Stories jolly: stories new: stories strange & stories true
Author: H. C. Adams; R. M. Ballantyne; S. Baring-Gould; Fanny Barry; Frances Clare; Alice Corkran; George Manville Fenn; Agnes Giberne; Mrs. A. M. Goodhart; G. A. Henty; Katharine S. Macquoid; Mrs. Molesworth; Helen A. Wilmot-Buxton; Emma Wood; Charlotte M. Yonge
Date: 2025-05-22T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Children's stories; Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Stories jolly: stories new: stories strange & stories true

A series of new and original tales for boys and girls from six to fourteen years old

Author: H. C. Adams

R. M. Ballantyne

S. Baring-Gould

Fanny Barry

Frances Clare

Alice Corkran

George Manville Fenn

Agnes Giberne

Mrs. A. M. Goodhart

G. A. Henty

Katharine S. Macquoid

Mrs. Molesworth

Helen A. Wilmot-Buxton

Emma Wood

Charlotte M. Yonge

Release date: May 22, 2025 [eBook #76139]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Skeffington & Son, 1889

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES JOLLY: STORIES NEW: STORIES STRANGE & STORIES TRUE ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

Frontispiece                     Vide

Stories Jolly: Stories New:

Stories Strange & Stories True.

A SERIES OF NEW AND ORIGINAL TALES

FOR BOYS AND GIRLS

FROM SIX TO FOURTEEN YEARS OLD.

BY

H. C. ADAMS.            | AGNES GIBERNE.

R. M. BALLANTYNE.   | MRS. A. M. GOODHART.

S. BARING-GOULD.   | G. A. HENTY.

FANNY BARRY.          | KATHARINE S. MACQUOID.

FRANCES CLARE.      | MRS. MOLESWORTH.

ALICE CORKRAN.      | HELEN WILMOT-BUXTON.

G. MANVILLE FENN.  | EMMA WOOD.

CHARLOTTE M.YONGE.

London:

SKEFFINGTON & SON, 163, PICCADILLY, W.

——

1889.

Preface.

————

THE EDITOR desires to place on record his sincere acknowledgments to the many eminent Authors who have contributed to this Volume, and to express a hope that the Stories will prove a source of much pleasure to the Boys and Girls for whom they have been written.

It will be seen that, with two or three exceptions, Fairy Tales have not been included in the Collection.

CONTENTS.

————

TITLE. AUTHOR'S NAME.

THE FOUNTAIN ANGEL ... ... Fanny Barry

A GALLANT RESCUE ... ... R. M. Ballantyne

CHAPTER I. AT PLAY.

CHAPTER II. AT WORK.

JACKIE'S NEW DODGE ... ... Agnes Giberne

JOAN'S ADVENTURE ... ... Katharine S. Macquoid

TRUE TO HER CHARGE ... ... G. A. Henty

CHRISTMAS EVE WITH BRUIN ... Frances Clare

PEA BLOSSOM ... ... ... Alice Corkran

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

HOW THE STARLING CAUGHT COLD Geo. Manville Fenn

CHÉRI'S SECOND ESCAPADE ... Mrs. Molesworth

NEIGH-BOUR'S FARE ... ... C. M. Yonge

THE GIANT FISHERS OF HERTZENBERG

... ... ... Mrs. A. M. Goodhart

HUGHIE'S MISTAKE ... ... H. C. Adams

THE FOX FAMILY ... ... Fanny Barry

THE STORY OF A SILVER PADLOCK Mrs. A. M. Goodhart

TWO CHURCH MICE ... ... Emma Wood

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

THE NEW MASTER ... ... S. Baring-Gould

PETER ... ... ... ... Fanny Barry

SANTA KLAUS ... ... ... Helen Wilmot-Buxton

WATTIE AND THE WOLVES ... Frances Clare

STORIES JOLLY: STORIES NEW:

STORIES STRANGE & STORIES TRUE.

The Fountain Angel.

BY FANNY BARRY.

————————

IT was called the Orange Garden, and in the middle stood a beautiful fountain. The water flowed from a horn held in the hands of a child-figure carved in marble, and fell down with a soft plash into a fluted shell beneath.

Out of this it rippled again into a marble basin, round which the grass grew so green that the flower beds shone like jewels in a brilliant setting.

Great orange trees, in tubs, stood on each side of the path that led from the old red-roofed Palace to the fountain, and white benches, with banks of flowering plants behind them.

In the summer evenings many of the townspeople came and walked in the garden, enjoying the soft air and listening to the murmur of the fountain, whilst their children played round the stone basin and, as they looked up at the marble child, wondered how it felt to be so high up, and to sit so still, so very still, all day! Was his little hand never tired of holding the great horn?

And then, when the twilight fell, and the stars peeped out one by one, the moon shone softly, and the scent of the orange flowers filled the air—was he not very lonely there; was he not afraid?

He never seemed frightened, for a smile dimpled his baby face; and old, old people told their grandchildren that he had always been the same.

"He can never change," they said; "he is like one of the little angels." So the children called him the "Fountain Angel."

Now the Fountain Angel had many friends, and the chief of them all was Herminé, a poor little lame girl, who lived with her grandfather, Bernhardt, in the grey stone cottage just outside the Orange Garden: old Bernhardt was one of the Duke's gardeners, and Herminé had lived with him ever since she was a baby. She could remember no other relations, and as she could not run about and play with the other children, she had made her only friend, playmate, and confidant of the marble Fountain Angel, and she spent all her spare minutes happily by his side.

One evening, late in the summer, old Bernhardt lay ill in his cottage, and the moon was shining brightly over the Orange Garden before Herminé came through the iron-scrolled gates with the slow tap, tap, of her little crutch-stick, and seated herself wearily on the grass beside the fountain.

"I must wait here till I am rested, and then I shall creep in so that I do not wake poor grandfather," she said to herself; but somehow the air was so warm, and she had been working so hard all day, that she fell asleep—a little round ball of blue homespun—with her head against a cold marble pillow.

It must have been many hours later that the child awoke with a start, wondering where she was, and why her bed had suddenly become so hard.

It was bright moonlight. She rubbed her eyes, jumped up with the help of her crutch-stick, and walked slowly round the fountain.

The water splashed in the moonbeams, the shell and the rocks that supported it shone in the soft light—but the Fountain Angel was gone!

Herminé stood with her eyes growing round with astonishment. Gone! Had someone stolen him whilst she was asleep? Had the earth opened and swallowed him up? What, what had become of him?

*       *        *       *        *       *

"Are you looking for me, little friend?" said a child voice at her elbow.

She turned quickly, and there in the path stood the missing Fountain Angel.

He carried a watering-can in his little hand, and his face was so sweet and child-like that Herminé quite forgot to be frightened, and found herself sitting down by his side on one of the white benches by the orange trees before she realized what she was doing.

"You are wondering why I am here, little Herminé," he said, as he slipped his hand confidingly into hers, and looked up at her with soft grey eyes. "You do not know that every night as the clock strikes one I have the gift of life bestowed upon me, and can descend to earth to be indeed the good angel of the fountain.

"This power was given me as a reward for the faithful labours of my master, the great sculptor who, many, many, years ago, designed and wrought me from a block of purest marble, and then presented me as an offering to the town in which he was born. So faithfully had he loved and studied Nature, and so truly had he used his powers for noble ends, that his last prayer was granted him; and he died happily, knowing that I should be allowed to carry on his good deeds and loving care for others.

"For the last hundred years I have tried faithfully to fulfil his wishes. I have carried water to fill the buckets and tubs of all the good neighbours round the Orange Garden; I have watered the gardens of all those who were poor or busy; I have brought fresh life to the plants and flowers."

Herminé had listened to the Fountain Angel with absorbed interest; now she seized her crutch-stick, and jumped from her seat eagerly.

"Oh, let me help you!" she cried. "I know I can never work as well as other children, because I am lame; but 'please' teach me to be useful, and show me what I can do!"

"Yes, you shall help me, little friend," said the marble child. "Poor old Bernhardt is too old now to water his garden himself, so I do it every night for him, and you shall help."

He put a watering-can into Herminé's hand exactly like the one he carried himself, and when she had once filled it at the fountain she noticed that it always remained full of bubbling water.

So there they worked together, the little girl and the Fountain Angel. In and out amongst the banks of flowering bushes tapped Herminé's crutch, and in and out darted the white form of the marble child, whilst a beautiful scent of fresh, moist earth and orange bloom rose upon the air.

The stars shone down softly upon the little pair, and Herminé's heart was filled with joy as she thought how happy she was to be allowed to share in such a good work!

"And now, little friend, you must go home and sleep," said the Fountain Angel, "for I have to carry water to the houses of all the sick and poor in the town. You could not help me there, I have to go and come so quickly. Before you go bathe your lame foot in the fountain; its water has a gift of healing. Good-bye! To-morrow we shall meet again."

He waved his hand affectionately towards Herminé, and disappeared through the iron-scrolled gates.

Left alone, she sat dabbling her foot in the cool waters of the fountain, and thinking over all that the marble child had told her, till the clock in the Palace Tower struck three, and she started as she realized how late it was!

She pulled on her little wooden-soled shoes, and hurried to her grandfather's cottage, letting herself in as gently as she could, so that she might not disturb him.

He was still sleeping quietly; and as soon as Herminé's little tired head touched the pillow she also was in the land of dreams.

Old Bernhardt grew rapidly better, and was pleased and surprised, on his first visit to the Orange Garden, to find that everything was in perfect order, and the ground fresh and moist, as though just watered by a heavy shower.

"How thick the dews have fallen," he said to Herminé, as he seated himself contentedly on one of the white benches. "It is a happy thing for me, for it would have tired my old back sorely to begin to water the orange tubs this morning."

Herminé smiled with delight, and nodded towards the Fountain Angel. She would have liked to laugh out loud, but reflected that her grandfather might ask what amused her.

"Really it all looks very well, considering the time of year," mused the old gardener. "I might just do a little sweeping up, and then leave it. It is wonderful how heavy the dews are now the autumn comes on."

Herminé left her grandfather with a broom in his hand, and went back again to the little cottage.

She worked very hard to keep everything clean and neat, and that day her foot felt lighter and more easily moved than she could ever remember it.

"Oh, I wonder if the Fountain Angel will really cure me," she said to herself, as she scrubbed away at the black chest in which she and her grandfather kept their Sunday clothing. "How beautiful it would be to be able to run about like other children—how beautiful!"

Again that evening Herminé went into the Orange Garden, and for many evenings after; helping the Fountain Angel in his work, and bathing her lame foot in the healing water.

Her grandfather noticed, with astonishment, that she had put aside her crutch-stick, and before very long she was able to run about as merrily as any of the children she used to long to play with on the grass by the marble Fountain.

*       *        *       *        *       *

It is many, many years ago now, since little Herminé grew well and strong, and went away to a new country, where children with blue eyes like her own clustered round her knee in the soft summer twilight, but the Orange Garden remains unchanged.

The scent of flowers still fills the air; the water drips with the same soothing splash into the marble basin, and there, with his old sweet smile, stands the marble figure of the "Fountain Angel."

A Gallant Rescue.

BY R. M. BALLANTYNE,

AUTHOR OF "THE LIFEBOAT, A TALE OF OUR COAST HEROES;"
"FIGHTING THE FLAMES, A TALE OF THE LONDON FIRE BRIGADE;"
"THE LIGHTHOUSE, OR THE STORY OF A GREAT FIGHT
BETWEEN MAN AND THE SEA," &c.

————————

CHAPTER I.

AT PLAY.

IT was a pleasant day about the beginning of April; a bright, warm, jovial day, such as one wishes would last all the year round; a day that tells of winter past, and gives assurance that summer is really about to come.

The fisher boys and girls of Brindleport romped on the beach with unquenchable ardour; the men busied themselves about their boats, and the women about their nets and bait, in a supremely contented frame of mind. Even the crabs seemed to be filled with the spirit of joyous activity, for, as Dan Barcombe said, they scuttled about from pool to pool as if it were a cleaning-up day in their domestic arrangements, and displayed more than their wonted readiness to raise their claws in fight—not an unknown condition in those who have much to do with cleaning-up days!

Daniel Barcombe was the coxswain of the lifeboat. He flung wide the doors of his boat-house on that day and went to work with a will on sundry small repairs. Barcombe was proud of his boat. If the boat had possessed a mind of its own it would have been equally proud of its coxswain, for he was a stalwart, lion-like man, of herculean frame, with simple thoughts and tastes, and a modest spirit. Many a time had his great muscular strength and daring been the means, at critical moments, of saving his boat from destruction on the Black Rocks outside the port.

"Are you going out to-day, Dan?" asked a soft, sweet voice of the coxswain, who was admiring the white and blue boat which, resting on its carriage, towered high over his head.

"Not to-day, Master Edwin," answered Barcombe, looking down at his questioner with a kindly smile. "There's never no wrecks goes on of a fine day like this."

"Of course not," returned the boy, with thoughtful gravity; "but you might be going out for exercise, you know."

"That's true, lad; but as we go out for exercise only once a quarter, we always choose the worst weather we can lay hold on. It 'ud be useless, d'ye see, to launch her an' pull out in fine weather; any cockleshell could do that safe enough. I like best when the wind's i' the nor'east, blowin' fit to cut the nose off your face, an' breakers thunderin' on the shore. I've seed it that rough, sometimes, that when we was out for exercise a wessel has drove on the Black Rocks, an' we've had to turn our exercise into action. Your father, when he was our Local Superintendent, used to take an oar sometimes for amusement at our quarterly exercises, for he was a splendid seaman, he was, and it was on one o' them occasions, when we was called unexpected to a wreck, that he lost his life through the fallin' of a block-tackle on his head. He laid down his life, as your dear mother says sometimes, to 'rescue the perishin'',—but I've told ye o' that many a time."

"Tell it again, Dan. I like to hear of it; I never tire of it. I do like to think of saving people's lives. It must be such grand work, as of course you know, for you have done it so often."

Edwin Boyne looked up admiringly at his herculean friend with glowing eyes and flushed countenance.

"Well, yes; through God's blessin' I 'have' helped to save a few lives in my day; an' you'll do the same, too, Master Edwin, if you live, for you're a reg'lar chip o' the old block."

"What 'is' a chip of the old block?" asked the boy, seriously.

The coxswain laughed as he replied, and tried to explain the expression in language so exceedingly nautical that Edwin was not much wiser. Then he proceeded to describe, by no means for the first time, the terrible storm in which the boy's father had been killed, while out rescuing the crew of a stranded schooner.

Edwin listened intently—we might almost say with eyes as well as with ears. He was a noble-looking little fellow, with not a particle of "brag" about him. His heroic aspirations had nothing to do with the wish to appear brave or manly. Being both, he never thought of appearances.

"I should like 'so' much to go off to a wreck with you," he said, when the coxswain had finished his narrative. "Don't you think I might, if nurse gave me leave to go. I'm quite sure that mother would if she were at home, for she always lets me do whatever I want. I could put on father's old life-belt, you know, and though I'm not yet strong enough to pull an oar, I could steer, perhaps. At any rate I could sit still and keep out of your way."

This cool proposal, delivered in an earnest voice and with a very appealing look, took Daniel Barcombe so much aback that he simply gazed at Edwin in mute surprise.

"Well now, my boy," he said slowly, "I rather think that your mother 'would' object—"

"Oh no, she wouldn't! I'm quite 'sure' of that," interrupted Edwin, anxiously.

The amiable coxswain was much perplexed. He was extremely fond of the boy, and knew that the liking was mutual, so that he shrank from the blighting of hopes and aspirations that were evidently very strong.

"You know well, my little man," he said, after a pause, "that I would do anything in reason to please you, but your mother not bein' here, an' your nurse bein' left in command o' the ship, so to speak, she might object, dee see?"

"When nurse does not agree with mother, I don't care about her objecting," said Edwin decisively.

There was no tone of threat or rebellion in this remark. It was quietly made as a mere statement of the condition of his mind.

"Besides," he continued, "we expect mother back by to-night's steamer, so I won't need to ask leave of nurse."

"Right you are, lad, for when the cap'en's aboard it's the first officer's dooty to play second fiddle; but I'm afeard—indeed I'm sure—that our noo Superintendent wouldn't let you go—not bein' one o' the reg'lar lifeboat crew, you know; but the day's comin', you may be sartin sure, when they'll be only too glad to get men like you to pull an oar in the lifeboat—so don't be cast down."

"Thank you, Barcombe, for saying that; but if my mother gives me leave to go, your new Superintendent has no right to forbid me; so, as mother and you are both willing, I will go in spite of him. Now I must leave you, for it's about lunch time. Good-bye, Barcombe."

Edwin Boyne—known at home as Eddy—held out his tiny hand to the lifeboat coxswain, who grasped it tenderly in a fist which his comrades were wont to compare to a shoulder of mutton.

"Good-bye, Master Edwin, an' don't dream about wrecks to-night, for the weather's settled down for a calm spell. An' don't get impatient. Why, you'll be a man a'most afore you know where you are, so keep up heart, my boy."

"I will," replied the urchin, walking gravely away, with the expression on his fair young face of one whose mind is firmly made up.

"Nurse, hand me down father's old life-belt, please," said Edwin, when he got home.

The obedient woman did as she was bid, and assisted the child to tie it on.

"Rather too big for me 'just now!'" he said, looking down at the mass of cork in which he was encased from the neck nearly to the knees. Then he looked solemnly up into nurse's face.

"Yes, Master Eddy, it 'is' a little too big; but you'll fill it some day."

With this comforting assurance the good woman sent him off to the day nursery, where he turned a table upside down, got into it, and, using the shovel as an oar, proceeded off to a wreck, where he spent the remainder of that day rescuing innumerable people from the raging sea, issuing stern commands to his lifeboat crew, encouraging timid women, quieting terrified children, and otherwise acting the part of a true hero.

CHAPTER II.

AT WORK.

AS the opinions of doctors are not always correct, so the judgments of nautical men are not invariably sure.

Daniel Barcombe was wrong when he said that the weather had settled down for a calm spell. On the contrary, the weather had made up its mind that very day to go in for one of those short, wild bursts of fury which arise sometimes, even in the midst of summer, to the discomfiture of the weather-wise.

It began with a very sultry afternoon, which induced the fisher boys to cast off their few garments and take to the water as to their native element. Then the sky became coppery in appearance, a mysterious haze seemed to settle down on the sleeping sea, and several dark cloud-banks on the horizon mounted up to the zenith before evening closed. Suddenly a flash of lightning burst through the increasing darkness; at the same time a hissing squall tore up the surface of the sea, and a prolonged peal of thunder shook the windows of the day nursery, where Edwin Boyne was still engaged in rescue work.

The boy jumped out of his table-lifeboat and ran to the window. The sea was already like indigo, with snow-white streaks all over it. There was just light enough for him to see that.

"Where are you, Master Eddy?" shouted the somewhat timid nurse, from the regions below.

"All right," shouted Eddy in reply. "I'm just going out to rescue the perishing from the billows of the raging deep."

Of course the boy was quoting, but he was thoroughly in earnest. Nurse thought he was referring to his play.

"That's right," she cried, "save as many as you can; be brave, and do your best."

"Yes, nurse, I will."

Saying this, he descended to the front door, and went out wearing his cork jacket.

It had grown unusually dark by that time, so that he could not see the other side of the street, but being familiar with the town, he had no fear of losing his way even in the dark; besides, the dull roar of the breakers was of itself a sufficient guide to the beach. Rain was now falling in torrents, but the houses as yet protected him from the wind.

On turning the corner of the street, however, Edwin was caught by the blast in its full force and fury. He failed to resist it sufficiently, and was swept away in the wrong direction like a leaf in autumn. Fortunately for him a fat old woman chanced to be in the line of his flight. She was holding on to a paling with one hand, and to the wreck of an inverted umbrella with the other. Eddy plunged into her like a shot into a bale of cotton, but she was a strong old woman and stood the shock bravely.

"Marcy on us," she gasped, "what be that?"

"Oh! I 'beg' your pardon," began Eddy, but before he could utter another word the wind burst on them with fresh violence; the old woman lost her hold of the paling—also of the wrecked umbrella—and went off like a Dutch galliot under full sail. Eddy never saw her more!

"Impossible to rescue 'her,'" he muttered, gravely, as he held tight to the paling, "besides, she's in no danger from the sea."

With this comforting reflection he turned himself shoreward again, and, at the next lull, recommenced his struggle, with lips compressed and head bent low. By slow degrees he worked his way to the shore. Several people passed him on the way—running as best they could—and one or two tumbled over him, but, gathering themselves up with exclamations that were not apologetic, they ran on. It was too dark to see anything more than two yards in front of the eyes.

By intimate knowledge of the locality—rather than by sight—the boy reached the lifeboat house. He found, as he had hoped and expected, that the crew were busy getting the boat out. A number of men, and even one or two women and boys, were standing outside, looking on and ready to lend a hand. A few lanterns were carried about by them, which did little more than render darkness visible.

"What is it?" asked a woman who had just arrived.

"A wessel on the Black Rocks only just begun to signal," roared a fisherman, for nothing short of a roar could be heard.

Eddy waited for no more. That was enough. He slipped quietly past the eager men, reached the inner end of the boat-house, which was dark at the moment, scrambled up the side of the boat and plunged recklessly into the bottom of it, for he heard the voice of the Local Superintendent just then urging the men to make haste, though neither Dan Barcombe nor his men required urging. Eddy's plunge did him no harm, for his little body was protected by the great cork jacket, and a piece of tarpaulin chanced to receive his head. Seizing this latter, he covered himself with it, and thrust himself under the nearest thwart.

"Now then, haul 'er out and jump in, lads!" shouted the coxswain.

The boat on her carriage was run out with a cheer by the crowd, and in another moment the crew, in sou'westers, oilskins, and cork jackets, sprang on board, sat down and grasped the oars. Thus they were run down the steep shore, and thrust as far as possible into the seething water. Then the launching ropes were hauled, and the boat almost leaped from her carriage into the sea. Her crew dipped the oars, and strained like men who know that the first few strokes are critical. Miss a stroke or steer wrong at first, and the boat might be hurled back or rolled over and wrecked on the beach. In his energy the man who sat on the thwart just above Edwin drew back his foot and kicked the poor boy on the chest with his great heel,—a blow which would have broken his delicate ribs but for the cork jacket. As it was he received no damage, but next moment he gasped with cold, for the first wave they met went clean over the boat, not only drenching but almost choking him. He knew well, however, that the discharge tubes would empty the boat in a few seconds, so he held his breath and gripped the legs of the man above him.

That man was brave. Many a time had he faced the dangers of the lifeboat service with unflinching courage, but when he felt himself suddenly gripped round the leg, as he afterwards said, by a sea monster o' some sort, his heart went slap into his throat, an' all his inn'ards seemed to run to warm water!

He did not dare to stop rowing however to see what it was, and he could not shake off the "sea monster," though he tried hard. On getting out to sea, however, the longer swell in deep water enabled him to miss a stroke or two, seize the monster, haul it forth, and hurl it from him. There was just light enough to enable him to see that when it uncoiled itself and stood up, the monster was a small human being! The coxswain looked close into its face, and, with a gasp of mingled surprise and consternation, ejaculated—

"Edwin Boyne! Hallo, Bill, make him fast with a rope! Sit down on the floor, boy!"

Edwin had often heard Barcombe say that the chief virtue in lifeboat-men was prompt obedience, resolved to act his part well, he plumped at once into the sitting posture.

"Here, coil that round your arm and waist, and hold on for life!" cried Bill, casting the end of a rope to the boy, who again obeyed with lightning speed.

It was a terrible night, and what the boat had hitherto gone through was as nothing to what she experienced when the turmoil of water round the Black Rocks was entered.

A vessel was aground on the seaward edge of these rocks. She was fast breaking up, and only part of one mast could be seen swaying wildly to and fro against the sky. It did not take long after that to pull to windward, cast anchor, and ease off the cable until the lifeboat could drop down under the lee of the wreck.

Then, as they swung swiftly in and got near enough, they could see by the light of the blazing remnants of a tar-barrel, that a number of blanched faces were gazing wildly at them over the bulwarks. Gruff voices were heard shouting, but no word could be made out because of the whistling wind, lashing cordage, and roaring, hissing, leaping sea. It was seen that there were females on the wreck.

"I do believe it's the steamer!" said the coxswain to Bill, as he skilfully steered the boat alongside.

"Look-out for the women," shouted a deep voice from above.

"Ay, ay," responded eager voices from below. "Send 'em down."

Just then a female form was seen to swing out from the ship high in air as the boat sank into the trough of the waves. Next moment a sea raised the boat, "let go!" was sharply shouted, and a woman with a child—from which they had been unable to separate her—dropped close to Edwin and almost crushed him.

"Here!" cried our little hero jumping up and unwinding the rope that held him, "coil that round your arm and waist, and hold on—for life!"

"Sit down!" growled Bill, sternly.

True as steel to duty, Edwin sat down and watched, with intense feelings and in silence, while two more women were rescued, and several men lowered themselves into the boat by ropes hanging from spars. In this attempt some fell into the sea, but were grasped and hauled inboard. Then another female was seen to swing off from the side while the boat was dropping away from her. At the same moment a rope from the wreck caught a projection of the lifeboat close to Bill, and held it so that in another moment the side of the swaying hull would probably have come down on it and crushed them all.

"Clear that rope, Bill!" cried Barcombe in a tone that betrayed the urgency of the case.

But Bill was standing up with outstretched arms ready to receive the woman.

Seeing this Edwin sprang up, exerted all his strength, and unhooked the rope from the projection that had caught it. The boat immediately sheered off, leaving the woman again swinging while it sank away from her. The poor creature uttered an irrepressible scream on observing this.

Edwin Boyne's blood seemed to curdle when he heard that scream.

"Mother!" he cried, starting up.

Another intensified scream was the reply, and Mrs. Boyne, absolutely falling into her son's extended arms, carried him headlong to the bottom of the boat—fortunately without receiving damage, for Bill, having slipped his foot in his gallant efforts, had conveniently placed his burly body there in time to receive them.

"No bones broken I hope, ma'am?" enquired Bill, with a discomfited look.

"No, none, thank God," exclaimed Mrs. Boyne fervently, as she clasped Eddy in her arms—unutterably amazed but quite content to know that her boy was safe.—What! "safe," with the wreck crashing alongside, and the wild winds shrieking, and the foaming billows filling the boat at every rush? Ay, safe, because "in the lifeboat!"

Oh! it was a grand sight to see—by the light of the moon which had struggled through the driving clouds as if it were personally anxious to witness the scene—the eager faces which lined the jetty at Brindleport that night when the lifeboat came in from the seaward darkness, as if from out of the shades of Erebus, with a flag at her masthead in token of success, her crew exhausted yet re-invigorated by the strength that comes of joy, and with twenty rescued human beings packed like herrings in a barrel on her floor!

And it was thrilling to listen to the cheer that burst forth when Dan Barcombe, standing up in the stern and holding the tiller, put his hand to his mouth and shouted as they flew past "All saved!" with a roar that put to very shame the howlings of the storm.

But it was more than thrilling, it was almost appalling, to behold the cadaverous face and expression of poor nurse, when, after a long futile and exhaustive search for Eddy, she at last sat down in the vacant nursery and wrung her hands in abject despair. Yet equally striking, though indescribable, was the expression of that same face when—having run on in advance of the procession that brought Mrs. Boyne home—Eddy entered the nursery, looking, in the cork jacket, like a cask with a head, arms, and legs attached to it, and said in his own grave, quiet manner:—

"Well, nurse, I've been out with the lifeboat, and I've done my best—I've helped to rescue mother!"

*       *        *       *        *       *

Years have passed since then, and the Brindleport lifeboat is still in active service, but Dan Barcombe and Bill are now on the retired list, fighting their battles o'er again by the fire-side, and reaping the advantages of a useful, self-sacrificing life in a hale and hearty old age. Nurse is similarly situated, though in a totally different line of life—yet, after all, is there not some sort of analogy between the gales of nature and the squalls of the nursery?

Little Eddy, however, is gone—gone for ever! He has been long since supplanted by a big, lion-like man named Edwin Boyne, Esq., Local Superintendent of the Brindleport Branch of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, who is celebrated for having saved the lives of more human beings than any man in the town, and for retaining that grave, modest, yet indomitable enthusiasm which urged him, when yet a boy, to go out in the lifeboat and do his best by helping to rescue mother in the days gone by.

Jackie's New Dodge.

BY AGNES GIBERNE,

AUTHOR OF "SUN, MOON, AND STARS," "MISS CON," &c.

