," said Helen, turning. "What do you think about--" Dexter heard no more. Taking advantage of Helen's back being turned as she bent over towards the speaker, the boy stepped quickly to the staircase, ran up, and had reached the first landing before Helen came out into the hall, while before she had closed the door he was up another flight, and gliding softly toward his own room, where he stood panting as he closed the door, just as if he had been running a distance which had taken away his breath. It was a narrow escape, and he was safe; but his ears tingled still, and he longed to know what the doctor had said about him. As he stood listening, cap in hand, he heard Helen pass his door singing softly one of the ballads he had heard that evening; and once more a curious dull sensation of misery came over him, as he seemed to feel that he would never hear her sing again, never feel the touch of her soft caressing hand; and somehow there was a vague confused sense of longing to go to one who had treated him with an affectionate interest he had never known before, even now hardly understood, but it seemed to him such gentleness and love as might have come from a mother. For a moment or two he felt that he must open the door, call to her, throw himself upon his knees before her, and confess everything, but at that moment the laughing, mocking face of Bob Dimsted seemed to rise between them, and his words buzzed in his ear--words that he had often said when listening to some account of Dexter's troubles-- "Bother the old lessons, and all on 'em! I wouldn't stand it if I was you. They've no right to order you about, and scold you as they do." The weak moments passed, and just then there was the doctor's cough heard, and the closing of his door, while directly after came the chiming of the church clock--a quarter past eleven. Half an hour to wait and think, and then good-bye to all his troubles, and the beginning of a new life of freedom! All the freedom and the future seemed to be behind a black cloud; but in the fond belief that all would soon grow clear Dexter waited. Half-past eleven, and he wondered that he did not feel sleepy. It was time to begin though now, and he took the line and laid it out in a serpentine fashion upon the carpet, so that there should be no kinks in the way; and then the next thing was to fasten one end tightly so that he could safely slide down. He had well thought out his plans, and, taking one end of the line, he knotted it securely to the most substantial place he could find in the room, passing it behind two of the bars of the grate. Then cautiously opening his window, a little bit at a time, he thrust it higher and higher, every faint creak sending a chill through him, while, when he looked out upon the dark starlight night, it seemed as if he would have to descend into a black gulf, where something blacker was waiting to seize him. But he knew that the black things below were only great shrubs, and lowering the rope softly down he at last had the satisfaction of hearing it rustle among the leaves. Then he waited, and after a glance round to see that everything was straight, and the letter laid ready upon the table, he put out the candle. "For the last time!" he said to himself, and a great sigh came unbidden from his breast. A quarter to twelve. Dexter waited till the last stroke on the bell was thrilling in the air before setting his cap on tightly, and passing one leg over the sill. He sat astride for a few moments, hesitating for the last time, and then passed the other leg, and lowered himself down till he hung by his hands, then twisted his legs about the rope, seized it with first one hand then the other, and hung by it with his whole weight, in the precarious position of one trusting to an old doubled clothes-line, suspended from a second-floor window. It was hard work that descent, for he could not slide on account of the knots; and, to make his position more awkward, the rope began to untwist--one line from the other,--and, in consequence, as the boy descended slowly, he bore no small resemblance to a leg of mutton turning before a fire. That was the only mishap which occurred to him then, for after resting for a few moments upon the first-floor sill he continued his journey, and reached the bottom in the midst of a great laurel, which rustled loudly as he tried to get out, and then tripped over a horizontal branch, and fell flat. He was up again in an instant, and, trembling and panting, made a couple of bounds which took him over the gravel walk and on to the lawn, where he stood panting and listening. There was a light in the doctor's room, and one in Helen's; and just then the doctor's shadow, looking horribly threatening, was thrown upon the blind. He must be coming, Dexter thought, and, turning quickly, he sped down the lawn, avoiding the flower-beds by instinct, and the next minute had reached the kitchen-garden, down whose winding green walk he rapidly made his way. CHAPTER THIRTY. DARK DEEDS. It was very dark among the trees as Dexter reached the grass plot which sloped to the willows by the river-side, but he knew his way so well that he crept along in silence till he had one hand resting upon the trunk he had so often climbed, and stood there gazing across the starlit water, trying to make out the figure of his companion in the boat. All was silent, save that, now and then, the water as it ran among the tree-roots made a peculiar whispering sound, and once or twice there was a faint plash in the distance, as if from the feeding of a fish. "Hist! Bob! Are you there!" "Hullo!" came from the other side. "I was just a-going." "Going?" "Yes. I thought you wasn't a-coming, and I wasn't going to stop here all night." "But you said twelve." "Well, it struck twelve an hour ago." "No; that was eleven. There--hark!" As proof of Dexter's assertion the church clock just then began to chime, and the heavy boom of the tenor bell proclaiming midnight seemed to make the soft night air throb. "Thought it was twelve long enough ago. Ready!" "Yes," said Dexter, in an excited whisper. "Got the boat?" "No: course I haven't. It'll take two to get that boat." "But you said you would have it ready." "Yes, I know; but we must both of us do that. I waited till you come." This was a shock; and Dexter said, in a disappointed tone-- "But how am I to get to you!" "Come across," said Bob coolly. "Come across--in the dark!" "Why, of course. You ain't afraid, are you? Well, you are a chap!" "But it's too deep to wade." "Well, who said it wasn't!" growled the boy. "You can swim, can't you?" "But I shall get so wet." "Yah!" ejaculated Bob in tones of disgust. "You are a fellow. Take your clothes off, make 'em in a bundle, and swim over." Dexter was half-disposed to say, "You swim across to me," but nothing would have been gained if he had, so, after a few minutes' hesitation, and in genuine dread, he obeyed the wishes of his companion, but only to pause when he was half-undressed. "I say, though," he whispered, "can't you get the boat? It's so cold and dark." "Well, you are a fellow!" cried Bob. "Beginning to grumble afore we start. It's no use to have a mate who's afraid of a drop of water, and don't like to get wet." "But--" "There, never mind," grumbled Bob; "we won't go." "But I didn't say I wouldn't come, Bob," whispered Dexter desperately. "I'll come." There was no answer. "Bob." Still silence. "I say, don't go, Bob. I'm very sorry. I'm undressing as fast as I can. You haven't gone, have you?" Still silence, and Dexter ceased undressing, and stood there in the cold night air, feeling as desolate, despairing, and forlorn as boy could be. "What shall I do?" he said to himself; and then, in a despondent whisper, "Bob!" "Hullo!" "Why, you haven't gone!" joyfully. "No; but I'm going directly. It's no use for me to have a mate who hasn't got any pluck. Now then, are you coming, or are you not!" "I'm coming," said Dexter. "But stop a moment. I'll be back directly." "Whatcher going to do!" "Wait a moment and I'll show you." Dexter had had a happy thought, and turning and running in his trousers to the tool-shed, he dragged out a small deal box in which seeds had come down from London that spring. It was a well-made tight box, and quite light, and with this he ran back. "Why, what are you doing?" grumbled Bob, as soon as he heard his companion's voice. "Been getting something to put my clothes in," whispered Dexter. "I don't want to get them wet." "Oh," said Bob, in a most unconcerned way; and he began to whistle softly, as Dexter finished undressing, tucked all his clothes tightly in the box, and bore it down to the water's edge, where it floated like a little boat. "There!" cried Dexter excitedly. "Now they'll be all dry when I've got across. Ugh! how cold the water is," he continued, as he dipped one foot. "I wish I'd brought a towel." "Yah! what does a fellow want with a towel? You soon gets dry if you run about. Going to walk across!" "I can't," said Dexter; "it's too deep." "Well, then, swim. I could swim that with one hand tied behind." "I couldn't," said Dexter, hesitating, for it was no pleasant task to plunge into the little gliding river at midnight, and with all dark around. "Now then! Look alive! Don't make a splash." "Oh!" "What's the matter?" "It is cold." "Yah! Then, get back to bed with you, and let me go alone." "I'm coming as fast as I can," said Dexter, as he lowered himself into the stream, and then rapidly climbed out again, as the cold water caused a sudden catching of the breath; and a nervous shrinking from trusting himself in the dark river made him draw right away from the edge. "Why, you ain't swimming," said Bob. "Here, look sharp! Why, you ain't in!" "N-no, not yet," said Dexter, shivering. "There's a coward!" sneered Bob. "I'm not a coward, but it seems so dark and horrible to-night, and as if something might lay hold of you." "Yes, you are a regular coward," sneered Bob. "There, jump in, or I'll shy stones at yer till you do." Dexter did not speak, but tumbled all of a heap on the short turf, shrinking more and more from his task. "I shall have to go without you," said Bob. "I can't help it," said Dexter, in a low, tremulous whisper. "It's too horrid to get in there and swim across in the dark." "No, it ain't. I'd do it in a minute. There, jump in." "No," said Dexter sadly. "I must give it up." "What, yer won't do it!" "I can't," said Dexter sadly. "We must try some other way. I'm going to dress again. Oh!" "What's the matter now!" "My clothes!" _Splash_! _Rush_! Dexter had rapidly lowered himself into the black deep stream and was swimming hard and fast, for as he rose and sought for his garments he suddenly recalled the fact that he had turned the box into a tiny barge, laden it with his clothes, and placed them in the river, while now, as he went to take them out, he found that the stream had borne the box away, and it was going down toward the sea. "Try if you can see them, Bob," said Dexter, as he panted and struggled on through the water. "See what?" "My clothes. They're floating down the river." Bob uttered a low chuckling laugh, and trotted along by the edge of the river; but it was too dark for him to see anything, and Dexter, forgetting cold and dread, swam bravely on, looking well to right and left, without avail, till all at once, just in one of the deepest eddies, some fifty yards down below the doctor's house, and where an unusually large willow spread its arms over the stream, he caught sight of something which blotted out the starlight for a moment, and then the stars' reflection beamed out again. Something was evidently floating there, and he made for it, to find to his great joy that it was the floating box, which he pushed before him as he swam, and a couple of minutes later he was near enough to the edge on the meadow-side to ask Bob's help. "Ain't got 'em, have you?" the latter whispered. "Yes; all right. I'll come out there. Give me a hand." Dexter swam to the muddy overhanging bank, and seized the hand which Bob extended toward him. "Now then, shall I duck yer!" said Bob, who had lain down on the wet grass to extend his hand to the swimmer. "No, no, Bob, don't. That would be cowardly," cried Dexter. "Help me to get out my clothes without letting in the wet. It is so cold." "But you swam over," said Bob sneeringly. "Yes; but you don't know how chilly it makes you feel. Mind the clothes." Bob did mind, and the next minute Dexter and the barge of dry clothes were upon the grass together. "Oh, isn't it cold?" said Dexter, with his teeth chattering. "Cold? no. Not a bit," said Bob. "Here, whatcher going to do!" "Do? Dress myself. Here, give me my shirt. Oh, don't I wish I had a towel!" "You leave them things alone, stoopid. You can't dress yet." "Not dress!" "No," cried Bob loudly. "What do you mean!" "You come along and I'll show yer. Why, we haven't got the boat." "No, but--" "Well, you're all ready, and you've got to swim across and get it." "I've got to get it!" cried Dexter in dismay. "Why, you said you would get the boat." "Yes, but I didn't know then that you were going to swim across." "But you said it would take two to get it," protested Dexter. "Yes, I thought so then, but you're all ready and can swim across, and get it directly. Here, come along!" "But--but," stammered Dexter, who was shivering in the chill night air. "What, you're cold? Well, come along. I'll carry the box. Let's run. It'll warm yer." Dexter was ready with another protest, but he did not utter it. His companion seemed to carry him along with the force of his will, but all the same there was a troublous feeling forcing itself upon him that he had made a mistake, and he could not help a longing for his room at the doctor's with its warm bed, comfort, safety, and repose. But he knew it was too late, and he was too much hurried and confused to do more than try to keep up with Bob Dimsted as he ran by his side carrying the box till they had reached the meadow facing Sir James Danby's garden; and there, just dimly seen across the river, was the low gable-end of the boat-house beneath the trees. "Hush! don't make a row," whispered Bob. "Now then, slip in and fetch it. Why, you could almost jump it." "But, Bob--I--I don't like to go. I'm so cold." "I'll precious soon warm yer if you don't look sharp," cried Bob fiercely. "Don't you try to make a fool of me. Now then, in with you!" He had put the box down and gripped Dexter fiercely by the arm, causing him so much pain that instead of alarming it roused the boy's flagging spirit, and he turned fiercely upon his assailant, and wrested his arm free. "That's right," said Bob. "In with you. And be sharp, and then you can dress yerself as we float down." Dexter's instinct was to resist and give up, but he felt that he had gone too far, and feeling that his companion might consider him a coward if he refused to go, he lowered himself down into the water. "That's yer sort," said Bob, in a loud whisper. "You'll soon do it." "But suppose the chains are locked!" "They won't be locked," said Bob. "You go acrost and see." In the eager desire to get an unpleasant task done, Dexter let himself glide down into the swift stream about a dozen yards above the boat-house, and giving himself a good thrust off with his feet, he swam steadily and easily across, the river there being about thirty yards wide, and in a very short time he managed to touch the post at the outer corner of the long low boat-house. Then, hardly knowing how he managed it, he found bottom as his hand grasped the gunwale of the boat, and walking along beside it he soon reached the chain which moored it to the end. Here in his excitement and dread it seemed as if his mission was to fail. It was dark enough outside, but in the boat-house everything seemed to be of pitchy blackness, and try how he would he could find no way of unfastening the chain. He tried toward the boat, then downwards, then upwards, and in the boat again, and again. His teeth were chattering, his chest and shoulders felt as if they were freezing, and his hands, as they fumbled with the wet chain, began to grow numbed, while, to add to his excitement and confusion, Bob kept on from time to time sending across the river a quick hissing-- "I say; look sharp." Then he heard a sound, and he splashed through the water in retreat toward the river, for it seemed that they were discovered, and some one coming down the garden. But the sound was repeated, and he realised the fact that it was only the side of the boat striking against a post. "I say, are you a-coming?" whispered Bob. "I can't undo the chain," Dexter whispered back. "Yer don't half try." Just then the clock chimed half-past twelve, and Dexter stopped involuntarily; but a fresh summons from his companion roused him to further action, and he passed once more along to the prow of the boat, and seizing the chain felt along it till this time he felt a hook, and, wondering how it was that he had missed it before, he began with trembling fingers to try and get it out from the link through which it was thrust. It was in very tightly, though, for the point being wedge-shaped the swaying about and jerking to and fro of the boat had driven it further and further in, so that it was not until he had been ready over and over again to give up in despair that the boy got the iron free. Then panting with dread and excitement he found the rest easy; the chain was passed through a ring-bolt in one of the posts at the head of the boat-house, and through this he drew it back slowly and cautiously on account of the rattling it made. It seemed of interminable length as he drew and drew, piling up the chain in the bows of the boat till he thought he must have obtained all, when there was a sudden check, and it would come no further. Simple enough in broad daylight, and to a person in the boat, but Dexter was standing waist deep in the water, and once more he felt that the case was hopeless. Another call from Bob roused him, and he followed the chain with his hand till he had waded to the post, and found that the hook had merely caught in the ring, and only needed lifting out, and the boat was at liberty. But just at this moment there was a furious barking, and a dog seemed to be tearing down the garden toward the boat-house. In an agony of horror Dexter climbed into the boat, and feeling the side of the long shed he thrust and thrust with so much effect that he sent the light gig well out into the stream and half-across the river. Then seizing an oar, as the dog was now down on the bank, snapping and barking more furiously than ever, he got it over into the water, and after a great deal of paddling, and confused counter-action of his efforts, forced the boat onward and along, till it touched the shore where Bob was waiting with the box. "No, no, don't come out," he whispered. "Here, help me get these in." Dexter crept to the stern of the boat, and in his effort to embark the box nearly fell overboard, but the treasure was safe. Then Bob handed in a basket, and a bundle of sticks, evidently his rod, and leaping in directly after, gave the boat sufficient impetus to send it well out into the stream, down which it began to glide. "Ah, bark away, old un," said Bob contemptuously, as the sound of the dog's alarm notes grew more distant, and then more distant still, for they were going round a curve, and the garden side of the river was thick with trees. "Is that Danby's dog!" whispered Bob. "I don't know," said Dexter, with his teeth chattering from cold and excitement. "Why! you're a-cold," said Bob coolly. "Here, I'll send her along. You look sharp and dress. I say, where's your bundle of things?" "Do you mean my clothes?" "No! Your bundle." "I didn't bring anything," said Dexter, hurriedly slipping on his shirt. "Well, you are a chap!" said Bob sourly, but Dexter hardly heard him, for he was trying to get his wet body covered from the chill night air; and he could think of nothing but the fact that he had taken a very desperate step, and the boat was bearing them rapidly away from what seemed now to have been a very happy home--further out, further away from the doctor and from Helen, downward toward the sea, and over that there was a great black cloud, beyond which, according to Bob Dimsted, there were bright and glorious lands. At that moment, chill with the cold and damp, Dexter would have given anything to have been back in his old room, but it was too late, the boat was gliding on, and Bob had now got out the sculls. The town lights were receding, and they were going onward toward that dark cloud which Dexter seemed to see more dimly now, for there was a dumb depressing sensation of despair upon him, and he turned his eyes toward the river-bank, asking himself if he could leap ashore. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. TIMES OF DELIGHT! "Here we are!" said Bob Dimsted, as he sat handling the sculls very fairly, and, as the stream was with them, sending the boat easily along. "I think we managed that first-rate." Dexter made no reply, for he had his teeth fast set, and his lips pressed together to keep the former from chattering, but he thought a great deal, and found himself wondering what Bob had done toward getting the boat. With the covering up of his goose-skinned body, and the return of some of his surface heat, the terrible fit of despondency began to pass away, and Dexter felt less ready to sit down in helpless misery at the bottom of the boat. "Getting nice and warm, ain'tcher?" "Not very, yet." "Ah, you soon will be, and if you ain't you shall take one of these here oars. That'll soon put you right. But what a while you was!" "I--I couldn't help it," shivered Dexter, drawing in his breath with a quick hissing sound; "the chain was so hard to undo." "Ah, well, never mind now," said Bob, "only, if we'd got to do it again I should go myself." Dexter made no protest, but he thought it sounded rather ungrateful. He was too busy, though, with buttons, and getting his fingers to work in their regular way, to pay much heed, and he went on dressing. "I say, what a jolly long while you are!" continued Bob. "Oh, and look here! I'd forgot again: why didn't you bring your bundle with all your clothes and things, eh!" "Because they weren't mine." "Well, you are a chap! Not yourn? Why, they were made for you, and you wore 'em. They can't be anybody else's. I never see such a fellow as you are! I brought all mine." It was an easy task, judging from the size of the bundle dimly seen in the bottom of the boat, but Dexter said nothing. "How much money have you got?" said Bob, after a pause. "None at all." "What?" There was utter astonishment in Bob Dimsted's tones as he sat motionless, with the sculls balanced on the rowlocks, staring wildly through the gloom, as Dexter now sat down and fought hard with an obstinate stocking, which refused to go on over a wet foot--a way stockings have at such times. "Did you say you hadn't got any money?" cried Bob. "Yes. I sent it all in a letter to pay for the boat in case we kept it." "What, for this boat?" cried Bob. "Yes." "And you call yourself a mate?" cried Bob, letting the scull blades drop in the water with a splash, and pulling hard for a few strokes. "Well!" "I felt obliged to," said Dexter, whose perseverance was rewarded by a complete victory over the first stocking, when the second yielded it with a better grace, and he soon had on his shoes, and then began to dry his ears by thrusting his handkerchief-covered finger in the various windings of each gristly maze. "Felt obliged to?" "Yes, of course. We couldn't steal the boat." "Yah, steal it! Who ever said a word about stealing? We've only borrowed it, and if we don't send it back, old Danby's got lots of money, and he can buy another. But, got no money! Well!" "But we don't want money, do we!" said Dexter, whom the excitement as well as his clothes now began to make comparatively warm. "I thought we were going where we could soon make our fortunes." "Yes, of course we are, stoopid; but you can't make fortunes without money. You can't ketch fish if yer ain't got no bait." This was a philosophical view of matters which took Dexter aback, and he faltered rather as he spoke next, this time with his ears dry, his hair not so very wet, and his jacket buttoned up to his chin. "I'm very sorry, Bob," he said gently. "Sorry! Being sorry won't butter no parsneps," growled Bob. "No," said Dexter mildly, "but we haven't got any parsneps to butter." "No, nor ain't likely to have," growled Bob, and then returning to a favourite form of expression: "And you call yourself a mate! Here, come and kitch holt of this scull." Dexter sat down on the thwart, and took the scull after Bob had contrived to give him a spiteful blow on the back with it before he extricated it from its rowlock. Dexter winced slightly, but he bore the pain without a word, and began rowing as well as a boy does row who handles a scull for the first time in his life. And there he sat, gazing to right and left at the dark banks of the river, and the stars above and reflected below, as they went slowly on along the bends and reaches of the little river, everything looking strangely distorted and threatening to the boy's unaccustomed eyes. The exercise soon began to bring a general feeling of warmth to his chilled frame, and as the inward helplessness passed away it began to give place to an acute sense of fear, and his eyes wandered here and there in search of Sir James Danby, the doctor, and others more terrible, who would charge them with stealing the boat in spite of his protests and the money he had left behind. And all the time to make his trip more pleasant he had to suffer from jarring blows upon the spine, given by the top of Bob's oar. In nearly every case this was intentional, and Bob chuckled to himself, as with the customary outburst of his class he began to abuse his companion. "Why don't yer mind and keep time!" he cried. "Who's to row if you go on like that? I never see such a stoopid." "All right, Bob, I'll mind," said Dexter, with all the humility of an ignorance which kept him from knowing that as he was rowing stroke Bob should have taken his time from him. The blows on the back had two good effects, however: they gratified Bob, who had the pleasure of tyrannising over and inflicting pain upon his comrade, while Dexter gained by the rapid increase of warmth, and was most likely saved from a chill and its accompanying fever. Still that night trip was not pleasant, for when Bob was not grumbling about the regularity of Dexter's stroke, he had fault to find as to his pulling too hard or not hard enough, and so sending the head of the boat toward the right or left bank of the stream. In addition, the young bully kept up a running fire of comment on his companion's shortcomings. "I never see such a mate," he said. "No money and no clothes. I say," he added at the end of one grumbling fit, "what made you want to run away!" "I don't know," said Dexter sadly. "I suppose it was because you persuaded me." "Oh, come, that's a good un," said Bob. "Why, it was you persuaded me! You were always wanting to go away, and you said we could take Danby's boat, and go right down to the sea." "No!" protested Dexter; "it was you said that." "Me!" cried Bob. "Oh, come, I like that, 'pon my word I do. It was you always begging of me to go, and to take you with me. Why, I shouldn't never have thought of such a thing if you hadn't begun it." Dexter was silent, and now getting thoroughly warm he toiled on with his oar, wondering whether Bob would be more amiable when the day came, and trying to think of something to say to divert his thoughts and make him cease his quarrelsome tone. "I never see such a mate," growled Bob again. "No money, no clothes! why, I shall have to keep yer, I s'pose." "How long will it take us to get down to the sea, Bob?" said Dexter at last. "I d'know. Week p'r'aps." "But we shall begin fishing before then, shan't we!" "Fishing! How are you going to fish without any rod and line? Expects me to find 'em for yer, I s'pose!" "No, but I thought you would catch the fish, and I could light a fire and cook them." "Oh, that's what yer thought, was it? Well, p'r'aps we shall, and p'r'aps we shan't." "Do you think they will come after us!" ventured Dexter, after a time. "Sure to, I should say; and if they do, and they kitches us, I shall say as it was you who stole the boat." "No, you won't," said Dexter, plucking up a little spirit now he was getting more himself. "You wouldn't be such a sneak." "If you call me a sneak, I'll chuck you out of the boat," cried Bob angrily. "I didn't call you a sneak, I only said you wouldn't be such a sneak," protested Dexter. "I know what you said: yer needn't tell me, and I won't have it, so now then. If you want to quarrel, you'd better get out and go back." "But I don't want to quarrel, Bob; I want to be the best of friends." "Then don't yer call me a sneak, because if you do it'll be the worse for you." "Oh, I say, Bob," protested Dexter, as he tugged away at his oar, "don't be so disagreeable." "And now he says I'm disagreeable!" cried Bob. "Well of all the chaps as ever I see you're about the nastiest. Look here, do you want to fight? because if you do, we'll just go ashore here and have it out." "I don't want to fight indeed, Bob." "Yes, you do; you keep egging of me on, and saying disagreeable things as would have made some chaps give you one for yourself ever so long ago. Lookye here, only one on us can be captain in this here boat, and it is going to be either me or you. I don't want to be, but I ain't going to be quite jumped upon, so we'll get ashore here, and soon see who it's going to be." As Bob Dimsted spoke in a low snarling way, he gave his scull so hard a pull that he sent the boat's head in toward the bank. "First you want one thing, and then you want another, and then you try to make out that it was me who stole the boat." "I only said it wasn't me." "There," cried Bob, "hark at that! Why, who was it then?" Didn't you take yer clothes off and swim over while I stood t'other side? Dexter did not answer, but went on rowing with a hot feeling of anger rising in his breast. "Oh, so now you're sulky, are you? Very well, my lad, we'll soon see to that. If you don't know who's best man, I'm going to show you. It's dark, but it's light enough for that, so come ashore and--" _Whish! rush! crash_! "Row! pull! pull!" whispered Bob excitedly, as there was a loud breaking of the low growth on the bank close by them, followed by the loud clap given by a swing-gate violently dashed to. Dexter pulled, but against the bank, for they were too close in for them to get a dip of the oar in the water; but what he did was not without some effect, and, as Bob backed, the boat's head gradually glided round, shot into the stream, and they went swiftly on again, pulling as hard as they could. "Did you see him!" whispered Bob at last. "No, did you?" "No, but I nearly did. He has been creeping along the bank for ever so long, and he nearly got hold of the boat." "Who was it?" whispered Dexter. "Pleeceman, but pull hard, and we shall get away from him yet." They both