————————

"I'M so awfully glad Jackie's coming to-day! Oh, so awfully glad!" sang out Algie Leigh, in a vigorous monotone, during the process of morning hair brushing. "So aw—fully—glad! Don't, nurse! I wish you wouldn't twist that horrid little curl in front! Jackie doesn't wear a curl."

"Now, Master Algie, you'll please stand still and not fidget. Your ma says—"

"She isn't my ma! Fellows don't say 'Ma!' Jackie doesn't! And I don't want my hair made curly. Jackie will laugh at me."

"Let them laugh as wins," nurse answered oracularly. "If all the brushes in all the world was used on Master Jack's hair, it wouldn't curl—no more than the poker."

"I wish mine wouldn't! I hate curliness for a boy," said Algie. "I'm nine years old now, and it's time to leave off that sort of rubbish. I'll ask mother if I can't begin to have my hair straight like Jackie's. He's only ten—at least, I mean eleven—and he hasn't been curly, oh, for years and years and years! Not for hundreds of years."

"A likely story!" nurse said.

"Well, you know what I mean. Nurse, I can't stand still any longer. I 'must' wriggle. I want so awfully for twelve o'clock to come! Jackie's sure to have some awfully nice new dodge; and I do want to know what it is. It's no use your brushing away like that. My hair will all go anywhere by the time I'm downstairs. There!"

Algie tore himself from nurse's grasp, and bounced down on the nearest bed, where he lay kicking; not in a temper, but merely as a vent to excitement. He was tremendously excited at the thought of seeing Jackie. Perhaps this was not surprising; for where Jackie might be, dulness was a thing impossible.

"There!" nurse echoed in a very different tone. "Well, you know what 'that' means! I've just got to do it all over again."

"O Algie, do be good! The bell will ring directly," pleaded May, the sweetest and most lovable of all his four pretty dainty little sisters, who stood in their thick white frocks, anxiously regarding his movements. The one boy in a family of five was an object of much solicitude. He really was a very nice boy, good-tempered and merry, almost girlishly pretty, and just a little apt to be girlish in some of his ways, from being brought up entirely among girls. But when Jackie appeared on the scene, Algie always developed at once into what he at least considered to be the full-blown boy.

May was one year older than Algie, and Annie was two years older still; while Lou and the youngest, still called Baby, were only seven and five. So Algie occupied a middle position between two pairs of sisters.

"Won't ring for half-an-hour yet," Algie answered, bumping his head vigorously into the pillow, by way of preliminary practice for Jackie. "O I say, won't it be jolly fun? Jackie's always got a new dodge every time. Don't you want awfully bad to know what it'll be? Oh—I say!"

Ring-a-ding-ding-ding-ding-dong! sounded the breakfast-bell, bringing Algie to his feet with a dismayed spring. The Leighs were a punctual family.

"Come, Lou! Come, Baby! We mustn't wait," said Annie.

"May! May! Stop a moment," cried Algie distractedly, finding himself anew in nurse's grasp. "O do hurry, do hurry-scurry; just one brush—that'll do—never mind the front curl for once. Nurse, let me go!" And with a flying leap Algie was down the first short flight, leaving May in his rear. He waited for her below, however, and they raced across the hall just in time.

The only remark made upon Algie's appearance was by a cousin-visitor, given to teasing. "Why, Algie, what has become of that natty little arrangement on your forehead? Nurse must have overslept herself for once!"

Algie grew very red, and wished people would remember that he was a "fellow," not a mere girl.

*       *        *       *        *       *

Twelve o'clock came, and the five children watched anxiously through their playroom window for Jackie's arrival. Summer holidays were now in full swing, the governess being away; and if only it had been a fine morning they would all have been out in the garden. But alas, even August days are sometimes chilly and wet, and the rain had come down pitilessly since half-past ten. "No going out" was decreed.

Algie begged in vain for a reversal of the sentence. Jackie never stayed in for the rain, and why must he? But this is a kind of logic which grown-up people somehow never will accept. Algie was given to catching cold, they said, and Jackie was not, which made all the difference. Algie held that it made no difference at all, because he was perfectly certain not to catch cold on that particular day; but all the same he had to submit.

Grievances were forgotten when Jackie appeared. He was welcomed with a shout of delight, which he received calmly as his right. Jackie was a particularly calm and cool sort of boy; always fully aware what he meant to do, and bent on doing it; but not apt to get into excited states like Algie. He strolled in carelessly, with a hand in either pocket and a general air of middle-aged indifference to surroundings, seated himself in the most comfortable chair present, and whistled.

"What's the new dodge, Jackie?" burst out the admiring Algie, who always watched and, as far as possible, imitated every motion of Jackie's. Next time he went to see a friend he would stroll leisurely in, take the best chair, and whistle a subdued tune.

"New dodge!" repeated Jackie, with an absent air.

"Yes, the new dodge! Why, you always have one, every time you come to see us," cried eager Algie. "Last time it was ropes—don't you remember?—and the time before it was toffy—and the time before—oh, I don't know what that was, but of course you've got something to-day. Because it rains, and we—and the girls can't go out, and we're going to have fun indoors. Haven't you got another new dodge?"

Jack nodded in a bland and mysterious fashion, whereupon Algie threw himself about the room in an agony of delight.

"I've taken to doctoring," Jackie announced composedly.

"Doctoring!" gasped Algie, with a recollection of rhubarb and castor oil.

"Will you doctor our dolls, Jackie?" asked May's soft voice. May was a particular chum of Jackie's. He liked to patronize, and she was willing to be patronized.

"Dolls!" Jackie repeated, with ineffable disdain.

"But you don't really and truly mean you've doctored live people," objected Algie.

"I pulled out a fellow's tooth the other day," declared Jackie, in his mildest tone. "Gave him sixpence to let me do it." Jack did not think it needful to add that there had been a considerable stir in consequence—the aggrieved father making a formal complaint to the master of the school, which had resulted in a severe admonition to Jackie to refrain from further tooth-drawing.

"Was it a loose tooth?" asked May.

"Tight as a drum," said Jack.

"But you won't pull 'our' teeth out," murmured May.

"Of course he won't. Nobody will let him," said Annie.

Then Mrs. Leigh came in with a plateful of cake, and for the moment attention was diverted from Jackie's dentistry. "Are you all very hungry?" she asked. "It is raining so hard, I am afraid you must be content with indoor games this morning. What happy children you are to have a nice big playroom all to yourselves."

Algie thought that to be allowed to play in the rain and mud would make a much happier child of him; still the plateful of cake was consoling, and even Jackie's eyes glistened.

"Luncheon may be rather late to-day," Mrs. Leigh went on. "Your father and I have a call to pay on an old friend, after taking your cousin to the station, and that may delay us till half-past one. But you will not starve, after this!" and she smiled. "Mind you are all good children, and don't quarrel. There are plenty of toys and pictures for Jackie to see."

Jackie had no particular affection for picture-books, but cake was quite in his line; and he came in for the lion's share of the supply. Ten minutes passed happily; and the brougham was seen to drive away from the front door. After which nurse appeared, and walked off the reluctant Baby to her mid-day sleep. Annie obediently brought out a pile of new picture-books, and Jackie tossed over a few indifferently.

"Stupid things, pictures!" he said. "Can't think why anybody ever makes them."

"Oh, but pictures are so nice," protested May.

"Nice enough for girls," said Jackie; and Algie at once felt desperately ashamed of having always liked pictures.

"I thought you'd have had a nice new dodge," he said wistfully to Jack.

"So I have," Jackie answered, brightening up, and pushing the picture-books aside. "Let's play at doctoring."

"But I don't want to have my tooth drawn," murmured Algie.

"Doctors don't draw teeth. Only dentists do that," said Annie.

"And I don't like pills nor castor oil neither," complained Algie.

Jackie pulled slowly from his pocket a small leathern case.

"That's my medicine chest," he announced. "I have got no pills, nor castor oil. I've got a lot of millions, because they look like those sugar globules that uncle John gulps down and calls medicine. We'll all have sugar globules first."

"And not castor oil after?" asked May, suspicious of so mild a beginning.

"Not castor oil at all," said Jack.

"Why, of course not. We are all quite well. We don't want medicine," observed Annie.

"You're well now, but you mightn't be well to-morrow. I am going to doctor you beforehand," said Jackie, with the confidence of a genuine quack. "Besides," he added, as a brilliant idea came up, "if we don't want to be doctored, we can try experiments. That's the jolliest fun of all."

"Must there be explosions?" asked May.

"O dear me, no. Not that sort of experiments. Not burning gases, and making loud pops," said Jack. "I've got an awfully jolly new dodge." He helped the party round to a fresh supply of "millions," and proceeded further to extract from the leather case a small stoppered bottle.

"Mind, you are not to tell anybody what I'm going to show you now. It's the jolliest stuff you ever heard of. It sends a fellow to sleep in the middle of the day, all in a moment. I vote we go to sleep."

"All of us?" demanded Algie.

"Oh, one at a time. Not all together. That wouldn't be fun," said Jackie.

"What's the stuff called?" asked prudent Annie.

Jack held up the bottle for inspection. "Got no name you see," he said. He thought Annie might know the word, and might take fright. "It's awfully funny going to sleep. Who'll try first?"

"Not me," Algie said promptly.

"Nor me, nor May, nor Lou," said Annie. "Mother doesn't like us to drink things, if we don't know what they are."

"You haven't got to drink. It's only to sniff up—whiff! —and you're off—pop—sound asleep. The best fun in all the world," declared Jackie.

The children were getting interested. There was something fascinating about the idea.

But Annie's conscience was not easy. "I shall go and ask nurse," she said.

"And wake up Baby!" said Algie.

"No: I'll be quiet."

Jackie looked up, read resolution in Annie's face, and forthwith marched to the door. In an instant he had turned the key, and slipped it into his pocket.

"O Jackie, that is too bad. It's our house," Annie said, colouring.

"I'm not going to be interfered with," Jackie answered, in his calm middle-aged voice, and he walked back to the centre of the room. "Now, then, who'll take a whiff first?"

"I won't," Annie answered. She was vexed with Jackie, and suspicious of his mischief: yet in her heart she did feel just a little glad that it was not in her power to stop the fun.

"Who first?" repeated Jack.

Nobody answered.

"I'll tell you what! 'I'll' be the first," announced Jackie. "I'll go to sleep, and when I wake up somebody else must try."

No objections were made. Jack unstoppered the bottle, and with a great deal of fuss poured some of the liquid into a far from white pocket handkerchief. It did seem to Annie that most of the liquid somehow found its way to the carpet, but Jackie declared that all was right. He stoppered the bottle, tucked it away, put the case in his pocket, threw himself back into the easy-chair, and told Algie to hold the pocket handkerchief to his nose.

Dancing with delight, Algie obeyed; and before two seconds had gone by Jack showed every sign of coming sleep. His head dropped, his mouth opened, his breathing became loud and regular, and faint snores sounded. Algie took away the handkerchief, and whispered, giggling—"He's off!"

The four stood watching, open-eyed and intent!

"I wonder how soon he'll wake," whispered one.

"He looks very comfy," murmured another.

Jack's limbs hung loose and limp. The moments passed, and he snored on. Algie began to wax impatient. Moments seem long when one is waiting, and they were sure that Jack had been asleep an immense time. He showed no consciousness of the talk carried on around him. A very close observer might indeed have noted a suspicious quiver of one eyelid, and even a little gleam of grey moving under the lashes: but Algie and his sisters suspected nothing.

They were getting uneasy, and wondering if Jack meant to sleep the whole day, when he stirred, peeped, yawned, opened and shut his eyes, stretched himself, and drowsily sat up.

"Heigh-o! Breakfast-bell rung yet?" he asked, with another gape, and a most un-sleepy twinkle of the said eyes.

"Why, Jackie, it's the middle of the day," cried his innocent listeners.

"Middle—of—the—day! Dear me! I must have been quite sound asleep! Quite sound," declared the unblushing Jackie.

"You went off so fast, you can't think," said May. "Was it nice?"

"Lovely," declared Jack. "Like floating off among green clouds, you know." Jackie had heard this description from a lady who had taken chloroform, and it served his purpose. To be sure the said lady had sat in a room papered with green, which explained her half-sleeping fancy about "green clouds;" whereas the playroom had grey-washed walls. But Jackie never stuck at trifles.

"I 'should' like to float off among green clouds," murmured May, who was of an adventurous though timid nature.

"All right. You try next," said Jack, jumping up.

"I don't believe nurse would like it," objected Annie.

But Annie had the voice of the conclave against her.

Gentle May had a will of her own, and the green clouds sounded tempting, and what 'could' be the harm of so placid a sleep and so mild an awakening? The key was still in Jackie's pocket, and they could not ask nurse. Perhaps nobody really wished to do so. Trying experiments was great fun.

May held to her point, and still more Jackie held her to it. The one of them all most to blame was Jackie, for though only eleven years old, he did know the name and something of the nature of the liquid he held. He knew that chloroform was given to people by doctors to make them unconscious, when something very painful had to be done. He knew that patients had sometimes even died from taking chloroform. Of course he meant to be careful, and only to let May sniff just a little, but all the time he knew perfectly well that he was doing a very very wrong and foolish thing. His inquisitive mind liked to be always trying some new "dodge" as he called it, and the present opportunity was a great temptation. But Jack knew well enough that he had no business to give way to the temptation.

"Now, May, tuck up your feet, and make ready," he said, refusing to listen to the voice within, which cried to him to stop. "O there's no harm," he told himself.

May obeyed; and again Jackie poured some of the liquid on a pocket handkerchief. This time he did the business thoroughly. The cambric, and not the floor, was soaked.

"It's a queer smell," Algie remarked, and May said, "I like it!" Jack alone knew with what edged tools they were foolishly playing.

Still he went on—madly. He held the handkerchief to her face, and May shut her eyes, breathing up the strong scent.

Yes, she was going off—fast. Not so fast as Jackie had appeared to do, but somehow she seemed soon more genuinely asleep. There was one little feeble attempt at resistance, one effort to pull away the handkerchief, but Jackie held it firm, and May's little hand fell.

Sound asleep, and looking so peaceful. The children were greatly interested.

"She doesn't snore like Jackie," cried Algie.

"You'll wake her if you kick up such a row," declared Jack; but May did not stir.

They waited again, moment after moment, till the time seemed very long.

"Hasn't she slept enough?" asked Annie.

"Well, perhaps she has," admitted Jackie. "Suppose you give her a kiss."

Annie followed his advice, but there was no response. Jack pulled her by the hand, and it dropped as before, limp and helpless. Algie shouted in her ear, and May did not hear. She lay pale, still, with shut eyes, never stirring a finger.

"Stupid! She ought to wake up," Jack said, getting uneasy.

"I shall call nurse. Nurse will know what to do," exclaimed Annie. "O do give me the key."

"Bother nurse! Let's make a noise, and she's sure to wake."

But they stamped and shouted in vain. May still lay as before, white and senseless.

"Jackie, Jackie, I 'must' call nurse," almost sobbed Annie.

Whether Jack would have yielded is doubtful; but at that moment the sound of the returning brougham was heard. Mr. and Mrs. Leigh were back much earlier than they had expected. Happily, the lady upon whom they went to call was not well enough to see them.

Nor was this all. Almost more happily still, they had met their doctor in the village, and had asked him to come back with them to see Baby, who had not been quite well for a day or two. So when the brougham rolled up, the doctor was sitting inside.

The moment Annie heard the brougham, she rushed to the window, threw it opened, and shrieked—"Mother! Father! May!!"—in a voice which brought them all to the playroom, without a moment's delay.

Jack had not been quick enough to keep Annie from the window, and now he had no choice about opening the door. He dared not disobey his uncle's voice outside.

Then there was a rush of frightened questions; and the mother was kneeling with her arms round little sleeping May; and Mr. Leigh demanded of Jackie what it all meant; and the doctor said shortly, "Ha! Chloroform!" The children were hurried out of the room—Annie crying bitterly, Algie dismayed, Jackie still pretending to be cool. And their last glimpse of May was of the same little pale unconscious face.

The half-hour that followed would not soon be forgotten by those three elder children. Nobody could attend to them: but through one of the maids they heard that May's life was in danger. For a while the doctor feared that she might never wake out of the sleep into which Jack had recklessly thrown her. But for the doctor's presence there and then on the spot, so that not a moment was lost in doing everything that could be done, she probably would "not" have recovered.

Soon the worst was over: and the tiny pulse which had all but stopped beating grew stronger. May came slowly back to life: and though very sick and weak she was no longer in danger.

At last Mr. Leigh made his way to the unhappy Annie and Algie and Jack. He looked paler and more serious than Annie had ever seen him: and he seemed only able to say—"She is better!"

Then, after a pause, as Annie and Algie clung to him he went on—

"Jack, is this your doing? Do you know that you have nearly killed my little May?"

Jackie wanted to brave it out still, but I am glad to say he could not succeed. He burst into a fit of sobbing, in the midst of which broken words were heard,—"I'll never—never—again!"

It is pretty certain that Jack never "would" again do quite so wild and foolish a deed. There was no need to talk to him much. May's narrow escape spoke for itself, and Jack was really impressed. He had learnt his lesson. Even in later years, when he should have grown to be a man, he would scarcely be able to think of his experiment that day without a shudder.

Joan's Adventure.

BY KATHARINE S. MACQUOID.

————————

EVER since she was old enough to think of such things, Joan Winstone had always wished to go abroad, and when she was ten years old she went. Joan was the only young one in a party of six; she was full of enterprise—her father and mother, their old friend Mrs. Oswald, and the two maids, Nixon and Howe, seemed to her far too calm and prosaic.

They were going to Eastern Switzerland by way of Calais and Laon, and Joan's excitement and delight at all the new sights and sounds on the way made her feel as if she could not be really awake during the early part of the journey; everything was so new and fresh that it seemed as if she must be dreaming. She had begun to feel quieter when in the evening the train made twenty minutes' stop at Tergnier, so that travellers might dine. Joan's mother and Mrs. Oswald were, however, so overtired, that Mr. Winstone decided to dine and sleep at Laon, and to spend part of the next day in seeing the old city.

This arrangement disappointed Joan, she was more hungry than tired, and when she saw the other travellers enjoying their dinner, she mentally decided that Laon would turn out a stupid old place, not worth upsetting their plans for. The country had been dull before they reached Tergnier, but when they started again for Laon, Joan thought it looked quite ugly.

All at once she sprang forward with a cry of delight.

"Father, father, look—do you see them—four big towers, square ones; I never saw such towers; you must look there, high up." Her father looked out of the window. "That is Laon Cathedral," he said, as the suddenly caught glimpse of the towers was again hidden. "It is a fine old church, Joan."

Just then the train stopped at the station; the party of travellers got into an omnibus, which had to mount the steep ridge on which Laon stands, so steep that the road climbs up it zigzag fashion.

Joan had read "The Little Duke," so she knew about the ancient grandeur of Laon; and as the omnibus clattered over the stones she became enthusiastic about the quaint houses which showed dimly in the fading light.

When she went to bed she could not at first go to sleep. She kept on thinking of those lofty towers, and she longed for the morning that she might see the stone oxen which her father told her stood at the angles of some of them. At last she fell asleep and dreamed that she was sitting on the back of a huge brown ox at the top of one of the towers; she shuddered and trembled as she looked down at the immense plain below. Joan always shrank from looking down a height unless someone held her hand; she waked up feeling sick and giddy.

"You have slept sound, Miss," said Nixon, "Your papa sent up to ask if you would like to go to the Cathedral with him."

Joan was soon dressed, and going down to breakfast she saw how bright the sunshine was as it streamed through the windows of the salle-à-manger. She thought she had never tasted such nice coffee and such delicious rolls, but she hurried over her breakfast, she was impatient to go out with her father and the others.

Joan had always lived in London, and she had not had much change in her ten-year-old life, but the adventurous spirit in her had gathered strength from its very inexperience, and she longed to exercise it; she felt so very, very happy in this brilliant sunshine, and she babbled out her delight as she walked beside her father past the grey-green houses, with gardens gay with flowers; sometimes through an open door Joan got a glimpse of the green country in the distance.

They reached the Cathedral, and while her father was looking at the grand west front, Joan had a full view of the huge stone oxen on the towers; but she was greatly disappointed when she followed her father into the Church to find the interior of the nave and choir given up to workmen and to scaffolding, the Cathedral being under repair. However, the sacristan said they could see down into the nave from the gallery above, though the scaffolding would prevent them from seeing the choir.

Her father had bought Joan a French guide to Laon, and she sat down to study this near the spiral staircase by which they had come up, while her companions went along the triforium gallery.

Joan learned as she read her guide book that there was yet an upper gallery, and that a fine view was to be had from the platform on the roof. She shuddered at the idea of looking down from the roof, but it seemed to her that if she went up the next flight of stairs, till she reached the upper gallery, which would no doubt be as broad as the one she now sate in, she should be above the scaffolding and be able to see into the choir.

Joan never waited to reflect, it was not her way, she hurried to the dark winding staircase, and began to climb the upper flight.

The staircase became narrower as it mounted, the steps were broken in several places, and although it was so gloomy that she could scarcely see, Joan felt sure it was very dirty. When she had climbed some way the air felt less close and unpleasant, and at last she saw a gleam of light above her.

This cheered her, for she had begun to feel timid and uneasy in the dismal place.

"I did not think it looked nearly so far to the upper gallery," she said to herself, "I suppose everything is so big in this Cathedral that one cannot guess distances rightly."

It never occurred to her that she might have mounted the wrong staircase; as she turned the next curve, a rush of air blew her hair into her eyes and she found herself in daylight—one more flight and the steps ended.

Joan looked out of the square opening before her, and she trembled all over. She saw that instead of the upper gallery she had reached the roof of the Cathedral. On one side was a mere stone platform without a railing, and on the other there was a smooth wall.

Her first impulse was to turn back, and then she felt ashamed of her cowardice, it would be so pitiful to confess that she had climbed all this way and had not seen anything; she seemed, too, to be drawn forward by some other will than her own.

The spirit of daring, which had so often led Joan into peril, once more mastered the girl; she thought it would be grand to see what her companions had not seen, and she stepped out boldly on the platform. The platform itself was narrower than it had looked from the staircase, and Joan shivered at finding herself so near the bare edge of the flagged pavement. She kept her eyes fixed on the stone wall on her right and went on bravely for a couple of yards, then she stopped and looked to her left.

Joan had known before what she expected to see, and yet she felt dizzy. She knew that she had not reached the very highest part of the Cathedral because of the stone wall that rose up on her right, but it seemed to her that she must be somewhere near the clouds.

Below her, very far below, were the red roofs of the old houses, so close together that it seemed as if one could walk on their tops. Beyond, was the far-stretching plain from which rose the ridge, on the highest point of which Laon Cathedral stands.

Joan felt desperately giddy, and instinctively her hands went out to the wall beside her, it reached high above her head, and the stones were so firmly and smoothly laid that it was quite impossible to cling to them with any hope of support. The wind was blowing strongly, it seemed to Joan that it was blowing her towards the edge of the platform; surely, she thought, an extra strong blast must whirl her off her feet and send her over the edge.

And if it did, what would come after, she wondered, and she seemed to see herself falling—falling downwards towards those tiled roofs below. Were there tiled roofs just below?

A wild longing seized on Joan. From where she stood she could not see all that must be visible from the edge of the platform; she could not be sure what there was just beneath it. She felt that she must know, she must look over the edge, and she took a step towards it, then she took another step; her dizziness increased, she was being drawn nearer and nearer to the edge—so much against her will that she longed to cry out for help, while she trembled so violently from head to foot that she felt herself sway to and fro. Yet she went on, slowly, step by step, conscious of her danger, yet powerless to resist the fascination that drew her on.

The deep-toned clock struck the quarter, and as the sound reached Joan the spell that held her passive was broken. She turned with a sob, and stretching out to the stone wall behind her she leaned her cheek against it and began to cry.

She had awakened to the danger in which she had placed herself, but she did not know what to do. There was no use in calling out for help; she thought it was not likely that the platform was visited, or a railing would have been placed along the dangerous edge. She looked towards the door by which she had come out, and she knew that she could not reach it without help; she dared not to venture along the space that lay between. Joan closed her eyes, and hid her face on the hard wall; her knees were shaking with agitation, and she was desperately giddy. It seemed to her, in her terror, that if she ventured to move she should infallibly be drawn once more to the terrible stone edge of the platform.

She kept her eyes hidden against the stone wall. The sun was beating so fiercely down on her that her head ached painfully, but she could not move towards the cool inviting darkness within the doorway. Everything was so still. There was not a sound to break the awful quietude.

At last Joan fancied she heard something. It sounded like a gasping breath. She listened. No, she must have fancied it, she told herself. And then it came again, louder, and then in plain unmistakeable words, "Oh, my goodness! what stairs!" Joan looked up, and there framed by the darkness of the doorway she saw the good-natured face of Mrs. Oswald's maid, Howe.

"Come, Miss Joan," the woman said, "We've been looking everywhere for you. This isn't a fit place for you, Miss, come, please."

"I can't," Joan said. "Dear Howe, please come and lead me along while I shut my eyes; I—I'm afraid, Howe; I dare not move by myself."

Howe shrugged her shoulders, but she came forward and helped Joan out of her self-made danger.

"Well, I never heard of such a fancy," the maid said to herself. But Joan was right, and a day or so passed before she recovered from the shock which her adventurous climb had caused her.

True to her Charge.

BY G. A. HENTY,

AUTHOR OF "FACING DEATH," "THE YOUNG CARTHAGINIAN,"
"THE LION OF S. MARK," &c., &c.

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FOUR great waggons had just halted by the banks of what in the rainy season was a stream, but was now only a succession of pools, with a mere thread of running water connecting them. As soon as they came to a standstill, men released the oxen that drew them from the ropes that served as traces, and left them to find their way down to one of the water-holes, and then pick what sustenance they could from the short grass and scanty bushes. Cooking-pots were taken from the waggons; the children, of whom there were several, started to gather sticks for fuel, and in a short time smoke was curling up.

The waggons were the property of four families travelling West, to reap as they hoped a rich harvest of the gold, whose discovery in California had a short time before caused such excitement. They were strangers to each other, but had met at Omaha, and had agreed to travel together. As a rule the caravans across the prairie consisted of much stronger parties, but it happened that one of these had started upon the very morning of the day on which they reached Omaha, and rather than wait perhaps a fortnight until another party were ready to start, the owners of the waggons determined to push forward alone on the following day, and to overtake the caravans that had just started.

They had been joined by five or six men at Omaha; two of these were mounted, the rest were on foot, and all had been waiting some days there in hopes of such a chance as now offered. The emigrants were glad to accept their proposal to accompany them, and to carry for them their kits and scanty stores, agreeing to provide them with flour upon the journey, in return for which the men were to hunt, and provide the party with meat, and to aid in the protection of the waggons if attacked by Indians.

They had not, as they expected, overtaken the caravan; they had started so hurriedly from Omaha—the last place where it was possible to obtain stores of any kind—that several articles of absolute necessity had been forgotten, and one of the emigrants, with two of the men who had joined them, went back with a light cart belonging to the latter, and bought the stores required. This caused two days' loss of time, and the time so thrown away was never regained, for it would not have done to risk breaking down the cattle by overworking them at the outset, and as the tales of attacks by Indians were very vague, and by many believed to be mere inventions of those who had gone on first, put about to scare others from following them, and sharing the treasures they looked forward to, there was little uneasiness among the travellers.

At any rate they thought that the caravan in front was sure to make a halt somewhere, in which case they would overtake it, or they themselves would be overtaken by the next caravan. The two mounted men who had joined them at Omaha had been hunters on the prairies for years. These had at first endeavoured to impress upon the emigrants that the journey was a really dangerous, as well as toilsome one, but the four men who owned the waggons were Eastern farmers, full of dogged perseverance, and not easily scared.

So the journey went on for weeks. As yet the number of emigrants who had passed was comparatively small, and the plains still abounded with deer, the hunters therefore had no difficulty in doing their part, and keeping the caravan well supplied with meat. There was no difficulty in finding the way, for the wheels of preceding caravans had worn a track across the prairie; the halting places were marked by empty tins, and the ashes of the fires. The daily journeys varied considerably in length, being sometimes but ten or twelve miles, while at others they were thirty or even thirty-five, as the camping-places were decided by the presence of water.

Of the occupants of the waggons Winnie Price, a niece of one of the emigrants, was the favourite with the men who accompanied them. She was a quiet girl of thirteen years old, who helped her weakly and complaining aunt, looked after the children, cooked the food, and bore silently the grumbling and scolding of her surly and ill-tempered uncle.

"I should like nothing better than to give that fellow the best thrashing he ever had," one of the hunters said to his comrade, as they sat together round the fire. "He seems to consider, because he gave house-room to Winnie when her father and mother died, he has a right to make a slave of her. That girl gets through as much work as any two women in the outfit. She cooks for the waggon, does all the washing and mending, looks after the brats, and yet is always cheerful and good-tempered, and ready in her spare moments to do a good turn to anyone. Yesterday, when I had split my hunting shirt up, she said in the evening, 'Josh, if you will give that shirt to me, I will mend it for you,' and this morning when I turned out as soon as it was daylight, there she was sitting on the ground outside the waggon at work at it, having stolen out to get an hour to herself before the others roused up. That girl's a daisy, she is, and if I had a chance of doing her a good turn would, you bet. When I hear that uncle of hers going on at her, it is as much as I can do not to go for him, but I know it would do her harm if I interfered."

At the stations where the ponies were kept for what were called express riders, who carried the post across the plains, the party heard tales of Indian attacks, and they were several times warned that it was better to wait for a few days until another caravan came along. But the thirst of gold was too overpowering in the minds of the emigrants for the advice to be taken. Each day's delay meant to them the loss of so much gold, and added to the chances of the best places being taken up by the emigrants proceeding to California by the sea route. They had fourteen rifles, for there were several young men and big boys belonging to the families in the waggons, and they flattered themselves that they could beat off any attack that might be made upon them.

At night the waggons were packed together with two men always on guard, so the emigrants thought themselves safe from surprise. The two hunters by no means shared in the feeling of security, but they were both very well mounted, and although perfectly ready to take their share in fighting if there was a chance of successful resistance, had determined that they would not throw away their lives if attacked by an overwhelming force. The last thing at night, therefore, they always brought in their horses and picketed them close to the waggons, sleeping outside in order, as they said, to escape the crying of children and the hubbub of talk among the emigrant families.

One morning, as soon as the camp was in motion, Winnie Price had gone down with the youngest of her charges, Bobby, a boy of three, to the pool, fifty yards from where the waggons were gathered, to give him his morning's wash. She had just finished, had dressed Bobby, and was herself washing, when she heard a terrible yell, and saw a band of wild horsemen sweeping down upon the caravan. She saw at once that she could not get back in time, and snatching up Bobby, and stooping so as to be concealed by the bank of the stream, she ran along till she reached a large clump of bushes, into which she dived.

A tremendous din was going on; rifles were cracking, men shouting, women screaming, and Indians yelling. It lasted but a few minutes, and then everything became quiet save the triumphant yells of the Indians. Winnie felt sure that the attack had succeeded, and that the whites had been murdered, for had not that been the case the firing would have continued. Holding the frightened child closely to her, and silencing him by telling him that if he cried, or made a noise, the Indians would find him, she sat there for hours. Once she thought she heard Indians talking at the pool above, but, with that exception, all was quiet. Bobby passed the greater part of the time in sleep, and in the afternoon, laying him down, she crawled cautiously until she neared the edge of the bushes, and then looked out through the leafy screen towards the waggons. She made out a number of dark figures on horseback, and as she watched them saw them a few minutes later gather and ride off in a body, driving before them the bullocks of the waggons.

Half-an-hour later she ventured to stand up and peer out between the leaves. There was no sign of life or movement about the waggons; numbers of figures lay stretched about around them, but the Indians had all left. Some, however, might still be in the neighbourhood, and returning to Bobby, she waited until the sun set. Bobby was wide awake now, and clamorous for food; had she been alone, Winnie would have suffered anything rather than go up to that terrible scene of slaughter, but she felt that for Bobby's sake it was absolutely necessary to try to obtain something to eat.

"Now Bobby," she said, "you sit here at the edge of the bushes; I will go up and try and get you something to eat; but you must be very good and quiet until I come back, because there are wicked Indians about, and they might hurt you if you were to go there."

It needed very strong persuasion to induce Bobby to remain alone, but at last he agreed to do so on her promising to run all the way there and back.

It was a terrible scene for a young girl; round the waggons the bodies of men, women, and children lay scattered thickly, all gashed with tomahawks, and scalped. Several Indians, too, had fallen, though Winnie did not know it, for their bodies had been buried by their friends. Shutting her eyes as much as possible to avoid the sight, Winnie moved straight through up to the waggons. The contents lay about in confusion; everything of the slightest value to the Indians had been taken—flour sacks had been opened, and the contents carried off done up in smaller packets to be carried on the horses behind the Indians.

Articles of wearing apparel lay scattered about, and cases of preserved meat forced open; but their contents left as worthless. Winnie gave an exclamation of satisfaction as she saw a tin of biscuits laying among the wreck. She took this and two empty bottles, and with them hurried back towards the bushes. She met Bobby coming to meet her.

"All right, Bobby, here are some nice biscuits," she said, and taking him to the pool they sat down and made a meal. Then she emptied the contents of the box into her apron and tied it up in front of her so as to leave her hands free; then she filled the bottles with water, and tearing a strip off the bottom of her dress, tied one end to each of their necks and slung-them in front of her.

"Now Bobby," she said, "we must walk."

"Where is dada and mammy," the child said, "me want dem."

"They cannot come now, dear, you must come with me;" but Bobby rebelled and began to howl. "Bobby," Winnie said, "you don't want the wicked Indians to catch you, do you? If you make a noise they are sure to come. We must keep very quiet and walk a long way to get away from them."

Bobby was again frightened into quiet, and taking Winnie's hand started off. She had made up her mind to retrace her steps. It had been a long march on the previous day, but she felt that there was far more chance of meeting a caravan behind them, than of overtaking that in front. Winnie walked until it became quite dark. Bobby was cross and fractious, and in a very short time she had to carry him on her back. It at last became too dark for her to follow the track further, and she lay down with the child to wait until the moon rose, which it would do, she knew, about midnight.

She was unable to sleep, and as soon as the moon was up she got the sleeping child on to her back, lifted her dress up, and drew it tightly round him so as to keep him in that position, and then journeyed on until day began to break, when she took shelter in some low bushes. From time to time she looked out, and presently saw a party of Indians riding along a crest, looking down into the cleft along which the track run. After this she abandoned all idea of making her way forward by daylight, and passed the time, until it became dark, in telling stories to Bobby, and in sleeping whenever he did so. When it became dark she again set out, keeping the track as well as she was able, Bobby sometimes walking by her side, sometimes sleeping on her back.

After three hours' walking she came to a rise where the wheels had no longer sunk in the ground, and was obliged to wait until the moon rose again; but even with this assistance she found it very difficult to follow the track. As before, she lay hid during the day. She had, she knew, thirty-five miles in all to travel, and her progress had been very slow from the necessity of stopping continually to kneel down and examine the grass. The next night, in spite of her care, she missed the track. She knew that her safest plan would be to wait until morning, when she would be able to find it without difficulty, but the supply of water was already running very low, although she had stinted Bobby to the utmost, and had contented herself with merely moistening her own lips. She knew by the stars that she had each night seen before her the direction she should take, and guiding herself by them pressed steadily on. Fortunately one of the hunters had one evening pointed out the North Star to her, and had told her how to find it by following the line of the pointers wherever they might be, and keeping this steadily over her left shoulder, she walked on.

Two days later a large caravan arrived at the Express Station. They found there, in addition to the two men in charge, two hunters—the one a man of forty, the other a young fellow of two or three and twenty, who told them that they were the sole survivors of the train that had preceded them.

"We were a small party," the elder of the two said—"four waggons, with fifteen guns in all. The men of the teams were obstinate fellows, who did not believe in Indians, and did not take any precautions. Just as we were coupling up the bullocks to make our start for the next station, a party of about a hundred Indians came down on us. There were two men out on guard, but they gave us no warning. I expect some of the Indians must have crept up and tomahawked them; the band were not a hundred yards away when we saw them. Josh and I had our horses handy, and jumped into our saddles. We saw that it was all over at once, but we stopped for a minute or two, but it were no use—half the men were cut down before they had time to get their rifles out of the waggons, and Josh and I, seeing as we should only throw our lives away without doing no good, rode for it. It was not in Indian nature to chase two men, and they well mounted, far, when there were scalps and booty to be had; so although five or six did set out after us they gave it up as soon as they found our ponies was as good as theirs. So we rode on here to wait until you came up."

"And you think they are all killed?" the leader of the caravan asked.

"Sure of it," the hunter said. "They came down so suddenly; there was no time for anyone to bolt."

As the caravan contained twenty waggons, and could muster sixty rifles, it considered itself strong enough to beat off any party of Indians they might meet. Its leader, too, was an experienced scout, and everything was arranged both on the march and in camp in readiness for resistance. Five or six mounted men rode a mile out on each flank, and many of the younger men wished for nothing better than that the Indians should attack them, and that they should have an opportunity for taking revenge for the massacre they had heard of.

The next morning the caravan pursued its journey, the two hunters accompanying it. They took their place with the scouting party to the left of the line of the march. They had ridden two hours, when Josh, the younger hunter, reined in his horse suddenly.

"Look there," he said, pointing to a rise in the distance, "what is that?"

A figure was seen passing along over a crest. The hunters looked at it with astonishment.

"It's a woman," Josh exclaimed, "she seems to have something on her back, she is a white sure enough by her dress. Come on, lads!"

They galloped forward; twice, as they approached, they saw the figure fall, and then rise to her feet again, and stagger forward. She did not seem to perceive them, but went blindly on. When they were within a hundred yards of her, Josh exclaimed, "By gosh, Bill, it's Winnie. Thank Heaven she was not wiped out. Winnie!" he shouted, at the top of his voice; but she still kept on, apparently without hearing. The men reined in their horses to a walk. They were old hands on the prairies, and knew what it meant; the girl had lost her way, and her senses had gone. The two hunters, who knew her, dismounted and walked up to her. Her eyes were dull and glazed, her lips black and swollen, she tottered rather than walked. One hand grasped the skirt of her dress, which was wrapped round her shoulders, and above which a little head drooped backwards.

"Winnie," Josh said in a low tone. The girl looked towards them. Her lips moved, but no sound came from them. Then she reeled, and would have fallen had not the men caught her. The others now came up. Some water was poured upon her lips, and a few drops made their way down her throat. Then similar attention was given to the child. He was also insensible, but came round before long, for his sufferings had been less severe than hers, for while for three days she had been altogether without water, the last drops in the bottle had been used for soaking his biscuit, and it was only on the previous day that the supply had altogether given out.

Josh lifted her in his arms, and mounting his horse rode off at full speed to the caravan, while Bill carried the child before him. For weeks, while the caravan made its way across the plains, Winnie lay in one of the waggons between life and death. She was tenderly cared for by the women, and at last the fever abated; but it was not until the train began to descend the slopes of the Sierra Nevada that she was able to walk by the side of the waggons with Bobby, long before restored to perfect health. When they descended into the plains of California Winnie and Bobby were adopted by a childless couple, who were wise enough to settle on a small farm, instead of going to the diggings.

Five years later she had a home of her own, for the young hunter did well at the gold mines, and as soon as he had earned enough to purchase a farm, settled down, and when she became old enough asked her to share it with him.

Christmas Eve with Bruin.

BY FRANCES CLARE,

AUTHOR OF "A CHILD'S PILGRIMAGE," "A STORE OF STORIES," &c.

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IT was Christmas Eve, long, long ago, and the good folks of Nancy were fast asleep in their beds, dreaming doubtless of the coming festival of the morrow. And very peaceful was the sleep of the citizens of this old French town, for they knew that the gates of their city were closed, and that it was securely guarded against the foe.

But outside the fast-shut portals stood one who could not sleep, although he was very weary, and hungry, and footsore, for he had no place wherein to rest.

This sleepless one was a little lad, an Italian musician, with a wistful face, and dark, earnest eyes—eyes which were full of tears, as well indeed they might be, for Carlo Caffarelli had hoped to reach Nancy before its gates were shut.

He had hoped to earn a Christmas cake, and a night's lodging, by his skilful lute-playing and his sweet singing.

But alas, he had arrived too late.

And as he looked wistfully up to the starry sky, he exclaimed, "Oh, I wish that I could spend to-morrow in Heaven, with father, mother, and darling Domenica. Oh, how I wish that last Christmas Eve could come again!"

Ah, no wonder the little wanderer thought sorrowfully of that Christmas Eve, for then he had come down from the mountains with his father, Sebastian, the shepherd, and they twain had played sweet, simple music in the classic streets of Rome; then he had bought for his little sister, his pretty, dear Domenica, a picture of the Manger of Bethlehem. Now, father, mother, and little sister slept side by side in a cypress-shaded graveyard, for the ruthless fever had wrecked his home, not sparing even one of his loved ones.

Therefore it was that he stood, a wanderer and an exile, houseless and homeless, in a foreign land, on the blessed Christmas Eve.

All at once he recalled the last words of his dying mother.

"Carlo," she had said, "my own little Carlo, you are poor, and you will be very lonely; dangers and difficulties will surround you, but never forget, my beloved, never forget that God is the Helper of the helpless."

Comforted by the remembrance of these words, Carlo knelt down on the frosty ground, and prayed that His Heavenly Father would help him, or take him to those loved ones for whom he grieved.

But there came no immediate response to his petition; all was outwardly the same after he had prayed as it had been before. The starry heavens did not open, no burning, fiery chariot appeared as it did to the Prophet in days of old to bear him upward, and yet the lonely lad's prayer was both heard and answered.

Before kneeling down to pray, Carlo placed his beloved lute at some little distance from him on the ground, and when he rose from his knees, and went to take up his lute again, he perceived the mouth of a large hole or pit, which was surrounded by a low wooden palisading.

The wind had risen, and poor, thinly-clad Carlo, who was very cold, thought that it would be warmer down in the pit than it was on the surface of the earth; so he slung his lute round his neck, climbed over the railing, and slid gently down into the pit.

The first thing he did on reaching the bottom was to look around him, in order to see in what kind of lodgings he was going to pass the remainder of his Christmas Eve; and, by the faint, silvery light of the moon, he saw a large straw-covered den, or hole, at the far end of which lay some kind of animal—a big dog, seemingly, for it was rough-looking, and curled up into the semblance of a huge ball.

"What is that, I wonder?" said Carlo to himself. "It looks like a big dog. Can I have fallen into a dog kennel? What strange folks these citizens of Nancy must be! In Italy we do not shut our dogs out, we keep them inside to guard our homes, but they seem to keep theirs outside. I suppose they think the dogs will keep strangers away; they haven't kept me away, though. I wonder if it's safe to stay here. I hope the creature isn't savage."

But it was warm and sheltered there, in the straw, and poor Carlo's limbs were so tired, and his eyeballs ached so for want of rest, that his heavy eyelids drooped over his weary eyes, and he curled himself up in a corner and slept.

And lo, in his dreams, all his household treasures were restored to him. He was at home in his mountain village once again. The clear wood fire was burning on the hearth; his mother was baking cakes, his father was telling him beautiful tales, his little sister was playing with her dog—"this" was Carlo's happy Christmastide dream.

And in his sleep the little wanderer smiled.

But the happiest dreams must come to an end, as well as the happiest days, and after a time Carlo awoke.

And he saw that the big dog was also awake, for it had come from its corner and was sitting up not far from Carlo.

"Poor old fellow!" said the boy, holding out his hand. But the animal did not in any way respond, nor did it growl, as a savage dog might have done. Carlo peered through the dim light, and wondered more and more what it could be. Presently, it reared itself on its hind legs and looked at Carlo. And, as it did so, the little musician saw that the strange animal was "a bear!" Yes, actually a brown bear, with a shaggy coat and small, deep-set, blinking eyes.

"O dear!" he cried. "What shall I do? Pray, pray, come and help me!"

But nobody came, for nobody heard his cries.

The citizens of Nancy were fast asleep in their warm, soft beds; they were not thinking of the bear pit, which their town, in common with many others in the middle ages, kept outside its gates, and Carlo was left alone with Bruin.

Alone with Bruin! and the Pifferari were playing in the streets of Rome, as the child and his father once had played in the days which were no more.

Alone with Bruin! and in the Eternal City many a lad was singing Pastorals as Carlo once had sung them, with a clear, unfaltering, lark-like voice.

Alone with Bruin! and great fear took possession of the poor boy's mind, for the bear began to approach him—cunningly and stealthily; surely, though slowly.

In an agony of terror he began to move backward step by step, until he stood close against the wall of the well-like pit, and there was no more space in which to stir.

But with a great effort he fastened his gaze steadily on Bruin, who, in his turn, kept his evil-looking little eyes fixed on Carlo, as if to say, "You won't run away from me, my lad. I am Ursus, the public bear of Nancy, and I can hug, as well as climb poles, and one, only one of 'my' hugs means—death."

Great drops of perspiration stood on Carlo's brow, and as he pressed himself against the grey stone wall he felt with his feet for a piece of bread, or a bone, or something with which he might mollify his foe, or, at least, gain some respite from the death which seemed to await him.

And while he was doing this, Bruin gave a low, deep-chested growl, which made the little musician start as the thunder of cannon could not have done.

For to him that growl said "Die," and his trembling arms hung helpless by his side, and his head drooped forward on his breast.

For although a brave heart beat within that young bosom, the boy could not endure the sight of the animal coming towards him, its fore-paws extended in order to draw him into its embrace—that terrible embrace from which he could never hope to be set free except by death.

But as, in his despair, he closed his eyes, he thought once more of his mother's words, "God arms the helpless," and as he murmured a prayer there suddenly flashed across his mind the recollection of having seen a performing bear dance clumsily to the sound of a rough instrument played by its master. His lute! It had often purchased him a meal and a night's lodging—would it help him now? Once mare hope sprang up in his heart, and taking the lute in his trembling fingers, he played, in the darkness of that gloomy place, more sweetly than he had ever done in the fresh air and the bright sunlight, for his whole soul was in his music.

Bruin's angry growls ceased, and he gazed with astonishment on the unwelcome intruder who was producing these strange sounds. Presently, he came forward again, and once more Carlo's heart beat loud and fast, but at that moment he espied a large piece of cake close to his foot. He took it up and threw it to the farthest end of the den. The bear stopped, looked after the cake, then at Carlo, who had begun to play again; then Bruin ambled to the other side of the den and sniffed at the cake, but did not eat it, and then, to Carlo's unspeakable delight, it curled itself round and seemed to go to sleep again. Now, the truth was that Mr. Bruin had had a very hearty meal that day, and had been, besides, so plentifully supplied with cakes, and bread, and honey by the holiday-makers, that, I think, he really felt too lazy to do any harm to the poor lad who had so unwittingly come to disturb his slumbers.

Though safe for the moment, Carlo felt that all danger was not yet over, but that he must watch unceasingly until morning.

Just think for a moment what a weary watch was that of the boy musician. Think how he watched for the stars to disappear, think how he welcomed the daylight—he to whom it had always before come too soon. And now how long it seemed in coming!

But when he looked upwards, and saw that at last it was light, he found that weakness and terror had made his voice almost inaudible, for although he cried "Help! help! good people, help!" as loud as he could, his voice sounded low and feeble even to himself, and no one heard him, no one came.

So once more he took up his lute and played, hoping that its melody might reach farther than his voice could do. And as it happened, the Captain of the Guard, who was strolling round the top of the bear pit, heard the sound, and stopped in amazement to listen.

"This is strange," he muttered to himself. "I have heard of many prodigies, but never of a musical bear." And as he spoke, the officer leant over the low palisading, and bent his head downwards to listen.

And all at once the music ceased, and a plaintive cry for aid arose, and the Captain leant still farther forward and peered down into the den.

And lo! at the bottom he saw Bruin, and cowering in a corner was a form which seemed to be that of a little lad.

Then he hasted away, and summoned some of the guard.

"Hasten, Guilbert and Rauf," he cried. "Hasten, my men; a child, if I mistake not, is down in yonder bear pit, and we must try to bring him up alive."

So the good-natured soldiers hurried, and in a very short time Carlo was drawn by means of ropes up from the pit, and the good people of Nancy came in crowds to see the boy who had lodged on Christmas Eve with Ursus, the public bear, and whom Ursus, strange to say, had not hurt in any way.

And Carlo had a beautiful Christmas Day after all, for the worthy Messire Desmoulins the Mayor of Nancy, took him into his house, and made much of him.

And the little exile felt no longer a wanderer and a stranger when he sat in the Mayor's parlour, by the great stone hearth, on which an immense "Souche de Nöel," or Yuletide log, blazed cheerily, and he played sweet melodies on his lute, and ate rich sugared dainties which Marie Desmoulins, the Mayor's bright-faced little daughter, gave him. And, later on, when Christmas Day was over, when Carlo rested his wearied limbs once more on a bed, a soft, white bed, he thought of his midnight watch with Bruin, and also of the kindness which these citizens of Nancy had shown him, and felt far happier than he had ever expected to be.

There is little more to tell of Carlo.

Only this.

When the King heard of Carlo's marvellous escape, he sent for him to his Court, and the little musician pleased him greatly, and became one of the royal choristers.

But his good fortune did not stop here. As years passed on he advanced more and more in life, and when he grew to be a man, and became Choirmaster, he married pretty Marie, the daughter of the kind Mayor of Nancy, and he never forgot Him to whom he prayed, and who helped him in his extremity.

And in time to come he had children of his own—little boys and girls, who never wearied, on wintry nights or summer afternoons, of hearing how their father had spent Christmas Eve with Bruin.

Pea Blossom.

BY ALICE CORKRAN,

AUTHOR OF "DOWN THE SNOW STAIRS," "MRS. WISHING TO BE,"
"MARGERY MERTON'S GIRLHOOD," "MEG'S FRIEND," &c.

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CHAPTER I.

A PARTY of little boys and girls sat in a box watching the wonderful fairy play.

It spread before them a blaze of light, and colour, and movement. It was fairyland come true. Diamonds and rubies and emeralds of supernatural size shone on the trees; fairies and elves tripped in and out. They all came out of one enormous blossom, that opened wide its petals, at the back of the stage.

The children laughed till their sides shook; they leant so far out of the box that it was a wonder they did not topple down on the heads of the people in the stalls below.

After a while, one of the boys grew serious. He let the others laugh, but he remained grave. He was absorbed in watching one of the fairies. She was so exquisitely beautiful, this tiny creature, with golden hair all standing out, and a star shining on her forehead; a dress like a great blue-bell, and wings on her shoulders, that he could not speak or laugh for wonder at her loveliness.

He watched her dancing down the middle of the stage on tip-toe. She waved her silver wand above her head; her dress shone as if frosted with moonbeams.

How sweet and fragile she looked! From whence did she come? Her home must be some place beautiful beyond all telling. She was called "Pea Blossom" on the play bill, and she was one of the attendant fairies of Titania. The King of the fairies, Oberon, was evidently very angry with the Queen. He was a sturdy fairy, all dressed in gold, with a gold crown on his head. The other children laughed as he danced up and down in a rage, but Willy (this was the little boy's name) grew graver and graver. He did not laugh when Puck appeared with pointed ears and a grinning muzzle.

He lost all interest in the play when Pea Blossom was not there; but he remained rapt when again he saw her once more near Titania, lying on a green bank in the moonlight. Willy thought it was impossible for any mortal being to be so lovely as Pea Blossom.

He grew graver when there appeared a queer creature with the head of an ass, and the legs of a man, and Titania, waking from sleep, began to stroke him, and to say all sorts of pretty things to him in her coaxing voice.

She caressed his long ears, and vowed they were so pretty. She ordered Pea Blossom to scratch his head! The little fairy fed him with thistles. Willy grew angry. How could this delicate fairy fondle this monster? The ass looked melancholy and sentimental; his ears drooped, and he said, "Hee—haw!"

The other children roared with laughter when Titania enjoyed the sweetness of that note, "Hee—haw," and asked for it again!

Then the beautiful dream, which was the play, grew brighter and brighter as Oberon and Titania made it up. The moon rose in the sky, and the little Queen held out her two hands to Oberon, and he took them; and the fairies in the King's suite held out theirs to the Queen's fairies, and together they all danced in couples up and down and round and round the greenwood. Among the wild roses, and the tall moon daisies, the king-cups and the bluebells, they danced to a swift, sweet melody. The King, with the tunic of gold, the Queen, with the star on her forehead; Pea Blossom, with her dress like a blue-bell, and an elf in yellow. On and on, in the moonlight, down the glen, until they vanished in the mist beyond, and the great curtain dropped, and all was over.

Then Willy started up. "Oh dear! had it all been a dream?"

In the carriage, as they drove home through the dark streets, the children discussed the play.

"And what did you care for most, my boy?" said Willy's father. It was Willy's father who had taken him and his little cousins to the theatre.

"The little fairy called Pea Blossom," answered Willy, softly.

"She is a pretty little thing," said his father.

"And what a lovely dress—all blue and silver—and such sweet wings. Did you see the peacock's eyes on them?" said Mabel, who was proud of her keen sight.

"She was more beautiful than anything I ever saw," said Willy with a sigh of delighted remembrance.

"I liked Bully Bottom best," said George, swinging his legs about in his excitement, "he looked so awfully ridiculous. It was so jolly when he said, 'Hee—haw!'"

Then there was a chorus of "Hee—haw! hee—haw!" in which all the children except Willy joined.

"I liked it all, every bit," began Mabel again. "I should like to go and see it every night; but the jolliest of all was to see Oberon dancing in a rage, and ordering Puck about."

"Willy cares for Pea Blossom only," said his father.

"I did not care for anything but Pea Blossom," agreed Willy. "I wonder where she is gone to now?"

"Oh! ha! ha!" said his father, "perhaps she is flying among beautiful apple trees all in blossom; or perhaps she has crept under a toad-stool, and is lying fast asleep there now."

CHAPTER II.

WILLY could speak and think of nothing but Pea Blossom. He was always drawing pictures of little fairy Pea Blossom dancing on tip-toe; Pea Blossom fanning Titania, flying about in the moonlight; Pea Blossom at home, in a palace of jewels; Pea Blossom! Pea Blossom! always Pea Blossom!

"Willy is quite unsettled since he went to the theatre," said his teacher. "He does not care for his lessons any more."

"Now, my boy," said his father one morning at breakfast, as Willy showed him a picture of Pea Blossom in her palace, "Suppose you were to draw her as a little hard-working girl, living in a shabby home in London?"

"I could not. It would not be true," said Willy.

"It is exactly what it would be. That is what the Pea Blossom you saw is—a poor, plucky little girl. Would you like to see her close and speak to her?"

"Oh, no! she is too beautiful," said Willy, terrified at the idea. He thought of her golden hair, of her blue and silver dress, of her bright eyes. He remembered how she had looked up once, and he had felt foolish.

"Ah well, if you're afraid of a little girl," said his father, shrugging his shoulders. As Willy did not answer, he continued: "I know the manager of that theatre. Ha! ha! he is a most important personage. At a nod of his head all those little fairies begin to tremble, at a frown they cower before him. I will ask him to admit you into Pea Blossom's presence. I want you to talk to her and see her as she is, then perhaps you will be cured, and once more attend to your lessons."

Willy's mind did not dwell upon the effect on his lessons of an interview with Pea Blossom. That he was going to see her and speak with her filled him with dread and expectation. He was inclined to be a dandy, and he consulted his cousins as to what he should wear and what he should do to make himself more attractive on this occasion.

Mabel advised him to put pomatum on his hair; George thought a red tie would be effective.

He determined to sprinkle lavender water on his handkerchief. He also thought over what he would say. He would ask if Bully Bottom was a real ass; where that wonderful flower was from which they all came out.

On the evening that he was to go to the theatre he was in such a hurry to get ready that he could scarcely get along.

"More haste, worse speed!" said his old nurse, shaking her head, as he first dropped the comb and brush, tore a button from his glove, and broke his shoe-lace.

When he was sitting in his place in the theatre, the dream—that was the beautiful play, with Pea Blossom as the central figure—soon laid its enchantment upon him.

The third act was over, but the play was not finished, when his father got up, and taking him by the hand, said, "Now for Pea Blossom."

As Willy went down some stairs his heart beat fast. Where was he going? Into what world of light was he about to enter?

Before he knew where he was, he was in the midst of a whirl. There was shuffling of feet and people coming and going about him. His father shook hands with a tall gentleman; they both laughed, as the stranger looked at him pleasantly.

At a little distance the fairies in their sparkling dresses clustered together. Their bright, wild eyes were like those of a covey of birds looking at him. He recognized Pea Blossom at a glance.

Before he knew anything more, the stranger to whom his father was talking beckoned to her and she came running up, and no one was near them.

Willy was overcome with shyness, but Pea Blossom was quite at her ease.

"You like my dancing?" she said, with a little nod.

"Yes," said Willy, hanging his head.

He was disappointed with her dress now that he saw it close. The glitter of moonlight was spangles, that looked like the silver paper on crackers.

"Would you like to dance like me?" she asked.

"I never could," he answered.