pulled a slow stroke for quite an hour, and by that time the horse that had been feeding upon the succulent weedy growth close to the water's edge had got over its fright, and was grazing peaceably once more. Bob was quiet after that. The sudden alarm had cut his string of words in two, and he was too much disturbed to take them up again to join. In fact he was afraid to speak lest he should be heard, and he kept his ill-temper--stirred up by the loss of a night's rest--to himself for the next hour, when suddenly throwing in his oar he said-- "Look here, I'm tired, and I shall lie down in the bottom here and have a nap. You keep a sharp look-out." "But I can't row two oars," said Dexter. "Well, nobody asked you to. You've got to sit there with the boat-hook, and push her off if ever she runs into the bushes. The stream'll take her down like it does a float." "How far are we away from the town!" "I d'know." "Well, how soon will it be morning!" "How should I know? I haven't got a watch, have I? If I'd had one I should have sold it so as to have some money to share with my mate." "Have you got any money, Bob?" "Course I have. Don't think I'm such a stoopid as you, do yer!" Dexter was silent, and in the darkness he laid in his oar after the fashion of his companion, and took up the boat-hook, while Bob lifted one of the cushions from the seat, placed it in the bottom of the boat, and then curled up, something after the fashion of a dog, and went off to sleep. Dexter sat watching him as he could dimly make out his shape, and then found that the stern of the boat had been caught in an eddy and swung round, so that he had some occupation for a few moments trying to alter her position in the water, which he did at last by hooking the trunk of an overhanging willow. This had the required effect, and the head swung round once more; but in obtaining this result Dexter found himself in this position--the willow refused to give up its hold of the boat-hook. He naturally, on his side, also refused, and, to make matters worse, the current here was quite a race, and the boat was going rapidly on. He was within an ace of having to leave the boat-hook behind, for he declined to try another bath--this time in his clothes. Just, however, at the crucial moment the bark of the willow gave way, the hook descended with a splash, and Dexter breathed more freely, and sat there with the boat-hook across his knees looking first to right and then to left in search of danger, but seeing nothing but the low-wooded banks of the stream, which was gradually growing wider as they travelled further from the town. It was a strange experience; and, comparatively happy now in the silence of the night, Dexter kept his lonely watch, thinking how much pleasanter it was for his companion to be asleep, but all the time suffering a peculiar sensation of loneliness, and gazing wonderingly at the strange, dark shapes which he approached. Men, huge beasts, strange monsters, they seemed sometimes right in front, rising from the river, apparently as if to bar his way, but always proving to be tree, bush, or stump, and their position caused by the bending of the stream. Once there was a sudden short and peculiar grating, and the boat stopped short, but only to glide on again as he realised that the river was shallow there, and they had touched the clean-washed gravelly bottom. There was enough excitement now he was left to himself to keep off the depression he had felt, for now the feeling that he was gliding away into a new life was made more impressive by the movement of the boat, which seemed to him to go faster and faster among dimly seen trees, and always over a glistening path that seemed to be paved with stars. Once, and once only, after leaving the town behind was there any sign of inhabited building, and that was about an hour after they started, when a faint gleam seemed to be burning steadily on the bank, and so near that the light shone down upon the water. But that was soon passed, and the river ran wandering on through a wild and open district, where the only inhabitants were the few shepherds who attended the flocks. On still, and on, among the low meadows, through which the river had cut its way in bygone times. Serpentine hardly expressed its course, for it so often turned and doubled back over the ground it had passed before; but still it, on the whole, flowed rapidly, and by slow degrees mile after mile was placed between the boys and the town. Twice over a curious sensation of drowsiness came upon Dexter, and he found himself hard at work trying to hunt out some of his pets, which seemed to him to have gone into the most extraordinary places. For instance, Sam the toad had worked himself down into the very toe of the stocking he had been obliged to take off when he went into the water, and the more he tried to shake it out, the more tightly it clung with its little hands. Then he woke with a start, and found out that he had dozed off. Pulling himself together he determined not to give way again, but to try and guide the boat. To properly effect this he still sat fast with the boat-hook across his knees, and in an instant he was back at the doctor's house in Coleby, looking on while Helen was busy reading the letter which had been brought down from the bedroom. Dexter could see her perfectly plainly. It seemed a thoroughly realistic proceeding, and she was wiping her eyes as she read, while, at the same moment, the doctor entered the room with the willow pollard from the bottom of the garden; and lifting it up he called him an ungrateful boy, and struck him a severe blow on the forehead which sent him back on to the carpet. But it was not on to the carpet, but back into the bottom of the boat, and certainly it was a willow branch which had done the mischief, though not in the doctor's hand. Dexter got up again, feeling rather sore and confused, for the boat had drifted under a projecting bough, just on a level with the boy's head, but his cap had saved him from much harm. Dexter's first thought was that Bob would jump up and begin to bully him for going to sleep. But Bob was sleeping heavily, and the bump, the fall, and the rocking of the boat only acted as a lullaby to his pleasant dreams. And then it seemed that a tree on the bank--a tall poplar--was very much plainer than he had seen any tree before that night. So was another on the other bank, and directly after came a sound with which he was perfectly familiar at the doctor's--a sound that came beneath his window among the laurustinus bushes. _Chink_--_chink_--_chink_--_chink_. A blackbird--answered by another. And then all at once it seemed to be so cold that it was impossible to help shivering; and to ward off the chilling sensation Dexter began to use the boat-hook as a pole, thrusting it down first on one side of the boat and then on the other as silently as he could, so as not to wake Bob. Sometimes he touched bottom, and was able to give the boat a good impetus, but as often as not he could not reach the river-bed. Still the exercise made his blood circulate, and drove away the dull sense of misery that had been coming on. As he toiled on with the pole, the trees grew plainer and plainer, and a soft pearly dawn seemed to be floating over the river. The birds uttered their calls, and then, all at once, in a loud burst of melody, up rose a lark from one of the dewy meadows on his right. Then further off there was another, and right away high up in the east one tiny speck of dull red. Soon this red began to glow as if gradually getting hotter. Then another and another speck appeared--then scores, fifties, hundreds--and Dexter stood bathed in the rich light which played through the curling river mists, as the whole of the eastern heavens became damasked with flecks of gold. In a comparatively short time these faded, and a warm glow spread around the meadows and wild country on either side, where empurpled hills rose higher and higher, grew more and more glorious, and the river sparkled and danced and ran in smooth curves, formed eddies, and further in advance became one wonderful stretch of dancing golden ripples, so beautiful that Dexter stood on the thwart with the pole balanced in his hand wondering whether everything could be as beautiful at Coleby as he saw it now. Then there was a sudden shock, so sharp that he could not save himself, but took a kind of header, not into the water, but right on to Bob Dimsted, landing with his knees in Bob's softest portion, and the pole right across his neck, just as Bob tried to rise, and uttered a tremendous yell. The wonder was that the end of the boat-hook had not gone through the bottom of the boat. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. MASTER AND SLAVE. "Eee! I say! Whatcher doing of!" roared Bob, beginning to struggle, as Dexter contrived to get his feet once more. "I--I couldn't help it, Bob," he said, in a shame-faced way. "Couldn't help it! Here, don'tcher try to wake me again that way." "I didn't. I--" "Coming jumping on a fellow." "I didn't, Bob. The boat stopped all at once, and I tumbled forward." "Then just you tumble on to some one else next time," growled Bob, sitting up rubbing himself, and then yawning loudly. "Why, hulloa! Whatcher been doing of now?" "I? Nothing Bob." "Yes, you have. You've got the boat aground." "I--I didn't indeed, Bob. It went like that all of itself," stammered Dexter. "Went all of itself! You are a fellow to leave to manage a boat. I just shut my eyes a few minutes and you get up to them games. Here, give us holt!" He snatched at the boat-hook, and began to thrust with all his might: but in vain. "Don't stand staring like that," he cried, becoming all at once in a violent hurry to get on. "Come and help. D'yer want them to come and ketch us!" Dexter went to his help, and by dint of thrusting together the boat was pushed off the shallows, and gliding once more into deep water began to float gently on. There was a few minutes' silence, during which Bob took the sculls and began to pull, looking, with his eyes red and swollen up, anything but a pleasant companion; and in spite of himself Dexter began to think that Bob as a conversational friend across the water was a very different being to Bob as the captain of their little vessel, armed with authority, and ready to tyrannise over his comrade to the fullest extent. Suddenly a thought occurred to Dexter as he ran his eye over the handsome cushions of the well-varnished boat. "Bob!" he said. There was no answer. "Bob, did you take that parcel and drop it in Sir James's letter-box!" "What parcel!" said Bob sourly. "That one I threw over to you last night." "Oh! that one as fell in the water?" "Yes: did you take it?" "Why, didn't you tell me to!" "Yes: but did you?" "Why, of course I did." "That's right. I say, where are we now?" "I d'know. Somewhere down the river." "Hadn't we better begin to fish?" "Fish? What for?" "Because I'm getting so hungry, and want my breakfast." "Yes, you're a nice fellow to wantcher bragfuss. Got no money and no clothes. I s'pose I shall have to keep yer." "No, no, Bob. I'll work, or fish, or do anything." "Yes, so it seems," said Bob sarcastically; "a-sitting there like a gent, and letting me do everything." "Well, let me pull one oar." "No, I can do it, and you shall have some bragfuss presently. I don't want to be took, because you've stole a boat." Dexter turned pale, and then red with indignation, but he did not say anything, only waited till his lord should feel disposed to see about getting a meal. This happened when they were about a couple of miles lower down the stream, which steadily opened out and became more beautiful, till at last it seemed to be fully double the size it was at Coleby. Here they came abreast of a cluster of cottages on the bank, one of which, a long whitewashed stone building, hung out a sign such as showed that it was a place for refreshment. "There," said Bob, "we'll land there--I mean you shall, and go in and buy some bread and cheese." "Bread and cheese," faltered Dexter. "Shan't we get any tea or coffee, and bread and butter?" "No! of course not. If we both get out they'll be asking us questions about the boat." Bob backed the boat close to the shore, stern foremost, and then said-- "Now, look here, don't you make no mistake; but you jump out as soon as I get close in, and go and ask for four pen'orth o' bread and cheese. I'll row out again and wait till you come." Dexter did not like the task, and he could not help thinking of the pleasant breakfast at the doctor's, but recalling the fact that a fortune was not to be made without a struggle, he prepared to land. "But I haven't got any money," he said. "No, you haven't got any money," said Bob sourly, as he tucked one oar under his knee, so as to get his hand free to plunge into his pocket. "There you are," he said, bringing out sixpence. "Look sharp." Dexter took the money, leaped ashore, and walked up to the little public-house, where a red-faced woman waited upon him, and cut the bread and cheese. "Well," she said, looking wonderingly at her customer, "don't you want no beer!" Dexter shook his head, lifted up his change, and hurried out of the place in alarm, lest the woman should ask him any more questions. But she did not attempt to, only came to the door to watch the boy as he went back to the boat, which was backed in so that Dexter could jump aboard; but Bob, whose eyes were looking sharply to right and left in search of danger, just as a sparrow scrutinises everything in dread while it is eating a meal, managed so badly in his eagerness to get away, that, as Dexter leaped in, he gave a tug with the sculls, making the boat jerk so sharply that Dexter's feet began to move faster than his body, and the said body came down in a sitting position that was more sudden than agreeable. "Well, you are a fellow!" cried Bob, grinning. "Any one would think you had never been in a boat before." Dexter gathered together the portions of food which had been scattered in the bottom of the boat, and then sat looking ruefully at his companion. "If any of that there's dirty, you've got to eat it," said Bob sourly. "I shan't." As he spoke he tugged as hard as he could at the sculls, rowing away till they were well round the next bend, and quite out of sight of the woman who stood at the door watching them, and as Bob bent down, and pulled each stroke well home, Dexter sat watching him with a troubled feeling which added to his hunger and discomfort. For once more it began to seem that Bob was not half so pleasant a companion as he had promised to be when he was out fishing, and they sat and chatted on either side of the little river. But he brightened up again as Bob suddenly began to pull harder with his left-hand scull, turning the boat's head in toward the shore where a clump of trees stood upon the bank with their branches overhanging, and almost touching the water. "Look out! Heads!" cried Bob, as the bow of the boat touched the leafage, and they glided on through the pliant twigs; and as the sculls were laid in, Bob rose up in his place, seized a good-sized bough, and holding on by it worked the boat beneath, and in a position which enabled him to throw the chain over, and securely moor the little vessel in what formed quite a leafy arbour with the clear water for floor, and the thwarts of the boat for seats. "There," cried Bob, in a satisfied tone, and with a little of his old manner, "whatcher think o' that? Talk about a place for a bragfuss! Why, it would do to live in." Dexter said it was capital, but somehow just then he began to think about the pleasant room at the doctor's, with the white cloth and china, and the silver coffee-pot, and the odour from the covered dish which contained ham or bacon, or fried soles. "Now then!" cried Bob; "I'm as hungry as you, and we're all safe here, so hand over." Dexter gave him one of the portions of bread and cheese--the better of the two, but Bob turned it over and examined it in a dissatisfied way, scowling at it the while, and casting an occasional glance at that which Dexter had reserved for himself. "What I says is--play fair," he growled. "I don't want no more than half." "But that's the bigger half, Bob." "I dunno so much about that." "And this is the one which seemed to be a little gritty." "Oh, is it?" said Bob surlily; and he began eating in a wolfish fashion, making fierce snaps and bites at his food, as he held the bread in one hand, the cheese in the other, and taking alternate mouthfuls. "Hunger is sweet sauce," and Dexter was not long in following Bob's example, that is as to the eating, but as he sat there munching away at the cakey home-made bread, and the strong cheese, in spite of its being a glorious morning, and the sun showering down in silver pencils through the overhanging boughs--in spite of the novelty of the scene, and the freedom, there did not seem to be so much romance in the affair as had been expected; and try how he would he could not help longing for a good hot cup of coffee. This was not heroic, but the boy felt very miserable. He had been up all night, going through adventures that were, in spite of their tameness, unusually exciting, and he was suffering from a nervous depression which robbed him of appetite as much as did his companion's words. For instead of being merry, confidential, and companionable, Bob scarcely opened his lips now without assuming the overbearing bullying tone he had heard so often from his elders. "Come, get on with your bragfuss," said Bob sharply. "We're going on d'rectly, and you've got to pull." "I can't eat much this morning," said Dexter apologetically; "and I'm thirsty." "Well, why don't yer drink!" said Bob, grinning, and pointing at the river. "Here, I'll show you how." He took off his cap, and placing his chest on the side of the boat, leant over till his lips touched the clear flowing stream. "Hah!" he said at last, rising and passing his hand across his lips; "that's something like water, that is. Better than tea, or drinking water out of a mug." "Doesn't it taste fishy?" Dexter ventured to say. "Fishy! Hark at him!" cried Bob mockingly. "You try." Dexter's mouth felt hot and dry, and laying aside what he had not eaten of his bread and cheese he followed his companion's example, and was drawing in the cool sweet water, when he suddenly felt Bob's hand on the back of his, neck, and before he could struggle up his head was thrust down into the water over and over again. "Don't, don't!" he panted, as he thrust against the side of the boat and got free. "You shouldn't do that." There was a flash of anger in his eyes as he faced Bob, and his fists were clenched, but he did not strike out, he contented himself with rubbing the water from his eyes, and then wiping his face upon his handkerchief. "I shouldn't do that? Why shouldn't I do that?" said Bob threateningly. "Serve yer right, sittin' down to bragfuss without washing yer face. Going to have any more?" Dexter did not answer; but finished drying his face, and then took up his bread and cheese. "Oh, that's it, is it!" said Bob. "Sulky, eh? Don't you come none o' them games with me, young fellow, or it will be the worse for yer." Dexter made no reply, but went on eating, having hard work to swallow each mouthful. Time back all this would not have made so much impression upon him, but the social education he had been receiving in his intercourse with Helen Grayson had considerably altered him, and his breast swelled as he felt the change in his companion, and began to wish more than ever that he had not come. Almost as he thought this he received a curious check. "It won't do for you to be sulky with me," began his tyrant. "You've got to go along o' me now you have come. You couldn't go back after stealing this boat." "Stealing!" cried Dexter, flushing up. "I didn't steal it. We borrowed it together." "Oh, did we?" said Bob mockingly; "I don't know nothing about no _we_. It was you stole it, and persuaded me to come." "I didn't," cried Dexter indignantly. "I only borrowed it, and you helped me do it." "Oh, did I? We shall see about that. But you can't go back never no more, so don't you think that." Bob's guess at his companion's thoughts was pretty shrewd; and as Dexter sat looking at him aghast, with the full extent of his delinquency dawning upon him, Bob began to unloose the chain. "Now then," he said, "finish that there bread and cheese, or else put it in yer pocket. We're going on again, and I want to catch our dinner." The idea of doing something more in accordance with the object of their trip roused Dexter into action, and, after helping to force the boat from among the branches, he willingly took one of the sculls; and in obedience to the frequently given orders, rowed as well as his inexperience would allow, and they glided swiftly down the stream. "What are you going to do first, Bob?" said Dexter, who felt more bright and cheerful now out in the sunshine, with the surface all ripple and glow. "Why, I telled yer just now!" said the boy surlily. "Mind what yer doing, or you'll catch a crab." Dexter did catch one the next moment, thrusting his oar in so deeply that he could hardly withdraw it, and bringing forth quite a little storm of bullying from his companion. "Here, I shall never make nothing o' you," cried Bob. "Give's that there oar." "No, no, let me go on pulling," said Dexter good-humouredly, for his fit of anger had passed off. "I'm not used to it like you are, but I shall soon learn." He tried to emulate Bob's regular rowing, and by degrees managed to help the boat along till toward midday, when, seeing an attractive bend where the river ran deep and dark round by some willows, Bob softly rowed the boat close up to the bank, moored her to the side, and then began to fit together his tackle, a long willow wand being cut and trimmed to do duty for a rod. This done, a very necessary preliminary had to be attended to, namely, the finding of bait. Bob was provided with a little canvas bag, into which he thrust a few green leaves and some scraps of moss, before leaping ashore, and proceeding to kick off patches of the bank in search of worms. Dexter watched him attentively, and then his eyes fell upon a good-sized, greenish-hued caterpillar which had dropped from a willow branch into the boat. This seemed so suitable for a bait that Dexter placed it in one of Bob's tin boxes, and proceeded to search for more; the boughs upon being shaken yielding six or seven. "Whatcher doing of?" grumbled Bob, coming back to the boat, after securing a few worms. "Yah! they're no use for bait." All the same, though, the boy took one of the caterpillars, passed the hook through its rather tough skin, and threw out some distance in front of the boat, and right under the overhanging boughs. There was a quick bob of the float, and then it began to glide along the top of the water, while, as Bob skilfully checked it, there was a quick rushing to and fro, two or three minutes' hard fight, and a half-pound trout was drawn alongside, and hoisted into the boat. "That's the way I doos it," said Bob, whose success suddenly turned him quite amiable. "Fish will take a caterpillar sometimes. Give us another!" The bait was passed along to the fisherman, who threw out, and in five minutes was again successful, drawing in, after a short struggle, a nice little chub. After that, it was as if the disturbance of the water had driven the fish away, and though Bob tried in every direction, using the caterpillar, a worm, a bit of bread paste, and a scrap of cheese, he could not get another bite. Bob tried after that till he was tired, but no fish would bite, so he handed the rod to Dexter, who also fished for some time in vain, when a removal was determined upon; but though they tried place after place there were no more bites, and hunger having asserted itself once more, they landed to prepare their dinner. The place chosen was very solitary, being where the river ran deeply beneath a high limestone cliff, and landing, a few sticks were soon gathered together ready for a fire. "But we have no matches," said Dexter. "You mean you ain't got none," sneered Bob, taking a box out of his pocket. "I'm captain, and captains always thinks of these things. Now then, clean them fish, while I lights this fire. Got a knife, ain't yer!" Dexter had a knife, and he opened it and proceeded to perform the rather disgusting task, while Bob lay down and began blowing at the fire to get it into a blaze. That fish-cleaning was very necessary, but somehow it did not add to the charm of the _alfresco_ preparations; and Dexter could not help thinking once how uncomfortable it would be if it came on to rain and put out the fire. But it did not come on to rain; the wood burned merrily, and after a piece of shaley limestone had been found it was placed in the fire where the embers were most clear, and the fish laid upon it to cook. The success was not great, for when the fish began to feel the heat, and hissed and sputtered, the piece of stone began to send off splinters, with a loud crack, from time to time. Then a pocket-knife, though useful, is not a convenient cooking implement, especially when, for want of lard or butter, the fish began to stick to the stone, and refused to be turned over without leaving their skins behind. "Ain't it fun?" said Bob. Dexter said it was. He did not know why, for at that moment a piece of green wood had sent a jet of hot, steamy smoke in his eyes, which gave him intense pain, and set him rubbing the smarting places in a way which made them worse. "Here, don't make such a fuss over a bit o' smoke," said Bob. "You'll soon get used to that. Mind, that one's tail's burning!" Dexter did mind, but the fish stuck so close to the stone that its tail was burned off before it could be moved, a mishap which drew from Bob the remark-- "Well, you are a chap!" Before the fish were done, more and more wood had to be collected; and as a great deal of this was green, a great smoke arose, and, whenever a puff of wind came, this was far from agreeable. "How small they are getting!" said Dexter, as he watched the browning fish. _Bang_! A great piece of the stone splintered off with a report like that of a gun, but, fortunately, neither of the boys was hurt. "We shall have to buy a frying-pan and a kittle," said Bob, as soon as examination proved that the fish were safe, but stuck all over splinters of stone, which promised ill for the repast. "Can't do everything at once." "I'm getting very hungry again," said Dexter; "and, I say, we haven't got any bread." "Well, what o' that?" "And no salt." "Oh, you'll get salt enough as soon as we go down to the sea. You may think yourself jolly lucky as you've got fish, and some one as knows how to kitch 'em. They're done now. I'll let you have that one. 'Tain't so burnt as this is. There, kitch hold!" A fish hissing hot and burnt on one side is not a pleasant thing to take in a bare hand, so Dexter received his upon his pocket-handkerchief, as it was pushed toward him with a piece of stick; and then, following his companion's example, he began to pick off pieces with the blade of his pocket-knife, and to burn his mouth. "'Lishus, ain't it?" said Bob, making a very unpleasant noise suggestive of pigs. Dexter made no reply, his eyes were watering, and he was in difficulties with a bone. "I said 'lishus, ain't it!" said Bob again, after more pig noise. "Mine isn't very nice," said Dexter. "Not nice? Well, you are a chap to grumble! I give you the best one, because this here one had its tail burnt off, and now you ain't satisfied." "But it tastes bitter, and as if it wants some bread and salt." "Well, we ain't got any, have we? Can't yer wait?" "Yes," said Dexter; "but it's so full of bones." "So are you full of bones. Go on, mate. Why, I'm half done." Dexter did go on, wondering in his own mind whether his companion's fish was as unpleasant and coarse eating as the one he discussed, giving him credit the while for his disinterestedness, he being in happy ignorance of the comparative merits of fresh-water fish when cooked; and therefore he struggled with his miserable, watery, insipid, bony, ill-cooked chub, while Bob picked the fat flakes off the vertebra of his juicy trout. "Wish we'd got some more," said Bob, as he licked his fingers, and then wiped his knife-blade on the leg of his trousers. "I don't," thought Dexter; but he was silent, and busy picking out the thin sharp bones which filled his fish. "Tell you what," said Bob, "we'll--Look out!" He leaped up and dashed to the boat, rapidly unfastening the chain from where it was secured to a stump. Dexter had needed no further telling, for he had caught sight of two men at the same time as Bob; and as it was evident that they were running toward the fire, and as Dexter knew intuitively that he was trespassing, he sprang up, leaving half his chub, and leaped aboard, just as Bob sprang from the bank, seized an oar, and thrust the boat away. It was pretty close, for as the stern of the boat left the shore the foremost man made a dash at it, missed, and nearly fell into the water. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. THE LIFE OF THE FREE. "Here," cried the man, as he recovered himself, "it's of no use. Come back!" Dexter was so influenced by the man's words that he was ready to go back at once. But Bob was made of different stuff, and he began now to work the boat along by paddling softly, fish-tail fashion. "Do you hear!" roared the man, just as the other came trotting up, quite out of breath. "Yah!" cried Bob derisively, as he began to feel safe. "Come back, you young scoundrel!" roared the man fiercely. "Here, Digges, fetch 'em back." He was a big black-whiskered man in a velveteen jacket, evidently a gamekeeper, and he spoke to his companion as if he were a dog. This man hesitated for a moment or two. "Go on! Fetch 'em back," cried the keeper. "But it's so wet." "Wet? Well, do you want me to go? In with you." The underkeeper jumped off the bank at once into the water, which was about up to his knees; but by this time Bob was working the boat along more quickly, and before the underkeeper had waded out many yards Bob had seated himself, put out the second scull, and, helped by the stream, was able to laugh defiance at his would-be captors. "Here, I ain't going any further," grumbled the underkeeper. "It will be deep water directly," and he stopped with the current rippling just about his thigh. "Are you coming back!" cried the keeper, looking round about him and pretending to pick up a big stone. "No! Come arter us if you want us," cried Bob, while Dexter crouched down watching the man's hand, ready to dodge the missile he expected to see launched at them. "If you don't come back I'll--" The man did not finish his speech, but threw himself back as if about to hurl the stone. "Yah!" cried Bob. "Y'ain't got no stone." "No, but I've got a boat up yonder." "Go and fetch it, then," cried Bob derisively. "You young scoundrels! Landing here and destroying our plantations. I'll send the police after you, and have you before the magistrates, you poaching young vagabonds!" "So are you!" cried Bob. "Hush, don't!" whispered Dexter. "Who cares for them?" cried Bob. "We weren't doing no harm." "Here, come out, Digges, and you run across and send the men with a boat that way. I'll go and get ours. We'll soon have 'em!" The man slowly waded out while the keeper trampled on the fire, stamping all over it, to extinguish the last spark, so that it should not spread, and then they separated, going in different directions. "Row, Bob; row hard," cried Dexter, who was in agony. "Well, I am a-rowing, ain't I? We warn't doing no harm." "Let me have an oar." "Ketch hold, then," cried Bob; and as soon as Dexter was seated they began to row as if for their lives, watching in turn the side of the river and the reach they were leaving behind in expectation of seeing the pursuers and the party who were to cut them off. Dexter's horror increased. He pictured himself seized and taken before a magistrate, charged with damaging, burning, and trespassing. The perspiration began to stand out in beads upon each side of his nose, his hair grew wet, and his cap stuck to his forehead as he toiled away at his oar, trying hard to obey the injunctions of his companion to pull steady--to keep time--not to dip his scull so deep, and the like. As for Bob, as he rowed he was constantly uttering derisive and defiant remarks; but all the same his grubby face was rather ashy, and he too grew tremendously hot as he worked away at his scull for quite an hour, during which time they had not seen anything more formidable than half a dozen red oxen standing knee-deep in the water, and swinging their tails to and fro to drive away the tormenting flies. "They hadn't got no boat," said Bob at last. "I know'd it all the time. Pretended to throw a stone at us when there wasn't one near, only the one we tried to cook with, flee him take hold of it and drop it again!" "No." "I did. Burnt his jolly old fingers, and serve him right. We never said nothing to him. He ain't everybody." "But let's get further away." "Well, we're getting further away, stream's taking us down. You are a coward." "You were frightened too." "No, I wasn't. I laughed at him. I'd ha' give him something if he'd touched me." "Then why did you run away?" "'Cause I didn't want no bother. Here, let's find another good place, and catch some more fish." "It won't be safe to stop yet, Bob." "Here, don't you talk to me, I know what I'm about. We'll row round that next bend, and I'll show you a game then." "Hadn't we better go on till we can buy some bread and butter?" said Dexter; and then as he saw some cattle in a field a happy hunger-engendered thought occurred to him,--"And perhaps we can get some milk." "You're allus thinking of eating and drinking," cried Bob. "All right! We'll get some, then." They rowed steadily on, with Dexter rapidly improving in the management of his oar, till a farm-house was sighted near the bank; but it was on the same side as that upon which they had had their adventure. They were afraid to land there, so rowed on for another quarter of a mile before another building was sighted. This proved to be a farm, and they rowed up to a place where the cattle came down to drink, and a plank ran out on to a couple of posts, evidently for convenience in landing from a boat, or for dipping water. "Here, I'll go this time," said Bob, as the boat glided up against the posts. "No games, you know." "What games!" "No going off and leaving a fellow!" "Don't be afraid," said Dexter. "I ain't," said Bob, with a malicious grin. "Why, if a fellow was to serve me such a trick as that I should half-kill him." Bob landed, and as Dexter sat there in the swift-streamed Devon river gazing at the rippling water, and the glorious green pastures and quickly sloping hills, everything seemed to him very beautiful, and he could not help wishing that he had a pleasanter companion and some dinner. Bob soon returned with a wine bottle full of milk and half a loaf, and a great pat of butter of golden yellow, with a wonderful cow printed upon it, the butter being wrapped in a rhubarb leaf, and the bread swung in Bob's dirty neckerchief. "Here y'are!" he cried, as he stepped into the boat and pushed off quickly, as if he felt safer when they were on the move. "We'll go lower down, and then I'll show you such a game." "Let's have some bread and butter first," said Dexter. "No, we won't; not till we get further away. We'll get some fish first and light a fire and cook 'em, and--pull away--I'll show yer." Dexter obeyed; but his curiosity was excited. "Going to catch some more fish!" "You wait and you'll see," was the reply; and in the expectation of a hearty meal matters looked more bright, especially as the day was glorious, and the scenery beautiful all round. No signs of pursuit being seen, Dexter was ready to laugh with his companion now. "I knew all the time," said Bob, with superior wisdom in every intonation of his voice; "I should only have liked to see them come." Dexter said nothing, and the next minute, as they were in a curve of the river, where it flowed dark and deep, they ran the boat in once more beside a meadow edged with pollard willows. "Now then, I'll show you some fishing," cried Bob, as he secured the boat. "No, not now: let's have something to eat first," protested Dexter. "Just you look here, young un, I'm captain," cried Bob. "Do you know what cray-fish are!" Dexter shook his head. "Well, then, I'm just going to show yer." The water was about two feet deep, and ran slowly along by a perpendicular clayey bank on the side where they were, and, deliberately undressing, Bob let himself down into the river, and then began to grope along by the side, stooping from time to time to thrust his hand into some hole. "Here, undo that chain, and let her drift by me," he cried. "I shall fish all along here." Dexter obeyed--it seemed to be his fate to obey; and taking the boat-hook he held on easily enough by tree after tree, for there was scarcely any stream here, watching intently the while, as Bob kept on thrusting his hand into some hole. "Oh!" cried Bob suddenly, as he leaned down as far as he could reach, and then rose slowly. "Got one?" "No: I missed him. It was an eel; I just felt him, and then he dodged back. Such a big un! They're so jolly hard to hold." This was exciting, and now Dexter began for the first time to be glad that he had come. "I've got him now!" cried Bob excitedly; and, rising from a stooping position, in which his shoulder was right underneath, he threw a dingy-looking little fresh-water lobster into the boat. Dexter examined it wonderingly, and was favoured with a nip from its claws for his attention. "Here's another," said Bob, and he threw one much larger into the boat, its horny shell rattling on the bottom. "Are they good to eat?" said Dexter. "Good to eat? Why, they're lovely. You wait a bit. And, I say, you look how I do it; I shall make you always catch these here, so you've got to learn." Dexter paid attention to the process, and felt that there was not much to learn: only to find out a hole--the burrow of the cray-fish,--and then thrust in his hand, and, if the little crustacean were at home, pull it out. The process was soon learned, but the temptation to begin was not great. Bob evidently found the sport exciting, however, for he searched away with more or less success, and very soon there were a dozen cray-fish of various sizes crawling about the bottom of the boat. "There's thousands of them here," cried Bob, as he searched away all along beneath the steep bank, which was full of holes, some being the homes of rats, some those of the cray-fish, and others of eels which he touched twice over--in one case for the slimy fish to back further in, but in the other, for it to make a rush out into the open water, and swim rapidly away. The pursuit of the cray-fish lasted till the row of willows came to an end, and with them the steep bank, the river spreading out again, and becoming stony and shallow. "How many are there?" said Bob, as he climbed out upon the grass, after washing his clayey arm. "Twenty-one," said Dexter. "Ah, just you wait a bit till I'm dressed." Bob said no more, but indulged in a natural towel. That is to say, he had a roll on the warm grass, and then rose and ran to and fro in the glowing sunshine for about five minutes, after which he rapidly slipped on his things, which were handed to him from the boat. "Now," he cried, as he stepped in once more and seized an oar, "I'll show you something." They rowed on for some distance, till a suitable spot was found at the edge of a low, scrubby oak wood which ran up a high bank. The place was extremely solitary. There was plenty of wood, and as soon as the boat had been moored Dexter was set to work collecting the sticks in a heap, close up to where there was a steep bare piece of stony bank, and in a few minutes the dry leaves and grass first collected caught fire, then the twigs, and soon a good glowing fire was burning. The bread and butter and bottle of milk were stood on one side, and close by them there was a peculiar noise made by the unhappy cray-fish which were tied up in Bob's neckerchief, from which the bread had been released. "Going to cook 'em!" he said; "in course I am. Wait a bit and I'll show yer. I say! this is something like a place, ain't it!" Dexter agreed that it was, for it was a sylvan nook which a lover of picnics would have considered perfect, the stream ran swiftly by, a few yards away the stony bank rose up, dotted with patches of brown furze and heath, nearly perpendicularly above their heads, and on either side they were shut in by trees and great mossy stones. The fire burned brightly, and sent up clouds of smoke, which excited dread in Dexter's breast for a few moments, but the fear was forgotten directly in the anticipation of the coming feast, in preparation for which Bob kept on adding to the central flame the burnt-through pieces of dead wood, while Dexter from time to time fetched more from the ample store beneath the trees, and broke them off ready for his chief. "What are you going to do, Bob!" he said at last. "Going to do? You want to know too much." "Well, I'm so hungry." "Well, I'll tell yer. I'm going to roast them cray-fish, that's what I'm going to do." "How are you going to kill them!" "Going to kill 'em? I ain't going to kill 'em." "But you won't roast them alive." "Won't I? Just you wait till there's plenty of hot ashes and you'll see." Dexter had made pets of so many creatures that he shrank from inflicting pain, and he looked on at last with something like horror as Bob untied his kerchief, shot all the cray-fish out on the heathy ground, and then, scraping back the glowing embers with his foot till he had left a bare patch of white ash, he rapidly thrust in the captives, which began to hiss and steam and whistle directly. The whistling noise might easily have been interpreted to mean a cry of pain, but the heat was so great that doubtless death was instantaneous, and there was something in what the boy said in reply to Dexter's protests. "Get out! It don't hurt 'em much." "But you might have killed them first." "How was I to kill 'em first?" snarled Bob, as he sat tailor fashion and poked the cray-fish into warmer places with a piece of burning stick. "Stuck your knife into them." "Well, wouldn't that have hurt 'em just as much?" "Let them die before you cooked them." "That would hurt 'em ever so much more, and took ever so much longer." "Well I shan't like to eat them," said Dexter. "More for me, then. I say! don't they smell good?" Dexter had a whiff just then, and they certainly did smell tempting to a hungry boy; but he made up his mind to partake only of bread and butter, and kept to his determination for quite five minutes after Bob had declared the cookery complete, and picked the tiny lobsters out of the hot ashes with his burnt stick. "They're too hot to touch yet," he said. "Wait a bit and I'll show you. Cut the bread." Dexter obeyed with alacrity, and was soon feasting away on what might very well be called "Boy's Delight," the honest bread and butter which has helped to build up our stalwart race. Bob helped himself to a piece of bread, spread it thickly with butter, and, withdrawing a little way from the fire, hooked a hot cray-fish to his side, calmly picking out the largest; and as soon as he could handle it he treated it as if it were a gigantic shrimp, dividing the shell in the middle by pulling, and holding up the delicate hot tail, which drew easily from its armour-like case. "Only wants a bit of salt," he cried, smacking his lips over the little _bonne bouche_, and then proceeding to pick out the contents of the claws, and as much of the body as he deemed good to eat. Dexter looked on with a feeling of disgust, while Bob laughed at him, and finished four of the cray-fish, throwing the shells over his shoulder towards the river. Then Dexter picked up one, drew off the shell, smelt it, tasted it, and five minutes later he was as busy as Bob, though when they finished the whole cooking he was seven fish behind. "Ain't they 'lishus?" cried Bob. "Yes," said Dexter, unconsciously repeating his companion's first remark, "only want a bit of salt." CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. AN AWKWARD PURSUER. It was wonderful how different the future looked after that picnic dinner by the river-side. The bread and butter were perfect, and the cray-fish as delicious as the choicest prawns. The water that glided past the bank was like crystal; the evening sun lit up the scene with orange and gold; and as the two boys lolled restfully upon the bank listening to the murmur of the running water, the twitter of birds, and the distant lowing of some ox, they thoroughly appreciated everything, even the rest after their tiring night's work and toilsome day. "Are we going on now!" said Dexter at last. "What for?" asked Bob, as he lay upon his back, with his head in a tuft of heath. "I don't know." "What's the good of going on? What's the good o' being in a hurry?" "I'm not in a hurry, only I should like to get to an island where there's plenty of fruit." "Ah, we shan't get to one to-day!" said Bob, yawning. Then there was silence; and Dexter lay back watching the beautiful river, and the brown boat as it swung easily by its chain. Soon a butterfly flitted by--a beautiful orange brown butterfly covered with dark spots, dancing here and there over the sylvan nook, and the next minute Dexter as he lay on his back felt cool, and began wondering while he looked straight up at the stars, fancying he had been called. He felt as if he had never seen so many stars before glittering in the dark purple sky, and he began wondering how it was that one minute he had been looking at that spotted butterfly, and the next at the stars. And then it dawned upon him that he must have been fast asleep for many hours, and if he had felt any doubt about this being the right solution of his position a low gurgling snore on his left told that Bob Dimsted was sleeping still. It was a novel and curious sensation that of waking up in the silence and darkness, with the leaves whispering, and that impression still upon him that he had been called. "It must have been old Dan'l," he had thought at first. "Perhaps he was in search of them," and he listened intently. Or it might have been the men who had come upon them where they had the first fire, and they had seen this one. "No, they couldn't see this one, for it was out." Dexter was about to conclude that it was all imagination, when, from far away in the wood he heard, in the most startling way:--_Hoi hoi_--_hoo hoo_! He started to his feet, and was about to waken Bob, when a great ghostly-looking bird came sweeping along the river, turned in at the nook quite low down, and then seemed to describe a curve, passing just over his head, and uttered a wild and piercing shriek that was appalling. Dexter's blood ran cold, as the cry seemed to thrill all down his spine, and in his horror he made a rush to run away anywhere from the terrible thing which had startled him. But his ill luck made him once more startle Bob from his slumbers, for, as he ran blindly to reach the shelter of the wood, he fell right over the sleeping boy, and went down headlong. "Here! I--oh, please sir, don't sir--don't sir,--it was that other boy, sir, it wasn't me, sir. It was--was--it was--why, what games are you up to now!" "Hush! Bob. Quick! Let's run." "Run!" said Bob excitedly, as the frightened boy clung to him. "I thought they'd come." "Yes, they're calling to one another in the wood," whispered Dexter excitedly; "and there was a horrid something flew up, and shrieked out." "Why, I heerd it, and dreamed it was you." "Come away--come away!" cried Dexter. "There, hark!" _Hoi hoi_--_hoi hoi_! came from not far away. "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Bob. "You are a one!" and putting his hands to his mouth, to Dexter's great astonishment he produced a very good imitation of the cry. "Why, you'll have them hear us and come," he whispered. "Yah! you are a coward! Why, it's an old howl." "Owl! calling like that!" "Yes, to be sure. I've heerd 'em lots o' times when I've been late fishing up the river." "But there was a big thing flew over my head, and it shrieked out." "That was a howl too. Some of 'em shouts, and some of 'em screeches. I say, I hope you've kept a heye on the boat!" "Are you sure that other was an owl too!" said Dexter excitedly. "Course I am. Think I've been out in the woods with father after the fezzans, and stopping out all night, without knowing a howl?" Dexter felt quite warm now. "I never heard one before, and it frightened me." "Yes, you're easily frightened," said Bob contemptuously. "You haven't been to sleep, have you!" "Yes, I have." "Then you oughtn't to have been. If you've been to sleep and let that boat go, I'll never forgive you." Bob had hardly uttered the words when Dexter, who had forgotten all about the boat, ran to the water's edge feeling sure that it was gone. But it was quite safe, and he went back to Bob. "What shall we do now!" he said. "Do?" said Bob, yawning. "You sit and keep watch while I go to sleep for a quarter of an hour. Then you may call me, and I'll take my turn." Bob curled himself up after the fashion of a dog, and went off to sleep directly, while, as Dexter, who felt chilly, began to walk up and down between the water's edge and the steep cliff-like bank, he could not help once more wishing that he was in his comfortable bed at the doctor's. He waited for long over a quarter of an hour, keeping his lonely watch, but Bob slept on and snored. At the end of about an hour and a half he thought it would only be fair to call his companion to take his turn, but he called in vain. Then he tried shaking, but only to elicit growls, and when he persevered Bob hit out so savagely that Dexter was fain to desist. "I'll let him sleep half an hour longer," he said to himself; and he walked to and fro to keep himself warm. It must have been after an hour that he called Bob again. "All right," said that worthy. "But it isn't all right," cried Dexter. "It ain't fair. Come: get up." "All right! I'll get up directly. Call me in about ten minutes." Dexter waited a little while, and called his companion. But in vain. And so it went on, with the sleeper sometimes apologetic, sometimes imploring, till it was broad daylight; and then Bob rose and shook himself. "I say, 'tain't fair," said Dexter ill-humouredly. "Well, why didn't you make me get up!" "I did try, lots of times." "But you didn't half try. You should have got me quite awake." "It's too bad, and I'm as sleepy as can be," grumbled Dexter. "Here! whatcher going to do?" cried Bob. "Lie down and sleep till breakfast-time." "Oh, are yer?" cried Bob. "We've got to go and catch our breakfasts." "What, now?" "To be sure. I'm getting hungry. Come along. I'll find a good place, and it's your turn now to get some cray-fish." "But I'm so cold and sleepy." "Well, that'll warm yer. There, don't look sulky." Bob got into the boat and unfastened the chain, so that there was nothing left for Dexter to do but follow; and they rowed away down the river, which was widening fast. The exercise and the rising sun sent warmth and brighter thoughts into Dexter, so that he was better able to undertake the task of searching the holes for cray-fish when the boat was brought up under a suitable bank, and urged on by Bob he had to undress and take an unwilling bath, and a breakfast-hunt at the same time. He was clumsy, and unaccustomed to the task, but driven by Bob's bullying tones, and helped by the fact that the little crustaceans were pretty plentiful, he managed to get a dozen and a half in about an hour. "There, come out, and dress now," said Bob ill-humouredly. "It's more trouble to tell you than to have got 'em myself. I'd ha' found twice as many in the time." Dexter shivered, and then began to enjoy the warmth of his garments after as good a wipe as he could manage with a pocket-handkerchief. But it was the row afterwards that gave the required warmth--a row which was continued till another farm-house was seen beside a great cider orchard. Here Dexter had to land with sixpence and the empty bottle. "I promised to take that there bottle back," said Bob, with a grin, "but I shan't now. Lookye here. You make 'em give you a good lot of bread and butter for the sixpence, and if they asks you any questions, you say we're two gentlemen out for a holiday." Dexter landed, and went up to the farm-house, through whose open door he could see a warm fire, and inhale a most appetising odour of cooking bacon and hot coffee. A pleasant-faced woman came to the door, and her ways and looks were the first cheery incidents of Dexter's trip. "Sixpennyworth of bread and butter, and some milk?" she said. "Yes, of course." She prepared a liberal exchange for Dexter's coin, and then after filling the bottle put the boy's chivalry to the test. "Why, you look as if you wanted your breakfast," she said. "Have a cup of warm coffee?" Dexter's eyes brightened, and he was about to say _yes_. But he said _no_, for it seemed unfair to live better than his comrade, and just then the vision of Bob Dimsted looking very jealous and ill-humoured rose before him. "I'm in a hurry to get back," he said. The woman nodded, and Dexter hastened back to the water-side. "I was just a-going without yer," was his greeting. "What a while you've been!" "I was as quick as I could be," said Dexter apologetically. "No, you weren't, and don't give me none of your sarce," said Bob. "Kitch holt o' that scull and pull. D'yer hear!" Dexter obeyed, and they rowed on for about a mile before a suitable place was found for landing and lighting a fire, when, after a good deal of ogreish grumbling, consequent upon Bob wanting his breakfast, a similar meal to that of the previous day was eaten, and they started once more on their journey down-stream to the sea, and the golden land which would recompense Dexter, as he told himself, for all this discomfort, the rough brutality of his companion, and the prickings of conscience which he felt whenever Coleby occurred to his mind, and the face of Helen looked reproach into the very depth of his inner consciousness. All that morning, when they again started, he found the river widen and change. Instead of being clear, and the stones visible at the bottom, the banks were further away, so were the hills, and the water was muddy. What was more strange to Dexter was that instead of the stream carrying them along it came to meet them. At last Bob decided that they would moor by the bank, and begin once more to fish. They landed and got some worms, and for a time had very fair sport, taking it in turns to catch some small rounded silvery and creamy transparent fish, something like dace, but what they were even Bob did not know. He was never at a loss, however, and he christened them sea-gudgeon. Dexter was just landing one when a sour-looking man in a shabby old paintless boat came by close to the shore, and looked at them searchingly. But he looked harder at the boat as he went by, turned in, as it seemed, and rowed right into the land. "There must be a little river there," Bob said. "We'll look presently. I say, didn't he stare!" Almost as he spoke the man came out again into the tidal river and rowed away, went up some distance, and they had almost forgotten him when they saw him come slowly along, close inshore. "Bob," whispered Dexter, "he's after us." To which Bob responded with a contemptuous-- "Yah!" "Much sport?" said the man, passing abreast of their boat about half a dozen yards away, and keeping that by dipping his oars from time to time. "Pretty fair," said Bob, taking the rod. "'Bout a dozen." "What fish are they!" said Dexter eagerly, and he held up one. "Smelts," said the man, with a peculiar look. "Come fishing?" "Yes," said Bob sharply. "We've come for a day or two's fishing." "That's right," said the man, with a smile that was a little less pleasant than his scowl. "I'm a fisherman too." "Oh, are yer?" said Bob. "Yes, that's what I am." "He ain't after us," whispered Bob. "It's all right." Dexter did not feel as if it was. He had an innate dislike to the man, who looked furtive and underhanded. "Got a tidy boat there," said the man at last. "Yes, she's a good un to go along," said Bob. "Wouldn't sell her, I s'pose!" said the man. "What should we sell her for?" said Bob, hooking and landing a fish coolly enough. "I d'know. Thought you might want to part with her," said the man. "I wouldn't mind giving fifteen shillings for a boat like that." "Yah!" cried Bob mockingly. "Why, she's worth thirty at least." "Bob!" whispered Dexter excitedly. "You mustn't sell her." "You hold your tongue." "I wouldn't give thirty shillings for her," said the man, coming close now and mooring his own crazy craft by holding on to the gunwale of the gig. "She's too old." "That she ain't," cried Bob. "Why, she's nearly new." "Not she. Only been varnished up, that's all. I'll give you a pound for her." "No," said Bob, to Dexter's great relief. "I'll give you a pound for her, and my old 'un chucked in," said the man. "It's more than she's worth, but I know a man who wants such a boat as that." "You mustn't sell her, Bob," whispered Dexter, who was now in agony. "You hold your row. I know what I'm a-doing of." "Look here," said the man, "I'm going a little farder, and I'll fetch the money, and then if you like to take it we'll trade. It's more'n she's worth, though, and you'd get my little boat in, as is as good a boat as ever swum." He pushed off and rowed away, while, as soon as he was out of sight, Dexter attacked his companion with vigour. "We mustn't sell her, Bob," he said. "Why not? She's our'n now." "No, she isn't; and we've promised to take her back." "Look here!" said Bob, "have you got any money?" "No, but we shan't want any as soon as we get to the island." "Yes, we shall, and a pound would be no end of good." "But we would have to give up our voyage." "No, we shouldn't. We'd make his boat do." "But it's such a shabby one. We mustn't sell the boat, Bob." "Look here! I'm captain, and I shall do as I like." "Then I shall tell the man the boat isn't ours." "If you do I'll knock your eye out. See if I don't," cried Bob fiercely. Dexter felt hot, and his fists clenched involuntarily, but he sat very still. "If I like to sell the boat I shall. We want the money, and the other boat will do." "I say it won't," said Dexter sharply. "Why, hullo!" cried Bob, laughing. "Here's cheek." "I don't care, it would be stealing Sir James's boat, and I say it shan't be done." "Oh, yer do--do yer!" said Bob, in a bullying tone. "You won't be happy till I've given you such a licking as'll make yer teeth ache. Now, just you hold your row, and wait till I gets yer ashore, and you shall have it. I'd give it to yer now, only I should knock yer overboard and drown'd yer, and I don't want to do that the first time." Bob went on fishing, and Dexter sat biting his lip, and feeling as he used to feel when he had had a caning for something he had not done. "I shall do just as I please," said Bob, giving his head a waggle, as if to show his authority. "So you've got to sit still and look on. And if you says anything about where the boat came from, I shall tell the man you took it." "And, if you do, I shall tell him it's a lie," cried Dexter, as fiercely as his companion; and just then he saw the man coming back. CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. BOB ASKS A QUESTION. "Caught any more?" said the man. "Only one," replied Bob. "Ah! I could show you a place where you could pull 'em up like anything. I say, though, the boat ain't worth a pound." "Oh yes, she is," said Bob. "Not a pound and the boat too." "Yes, she is," said Bob, watching Dexter the while out of the corner of one eye. "I wouldn't give a pound for her, only there's a man I know wants just such a boat." Dexter sat up, looking very determined, and ready to speak when he thought that the proper time had come, and Bob kept on watching him. "Look here!" said the man, "as you two's come out fishing, I'll give you fifteen shillings and my boat, and that's more than yours is worth." "No, you won't," said Bob. "Well, sixteen, then. Come, that's a shilling too much." Bob shook his head, hooked, and took a good-sized smelt off his hook. "It's more than I care to give," said the man, who grew warm as Bob seemed cold. "There, I'll go another shilling--seventeen." Bob still shook his head, and Dexter sat ready to burst out into an explosion of anger and threat if his companion sold the boat. "Nineteen, then," said the man. "Nineteen, and my old un as rides the water like a duck. You won't?" "No," said Bob. "Well, then," cried the man, "I'm off." "All right," said Bob coolly. "There, I'll give you the twenty shillings, but you'll have to give me sixpence back. Look here! I've got the money." He showed and rattled the pound's worth of silver he had. "Come on. You get into my boat, and I'll get into yours." "No, yer won't," said Bob. "I won't sell it." "What!" cried the man angrily, and he raised one of his oars from the water. "I won't sell," cried Bob, seizing the oars as he dropped his rod into the boat. "You mean to tell me that you're going to make a fool of me like that!" He began to pull the little tub in which he sat toward the gig, but Bob was too quick for him. The gig glided through the water at double the rate possible to the old craft, and though it was boy against man, the former could easily hold his own. Fortunately they were not moored to the bank or the event might have been different, for the man had raised his oar as if with the intention of striking the boat in which the boys were seated. "Here, you, stop!" he shouted. Bob replied in dumb show with his sculls, dipping them as fast as he could, and looking very pale the while, till they were well out of reach, when he rested for a moment, and yelled back in defiant tones the one word-- "Yah!" "All right, my lads," shouted the fellow. "I know yer. You stole that boat, that's what you've done!" "Row hard, Bob!" whispered Dexter. "It's all very fine to say