"You could if you practised," she said cheeringly. "You don't know how I practise. I make a chalk mark on the wall, ever so high—higher than your head—and I don't stop till I hit it with my toe, while I spin on with the other—that's what I do."

Pea Blossom's voice was pleasant, but there was something in its accent that jarred upon Willy. It was not delicate, as the voice of a creature so fair and lovely should be. She had also an inclination to drop her "h's."

"What pretty hair you have," he said, to change the subject of conversation.

"This! You mean my wig," answered Pea Blossom, whisking it off and revealing a cropped head.

"Oh!" said Willy, greatly shocked.

"Why, of course," cried Pea Blossom, bursting into a loud laugh. "Do you mean you thought it was my real hair? You must be a silly."

Willy remained too dumbfounded to reply.

"Everything is false about my face," continued Pea Blossom unconcernedly; "my complexion is not real; not a bit of it—it's paint and powder. When that's washed off I'm just like you, as sallow as sallow!"

"Oh!" replied Willy again. "But your eyes?" he added hesitatingly.

Pea Blossom's eyes closed up with laughter, and brimmed over with merry light.

"Why, of course my eyes are my own; but there's nothing real except my eyes and my nose, that is real, too."

"Where is your home?" asked Willy timidly.

"I live close by, at the top of a house—ever such a high house—in Thistle Street, No. 14, that's my home. We've got two rooms. Uncle Sam sleeps in one room—I call him Uncle Sam, but he's not my uncle; he's a fiddler; he fiddles here. He took baby and me when mother died. Have you got a mother?"

"No," answered Willy, "she is dead."

"Who's that?" asked Pea Blossom, too curious to pause to show sympathy, nodding in the direction of Willy's father.

"My father!" said Willy.

Pea Blossom resumed her cross-questioning.

"What does he do?"

"He is a doctor."

"Where do you live?"

Willy gave his address somewhat stiffly.

Pea Blossom nodded again. "Big houses round a square. I know the sweep who cleans the chimneys there."

"Oh!" gasped Willy.

Pea Blossom's curiosity being apparently satisfied, she took Willy's hand. Her hand was no fairy's hand; it had a horny palm, and fingers that carried the marks of work.

"I like you. If you come to see me I'll show you baby. She's my little sister. She's a beauty! She has such round eyes, and two little curls on her forehead. I never let anyone feed her but myself. When I'm at the theatre I let Fatty—that's our landlady—mind her a bit. I put away a shilling every week for Fatty, for everything must be paid for. I never let Uncle Sam touch her—" Pea Blossom went on, breathlessly confidential, taking no heed of Willy's uninterested expression—"never! He don't understand babies. He'd take her up by the leg, as if she were a fiddle, and she would scream. She sometimes takes a fit of passion, and beats me with her little fat hands. Oh, she can scream! bless her little heart."

"I hate babies!" said Willy.

"You would love her!" answered Pea Blossom, with unabashed confidence. "I have put theatre spangles on her dress. Oh! I should like to show her on the stage; all the audience would fall in love with her. You come and see her. Don't forget, No. 14—that's my house. You ask for Janie Sprig."

"Janie Sprig! Who's that?" asked Willy.

"Who? Why that's me!"

"You! I thought you were Pea Blossom!"

Jane Sprig threw her head back and laughed out loud.

"Pea Blossom!" she repeated. "Pea—ea—Blos—som! That's what I play; that's not me. Pea—Blos—som!" she repeated, going off into another peal of laughter. "Well, you 'are' a silly."

Willy felt utterly extinguished.

"Because I'm Pea Blossom I earn money," resumed Janie, in a business-like tone. "Nine shillings a week! Some earn more, ever so much more, and some earn only six shillings."

Willy nodded his head. "At what time do you go to bed?"

"You're tucked up in bed at eight o'clock, I suppose? I go to bed at midnight!" she answered, in a tone of immense superiority.

After an effective pause, she resumed: "Did you ever have ten sovereigns in gold?"

"No," replied Willy.

"I had once, nearly—not quite, you know, but nearly."

"What do you mean?" asked Willy, curtly.

"I found a purse," said Jane in a whisper, drawing nearer. "I found it in the theatre; I hid it; I never told; Uncle Sam is so awful honest; I knew he'd make me give it up; I wanted the money for baby. I hid it, and when no one was by I used to take it out and show the gold to baby, and put the money in her little fat hands and tell her it was for her. And one day Uncle Sam comes in, and he gets angry, and he asks how I got the money, and says I must give it up, a'l of it."

"He was right. You ought to give it up," cried Willy.

"I found it. It was my luck," replied Janie, with a dramatic gesture of her little hand.

"Luck is nothing!" said Willy.

"Luck is everything!" cried Janie. "But Uncle Sam takes me to the theatre—there is a lost property office—and he makes me give it up there; and tell the day I found it, and all; and every day I go and see if some one has asked for it, for if a year goes and it's not claimed it would belong to the one who found it. And a month goes, and six weeks, and I begin to think nobody will come for it. One day they call me, and there's a dreadful old woman like a parrot, with a bonnet on, and she says the purse is hers, and describes everything that's in it—even a little bit of snuffy paper with a bill on it for tea and whiskey; and then, my dear," Janie went on, in the excitement of the story forgetting to whom she was speaking, "when the purse is given to her she begins to handle the money; and she slowly takes out one of the gold pieces, and I think she is going to give it to me, but she puts it back slowly again, and tells me what a good little girl I am; she gives me sixpence. I had a mind to throw the money at her—the old cat! Then I thought I had better keep it and buy whelks for supper. That's what I loves, whelks for supper! don't you?"

"I don't know what they are, but I'm sure they are horrid."

"They're better than cockles, any day. I pick them out with a pin."

"Oh!" cried Willy, greatly disgusted.

"Good-bye," said Janie, nodding, "There's the prompter's boy calling, and I won't see you after, when the play's over. Fatty is coming to fetch me, for Uncle Sam is ill and can't come to-day. I call her Fatty because she's so plump. Her husband is fat also. He says, when we go off together, it's like a Cochin China hen with a little duck."

"I don't want to see the end of the play," said Willy.

"Why?" asked his father. "Don't you care for Pea Blossom any more?"

"She's horrid!" said Willy. "She eats whelks, picking them out with a pin."

"She is a good, plucky little girl, but she is not a fairy! Don't think of her any more, but stick to your lessons," said his father.

CHAPTER III.

IT was a terribly snowy Sunday night. It was a night when you sank down to your ankles in snow, and as for umbrellas, they were like moving snow huts.

Willy and his father were sitting before the fire in the doctor's study. It was not often that the doctor had an evening to himself, but this evening he had arranged to stay indoors, and he and his little boy were having a cosy time together.

If you had asked Willy what his idea of happiness was, he would have answered, an evening at home, all alone with his father.

To-night he was as happy as he could be. The doctor was smoking a pipe, and telling him droll stories, and he was roasting chestnuts on the hob. The chestnuts burst with a loud crack; the flames leapt up as if they too were laughing at the doctor's stories. Willy was, perhaps unconsciously, enjoying himself all the more because of the snow and the fog outside. The gloom and discomfort brought out clearly the sense of what a delightfully cosy time he was having.

All at once there came a ring at the front door—a sharp, insistent, impatient ring. Before the tinkling of the bell was over there came another pull, which brought out a peal which said as plainly as words could say, "Open at once; I cannot wait!"

"Oh!" groaned the doctor. "Is it a patient? It sounds like a call."

"But you won't go, father," cried Willy, springing to his feet. "You 'promised' to stay at home to-night. You 'promised.'"

"I won't go if I can help it, my boy, that's certain," said the doctor.

There was a parley at the front door; a high-pitched voice, speaking very fast; the butler's answering in low, protesting tones. There followed something like a scuffle; rapid steps sounded in the hall; the door of the dining-room was opened, then, the flying steps, resumed their march, and came to the study door. A girl's figure stood on the threshold. Her shabby clothes were covered with snow; under the brim of her battered hat her eyes shone wildly. In the disgrace of her draggle-tail garments, and in her apparent sorrow, Willy yet at a glance recognized Pea Blossom.

Above her hat appeared the apologetic face of the butler.

Janie Sprig's glance sought the doctor; recognizing him, she advanced quickly, and took him by the hand. "Come," she said quickly, "put on your hat, and come at once."

"What for, my child?" he answered, eyeing the wild little figure.

"Baby's ill; they say she's dying; come at once—this minute."

The child's burning eyes, her labouring bosom, her trembling little hands, spoke of her despair and of her need; her appearance appealed to the doctor's pity; her trust in him commanded his service.

"But, my child, you have a doctor already; I cannot come," he answered gently.

"You 'must' come. She's a dying, they say; she's a dying," Janie repeated wildly, "and you can prevent it; you are clever; you have got a big house; I know you are clever. You must come; put on your hat; come, oh come at once with me."

"Father can't come," cried Willy.

"He shall come!" cried Jinny, tugging at the doctor's hand. "He shall come. If he don't come—" a sob rent the little breast—"I'll ask God to punish him. Oh come! come!" she cried, her wild anger dropping, and a sudden weakness overcoming her, she fell prone forward on the table and sobbed.

The doctor still hesitated, and Willy watched in silence this outburst of frantic grief.

"Listen," said the doctor, lifting the child gently. "You have another doctor. Your little sister is his patient. He is clever also. He would be angry if I came."

"I told him I was going to fetch you; I told him not to come again. Uncle Sam told him also not to come again. He is a fool," replied Janie, with a flicker of the old energy. "I know he is a fool. He does not know how to cure, or baby would not die. Oh, come! come!" she went on, again clutching at the doctor's hand. "I won't know what to do if you don't come! I won't know what to do."

She left off pulling the still impassive hand. Again the weakness overcame her, and for a moment she stood still, seeming to contemplate her life emptied of this absorbing love. "What shall I do if baby dies? I shall wake in the morning and not hear her cry. I know I'll go on preparing her food when she's dead."

"My poor child! I will go with you and see what I can do for the baby," said the doctor, rising.

"Yes, go, father!" said Willy, with a choke in his voice.

As the doctor was getting ready, Pea Blossom walked up and down the room, breathing heavily. She did not seem to know that Willy was there looking at her.

As he watched the little restless figure, a world of pity filled his boyish heart.

He saw, from the hall door, the eager child pulling his father along, then the two vanished together into the snowy night.

He sat down in the doctor's arm-chair, it was not time to go to bed yet. After a while his eyelids grew heavy. On the wall opposite he seemed to see a procession of little figures, passing and re-passing. Now they danced down with golden, floating hair, a star sparkling on their foreheads; now they wandered past, bowed and broken with sobs. Sometimes they mingled together—they were like each other, and yet so strangely unlike. In and out, in and out came the dancing and the weeping figures—now joining hands, now melting into each other.

Suddenly Willy started up; his father was bending over him.

"How is the baby?" he cried.

"Better. It was a bad attack of croup."

"I knew you would cure her, father," said Willy, confidently.

"She is not safe yet; she is not out of danger. If the baby is spared, next to God, she will owe her life to the care of her little sister-mother."

CHAPTER IV.

WILLY always walked home from school alone. The school was round the corner of the square, and he would have felt it below his dignity to be fetched.

He had been inattentive at lessons all day; he could not get the thought of that grieving child out of his head.

His father had not returned, as he often did, at lunchtime. Was the baby better? Was it worse? Had the angel of Death taken it away from its sister-mother?

He answered his teacher in such an anyhow manner that the kind lady shook her head and said the fog had got into his brain, and that his geography and history and Latin grammar had lost their way there, and were knocking against each other.

When afternoon class was over, instead of returning home straight he looked about him.

It was a most uncomfortable afternoon. It was misty above and muddy below, the snow had begun to melt and the sky was murky.

Willy looked up to the yellow sky once, and down on the ground, and then he set off running. He made a dash to the right, and then he ran on until he came to a turning on the left. He kept on running until he came to a shabby street which lay at the back of the handsome thoroughfares. The street had a depressed yet genteel air; it seemed an apologetic street, as if it were a humble relation of the very rich neighbouring streets.

This was the street where Janie lived. He knew the number of the house—No. 14. It was more slippery here. There was very little light, except where there was a great stream of brilliant gas, which issued from a public-house. Groups were standing about—rough groups of men and women; laughter and loud talk streamed through the door.

Willy hurried on faster, but the ground was so slippery that suddenly he fell. There was a roar of hoarse laughter. Willy picked himself up; he did not look to the right or left; he went on once more.

Where was No. 14? It was like trying to find a house in a nightmare; every number seemed to be there except No. 14. The tall houses with their dingy windows seemed to be mocking him.

It was growing colder and darker and more slippery. The street seemed never to come to an end. He thought he would turn back, and yet something in his heart seemed to urge him to go on to little Janie.

All at once it stood before him, with a gas-light shining inside and throwing the number out distinctly—No. 14.

He stood on tip-toe and knocked, and the door was opened by a very fat woman. Willy thought she was the fattest woman he had ever seen. She had three double chins.

"Dear, dear! I thought you were the doctor," she said, in a melancholy gurgle.

"I am the doctor's son," replied Willy, with an air that implied it was the next best thing.

Then a fat man, who was, if possible, fatter than the fat woman, came out and looked at Willy.

"I want to know how the baby is," said Willy feeling shy.

"Bless him!" said the fat woman, sighing.

"Bless him!" said the fat man.

Willy looked from one to the other. They did not say how the baby was, but repeated "Bless him!" and sighed.

"I'll take the little gentleman up," said the fat woman dolefully.

"No; I'll take him," said the fat man. "She is too fat to go up easily," he added, with a twinkle in his small eyes.

He led the way; he seemed to grunt at every step.

Up, up they went. The higher they went the shabbier grew the stairs, the dingier the walls; and what with the yellow sky outside, and the dismal look of the house, and the melancholy panting of his guide, Willy's heart grew heavier and heavier.

At last the fat man stopped before a door and knocked. Willy's heart felt like lead. What grief was he about to behold?

His first impression was of a brightly-burning fire, of a familiar little figure stirring something in a saucepan. It looked round as he entered, dropped the spoon, and ran to meet him, forefinger pressed on lips. It was Janie. She was pale and heavy-eyed, but the despair was gone from her face.

"Baby is better; come and see," she whispered, taking Willy's hand and leading him to the cot's side. The baby looked pale, but was sleeping peacefully.

"Don't she look fine?" whispered Janie softly, drawing the blanket closer about the baby.

A thin old man, with long, straight, white hair, was sitting in the shadow on the other side of the bed. "Yes, yes, she is going to be well again. The little mother has nursed her back to life. She will soon be as merry again as a fiddle playing at a pantomime," he said in a gay whisper.

"That's Uncle Sam, I let him sing baby to sleep," said Janie, flitting back to her saucepan.

The old man nodded to Willy, "Sit down, sir, sit down; you're kindly welcome."

"He is the little boy of the doctor who is making baby well," whispered Janie, who had flitted back to the bedside, and was giving a pat to baby's pillow.

"Father's so clever! He makes everybody well whom he attends," said Willy, proudly.

"Begging your pardon, sir, the little mother there had something to do with it, too. Why, she makes a poultice as soon as look at it, and gruel that's as pleasant as a tune to take. She nurses us all," said the old man.

"No; it's the doctor made her well," said Janie.

"Little mother helped, bless her!" said the fat man, in a voice soft, suetty, and slow.

If a plum pudding could speak, it would have just such a voice.

"Why, when I go to the theatre," he continued, "and see her a-dancing and pirouetting on tip-toe, I split my sides laughing, thinking that's the little mother. At night there's a fairy for ye, and in the day ye see her a-boiling, and cooking, and nursing, and ye say there's a grannie for ye, and she's Janie all the time—little Janie Sprigs."

"Hush!" said Janie, for the baby had begun to move.

"That's true, every word of it," said the old man, rubbing his hands, and, forgetting to whisper, speaking in a shrill voice. "It is Janie and the doctor together!" He gave a thump to the pillow. "They're like the bow and the fiddle making music together—they're making baby well." He gave another thump, and the baby, waking, began to cry.

"Go away, Uncle Sam," cried Janie, coming up with outstretched arms. "Ye've no thought but of your fiddle. You forget baby is not a senseless thing."

She took up the wailing child in her arms, and began walking up and down, soothing and hushing its cries.

With its wraps and its shawls, and its large head bobbing against Janie's shoulder, the baby looked as large as did its tender nurse.

Willy watched the motherly little figure, and noted how worn and white was Janie's face, and something like a feeling of reverence stole into his heart for that poorly-clad girl.

"That's the way she has been all night, a-walking up and down, never resting; never a wink of sleep did she take, and to think she's a-going to dance at the theatre to-night," said Uncle Sam.

"Dance!" cried Willy, aghast.

"I am a-going to-night," cried Janie, stopping straight in front of Willy, rocking softly backwards and forwards to keep the baby still. "Everything must be paid for, and I'm a-going to dance, to pay for things. If baby had died I'd never have danced no more—never." She gave a little hug closer to the child in her arms. "But now, as she's going to live, I'll dance—dance till—" her voice choked.

"Till baby is danced into health, and baby is danced into education and grows tall and hearty. God bless the little mother!" said the doctor, who suddenly came into the room.

"Yea, God bless her!" said the thin old man and the fat landlord.

"I could not help coming," said Willy, as he caught his father's astonished glance. "I wanted to know how the baby was."

"You may hold her!" said Janie; and before he knew where he was the big-headed baby was in his arms.

"Oh!" said Willy, in a great fright lest he should drop it.

Janie snatched it back in a moment. "Why you are as awkward as Uncle Sam," she cried with a laugh.

And now the fat landlady came panting into the room, saying it was time to get ready for the play.

Then all was fuss and bustle. Baby was put into Fatty's arms, and Janie gave all sorts of directions as she put on her cloak and hat in a hurry.

"You'll come and see me dance?" she said to Willy.

"I would rather come here," he replied.

"He would rather see the little mother than the fairy Pea Blossom," said the doctor.

"That is true," exclaimed Willy.

"Good-bye," said Janie, taking Willy's hand—suddenly she stooped and kissed it—"I like you because you care for the baby," she said, and was off.

How the Starling Caught Cold.

A GARDEN LEGEND.

BY GEO. MANVILLE FENN,

AUTHOR OF "DICK O' THE FENS," "IN THE KING'S NAME,"
"NAT THE NATURALIST," &c., &c.

————————

"HALLO!"

"Spuzz!"

"Eh?"

"Spitz, spuzz."

It was a marigold with an orange frill about her neck that said "Hallo!" and it was a queer looking, zigzag, blunt headed creature, with his perambulators doubled under him making him look like an insect engine, that emitted the harsh sounds as soon as he had alighted on one of the leaves of the marigold.

Then there was a pause till the soft breeze stole through the garden, when the Canterbury bell gave forth a gentle tinkle that nobody could hear, the sunflower bowed his head and scratched one petal against a garden nail in the old brick wall, and a bird away in the meadow cried, "Cuckoo."

"Spuzz, spuzz, spitz, spuzz!" came from the little creature on the marigold's leaf, as if it had touched a spring and set its works in motion.

"Well," cried the marigold, "of all the crinketty cranketty creatures that ever came for a walk on me, you are about the queerest. What are you! A green wasp walking on stilts?"

"Spuzz, spitz, spuzz!"

"I say, what are you a doing of?" cried the marigold, who was a very vulgar flower.

"Spuzz, spuzz!"

"Well, don't spuzz again," cried the marigold. "Why I do declare you've got saws on your legs. What yer doing of? Trying to saw off your wings?"

"Spuzz, spuzz!"

"Here, what's your name?"

"Spitz, spuzz!"

"Then I hope you're proud of it. Is it a Christian name or a surname?"

There was a curiously rapid mechanical motion of the angular legs, and a repetition of the sound like a tooth-pick being rubbed along the edge a small comb.

"I don't know what you say," shouted the marigold.

"Spuzz, spuzz, spuzz!"

"He's a foreigner," said the marigold to herself. "Shouldn't wonder if he's one of the queer things that come over in boxes with the bulbs." Then aloud, "Are you from foreign abroad?"

"Tchah, tchizz! Nonsense: I am as English as you are!"

"Then why didn't you say so sooner?"

"You didn't say I was a foreigner sooner."

"Then why do you keep on saying, 'spuzz, spuzz,' every time one speaks?"

"I don't know," said the little stranger, "spuzz, spuzz!"

"That's it! why do you keep on saying that?"

"I don't. Spuzz, spuzz!"

"O my! You wicked thing," cried the marigold, "why you said it then."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did; I heard you."

"Stuff! people don't talk with their legs, do they?"

"Well, no," said the marigold. "I don't think they do. But," she added, triumphantly, "they talk with their hands. I've seen the gardener's deaf and dumb boy."

"But this isn't talking; I always go like that."

"Why?"

"Because it is my nature to. See here."

As he spoke he set his legs in motion, and made the peculiarly sharp sound again.

"Oh, I say, don't!" cried the marigold. "It tickles."

"Eh?"

"It makes me feel all creepy. What's the good of doing it?"

"I don't know," said the little fellow, "but I always do."

"Humph!" said the marigold, waving a leaf thoughtfully, "you are a rum-looking fellow. Why you've got your legs all dibbly-double under your body. Don't it hurt?"

"Not a bit. They're spring-heeled-jack legs. I can jump like a kangaroo with them. Didn't you see me jump on to your leaf?"

"No: you flew on."

"That I didn't."

"Of course you didn't," said the marigold thoughtfully. "You haven't any wings."

"That I have; beauties!"

"Where are they, then?" said the marigold. "At home?"

"No; folded up neatly in their cases. Spuzz, spuzz!"

"I say, don't do that!" cried the marigold angrily. "It isn't nice."

"Isn't it? Spuzz, spuzz!"

"Don't—do—that; it's rude. You don't see me playing scratchy tunes with my legs."

"You couldn't. You haven't got any legs."

"Well, perhaps not legs," said the marigold, giving her head a gentle toss. "But I've got a leg, and foot-stalks. How else could I stand?"

"Oh, I don't know," said the queer little fellow. "On your head, perhaps. Wizz, wizzle, wizz, spitz, spuzz."

"Why can't you leave off when you are asked?" said the marigold, looking quite annoyed. "How can you be so rude? I wasn't planted here for you to come and stand upon and saw."

"How do you know? Why shouldn't I stand on you? I always do on the tall grass in the meadows. Spuzz!"

"Then go and stand on the tall grass now. You jar me all through. Don't come sharpening your wooden saws on me."

"Get out, you nasty proud yellow-faced thing! It's no such very great pleasure to stop on your rough leaf."

"Rough, indeed," said the marigold.

"Yes, rough; and what common scent you use. Pah! It's disgusting!"

"Well, I'm sure!" cried the marigold, colouring up, and growing so excited that she opened a fresh bud. "And of all the nasty—Well now! look at that! Why he went off like a cold firework!"

For all at once the little fellow gave a double kick, and darted through the air to alight on the big, soft leaf of a moth mullein.

"Not at home," said the tall plant, as the curious little fellow began to walk up his high spire like a Steeple Jack, right to the very top, where he gave another kick, darted through the air, and alighted on the snapdragon's finest sprig.

"Here! hi!" cried the flower. "Keep off the grass! mean, don't turn me into a door-mat. I mean, are your feet clean?"

"Of course they are, old dragon's mouth."

"Don't call names," said the flower fiercely. "What do you want?"

"Only a friendly visit. I've just come out of the fields."

"But who are you? Not one of our insect friends?"

"I'm the grasshopper."

"Then why don't you go and hop on your grass?" said the flower shortly.

"Well, the fact is," said the grasshopper, "honey is dreadfully scarce out there this season, so I've come on my travels. I've come hopping."

"Well, you're not coming hopping here. I don't grow hops."

"You? No!" said the artful little insect. "You are too beautiful. My! what lovely colours!"

The snapdragon coughed slightly, feeling flattered.

"And what a sweet expression there is about your mouth."

"Oh, really! I don't know," said the snapdragon.

"Oh, but I do."

"Well, I must own that I have been admired," said the foolish flower.

"Admired! I should think so, indeed. What a pity it is though that you have no honey."

"No honey! Why I've plenty."

"Where? Down in your roots?"

"Nonsense! In my blossoms, shut up close."

"Dear me!" said the grasshopper. "Well, with honey and such lovely colours you only want a little scent to make you perfect."

"I'm quite as perfect as I wish to be," said the snapdragon.

"And as I wish you to be," replied the grasshopper. "But, I say, isn't it nearly lunch time?"

"What do you mean?"

"Thought perhaps you might feel disposed to offer me a little honey. Just a wee taste, you know."

"Oh, I couldn't think of such a thing. I don't even give any to the bees."

"Really!"

"No; not a bit."

"What do you do with it then?"

"Keep it till it's stolen."

"Better give it away then. Who steals it?"

"Oh, some wretched little insects eat a hole through my flowers close up to the stalk, and get it all."

"Well, you might give me a taste," said the grasshopper. "There, open your mouth, and shut your eyes. I won't take much."

"But if I did, you'd creep in, and wouldn't go again when I told you."

"Oh! don't say that! On the honour of a grasshopper. Now just you try me. Oh! you beauty."

"Well," said the flower, smiling with every mouth, "I think I will try you, for I don't like to be greedy. But mind, you are not to have much; and when I cry, 'Stop!' out you must come."

"Spitz, spuzz, spuzz, spuzz, spuzz!"

"Oh, I say, don't!" cried the snapdragon in alarm. "Why if you did that when you were in one of my blossoms you'd tickle my throat, and make me cough."

"That was because I was so pleased. It was only my hop legs."

"Then you had better leave your legs outside."

"Well, I couldn't very well do that," said the grasshopper; "but don't you be alarmed. You may trust me."

As he spoke he could not contain his joy in the anticipation of a feast that was not even offered to the bees; and he went off with such a fierce fizz that it sounded as if he had let off a baby cracker all at once.

"There!" cried the snapdragon, "you see you really are not to be trusted."

"That was like a clearing up shower," said the grasshopper. "Come along; open your mouth, and give us a taste."

"I really hardly like to venture," replied the snapdragon.

"You don't trust me, and yet I'm ready to trust you. Suppose I said I was afraid you might bite me in two."

"But I've got no teeth," cried the flower.

"Well, there then," cried the grasshopper, "fair play's a jewel, I'll trust you if you'll trust me."

"But couldn't you really leave your legs outside?"

"Impossible! the birds might steal them while I was gone, and where should I be then?"

"In my blossom."

"Yes, but where would my legs be?"

"Well, I will trust you," said the flower, opening one of its blossoms slowly. "And you will come out when I call?"

The grasshopper wanted no second permission, but often declaring upon his honour that he would come out when called, he crept into the open flower, and without heeding a remonstrance to be careful—consequent upon his scratching the roof of the snapdragon's mouth with his awkward top joints—he dashed right to the end, and began feasting merrily upon the flower's honey pots, eating ten times as much as was good for him or just to the generous flower.

"Gently, please!" said the snapdragon.

"'Lishus," said the grasshopper thickly.

"I think that will do now," said the snapdragon.

"'Tis good!" replied the grasshopper, smacking his lips, "rather thick sticky sort of honey, though."

"Yes, you have had enough."

"Can't hear what you say. The door's shut."

The snapdragon opened the door immediately—a regular yawning mouth, all rose, amber, orange and gold, but the grasshopper gobbled away.

"Door's open now," said the snapdragon. "Come out!"

"Shan't!" said the voracious little monster.

"Don't answer in that rude manner, but come out," cried the snapdragon.

"Had too much trouble to get in," said the grasshopper.

"Now don't be unfair. I trusted you," said the snapdragon, "so come out."

"Not I! I am going to stop."

"If you do not come out directly," cried the flower angrily, "I'll shut the door, and you'll be obliged to stay."

"Don't care!"

"'Don't care' came to a bad end."

"But he had no honey pots to feast upon. One can't starve here."

"Now then, I warn you," said the snapdragon. "Come out!"

"Shan't!"

"I warn you again."

"Don't care!"

"I'll shut you up in prison for stealing."

"Shut away!"

"'Snap!'"

That was the noise made by the flower dragon's mouth, and then there was silence, while the grasshopper kept on eating away till he could eat no more.

"Phew!" he said; "it's rather hot in here. What nasty sticky honey it is."

There was a pause.

"Oh, dear me!" he said. "I didn't think this place was so tight. One can't turn round. Must have another taste, though."

He attacked the honey once more, but left off directly.

"Bah! not good honey—much too sweet. Here, open your mouth; I've had enough of this stuff."

"Of course," said the snapdragon. "You've broken faith, so you may stop in now till I choose to let you out."

"Here, open this door," cried the grasshopper. "Be quick, or I'll kick it down. This honey's stifling, and I've got it all over my front."