row hard. You kitch hold and help." Dexter readily seized the second scull, and began to pull with so much energy and effect that they had soon passed the muddy creek up which the man had gone and come, and before long he was out of sight. "It was all your fun, Bob," said Dexter, as they went on. "I thought you meant to sell the boat." "So I did," grumbled Bob; "only you were so disagreeable about it. How are we to get on for money when mine's all done!" "I don't know," said Dexter dolefully. "Can't we work for some?" "Yah! How can we work? I say, though, he knew you'd stolen the boat." "I didn't steal it, and it isn't stolen," said Dexter indignantly. "I wrote and told Sir James that we had only borrowed it, and I sent some money, and I shall send some more if we cannot find a way to get it back." "See if they don't call it stealing," said Bob grimly. "Look there at the her'ns." He nodded toward where a couple of the tall birds were standing heel-deep in the shallow water, intent upon their fishing, and so well accustomed to being preserved that they did not attempt to rise from their places. Dexter was so much interested in the birds that he forgot all about their late adventure. Then they rowed on for about a couple of hours, and their next proceeding was to look out for a suitable spot for their meal. There were no high cliff-like banks now, but here and there, alternating with meadows, patches of woodland came down to the water's edge, and at one of these they stopped, fastened the boat to a tree where it was quite out of sight; and now for the first time they began to see boats passing along. So far the little tub in which the would-be purchaser of their gig was seated was the only one they had seen on the water, but they were approaching a village now, and in low places they had seen high posts a short distance from the water's edge, on which were festooned long nets such as were used for the salmon at the time they run. As soon as they had landed, a fire was lit, the fish cleaned, and the remainder of the bread and butter left from the last meal brought ashore. After which, as an experiment, it was decided to roast the smelts before the blaze, a task they achieved with more or less success. As each fish was deemed sufficiently cooked it was eaten at once--a piece of bread forming the plate--and, with the exception of wanting salt, declared to be delicious. "Ever so much better than chub, Bob," said Dexter, to which for a wonder that young gentleman agreed. Evening soon came on, and as it was considered doubtful whether they could find as satisfactory a place for their night's rest as that where they were, it was decided to stop, and go on at sunrise next morning. "We shall get to the sea to-morrow," said Bob, as he began to yawn. "I'm jolly glad of it, for I'm tired of the river, and I want to catch cod-fish and soles, and something big. Whatcher yawning for?" "I'm tired and sleepy," said Dexter, as he sat upon the roots of an old tree, three or four yards from the water's edge. "Yah! you're always sleepy," said Bob. "But I had to keep watch while you slept." "So you will have to again." "But that isn't fair," said Dexter, in ill-used tones. "It's your turn to watch now." "Well, I'll watch half the night, if you watch the other," said Bob. "That's fair, isn't it?" "Yes." "Then I shall lie down now, and you can call me when it's twelve o'clock." "But I shan't know when it is," protested Dexter. "Well, I ain't particular," said Bob, stretching himself beneath the tree. "Guess what you think's fair half, and I'll get up then." "But will you get up!" said Dexter. "Of course I will, if you call loud enough. There, don't bother, I'm ever so tired with rowing, and I shall go to sleep at once." Bob kept his word as soon as darkness had set in, and Dexter sat listening to the lapping of the water, and wondered whether, if they camped out like this in a foreign land, crocodiles would come out of the rivers and attack them. He sat down, for he soon grew tired of standing and walking about, and listened to Bob's heavy breathing, for the boy had gone off at once. It was very dark under the trees, and he could only see the glint of a star from time to time. It felt cold too, but as he drew himself close together with his chin down upon his knees he soon forgot that, and began thinking about the two owls he had heard the past night. Then he thought about the long-legged herons he had seen fishing in the water; then about their own fishing, and what capital fish the smelts were. From that he began to think about hunting out the cray-fish from the banks, and how one of the little things had nipped his fingers quite sharply. Next he began to wonder what Helen Grayson thought about him, and what the doctor had said, and whether he should ever see them again, and whether he should like Bob any better after a time, when camping out with him, and how long it would be before they reached one of the beautiful hot countries, where you could gather cocoa-nuts off the trees and watch the lovely birds as they flitted round. And then he thought about how long it would be before he might venture to call Bob. And then he began thinking about nothing at all. When he opened his eyes next it was morning, with the sun shining brightly, and the birds singing, and Bob Dimsted had just kicked him in the side. "Here, I say, wake up," he cried. "Why, you've been to sleep." "Have I!" said Dexter sheepishly, as he stared helplessly at his companion. "Have yer? Yes; of course yer have," cried Bob angrily. "Ain't to be trusted for a moment. You're always a-going to sleep. Whatcher been and done with that there boat!" CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. IN DIRE STRAITS. "Done with the boat?" "I haven't done anything with the boat." "Then where is it?" "Fastened up to that old tree." "Oh, is it!" cried Bob derisively. "I should like to see it, then. Come and show me!" Dexter ran to the water's edge, and found the place on the bark where the chain had rubbed the trunk, but there was no sign of the boat. "Now then," cried Bob fiercely, "where is it?" "I don't know," said Dexter dolefully. "Yes, I do," he cried. "The chain must have come undone, and it's floating away." "Oh, is it?" said Bob derisively. "Then you'd better go and find it!" "Go and find it?" "Yes; we can't go to sea in our boots, can we, stoopid?" "But which way shall I go, Bob? Sometimes the tide runs up, and sometimes it runs down." "Yes, and I'll make you run up and down. You're a nice un, you are! I just shet my eyes for a few minutes, and trust you to look after the boat, and when I wake up again you're fass asleep, and the boat gone." "I'm very sorry, Bob, but I was so tired." "Tired! You tired! What on? Here, go and find that boat!" Dexter started off, and ran along the bank in one direction, while Bob went in the other, and at the end of half an hour Dexter came back feeling miserable and despondent as he had never felt before. "Found it, Bob!" he said. For answer his companion threw himself down upon his face, and began beating the ground with his fists, as if it were a drum. "I've looked along there as far as I could go," said Dexter sadly. "What shall we do!" "I wish this here was your stoopid head," snarled Bob, as he hammered away at the bare ground beneath the tree. "I never see such a chap!" "But what shall we do?" said Dexter again. "Do? I dunno, and I don't care. You lost the boat, and you've got to find it." "Let's go on together and walk all along the bank till we find somebody who has seen it." "And when we do find 'em d'yer think they'll be such softs as to give it to us back again!" This was a startling question. "I know 'em," said Bob. "They'll want to know where we got it from, and how we come by it, and all sorts o' nonsense o' that kind. Say we ain't no right to it. I know what they'll say." "But p'r'aps it's floating about?" "P'r'aps you're floating about!" cried Bob, with a snarl. "Boat like that don't go floating about without some one in it, and if it does some one gets hold of it, and says it's his." This was a terrible check to their adventurous voyage, as unexpected as it was sudden, and Dexter looked dolefully up in his companion's face. "I know'd how it would be, and I was a stoopid to bring such a chap as you," continued Bob, who seemed happiest when he was scolding. "You've lost the boat, and we shall have to go back." "Go back!" cried Dexter, with a look of horror, as he saw in imagination the stern countenance of the doctor, his tutor's searching eyes, Helen's look of reproach, and Sir James Danby waiting to ask him what had become of the boat, while Master Edgar seemed full of triumph at his downfall. "Go back?" No he could not go back. He felt as if he would rather jump into the river. "We shall both get a good leathering, and that won't hurt so very much." A good leathering! If it had been only the thrashing, Dexter felt that he would have suffered that; but his stay at the doctor's had brought forth other feelings that had been lying dormant, and now the thrashing seemed to him the slightest part of the punishment that he would have to face. No: he could not go back. "Well, whatcher going to do!" said Bob at last, with provoking coolness. "You lost the boat, and you've got to find it." "I will try, Bob," said Dexter humbly. "But come and help me." "Help yer? Why should I come and help yer? You lost it, I tell yer." Bob jumped up and doubled his fists. "Now then," he said; "get on, d'yer hear? get on--get on!" At every word he struck out at Dexter, giving him heavy blows on the arms--in the chest--anywhere he could reach. Dexter's face became like flame, but he contented himself with trying to avoid the blows. "Look here!" he cried suddenly. "No, it's you've got to look here," cried Bob. "You've got to find that there boat." Dexter had had what he thought was a bright idea, but it was only a spark, and it died out, leaving his spirit dark once more, and he seemed now to be face to face with the greatest trouble of his life. All his cares at the Union, and then at the doctor's, sank into insignificance before this terrible check to their adventure. For without the boat how could they get out of England? They could not borrow another. There was a great blank before him just at this outset of his career, and try how he would to see something beyond he could find nothing: all was blank, hopeless, and full of despair. Had his comrade been true to him, and taken his share of the troubles, it would have been bad enough; but it was gradually dawning upon Dexter that the boy he had half-idolised for his cleverness and general knowledge was a contemptible, ill-humoured bully--a despicable young tyrant, ready to seize every opportunity to oppress. "Are you a-going?" cried Bob, growing more brutal as he found that his victim made no resistance, and giving him a blow on the jaw which sent him staggering against one of the trees. This was too much; and recovering himself Dexter was about to dash at his assailant when he stopped short, for an idea that seemed incontrovertible struck him so sharply that it drove away all thought of the brutal blow he had received. "I know, Bob," he cried. "Know? What d'yer know?" "Where the boat is." "Yer do?" "Yes: that man followed us and took it away." Bob opened his mouth, and half-closed his eyes to stare at his companion, as he balanced this idea in his rather muddy brain. "Don't you see?" cried Dexter excitedly. "Come arter us and stole it!" said Bob slowly. "Yes: he must have watched us, and waited till we were asleep." "Go on with you!" "He did. I feel as sure as sure," cried Dexter. There was a pause during which Bob went on balancing the matter in his mind. "He has taken it up the river, and he thinks we shall be afraid to go after it." "Then he just thinks wrong," said Bob, nodding his head a good deal. "I thought something o' that kind a bit ago, but you made me so wild I forgot it again." "But you see now, Bob." "See? O' course I do. I'll just let him know--a thief. Here, come on, and we'll drop on to him with a policeman, and show him what stealing boats means." "No, no, Bob, we can't go with a policeman. Let's go ourselves, and make him give it up." "But s'pose he won't give it to us!" "We should have to take it," said Dexter excitedly. "Come on, then. He's got my fishing-tackle too, and--why just look at that! Did you put them there?" He darted to where his bundle and rough fishing-rod lay among the trees. "No; he must have thrown them out. Let's make haste. We know where the boat is now!" The boys started at once, and began to tramp back along the side of the river in the hope of finding the place where the boat was moored; but before they had gone far it was to find that floating down with the stream, or even rowing against the tide, was much easier work than forcing their way through patches of alder-bushes, swampy meadows, leaping, and sometimes wading, little inlets and ditches and the like. Their progress was very slow, the sun very hot, and at least a dozen times now they came upon spots which struck both as being the muddy bank off which they had captured the smelts. It was quite afternoon before they were convinced, for their further passage was stopped by the muddy inlet up which they had seen the man row, and not a hundred yards away was the bank under which they had fished. "Sure this is the place?" said Bob, as he crouched among some osiers and looked cautiously round. "Yes," said Dexter; "I'm certain this is the place. I saw him row up here. But--" "But what?" "He'd be quite sure not to take the boat up here." "Why not?" "For fear we should come after it." "Get out! Where would he take it, then?" "He'd hide it somewhere else; perhaps on the other side. Look!" Dexter pointed up the river to where, about a couple of hundred yards further on, a boat could be seen just issuing from a bed of reeds. Bob seized Dexter's arm to force him lower down among the osiers, but it was not necessary, for they were both well concealed; and as they continued there watching it was to see the boat come slowly toward them, and in a few minutes they were satisfied that it was the man they sought, propelling it slowly toward where they stooped. The fellow came along in a furtive manner, looking sharply round from time to time, as if scanning the river to see if he was observed. He came on and on till he reached the creek at whose mouth the boys were hidden, and as he came so close that they felt it impossible that they could remain unseen he suddenly ceased rowing, and stood up to shade his eyes from the sunshine, and gaze sharply down the river for some minutes. Then giving a grunt as of satisfaction he reseated himself, and rowed slowly up the creek, till he disappeared among the osiers and reeds which fringed its muddy banks. As he passed up he disturbed a shoal of large fish which came surging down, making quite a wave in the creek, till they reached the river, where all was still. "The boat's up there, Bob," said Dexter, after a long silence, so as to give the man time to get well out of hearing. "Yes, but how are we to get to it?" "Wade," said Dexter laconically. "'Tain't deep, only muddy." To cross the creek was necessary, and Bob softly let himself down from the bank till his feet were level with the water, then taking hold of a stout osier above his head he bent it down, and then dropped slowly into the water, which came nearly to his waist. "Come on!" he said, and after getting to the end of the osier he used his rod as a guide to try the depth, and with some difficulty, and the water very nearly to his chest, he got over. Dexter did not hesitate, but followed, and began to wade, feeling his feet sink at every step into the sticky mud, and very glad to seize hold of the end of the rod Bob was civil enough to hold to him from the further bank, up which they both crept, dripping like water-rats, and hid among the osiers on the other side. "Come on," whispered Bob, and with the mud and water trickling from them they crept along through quite a thicket of reeds, osiers, and the red-flowered willow-herb, while great purple patches of loosestrife blossomed above their heads. Every step took them further from the enemy, but they kept down in their stooping position, and a few yards from the bank of the river, feeling sure that they could not miss their way; and so it proved, for after what seemed to be an interminable journey they found themselves stopped by just such another creek as that which they had left, save and except that the mouth was completely hidden by a bed of reeds some of which showed where a boat had lately passed through. Whether their boat was there or not they could not tell, but it seemed easy to follow up the creek from the side they were on, and they crept along through the water-growth, which was thicker here than ever, but keeping as close as they could to the side, the scarped bank being about eight feet above the water. The creek was not above twenty feet wide, and, from the undisturbed state of the vegetation which flourished down its banks to where the tide seemed to rise, it seemed as if it was a rare thing for a boat to pass along. They stopped at every few yards to make sure that they were not passing that of which they were in search, looking carefully up and down, while the creek twined so much that they could never see any extent of water at a time. They must have wound in and out for quite three hundred yards, when, all at once, as they stooped there, panting and heated with the exercise, and with the hot sun beating down upon their heads, Dexter, who was in front, stopped short, for on his right the dense growth of reeds suddenly ceased, and on peering out it was to see a broad opening where they had been cut down, while within thirty yards stood a large stack of bundles, and beside it a rough-looking hut, toward which the man they had seen rowing up the other creek was walking. They had come right upon his home, which seemed to be upon a reedy island formed by the two creeks and the river. The boys crouched down, afraid to stir, and watching till they saw the man enter the rough reed-thatched hut, when, moving close to the edge of the bank, they crept on again after a few moments' hesitation, connected with an idea of making a retreat. Their perseverance was rewarded, for not fifty yards further on they looked down upon what seemed to be a quantity of reeds floating at the side of the creek, but one bundle had slipped off, and there, plainly enough, was the gunwale of the boat, the reeds having been laid across it to act as a concealment in case any one should glance carelessly up the creek. "Come on, Bob," whispered Dexter; and he let himself slide down into the muddy water as silently as he could, and began to tumble the bundles of reeds off into the creek. Bob followed his example, and, to their great delight, they found that the sculls and boat-hook were still in their places, while the boat-chain was secured to a stake thrust down into the mud. This was soon unloosed after they had climbed in, dripping, and covering the cushions with mud, but all that was forgotten in the delight of having found the boat. "Now, Bob, you row softly down and I'll use the boat-hook," whispered Dexter, as he stood up in the stern, while Bob sat down, seized the oars, and laid them in the rowlocks, ready to make the first stroke, when high above them on the bank they heard a quick, rushing noise, and directly after, to their horror, there stood, apparently too much dumbfounded to speak, the man they had seen a few minutes before going into the reed hut. CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. SECOND-HAND STEALING. "Here, you, sir! stop!" he roared. "Pull away, Bob!" whispered Dexter, for Bob had paused, half-paralysed by the nearness of the danger. But he obeyed the second command, and tugged at the oars. "D'yer hear!" roared the man, with a furious string of oaths. "Hold hard or I'll--" He did not say what, but made a gesture as if striking with a great force. "Don't speak, Bob: pull hard," whispered Dexter, bending forward in the boat so as to reach the rower, and encourage him to make fresh efforts, while, for his part, he kept his eyes upon the man. "D'yer hear what I say?" he roared again. "What d'yer mean by coming here to steal my boat?" "'Tain't yours," cried Dexter. "What? Didn't I buy it of yer and pay for it?" "You came and stole it while we were asleep, you thief!" cried Dexter again. "Say I stole yer boat and I'll drown'd yer," cried the man, forcing his way through the reeds and osiers so as to keep up with them. "If you don't take that back it'll be the worse for yer. Stop! D'yer hear? Stop!" Bob stopped again, for the man's aspect was alarming, and every moment he seemed as if he was about to leap from the high bank. Fortunately for all parties he did not do this, as if he had reached the edge of the boat he must have capsized it, and if he had leaped into the bottom, he must have gone right through. Bob did not realise all this; but he felt certain that the man would jump, and, with great drops of fear upon his forehead he kept on stopping as the man threatened, and, but for Dexter's urging, the boat would have been given up. "I can hear yer," the man roared, with a fierce oath. "I hear yer telling him to row. Just wait till I get hold of you, my gentleman!" "Row, Bob, row!" panted Dexter, "as soon as we're out in the river we shall be safe." "But he'll be down upon us d'reckly," whispered Bob. "Go on rowing, I tell you, he daren't jump." "You won't stop, then, won't yer?" cried the man. "If yer don't stop I'll drive a hole through the bottom, and sink yer both." "No, he won't," whispered Dexter. "Row, Bob, row! He can't reach us, and he has nothing to throw." Bob groaned, but he went on rowing; and in his dread took the boat so near the further side that he kept striking one scull against the muddy bank, and then, in his efforts to get room to catch water, he thrust the head of the boat toward the bank where the man was stamping with fury, and raging at them to go back. This went on for a hundred yards, and they were still far from the open river, when the man gave a shout at them and ran on, disappearing among the low growth on the bank. "Now, Bob, he has gone," said Dexter excitedly, "pull steadily, and as hard as you can. Mind and don't run her head into the bank, or we shall be caught." Bob looked up at him with a face full of abject fear and misery, but he was in that frame of weak-mindedness which made him ready to obey any one who spoke, and he rowed on pretty quickly. Twice over he nearly went into the opposite bank, with the risk of getting the prow stuck fast in the clayey mud, but a drag at the left scull saved it, and they were getting rapidly on now, when all at once Dexter caught sight of their enemy at a part of the creek where it narrowed and the bank overhung a little. The man had run on to that spot, and had lain down on his chest, so as to be as far over as he could be to preserve his balance, and he was reaching out with his hands, and a malicious look of satisfaction was in his face, as the boat was close upon him before Dexter caught sight of him, Bob of course having his back in the direction they were going. "Look out, Bob," shouted Dexter. "Pull your right! pull your right!" Bob was so startled that he looked up over his shoulder, saw the enemy, and tugged at the wrong oar so hard that he sent the boat right toward the overhanging bank. "I've got yer now, have I, then?" roared the man fiercely; and as the boat drifted towards him he reached down and made a snatch with his hand at Dexter's collar. As a matter of course the boy ducked down, and the man overbalanced himself. For a moment it seemed as if he would come down into the boat, over which he hung, slanting down and clinging with both hands now, and glaring at them with his mouth open and his eyes starting, looking for all the world like some huge gargoyle on the top of a cathedral tower. "Stop!" he roared; and then he literally turned over and came so nearly into the boat that he touched the stern as it passed, and the water he raised in a tremendous splash flew all over the boys. "Now, Bob, pull, pull, pull!" cried Dexter, stamping his foot as he looked back and saw the man rise out of the water to come splashing after them for a few paces; but wading through mud and water was not the way to overtake a retreating boat, and to Dexter's horror he saw the fellow struggle to the side and begin to scramble up the bank. Once he slipped back; but he began to clamber up again, and his head was above the edge when, in obedience to Bob's tugging at the sculls, the boat glided round one of the various curves of the little creek and shut him from their view. "He'll drown'd us. He said he would," whimpered Bob. "Let's leave the boat and run." "No, no!" cried Dexter; "pull hard, and we shall get out into the river, and he can't follow us." "Yes, he can," cried Bob, blubbering now aloud. "He means it, and he'll half-kill us. Let's get out to this side and run." "Pull! I tell you, pull!" cried Dexter furiously; and Bob pulled obediently, sending the boat along fast round the curves and bends, but not so fast but that they heard a furious rustling of the osiers and reeds, and saw the figure of the man above them on the bank. "There, I told you so," whimpered Bob. "Let's get out t'other side." "Row, I tell you!" roared Dexter; and to his surprise the man did not stop, but hurried on toward the mouth of the creek. "There!" cried Bob. "He's gone for his boat, and he'll stop us, and he'll drown'd us both." "He daren't," said Dexter stoutly, though he felt a peculiar sinking all the time. "But he will, he will. It's no use to row." Dexter felt desperate now, for theirs was an awkward position; and to his horror he saw that Bob was ceasing to row, and looking up at the bank on his left. "You go on rowing," cried Dexter fiercely. "I shan't," whimpered Bob; "it's of no use. I shan't row no more." _Thud_! Bob yelled out, more in fear than in pain, for the sound was caused by Dexter swinging the boat-hook round and striking his companion a sharp rap on the side of the head. "Go on rowing," cried Dexter, "and keep in the middle." Bob howled softly; but, like a horse that has just received an admonition from the whip, he bent to his task, and rowed with all his might, blubbering the while. "That's right," cried Dexter, who felt astonished at his hardihood. "We can't be far now. Pull--pull hard. There, I can see the river. Hurray, Bob, we're nearly there!" Bob sobbed and snuffled, and bent down over his oars, rowing as if for life or death. The boat was speeding swiftly through the muddy water, the opening with its deep fringe of reeds was there, and Dexter was making up his mind to try and direct Bob to pull right or left so as to get to the thinnest place that the boat might glide right out, when he saw something. "No, Bob, only a little way," he had said. "Pull with all your might." Then he stopped short and stared aghast. Fortunately Bob was bending down, sobbing, and straining every nerve, as if he expected another blow, otherwise he would have been chilled by Dexter's look of dread, for there, just as if he had dropped from the bank and begun wading, was their enemy, who, as the boat neared, took up his position right in the middle of the creek, where the water was nearly to his chest, and, with the reeds at his back, waited to seize the boat. Dexter stood holding the boat-hook, half-paralysed for a few moments, and then, moved by despair, he stepped over the thwart toward Bob. "No, no," cried the latter, ducking down his head. "I will pull--I will pull." He did pull too, with all his might, and the boat was going swiftly through the water as Dexter stepped right over the left-hand scull, nearly toppled over, but recovered himself, and stood in the bows of the boat, as they were now within twenty yards of the man, who, wet and muddy, stood up out of the creek like some water monster about to seize the occupants of the boat for a meal. "Pull, Bob, hard!" whispered Dexter, in a low, excited voice; and Bob pulled. The boat sped on, and the man uttered a savage yell, when, with a cry of horror, Bob ceased rowing. But the boat had plenty of impetus, and it shot forward so swiftly that, to avoid its impact, the man drew a little on one side as he caught at the gunwale. _Whop_! Dexter struck at him with the light ash pole he held in his hand--struck at their enemy with all his might, and then turned and sat down in the boat, overcome with horror at what he had done, for he saw the man fall backward, and the water close over his head. Then there was a loud hissing, rustling sound as the boat glided through the reeds, which bent to right and left, and rose again as they passed, hiding everything which followed. The next moment the force given to the boat was expended, and it stopped outside the reeds, but only to commence another movement, for the tide bore the bows round, and the light gig began to glide softly along. "I've killed him," thought Dexter; and he turned cold with horror, wondering the while at his temerity and what would follow. "Was that his head?" said Bob, in rather a piteous voice, as he sat there resting upon his oars. "Yes," said Dexter, in a horror-stricken whisper. "I hit him right on the head." "You've been and gone and done it now, then," whimpered Bob. "You've killed him. That's what you've done. Never did see such a chap as you!" "I couldn't help it," said Dexter huskily. "Yes, that's what you always says," cried Bob, in an ill-used tone. "I wish I hadn't come with yer, that I do. I say, ought we to go and pick him up? It don't matter, do it?" "Yes, Bob; we must go back and pull him out," said Dexter, with a shudder. "Row back through the reeds. Quick, or he may be drowned!" "He won't want any drowning after that whack you give him on the head. I don't think I shall go back. Look! look!" Dexter was already looking at the frantic muddy figure upon the bank, up which it had climbed after emerging from the reeds. The man was half-mad with rage and disappointment, and he ran along shaking his fists, dancing about in his fury, and shouting to the boys what he would do. His appearance worked a miraculous effect upon the two boys. Dexter felt quite light-hearted in his relief, and Bob forgot all his sufferings and dread now that he was safely beyond their enemy's reach. Laying the blades of the sculls flat, as the boat drifted swiftly on with the tide, he kept on splashing the water, and shouting derisively-- "Yah! yah! Who cares for you? Yah! Go home and hang yourself up to dry! Yah! Who stole the boat!" Bob's derision seemed to be like oil poured upon a fire. The man grew half-wild with rage. He yelled, spat at them, shook his fists, and danced about in his impotent fury; and the more he raged, the more delighted Bob seemed to be. "Yah! Who stole the boat!" he kept on crying; and then added mocking taunts. "Here! hi!" he shouted, his voice travelling easily over the water, so that the man heard each word. "Here! hi! Have her now? Fifteen shillings. Come on. Yah!" "Quick, Bob, row!" cried Dexter, after several vain efforts to stop his companion's derisive cries. "Eh?" said Bob, suddenly stopping short. "Row, I tell you! Don't you see what he's going to do!" The man had suddenly turned and disappeared. "No," said Bob. "I've scared him away." "You haven't," said Dexter, with his feeling of dread coming back. "He's running across to the other creek to get the boat." Bob bent to his oars directly, and sent the gig rapidly along, and more and more into the swift current. He rowed so as to incline toward the further shore, and soon after they passed the mouth of the other creek. "Get out with yer," said Bob. "He ain't coming. And just you look here, young un; you hit me offull on the head with that there boat-hook, and as soon as ever I gits you ashore I'll make you go down on your knees and cry _chi_--_ike_; you see if I don't, and--" "There he is, Bob," said Dexter excitedly; and looking toward the other creek, there, sure enough, was the man in his wretched little tub of a boat, which he was forcing rapidly through the water, and looking over his shoulder from time to time at the objects of his pursuit. Bob pulled with all his might, growing pallid and muddy of complexion as the gig glided on. Matters had been bad enough before. Now the map would be ten times worse, while, to make things as bad as they could be, it soon became evident that the tide was on the turn, and that, unless they could stem it in the unequal battle of strength, they would be either swept back into their enemy's arms or else right up the river in a different direction to that which they intended to go, and, with the task before them, should they escape, of passing their enemy's lair once again. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. THE CROWNING POINT OF THE TRIP. "Come and lay hold o' one scull," said Bob, whose eyes seemed to be fixed as he stared at the back of their enemy. "Oh, do be quick!" Dexter slipped into his place, took the scull, and began to row. "Getting closer, ain't he?" whispered Bob hoarsely. "Yes. I'm afraid so." "Pull, pull!" Dexter needed no telling, and he tugged away at the oar as the boat glided a little more swiftly on. "Ain't leaving him behind, are we!" growled Bob, whose face now grew convulsed with horror. "No; I'm afraid he's coming nearer." "Oh dear, oh dear!" groaned Bob. "He'll half-kill me, and it's all your fault. Let's stop rowing and give him the boat." "That we won't," cried Dexter, setting his teeth. "I'll row till I die first." "But it'll only make him more savage," growled Bob. "I wish I was safe at home." "You're not half-pulling, Bob." "It's of no use, matey. He's sure to ketch us, and the furder we rows, the more wild he'll be." "I don't care," cried Dexter; "he shan't have it if I can help it. Row!" In his most cowardly moments Bob was obedience itself, and breaking out into a low sobbing whimper, as if it were a song to encourage him in his task, he rowed on with all his might, while only too plainly it could be seen that the man was gaining steadily upon them in spite of the clumsiness of his boat; and consequently it was only a question of time before the boys were overtaken, for the muscles of the man were certain to endure longer than those of Dexter, untrained as they were to such work. "He's closer, ain't he?" whined Bob. "Yes, ever so much," replied Dexter, between his set teeth. "Well, jest you recollect it was you hit him that whack on the head. I didn't do nothing." "Yes, you did," said Dexter sharply. "You said, _yah_! at him, and called him names." "No, I didn't. Don't you be a sneak," whined Bob. "You were ever so much worse than me. Is he coming closer?" "Yes." It was a fact, closer and closer, and the tide ran so strongly now that the boys had hard work to make much progress. They did progress, though, all the same, for their boat was narrow and sharp. Still the current was dead against them, and their want of movement added to their despair. Bad as it was for them, however, it was worse for the man in his heavy little broadly-bowed tub; and so it happened that just as Bob began to row more slowly, and burst into a fit of howling, which made Dexter feel as if he would like to turn and hit him over the head with his oar--a contact of scull against skull--the man suddenly ceased rowing, turned in his seat, and sat shaking his fist at them, showing his teeth in his impotent rage. "There!" cried Bob, who was transformed in an instant. "We've bet him. He can't pull no further. Yah! yah!" Bob changed back to his state of cowardly prostration, and began to tug once more at his oar, for his derisive yell galvanised the man once more into action, and the pursuit was continued. "Oh!" howled Bob. "Who'd ha' thought o' that?" "Who's stupid now?" panted Dexter, as he too rowed with all his might. Bob did nothing but groan, and the pursuit and flight were once more continued, each moment with despair getting a stronger hold of the fugitives. The oar felt hot in Dexter's blistered hands, a peculiar sensation of heaving was in his chest, his eyes began to swim, and he was just about to cease rowing, when he could hardly believe his starting eyes--their enemy had once more given up the pursuit, and was sitting wrenched round, and staring after them. "Don't, pray, don't shout at him this time, Bob," panted Dexter. "I won't if you're afraid," said the young scoundrel. "Keep on rowing, or he'll come after us again." Bob's scull was dipped again directly, and the motion of the boat was kept up sufficiently to counteract the drift of the tide, while the man in the little tub was swept rapidly away. "Let's get over the other side to those trees," said Dexter, as he felt that he could row no further, and the boat's head was directed half-across the stream so as to reach the clump of willows indicated, where, after a much heavier pull than they had anticipated, the gig was made fast, and Bob's first act after laying down his scull was to lean over the side and drink heartily of the muddy water. Dexter would gladly have lain down to rest, but there was a watch to keep up. Bob mocked at the idea. "Yah!" he said; "he won't some any more. I say, are you nearly dry?" "Nearly," said Dexter, "all but my boots and socks." These he took off, and put in the sun to dry, as he sat there with his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his hands, watching till Bob was asleep. He was faint and hungry, and the idea was strong in his mind that the man would steal down upon them when he was not expected. This thought completely drove away all drowsiness, though it did not affect his companion in the slightest degree. The next thing ought to have been to get some food, but there was no likely place within view, and though several boats and a barge or two passed, the fear of being questioned kept the watcher from hailing them, and asking where he could get some bread and milk. The hours glided slowly by, but there was no sign of the shabby little boat. The tide ran up swiftly, and the gig swung easily from its chain; and as Dexter sat there, hungry and lonely, he could not keep his thoughts at times from the doctor's comfortable house. Towards evening the socks and boots were so dry that Dexter replaced them, looking down the while rather ruefully at his mud-stained trousers. He rubbed them and scratched the patches with his nails; but the result was not satisfactory, and once more he sat gazing up the river in expectation of seeing their enemy come round the bend. It was getting late, and the tide had turned, as Dexter knew at once by the way in which the boat had swung round with its bows now pointing up-stream. And now seemed the time when the man might appear once more in pursuit. The thought impressed him so that he leaned over and shook Bob, who sat up and stared wonderingly about. "Hallo!" he said. "What time is it!" "I don't know, but the tide has turned, and that man may come after us again." "Nay, he won't come any more," said Bob confidently. "Let's go and get something to eat." It was a welcome proposal, and the boat being unmoored, Dexter took one of the sculls, and as they rowed slowly down with the tide he kept his eyes busy watching for the coming danger, but it did not appear. Bob went ashore at a place that looked like a ferry, where there was a little public-house, and this time returned with a small loaf, a piece of boiled bacon, and a bottle of cider. "I'd ha' brought the bacon raw, and we'd ha' cooked it over a fire," said Bob, "only there don't seem to be no wood down here, and there's such lots of houses." Dexter did not feel troubled about the way in which the bacon was prepared, but sat in the boat, as it drifted with the tide, and ate his portion ravenously, but did not find the sour cider to his taste. By the time they had finished, it was growing dark, and lights were twinkling here and there on either bank, showing that they were now in a well-populated part. "Where are we to sleep to-night, Bob?" said Dexter at last. "Dunno yet. Can't see no places." "We must be near the sea now, mustn't we?" "Yes, pretty handy to it," said Bob, with the confidence of one in utter ignorance. "We shall be there to-morrow, and then we can catch heaps of cod-fish, and soles, and mack'rel, and find oysters. It'll be all right then." This was encouraging, but somehow Dexter did not feel so much confidence in his companion as of old. But Bob's rest, and the disappearance of danger had brought him back to his former state, and he was constantly making references to the departed enemy. "I should just liked to have ketched him touching me!" he said. "I'd ha' give his shins such a kicking as would soon have made him cry `Leave off.'" Dexter sat and stared through the gloom at the young Gascon. "I'd ha' soon let him know what he'd get if he touched me." "Hi, Bob! look out!" Bob uttered a cry of dread, and nearly jumped overboard as something still and dark suddenly loomed up above him. Then there was a bump, which nearly finished what the boy had felt disposed to do; and then they were gliding along by the side of a vessel anchored in midstream. As they swept past the stern the boat bumped again against something black and round, which proved to be a floating tub. With this they seemed to have become entangled, for there was a rasping grating noise, then the boat's chain began to run rapidly over the bows, the boat swung round, and their further progress was checked. A piece of the chain with the hook had been left hanging over, and when they had touched the tub buoy the hook had caught, and they were anchored some little distance astern the large vessel. "Here's a game!" cried Bob, as soon as he had recovered from his astonishment. "Well, we can't go on in the dark. Let's stop here." "But we've got to find a place to sleep, Bob," protested Dexter. "Yah! you're always wanting to go to sleep. There ain't no place to sleep ashore, so let's sleep in the boat. Why, we shall always have to bunk down there when we get out to sea." "But suppose the boat should sink?" "Yah! suppose it did. We'd swim ashore. Only mind you don't get outer bed in the night and walk into the water. I don't want to go to sleep at all." Dexter did not feel drowsy, but again he could not help thinking of his room with the white hangings, and of how pleasant it would be to take off his clothes once more and lie between sheets. "Some chaps is always thinking about going to bed," said Bob jauntily. "Long as I gets a nap now and then, that's all I want." Dexter did not know it, but Bob Dimsted was a thorough-paced second-hand boy. Every expression of this kind was an old one, such as he had heard from his father, or the rough men who consorted with him, from the bullying down to the most playful remark. But, as aforesaid, Dexter did not realise all this. He had only got as far as the fact that Bob was not half so nice as he used to be, and that, in spite of his boasting and bullying, he was not very brave when put to the test. "There, I shan't go to sleep yet. You can have one o' them cushins forward," said Bob at last; and, suffering now from a sudden feeling of weariness, Dexter took one of the cushions forward, placed it so as to be as comfortable as possible, realising as he did this that, in spite of his words, Bob was doing the same with two cushions to his one, and before he had been lying there long, listening to the rippling of the water, and gazing up at the stars, a hoarse, wheezing noise proclaimed the fact that Bob Dimsted was once more fast asleep. Dexter was weary now in the extreme, the exertion and excitement he had gone through had produced, in connection with the irregular feeding, a state of fatigue that under other circumstances might have resulted in his dropping off at once, but now he could only lie and listen, and keep his eyes dilated and wide open, staring for some danger which seemed as if it must be near. He did not know what the danger might be, unless it was that man with the boat, but something seemed to threaten, and he could not sleep. Then, too, he felt obliged to think about Bob and about their journey. Where they were going, what sort of a place it would be, and whether they would be any more happy when they got to some beautiful island; for he was fain to confess that matters were very miserable now, and that the more he saw of Bob Dimsted the less he liked him. He was in the midst of one of his thoughtful moods, with Bob for his theme, and asking himself what he should do if Bob did begin to thrash him first time they were on shore; and he had just come to the conclusion that he would not let Bob thrash him if he could help it, when Bob suddenly leaped forward and hit him a round-handed sort of blow, right in the back of the neck. This so enraged him that he forgot directly all about companionship, and the sort of tacit brotherly compact into which they had entered, and springing at his assailant he struck him a blow in the chest, which sent him staggering back. For a moment or two Bob seemed to be beaten; then he came at him furiously, the turf was trampled and slippery, and they both went down; then they got up again, and fought away, giving and taking blows, every one of which sounded with a loud slap. That fight seemed as if it would never end, and Dexter felt as if he were getting the worst of it, consequent upon an inherent dislike to inflict pain, and his having passed over again and again opportunities for administering effective blows. At last they joined in what became little more than a wrestle, and Dexter felt the ground giving way beneath his feet; the back of his neck hurt him terribly, and he was about to give in, when the boys began to cheer, Mr Sibery ran up with the cane, and the doctor came looking stern and frowning, while he saw Helen Grayson put her hand to her eyes and turn away. "It's all Bob Dimsted's fault," he cried passionately; and he woke up with the words upon his lips, and a crick in the back of his neck, consequent upon the awkward cramped-up position in which he had lain. It was broad daylight, and for a few moments he was too much confused to understand where he was; but as he realised it all, and cast a quick look round in search of danger, he saw that they were hooked on to the slimy buoy, that twenty yards further there was the hull of an old schooner, against which they had been nearly capsized the previous evening, and four or five hundred yards beyond that, slowly paddling along, was their enemy, looking over his shoulder as if he had seen them, and meant to make sure of them now. Dexter hesitated between wakening Bob and setting the boat adrift. He decided on doing the latter, and hauling on the chain, he drew the boat right up to the buoy, followed the chain with his hands till he could touch the hook, and after some difficulty, his efforts reminding him of the night when he unfastened the chain in the boat-house--he dragged the hook from where it clung to a great rusty link, and all the time his eyes were as much fixed upon the man in the boat as upon the task he had in hand. Clear at last, and drifting away again. That was something towards safety, and he now stepped over the thwarts and shook Bob. Bob was too comfortable to open his eyes, and no matter what his companion did he could get no reply till he bent lower, and, inspired by the coming danger, shouted in his ear-- "I've got yer at last." Bob sprang up as if electrified, saw who spoke, and was about to burst into a torrent of angry abuse, when he followed the direction of Dexter's pointing hand, caught the approaching danger, and seized an oar. It was none too soon, for as Dexter seized the other, the man evidently realised that his prey was about to make another effort to escape, and, bending to his work, he sent the little tub-like boat surging through the water. "Pull, Bob!" said Dexter excitedly, an unnecessary order, for Bob had set his teeth, and, with his face working, was tugging so hard that it needed all Dexter's efforts to keep the boat from being pulled into the right-hand shore. The chase had begun in full earnest, and for the next hour, with very little alteration in their positions, it kept on. Then the pace began to tell on the boys. They had for some time been growing slower in their strokes, and they were not pulled so well home. Bob engaged every now and then in a dismal, despairing howl, usually just at the moment when Dexter thrust his oar too deeply in the water, and had hard work to get it out. But their natural exhaustion was not of such grave consequence as might have been imagined, for their pursuer was growing weary too, and his efforts were greatly wanting in the spirit he displayed at first. On the other hand, though the man came on slowly, he rowed with a steady, stubborn determination, which looked likely to last all the morning, and boded ill for those of whom he was in chase. Bob's face was a study, but Dexter's back was toward him, and he could not study it. The enemy was about two hundred yards behind, and whenever he seemed to flag a little Bob's face brightened; but so sure as the man glanced over his shoulder, and began to pull harder, the aspect of misery, dread, and pitiable helplessness Bob displayed was ludicrous; and at such times he glanced to right and left to see which was the nearest way to the shore. As Bob rowed he softly pushed off his boots. Soon after he made three or four hard tugs at his oar, and then, by a quick movement, drew one arm out of his jacket. Then rowing with one hand he shook himself quite clear of the garment, so as to be unencumbered when he began to swim, for that was his intention as soon as the man overtook them, and his peril became great. "He wants most of all to get the boat," he thought to himself; and soon after he opened his heart to Dexter. "Lookye here!" he said, "he wants to get the boat; and if he can get that he won't come after us. Let's row pretty close to the bank, and get ashore and run." "What! and leave the boat?" cried Dexter. "That I'm sure I will not." Dexter pulled all the harder after hearing this proposal, and Bob uttered a moan. All that morning the flight and pursuit were kept up, till on both sides it became merely a light dipping of the oars, so as to keep the boats' heads straight, the tide carrying them along. It was plain enough now that they were getting toward the mouth of the river, which was now quite broad. Houses were growing plentiful, barges lay at wharves or moored with other boats in the stream, and care had to be exercised to avoid coming in collision with the many obstacles in their way. But they kept on; and though at Bob's piteous suggestion they wound in and out among the many crafts in the hope of shaking off their pursuer, it was all in vain, for he kept doggedly on after them, with the matter-of-fact determination of a weasel after a rabbit, sure of its scent, and certain that before long the object of the pursuit would resign itself to its fate. On still in a dreary mechanical way. Dexter could hardly move his arms, and Bob was, in spite of his long experience, almost as helpless. "It's of no use," the latter said at last; and he ceased rowing. "No, no, Bob; don't give in!" cried Dexter excitedly. "We shall soon tire him out now. Row! Row!" "Can't," said Bob drearily. "I haven't another pull in me." "Then give me the other scull, and let me try." "Yah! you couldn't pull both," cried Bob. "There, I'm going to try a hundred more strokes, and then I shall swim ashore. I ain't going to let him catch me." "Pull, then, a hundred more," cried Dexter excitedly. "Oh, do make it two, Bob! He'll be tired out by then." "I'm a-going to pull a hundred," grumbled Bob, "and then give it up. Now then!" The sculls splashed the water almost together, and for a few strokes the boys pulled vigorously and well; but it was like the last bright flashes of an expiring candle, and long before the half-hundred was reached the dippings of the blades grew slower and slower. Then they became irregular, while, to add to the horror of the position, the man in pursuit seemed to have been keeping a reserve of strength ready for such an emergency, and he now came on rapidly. Bob would have proposed putting ashore once more, but, in avoiding the various crafts, they had now contrived to be about midstream, and in his horror and dread of the coming enemy all thought of scheming seemed to have been driven out of his head. He uttered a despairing yell, and began to tug at his oar once more; Dexter followed his example, and the distance again increased. But only for a few minutes, then they seemed to be growing weaker, their arms became like lead; their eyes grew dim, and the end was very near. "Ah, I've got yer at last, have I?" shouted the man, who was not forty yards away now. "Not yet," muttered Dexter. "Pull, Bob, pull!" Bob responded by going through the motion of rowing, but his scull did not dip into the water, and, meeting with no resistance, he went backwards off the seat, with his heels in the air. Dexter jumped up, seized his companion's scull, and, weary as he was, with all the stubborn English pluck which never knows when it is beaten, he reseated himself, shipped his scull, and bent forward to try, inexperienced as he was, to make another effort for escape. As he seated himself, breathless and panting hard, he gave one glance at his enemy, then another over his shoulder at a boat on ahead, which it would be his duty to avoid, for it seemed to be going right across his track. Then he began to row, putting the little strength he had left into his last strokes. "Ah, it's no good," cried the man triumphantly. "I've got yer at last." "How--ow!" yelled Bob, with a cry like a Newfoundland dog shut out on a cold night. "Drop that there rowing, or I'll--" Dexter heard no more. He was pulling frantically, but making hardly any way. Then he heard voices ahead, glanced round with his sculls raised, and found that he was running right toward the craft just ahead. Another moment and there was a bump. The man had driven his little tub right into the stern of the gig, and as he laid hold he snarled out-- "I knew I should ketch yer." "How--ow!" yelled Bob again, from where he lay on his back in the bottom of the boat, his legs still over the seat. _Bump_! There was another shock, and Dexter started up, saw that he had run into the boat ahead, and that one of the two sailors, who had been rowing, had taken hold of the bows. He saw that at a glance, but he also saw something else which seemed to freeze the blood in his breast. For there, seated in the stern of that large boat into which he had run, were the Doctor, Sir James Danby, old Dan'l, and Peter. CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. BROUGHT TO BOOK. Dexter did not pause a moment. It did not occur to him that he was utterly exhausted, and could hardly move his arms. All he realised was the fact that on the one side was the man whom he had half-killed with the boat-hook, just about to stretch out his hand to seize him, on the other, those whom he dreaded far more, and with one quick movement he stepped on to the thwart of the gig, joined his hands, dived in, and disappeared from sight, in the muddy water. For a few moments there was the silence of utter astonishment, and then the man who had pursued the boys down the river began to take advantage of the general excitement by keeping hold of the side of the gig and beginning to draw it away; but Bob set up such a howl of dismay that it drew Peter's attention, and he too seized the boat from the other end, caught out the chain, and hooked it on to a ring-bolt of the big boat in which he sat. "You drop that there, will yer!" cried the man. "It's my boat." "How--ow!" cried Bob, in the most canine of yelps; and at the same moment the gig was literally jerked from the man's hold, for the two sailors had given a tremendous tug at their oars to force the boat in the direction that Dexter was likely to take after his rise, and the next minute a dozen yards were between the tub and the gig. "For heaven's sake, mind! stop!" cried the doctor excitedly. "Don't row, men, or you may strike him down." The men ceased rowing, and every eye began to search the surface of the water, but no sign of Dexter could be seen. "He could not sink like that," cried Sir James. "He must rise somewhere." But must or no, Dexter did not rise, and the men began to paddle softly down-stream, while the doctor stood up in the boat gazing wildly round. "It was all my doing," he said to himself. "Poor boy! poor boy!" A feeling of horror that was unbearable seemed to be creeping over the occupants of the great boat. Even Dan'l, who looked upon Dexter as his mortal enemy, and who had suggested, in the hope of seeing him sent to prison, that the surest way of capturing the boys was to go down to the mouth of the river--even Dan'l felt the chill of horror as he mentally said-- "'Tain't true. Them as is born to be hanged is sometimes drowned." But just then there was a tremendous splash, and the big boat rocked to and fro, the captive gig danced, and Bob uttered another of his canine yelps, for Peter had suddenly stepped on to the gunwale, dived in after something he had seen touch the surface of the water twenty yards lower down, where it had been rolled over and over by the rapid tide, and a minute later, as he swam vigorously, he shouted--"I've got him!" And he was seen holding the boy's head above the water, as he turned to try and stem the current, and swim back to the boat. The task was not long, for the two sailors sent her down with a few vigorous sweeps of their oars, and Dexter and his rescuer were dragged over the side, as the man with the tub slowly backed away. No time was lost in reaching the shore, and the insensible boy was carried up to the principal hotel in the port, where quite an hour elapsed before the surgeon whose services were sought was able to pause from his arduous task, and announce that his patient would live. For it was a very narrow escape, and the surgeon said, as he shook hands with Dr Grayson-- "Some men would have given it up in despair, sir. But there he is, safe and sound, and, I dare say, boy-like, it will not be very long before he gets into some mischief again." Sir James Danby coughed, and Doctor Grayson frowned as he met his friend's peculiar look. But nothing was said then till the surgeon had been up to see his patient once more, after which he returned, reported that Dexter had sunk into a sound slumber, and then took his leave. "I suppose we shall not go back to Coleby to-night?" said Sir James. "I shall not," said the doctor; "but, my dear Danby, pray don't let me keep you." "Oh! you will not keep me," said Sir James quietly. "I've got to make arrangements about my boat being taken up the river." "Why not let my men row it back!" said the doctor. "Because I did not like to impose on your kindness." "Then they may take it?" "I shall only be too grateful," said Sir James. Nothing more was said till they had ordered and sat down to a snug dinner in the hotel, when Sir James opened the ball. "Now, Grayson," he said, "I happen to be a magistrate." "Yes, of course," said the doctor uneasily. "Well, then, I want to have a few words with you about those two boys." The doctor nodded. "Your groom is with your _protege_, and your old gardener has that other young scoundrel in charge." "In charge?" said the doctor. "Yes; you may call it so. I told him not to lose sight of the young rascal, and I also told your groom to exercise the same supervision over the other." "But surely, my dear Danby, you do not mean to--" "Deal with them as I would with any other offender? Why not?" The doctor had no answer ready, so Sir James went on-- "I valued that boat very highly, and certainly I've got it back--with the exception of the stains upon the cushions--very little the worse. But this was a serious theft, almost as bad as horse-stealing, and I shall have to make an example of them." "But one of them has been terribly punished," said the doctor eagerly. "Pooh! not half enough, sir. Come, Grayson, of course this has completely cured you of your mad folly!" "My mad folly!" cried the doctor excitedly. "May I ask you what you mean?" "Now, my dear Grayson, pray don't be angry. I only say, as an old friend and neighbour, surely you must be ready to agree that your wild idea of making a gentleman out of this boy--one of the dregs of our civilisation--is an impossibility?" "Nothing of the sort, sir," cried the doctor angrily. "I never felt more certain of the correctness of my ideas." "Tut--tut--tut--tut!" ejaculated Sir James. "Really, Grayson, this is too much." "Too much, sir? Nothing of the kind. A boyish escapade. Nothing more." "Well!" said Sir James drily, "when such cases as this are brought before us at the bench, we are in the habit of calling them thefts." "Theft: pooh! No, no!" cried the doctor stubbornly. "A boyish prank. He would have sent the boat back." "Would he?" said Sir James drily. "I suppose you think his companion would have done the same?" "I have nothing to do with the other boy," said the doctor shortly. "It was a most unfortunate thing that Dexter should have made his acquaintance." "Birds of a feather flock together, my dear Grayson," said Sir James. "Nothing of the kind, sir. It was my fault," cried the doctor. "I neglected to let the boy have suitable companions of his own age; and the consequence was that he listened to this young scoundrel, and allowed himself to be led away." "Do I understand aright, from your defence of the boy, that you mean to forgive him and take him back!" "Certainly!" said the doctor. "Grayson, you amaze me! But if I prove to you that you are utterly wrong, and that the young dog is an arrant thief, what then?" "Then," said the doctor, "I'm afraid I should have to--No, I wouldn't. I would try and reform him." "Well," said Sir James, "if you choose to be so ultra lenient, Grayson, you must; but I feel that I have a duty to do, and as soon as we have had our wine I propose that we have the prisoners here, and listen to what they have to say." "Prisoners?" "Yes. What else would you call them?" Before the doctor could stand up afresh in Dexter's defence a waiter entered the room. "Beg pardon, sir, but your groom says would you be good enough to step upstairs?" "Bless my heart!" cried the doctor. "Is it a relapse?" He hurried up to the room where Dexter had been sleeping, to find that, instead of being in bed, he was fully dressed, and lying on the floor, with Peter the groom holding him down. "Why, what's the matter!" cried the doctor, as he entered the room hastily, followed by Sir James. "Matter, sir?" said Peter, "matter enough. If I hadn't held him down like this here I believe he'd 'a' been out o' that window." "Why, Dexter!" cried the doctor. The boy struggled feebly, and then, seeing the futility of his efforts, he lay still and closed his eyes. "Went off fast asleep, sir, as any one would ha' thought," said Peter. "And seeing him like that I thought I'd just go down and fetch myself a cup o' tea; but no sooner was I out o' the room than he must have slipped out and dressed hisself--shamming, you know--and if I hadn't come back in the nick o' time he'd have been gone." The doctor frowned, and Sir James looked satisfied, as he gave him a nod. "Going to run away, eh!" "Yes, Sir James," said the groom; "and it was as much as I could do to hold him." "Get up, Peter," said the doctor. The groom rose, and Dexter leapt up like a bit of spring, and darted toward the door. But Sir James was close to it, and catching the boy by the arm he held him. "Take hold, of him, my man," he said; "and don't let him go." Peter obeyed, getting a tight grip of Dexter's wrist. "Now, you give in," he whispered. "It's no good, for I shan't let go." "Bring him down," said Sir James sternly. Peter shook his head warningly at Dexter, and then, as Sir James and the doctor went down to their room, Peter followed with his prisoner, who looked over the balustrade as if measuring the distance and his chance if he made a jump. "Now," said Sir James, as the boy was led into the room; "stand there, sir, and I warn you that if you attempt to run away I shall have in the police, and be more stern. You, my man, go and tell the gardener to bring up the other boy." Peter left the room after giving Dexter a glance, and the doctor began to walk up and down angrily. He wanted to take the business into his own hands, but Sir James was a magistrate, and it seemed as if he had a right to take the lead. There was a painful silence, during which Dexter stood hanging his head, and feeling as if he wished he had been drowned, instead of being brought round to undergo such a painful ordeal as this. Ten minutes must have elapsed before a scuffling was heard upon the stairs, and Bob Dimsted's voice whimpering-- "You let me alone, will yer? I never done nothing to you. Pair o' great cowards, y'are. Don't knock me about, or it'll be the worse for yer. Hit one o' your own size. I never said nothing to you." This was continued and repeated right into the room, Dan'l looking very severe and earnest, and holding on by the boy's collar, half-dragging him, while Peter pushed behind, and then closed the door, and stood before it like a sentry. "You have not been striking the boy, I hope!" said the doctor. "Strike him, sir? no, not I," said Dan'l; "but I should like to. Been a-biting and kicking like a neel to get away." Sir James had never seen an eel kick, but he accepted the simile, and turning to Bob, who was whimpering and howling--"knocking me about"--"never said nothing to him"--"if my father was here," etc. "Silence!" roared Sir James, in his severest tones; and Bob gave quite a start and stared. "Now, sir," said Sir James. "Here, both of you; stand together, and mind this: it will be better for both of you if you are frank and straightforward." "I want to go home," whimpered Bob. "Y'ain't no business to stop me here." "Silence!" roared Sir James; and Bob jumped. Dexter did not move, but stood with his eyes fixed to the floor. "Now!" said Sir James, gazing fiercely at Bob; "you know, I suppose, why you are here." "No! I don't," whimpered Bob. "And y'ain't no business to stop me. I want to go home." "Silence, sir!" roared Sir James again. "You do not know? Well, then, I will tell you. You are before me, sir, charged with stealing a boat." "Oh!" ejaculated Bob, in a tone of wondering innocence. "And I perhaps ought to explain," said Sir James, looking hard at Dr Grayson, and speaking apologetically, "that in an ordinary way, as the boat was my property, I should feel called upon to leave the bench; but as this is only a preliminary examination, I shall carry it on myself. Now, sir," he continued, fixing Bob's shifty eyes, "what have you to say, sir, for stealing my boat?" "Stealing your boat!" cried Bob volubly; "me steal your boat, sir? I wouldn't do such a thing." "Why, you lying young dog!" "No, sir, I ain't, sir," protested Bob, as Dexter slowly raised his head and gazed at him. "It wasn't me, sir. It was him, sir. That boy, sir. I begged him not to, sir; but he would do it." "Oh, it was Dexter Grayson, was it?" said Sir James, glancing at the doctor, who was gnawing his lip and beating the carpet with his toe. "Yes, sir; it was him, sir. I was t'other side o' the river one day, sir," rattled off Bob, "and he shouts to me, sir, `Hi!' he says, just like that, sir, and when I went to him, sir, he says, `Let's steal the old cock's boat and go down the river for a game.'" "Well?" said Sir James. "Well, sir, I wouldn't, sir," continued Bob glibly. "I said it would be like stealing the boat; and I wouldn't do that." "Oh!" said Sir James. "Is this true, Dexter!" said the doctor sternly. "No, sir. He wanted me to take the boat." "Oh, my!" cried Bob. "Hark at that now! Why, I wouldn't ha' done such a thing." "No, you look a nice innocent boy," said Sir James. "Yes, sir; and he was allus at me about that boat, and said he wanted to go to foreign abroad, he did, and the best way, he said, was to steal that there boat and go." "Oh," said Sir James. "And what more have you to say, sir?" "It isn't true, sir," said Dexter, making an effort to speak, and he gazed angrily at his companion. "Bob here wanted me to go with him, and he persuaded me to take the boat." "Oh! only hark at him!" cried Bob, looking from one to the other. "And I thought it would be like stealing the boat to take it like that." "Well, rather like it," said Sir James sarcastically. "And so I sent that letter and that money to pay for it, sir, and I meant to send the rest if it wasn't quite enough." "Ah!" ejaculated the doctor eagerly. "What letter? What money?" said Sir James. "That money I sent by Bob Dimsted, sir, to put in your letter-box." "I never received any money," cried Sir James. "You sent some money!" "Yes, sir; before we took the boat, sir." "Ah!" ejaculated the doctor again. "And you sent it by this boy?" "Yes, sir." "Then where is the money?" cried Sir James, turning upon Bob. "I dunno, sir. I never had no money." "You did, Bob, in a letter I gave you," cried Dexter excitedly. "Oh!" ejaculated Bob, with an astonished look. "Well, if ever!" "This is getting interesting," said Sir James. "Now, sir, where's that money?" "He never give me none, sir," cried Bob indignantly. "I never see no letter." "You did. The one I threw across the river to you!" said Dexter. "Oh, what a cracker!" cried Bob. "I never had no letter, gen'lemen, and I never see no money. Why don't you tell the truth, and the kind gentlemen won't be so hard on you?" "I am telling the truth," cried Dexter, "It was you asked me to take the boat." "Only hark at him!" cried Bob. "Why yer'd better say yer didn't take all yer clothes off and swim acrost and get it." "I did," said Dexter; "but you made me. You said you'd go." "Oh, you can tell 'em!" cried Bob. "And I did give you the money to take." "Oh, well, I've done," said Bob. "I never did hear a chap tell lies like you can!" "I think that will do," said Sir James, with a side glance at the doctor, who sat with his brows knit, listening. "Now, you will both go back to the room where you are to sleep, and I warn you that if you attempt to escape, so surely will you be taken by the police, and then this matter will assume a far more serious aspect. You, my men, will have charge of these two boys till the morning. They are not to speak to each other, and I look to you to take them safely back to Coleby by the early train. That will do." Dexter darted one glance at the doctor, but his face was averted. "Please, sir," he began. "Silence!" cried Sir James. "I think Dr Grayson understands your character now, and I must say I never heard a more cowardly attempt to fasten a fault upon another. No: not a word. Go!" Bob Dimsted was already outside with Dan'l's knuckles in the back of his neck. Peter was more gentle with his prisoner as he led him away. "You've been and done it now, young fellow," he said. "I would ha' told the truth." Dexter turned to him with bursting heart, but he could not speak, and as soon as he was in his bedroom he threw himself before a chair, and buried his face in his hands, so as to try and shut out the reproachful face of Helen, which he seemed to see. "I wish I had not been saved," he cried at last passionately, and then he glanced at the window, and listened, while downstairs Sir James was saying quietly-- "There, Grayson, I think you understand the boy's character now." "No," said the doctor shortly. "I don't think I do." "What!" "And I'd give a hundred pounds," said the doctor, "to know the truth." "Really," said Sir James, laughing. "You are the most obstinate man I ever knew." "Yes," said the doctor. "I suppose I am." CHAPTER FORTY. "HUZZA! WE'RE HOMEWARD BOUND!" The first wet day there had been for a month. It seemed as if Mother Nature had been saving up all her rain in a great cistern, and was then letting it out at once. No glorious sapphire seas and brilliant skies; no golden sunshine pouring down on tawny sands, over which waved the long pinnate leaves of the cocoa-nuts palms; no brilliant-coloured fish that seemed to be waiting to be caught; no glorious life of freedom, with their boat to enable them to glide from isle to isle, where it was always summer; but rain, rain, rain, always rain, pouring down from a lead-black sky. A dreary prospect, but not half so dreary as Dexter's spirits, as he thought of what was to come. If ever boy felt miserable, he did that next morning, for they were all going back to Coleby. The romantic adventure was at an end, and he was like a prisoner. Why had he left the doctor's? What had he gained by it but misery and wretchedness. Bob had turned out one of the most contemptible cowards that ever stepped. He had proved to be a miserable tyrannical bully when they were alone; and in the face of danger a wretched cur; while now that they were caught he was ready to tell any lie to save his own skin. What would Helen say to him, and think of him? What would Mr Hippetts say--and Mr Sibery? He would be sent back to the Union of course; and one moment he found himself wishing that he had never left the schools to be confronted with such misery as he felt now. They were on their way back by rail. The doctor, who had not even looked at him, was in a first-class carriage with Sir James, and the plans being altered, and the boat sent up to Coleby by a trustworthy man, Bob and Dexter were returning in a second-class carriage, with their custodians, Peter and old Dan'l. They were the sole occupants of the carriage, and soon after starting Bob turned to Dexter-- "I say!" he exclaimed. Dexter started, and looked at him indignantly--so angrily, in fact, that Bob grinned. "Yer needn't look like that," he said. "If I forgives yer, and begins to talk to yer, what more d'yer want!" Dexter turned away, and looked out of the window. "There's a sulky one!" said Bob, with a coarse laugh; and as he spoke it was as if he were appealing to old Dan'l and Peter in turn. "He would do it. I tried to hold him back, but he would do it, and he made me come, and now he turns on me like that." "You're a nice un," said Peter, staring hard at the boy. "So are you!" said the young scamp insolently. "You mind yer own business, and look arter him. He's got to look arter me--ain't yer, sir!" "Yes," said old Dan'l sourly; "and I'm going to stuff a hankychy or something else into your mouth if you don't hold your tongue." "Oh, are yer!" said Bob boldly. "I should just like to see yer do it." "Then you shall if you don't keep quiet." Bob was silent for a few minutes, and then amused himself by making a derisive grimace at Dan'l as soon as he was looking another way. "It was all his fault," he said sullenly. "He would take the boat." "Ah, there was about six o' one of you, and half a dozen of the other," said Peter, laughing. "You'll get it, young fellow. Six weeks hard labour, and then four years in a reformatory. That's about your dose." "Is it?" said Bob derisively. "That's what he'll get, and serve him right--a sneak." Dexter's cheeks, which were very pale, began to show spots of red, but he stared out of the window. "I shouldn't have gone, only he was allus at me," continued Bob. "Allus. Some chaps ain't never satisfied." Old Dan'l filled his pipe, and began to smoke. "You'll get enough to satisfy you," said Peter. "I say, Dan'l, you wouldn't mind, would you?" "Mind what?" grunted Dan'l. "Giving me one of the noo brooms. One out o' the last dozen--the long switchy ones. I could just cut the band, and make about three reg'lar teasers out of one broom." "What, birch-rods?" said Dan'l, with a sort of cast-iron knocker smile. "Yes," said Peter. "Mind? no, my lad, you may have two of 'em, and I should like to have the laying of it on." "Yah! would yer!" said Bob defiantly. "Dessay you would. I should like to see yer." "But you wouldn't like to feel it," said Peter. "My eye, you will open that pretty mouth of yours! Pig-ringing'll be nothing to it." "Won't be me," said Bob. "It'll be him, and serve him right." Dexter's cheeks grew redder as he pictured the disgrace of a flogging scene. "Not it," continued Peter. "You'll get all that. Sir James'll give it you as sure as a gun. Won't he, Dan'l!" "Ah!" ejaculated the old gardener. "I heerd him say over and over again that ha wouldn't lose that boat for a hundred pounds. You'll get it, my gentleman!" "No, I shan't, 'cause I didn't do it. He'll give it to him, and sarve him right, leading me on to go with him, and boasting and bouncing about, and then pretending he wanted to buy the boat, and saying he sent me with the money." "So I did," cried Dexter, turning sharply round; "and you stole it, and then told lies." "That I didn't," said Bob. "I never see no money. 'Tain't likely. It's all a tale you made up, and--oh!" Bob burst into a regular bellow of pain, for, as he had been speaking, he had edged along the seat a little from his corner of the carriage, to bring himself nearer Dexter, who occupied the opposite diagonal corner. As Bob spoke he nodded his head, and thrust his face forward at Dexter so temptingly, that, quick as lightning, the latter flung out his right, and gave Bob a back-handed blow in the cheek. "Oh! _how_!" cried Bob; and then menacingly, "Here, just you do that again!" Dexter's blood was up. There was a long course of bullying to avenge, and he did that again, a good deal harder, with the result that the yell Bob emitted rose well above the rattle of the carriage. "Well done, young un," cried Peter delightedly. "That's right. Give it him again. Here, Dan'l, let 'em have it out, and we'll see fair!" "No, no, no!" growled the old gardener, stretching out one hand, and catching Bob by the collar, so as to drag him back into his corner--a job he had not the slightest difficulty in doing. "None o' that. They'd be blacking one another's eyes, and there'd be a row." "Never mind," cried Peter, with all the love of excitement of his class. "No, no," said Dan'l. "No fighting;" and he gave Dexter a grim look of satisfaction, which had more kindness in it than any the boy had yet seen. "Here, you let me get at him!" cried Bob. "No, no, you sit still," said Dan'l, holding him back with one hand. The task was very easy. A baby could have held Bob, in spite of the furious show of struggling that he made, while, on the other hand, Peter sat grinning, and was compelled to pass one arm round Dexter, and clasp his own wrist, so as to thoroughly imprison him, and keep him back. "Better let 'em have it out, Dan'l," he cried. "My one's ready." "Let me go. Let me get at him," shrieked Bob. "Yes, let him go, Dan'l," cried Peter. But Dan'l shook his head, and as Bob kept on struggling and uttering threats, the old man turned upon him fiercely-- "Hold your tongue, will you?" he roared. "You so much as say another word, and I'll make you fight it put." Bob's jaw dropped, and he stared in astonishment at the fierce face before him, reading therein so much determination to carry the threat into effect that he subsided sulkily in his corner, and turned away his face, for every time he glanced at the other end of the carriage it was to see Peter grinning at him. "Ah!" said Peter at last; "it's a good job for us as Dan'l held you back. You made me shiver." Bob scowled. "He's thoroughbred game, he is, Dan'l." Dan'l chuckled. "He'd be a terrible chap when his monkey was up. Oh, I am glad. He'd ha' been sure to win." "Let him alone," growled Dan'l, with a low chuckling noise that sounded something like the slow turning of a weak watchman's rattle; and then muttering something about white-livered he subsided into his corner, and solaced himself with his pipe. Meanwhile Peter sat opposite, talking in a low tone to Dexter, and began to ask him questions about his adventures, listening with the greatest eagerness to the short answers he received, till Dexter looked up at him piteously. "Don't talk to me, please, Peter," he said. "I want to sit and think." "And so you shall, my lad," said the groom; and he too took out a pipe, and smoked till they reached Coleby. Dexter shivered as he stepped out upon the platform. It seemed to him that the stationmaster and porters were staring at him as the boy who ran away, and he was looking round for a way of retreat, so as to escape what was to come, when Sir James and the doctor came up to them. "You can let that boy go," said the doctor to Dan'l. "Let him go, sir?" cried the gardener, looking at both the gentlemen in turn. Sir James nodded. Bob, whose eyes had been rat-like in their eager peering from face to face, whisked himself free, darted to the end of the platform, and uttered a loud yell before he disappeared. "Look here, Dexter," said the doctor coldly; "I have been talking to Sir James on our way here. Now sir, will you give me your word not to try and escape?" Dexter looked at him for a moment or two. "Yes, sir," he said at last, with a sigh. "Then come with me." "Come with you, sir?" Dexter looked at his stained and muddy clothes. "Yes," said the doctor; "come with me." Sir James shrugged his shoulders slightly, and gave the doctor a meaning look. "Good-bye, Grayson," he said, and he shook hands. "As for you, sir," he added sternly, as he turned to Dexter, "you and your companion have had a very narrow escape. If it had not been for your good friend here, matters would have gone ill with you--worse perhaps than you think." Dexter hung his head, and at a sign from the doctor went to his side, and they walked out of the station with Dan'l and Peter behind. The doctor stopped. "You have given me your word, sir, that you will come quietly up to the house," he said coldly. "Yes, sir," said Dexter sadly. The doctor, signed to Dan'l and Peter to come up to them. "You can go on first," he said; and the men passed on. "I don't want you to feel as if you were a prisoner, Dexter," said the doctor gravely. "It is one of the grandest things in a gentleman--his word--which means his word of honour." Dexter had nothing he could say; and with a strange swelling at the throat he walked on beside the doctor, gazing at the pavement a couple of yards in front of him, and suffering as a sensitive boy would suffer as he felt how degraded and dirty he looked, and how many people in the town must know of his running away, and be gazing at him, now that he was brought back by the doctor, who looked upon him as a thief. Every house and shop they passed was familiar. There were several of the tradespeople too standing at their doors ready to salute the doctor, and Dexter's cheeks burned with shame. His punishment seemed more than he could bear. In another ten minutes they would be at the house, where Maria would open the door, and give him a peculiar contemptuous look--the old look largely intensified; and but for the doctor's words, and the promise given, the boy felt that he must have run away down the first side-turning they passed. Then, as Maria faded from his mental vision, pleasant old Mrs Millett appeared, with her hands raised, and quite a storm of reproaches ready to be administered to him, followed, when she had finished and forgiven him, as he knew she would forgive him, by a dose of physic, deemed by her to be absolutely necessary after his escapade. The house at last, and everything just as Dexter had anticipated. Maria opened the door, and then wrinkled up her forehead and screwed up her lips in a supercilious smile. "Your mistress in!" said the doctor. "Yes, sir, in the drawing-room, sir." "Hah!" ejaculated the doctor. "Found him, sir? _And_ brought him back!" cried a familiar voice; and Mrs Millett hurried into the hall. "O you bold, bad boy!" she cried. "How dare you? And you never took your medicine that night. Oh, for shame! for shame!" "Hush, hush, Mrs Millett!" said the doctor sternly. "That will do." He signed to the old lady, and she left the hall, but turned to shake her head at the returned culprit as she went, while Maria gave him a meaning smile as soon as the doctor's back was turned, and then passed through the baize door. The doctor stood there silent and frowning for a few minutes, with his eyes fixed upon the floor, while Dexter awaited his sentence, painfully conscious, and longing for the doctor to speak and put him out of his misery. "Now, sir," he said at last; "you had better go in and speak to Miss Grayson. She is waiting, I suppose, to see you in that room. I sent word we were coming." "No, no," said Dexter quickly. "Don't send me in there, sir. You'd better send me back to the school, sir. I'm no good, and shall only get into trouble again; please send me back. I shouldn't like to see Miss Grayson now." "Why not!" said the doctor sternly. "Because you don't believe me, sir, and she won't, and--and--you had better send me back." "I am waiting to see you here, Dexter," said Helen gravely, and the boy started away with a cry, for the drawing-room door had opened silently, and Helen was standing on the mat. CHAPTER FORTY ONE. HOW THE DOCTOR PUNISHED. Dexter's interview with Helen was long and painful, for at first it seemed as if she had lost all confidence and hope in the boy, till, realising all this, he cried in a wild outburst of grief--"I know how wrong it all was, but nearly everybody here seemed to dislike me, and I did tell the truth about the boat, but no one believes. Do--do ask him to send me away." There was a long silence here, as, for the first time, in spite of a hard fight, Dexter could not keep back his tears. The silence was broken by Helen, who took his hand, and said gently-- "I believe you, Dexter. I am sure you would not tell a lie." In an instant his arms were round her neck, and he was clinging to her unable to speak, but his eyes, his convulsed face, telling the doctor's daughter that she was right. That evening, feeling very strange and terribly depressed, Dexter had gone to his old bedroom, thinking it must be for the last time, and wondering how Mr Sibery would treat him. Helen had sat talking to him for quite a couple of hours, winning from him a complete account of his adventures, and in return relating to him how concerned every one had been on the discovery of his evasion, and how bitterly the doctor had been mortified on learning later on that the boat had been taken. Who were the culprits was known in the course of the day, with the result that, acting on the suggestion already alluded to, the doctor had gone down to the mouth of the river to wait the coming of the borrowers of the boat. Helen had exacted no promises from Dexter. He had made none, but sat there with her, his hand in hers, wondering and puzzled how it was that he could have run away, but the more he thought, the more puzzled he grew. "Well," said the doctor that evening, as he sat with his daughter, "I told Danby that I was more determined than ever; that it was only a boyish escapade which he must look over to oblige me, and he agreed after making a great many bones about it. But I feel very doubtful, Helen, and I may as well confess it to you." "Doubtful?" she said. "Yes, my dear. I could have forgiven everything if the boy had been frank and honest--if he had owned to his fault in a straightforward way; but when he sought to hide his own fault by trying to throw it on another, I couldn't help feeling disgusted." "But, papa--" "Let me finish, my dear. I know what you are about to say. Woman-like, you are going to take his part. It will not do. The lying and deceit are such ugly blemishes in the boy's character that I am out of heart." "Indeed, papa?" said Helen, smiling. "Ah, it's all very well for you to laugh at me because I have failed over my hobby; but I feel I'm right all the same, and I tell you that his ignorance, vulgarity--" "Both of which are wonderfully changed." "Yes, my dear, granted, and he does not talk so much about the workhouse. He was a great deal better, and I could have forgiven this mad, boyish prank--though what could have influenced him, I don't know." "I can tell you," said Helen. "A boy's love of adventure. The idea of going off in a boat to discover some wonderful island where he could live a Robinson Crusoe kind of life." "A young donkey!" cried the doctor. "But there, it's all off. I could have forgiven everything, but the cowardly lying." "Then, poor fellow, he is forgiven." "Indeed, no, my dear. He goes back to the Union to-morrow; but I shall tell Hippetts to apprentice him to some good trade at once, and I will pay a handsome premium. Confound Hippetts! He'll laugh at me." "No, he will not, papa." "Yes, he will, my dear. I know the man." "But you will not be laughed at." "Why not?" "Because you will not send Dexter back." "Indeed, my dear, but I shall. I am beaten, and I give up." "But you said you would forgive everything but the deceit and falsehood." "Yes, everything." "There is no deceit and falsehood to forgive." "What?" "Dexter has told me everything. The simple truth." "But he should have told it before, and said he took the boat." "He told the truth in every respect, papa." "My dear Helen," said the doctor pettishly, "you are as obstinate as I am. The lying young dog--" "Hush, papa, stop!" said Helen gently. "Dexter is quite truthful, I am sure." "That is your weak woman's heart pleading for him," said the doctor. "No, my dear, no; it will not do." "I am quite certain, papa," said Helen firmly, "that he spoke the truth." "How do you know, my dear?" "Because Dexter told me again and again before he went up to bed." "And you believe him?" "Yes, and so will you." "Wish I could," said the doctor earnestly. "I'd give a hundred pounds to feel convinced." "You shall be convinced for less than that, papa," said Helen merrily. "Give me a kiss for my good news." "There's the kiss in advance, my dear. Now, where is the news?" "Here, papa. If Dexter were the hardened boy you try to make him--" "No, no: gently. He makes himself one." "--he would have gone up to bed to-night careless and indifferent after shedding a few fictitious tears--" "Very likely." "--and be sleeping heartily by now." "As he is, I'll be bound," cried the doctor energetically. "Of course, I may be wrong," said Helen, "but Dexter strikes me as being so sensitive a boy--so easily moved, that, I am ready to say, I am sure that he is lying there half-heartbroken, crying bitterly, now he is alone." "I'll soon prove that," said the doctor sharply; and, crossing the room in his slippers, he silently lit a candle and went upstairs to Dexter's door, where he stood listening for a few minutes, to find that all was perfectly still. Then turning the handle quietly, he entered, and it was quite half an hour before he came out. "Well, papa?" said Helen, as the doctor returned to the drawing-room. "You're a witch, my dear," he said. "I was right?" "You always are, my dear." "And you will not send him back to the Union schools!" "Send him back!" said the doctor contemptuously. "Nor have him apprenticed?" said Helen, with a laughing light in her eyes. "Have him ap--Now that's too bad, my dear," cried the doctor. "Danby will laugh at me enough. You need not join in. Poor boy! I'm glad I went up." There was a pause, during which the doctor sat back in his chair. "Do you know, my dear, I don't feel very sorry that the young dog went off." "Not feel sorry, papa!" "No, my dear. It shows that the young rascal has plenty of energy and spirit and determination." "I hope you did not tell him so!" "My dear child, what do you think me?" cried the doctor testily. "By the way, though, he seems to thoroughly see through his companion's character now. I can't help wishing that he had given that confounded young cad a sound thrashing." "Papa!" "Eh? No, no: of course not," said the doctor. "I was only thinking aloud." Helen sat over her work a little longer, feeling happier than she had felt since Dexter left the house; and then the lights were extinguished, and father and daughter went up to bed. The doctor was very quiet and thoughtful, and he stopped on the stairs. "Helen, my dear," he whispered, "see the women-servants first thing in the morning, and tell them I strictly forbid any allusion whatever to be made to Dexter's foolish prank." Helen nodded. "I'll talk to the men myself," he said. "And whatever you do, make Mrs Millett hold her tongue. Tut--tut--tut! Now, look at that!" He pointed to a tumbler on a little papier-mache tray standing at Dexter's door. "Never mind that, dear," said Helen, smiling. "I dare say it is only camomile-tea, and it shows that the poor boy has not lost his place in dear old Millett's heart." Helen kissed her father, and stopped at her own door feeling half-amused and half-tearful as she saw the old man go on tiptoe to Dexter's room, where, with the light of the candle shining on his silver hair and beard, he tapped gently with his knuckles. "Asleep, Dexter?" There was a faint "No, sir!" from within. "Make haste and go to sleep," said the doctor. "Good-night, my boy. God bless you!" Helen saw him smile as he turned away from the door, and it may have been fancy, but she thought she saw a glistening as of moisture in one corner of his eye. "Poor Dexter!" she said softly, as she entered her room, while the boy, as he lay there in the cool, soft sheets, utterly wearied out, but restless and feverish with excitement, felt the doctor's last words