"You'll stop there till I please to let you out," said the flower, angrily.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" cried the grasshopper. "Well, we will soon see who is master. Do you know I can kick?"

"No; but I know you can hop sometimes. You can't hop now."

"Do you want me to choke you?"

"You may do just what you like," said the snapdragon, sternly. "I've got you, and I don't mean to let you go."

"How tight and hot this nasty place is!" grumbled the grasshopper, "and how fearfully sticky. Only wait till I get out. Here, open this door!"

The grasshopper waited a few minutes to see if the flower would set him at liberty, but he waited in vain, and, growing fierce now, he drew up his legs.

"Now then," he said, "we shall see!"

There was a moment's pause, and then he began to saw away, rasping the edges of his wing cases and making such a jarring, hideous noise as was never heard before in blossom or bell.

"Spuz-z-z-z-z. Fidz-z-z-z-z-z. Budz-z-z-z-z-z. Dzar-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-z-z-z-z-z-z," and the sound was a hundred times the more strange from being shut up in the quaint-looking flower.

"Oh, my pods and seeds!" exclaimed the snapdragon, "this is horrible. It tickles my throat so! I can't bear it. I—Oh, dear me! It is impossible to bear this. I shall—shall—"

The snapdragon did not say what it would do, but began to cough so violently that its mouth opened wide, and the grasshopper laughed, and began to back out with a shuffling motion.

He laughed too soon, for, annoyed by its enemy's mirth, the flower snapped its mouth to again, and there was the grasshopper, caught tightly round the middle, and with its long, dibble-double legs kicking about outside, with nothing to rest on, like a frog swimming in water, but without being able to move away, for the honey thief was regularly caught in a trap.

It was a tight trap, too, and one in which he was helpless, for though he kicked and threw out his legs, and tried to rasp the little combs upon the edges of his wing cases, so as to make his jarring sounds, he could not reach them, and as he kicked the flower looked on and laughed; while, to make matters worse for him, a merry blue larkspur which grew close by began to tickle him with his spurs, making the little fellow kick more than ever.

"Serve him right for being rude," said the marigold.

"Put him on a kicking-strap with one of my leaves," said the ribbon grass.

"No, no; let the greedy little creature be," cried the snapdragon. "I'll punish him, and—oh! he's gone!"

No wonder: for the snapdragon had opened the wrong mouth when he spoke, and suffered like the crow with the cheese in the fable. For the grasshopper dropped down on the ground quite out of breath with his struggles. He soon recovered though, and vented his spleen upon the snapdragon by backing up close to the stems, and kicking and rasping till the poor flower was all of a quiver, and gaped, and looked foolish with its many mouths.

After a long rest the grasshopper made a fresh start. He began though by leaping upon the helpless snapdragon, and then jumped to and fro, whizzing at the flower derisively. From there he hopped on to the marigold's leaf, serving her the same, before making one grand effort which sent him flying through the air into the mignonette, which he insulted by telling the tiny flower it smelt nasty.

A sharp spring carried the mechanical-looking little creature into the grass, where he crawled up a stout bent, gathered up his strength, and leaped to the foot of the lily.

"Get away!" cried the elegant lady of the silver chalice and golden dust, but the grasshopper had no reverence, and crawled right to the tip-top bud for a few moments, before spinning himself right away on to the sunflower's high stem.

"Oh! you're here now!" said the giant, shaking his great head.

But the grasshopper was out of temper, and contented himself with turning the tall flower into a scaffold from which he could leap on to the velvet-green moss on the top of the red brick wall.

"Here we are!" he cried joyously, as he rubbed his legs and emitted his harsh, horny sound, and from the point of vantage he looked right and left, hesitating whether to leap to the right, among the flowers, or to the left, among the vegetables.

He had no time, though, to choose, for a fat young blackbird in mottled-brown came hopping along the top of the wall, caught sight of the insect, and made an inexperienced dab at him with his soft beak. He was quick, but the grasshopper was quicker, and flew hurriedly away into the tall, green feathers of the carrot, where there was room to hide from all the sharp-eyed birds in the garden.

"No business here," said the biggest carrot in the bed. "Do you hear? No business in my bed."

"Spuzz!" went the grasshopper derisively, as he slowly climbed the tallest leaf. "I shall stop as long as I—"

"Peck!" went the robin, caught the little fellow by the waist, and flew away, flitter, flutter, till the grasshopper drew his legs well up under him, and then gave so loud and jarring a spuzz that the robin said "murder!" opening his beak in his fright, and down went the little grasshopper right into the heart of the fattest cabbage in the garden.

"Oh! spuzz, spuzz. I shall be killed if I don't go back to the fields. I'll creep down here to be safe."

"No lodgings to let," said the fat cabbage, "I'm eaten up as it is. There are the earwigs and little earwigses in number two; there's a snail in number four with a small family; fourteen caterpillars in number six; and every other leaf occupied by slugs, except number a hundred-and-two, which has been turned into a storehouse for new laid eggs. And now you've come."

"Spuzz, spuzz. Ditz. And I mean to stop," cried the grasshopper. "Who are you?"

"I'm a regular riddle," said the cabbage, "so full of holes you must give me up. Everybody takes advantage of me without so much as saying by your leaf. But, I say, who are you?"

"The grasshopper."

"Mind that bird," whispered the cabbage, as a sparrow alighted on an apple tree, and looked down with his head on one side.

"Fizz!" went the grasshopper into the mint, and made the sparrow stare. Spuzz again, and he was down among the thyme. Away into the curly-headed parsley, and off to the wise old sage, but after taking a sniff at sweet marjoram and another at balm, he declared the herbs were a dowdy lot, and not half so nice as new mown hay.

Off on his travels again he hopped and spun about from vegetable to tree and bush, and then on to the wall once more, where he stopped for a rest and looked down at the flowers.

"Now then," he cried, "here goes for the biggest spin of all, and then I'll have another feast on the snapdragon's honey."

His wings must have been used that time, for the spin seemed many yards long, but instead of his coming down in the flower bed, he made too big a leap, and dropped upon the other side right on the lawn, when—

"Peck!"

A sharp-billed starling had him by the middle.

"Fidz-fidz-fidz, wizz-wizz-wizzle," went the grasshopper's combs, but he began too late. The starling had dropped him, but it was down inside, and thus they say he lives still in the starling's throat. For though there are many who think that the speckled, sharp-billed bird has made himself hoarse by getting up too early in search of grubs, the genuine truth in Birdland is that his cold was caught by swallowing the grasshopper, and, for proof of this, you have but to listen to the starling's note as he sits high up in some elm tree, with the spiky feathers of his head and throat erect.

Sweet, melodious, and true come his notes—sweeter than those of a thrush, pure as the soft flute of the blackbird for two or three bars of his song, and then you hear the grasshopper in his throat, wizzling and wheezing, all sputter and fidz, like the rasping of the tiny combs of the insect's legs on the horny cases at his sides.

But someone says, "This can't be true?"

Well, in the chronicles of Birdland nothing is written down. Everything is handed from parent to child by word of beak, and I must confess that the only thing in support of the truth of this legend is the starling's husky, wheezing song.

Chéri's Second Escapade.

BY MRS. MOLESWORTH,

AUTHOR OF "A CHRISTMAS POSY," "HERR BABY," "CARROTS," &c.

————————

HE told it to Evie himself this time. How he managed it, and how "she" managed it: he the telling, she the understanding, I'm sure I can't say. But "I" have it from Evie, for clever as she is at foreign languages—and of all foreign languages I should think "dog" language the hardest to learn—she always declares she can't write down even the simplest story in at all an interesting way. So I said I would do it for her. It does seem a pity that naughty Chéri's second escapade should not be told, for a lesson to dogs, and also to too confiding mistresses of the same.

You remember—each of you, my dear children, who read "Jack Frost's Little Prisoners," two, no, "three" Christmases ago—dear, dear, how time flies!—the story of Chéri's first running away from his happy home. You may perhaps remember how he finished up by hinting that "some day" he thought he might possibly repeat this piece of disobedience. But time passed, and Chéri grew older, and, all his friends began to hope, wiser. Any way there were no signs for a long time of any rebellion on the part of the small person, and everyone interested in him began to breathe freely.

But there came a day, an unfortunate day, in which Chéri went out a walk with his two mistresses, Evie and Dolly—not that Dolly is really his mistress, he is Evie's very own dog, but Dolly is very fond of him, and "very" good to him, and when Evie is away he attaches himself to Dolly as second-best. They were not going far from home, and they had come to have perfect confidence in him, so he was without a "lead," as I believe it is called, free to ramble about a little and make small excursions on his own account, providing he kept within a reasonable distance of the girls, or as Evie always impressed upon him, kept them "well within sight." All went right; Chéri, feeling that as a gentleman he was bound to behave in an attentive and chivalrous manner, took care not to stray far, and kept his eye on the young ladies.

They were walking on briskly, when suddenly they stopped short. It was in front of a house that looked something between a shop and a private dwelling, for though there was a large square window, there were no goods in it for sale—only a few embroidered skirts and handkerchiefs, and such things spread out in a conspicuous, conceited kind of way, as if they were saying "look at us! how clean we are, and how nicely ironed and 'got up'!" And from inside the open doorway came a rather pleasant, clean, hot smell—of freshly washed, drying linen, and irons scorching hot. It was a laundress's. The two girls stopped in front of the window as if its contents interested them very much. But that was not the attraction.

"O Dolly," said Evie, "I never can pass this place without thinking of our darling Wollops" (I must explain that "Wollops" was Chéri's "last" new name), "and the night he was lost—Oh, Dolly, 'what' we went through!—for I feel convinced this is the house he was at all the time, though, of course, I can't be 'quite' sure. They have a horrid little common dog, I have seen him several times. 'Very' likely dear Chéri came here to pay him a visit just out of kind feeling: he has such a good heart. Oh, see, Doll, there is the dog."

For at that moment "Prince," an ugly, nominally white, but really grey, woolly dog with a pink nose—looking not unlike a very dirty big toy-lamb, came out to air himself on the steps.

"'What' an ugly dog!" Dolly exclaimed.

Her voice unluckily attracted Chéri's attention—he had been amusing himself by snuffing at a piece of orange-peel on the curbstone, which at first sight, he thought looked like something good, for Chéri's eyes are not as sharp as they might be, in consequence, perhaps, of the shaggy hair that always overhangs them. But Dolly's exclamation made him turn round, and there, on the door-step, he recognized his friend Prince.

Chéri bristled—this is a figurative expression; nothing could really make his long shaggy silky coat bristle—with indignation.

"Ugly dog, indeed!" he said to himself. "My good Prince. I hope he did not catch the word. Impertinent chit, that Dolly is," and full of anxiety to make amends, up he trotted.

The two dogs had not met for fully two years.

"Upon my word, my dear fellow, this is a pleasure," said Chéri, throwing all the cordiality he could into his bark. "I have so often thought of you, and wished to see you again, since the—the pleasant visit I paid you some time ago."

"H'm," returned Prince, with a slight snarl, "doesn't seem very like it, I must say. You might have looked me up before now, I should think, if—"

"Oh, 'oh,' Evie," shrieked Dolly, "they're going to fight. Look at that nasty, horrid, pink-nosed creature; he 'is' so snarling. Come away, Chéri; 'come away,' sir, I say!"

Chéri turned, and looked at her with bold contempt.

"'Lord, what fools these mortals be!'" he would probably have ejaculated had he known the quotation. What he did—bark—was this:

"'Sir,' indeed, Miss Dolly! ordering me about in this way, and insulting my friend!" Then he turned to Prince, who stood there, pretending he understood what Dolly said, though he really didn't.

"My young ladies are nervous," he said. "You see, when I am out in charge of them I make them my first thought. They are, perhaps, a little jealous of my attentions. So for the moment, my good Prince, I must leave you; but I will look in one day very soon. I will, I assure you, seize the very first opportunity. To—to tell the truth—I was not quite sure of your address."

"All right," said Prince, who was really not an ill-natured dog, "always pleased to see you. Bring a bone with you if you like, and we'll have a nice crunch together."

This was a little vulgar, but Chéri was in a contradictory humour, and determined to stand up for Prince the more Dolly spoke against him.

He followed the girls, feeling very irate.

"We must be very careful, Evie," Dolly went on, "or we shall have Billy running off again. He 'evidently' knows that horrid pink-nosed dog."

"It's only his good-nature," said Evie. "He would never really make a friend of a common dirty dog like that. And after all we don't 'know' that it was there he went that night."

All of which remarks, as Chéri—Billy, Wollops, etc.—afterwards confessed to his mistress only made him the more determined to carry out the intention in his head.

No "opportunity," as he had said to Prince, offered itself for some days. Perhaps the girls, Dolly especially, were rather on the alert; any how, though he sneaked to the front door every time he heard the bell ring, which was not very often, as he was generally shut up in a room upstairs, and once or twice had a try at the area steps when he was having his dinner in the kitchen, he never managed to get even as far as the pavement. The young ladies did not take him out walking except with a lead, and his only running about was in the garden at the back, whence, not having wings, nor being able to climb like a cat, he could not escape.

But "Tout vient à qui sait attendre."

One evening, Evie and Dolly were out on their own account, paying a quiet visit to two young friends of theirs. The carriage came round at ten o'clock to call for their maid, who was to fetch them.

"Be sure you put Billums to bed before you come for us," had been Evie's last injunction to Thecla before starting. But Thecla was a little hurried, Chéri was in a sweet sleep on the work-room rug, she thought it a pity to disturb him, he would be "ganz recht" till she and her young ladies came home again. Ah, Thecla! Little did she dream "who" came softly creeping downstairs behind her, hidden by her skirts, who watched his moment, keeping in a shady corner of the hall, while she chattered to the footman about the address he was to tell the coachman, who sneaked out while the door was open—out, silly little self-willed dog, into the dark street—trotting off in triumph, away from his safe, happy home, into the great wide desert of London, where dog stealers abound, and Evies and Dollies are not to be met with at every turn.

He was going to call on Prince. He was quite sure he knew the way, even in the dark. And he was quite sure he could find his own home again, even though—yes, as he glanced about him a little, it did strike him that the door-steps all down the street were ridiculously, absurdly like each other. The feeble light of the gas-lamps had to do with this, doubtless; by day there were one or two little distinctions—the shape of the scraper, for instance, that he had learnt to notice. But he tossed aside all misgivings; how pleased Prince would be to see him! and he hastened his steps.

Hush! There came in the solitary street the sound of heavy, measured footsteps. A tall policeman drew near.

"A strayed dog," he said to himself, as he lowered his bull's eye to have a look at him. "Well, my fine fellow, and where do you hail from?" he was beginning, but Chéri was too sharp for him. To be captured at the outset by a policeman, and ignominiously carried home! for Chéri was conceited enough to think himself well-known in the neighbourhood. No thank you. There was a side street just where the policeman was standing. In an instant Chéri had darted round the corner, and was careering away. The policeman could have caught him had he chosen, but he thought better of it.

"Seems to know his way about," he said. "No use botherin' if he's not a real stray;" and he marched on again.

Chéri, hearing his footsteps growing fainter in the distance, stopped to look about him. Was he on his way to Prince's house? He hesitated. Then the sight of a better-lighted street some little way ahead, a street with shops, and, late as it was, cabs and carts, and plenty of people about still, made him run on again. For it was in a busy street like this that the laundress lived.

But he passed shop after shop, peeping in at several, but none looked like, none "smelt" quite like Prince's home. At last a brilliant idea struck him—he would cross the road. And cross it he did, escaping with his life more by luck than good management, I can assure you, as a heavy dray came crashing up on one side, followed by a dashing hansom, and an omnibus boomed along on the other. Chéri's heart, by the time he reached the opposite pavement, was beating so that he felt choking.

"I think," he said to himself, "that when I get to Prince's I'll ask him to put me up for the night, as he did before. It's really scandalous to allow all these carts and carriages in the street so late."

He tried to feel important, and trotted along a little way in a brisk, would-be-easy-minded fashion. But he did not arrive at the laundress's on this side of the road either, and he began to feel tired, and just a little frightened.

"I almost think," he said to himself at last, "I almost think I'll give it up for to-night. Stay; I might enquire," and as that moment he caught sight of a fox-terrier following his master, he accosted him politely.

"Excuse me," he said, "do you happen to know if a—a dog of the name of Prince lives hereabouts? They take in washing at his place, I believe."

The fox-terrier looked at him superciliously.

"I never make chance acquaintances," he said. "Washerwomen indeed! Where do you get such low tastes? You look a well-bred dog, but I advise you to make the best of your way home. It's getting late; you'll find yourself at the police station en route for Battersea, I can tell you, if you don't take care."

Chéri was terribly frightened. What did the fox-terrier mean? Police and Battersea?

"Oh dear," he thought at last, "I wish I were safe at home again. Let me see—I must cross the road—bless me, how nervous I feel."

He managed to get across, however—there were rather fewer vehicles than before. Then he ran along a little way and turned into a dark street, which he felt sure must be Winchester Crescent, "his" street. And—oh, joy!—yes, there were houses with steps, just like his house. He chose one hap-hazard; he was getting stupid and confused—the scraper seemed like his own house's scraper—and, tired and weary, he mounted to the top step and there sat himself down and whined. Whined and then yelped, till the door opened, and with a bark of delight he prepared to rush in. But "Off with you, you nasty whining thing," said a rough voice; not that of James, Chéri's own footman, but a stranger's—a cross parlour-maid, who was shutting up for the night, and had no pity for a poor, naughty little runaway. "Off with you!" and off crept Chéri—his tail very dejected, his ears very limp, his heart very, "very" sore.

He tried one or two other door-steps in vain—either no attention was paid to his piteous attempts to attract it, or he was scolded and "shoo'ed" away. Then he decided that after all this was not his street (though it was, for the cross parlour-maid, whose mistress knew Evie and Dolly, confessed the next day that had she recognized the dog she would have taken him in), and off he set again on another voyage of discovery, a fruitless one, of course. He grew very tired indeed; he remembered little more of the details of that dreary night, he told Evie only one idea haunted him—at all costs he must keep out of the way of policemen and that unknown danger the fox-terrier had told him of, "Battersea." So as soon as ever he heard the measured tramp coming down the street, off he set; the police had no need to "move him on," poor, terrified little truant, though after all they would have been his best friends had he only known it. Fortunately, it was a mild night; he must have slept a good deal, Evie thinks—slept on some dark door-step probably, or in the shade of a wall, on the cold, hard stone, uncovered, unsheltered—he, the tenderly cared-for little dog whom Evie put to bed like a baby under his blanket every night! See what comes of disobedience, children!

The next morning, as soon as it was light, he set off again to search for home. He fancied it would be easier in the day-time. But, alas! it did not prove so. And the unusual amount of exercise he had had was beginning to make him very hungry, though it was still some hours to his dinnertime. He found a crust which some "pretence beggar," as the children say, had contemptuously thrown away, and though it was dirty and muddy, he eat it thankfully enough. Then he wandered about, the streets growing more and more crowded and his stupid little brain more and more confused. Once, about eleven o'clock that morning, he heard his own name called.

"Chéri! Can that be Evangeline's Chéri?" a little girl said. And he tried to run up to her, but in an instant she was lost in the crowd. "I should have been sure to hear if he was lost," she said to her mother as they walked on. "There are so many little dogs something like him."

Not long after that, Chéri found himself in a less crowded street. He was so perfectly miserable now that he thought he would like to die, and he was wondering how he could best manage it when a cheery, good-natured voice made him look up.

"Are you lost, old fellow?" it said. And Chéri, seeing that the speaker's face matched his voice—he was a stout, honest-looking man in working clothes—pulled himself together a little, saying, "Yes, yes; I am lost indeed," as plainly as wagging tail and pleading eyes and appealing whine "could" speak.

"If I could but make him understand where I live," he said to himself. But that, alas, was out of the question.

"You'd best come 'ome with me," said the man, picking him up gently, as he spoke. "I'll leave 'im with Bella when I'm out. And there'll be posters about him in a day or two—sure to be."

So Chéri journeyed to the workman's home in the good fellow's arms. "Home" meant two rooms in a small stuffy little house, and the back room was really a work-shop, all littered over with shavings. Chéri could not make it out; he had never seen shavings before, and thought they were good to eat, and then when he found out his mistake, he was just as puzzled by the queer sort of wheel in the middle of the room, that the man was always turning. Afterwards, Evie told him that his host was a wood-turner, but I don't know that he understands what that means, even now. The shavings were not so bad, however; a little heap of them made a pretty decent bed, better than the cold stones any way, though not to be compared with his own little rug and baskets at home! But oh, how tired Chéri got of that work-room, and of the little yard about five feet square at the back, which was his only pleasure ground. For though the wood-turner and his wife were very kind to him, they never took him out. They were probably afraid of his running away, and afraid too, very likely, of being pounced upon by the police as dog stealers.

It was a good thing Evie had taken such pains to teach Chéri to understand human talking, otherwise, he would have been still more wretched than he was. For by listening to the conversation of his hosts he found there was still some hope for him. The first day or two they seemed in very good spirits. Stephens, that was the man's name, turned over his work so as to get out early to have "a look round," as he called it. And each time he came in, his wife looked up eagerly.

"Seen anything?" she said; but Stephens shook his head.

"Neither seen nor 'eard. Yet 'someone's' a enquirin' for 'im, I'm sure. He's a pet, and no mistake, wherever 'e comes from."

"That's certing," said Bella. "Just to watch 'ow he creeps up to my skirts and settles hisself as cozy as may be. It'll come—make your mind easy, Stephens. There'll be posters up in a day or two."

But a day or two, and more than a day or two passed, and no clue was found by the wood-turner. Chéri grew thin, though the poor people fed him well—so well, that they began to wonder how they could afford to keep him much longer, and Stephens decided one evening that he would go the next morning to consult a friend of his at the neighbouring mews, who was known to do a little business now and then privately in the dog line.

Chéri was lying on his heap of shavings depressed and dejected when the wood-turner came back from his visit. The dog was losing heart altogether now—he just turned his head a little and blinked feebly with his sad eyes. But Stephens' first words made him prick up his ears (this, also, I beg to say, is a figurative expression in Chéri's case) and listen eagerly for more.

"I've got on the track at last, if I'm not oncommonly mistook," he said to Mrs. Bella, as she followed him in from the other room, wiping her hands on her apron, to hear the news. Stephens was holding a newspaper, which he flourished about.

"Tom Swires, at the mews, bethought him of this 'ere. It's the great card for local advertisements, and he 'unted up last week's hissue, and just you listen, Bella."

Then Mr. Stephens proceeded to read aloud: "Lost, on the evening of the 20th May, from 58, Winchester Crescent, a small silky, long-haired Scotch terrier. Whoever brings him to the above address, will receive £1 reward."

"It's 'im," said Mrs. Stephens. "Off with you. Clean yourself up a bit first."

Chéri quivered with anxiety. He had not quite understood his hosts' conversation, for you see Evie had been very particular to accustom him only to a truly refined and cultivated way of speaking. Still, he understood a good deal; the words "58, Winchester Crescent," were very familiar.

"Oh dear, oh 'dear,'" he thought, "if it could be—oh, if I 'could' get home again!" and he crept forward, wagging his tail and staring up in Stephens' face with eyes that all but spoke.

"All right, old fellow," said the workman. "You'll give us a good character, won't you? It's been more comfortabler for you 'ere than at that there Battersea, any how."

Again that queer word. What could it mean? Evie has told him about it since. Poor Evie—she had got to know the Battersea home for strayed dogs only too well in the last few days. That very morning, she and Dolly, escorted by the faithful Thecla, had set off on their third pilgrimage thither, only to return home again saddened and hopeless. There was no Chéri there, no naughty disobedient darling, his feathery little body in a quiver of delight at the sight of his dear mistresses at last, among the scores of poor doggies in the barred-in kennels.

"I can't go there again, Dolly," said Evie as they came away. "It's too heart-breaking. Did you see how the poor dogs looked up in our faces, 'begging' us to take them home with us? No, I can't bear it. It is a very good thing, I'm sure—they are kindly treated, and have plenty of water. But I almost think the kindest part of it is that they put them to death before long."

"And without it hurting them at all," said Dolly, softly. "'Chloroform is just like going gently to sleep,' mamma says. But oh, Evie, to 'think' of what that keeper told us—that lots and lots of these dogs are very old ones, turned out by their owners on purpose! after a life of faithful service. Is it not too horrible?"

Evie shuddered.

"I wish I knew that poor Chéri was dead," she said quietly.

It was a long way home, and sore hearts make more miles. Evie felt as if she really could not have walked a yard further, when at last they found themselves on their own door-step. A head was peeping out from behind the dining-room curtain—it was actually mamma's! What a funny thing for mamma to do! There was a queer feeling in the air as James most promptly opened the door—a sort of repressed excitement and expectancy.

"Mamma," said Evie, in a half-dazed way, "is—has?"

"Yes, yes, darling, it is. He—he's come home," and then not another word, but a fluffy ball, all quivering and dancing, seemed to leap into her arms, and, oh yes, it was her own naughty, repentant little doggie back again at last!

"I'll never, 'never,' NEVER do it again," he said to her—how, I don't know, but she understood, and that is all that matters.

He had been lost for ten days!

He crept up to me just as I wrote the last words. Fancy his finding out it was all about him! I'm afraid he is very conceited.

"Please be sure to say I'll 'never' do it again," he says—dear me, I'm getting nearly as clever as Evangeline about dog language—"I have really had a good lesson this time."

Neigh-bour's Fare.

(FOUNDED ON FACT.)

BY C. M. YONGE.

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"HE—HE—HE—HEIGH! What are you doing at my hedge?"

"Heigh—high—hoity-toity! The hedge is as much mine as yours!"

"Yours, you scrubby, hairy, low-born thing, that wouldn't know how to eat a mouthful of corn if it was set before you? Ha! Ha!"

"I thank my stars that I'm not so fine and dainty as not to be able to do my work without being pampered upon corn! Heigh! heigh!"

"Work! To creep along with a cart-load of potatoes and cabbages, no faster than old Timothy can crawl. Do you call that work?"

"A pretty deal more work than trotting along with a baby-boy atop of you, or drawing a bit of a basket with a lady in it! I wouldn't be such a useless creature, not I," rushing off with a flourish of heels.

"Stay till you are asked;" and another career, with heels kicked up. For Pearl and Peggy were ponies! Each was turned out for the night into a paddock, and between them there was a low hedge, chiefly of snowberry bushes, but with a strong wire or two running the whole length, to make all secure.

Pearl belonged to the lady at the pretty house just above, with the projecting eaves, and the deep oriel windows, all covered with roses. She had a beautiful cosy stable, only it was so hot in the long days of summer that it was thought better to turn her out in the pleasant dewy field for the night, after her work was done—taking little master out for a ride in the morning, and drawing her mistress in the basket carriage in the afternoon. She was a slender, shining bay pony, with black mane and tail, and a very pretty head—indeed it was said that her great, great, great grandmother was an Arabian, so no wonder she gave herself airs, and she was washed and curry-combed every day by her own groom.

Peggy was rough, dark, and sturdy, with a short neck, a hog mane, and stout legs. Two days in the week she drew the cart to market along the dusty roads. On two others she took kindlings to the same town. On another she fetched clothes for the wash, and received another load of clean ones, and there was always something hard and heavy for her to do on the sixth day. Nobody groomed her; she had no place to sleep in, in all weathers but a shed in the corner of the field; she never got a feed of corn, far less lumps of sugar, and pieces of bread, but she was turned out when her work was over, to pick up her living in that little rough field as best she might, only now and then getting a little bran, or a few carrots.

It was Sunday, so neither had done any work, and they had the more time to look, and teaze each other with snorts and scornful laughter. Presently Peggy's master, hobbling up on his way to Church, held out his hand with a carrot in it, crying, "Coup, coup, old lass," and when she came up, petted her, and played with her forelock while she munched the carrot.

"As if I would stand still for such a dirty old man!" snorted Pearl.

"He's not dirty, you impudence," whinnied back Peggy, "he is groomed for Sunday!"

"Much you know about grooming that rough coat of yours," was the retort of satin-skinned Pearl, while the old man went on his way to Church.

The bells ceased to sound, and all was quiet. Presently a big gipsy-looking man in a fur cap, and a boy with a black shock head of hair looked over the hedge.

"Handsome pony that!" said the man, looking at Pearl.

Pearl liked praise, from whomsoever it came, so she pricked up her ears and whinnied.

"Wouldn't I like to be upon the back of her," said the boy.

"Too smart and spirited for you, my lad," said the man, "but she would fetch a pretty penny. That's the serviceable article! Here!" and he moved to Peggy's untidy old gate, and chirruped, but Peggy was more wary, and kept her distance.

The days were long just then; the sun rose very early, and even before he rose, the lark which had its nest in the corner of Peggy's field had waked, and was singing, singing away, far, far up in the sky.

Just as the first beams were touching the brown breast, a wary whistle, and "coup, coup" sounded in the corner of Peggy's field. She awoke, and turned an ear to listen. The sound came again, and there was the shaking of a sieve. Corn, the greatest delicacy a horse knows, had been very seldom tasted by Peggy, and, strange as the hour was for a breakfast, she was so much enticed as to lose all her suspicions, and trotted up in a moment. Her nose was scarcely among the oats before a halter was over her head, and she found herself being dragged off!

It was all done so quietly that Pearl had heard nothing but the first call, which made her prick up her delicate black ears, and bend up one fore-leg in preparation for rising. No doubt, then she thought, that hard-worked, beggarly old master of Peggy's wanted to set to work at this dreadful time in the morning. She would go to sleep again.

The call was sounding again in her own field. The sieve rattled, but Pearl was too well fed, and corn was too common a thing with her for her to care much about that. She thought it dangerous, and stood up, with her nostrils spread, and her eyes full of alarm. The man advanced upon her; she cantered away to the further end of her field. Then the boy ran after her, while, thoroughly alarmed, she galloped wildly about, neighing as loud as she could to call for help. Alas! nobody was up, nothing answered her but poor Peggy's frightened neighs! and though she led the man, the boy, and a girl, who now appeared, a pretty dance, at last she was penned up in a corner, and the great, hard, dirty hand had got hold of her mane, pulling it hard and spitefully, and abusing her fiercely for all the trouble she had given.

She tried to kick, but he held her fast, and a whip came down stinging on her satin sides whenever she struggled. Presently she found herself and Peggy tied side by side, by their halters, at the back of a very dirty old gipsy cart, with a tilt over it, ten times worse than the one that Peggy was used to draw, and filled with straw and ragged little children, whose shouts of glee were shocking to the ponies. They were, however, silenced at once by rough words from the father and mother. A poor lean horse was in the shafts, and the boy, running beside him, pulled his bridle, and gave him two or three blows, so that he moved on, dragging behind Pearl and Peggy—past the dear, beautiful stable where Pearl had her own comfortable stall, near the two fine tall carriage-horses, past the thatched cottage where old Timothy lived, past the neat garden where abode Pearl's groom! How they struggled and neighed, but all in vain—nobody would hear, or look-out, everyone was fast asleep, and on, on they went. The ponies pulled and dragged at their halters, and strove with all their might, but in vain—the ropes would not yield, and they only hurt themselves; while on, on they were forced to go, at that weary, slow pace, which fretted Pearl the most, and with nothing to eat.

Once, a mile or more from home, Peggy saw a man whom she knew, because he had dealings with her master, and she neighed, and strained at her halter, doing all she could to attract his attention, but he would not, or did not, take any notice, and on they went. Pearl did not like the movement, and kicked at Peggy, who returned it, but the man, seeing the commotion, turned back, and with rude words laid his whip across both of them.

Very, very weary were the two poor ponies, dragged on through stony lanes, as the sun became hotter and hotter, but at last the cart stopped under a hedge, on the border of a wide heath. The hungry and thirsty creatures tried to get their mouths to the grass, but the ropes were too short, and in her disappointment Peggy tried to bite at her companion.

"Oh!" whinnied out Pearl, "we had best be friends in this strange, terrible place—we who are old neighbours."

"Ha! ha! You aren't so proud now you are brought as low as I am," returned Peggy.

It was a rude answer; but Peggy was very tired and miserable, and though she was more used to rough it than was Pearl, she had less spirit to stand up against their distress.

However, their new master seemed to remember them. He and the boy led them down to a muddy pond under the hedge, and though Pearl in general would have scorned such water, she was glad enough to suck it up. Then an armful of hay was thrown down before each. It had perhaps been pulled out of a hay-rick, but that was not the ponies' business, and they gladly ate it up, and only wished there was more. Then the halters were drawn up tighter, and the cart set out again, but both were in better heart, and Peggy was good-humoured, and ready to believe, as Pearl did, that biting and kicking at one another was not the way to be less distressed, so they journeyed on in quite a friendly manner, and tried to flick off each other's flies with their tails. When at last the long day's journey was over, Pearl sadly missed the groom's hand washing her, and curry-combing her to make her comfortable, and Peggy not only forbore to laugh at her for being such a fine lady as to expect it, but really tried to do what she could for her by biting at a lump that a horse-fly had made in her neck.

They could both understand what human beings said, and when the rumbling of the cart was over, they listened anxiously to what the man, his wife, and eldest son were saying about them.

The woman wanted to take them to a great fair near at hand, and sell them early in the day. They squeezed closer together, and Pearl put her neck across Peggy's, as they felt how dreadful it would be to be parted from all that was left of home.

They were relieved to hear the man say that it could not be done safely; but then the woman answered that was nonsense—they had only to cut off the long hair of the rough pony, clip the mane and tail of the bay, and paint over the white star on her forehead.

Dreadful! the mane and tail that little master was so proud of! Poor Pearl gave a jerk to her halter, and determined to kick and bite her hardest before any such thing should be done to her. However, by the time the kettle was boiled, and the evening meal eaten, the man declared he must have his beer, and though his wife declared that without him to hold the horses she could not trim them, he would not listen, but started off for the public-house in the village, whose chimneys and their smoke could just be seen far down in the valley below.

The ponies were tied by ropes and allowed to graze, but the grass was very short, and there were a great many thistles, more fit for a donkey than a horse, as Pearl sighed when they pricked her delicate nose, and there was no water, except that a fine drizzling rain came on. Tinker, the old horse in the shafts, who was turned loose, did not cheer them. He told them he led a wretched life, beaten, starved, and tired, and his only hope was to have Peggy put on to help him with his loads. Pearl would at home have been safely housed in her own stable, here she could only creep as near the shelter of the cart as she could, and shiver. And good-natured Peggy, who was used to such things, and had much longer hair, came and squeezed up against her to keep her warmer; but still it was a wretched time, and the poor ponies felt damp, and limp, and tired when the cart set off again in the morning, and the halters were too short to allow of their even hanging down their poor disconsolate heads.

They went down the hill, over a rough chalk road, stumbling along, but they stopped at the public-house for beer for the people in the cart, and a little hay and water for the horses.

Just as they were enjoying clean water, a rough-looking man sauntered up, "I say, mate," said he, "there be notices up everywhere about a couple of ponies, and I heard tell as the bobbies were on the look-out for them at the Fair."

Those words did Pearl and Peggy more good than even the water.

There followed a few more words, and then the whole family were bundled back into the cart, and Tinker was forced to drag them all up the same steep hill.

There they halted, and the boy was sent on the further road to spy out what he could. Presently, he came running back as hard as he could. "Two policemen out in front of their station," he declared.

"There's nothing else for it," said the man.

"All your fault for going off and not helping me with them," said the woman.

However that might be, the halters were taken off their necks, there was a hard parting smack, and behold, Pearl and Peggy were free! They could hardly believe it, but the man and boy stamped and whooped at them, and off they went, putting down their heads and prancing with heels in the air for joy, and only wishing for a moment that poor Tinker was with them.

When they came to the end of the down, they stood still and consulted how to get home. Peggy snuffed about, but it was beyond where she had ever been before, or Pearl either, but there was a feeling in them for the right way, and they cantered along side by side as merrily as could be.

Presently Pearl said, "I've been in this corner with my mistress! I remember the white post that made me shy! This way!" How they tossed their heads and trotted on.

"Soh!" there was a call Pearl knew well.

It was her own kind groom in the trap with the superintendent of police.

What rejoicing there was; Pearl's little master kissed her when she came home, and old Timothy did almost as much by Peggy.

And whenever the two ponies were turned out in their two fields, they used to get to the fence between and rub their noses together, and they whinnied kind greetings to one another whenever they met. Their adventures had quite cured them of their two kinds of pride.

The Giant Fishers of Hertzenberg.

BY MRS. A. M. GOODHART.

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IN the good old days in Germany, when wild beasts and giants still ravaged the country, and the fairies danced by moonlight on the banks of the shining rivers, and the kindly little earthmen crept into the farmhouse kitchens and tidied the hearths and re-laid the rushes in return for the brimming bowls of milk, which the tired peasants, however weary, never forgot to set out for the tiny people at night, a pretty village, the village of Hertzenberg, lay nestled under the shadow of a mighty hill, a hill so mighty and venerable, that time had wrapped its rugged sides in a mantle of rustling pines, and crowned its lofty head with a garland of perpetual snow.

Nowhere could you have found a more secluded spot, for it lay between this great hill and a broad and noble river, which flowed tumultuously down to the unknown sea.

Now the Hertzenbergers were a happy people, young and old they knew no cares, and the children, the sweet, rosy, blue-eyed children, played without check or fear the whole year through, knowing that at the worst, nothing more terrible would happen to them than to be hauled before the village elders to receive a few strokes of the rod in pickle, that celebrated rod which was kept in state (chained to the village pump) for the punishment of any of the Hertzenberg youngsters, whose overflowing spirits might lead them into mischief.

The village was a pretty place; in the centre of its tiny green stood the farrier's shop and smithy, not to mention the aforesaid pump, where the old folk gathered together morning, noon, and night to discuss the news of the place, while scattered around in groups of twos and threes, the cosy red-roofed cottages beyond, looked for all the world like merry children playing at bo-peep with one another.

One house alone stood by itself, turning its back with an air of dignified grandeur upon the rest of the cosy little cottages, and facing the pine-clad hill; this was the abode of the village school-mistress, a quaint old dame in a high-crowned hat and scarlet cloak, whom the children of Hertzenberg either loved or feared according to their own behaviour, for it was not altogether a pleasant thing to find oneself in the old lady's black books, with the rod in pickle, so clearly to be seen through the little lattice window! What they learnt from this old dame I hardly know, I fancy they spent most of their time in teazing her black cat, Cæsar, or in gazing out of the open door at the great hill opposite, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the golden eagles swooping in rapid circles over the stony crags.

Now the hill itself belonged to all the villagers, but no one was allowed to build upon it, or even to lop one branch off the smallest of its countless pines; imagine, therefore, the surprise, indignation, and consternation of everybody when, one fine morning, a gang of strange workmen, clad in an outrageous fashion, and jabbering an unknown tongue, were discovered at work on the side of the hill, directly overlooking the village. How they came there no one knew, but what they were doing, alas, was only too clear! They were felling as quickly as possible the beautiful straight-limbed trees, which had been the pride of the Hertzenbergers for generation after generation; cutting, hacking, slashing, too, with reckless cruelty, clearing the ground as if by magic.

The Hertzenbergers at first could not believe their eyes; then, as another, and another, and another tree fell with a mighty crash that echoed through the wood, they suddenly rose up as one man to defend their beloved property. Hastily forming into a procession, headed by the blacksmith in his leathern apron, they marched towards the hill with the intention of driving off the impudent workmen, who had dared to trespass upon their domain. But, alas, this was easier said than done, for when they got up to them, the workmen turned out to be huge and powerful monkeys, who upon the first show of fight, rushed so fiercely upon the villagers that the latter, scared out of their wits, were glad to retreat as fast as their legs would carry them.

After this discovery, the strange workmen were left alone, and every day saw them busy at work, dressed in their uncouth garb, with their tails tucked cleverly out of sight, and their caps drawn down so carefully over their brown wizen faces that, at a little distance, it would have been impossible to detect them from ordinary workmen, except by their size and extreme quickness of movement.

Even when night fell, they never ceased their restless activity, but lit great watch-fires, by whose lurid flames they toiled unceasingly, throwing off, under cover of the darkness, the workmen's habiliments, which had been so effectual a disguise; wild, uncouth creatures they were, and as they leapt and capered about in the glare and shadow of the flames, clad only in the hairy skins, and long powerful tails with which mother Nature had adorned them, their strange ungainly figures struck fresh terror and astonishment into the hearts of the villagers. Ere long a deeper thrill of excitement ran through the village as the leader of the troupe, a fierce and powerful baboon, was seen to advance towards the stone quarry, closely followed by the whole band of monkeys.

Too soon, alas, the air was ringing with the blows of hammers and chisels, as stone after stone was cut out from the rock, and dragged with much gesticulating and quarrelling to the spot where the monkeys had already dug out the foundations of what was afterwards to be so widely known and dreaded as the stronghold of the Giant Fishers of Hertzenberg.

All too rapidly the work progressed under the indignant eyes of the poor helpless Hertzenbergers, and soon there arose against the clear blue sky, a grim forbidding tower of solid stone.

This tower, which seemed to frown down upon, and menace the whole village, was not long left empty, but was soon taken possession of by a family of giants, for whom, indeed, it had been purposely built.

The poor villagers, once so happy and free of care, now trembled in their shoes for dread of what might happen next; they knew that their new neighbours meant them no good, and they could not hide their fears from their children, who were even more alarmed than they were, for it was not long before a rumour ran like wild-fire through the place, a rumour so dreadful, that it curdled the blood of every little boy and girl who heard it, and was conscious of possessing a plump, tender body, and a sleek rosy face! Dreadful as it was, the report could be put into four tiny words:

"BOY AND GIRL PIE!!!"

Yes, that was the long and short of it, "boy and girl pie!" And a terrible thing it was to the poor little Hertzenbergers, who knew that they were only too likely to find their way into the giants' gigantic pie dishes!

For many weeks the villagers were afraid to venture out of doors except in the dark; the dame's school was shut up, and the poor children played dismally inside their own houses, being forbidden by their mothers so much as to put their curly locks or even the tip of their tiny snub noses out of the windows, for fear that the giants might catch sight of them. One poor widow, who had only two children left to comfort her—a sturdy, high-spirited boy, named Kaspar, and a delicate little daughter called Gretchen, went so far as to bolt and bar the wooden shutters of all her casements which looked towards the giants' tower, but after a while, when it was found that the giants never attempted to come out of their stronghold, the panic grew less, and, as is often the case, public confidence began to revive at the very moment when the peril was at its highest, for it was about this time that the giants hit upon that strange mode of attack which won for them the nickname of "The Giant Fishers of Hertzenberg!"

Out of the castle windows came first of all showers of gaily-coloured sweetmeats, just to attract the children's attention; then, when these had all been picked up and eaten, without any harm happening to anybody, public opinion veered round, and began to vote the giants "rather good fellows after all!" But there was more behind, as you shall hear, for the showers of sweets ceased all too soon, and then the giants began to amuse themselves by casting down fishing lines into the village, baited with all the most tempting things that you could possibly imagine.

The lines were hung so cleverly over the green that the children could not come out of school, or cross over to the pump for a pail of water without finding gingerbreads and sweetmeats, and toys of every kind dangling in the air in front of them, or lying, as if by chance, on the ground beneath their feet. Of course they were strictly forbidden by their parents to touch any of these things, and at first fear made them obedient, but one of the first to grow reckless was Kaspar, the poor widow's son.

He was a high-spirited lad, full of pluck and self-confidence, and being tempted, beyond endurance, one day, by a box of tin soldiers, which pursued him everywhere, he determined at last to throw caution to the winds, and to make one desperate effort to snatch them off the line. Alas, poor Kaspar, no sooner did he thus resolve, and seize hold of the coveted box with his eager hands, than the giant, who was fishing out of the castle above, by a clever twist of the line, jerked the cord tightly round and round his wrists, and having thus secured his prey, began pulling his struggling victim slowly, but surely, towards the tower.

Kaspar struggled, and kicked, and fought in vain, he grew red with rage, then white with fear, and screamed so loudly that the whole village rushed out to see what was the matter; but alas, by this time the poor fellow was already dangling in mid-air, about half way up the castle wall! While down below, like one distracted, stood his weeping mother, wringing her hands, and crying aloud so that all could hear her, "Oh my poor Kaspar, my brave bonny boy . . . he will be made into mincemeat, and baked in the oven!"

Having made sure of his fish, however, the giant fisher seemed in no hurry to pull him right up into the castle, and when twilight fell, and the sorrowing villagers went sadly back into their cottages and left him to his fate, Kaspar was still dangling below the giants' larder window. How long he hung there he never knew! Of course, he gave himself up for lost, but when it had grown quite dark, and he was almost dead from fright and cold, he heard a gruff, but not unkindly, voice above him, bidding him not to be afraid! He could not see who was speaking to him, but it was no other than the old giant's wife, who had determined to try and save the boy, whilst her husband and sons were taking their forty winks after supper.

Presently, Kaspar felt something touch his shoulder; it was an old clasp knife, and with one hand, which he had managed to free in his struggles, he set to work to sever the rope, and after a tough struggle cut it right through, and before he knew where he was, had dropped like a stone to the ground, and remembered nothing more for some time.

Luckily, however, the ground was soft, and as he was only half stunned, he no sooner began to recover his senses, than fear lent wings to his feet, and he set off as fast as his legs could carry him in the direction of his mother's cottage, where such a welcome-home awaited him, as no words of mine can describe.

The next morning, a great stir arose in the castle, when Grimbo, the old giant, discovered that his prisoner had escaped. His wife did not let out her share in the matter, and when the rope was hauled up and found to be severed in such an uneven way, both the giant and his sons jumped to the conclusion, as they examined the jagged and frayed ends, that they owed the loss of their prisoner to some flaw in the cord, which had caused it to break of itself. "I'll kill and stew that cheating rope-maker, I will," cried the father giant in a rage, "as sure as my name is Grimbo! A nice trick he has been serving us, to sell us rope that will not stand the weight of a little shrimp like that! I'll teach him that he can't cheat honest giants for nothing! If he is too tough to roast or boil, he needn't think to escape for all that, I'll eat him with pleasure in a stew, if it is only to serve him out for playing us such a shabby, mean trick!!!"

All the while Grimbo was uttering these threats, he was working himself up into a towering passion, an amusement that he was very fond of indulging in. In one respect, he was a very peculiar giant, for he was provided with two heads, either of which he screwed on in turn as the fancy took him. One of these heads had a good-natured face, the other was dark and scowling, but I am sorry to say that it was this one he was the most often seen wearing. When things had gone wrong, or the wind was in the east, he always began the day by screwing on the ill-natured face, but on this particular morning, he awoke in such good spirits at the prospect of dining off a plump tender youngster, that he had screwed on the good-tempered face, and had left the ill-tempered one grumbling away to itself in the drawer, where it was locked up for safety when not on duty.

Now, however, he felt so savage that he unscrewed the smiling unoffending head with a vicious jerk, and threw it to the other end of the room, while he sent his terrified wife upstairs to fetch the other one. As soon as that was screwed on, he was stalking across country, grumbling, growling, and muttering to himself that he would pay the rope-maker out for his insolence, and the rope-maker's wife seeing him coming, ran at once to warn her husband and to hide her children, for she had some very tempting chubby little creatures, just about the size that the giant liked for patties!!

The rope-maker came out of his house to meet the giant with a sickly smile and trembling limbs. Too well he knew that he "had" been cheating old Grimbo lately, and a guilty conscience added to a glance he had caught of the scowling ogre, made a terrible coward of him now. "Will my noble lord Grimbo deign to honour my poor yard with his royal presence?" he enquired in a terror-stricken voice, hardly daring to raise his eyes from the ground.

The giant answered by a terrific roar, which so terrified the guilty rope-maker, that he fairly turned tail and fled, whilst gasping out some trembling excuse about "preparing the yard for his highness's reception."

The rope-yard was a walled-in space, entered by a massive gateway high enough to permit even of Grimbo's passing through by slightly lowering his head. The rope-maker, who was a quick-witted man, as well as a cheat, had always foreseen that an evil day might come when the giant's anger would be turned against him, and had taken his precautions accordingly. Not content to trust to an ordinary rope, he had secretly woven a long length of hempen cords, intermingled with strands of the toughest steel wire, and in this manner had produced a rope of such extraordinary strength, that twenty giants would have found it hard work to break it. This rope, which was provided with a slip-knot and a noose, hung always in a secret place behind the stone parapet overhanging the archway, ready for any emergency.

That emergency was now come, and as the angry giant rushed headlong through the archway, ducking his head and charging like an infuriated bull, the rope-maker's eldest boy, who had received instructions from his father before being stationed in readiness on the parapet overhead, dropped the noose in front of him, and lassoed him cleverly round the neck!!

Then ensued a sharp, fierce struggle between the entrapped Grimbo, and the whole family of the rope-maker, who began tugging away with their united force at the straining rope, as if all their lives depended upon it, which, indeed, they did, and ere long Grimbo's struggles became fainter, and his strength began to fail, then the whole family gathered themselves together for one mighty effort. Tug—tug—tug, and their old enemy lay dead at their feet, outwitted and slain by the crafty rope-maker.

Terrible as was the nature of his death, I am afraid poor Grimbo was not very much lamented even in his own castle; while the Hertzenbergers were so delighted to have got rid of their hated old enemy, that they quite forgot that he had left behind two strong and lusty sons to carry on his evil ways.

They were not, however, allowed to remain very long in forgetfulness, for the fishing soon began to be carried on with greater vigour than ever. The two young giants, Ruffo and Kuffo, were also more artful than their father, and baited their lines with far more tempting baits than he had ever done.

Kaspar they tried to inveigle in every possible way, dangling perfect armouries of swords, guns, and pistols before the distracted boy's eyes; and, in fact, no one could complain of being forgotten, for they hung out toys for the little ones, rattles for the babies, brooms and dust-pans for the mothers, pipes and drinking cups for the fathers, and even a bag of gold for the old miser in the hollow!

Meanwhile, Kaspar had many a narrow escape of his life as, with ever-growing boldness and dexterity, he attempted, and often succeeded, in wrenching off and making away with several of the most coveted prizes. And before long something exceedingly like quarrelling began to take place between the two giant brothers, for Kaspar's example was successfully followed by so many of the other bold spirits in Hertzenberg that Ruffo and Kuffo angrily accused each other of bad fishing. The castle larder was often empty—very empty indeed—and the giants were almost starved (which did not improve their tempers), while the poor people in the village were in a still worse position, for they lived in a regular condition of siege, not daring to venture outside their houses until after nightfall, when the darkness gave them a certain sense of security.

Truly they were in a pitiable plight, for beside their constant dread that the giants would hit upon some new method of fishing which would catch them in spite of themselves, they foresaw only too clearly that want, cold, and starvation must soon stare them in the face.

It was doubtless a great relief, after being shut up in the house all day, to slip out in the darkness for a word with a neighbour, or to fetch a pail of water from the village pump; but it was quite impossible to gather in the crops or to prepare the ground for the next year's sowing, or even to get in a fresh supply of wood for charcoal, which was all that they had to depend upon in the way of fuel.

At length Kaspar, who was always full of bold projects, called together a secret meeting after dark, in the village schoolroom, to which all the men and boys were invited. When all were assembled, he extracted from each in turn a solemn promise of secrecy, after which he unfolded his plan, which was neither more nor less than to dig out an underground passage from the school-house to the giants' castle, beginning under the floor on which they were standing, and working steadily away underground, like moles, until they were near enough to spring a mine beneath the tower, and to blow up their relentless enemies.

So, under Kaspar's directions, they at once fell to work to drag up the tiled floor, and then commenced to dig out the tunnel. The work once begun was never allowed to stop; night and day it was taken up by different bands of workers, the women bringing them food under cover of the darkness.

Meanwhile, the little school-house presented outside a singularly deserted and unused appearance. The shutters were closely barred by day as well as night, and not a living creature was seen to go in or out.

But Kaspar's heart burned within him with pride as he saw the work (in which he was ever foremost) progressing at a rate which far exceeded his most hopeful calculations.

It was known, moreover, that the giants had but lately stored away a large quantity of gunpowder in the dungeons beneath their tower, and if the workers could but dig their way through the lower foundations, Kaspar knew that it would only require a lighted fuse, a brave heart and steady hand, to do all the rest.

At last the anxious miners came tap, tap, against something hard and firm. It was the stone floor of the castle dungeon. When this fact became known Kaspar could only restrain his men from shouting aloud by the threat of shooting the first one, old or young, who opened his mouth, a threat which they all felt, in the desperate anxiety of the moment, he was quite capable of carrying out.

So in grim silence the work proceeded, and it was not until the middle of the night, when he knew that Ruffo and Kuffo would be lying senseless in a heavy sleep, that Kaspar ventured himself, and with the greatest care, to remove two of the large paving stones, which formed the floor of the dungeon. Oh, how his brave heart beat as he clambered through, and found himself in that gloomy place where so many of his fellow villagers had languished in tears until the giants thought fit to eat them. He soon retired, however, cautiously replacing the stones, but leaving them loose, the night being already too far advanced to venture to return with the fuse. Before leaving, however, he was careful to take note of the exact situation of the barrels of gunpowder, and to have everything in readiness for his next great attempt.

All the following day Kaspar was in such a state of feverish excitement that he did not know what to do with himself; but when midnight came, and every glimmer of light had died out of the castle windows, he prepared, with a wildly beating heart, to set out upon his perilous expedition. On the way, however, it shot through his mind for the first time that his good friend, the old giant's wife, would probably be asleep in the castle, and he racked his brains to devise some plan by which he could enable her to escape the fate prepared for her cruel sons. Before, however, he could think of anything, he ran by accident into the arms of the village barber, who was taking advantage of the pitchy darkness to draw some water from the pump; now the barber was a gossip, as barbers generally are, and Kaspar's first thought when he recognized his voice was how to get rid of him at once, but before he could even attempt to do so, the barber had him by the arm, and in a loud whisper exclaimed, "Hast thou heard, friend Kaspar, the last news from up yonder?" pointing thumb over shoulder to the castle behind. "Didst say no? Know, then, that the giant's wife was seen only this afternoon by thy humble servant escaping for her life across the mountains, with her apron to her eyes and weeping as though her heart would break. She had no one with her but a lame, black dog, and a little maiden with long, golden curls, who seemed to be clinging to her dress for protection. Ruffo and Kuffo were throwing darts and stones at her from the window, and shouting after her with such cruel threats and taunts, that, 'as I am a MAN!' I would dearly have liked to box their huge ears!!!"

As he gave utterance to this bold speech, the barber (who, by the way, was as great a coward as ever breathed), thrust out his chest and shook his fist at the tower with an air of the greatest audacity; but Kaspar paid little heed to his grand speeches, he had learnt all that he wanted to know and was only too eager to get away.

"Forgive me, most worshipful master," he said, "but I must not linger longer," and before the barber could reply Kaspar had shaken himself loose and was out of sight.

Now that he was sure of Madame Grimbo's safety, a great load was taken off the lad's mind, and he had no further scruple about blowing up the tower. Calling together one or two faithful friends, upon whose courage and fidelity he could rely, he led the way through the underground tunnel with rapid and noiseless steps. The little party pressed closely upon his heels, for where a "hero" leads "few" will refuse to follow.

*       *        *       *        *       *

The men and women in the village, though they did not know all Kaspar's plans, had put two and two together until they felt certain that the critical moment could not be far-off; and, too excited to sleep or even to go to bed, stood listening at their open windows, straining their ears for the slightest sound, and holding their breath with such painful intensity that they could hear their own hearts beating.

Suddenly a terrific roar, like the sound of a hundred thousand cannons, burst upon their ears, and a cloud of smoke and flame flashed high up into the air. All eyes were turned towards the castle, which in another second swayed over on one side and fell into a crumbling heap of ruins!

Kaspar's work was done, and at this sight the villagers could not restrain their delight, but shouted until every throat grew hoarse with cries of gratitude for their brave deliverer.

The next moment a rush was made to the school-house door, and as Kaspar stepped out from the underground passage, safe and sound, but black and grimy with gunpowder, he was seized and almost pulled to pieces by the mad and shouting crowd.

"Steady, friends; steady!" cried poor Kaspar, as he was lifted, with friendly roughness, on to the shoulders of two strapping young millers and carried out into the open air.

But the Hertzenbergers were too excited to listen; all they could think of at the moment was that Ruffo and Kuffo were dead and could never torment them any more, and that Kaspar was the hero to whom they owed their deliverance.

So, paying no heed to his entreaties to be set down, they carried Kaspar round and round the village in a kind of triumphant procession, singing as they did so an impromptu song composed in his honour, which ran as follows:—

Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
Hoch, hoch, hoch!
Ruffo and Kuffo are dead,
Low lies each tyrant's head.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
By Kaspar's hand so "boldy" slain,
No need to fear them ever again.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
Never again. No never again.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
Then cheer our Kaspar's glorious name,
And shout to his undying fame,
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
HOCH, HOCH, HOCH!!!

Then the enthusiasm grew to boiling point. Women and children rushed out to kiss Kaspar's hands, sobbing, and blessing him as their deliverer; and tiny sleeping babies were lifted from their cradles and held up in trembling arms to see the hero of the hour.