send, as it were, a calm, soothing, restful sensation through his brain, and five minutes later he was sleeping soundly, and dreaming that some one bent over him, and said, "Good-night. God bless you!" once again. CHAPTER FORTY TWO. BOB DIMSTED'S MEDICINE. It was some time before Dexter could summon up courage to go down to the breakfast-room. That he was expected, he knew, for Mrs Millett had been to his door twice, and said first that breakfast was ready, and, secondly, that master was waiting. When he did go in, he could hardly believe that he had been away, for there was a kiss from Helen, and a frank "Good morning," and shake of the hand from the doctor, not the slightest allusion being made to the past till breakfast was nearly over, when Maria brought in a note. "Hah! From Limpney," said the doctor. "I sent Peter on to say that Dexter was back, and that I should like the lessons to be resumed this morning." Dexter's eyes lit up. The idea of being busy over lessons once more seemed delightful. "Confound his impudence!" said the doctor angrily, as he ran through the note. "Hark here, Helen: `Mr Limpney's compliments, and he begs to decline to continue the tuition at Dr Grayson's house.'" Helen made a gesture, and glanced at her father meaningly-- "Eh? Oh! Ah! Yes, my dear. Well, Dexter, you'll have to amuse yourself in the garden this morning. Go and have a few hours' fishing." "If you please, sir, I'd rather stay in here if I might, and read." "No, no, no," said the doctor cheerily. "Fine morning. Get Peter to dig you some worms, and I'll come and look at you presently. It's all right, my boy. We said last night we'd draw a veil over the past, eh? You go and have a good morning's fishing." Dexter was at his side in a moment, had thrust his hand in the doctor's, and then fled from the room. "Want to show him we've full confidence in him again. Bah, no! That boy couldn't look you in the face and tell you a lie. My dear Helen, I'm as certain of my theory being correct as of anything in the world. But hang that Limpney for a narrow-minded, classic-stuffed, mathematic-bristling prig! We'll have a better." Dexter felt a strange hesitancy; but the doctor evidently wished him to go and fish, so he took his rod, line, and basket, and was crossing the hall when he encountered Mrs Millett. "It was very nice of you, my dear, and I'm sure it will do you good. You did take it all now, didn't you?" "Yes, every drop," said Dexter, smiling; and the old lady went away evidently highly gratified. Old Dan'l was busy tidying up a flower-bed as he reached the lawn, and, to Dexter's astonishment, he nodded and gave him another of his cast-iron smiles. Further down the garden Peter was at work. "Dig you up a few worms, Master Dexter? Course I will. Come round to the back of the old frames." A curious sensation of choking troubled Dexter for a few moments, but it passed off, and in a short time he was furnished with a bag of red worms, and walking down to the river he sat down and began to fish with his mind going back to the night of his running away, and he seemed to see it all again; the undressing, the hesitation, and the cold plunge after his clothes, and all the rest of the miserable dreary time which had proved so different from what he had pictured in his mind. Peter had said that the fish would "bite like fun at them worms." But they did not, for they had no chance. The worms crawled round and round the canvas bag, and played at making Gordian knots with each other, while several fish came and looked at the unbaited hook which Dexter offered for their inspection, but preferred to leave the barbed steel alone. For quite half an hour Dexter sat there dreamily gazing at his float, but seeing nothing but the past, when he started to his feet, for there was a splash in the water close to his feet, the drops flying over him, and there, across the river, grinning and looking very dirty, was Bob Dimsted. "Yah! Who stole the boat?" he cried. Dexter flushed up, but he made no reply. Only took out his line, and this time he baited it and threw in again. "Yah; who stole the boat!" cried Bob again. "I say, ain't he been licked? Ain't his back sore?" Dexter set his teeth hard and stared at his float, as Bob baited his own line, and threw in just opposite, to begin fishing just as if nothing had happened. It was a painful position. To go on fishing was like taking up with Bob again; to go away seemed like being afraid. But Dexter determined upon this last, drew out his line, and was stooping to pick up his basket, when Bob broke into a derisive war-dance-- "Yah, yah!" he cried. "Yer 'bliged to go. Yah! yer miserable, white-faced sneak! g'ome! g'ome! yah!" Dexter banged down his basket again, and threw in his line with a big splash, as his eyes flashed defiance across the stream. "Ah! it's all very fine," said Bob; "but yer dussen't do that if it weren't for the river. Why, if I'd got yer here I'd bung both yer eyes up for yer. Yah! yer sneak!" "Here, you just be off. D'yer hear!" cried an angry voice; and Peter came up, broom in hand. "She yarn't," cried Bob? "Who are you? This ain't your field. Stop as long as I like. Yah!" "Wish I was over the other side and I'd pitch you in, you sarcy young vagabond." "So are you!" cried Bob. "You dussen't touch me. Fish here as long as I like. Pair o' cowards, that's what you are--pair o' cowards. Fight either of yer one hand." "Wish we was over there," said Peter; "and we'd make you sing another song, my fine fellow." "Would yer? Yah! who cares for you!" "Look here, you've no business to come opposite our place to fish!" cried Peter, "so be off!" "Yah! 'tain't your place. Stop and fish here as long as I like; and if ever I meet him anywheres I'll give him such a licking as'll make him squeal." "You be off!" "Shan't." "Oh, you won't, won't you?" cried a gruff voice; and old Dan'l came from behind a laurustinus clump. "You, Peter--you go and get a basket full o' them brickbats from down by the frames, and we'll soon see whether he'll stop there." "Yah! go on with your old brickbats. Who cares for you!" cried Bob. "Yah! look at him! Who stole the boat, and cried to go home again? Who stole the boat?" "Oh, if I could only get across!" said Dexter, in a hoarse low voice. "Would you give it him if you could!" said old Dan'l, with a grim laugh. "Yes," said Dexter, between his teeth. "Ay, he would, Dan'l," said Peter excitedly. "I wish he was over yonder." "Yah! yah! look at the old caterpillar-killers," cried Bob. "Who stole the boat? Yah!" These last were farewell shots. "They won't bite here," cried Bob, moving off, "but don't you think you frightened me away. Come as often as I like. Yah! take him home!" Dexter's face was scarlet as he watched his departing enemy, thinking the while of his own folly in leaving his friends for such a wretched young cur as that. "Think he would?" said Peter. "Ay, two on him," said Dan'l, after glancing cautiously up toward the house. "Shall us?" "Ay, if you like, my lad," said Dan'l. "Say, youngster, if we help you acrost will you go and start him outer the west medder?" "Yes," cried Dexter excitedly. "All right. Don't make a row." Old Dan'l went off, and Peter followed, to return in five minutes with a great shallow wooden cistern across the long barrow, old Dan'l looking very grim as he walked by his side, and carrying the familiar clothes-prop. "There, that's as good as a punt," he said. "Look here! You'd better kneel down on it; I should take off my jacket and weskit, and roll up my sleeves, if I was you." Dexter's eyes sparkled as he followed this bit of advice, while Dan'l took one end of the cistern, Peter the other, and they gently launched it in the little river. "Ain't scared of him, are yer!" said Dan'l. Dexter gave him a sharp look. "That he ain't," said Peter. "Look here, Master Dexter," he whispered, "don't let him hug you, but give it him right straight out, and he'll be down and howl in two two's." Dexter made no reply, but stepped into the great shallow punt-like contrivance, seized the prop handed to him, and prepared to use it, but the strong steady thrust given by Peter sent him well on his journey, and in less than a minute he was across. "Come on, Dan'l," cried Peter. "Don't I wish we was acrost too!" They crept among the trees at the extreme corner of the garden, where they could hold on by the boughs, and crane their necks over the river, so as to see Dexter tearing along the opposite bank into the next meadow where Bob was fishing, in happy ignorance of the approach of danger; and, to further take off his attention, he had just hooked a good-sized perch, and was playing it, when Dexter, boiling over with the recollection of many injuries culminating in Bob's cowardly lies, came close up and gave a formal announcement of his presence by administering a sounding crack on the ear. Bob dropped his rod into the river, and nearly jumped after it as he uttered a howl. "Look at that!" cried Peter, giving one of his legs a slap. "Oh, I wish I was there!" Bob was as big a coward as ever stepped. So is a rat; but when driven to bay a rat will fight. Bob was at bay, and he, being in pain, began to fight by lowering his head and rushing at his adversary. Dexter avoided the onslaught, and gave Bob another crack on the ear. Then, trusting in his superior size and strength, Bob dashed at Dexter again, and for a full quarter of an hour there was a fierce up and down fight, which was exceedingly blackguardly and reprehensible no doubt, but under the circumstances perfectly natural. Dexter got a good deal knocked about, especially whenever Bob closed with him; but he did not get knocked about for nothing. Very soon there were a number of unpleasant ruddy stains upon his clean white shirt, but the blood was Bob's, and consequent upon a sensation of his nose being knocked all on one side. There was a tooth out--a very white one on the grass, but that tooth was Bob's, and, in addition, that young gentleman's eyes wore the aspect of his having been interviewing a wasps' nest, for they were rapidly closing up, and his whole face assuming the appearance of a very large and puffy unbaked bun. Then there was a cessation of the up and down fighting; Bob was lying on his back howling after his customary canine fashion, and Dexter was standing over him with his doubled fists, his face flushed, his eyes flashing, teeth set, and his curly hair shining in the sun. "It's splendid, Dan'l, old man," cried Peter, slapping his fellow-servant on the back. "I wouldn't ha' missed it for half a crown." "No," said Dan'l. "Hang him! he's got some pluck in him if he ain't got no breed. Brayvo, young un! I never liked yer half--" Dan'l stopped short, and Peter stepped back against the dividing fence. "Beg pardon, sir?" "I said how did that boy get across the river!" said the doctor sternly. There was no reply. "Now no subterfuges," said the doctor sharply. Peter looked at Dan'l in dismay, but Dan'l spoke out-- "Well, sir, beg pardon, sir, that young cub come up to the side abusing Master Dexter, and calling him names, and he let us have it too." "Yes; go on." "Well, sir, Master Dexter was a-chafing like a greyhound again his collar, and Peter and me fetched the old wooden cistern, and let him punt hisself across, and the way he went into him, sir--boy half as big again as hisself, and--" "That will do," said the doctor sternly. "Here, Dexter! Come here, sir!" Dexter turned in dismay, and came faltering back. "The moment he is home again!" said the doctor angrily. "Yah! Coward! G'ome, g'ome!" yelled Bob, jumping up on seeing his enemy in retreat. "Come here again and I'll knock yer silly. Yah!" "Dexter!" roared the doctor; "go back and knock that young blackguard's head off. Quick! Give it him! No mercy!" Dexter flew back, but Bob flew faster to the hedge, where he leaped and stuck; Dexter overtaking him then, and administering one punch which drove his adversary through, and he got up and ran on again. "Hi! Dexter!" shouted the doctor; and the boy returned slowly, as Peter stood screwing up his face to look serious, and Dan'l gave his master one of his cast-iron smiles. "Well, yes, Dan'l, it was excusable under the circumstances," said the doctor. "But I do not approve of fighting, and--er--don't say anything about it indoors." "No, sir, cert'nly not, sir," said the men, in a breath; and just then Dexter stood on the far bank looking anxiously across. "Mind how you come," cried the doctor. "That's right; be careful. Give me your hand. Bless my soul! the skin's off your knuckles. We shall have to tell Miss Grayson after all." Dexter looked up at him wildly. He could not speak. "Better put that cistern back," said the doctor quickly; and then to Dexter-- "There, slip on your things, and go up to your room and bathe your face and hands. No, stop! I'll go on first, and shut the drawing-room door." The doctor hurried away, and as soon as he was out of sight, Dexter, who had slowly put on his waistcoat and jacket, gazed disconsolately at the two men. "What shall I do?" he said dolefully. "Do!" cried Peter; "why, you did it splendid: he won't come no more." "But the doctor!" faltered Dexter, with the spirit and effervescence all gone. "What, master!" cried Dan'l. "He won't say no more. Here, shake hands, my lad. It was fine." "Hi! Dexter! Here, my boy, quick!" came the doctor's voice. "It's all right. She has gone out." "There!" said Dan'l, laughing; and Dexter ran in. CHAPTER FORTY THREE. THE RIGHT PLACE FOR A BACKWARD BOY. "Where's Dexter?" said the doctor. "Down the garden," said Helen. "Humph! Hope he is not getting into fresh mischief." "I hope not, papa," said Helen; "and really I think he is trying very hard." "Yes," said the doctor, going on with his writing. "How are his knuckles now? can he hold a pen?" "I think I would let him wait another day or two. And, papa, have you given him a good talking to about that fight?" "No. Have you?" "Yes, two or three times; and he has promised never to fight again." "My dear Helen, how can you be so absurd?" cried the doctor testily. "That's just the way with a woman. You ask the boy to promise what he cannot perform. He is sure to get fighting again at school or somewhere." "But it seems such a pity, papa." "Pooh! pish! pooh! tchah!" ejaculated the doctor, at intervals. "He gave that young scoundrel a good thrashing, and quite right too. Don't tell him I said so." The doctor had laid down his pen to speak, but he took it up again and began writing, but only to lay it aside once more. "Dear me! dear me!" he muttered. "I don't seem to get on with my book as I should like." He put down his pen again, rose, took a turn or two up and down the room, and then picked up the newspaper. "Very awkward of that stupid fellow Limpney," he said, as he began running down the advertisements. "What did he say, papa, when you spoke to him?" "Say? Lot of stuff about losing _prestige_ with his other pupils. Was sure Lady Danby did not like him to be teaching a boy of Dexter's class and her son. Confound his impudence! Must have a tutor for the boy of some kind." Helen glanced uneasily at her father, and then out into the garden. "Plenty of schools; plenty of private tutors," muttered the doctor scanning the advertisements. "Hah!" "What is it, papa!" The doctor struck the paper in the middle, doubled it up, and then frowned severely as he thrust his gold spectacles up on to his forehead. "I've made a mistake, my dear,--a great mistake." "About Dexter!" "Yes: a very great mistake." "But I'm sure he will improve," said Helen anxiously. "So am I, my dear. But our mistake is this: we took the boy from the Union schools, and we kept him here at once, where every one knew him and his late position. We ought to have sent him away for two or three years, and he would have come back completely changed, and the past history forgotten." "Sent him to a boarding-school!" "Well--er! Hum! No, not exactly," said the doctor, pursing up his lips. "Listen here, my dear. The very thing! just as if fate had come to my help." The doctor rustled the paper a little, and then began to read-- "`Backward and disobedient boys.'" "But Dexter--" "Hush, my dear; hear it all. Dexter is backward, and he is disobedient; not wilfully perhaps, but disobedient decidedly. Now listen-- "`Backward and disobedient boys.--The Reverend Septimus Mastrum, MA Oxon, receives a limited number of pupils of neglected education. Firm and kindly treatment. Extensive grounds. Healthy situation. For terms apply to the Reverend Septimus Mastrum, Firlands, Longspruce Station.'" "There! What do you say to that?" said the doctor. "I don't know what to say, papa," said Helen rather sadly. "Perhaps you are right." "Right!" cried the doctor. "The very thing, my dear. I'll write to Mr Mastrum at once. Three or four years of special education will be the making of the boy." The doctor sat down and wrote. The answer resulted in a meeting in London, where the Reverend Septimus Mastrum greatly impressed the doctor. Terms were agreed upon, and the doctor came back. "Splendid fellow, my dear. Six feet high. Says Mrs Mastrum will act the part of a mother to the boy." "Does he seem very severe, papa?" "Severe, my dear? Man with a perpetual smile on his countenance." "I do not like men with perpetual smiles on their countenances, papa." "My dear Helen, do not be so prejudiced," said the doctor angrily. "I have seen Mr Mastrum: you have not. I have told him everything about Dexter; he applauds my plan, and assures me that in two or three years I shall hardly know the boy, he will be so improved." Helen sighed. "We had a long discussion about my book, and he agrees that I am quite right. So pray do not begin to throw obstacles in the way." Helen rose and kissed her father's forehead. "I am going to do everything I can to aid your plans, papa," she said, smiling. "Of course I do not like parting with Dexter, and I cannot help feeling that there is some truth in what you say about a change being beneficial for a time; but Dexter is a peculiar boy, and I would rather have had him under my own eye." "Yes, of course, my dear. Very good of you," said the doctor; "but this way is the best. Of course he will have holidays, and we shall go to see him, and so on." "When is he to go, papa?" "Directly." "Directly?" "Well, in a day or two." Helen was silent for a moment or two, and then she moved toward the door. "Where are you going!" said the doctor sharply. "To make preparations, and warn Mrs Millett. He must have a good box of clothes and linen." "To be sure, of course," said the doctor. "Get whatever is necessary. It is the right thing, my dear, and the boy shall go at once." The doctor was so energetic and determined that matters progressed very rapidly, and the clothes and other necessaries increased at such a rate in Dexter's room that most boys would have been in a state of intense excitement. Dexter was not, and he avoided the house as much as he could, spending a great deal of time in the garden and stables. "So they're going to send you off to school, eh, Master Dexter?" said Peter, pausing to rest on his broom-handle. "Yes, Peter." "And you don't want to go? No wonder! I never liked school. Never had much on it, neither; but I know all I want." "Hullo!" said a voice behind them; and, turning, Dexter saw Dan'l standing behind him, with the first dawn of a smile, on his face. Dexter nodded, and began to move away. "So you're going off, are yer!" said Dan'l. "Two floggings a day for a year. You're in for it, youngster." "Get out," said Dexter. "They don't flog boys at good schools." "Oh, don't they?" said Dan'l. "You'll see. Well, never mind! And, look here, I'll ask master to let me send you a basket o' apples and pears when they're ripe." "You will, Dan'l!" cried Dexter excitedly. "Ay: Peter and me'll do you up a basket, and take it to the station. Be a good boy, and no more Bob Dimsted's." Dan'l chuckled as if he had said something very funny, and walked away. "Here, don't look dumpy about it, my lad," said Peter kindly. "'Tain't for ever and a day." "No, Peter," said Dexter gloomily, "it isn't for ever." "Sorry you're going, though, my lad." "Are you, Peter!" "Am I? Course I am. A man can't help liking a boy as can fight like you." Matters were growing harder for Dexter indoors now that his departure was so near. Mrs Millett was particularly anxious about him; and so sure as the boy went up to his room in the middle of the day, it was to find the old housekeeper on her knees, and her spectacles carefully balanced, trying all his buttons to see if they were fast. "Now I'm going to put you up two bottles of camomile tea, and pack them in the bottom of your box, with an old coffee-cup without a handle. It just holds the right quantity, and you'll promise me, won't you, Master Dexter, to take a dose regularly twice a week!" "Yes; I'll promise you," said Dexter. "Now, that's a good boy," cried the old lady, getting up and patting his shoulder. "Look here," she continued, leading him to the box by the drawers, "I've put something else in as well." She lifted up a layer of linen, all scented with lavender, and showed him a flat, round, brown-paper parcel. "It's not a very rich cake," she said, "but there are plenty of currants and peel in, and I'm sure it's wholesome." Even Maria became very much interested in Master Dexter's boots and shoes, and the parting from the doctor's house for the second time promised to be very hard. It grew harder as the time approached, for, with the gentleness of an elder sister, Helen exercised plenty of supervision over the preparation. Books, a little well-filled writing-case and a purse, were among the things she added. "The writing-case is for me, Dexter," she said, with a smile. "For you?" he said wonderingly. "Yes, so that I may have, at least, two letters from you every week. You promise that?" "Oh yes," he said, "if you will not mind the writing." "And the purse is for you," she said. "If you want a little more money than papa is going to allow you weekly, you may write and ask me." It grew harder still on the morning of departure, and Dexter would have given anything to stay, but he went off manfully with the doctor in the station fly, passing Sir James Danby and Master Edgar on the road. "Humph!" grunted the doctor. "See that, Dexter!" "I saw Sir James laugh at you when he nodded." "Do you know why!" Dexter was silent for a few minutes. "Because he thinks you are foolish to take so much trouble over me." "That's it, Dexter," said the doctor eagerly. "So, now, I'll tell you what I want you to do." "Yes, sir?" "Show him that I'm right and he's wrong." Dexter looked a promise, for he could not speak just then, nor yet when they had passed through London that afternoon, reached Longspruce station, and been driven to the Reverend Septimus Mastrum's house, five miles away among the fir-trees and sand of that bleak region. Here the doctor bade him "Good-bye," and Dexter, as he was standing in the great cold hall, felt that he was commencing a new phase in his existence. CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. PETER CRIBB SEES A GHOST. Helen rang the bell one evening and Maria answered the summons. "Papa thinks he would like a little supper, Maria, as we dined early to-day. Bring up a tray. There is a cold chicken, I think!" "Yes, 'm," said Maria, and disappeared, but was back in a few minutes. "If you please, 'm, Mrs Millett says there is no cold chicken, 'm." "Indeed?" said Helen wonderingly. "Very well, then, the cold veal pie." "Yes, 'm." Maria disappeared, and came back again. "Please, 'm, Mrs Millett says there is no veal pie." "Then tell her to make an omelette." "Yes, 'm." Maria left the room and came back. "Please, 'm, Mrs Millett says there's no eggs, and it's too late to get any more." "Ask Mrs Millett to come here," said Helen; and the old lady came up, looking very red. "Why, Millett," said Helen, "this is very strange. I don't like to find fault, but surely there ought to have been a chicken left." "I'm very glad you have found fault, Miss," said Mrs Millett, "for it's given me a chance to speak. Yes; there ought to have been a chicken, and the veal pie too; but I'm very sorry to say, Miss, they're gone." "Gone?" "Yes, Miss. I don't know how to account for it, but the things have begun to go in the most dreadful way. Bread, butter, milk, eggs, meat, everything goes, and we've all been trying to find out how, but it's no good." "This is very strange, Millett. Have you no idea how it is they go?" "No, Miss; but Dan'l fancies it must be that rough boy who led Master Dexter away. He says he's sure he caught sight of him in the dark last night. Somebody must take the things, and he seems to be the most likely, knowing the place as he does." "This must be seen to," said Helen; and she told the doctor. Consequently a watch was kept by the gardener and the groom, but they found nothing, and the contents of the larder continued to disappear. "If it were a man," said the doctor, on being told of what was going on, "I'd set the police to work, but I hate anything of that kind with a boy. Wait a bit, and he will get more impudent from obtaining these things with impunity, and then he will be more easily caught." "And then, papa?" said Helen. "Then, my dear? Do you know that thin Malacca cane in the hall? Yes, you do. Well, my dear, the law says it is an assault to thrash a boy, and that he ought to be left to the law to punish, which means prison and degradation. I'm going to take that cane, my dear, and defy the law." But somehow or another Master Bob Dimsted seemed to be as slippery as an eel. He saw Peter one day and grinned at him from the other side of the river. Two days later he was seen by Dan'l, who shook his fist at him, and Bob said-- "Yah!" "Have you heard from Master Dexter, Miss!" said Mrs Millett one morning. "No, Millett, and I am rather surprised. He promised so faithfully to write." "Ah, yes, Miss," said the old lady; "and he meant it, poor boy, when he promised, but boys are such one's to forget." Helen went into the library where she found the doctor biting the end of his pen, and gazing up into a corner of the room. "I don't seem to be getting on as I could wish, my dear. By the way, we haven't heard from that young dog lately. He promised me faithfully to write regularly." Helen thought of Mrs Millett's words, but said nothing, and at that moment Maria entered with the letters. "From Dexter?" said Helen eagerly. "Humph! No! But from Longspruce! I see: from Mr Mastrum." The doctor read the letter and frowned. Helen read it, and the tears stood in her eyes. "The young scoun--" "Stop, papa!" said Helen earnestly. "Do not condemn him unheard." "Then I shall have to go on without condemning him, for we've seen the last of him, I suppose." "O papa!" "Well, it looks like it, my dear; and I'm afraid I've made a great mistake, but I don't like to own it." "Wait, papa, wait!" said Helen. "What does he say? Been gone a fortnight, and would not write till he had had the country round thoroughly searched. Humph! Afraid he has got to Portsmouth, and gone to sea." Helen sighed. "`Sorry to give so bad an account of him,'" muttered the doctor, reading bits of the letter--"`treated him as his own son--seemed to have an undercurrent of evil in his nature, impossible to eradicate--tried everything, but all in vain--was beginning to despair, but still hopeful that patience might overcome the difficulty--patience combined with affectionate treatment, but it was in vain--after trying to persuade his fellow-pupils one by one, and failing, he threatened them savagely if they dared to betray him, and then he escaped from the grounds, and has not been seen since.'" There was a painful silence in the doctor's library for a few minutes. "`Patience combined with affectionate treatment,'" read the doctor again. "Helen, I believe that man has beaten and ill-used poor Dexter till he could bear it no longer, and has run away." "I'm sure of it, papa," cried Helen excitedly. "Do you think he will come back!" "I don't know," said the doctor. "Yes, I do. No; he would be afraid. I'd give something to know how to go to work to find him." "If you please, sir, may I come in?" said a pleasant soft voice. "Yes, yes, Millett, of course. What is it?" "Dan'l has been to say, sir, that he caught sight of that boy, Bob Dimsted, crawling in the garden last night when it was dark, and chased him, but the boy climbed one of the trained pear-trees, got on the wall, and escaped." "Confound the young rascal!" cried the doctor. "And I'm sorry to say, sir, that two blankets have been stolen off Master Dexter's bed." There was a week of watching, but Bob Dimsted was not caught, and the doctor sternly said that he would not place the matter in the hands of the police. But all the same the little pilferings went on, and Mrs Millett came one morning, with tears in her eyes, to say that she couldn't bear it any longer, for only last night a whole quartern loaf had been taken through the larder bars, and, with it, one of the large white jars of black-currant jam. Mrs Millett was consoled with the promise that the culprit should soon be caught, and two nights later Peter came in to announce to the doctor that he had been so near catching Bob Dimsted that he had touched him as he chased him down the garden, and that he would have caught him, only that, without a moment's hesitation, the boy had jumped into the river and swum across, and so escaped to the other side. "Next time I mean to have him," said Peter confidently, and this he repeated to Mrs Millett and Maria, being rewarded with a basin of the tea which had just come down from the drawing-room. It was just two days later that, as Helen sat with her work under the old oak-tree in the garden--an old evergreen oak which gave a pleasant shade--she became aware of a faint rustling sound. She looked up, but could see nothing, though directly after there was a peculiar noise in the tree, which resembled the chopping of wood. Still she could see nothing, and she had just resumed her work, thinking the while that Dexter would some day write, and that her father's correspondence with the Reverend Septimus Mastrum had not been very satisfactory, when there was a slight scratching sound. She turned quickly and saw that a ragged-looking squirrel had run down the grey trunk of the tree, while, as soon as it saw her, it bounded off, and to her surprise passed through the gateway leading into the yard where the old stable stood. Helen Grayson hardly knew why she did so, but she rose and followed the squirrel, to find that she was not alone, for Peter the groom was in the yard going on tiptoe toward the open door of the old range of buildings. He touched his cap on seeing her. "Squir'l, Miss," he said. "Just run in here." "I saw it just now," said Helen. "Don't kill the poor thing." "Oh no, Miss; I won't kill it," said Peter, as Helen went back into the garden. "But I mean to catch it if I can." Peter went into the dark old building and looked round, but there was no sign of the squirrel. Still a little animal like that would be sure to go upwards, so Peter climbed the half-rotten