The next day the whole of Hertzenberg proceeded in a body to inspect the smoking ruins, and loud and vehement were the expressions of gratitude which broke out on all sides when the remains of the two wicked brothers were discovered in fragments, tightly wedged under a pile of the heaviest stones.

As for the giant's wife, I have never been able to find out exactly what became of her, but some old legends say that Kaspar sought her out after many years and became like a son to her in her old age, when his own dear mother was dead, and also that he married the golden-haired child whose life she had saved with her own when she fled in terror from the castle, which golden-haired child—after that she had grown into a beautiful lady, and had been espoused by Kaspar for love's dear sake, and without any portion or dowry—was found to be the long-lost daughter and heiress of a wealthy Baron, through whose good favour Kaspar not only inherited a large and ample fortune, but was received with honour into the most noble and illustrious Order of Knighthood, and was known henceforth throughout the land as "Sir Kaspar of the Fearless Heart, the Sworn Enemy of Tyrants, the Defender of the Helpless, and the Ever-ready Champion of the Injured or Oppressed."

Hughie's Mistake.

BY THE REV. H. C. ADAMS,

AUTHOR OF "CHERRY STONES," "SCHOOL-BOY HONOUR," &c.

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NO one could ever be angry with Hughie, though more than one person sometimes tried hard to be so. He was for ever losing things which he ought to have taken care of, insomuch that he went in the family by the name of "Hue and Cry," by reason of the continual searches after missing articles of which he was the cause. He hardly ever gave a message correctly, and often omitted to give it at all, thereby grievously putting the household out of gear. Sometimes, when orders had been given to hasten dinner, because some unexpected engagement had been made to be kept early in the evening, it was found, when the dinner hour arrived, that the cook had only just put the joint down to roast, and the family had to make the best meal they could off cold meat and bread and cheese. Sometimes, when it was arranged to go out for a sail, or a long drive, and Hughie had been sent to say that dinner must be put off till eight, it was found, when that hour arrived, that the fish had been boiled to rags, and the meat roasted to a cinder, and such of the family as were addicted to good cheer, were considerably exercised in temper.

But, as has been said, no one could be angry with Hughie. Those who attempted it, soon desisted. There was grandpapa—he was given to be peppery, and Aunt Maria was querulous, and under great provocation they would begin scolding the little boy. On such occasions Hughie would stand quite quiet, looking with his large round eyes at his assailant, wondering apparently whether grandpapa would explode like some firework, or pitying Aunt Maria for the frame of mind into which she had worked herself, until further persistence in wrath became impossible, and Hughie trotted off to resume the employment or play in which he had been engaged, with undisturbed serenity.

One day, Grandmamma Haffenden—Hughie had two grandmamma's, and three aunts, as well as a great aunt, as the reader will learn—but one day Mrs. Haffenden was very ill with neuralgia in the eyes. Neuralgia anywhere is not pleasant; and the eyes are not a desirable place in which to have it. She could not bear any noise, or much company. Rose and Violet were allowed to go into her room for two or three minutes, morning and evening. Grandpapa did the same, though perhaps he stayed a little longer. Even Aunt Maria was only tolerated for an hour or two at most. The only person grandmamma wanted to see was Hughie. She asked for him two or three times a day; and when he was brought in, with his curly hair, and his hazel eyes, and his little bright face, looking like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, and he was seated on the bed, and ran on with his baby prattle, grandmamma declared it did her more good than all Dr. Murray's medicine, and that Hughie was the best doctor she ever had. To be sure the dear little fellow was the only child of Admiral Haffenden's only son, who had been killed in the naval attack on Sebastopol, and his mother had survived her husband only a few months; and so Hughie belonged especially to his grandparents, and his omnipotence in the family was not very much to be wondered at.

The reader has been told that Hughie had two grandmothers. Grandmamma No. 2, Mrs. Salter, was a widow. She also lived, with an only daughter, in Wadborough; but they were not as well off as the Haffendens, and had to put up with a small house on the London Road. The Admiral "had not been cordial," as Mrs. Salter expressed it, about his son's marriage, and she fancied that the Haffendens looked down upon her family, and to her mind "the Salters were as good as the Haffendens any day." Probably, the real offence was that the Haffendens had more money than the Salters, and everyone knows that is an offence which it is very hard to forgive. To do the Admiral justice, it was only at the outset, before he and his family knew anything of Audrey Salter, that he or they made any objection to Charlie's choice, and after the marriage nothing could be kinder than they had all been.

After Audrey's death, when Julia came home from school, the Haffenden girls had tried to treat her like a sister, and had only desisted when they found that "Miss Salter," as she chose to be called, wouldn't have it. The Miss Haffendens were handsomer, better dressed, greater favourites in society than Julia. When they met at flower shows, and garden parties, and subscription balls, the Haffenden girls had galore of partners, and Julia sometimes "sat out;" and if the Haffendens offered to introduce partners Julia fancied she was being patronised, and declined, whereupon the Haffendens felt repelled, and were disposed to be huffy. Everyone knows how this peculiarly obnoxious plant is apt to grow and choke all good feeling. By Christmas, 18—, there was a decided coolness between the families, fast developing into an acknowledged quarrel.

It was the day after Christmas Day, when it was resolved in solemn conclave that a juvenile party and a carpet dance afterwards should be given by the Haffendens on Twelfth Day.

"You see, grandpapa," Rose Haffenden had urged, "Hughie has so many little friends, and such numbers of people have invited him, that we are bound to make some return; and then, we have been asked to ever so many balls and dances, and have never asked any of our friends in return. I really think we are bound to do it."

"Very well, my dear," Admiral Haffenden had answered with a groan, "what must be, must. Only if we are to ask all our friends, let us be careful not to leave any out. We haven't had Julia Salter here for a long time; be sure she is asked."

"We may ask her," remarked Rose, "but she won't come."

"Not come! Why not?" asked grandpapa.

"That I can't tell," answered Rose, "but she won't."

"My dear," said Aunt Maria, "you don't think what you are doing. To leave her out on an occasion like this, when everyone we know is asked, is almost the same thing as declining her acquaintance."

"And besides that," added Mrs. Haffenden, "your grandfather always writes to her on that day, if I am not mistaken. Is not that so, Christian?"

"Yes," answered the Admiral. "On the morning of the sixth of January I get the stock dividend, half of which belongs to Hughie and half to her, and I always send her a ten pound note in the afternoon."

"Just so," said Miss Haffenden. "Think of grandpapa's writing to her on that day and making no mention of the Christmas party at his house! It would look like an intentional affront."

"Well then, you had better send her the invitation," said Violet, "only I agree with Rose, she won't accept it."

At this moment the footman entered with a letter for Mrs. Haffenden. The old lady glanced through it, and then exclaimed, "Here's a surprise, Rose, or rather, I am afraid I must say here's a disappointment. You will just miss seeing your dear friend Adelaide Mountford."

"Addy Mountford! Oh, mamma, you don't mean it! How delightful! I thought there wasn't a chance—"

"And I am afraid there isn't now, Rose. She says she and her mother will be passing through Wadborough on the 6th, and she proposes to come up here in the evening. But there is our party—"

"She may come in spite of the party. Why not come to it?"

"My dear, you forget. I don't suppose she would have any dress. Her means have been so reduced that I don't suppose she can afford to go out to parties. Isn't that so, Christian?"

The Admiral assented rather grumpily. Mrs. Mountford, who was a distant connection, had made several raids of late on his purse.

"But, mamma, she proposes to come here."

"Yes; but I think that is most likely on business, not pleasure."

"Most likely," observed Admiral Haffenden, still more curtly.

"But, mamma, what do we care about her dress. I declare if that is all I'll lend her one of my dresses. If we can persuade her, may we do so?"

"Oh yes, Rose, if you like," answered Mrs. Haffenden wearily. "But look here, you two girls, it is high time that these invitations should be sent out, or half our intended guests will be engaged. It will be plenty of time to settle anything about Adelaide when the 6th arrives. She won't be here till then, and no one knows where she will be betwixt this and then, so no one can write to her."

There was no denying this. So Aunt Maria and the two girls sat down to their writing tables, and filled up a vast number of "Admiral and Mrs. Haffenden at Home, January 6th, 18—. Five o'clock, Christmas Tree and games. Dancing in the evening. R.S.V.P."

When these had been despatched, there were still endless arrangements to be made. The dresses they were to wear, the music, the waiters, the supper, the Christmas Tree, the shifting the furniture—there was no rest for anybody all day and every day. The girls were heartily glad when Twelfth Day arrived, and everything seemed to have been satisfactorily ordered.

"At what time do you expect that Addy will reach Wadborough?" asked Violet, when early dinner had been concluded, and she and her sister had retired to the schoolroom—the only place where they had a chance of having a quiet talk that afternoon.

"I can't tell. Nothing has been heard of her since she wrote to grandmamma last Friday."

"That is not so," said Violet, "she has written to papa. I know her handwriting quite well. Indeed, I asked papa if he hadn't heard from her, and he said, 'yes'—rather shortly I thought."

"These preparations put him out. He'll be glad when the party is over. But he didn't tell you when Addy was coming?"

"No. But, now I think of it, she must be already in Wadborough. There was no stamp on the letter. It must have been sent up from the Inn."

"From the Inn? from the 'Greyhound,' where I know they meant to put up? Is there time to go down to the Inn and see her?"

"I am afraid not, Rose; but we can write, and send the note by Abigail, when we have done dressing. Sit down and write at once. I'll go up to papa, and see that he has got everything he wants, or he may come badly off to-day."

Rose sat down, and began a most plaintive entreaty to her beloved Adelaide not to leave Wadborough without coming to their party. They hadn't met for ever so long, and it had been such a distress to them. Perhaps it was Rose's fault, but if so, she was so grieved that she did not know how to express her sorrow. Would not her dearest overlook it? The letter began, "Darling of darlings," and ended, "Ever your own—Rose."

It was just finished, when there came a tap at the door, and Violet and nurse came in together.

"Miss Rose, may I leave Master Hugh with you till five o'clock?" said nurse. "He must be dressed then, and by that time I shall be able to attend to him; but they want me to dress the Christmas Tree, and declare it can't be done if I don't do it."

The sisters looked a little put out, but no one ever objected to Hugh's company, and he was just then looking his very brightest. His curly locks, ruddy complexion, and laughing eyes formed a study, which would have added a rose to the chaplet of the renown of Millais himself, if he had painted him as he appeared at that moment.

"I suppose, Violet, there isn't time for me to take this note to the 'Greyhound,' is there?" asked Rose. "I am sure she would come if she got it. But I'm half afraid Abigail 'won't' be able to go."

"Abigail? No. That she certainly won't. She has overworked herself, I suppose. But she is quite ill, and has been sent to bed. Mamma says we must help one another to dress."

"How very unlucky! How is the note to go? I see it is too late for me to take it."

"It is unlucky; and it is all the worse because papa wants this note taken to Aunt Salter's. He says it must go. I don't know who is to take that either."

"Can't it wait till to-morrow?" asked Rose.

"He says not. He was in a great hurry, and thrust it into my hand, telling me I must direct an envelope, and send it. I can direct the envelope, but who is to take it?"

"I can take it, Aunt Violet," said Hugh. "It won't take me above a quarter of an hour to go to Grandmamma Salter's, and the 'Greyhound' is still nearer. And it wants three quarters of an hour to the time when nurse will want to dress me."

"You, Hughie? Do you think you really can be trusted?"

"Oh, yes: you may be sure I shall make no mistake, and I'll be back again long before nurse wants me."

"Very well, then, you shall take the notes. Have you written the envelopes, Violet?"

"Yes; they are on the table there."

"Very well. Then Hughie, do you put the notes into the covers, and be off with them at once. And you and I must go and dress, Violet, or we shall not be in time to receive the first comers."

The sisters retired to their bedroom, but were so delayed by one interruption or another that the time for the arrival of the guests had quite come, and grandmamma, indeed, was downstairs receiving them before the final touch was put to their toilette. Just as they were taking a final look in the glass, somebody rapped at the door with the request, "May I come in?"

"Oh, Violet!" exclaimed Rose, "it is Adelaide, I declare. Come in, love, we are delighted to see you."

The door opened, and a young lady in evening dress entered the room, and, running up to Rose, threw her arms round her neck. But it was not Adelaide Mountford, but Julia Salter!

"O dear Rose," she exclaimed, scarcely able to speak for sobbing, "I am so ashamed and sorry I don't know how to thank you for your kind, kind letter. To think, after all my thanklessness, all my rudeness, you should have written to me so kindly, and entreated me to come to your party. I don't deserve it, Rose. I don't think anyone in the world but you and Violet—"

"My dear Julia," said Rose, taking advantage of a fit of sobbing which prevented her visitor from proceeding, "don't distress yourself in this way. Neither Violet nor I—"

"No, I know you are too kind and good to have taken offence with me. But I am sure anybody else would. But if you'll only overlook my past behaviour I'll never give you cause to complain again."

"I assure you, Julia," said Violet, "neither Rose nor I have ever complained—"

"I understand that, dear Violet," interposed Julia. "But that is your goodness; but you shall never—"

At this moment the heavy tread of a man was heard in the passage outside. The door was pushed sharply open, and Admiral Haffenden, with a wrathful brow, such as—to do him justice—he seldom displayed, entered the room. He did not see Julia Salter, and the latter, perceiving, as the phrase is, that there was thunder in the air, took the opportunity of slipping out of the room.

"Do you understand what she means, Violet?" asked Rose, too much bewildered by Julia's protestations to notice her father's demeanour. "Have you been writing to her and entreating her to come to-night?"

"No," said Violet, "I know no more what she means than you do."

"Do you understand this?" cried the Admiral, angrily, throwing a note on the table. "Read that out, and tell me if you know anything about it."

Rose complied. She took up the note and read:—

"Greyhound Inn, Jan. 6th, 18—.

"DEAR, KIND, AND GENEROUS FRIEND,

"How shall I thank you for your unexpected and most munificent gift? I had not ventured to hope for the fifth part of the sum you have sent me. This will enable my mother to go to Bournemouth for a month, where I have no doubt her health will be restored. Believe me, we are truly grateful.

"Yours deeply obliged,

"ADELAIDE MOUNTFORD."

"Why, papa, you must have sent her Julia Salter's ten pound note!"

"I? I didn't send anything to her. I gave you the note wrapped in paper, with merely the words, 'From C. H., with the best wishes of the season,' and told you to address an envelope to her and send it."

"I understand now, papa," said Rose. "This is Hughie's mistake—"

"Hughie's mistake!" interposed her father. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I had written a letter to Adelaide Mountford full of, full of—"

"Full of girl's gush," supplemented her father. "I have no doubt you did, but what has that to do with Julia's banknote?"

"Why, we could not find anyone to take the notes, and Hughie offered to do so. We thought there was no harm in his going, and we told him to put the two notes into the envelopes which were lying on the table and deliver them. He, I suppose—"

"Put the banknote into Miss Mountford's cover, and your letter into Julia's—that's what you mean, isn't it?"

"Yes, papa; but the mistake may be set right. You can tell Adelaide that the banknote was sent to her by mistake—"

"No, I can't do that, Rose. I should be ashamed."

"And I can tell Julia that the letter she received was intended not to her, but for Adelaide."

"No, you mustn't do that, Rose. Mrs. Mountford is a good woman, and needs help; and though ten pounds is rather a pull on a man at Christmas time, she's welcome to it. And as regards Julia, I am too thankful that the quarrel is made up, and the girl has come to her senses, to allow any explanation there either. But one thing, Rose, you call this Hughie's mistake. I don't see that the dear little fellow was to blame at all. How could he be expected to distinguish between the two letters?"

"Of course not, papa, one thing is always certain. Whoever may be to blame, it can't be Hughie."

The Fox Family.

A STORY OF THE THÜRINGER WALD.

BY FANNY BARRY.

————————

IT was the very beginning of the winter time, and in the village of Ruhla, in the Thüringer Wald, the houses of the one long street were all getting in their double windows and preparing for the first fall of snow.

The stores for the winter were laid in, and the children of the forester—who lived in the corner house, with the great cross-beams painted brown, and the deep, sloping roof—were playing in their yard with the old fox "Finklie."

Finklie, who had been chained up there for the last dozen years, had a comfortable kennel like a dog, and was treated quite as a friend of the family by Elsie, Lina, and Heinrich Heppenheim.

He had been caught by the forester's men as he prowled about in search of food for his family, and though at first he repined bitterly at the fate in store for him, by degrees he had become reconciled to his lot. Time had softened the remembrance of his wife and little ones in the comfortable hole under the shadow of the pine trees, and he had attached himself to the children he had known from babyhood, and who now filled his heart in the place of his own long-lost family.

"It'll soon be winter now, Finklie," said Heinrich. "I'm glad, for I want to play with the snow. I wonder if you're glad or sorry?"

"Why sorry, of course," said little Elsie. "He has no warm hole to get into, like he would have in his own home."

Finklie said nothing, but he understood it all, for he had learnt the German language when very young. He found it was absolutely necessary to his safety in a place where traps were always being laid for stray foxes, and where they were treated as "vermin." It was, therefore, taught in every well-regulated fox-hole, and even baby foxes could conjugate their German verbs quite correctly. However, they always pretended—whenever they were caught—that they could not speak at all, for they had to swear a most solemn oath to the king of the foxes that they would never betray their friends; and they very justly thought, that if the foresters ever knew they could talk, they would soon be forced to give up all the fox secrets, which have been handed down from father to son for countless generations in the Thüringer Wald.

While the forester's family were playing with Finklie, a whole fox family were crowded together in a hollow tree in the very heart of the forest. It was a nice, out of the way spot, where the forester's dogs seldom came, and the father, "Fritzlie," as he looked round upon the children clustered at his knee, congratulated himself on being the possessor of such a remarkably safe retreat.

"This tree has been in our family for the last fifty years," he said, proudly. "Never once has it been surprised. See that your guard it, as your ancestors have done, with your heart's blood!"

The fox father was fond of long words, and rolled them out as if he enjoyed them. The little foxes were much impressed.

"What arrangements are you making for the winter?" enquired the fox mother, as she sat by the entrance to the tree, with her knitting in her hands. Like all Germans, she was industrious; and she was now particularly busy, for she was finishing off comforters for her children to wear during the snow-time.

"I have my eye on several houses," replied father Fritzlie, thoughtfully. "The pipe manufacturer's with the duck-yard, and the Heppenheims, where my poor father has been so long chained up. They have chickens by the score, there. Such chickens my little ones. They will support us through the winter in comfort."

"But how will you get them, my dear?" observed the fox mother, placidly, as she knitted off her comforter, and tried it on the neck of the little fox nearest to her.

"Oh, easily enough," replied father Fritzlie, "you have my sack ready mended, haven't you?"

"Oh yes," said his wife; "but the stuff is rather rotten, it will soon fall into holes again. I am always begging you to get another."

"It will do well enough for what I want," said the fox father, "give it to me now. As it is your birthday, Raetellie, my child, I shall bring home the best of dinners. You can ask Aunt and Uncle Badger to join us. Good-bye for the present! It looks like a snow-fall, and if so, why all the better; it will hide my foot-marks."

The fox children lifted up their voices and begged to be allowed to accompany him, but he smiled upon them in a superior manner, and waved them away.

"No, no! little ones; stay with your good mother. Leave me to battle with the world," he said, and throwing the sack over his shoulder, he put on a hat and overcoat, and bidding his family an affectionate farewell, had soon disappeared in the green gloom between the tree stems.

As soon as Fritzlie had disappeared, the fox mother began to tidy up her house, like a good German house-wife. She swept the floor, scoured the walls with a dusting brush, made of dried fern leaves, and sprinkled some camphor over the scarves she had been knitting, which she laid away carefully in a hole in the ground, with the rest of her family's winter clothing. She then brushed up the children's hair with a pine cone, tied a bib-pinafore round each of their necks, and told them to sit down quietly, and behave nicely until their father returned.

Now, unfortunately, the fox children were very much like other children in their disinclination to keep still, and no sooner had their mother put them down in a neat row, with their backs against the wall of the tree-house, than they began to play about, untidying their hair, and rumpling their clean bib-pinafores.

"Keep still, children! keep still!" cried the old fox, severely. "What will your father say? Your know how particular he is."

"Oh, mother," cried Atala, the eldest, "Raetellie has been saying such funny things. He heard father Fritzlie and the Badger talking yesterday when they were smoking their pipes."

"Little foxes should not listen at door-holes," said the fox mother, reprovingly. "However, as you seem to be so very lively, you, Raetellie, can run and ask Aunt Badger to lend me a little pepper, and a few coffee beans. I shall be going to the market, at Marientahl, on Monday, and can return what we borrow. Mind you ask aunt and uncle to come to dinner this evening, and 'be sure' you are very civil. Aunt is sometimes a little out of temper this cold weather; she feels the rheumatism."

Raetellie jumped up and ran off to obey his mother's order, and the other two children skipped about singing—

"Oh, what good dinners the father fox brings
With the forester's chickens, and other good things.
Aunt Badger and Uncle shall join in the feast,
And however they scold, we won't mind in the least."

"Children, will be children," said the indulgent mother fox as she took up her needles, and cast on the proper number of stitches for a warm winter cap, with ear flaps, to protect her eldest daughter.

Meantime, Raetellie ran as fast as he could to the house of the Badgers. He knocked at the hollow tree; a screen of bushes was pushed aside, and Aunt Badger's high, thin voice was heard from within.

"Who's that knocking like a hailstorm in winter time?"

From this, Raetellie knew that Aunt Badger was suffering from a severe attack of rheumatism, so he determined to proceed with great caution.

"It is only me, dear aunt—little Raetellie—come with a message from the fox mother. I am sorry I disturbed you."

"Come in! come in! I don't expect manners from your family," said the Badger, sharply. "You've come to borrow something, of course?"

Raetellie looked upon the ground and then round the room in search of inspiration.

It was a very neat room, with a little dresser facing the door, on which stood a row of wooden boxes labelled "Mustard," "Spices," "Coffee," "Sugar," "Flour," &c. There was also a small table made of pine wood, and at this stood Aunt Badger, scouring out some wooden bowls with a new piece of sandpaper.

It was a peculiarity of Aunt Badger's that the more rheumatic she was the harder she worked, and Uncle Badger generally went out for the day when she had what she called "a general house-cleaning."

This was evidently the case now, for a tub of water stood by her side with a large mop in it, and the whole place smelt of soap.

Aunt Badger's tight-fitting black cap hung on a peg on the wall, and she was enveloped in a large homespun apron, which completely covered her.

"Some people I could mention are all borrowing, and no lending," she observed, as she wiped her hands. "Now child, make haste. What do you want?"

By this time Raetellie had recovered his presence of mind, and he gave the invitation and asked for the loan of the coffee beans and pepper as prettily as possible.

Aunt Badger pretended still to be cross, but the idea of a good dinner did not displease her. Besides this, it would save her all the trouble of cooking at home; so she went to her spotless dresser and counted out sixty coffee beans, which she placed in a cabbage leaf, with half an egg-shell full of pepper, and handed to Raetellie.

"My kind compliments to your mother. We shall be pleased to accept," she said in a stately manner. "Do not trouble to return the pepper."

Raetellie started to run back again through the forest, and as he ran he thought to himself, "I do hope the king of the wolves is not wandering about anywhere. I know he lives not very far-off. I had better make haste, for father Fritzlie has often told me how much he hates us." So he hurried on.

At this moment he heard a sound behind him which made his heart stand still with fear—a "tip, tap, tip" upon the fallen pine needles. He looked round apprehensively, and saw a great grey wolf galloping slowly along. He had a small crown on his head, round a green forester's cap, from under which his fierce eyes gleamed threateningly.

"The king-wolf! the king-wolf!" cried poor little Raetellie, and bounded forward, dodging in and out between the trunks of the trees, with his hair almost standing on end with terror.

"Stop! stop! my child," cried the grey wolf, and darted on to Raetellie with one bound of his long body. "Come with me to my house, and I will show you something very nice there."

Raetellie trembled, and looked about for some means of escape, but there was no help near. He therefore determined, like a brave little fox, to appear as cheerful as he could and to follow the king-wolf quietly, trusting that some chance might occur by which he could save himself.

The grey wolf tied a cord round his captive's neck, and walked on in front in silence. Raetellie followed meekly behind.

An idea had entered his head which gave him a ray of hope! He opened the cabbage leaf Aunt Badger had given him, and occasionally threw out a coffee bean and a little pepper as he went along.

"If only father Fritzlie comes by here," he thought, "he will easily be able to find out where the king-wolf is taking me to. He will see the coffee beans and smell the pepper, and perhaps, 'perhaps,' he will rescue me after all!"

Before they had gone very far it began to snow in light, feathery flakes—the first snow of the winter—and Raetellie's heart sank, "for now," he argued, "my beans will be all covered up, and I shall be lost indeed."

It was a long journey to the home of the grey wolf, who lived in the midst of some massive rocks on the summit of one of the barest mountains of the Thüringer Wald. Raetellie shuddered as he saw the lonely spot, looking grimmer and lonelier than ever under its powdering of white snow. A smile of pride lighted up the face of the king-wolf. It had been the residence of his ancestors for uncounted generations, and the caves were hung with many of the skins of the forest animals who had been their victims.

The poor little fox made his way into the great hall behind his captor, who took off his hat, and motioning to Raetellie to follow him, went into an inner cave. Here he opened a cupboard in the wall, and pushing Raetellie in, he put a heavy stone against the door, and went off growling cheerfully.

Fortunately, Raetellie had inherited from his parents the great gifts of courage and presence of mind, and he managed to throw the last of his coffee beans, and the egg-shell of pepper, outside the door as it closed upon him.

While these adventures were happening to Raetellie, father Fritzlie was walking rapidly towards the village of Ruhla, with his sack over his shoulders, and his everyday hat tilted very much on one side. His heart was full of joy and hopefulness, and he whistled merrily as he went along. "It's going to snow," he said to himself, "but that's all the better for me. What a dinner the children will have to-night, and we'll have a dance afterwards. It's wonderful how well Atala begins to do her steps, and even little Lieblie can manage the 'Rheinländer.'"

He soon reached the outskirts of the village. By this time the snow was falling quite thickly, and it was beginning to get dark.

How picturesque the houses looked with their windows lighted up, and the snow settling on their high roofs, showing up the dark wooden beams that were built into their wall in all kinds of curious patterns.

The forester's house was brightly illuminated, and Fritzlie determined to go there first, so he crept under the wall till he got near the hen-house. Then he stood up and listened. Evidently, Finklie was shut up somewhere, for he was nowhere to be seen.

Elsie and Lina were singing together in the living-room. The salon, which was only used on festive occasions, was quite dark and tenantless. "What a mercy it is that the salon windows look-out on to the hen-house," thought Fritzlie, as he cautiously crept on.

He was generally very fortunate in his enterprizes, but that evening, fate seemed to be against him.

No sooner did he attempt to get over the wall, than the branch of a tree, stretching into the yard, knocked his hat off his head, and it fell with a "crash" on to a glass frame just beneath.

At the sound of the broken glass, all the hens awoke, and cackled loudly. The cocks crowed, and there was a tremendous commotion in the hen-house.

The forester's servant had just gone into the dark salon to light the stove, for a message had come from the wife of the chief pipe manufacturer, to say that she would have supper with the Frau Forester that evening, if quite convenient.

As the girl entered the room, she heard the unusual cackling, and threw open one of the windows to listen.

"Yes! it was certainly true—someone was in the hen-house."

She rushed out of the room, calling to the children to follow her, and flew towards the scene of confusion.

Father Fritzlie, who had tumbled into the yard when his hat fell off, attempted to jump over the wall, but on the inside it was too high, and the great gate was latched.

He looked wildly round, but could see no means of escape. The open window into the dark salon seemed his only chance.

Picking up his hat, he gave one wild bound across the low window-sill, and found himself in the forester's best parlour.

What should he do now? He could hear the voices of Gretchen (the maid) and of little Elsie and Lina as they opened the hen-house door and looked in anxiously.

Suddenly his glance fell on the great white China stove which filled up one corner of the room. He ran to it, forced himself in, and managed very cleverly to close the brass door after him.

When the excitement had subsided, he would creep out again and be off.

It was very cramped and uncomfortable in the stove, but he could still hear clearly, through a crack, all that was going on outside.

The chickens were gradually quieted, and Gretchen and the children ran noisily into the house.

There were steps in the room, and then some horrible words, in the voice of the Frau Forester, fell upon Fritzlie's ear.

"Gretchen, make haste and light the stove."