ladder, and stood in the long dark range of lofts, peering among the rafters and ties in search of the bushy-tailed little creature. He walked to the end in one direction, then in the other, till he was stopped by an old boarded partition, in which there was a door which had been nailed up; but he remembered that this had a flight of steps, or rather a broad-stepped old wood ladder, on the other side, leading to a narrower loft right in the gable. "Wonder where it can be got," said Peter to himself; and then he turned round, ran along the loft, dropped down through the trap-door, and nearly slipped and fell, so hurried was his flight. Half-across the yard he came upon Dan'l wheeling a barrow full of mould for potting. "Hallo! what's the matter?" Peter gasped and panted, but said nothing. "Haven't seen a ghost, have you?" said Dan'l. "Ye-es. No," panted Peter. "Why, you white-faced, cowardly noodle!" cried Dan'l. "What d'yer mean?" "I--I. Come out of here into the garden," whispered Peter. Dan'l was going down the garden to the potting-shed, so he made no objection, and, arrived there, Peter, with solemn emphasis, told how he had gone in search of the squirrel, and that there was something up in the loft. "Yes," said old Dan'l contemptuously--"rats." "Yes; I know that," said Peter excitedly; and his eyes looked wild and dilated; "but there's something else." Dan'l put down the barrow, and sat upon the soft mould as he gave his rough stubbly chin a rub. "Lookye here, Peter," he said; "did yer ever hear tell about ghosts being in old buildings?" "Yes," said Peter, with an involuntary shiver, and a glance across the wall at a corroded weathercock on the top of the ancient place. "Well, my lad, ghosts never comes out in the day-time: only o' nights; and do you know what they are?" Peter shook his head. "Well, then, my lad, I'll tell you. I've sin several in my time. Them as you hears and don't see's rats; and them as you sees and don't hear's howls. What d'yer think o' that?" "It wasn't a rat, nor it wasn't a howl, as I see," said Peter solemnly; "but something gashly horrid, as looked down at me from up in the rafters of that there dark place, and it made me feel that bad that I didn't seem to have no legs to stand on." "Tchah!" cried the gardener. "What yer talking about?" "Anything the matter?" said the doctor, who had come up unheard over the velvety lawn. "Hush!" whispered Peter imploringly. "Shan't hush. Sarves you right," growled Dan'l. "Here's Peter, sir, just seen a ghost." "Ah! has he?" said the doctor. "Where did you see it, Peter?" "I didn't say it were a ghost, sir, I only said as I see something horrid up at end of the old loft when I went up there just now after a squir'l." "Squirrel!" said the doctor angrily. "What are you talking about, man? Squirrels live in trees, not in old lofts. You mean a rat." "I know a squir'l when I see one, sir," said Peter; "and I see one go 'crost the yard and into that old stable." "Nonsense!" said the doctor. "Did you find it, Peter!" said Helen from under the tree. "Find what?" said the doctor. "A squirrel that ran from here across the yard." Peter looked from one to the other triumphantly, as he said-- "No, Miss, I didn't." "Humph!" grunted the doctor. "Then there was a squirrel!" "Yes, sir." "And you saw something strange!" "Yes, sir, something awful gashly, in the dark end, sir." "Bah!" cried the doctor. "There, go and get your stable lanthorn and we'll see. Helen, my dear, we've got a ghost in the old stable loft: like to come and see it!" "Very much, papa," said Helen, smiling in a way that put Peter on his mettle, for the moment before he had been ready to beg off. He went pretty quickly to get his stable lanthorn, and came back with it alight, and looking very pale and sickly, while he bore a stout broomstick in the other hand. "For shame, man! Put away that absurd thing," said the doctor, as he led the way through the gate in the wall, followed by Helen, Peter and Dan'l coming behind. "Go first with the lanthorn," said the doctor to the old gardener, but Peter was stirred to action now. "Mayn't I go first, sir!" he said. "Oh yes, if you have enough courage," said the doctor; and Peter, looking very white, led the way to the foot of the ladder, went up, and the others followed him to the loft, and stood together on the old worm-eaten boards. The lanthorn cast a yellow glow through its horn sides, and this, mingling with the faint pencils of daylight which came between the tiles, gave a very peculiar look to the place, festooned as the blackened beams were with cobwebs, which formed loops and pockets here and there. "There's an old door at the extreme end there, or ought to be," said the doctor. "Go and open it." Peter went on in advance. "Mind the holes, my dear," said the doctor. "What's that?" A curious rustling noise was heard, and, active as a young man, Dan'l ran back to the top of the ladder and descended quickly. "Well 'tain't me as is skeart now," said Peter triumphantly. Just then there was a sharp clap from somewhere in front, as if a small trap-door had been suddenly closed, and Dan'l's voice came up through the boards. "Look out!" he shouted, and his voice sounded distant. "There's some one up in the far loft there. He tried to get down into one of the hay-racks, but I frightened him back." "Stop there!" said the doctor. "We'll soon see who it is. Go on, Peter, and open that door. That young larder thief for a guinea, my dear," he continued to Helen, as Peter went on in advance. "Door's nailed up, sir," said the latter worthy, as he reached the old door, and held the lanthorn up and down. "How came it nailed up?" said the doctor, as he examined the place. "It has no business to be. Go and get an iron chisel or a crowbar. Are you there, Daniel?" "Yes, sir," came from below. "I'm on the look-out. It's that there young poacher chap, Bob Dimsted." Peter set the lanthorn on the floor and hurried off, leaving the little party watching and listening till he returned, but not a sound broke the silence, and there was nothing to see but the old worm-eaten wood and blackened tiles. "I've brought both, sir," said Peter breathlessly, and all eagerness now, for he was ashamed of his fright. "Wrench it open, then," said the doctor; and after a few sharp cracks the rotten old door gave way, and swung upon its rusty hinges, when a strange sight met the eyes of those who pressed forward into the further loft. CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. A STARTLING DISCOVERY. The rough loft had been turned into a kind of dwelling-place, for there was a bed close under the tiles, composed of hay, upon which, neatly spread, were a couple of blankets. On the other side were a plate, a knife, a piece of bread, and a jam-pot, while in the centre were some rough boxes and an old cage, on the top of which sat the ragged squirrel. "There," said Peter triumphantly, as he pointed to the squirrel. The doctor was looking eagerly round in search of the dweller in this dismal loft, but there was no one visible. "Found him, sir?" came from below. "No, not yet," replied the doctor. "Here, Peter, go up that other place." There was no hesitation on the groom's part now. He sprang up the second ladder and went along under the roof, but only to come back shaking his head. "No one up there, sir." "Are you sure he did not come down!" cried the doctor, as Peter lifted a rough trap at the side, through which, in bygone days, the horses' hay had been thrust down. "Quite sure, sir," shouted back Dan'l. "I just see his legs coming down, and he snatched 'em up again, and slammed the trap." "The young rascal!" said the doctor; "he's here somewhere. There must be some loose boards under which he is hidden." But there was not a loose board big enough to hide Bob Dimsted; and after another search the doctor rubbed his head in a perplexed manner. "Shall I come up, sir, and have a look?" said Dan'l. "No, no. Stay where you are, and keep a sharp look-out," cried the doctor. "Why, look here," he continued to Helen; "the young scoundrel has been leading a nice life here, like a Robinson Crusoe in an uninhabited island. Ah! at last!" shouted the doctor, staring straight before him; "there he is. Here, Peter, hand me the gun!" Peter stared at his master, whose eyes twinkled with satisfaction, for his feint had had the desired effect--that of startling the hiding intruder. As the doctor's words rang out there was a strange rustling sound overhead; and, as they all looked up, there came a loud crack, then another and another, and right up, nearly to the ridge of the roof, a leg came through, and then its fellow, in company with a shower of broken tiles, which rattled upon the rough floor of the loft. The owner of the legs began to make a desperate effort to withdraw them, and they kicked about in a variety of peculiar evolutions; but before they could be extricated, Peter had climbed up to an oaken beam, which formed one of the roof ties, and from there reached out and seized one of the legs by the ankle. "I've got him," he cried gleefully. "Which shall we do, sir--pull him through, or get the ladder up to the roof and drag him out?" "Here, Daniel! Come up," said the doctor. The old gardener came up eagerly; and one of his cast-iron grins expanded his face as he grasped the situation. "Brayvo, Peter!" he cried. "That's the way to ketch a ghost. Hold him tight, lad!" The doctor smiled. "Don't let them hurt him, papa," whispered Helen. "Oh no; they shall not hurt him," said the doctor quietly. Then, raising his voice--"Now, sir, will you come down quietly, or shall I send for the police to drag you out on to the roof?" An indistinct murmur came down, after a vigorous struggle to get free. "Woho! Woho, kicker!" cried Peter, speaking as if to a horse. "What does he say!" said the doctor. "Says he'll come down if I'll let go." "Don't you trust him, sir," cried Dan'l excitedly. "I do not mean to," said the doctor. "Will you come down quietly?" he shouted. There was another murmur. "Says `_yes_,' sir," cried Peter. "Then, look here," said the doctor, "you hold him tight, and you," he continued to the gardener, "climb up on that beam and push off a few tiles. Then you can draw him down through there." "All right, sir," cried Dan'l; and as Peter held on to the leg, the old gardener, after a good deal of grunting and grumbling, climbed to his side, and began to let in daylight by thrusting off tile after tile, which slid rattling down the side of the roof into the leaden guttering. The opening let in so much daylight that the appearance of the old loft was quite transformed, but the group on the worm-eaten beam was the principal object of attention till just as Dan'l thrust off the fourth tile, when there was a loud crack, a crash, and gardener, groom, and their prisoner lay in a heap on the floor of the loft, while pieces of lath and tile rattled about their heads. The old tie had given way, and they came down with a rush, to the intense astonishment of all; but the distance to fall was only about five feet, and the wonder connected with the fall was as nothing to that felt by Helen and her father, as the smallest figure of the trio struggled to his feet, and revealed the dusty, soot-smeared face of Dexter, with his eyes staring wildly from the Doctor to Helen and back again. "Dexter!" cried Helen. "You, sir!" cried the doctor. "Well, I _ham_!" ejaculated Peter, getting up and giving his thigh a slap. Dan'l sat on the floor rubbing his back, and he uttered a grunt as his face expanded till he displayed all his front teeth--a dismal array of four, and not worth a bite. "Are you hurt?" cried Helen. Dexter shook his head. "Are either of you hurt?" said the doctor frowning. "Screwed my off fetlock a bit, sir," said Peter, stooping to feel his right ankle. "Hurt?" growled Dan'l. "Well, sir, them's 'bout the hardest boards as ever I felt." "Go and ask Mrs Millett to give you both some ale," said the doctor; and the two men smiled as they heard their master's prescription. "Then go on and tell the builder to come and patch up this old roof. Here, Dexter, come in." Dexter gave Peter a reproachful look, and limped after the doctor. "Well, let's go and have that glass o' beer Peter," said Dan'l. "Talk about pickles!" "My!" said Peter, slapping his leg again. "Why, it were him we see every night, and as swum across the river. Why, he must ha' swum back when I'd gone. I say, Dan'l, what a game!" "Hah!" ejaculated the old gardener, wiping his mouth in anticipation. "It's my b'lief, Peter, as that there boy'll turn out either a reg'lar good un, or 'bout the wust as ever stepped." "Now, sir!" said the doctor, as he closed the door of the library, and then with a stern look at the grimy object before him took a seat opposite Helen. "What have you to say for yourself!" Dexter glanced at Helen, who would not meet his gaze. "Nothing, sir." "Oh, you have nothing to say! Let me see, now. You were sent to a good school to be taught by a gentleman, and treated as a special pupil. You behaved badly. You ran away. You came here and made yourself a den; you have been living by plunder ever since, and you have nothing to say!" Dexter was silent, but his face was working, his lips quivering, and his throat seemed to swell as his breath came thick and fast. At last his words came in a passionate appeal, but in a broken, disjointed way; and it seemed as if the memory of all he had suffered roused his nature into a passionate fit of indignation against the author of all the trouble. "I--I couldn't bear it," he cried; "I tried so hard--so cruel--said he was to break my spirit--that I was bad--he beat me--seven times--I did try--you wanted me to--Miss Grayson wanted me to--I was always trying-- punished me because--so stupid--but I tried--I took a bit of candle--I was trying to learn the piece--the other boys were asleep--he came up-- he caned me till I--till I couldn't bear it--break my spirit--he said he'd break it--I dropped from the window--fell down and sprained my ankle--but I walked--back here--then I was--afraid to tell you, and I hid up there." There were no tears save in the boy's voice; but there was a ring of passionate agony and suffering in every tone and utterance; and, as Helen read in the gaunt figure, hollow eyes, and pallor of the cheeks what the boy must have gone through, she turned in her chair, laid her arm on the back, her face went down upon it, and the tears came fast. The doctor was silent as the boy went on; his lips were compressed and his brow rugged; but he did not speak, till, with wondering eyes, he saw Dexter turn, go painfully toward where Helen sat with averted face, look at her as if he wanted to speak, but the words would not come, and, with a sigh, he limped toward the door. "Where are you going, sir!" said the doctor roughly. "Up there, sir," said Dexter, in a low-toned weary voice, which sounded as if all the spirit had gone. "Up there!" cried the doctor. "Yes," said Dexter feebly; and without turning round--"to Mr Hippetts, and to Mr Sibery, sir. To take me back. It's no good. I did try so-- hard--so hard--but I never had--no mother--no father--not like--other boys--and--and--" He looked wildly round, clutching at vacancy, and then reeled and fell heavily upon the carpet. For Mr Mastrum had done his work well. His system for breaking the spirit of unruly boys, and making them perfectly tame, seemed to have reached perfection. With a cry of horror Helen Grayson sprang from her seat, and sank upon her knees by Dexter's side, to catch his head to her breast, while the doctor tore at the bell. "Bring brandy--water, quick!" he said; "the boy has fainted." It was quite true, and an hour elapsed before he looked wildly round at those about him. He tried to rise, and struggled feebly. Then as they held him back he began to talk in a rapid disconnected way. "'Bliged to take it--so hungry--yes, sir--please, sir--I've come back, sir--come back, Mr Sibery, sir--if Mr Hippetts will let me stay-- where's Mother Curdley--where's nurse!" "O father!" whispered Helen excitedly! "Poor, poor boy! what does this mean?" "Fever," said the doctor gently, as he laid his hand upon the boy's burning forehead and looked down in his wild eyes. "Yes," he said softly, "fever. He must have suffered terribly to have been brought to this." CHAPTER FORTY SIX. FEVER WORKS WONDERS. Doctor Grayson's book stood still. For many years past he had given up the practice of medicine, beyond writing out a prescription for his daughter or servants, but he called in the services of no other medical man for poor Dexter. "No, my dear," he said. "It is my fault entirely that the boy is in this state, and if such knowledge as I possess can save him, he shall come down hale and strong once more." So Dexter had the constant attention of a clever physician and two nurses, who watched by him night and day, the doctor often taking his turn to relieve Helen or Mrs Millett, so that a little rest might be theirs. And all through that weary time, while the fever was culminating, those who watched learned more of the poor fellow's sufferings at the scholastic establishment, during his flight, when he toiled homeward with an injured foot, and afterwards when he had taken possession of his old den, and often nearly starved there, in company with his squirrel-- his old friend whom he found established in the loft, whence it sallied forth in search of food, as its master was obliged to do in turn. One night Helen went up to relieve Mrs Millett, and found Maria leaning against the door outside, crying silently, and this impressed her the more, from the fact that Peter and Dan'l had each been to the house three times that day to ask how Master Dexter was. Maria hurried away, and Helen entered, to find old Mrs Millett standing by the bedside, holding one of the patient's thin white hands, and watching him earnestly. "Don't say he's worse," whispered Helen. "Hush, my dear," whispered the old woman. "Ring, please, Miss; master said I was to if I saw any change." Helen glided to the bell, and then ran back to the bed, to stand trembling with her hands clasped, and her eyes tearless now. The doctor's step was heard upon the stairs, and he entered breathlessly, and without a word crossed to the bed, to bend down over the sufferer as he held his wrist. The silence in that room was terrible to two of the inmates, and the suspense seemed to be drawn out until it was almost more than could be borne. At last the doctor turned away, and sank exhausted in a chair; and as Helen caught his hand in hers, and questioned him with her eyes, he said in a low and reverent voice-- "Yes, Helen, our prayers have been heard. Poor fellow! he will live." CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. CONVALESCENCE. "Get out," said Dan'l, some weeks later. "Tired? Why, I could pull this here inv'lid-chair about the garden all day, my lad, and not know it." "But why not rest under one of the trees for a bit?" said Dexter. "'Cause I don't want to rest; and if I did, it might give you a chill. Why, you're light as light, and this is nothing to the big roller." "I'm afraid I'm a great deal of trouble to you all," said Dexter, as he sat back, supported by a pillow, and looking very white, while from time to time he raised a bunch of Dan'l's choicest flowers to his nose. "Trouble? Tchah! And, look here! master said you was to have as much fruit as you liked. When'll you have another bunch o' grapes!" "Oh, not yet," said Dexter smiling, and he looked at the grim face of the old gardener, who walked slowly backwards as he drew the chair. "Well, look here," said Dan'l, after a pause. "You can do as you like, but you take my advice. Peter's gone 'most off his head since master said as you might go out for a drive in a day or two; but don't you be in no hurry. I can draw you about here, where it's all nice and warm and sheltered, and what I say is this: if you can find a better place for a inv'lid to get strong in than my garden, I should like to see it. Humph! There's Missus Millett working her arms about like a mad windmill. Got some more jelly or blammondge for you, I s'pose. Lookye here, Master Dexter, just you pitch that sorter thing over, and take to beef underdone with the gravy in it. That'll set you up better than jelleries and slops." Dan'l was right. Mrs Millett was waiting with a cup of calves'-feet jelly; and Maria had brought out a rug, because it seemed to be turning cold. Two days later Dan'l was called away to visit a sick relative, and Peter's face was red with pleasure as he brought the invalid chair up to the door after lunch, and helped deposit the convalescent in his place, Helen and the doctor superintending, and Mrs Millett giving additional orders, as Maria formed herself into a flesh and blood crutch. "There, Dexter," said the doctor; "we shall be back before it's time for you to come in." He nodded, and Helen bent down and kissed the boy. Then there was the crushing of the wheels on the firm gravel, and Dexter lay back breathing in health. "Thought I was never going to have a pull at the chair, Mas' Dexter," said Peter. "Old Dan'l gets too bad to live with. Thinks nobody can't take care of you but him. Let's see, though; he said I was to cut you a bunch of them white grapes in Number 1 house, and there was two green figs quite ripe if you liked to have them." Peter pulled the carriage up and down the garden half a dozen times, listening the while till he heard the dull bang of the front door. "They're gone," he said gleefully. "Come on!" He went down the garden at a trot, and then carefully drew the wheeled-chair on to the grass at the bottom. "Peter, did you feed the squirrel!" said Dexter suddenly. Peter looked round very seriously, and shook his head. "Oh!" ejaculated Dexter. "Why didn't you feed the poor thing?" "Wait a minute and you'll see," said the groom; and, drawing the chair a little further, until it was close to the brink of the bright river, he turned round-- "Thought you'd like to feed him yourself, so I brought him down." There, on a willow branch, hung the old cage, with the squirrel inside, and Peter thrust his hand into his pocket to withdraw it full of nuts. But Peter had not finished his surprise, for he left the chair for a few moments and returned with Dexter's rod and line, and a bag of worms. "Going to fish?" said Dexter eagerly. "No, but I thought you'd like to now you was better," said Peter. "There, you can fish as you sit there, and I'll put on your bait, and take 'em off the hook." Dexter fished for half an hour, but he did not enjoy it, for he could not throw in his line without expecting to see Bob Dimsted on the other side. So he soon pleaded fatigue, and was wheeled out into the sunshine, and to the door of the vinery, up which he had scrambled when he first came to the doctor's house. A week later he was down at Chale, in the Isle of Wight, where the doctor had taken a house; and here, upon the warm sands, Dexter sat and lay day after day, drinking in the soft sea air, and gaining strength, while the doctor sat under an umbrella to think out fresh chapters for his book, and Helen either read to her invalid or worked. CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT. THE PROOF OF THE DOCTOR'S THEORY. Three years, as every one knows, look like what they are--twenty-six thousand two hundred and eighty long hours from one side, and they look like nothing from the other. They had passed pleasantly and well, for the doctor had been so much pleased with his Isle of Wight house that he had taken it for three years, and transported there the whole of his household, excepting Dan'l, who was left in charge at Coleby. "You see, my dear," the doctor had said; "it's a mistake for Dexter to be at Coleby until he has gone through what we may call his caterpillar stage. We'll take him back a perfect--" "Insect, papa?" said Helen, smiling. "No, no. You understand what I mean." So Dexter did not see Coleby during those three years, in which he stayed his terms at a school where the principal did not break the spirit of backward and unruly boys. On the contrary, he managed to combine excellent teaching with the possession of plenty of animal spirits, and his new pupil gained credit, both at home and at the school. "Now," said the doctor, on the day of their return to the old home, as he ran his eye proudly over the sturdy manly-looking boy he was taking back; "I think I can show Sir James I'm right, eh, my dear?" Old Dan'l smiled a wonderful smile as Dexter went down the garden directly he got home. "Shake hands with you, my lad?" he said, in answer to an invitation; "why, I'm proud. What a fine un you have growed! But come and have a look round. I never had such a year for fruit before." Chuckling with satisfaction, the doctor was not content until he had brought Sir James and Lady Danby to the house to dinner, in company with their son, who had grown up into an exceedingly tall, thin, pale boy with a very supercilious smile. No allusion was made to the doctor's plan, but the dinner-party did not turn out a success, for the boys did not seem to get on together; and Sir James said in confidence to Lady Danby that night, precisely what Dr Grayson said to Helen-- "They never shall be companions if I can help it. I don't like that boy." Over the dessert, too, Sir James managed to upset Dexter's equanimity by an unlucky speech, which brought the colour to the boy's cheeks. "By the way, young fellow," he said, "I had that old friend of yours up before me, about a month ago, for the second time." Dexter looked at him with a troubled look, and Sir James went on, as he sipped his claret. "You know--Bob Dimsted. Terrible young blackguard. Always poaching. Good thing if they had a press-gang for the army, and such fellows as he were forced to serve." It was at breakfast the next morning that the doctor waited till Dexter had left the table, and then turned to Helen-- "I shall not forgive Danby that unkind remark," he said. "I could honestly do it now, and say, `There, sir, I told you I could make a gentleman out of any material that I liked to select; and I've done it.' But no: I'll wait till Dexter has passed all his examinations at Sandhurst, and won his commission, and then--Yes, Maria--what is it!" "Letter, sir, from the Union," said Maria. "Humph! Dear me! What's this? Want me to turn guardian again, and I shall not. Eh, bless my heart! Well, well, I suppose we must." He passed the letter to Helen, and she read Mr Hippetts formal piece of diction, to the effect that one of the old inmates, a Mrs Curdley, was in a dying state, and she had several times asked to see the boy she had nursed--Obed Coleby. During the doctor's absence from the town the master had not felt that he could apply; but as Dr Grayson had returned, if he would not mind his adopted son visiting the poor old woman, who had been very kind to him as a child, it would be a Christian-like deed. "Yes; yes, of course, of course," said the doctor; and he called Dexter in. "Oh yes!" cried the lad, as he heard the request. "I remember all she did for me so well, and--and--I have never been to see her since." "My fault--my fault, my boy," said the doctor hastily. "There, we shall go and see her now." There were only two familiar faces for Dexter to encounter, first, namely, those of Mr Hippetts and the schoolmaster, both of whom expressed themselves as being proud to shake their old pupil's hand. Then they ascended to the infirmary, where the old nurse lay very comfortable and well cared for, and looking as if she might last for months. Her eyes lit up as she saw Dexter; and, when he approached, she held out her hand, and made him sit down beside her. "And growed such a fine chap!" she said, again and again. She had little more to say, beyond exacting a promise that he would come and see her once again, and when he was about to leave she put a small, dirty-looking, brown-paper packet in his hand. "There," she said. "I'd no business to, and he'd ha' took it away if he'd ha' known; but he didn't; and it's yours, for it was in your father's pocket when he come here and died." The "he" the poor old woman meant was the workhouse master, and the packet was opened in his presence, and found to contain a child's linen under-garment plainly marked--"Max Vanburgh, 12," and a child's highly-coloured toy picture-book, frayed and torn, and further disfigured by having been doubled in half and then doubled again, so that it would easily go in a man's pocket. It was the familiar old story of Little Red Riding-Hood, but the particular feature was an inscription upon the cover written in a delicate feminine hand-- "For my darling Max on his birthday, June 30th, 18--. Alice Vanburgh, The Beeches, Daneton." "But you told me the boy's father was a rough, drunken tramp, who died in the infirmary." "Yes, sir, I did," said Mr Hippetts, when he had a private interview with the doctor next day. "But it seems strange." "Very," said the doctor. Helen also agreed that it was very strange, and investigations followed, the result of which proved, beyond doubt, that Dexter Grayson, otherwise Obed Coleby, was really Maximilian Vanburgh, the son of Captain Vanburgh and Alice, his wife, both of whom died within two years of the day when, through the carelessness of a servant, the little fellow strayed away out through the gate and on to the high-road, where he was found far from home, crying, by the rough, tipsy scoundrel who passed that way. The little fellow's trouble appealed to what heart there was left in the man's breast, and he carried him on, miles away, careless as to whom he belonged to, and, day by day, further from the spot where the search was going on. The child amused him; and in his way he was kind to it, while the little fellow was of an age to take to any one who played with and petted him. Rewards and advertisements were vain, for they never reached the man's eyes, and his journeyings were on and on through a little-frequented part of the country, where it was nobody's business to ask a rough tramp how he came by the neglected-looking, ragged child, who clung to him affectionately enough. The little fellow was happy with him for quite three months, as comparison of dates proved, and what seemed strange became mere matter of fact--to wit, that Dexter was a gentleman by birth. All this took time to work out, but it was proved incontestably, the old nurse having saved all that the rough fellow had left of his little companion's belongings; and when everything was made plain, there was the fact that Dexter was an orphan, and that he had found a home that was all a boy could desire. "There, papa! what have you to say now?" said Helen to the doctor one day. "Say?" he said testily. "Danby will laugh at me when he knows, and declare my theory is absurd. I shall never finish that book." "But you will not try such an experiment again?" said Helen laughingly. Just then Dexter came in sight, bright, frank, and manly, and merrily whistling one of Helen's favourite airs. "No," said the doctor sharply; and then--"God bless him! Yes: if it was to be the making of such a boy as that!" THE END.