Whatever would happen to him now? He could almost fancy he felt the crackling pine cones and the burning of the blazing logs beneath him! He managed to wriggle round, so that he could put one eye to the crack in the stove door and look-out.

The window was firmly closed. There seemed to be nothing in the room beneath which he could hide himself, except a long oak chest which acted as a kind of window seat.

Seeing that Gretchen had not yet returned with the wood, father Fritzlie whisked out of the stove door, crept towards the chest, lifted the lid anxiously, and looked in.

"What a blessing!" he thought. "Nothing in it but the children's winter cloaks. Ugh! What a smell of camphor!" and he slipped in and noiselessly closed the lid.

He was hardly settled safely before the Frau Forester came in to watch that Gretchen did her work properly, and with her came Elsie, Lina, and Heinrich, on condition that they sat down quietly on the oak chest and did not move or fidget about.

"This is a terrible position!" thought father Fritzlie. "Fancy if they remain here all the evening! I am very cramped, and the pepper in these clothes is beginning really to suffocate me. I shall sneeze in a moment, and that will be the end of me."

"Tish-ish-yu!" It was a loud, unmistakable sneeze, and the fox trembled as he heard it echoing.

The Frau Forester looked at Gretchen reprovingly.

"You should not rush about in the snow without a shawl, silly girl," she said, reprovingly. "You have evidently caught a bad cold." But Gretchen did not hear, for she had her head inside the stove door, and was blowing away as hard as she could at the wood, to make it light quickly.

"Now children, off to bed!" said the Frau Forester; and, to the great relief of father Fritzlie, Elsie, Lina, and Heinrich jumped down from their perch, and ran upstairs to their attic.

"Did you say 'good night' to Finklie?" said Heinrich, as he tucked himself under his warm eider-down quilt.

"Oh yes," replied Lina. "He is to sleep in the big barn, amongst the straw, because of the cold"—and she, too, sunk into her white pillows; and the three children were soon in the land of dreams.

*       *        *       *        *       *

Poor father Fritzlie! His active brain went over all the possibilities of escape, until he at last fixed on a plan of action. The wife of the pipe manufacturer would soon be coming in to supper, and the Frau Forester and Gretchen would go out to the entrance hall to meet her. He must then creep out behind them, and hide as well as he could until he saw an opportunity to slip through the open door.

As he decided upon this, a loud ring at the bell announced the arrival of the visitor.

Up jumped the Frau Forester and her servant, and ran into the entrance hall, followed by father Fritzlie, who kept as much as possible in the shadow of the chair legs.

Gretchen opened the front door, and a stout lady in furs and flannel-lined galoshes came bustling in, warmly kissing the Frau Forester on both cheeks.

Now was Fritzlie's opportunity! He glided along, and just succeeded in scraping by Gretchen's wooden shoes as she was about to fasten up the door again.

He was safe, and free once more, though he heard a scream from the servant girl as he galloped away—

She had caught sight of something dark gliding past her, and received a severe scolding from the Frau Forester for her "nerves and fancies."

Out in the clear moonlight night—for the snow had ceased some time before—father Fritzlie began to recover, and congratulate himself on his marvellously narrow escape.

"Ugh! How hot it was in that box," he thought. "I never knew camphor was so unpleasant before. I quite understand now why moths dislike it so much!"

Throwing his canvas bag over his shoulder, and keeping well in the shadow of the houses, he went on till he came to a turning, and then darted into the fields at the back of the village.

He was afraid of every sound, for his nerves had been severely tried; and had he not been determined to secure the promised treat for his children he would have liked nothing better than to trot straight home, and go to bed.

The pipe manufacturer's house stood up white and silent against the background of the wooded hills, but Fritzlie heard the barking of Prinz, the watch dog, and hurried on.

"No ducks to-night," he said to himself. "I don't want to get into Prinz's clutches!"

At this moment he heard the sound of voices, and, peeping noiselessly over a wall, he saw the farmer's wife, old Frau Zimmerman, and her little grandson, toiling along the road just beyond the village, in the rear of a little wooden cart, drawn by a couple of strong dogs.

The old Frau was warmly wrapped up in a cloth cloak, and had a bright-coloured handkerchief wound round her head. She had been to the market at Marientahl, and was returning late because of a call she had made upon her daughter-in-law, the young Frau Zimmerman, on her way home.

There were many nice things in the cart, as Fritzlie immediately noticed, especially some loaves of black bread, and a string of sausages—for the Frau was very well off—and, yes! could he believe his good fortune?—a fine large cock in a wicker-work coop, being taken home to the Frau's chicken-yard!

This was good luck indeed! Fritzlie ran into the wood and gathered a long thin stick, and as the cart passed under some apple trees that fringed the road he sprang out, and giving the dogs two blows with the switch, they started off at a furious gallop, leaving Frau Zimmerman and her grandson shouting on the snowy pathway.

Father Fritzlie followed the cart briskly, and easily managed to take out the chicken coop, a loaf of bread, and some sausages, with which he ran off into the forest as fast as his legs could carry him.

This was a find, indeed! He easily opened the coop door, put the cock and the other things into his canvas bag, and set off with long strides for his home.

"What adventures I shall have to tell them," he thought, "but we'll have a good birthday feast, after all!" and he sped on.

As he neared the well-known spot, he saw Atala and Lieblie watching for him at the door of the house, and to his surprise, they greeted him with screams of terror, instead of joy.

"Oh, father Fritzlie Raetellie is lost, and mother is gone to find him. He went to Aunt Badger's to borrow some coffee beans and pepper, and has never returned. Uncle Badger says the king-wolf is roaming about, and may have taken him to one of his castles. What shall we do! What shall we do?"

Father Fritzlie threw his bag on the ground, and sank down quite stunned with the terrible intelligence. His darling Raetellie, who was so clever, and was already learning to be the greatest comfort to him. It was a crushing blow. However, it would never do to sit down and grieve about it. It was still quite early, with a brilliant moonshine; and besides this, the wind had changed, and a rapid thaw had set in. It would be easier to find any tracks left by the king-wolf, if it was indeed he, who had carried away poor Raetellie.

Father Fritzlie turned his coat inside out, put on a pair of snow galoshes, and another hat, and thus, completely disguised, he bade good-bye to his remaining children, cautioning them not to stir from home until he returned, and sallied out, with a lantern in his hand, in the direction of the house of Uncle Badger.

As he walked, he looked most carefully for any marks upon the ground, and the snow having almost disappeared, he soon discovered two of the coffee beans, and presently smelt a strong odour of pepper.

"Hurrah!" he cried. "'What' an intelligent child he is! He has scattered them as he went along," and father Fritzlie followed the clue with renewed hope.

Here and there, it was a very difficult matter to decide which way to proceed, for the snow being only half melted had covered up some of the beans; but Fritzlie's sense of smell was wonderfully acute, and wherever he could not see the beans, he smelt the pepper. So he went on, straight as an arrow, for the castle of the wolf-king.

*       *        *       *        *       *

Meanwhile, the poor fox mother had also started to search for her lost child; but being in a terrible state of fright and excitement, and also quite unused to going out by herself, she had lost her way, and was now wandering round and round in circles, unable to find either her own home, or any trace of the missing Raetellie.

You can therefore imagine her joy when she saw the gleam of the fox father's lantern, and cautiously making her way towards it, found, to her delight, that it was indeed her husband.

At first, father Fritzlie scarcely recognized his wife, and indeed it was hardly to be wondered at.

Her cloth cloak hung torn and dripping about her, she had lost her hood and one of her snow galoshes; for she had fallen down a deep slope into a snow-drift, and had had some difficulty in scrambling out again.

Altogether, a more pitiable object it was impossible to imagine!

Fritzlie cheered her as well as he could, and explained his discovery of the coffee beans and pepper, and the father and mother set off once more.

As they neared the bleak hill on which stood the castle of the king-wolf, Fritzlie covered his lantern with his hat, and begged the fox mother to remain in the shadow of the rocks and keep perfectly silent.

He crept up to the door of the cave and listened intently.

A loud snoring came from within.

The king-wolf was evidently asleep, and as he lived by himself and had no attendants, Fritzlie knew that if he could only pass him without waking him, it would be comparatively easy to continue his search.

He took off his boots, and crept across the entrance to the room beyond.

A flood of moonlight came in through a rift in the rocks and lighted up the face of the king-wolf as he lay on a heap of skins in the centre of the cave.

His forester's hat with the crown round it lay on a stool close by.

Fritzlie could hear his heart beating loudly as he crawled along. The king-wolf stirred, and turned his head.

"Off with him to the kitchen!" he murmured. "It will be a good stew!"

Evidently he was dreaming of his dinner, and father Fritzlie shuddered as he thought that perhaps his beloved Raetellie was to provide the feast.

Just by the sleeping grey wolf, father Fritzlie discovered some more coffee beans, and outside a cupboard in the wall of the room beyond, he found the egg-shell and a little heap of pepper.

There was no doubt that Raetellie was concealed somewhere close by.

"Are you in the cupboard, my child?" Fritzlie whispered anxiously, through a chink in the door.

"Yes! yes! father Fritzlie," replied Raetellie in a low, terrified voice. "Let me out! let me out at once! It is so dark in here, and I am so frightened."

"All right, my child. Do not move," cried the fox father, and he ran out and called his wife.

Now fortunately, the fox mother always carried her needles and thread in a bag by her side, so that when father Fritzlie had explained what he wanted her to do, she went into the cave with him, and had soon sewn the king-wolf up in the skins he was sleeping on without waking him.

Then father Fritzlie ran to the cupboard, and carried Raetellie out into the open air, where his mother was awaiting him.

The little fox was so enchanted to be free, that he almost danced for joy as he followed his father and mother down the hill, and into the shadow of the forest.

As they galloped along they heard muffled roars of rage from the king-wolf, who had just discovered what had happened.

The fox mother smiled, for she knew her sewing was strong enough to resist all his struggles!

So this was how it happened that the fox children had their birthday feast after all!

And what a feast of delight and rejoicing it was!

Aunt and Uncle Badger came to it; the mother fox presided in a beautiful white apron, and father Fritzlie, in a red necktie, had the chair of state, and carved the roast chicken.

Aunt Badger brought a cabbage leaf full of coffee beans, and a new egg-shell of pepper, as an offering of affection to Raetellie; and the climax of enjoyment was reached when Fritzlie's father appeared upon the scene, on a short visit to his family. He had managed to unlatch the barn door, and slip out without anyone observing him.

"Do stay! do stay! grandfather," cried the children when, the dinner finished, they clustered round the old fox's knee—but Finklie refused all their invitations.

"You can come and see me sometimes when the Herr Forester is away," he said, "but I am too used to my life, and too fond of Elsie, Lina, and little Heinrich, to leave them now," and before it was daylight he returned to his comfortable kennel.

As to the wolf-king; as far as I know he is still sewed up, and so cannot do any more mischief to anyone.

The forester's chickens are safe for the future, for Finklie made father Fritzlie promise that he would never again attempt to steal them.

The Herr Forester is not so severe upon foxes now, as he used to be, for Elsie, Lina, and Heinrich, are always begging him to spare them. This is, perhaps, the reason that father Fritzlie and his wife and children still live on happily in the hollow tree, and look back with a certain proud importance upon their adventures in search of the birthday dinner.

The Story of a Silver Padlock.

A FRAGMENT.

BY MRS. A. M. GOODHART,

AUTHOR OF "THE GIANT FISHERS OF HERTZENBERG."

————————

ONCE, in sweet and sunny Italy, I knew a little lad who fell into evil ways, and learnt to utter rough and shameful words, such as leave an ugly stain upon the minds and lips of those who use them, and his mother was sorely troubled, for she knew that her boy could never grow up among "the pure in heart," if he sinned so grievously with his childish lips.

So she thought long and sorrowfully over the matter, and whilst she was thinking, she fell asleep. And when her long black eyelashes were lying motionless upon her sweet worn cheeks, a tiny cherub angel, one of the baby-messengers of Heaven, stole in at the open window, and tenderly laid a scroll upon her weary eyes. And though she was asleep, she read the words as if in a dream, and they seemed like these: "Go to the jeweller, who lives in the Viâ Stradella, and ask him to make a Silver Padlock for thy Leonardo's lips, lest the ugly words offend again."

The baby-angel had given his message, but before he left, he kissed the tired mother's cheeks, and the caress awoke her; yet though no scroll lay there the words shone still before her eyes.

But she was poor, though of gentle birth, and accustomed in her youth to the golden splendour, and the warm luxuriousness of palaces; that, however, was all in the past, and now she was but a poor widow, working with her child for their daily bread; but though food and money did ofttimes fail them, one blessed thing was "ever theirs," and that was "love," love so deep, and true, and tender, that nought else seemed to matter so long as they two were together.

Nevertheless, the heavenly message troubled her; how could she find money for the Padlock? "Silver in the house there was none; that had gone long ago," she thought, as she looked round the room with a sigh; "but stay, where were all those old silver thimbles, pricked into innumerable holes with many a weary hour's sewing to earn bread for herself and her child? Ah, there they were, a worn-out heap, too old and battered for use, but still pure silver; perhaps old Tomasino, if she begged him, would melt them down for her, and make what she required, at any rate she must obey the heavenly message, and try."

So at nightfall, when the stars alone gave forth their light, she took Leonardo by the hand, and led him to the dark musty shop of the old jeweller. Leonardo asked no questions, he thought that his mother was going to sell the thimbles for a few scudi; but when she tremblingly began to say, "A little angel bade me have a Silver Padlock made, because my child hath learnt to soil his lips with ugly words," Leonardo dared not raise his eyes from the ground.

The old jeweller betrayed no astonishment at her strange request. "It shall be ready to-morrow for the signora," was all he replied, and the mother and son walked away in the darkness, and silence and night fell over the earth.

*       *        *       *        *       *

The morrow came, but the gentle mother never visited the Viâ Stradella again, and Leonardo, with breaking heart and streaming eyes, dashed in upon the old bewildered jeweller.

"Give me the Padlock," he cried; "the last thing she did for me. It shall never leave me as long as I have life."

Then, all in the whirlwind of his passionate grief, he dashed out again into the quiet street, leaving the old man dazed and trembling.

"I am glad he forgot to pay me," he murmured to himself with faltering lips and tear-dimmed eyes. "It was her last wish, and life had been hard to her, but now she is at peace for evermore."

He was very poor and very old, and had hardly the wherewithal to buy his next meal, but it warmed his lonely heart to know that he had been kind to one who was now amongst the angels of God.

*       *        *       *        *       *

As for Leonardo, he took the silver trinket and hung it on a faded ribbon that had once been hers, and wore it round his neck, as the years rolled by, in many a fight and many a fray, guarding it ever as his most precious treasure, his most sacred possession, until upon a far-off battle-field he lay at rest one summer evening, with a happy smile upon his quiet face, and his fellow-soldiers, gathering round, saw the little Silver Padlock on the faded string, resting upon his sunburnt breast, and with reverent hearts forebore to touch it, taking it to be a love token, as indeed it had ever been, for what can be a truer love token than that which keeps the heart pure, and the lips unsullied in the midst of an evil world?

*       *        *       *        *       *

Somewhere far away in the shining fields of Paradise that pair of true lovers, that mother and son, are walking together now. We cannot tell the joy that fills their souls, or shines in their radiant eyes . . . Such joy is not for us to know until we too have passed into the clearer light of the Eternal Day.

Two Church Mice.

FOUNDED ON FACT.

BY EMMA WOOD.

————————

CHAPTER I.

ONCE upon a time there lived in a farm-yard, at the bottom of a corn-stack, a family of mice, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Mouse, and seven baby mice. As yet the babies were quite pink, just like little pigs, but they kept growing and growing, and turning darker and darker, until at last they were quite the family colour, and nearly as big as their parents. Well, one day Papa Mouse said to Mamma Mouse—

"My dear, it will soon be time for our children to get their own living. I think I had better hear what their wishes for the future are, and give them some advice." So he called his children round him, and thus began—

"Sons and daughters, your mother and I think you should begin to work for yourselves, and I should like to hear if you have formed any plans before I proceed to give you my advice. Hop and Pop, as you are the two eldest sons, speak first."

Then up started Hop and Pop, and said promptly—

"Father, we have talked this matter over, and we have both decided to go into the Church!"

"My sons," said their father, "I am sorry to hear it, as Church mice are proverbially poor. I should strongly advise you all to stick to farming, especially the corn-growing branch of it. With good management mice can live comfortably, and bring up large families, if they will only be content with their station; but mice that aspire to the Church always end in being starved."

Then the rest of the family spoke, and expressed themselves quite ready to follow their father's advice, but Hop and Pop were bent on having their own way, so in a short time they said "good-bye" to their loving parents, and kissed their brothers and sisters, and went away to begin the battle of life for themselves.

They started for a beautiful old Church that stood near, and when they reached it the bells were ringing, and people going in at the door, and amongst them a lady holding a little girl by the hand, who instantly caught sight of the brothers, and screamed, "Look, mammy—'two mouses!'"

Hop and Pop were so terrified that they immediately hid themselves in the grass, so that the little girl's mother did not see them. There they stayed, trembling, until all the people had come out of Church again, and they saw the Rector and his sister go away, and last of all, the clerk lock the door, carrying the keys with him. Then they began to breathe more freely.

"Now Hop," said Pop, "we must begin to get our own living, so come along."

So away they went, and managed to squeeze under the bottom of the big door, and then ran into the middle aisle, and looked round.

"Oh my!" said Hop, "won't we have fun though? This is a great deal better than a farm-yard."

And then they played hide and seek amongst the basses, and in and out the pews, and scampered up and down the aisles until at last they were quite tired out, and sadly in want of their supper besides.

"Now," said Pop, "it is time we found something to eat; there must be a good larder somewhere, as so many people come to Church; so you go and look for it one way, and I will go another."

Pop ran as far as the east window, but Hop only got as far as the pulpit, which he mounted, and there he found "food for reflection," but it was some little time before he found food for his supper; but at last, as he kept getting higher and higher, he alighted on the top of one of the candlesticks, so he sat up, and began to nibble away at the candle until he had made quite a good meal; but just as he had finished, and was thinking of calling his brother to share his feast, he heard a jingling of keys, and then two people came into the Church, but as it was now "pitchy" dark, he could only cling to the candlestick, trembling and quaking.

Presently a match was struck, and then Hop saw from his eminence that the intruders were the Rector and his boy George, and also saw, with terror, that they were making for the pulpit! So down he came in a jiffy, and hid himself in the first place that came handy, and that happened to be the harmonium, which stood under the pulpit, and there he lay panting behind the pedals, thinking—

"I'm quite safe here until they are gone again"—but, horror of horrors! instead of the Rector going up into the pulpit he came straight to the harmonium, and took hold of one end, and George the other, and the poor little mouse found himself being carried out of the Church, out into the churchyard, out into the road, then into the rectory garden, then into the rectory, and finally deposited in the hall, and there the Rector and George left it for a short time.

"Now," thought Hop, "now's my time to run;" so run he did, but, unluckily, just as George was returning, who caught sight of him before he could hide himself. George made a grab at him, but missed him, as he squeezed himself under the study door; but George was like a cat for a mouse, he did not mean to be beaten, so he opened the study door, and on a low chair near the fire sat the Rector's sister, Peggy, who looked round to see who had come in, and George began excitedly—

"If you please'm, there's a mouse just come into the room'm—"

"Oh, George, you don't say so! 'Where' is it?" And she instantly got up and jumped on to the highest chair she could see, gathering her dress round her.

"Are you 'quite' sure you saw one?"

"Yes'm, I'm sure'm, and it came out of the harmonium."

Enter the Rector. "'What's' the matter now?" he said.

"Why sir, there's a mouse, sir."

Well, I'm ashamed to tell you that the Rector was almost as much afraid of a mouse as his sister was, but he put on a brave look, and screwed his courage to the sticking point, and said manfully, "'Where,' George?"

"If you please, sir, it went behind the book-shelves."

Then the housekeeper was called to help to move them, but the united efforts of the household were futile to stir them, so, for the present, Hop was safe. Then the housekeeper spoke up and said—

"'I' know what 'I' should do."

"What should 'you' do, Mrs. H—?" said the Rector and Peggy simultaneously, truth to tell glad of any suggestion.

"Why 'I' should give it some 'supper,' sir, that's what I should do." (Well, Hop heard this from behind the book-shelves, and he thought "what a nice 'kind' woman the housekeeper is"), and Peggy exclaimed—

"'Supper!' then I'm sure I dare not sit here—why it will perhaps be climbing up my dress, and I'm certain if it did, I should go into a fit."

"Oh'm," said the housekeeper, "it won't come out whilst you are here—you need not be afraid; but when you and the master go to bed, I'll mix it some 'nice' supper." And she smiled benevolently, and looked so beaming and good-looking, that if Hop could only have seen her, he would have felt quite satisfied that he had "one" friend, at a rate, on his side. But alas for appearances! The matter was left in Mrs. H—'s hands, and she left some nice-looking supper on a bit of paper on the study floor, and then they all retired to rest.

When everything was quite still, as still as any mouse could desire, and dark besides, our friend Hop began to feel less agitated, and he had already made a plan that he would first get the supper the kind housekeeper had prepared, and then he would creep into the harmonium again, and be carried back to the Church the same way as he had been carried from it. Well, very cautiously he emerged from his hiding place, meaning to have a hunt for his supper, but he found it close to the book-shelves, so without more ado, he began to eat; but hardly had he tasted it, when he turned very dizzy, and then was seized with a violent pain. Suddenly, he thought to himself, "that 'wretched' woman! I do believe she has put 'poison' in my supper! 'I'm a dead mouse;' but she shan't have the satisfaction of finding me dead!" And with that he just managed to crawl back, and in a very short time "died." And that was the end of one Church mouse.

Take advice from parents,
Children great and small,
Or 'sure as a gun' you'll often run
Your heads against a wall.

CHAPTER II.

HAVING followed the career of one Church Mouse to its sad end, let us go into the Church again, and see what our other little friend Pop is doing. I think we left him hunting for provender, having parted from his brother in the nave. First of all, he ran as far as the Altar, then up the curtains, then on the super-altar, and vainly tried to climb the tall candlesticks, thinking if he could only reach the candles, he should make a grand supper; but in that respect, he was not so fortunate as his brother, for though he kept trying again and again, the shining brass afforded no hold for his claws.

By this time, he was very hungry and faint, so in despair, he began to attack the flowers in the vases, making a "great" litter, but a "very poor" supper.

After that, he crept behind the Dossal and forgot his woes in sleep.

The next day being Saturday, the Rector's sister came into the Church to rub up the brass Cross, and to put fresh flowers in the vases; but as soon as she saw the litter on the Altar, she exclaimed in consternation—

"Why I do believe there has been a mouse here, too! Whatever shall we do to get rid of the mice?"

Then she fetched her brother, and the housekeeper, and George, to see if they could find the culprit; but Pop, true to his name, had popped quite out of sight.

"'I' know what 'I' should do," said the housekeeper.

"What should 'you' do, Mrs. H—?" said both the Rector and his sister in a breath.

"I should give them some supper, to-night," and she smiled a loud smile from ear to ear.

"Well, Mrs. H—," said the Rector, "as you are cook, I think we will leave the matter in your hands, and mind you make the supper nice and tasty."

"I will, sir, it shall be as nice as 'I' can make it."

Then they all left the Church, and Pop came from his hiding place, feeling dreadfully frightened, and also very miserable because he did not know what had become of his brother, and so hungry he could hardly run. He thought if he could only find the door, he would certainly try and make his way back to his family; but he could not remember in what direction the door lay. At last he alighted on the crimson velvet kneelers on the Altar step, and thinks he to himself—

"These 'smell' good. I will eat through the covering, and there's bound to be something nice inside—may be there will be some 'cheese.'"

Animated by this hope, he nibbled and nibbled, and scratched and scratched at the stuffing, until he had made a hole big enough to hide half-a-dozen mice. Just then, what do you think? he heard first the rattling of keys, then footsteps, and then voices, and the Rector and his sister stood within half-a-yard of his hiding place! Well, what could Pop do but lie very still? and he did it; but the Rector immediately caught sight of the hole in the cushion, and exclaimed—

"Peggy, look here! Actually, a mouse has eaten a hole quite through the velvet, and a great deal of the stuffing besides!"

"'What's' to be done?"

She gazed speechless for a quarter of a minute, and then said cheerfully—

"I shall have to mend it, or in the words of the poet—

"'What's amiss I'll strive to mend,
And endure what can't be mended.'

"But this can be mended, so I'll fetch my workables at once." So away she went, and very soon brought back velvet, and stuffing, and needle, and thread.

Well, poor Pop heard every word that was said, but he only crept a little further into the cushion, paralysed with fear, and expecting "every moment to be his next."

Then Peggy came, and began pushing handfuls of soft stuffing into the hole, so that, of course, our poor little friend could not have run away then, even if he had dared.

At last all was neatly finished, and they left the Church.

Then Pop tried to turn himself in his living tomb, but Peggy had done her work too well for him to escape at his ease. So he lay very still, "thinking." All his father's wise sayings came into his mind, and amongst them was this—"Never say die."

"Well," thinks he to himself, "I'm not dead yet, for certain, and father used to say that adversity was sent to try what sort of material people were made of. Surely no mouse was ever in a stranger fix than myself! but I won't say die, and I'll prove to all mousedom that I'm a mouse of mettle."

So thereupon he began to scratch and scratch, and nibble and nibble, until he had quite eaten through Peggy's neat patch, and found himself once more in daylight. Then he made straight for the big door at which he and his brother had entered, and the next thing that happened, he was in the churchyard, and then—"Home, sweet home."

His appearance was so altered since he had left his family that none of them knew him. He had left home a fine, athletic young mouse, and he returned a broken-down, poor gentleman mouse; but when the first surprise was over, he was received with open arms, and no word of reproach.

Then, after he had had a good meal, he told his tale. He did not spare himself at all, but acknowledged that all their misfortunes had come upon them because they would not take advice from their excellent father, but he humbly hoped that he had learnt a lesson, and for the time to come he would try to be a "wiser," if a sadder mouse.

I must just add that when Peggy found that all her stitches had been in vain, and that she had unwittingly sewed the mouse up in the kneeler, and that it had eaten its way out, instead of being angry, she exclaimed, "Well, I never heard of such a plucky little mouse in my life. It 'deserves' to get away, and I'm 'glad' it did; but I shall have to mend the hole up again, by-the-bye." So she did, and this time effectually.

The New Master.

BY S. BARING-GOULD, M. A.,

AUTHOR OF "MEHALAH," "JOHN HERRING," "COURT ROYAL," &c., &c.

————————

I AM a little girl. I never was a little boy, as far as I can recollect, and I hope I never shall be, for I think little boys are rough and greedy, and wear out their clothes faster than girls. But here is one thing I should like to be a boy for, and that is to have pockets. I have only one in my frock. Boys have two in their trousers, and one at least in their jackets. Johnny Phillips had got a great coat, and that has got two, one on each side, then there is one on his breast coat side, and one inside, and he has the same three that other boys have. That makes:—

2 pockets in the skirt of great coat.
1    "      "    breast    "    "  outside.
1    "      "        "        "    "  inside.
2    "    in his trousers.
1    "      "    jacket.

And he stuffs his pocket handkerchief up his sleeve, so that counts for a half. That makes 2 + 1 + 1 + 2 + 1 + ½ that makes 7½ pockets.

I love my papa dearly. Also I love my mamma. I love my sister Jane, and sometimes my sister Mary. I love my aunt Fanny very much, she gave me a box of candied plums on my birthday. I like my governess, sometimes; but sometimes she gives me smacks. When she gives me smacks, I don't like her. We had some nice people lived next door; their name was Jones. Mr. Jones was a very gentle and sweet sort of man, and Mrs. Jones was middling. They had a great many children, I think twelve, or it may have been a baker's dozen, I mean thirteen. Mr. Jones never knew exactly. When asked, he looked puzzled, and rubbed his nose, and said he thought it was about a dozen, taken all in all. The Joneses didn't keep a governess. We did. We were very superior people to the Joneses. Our name is Brown, and B comes a long way before J in the alphabet, so, of course, we were altogether a chop above them, as Jane says.

They did a lot of crying in their house, did the Joneses. I don't mean Mr. and Mrs., but the children. The nursery was all over the house, the children got everywhere, and when Mr. Jones wanted to do his accounts, and to think of his prospects, he went into the nursery, because he was sure to be left alone there. The children didn't like the nursery, and screamed when taken there. So they were allowed to go everywhere else, and Mr. Jones had it to himself as a sort of study.

The Joneses, my papa said, were in bad circumstances. I have heard the servants say that they did not pay their butcher's bills regularly. I didn't mean the babies, but Mr. and Mrs. Jones. That explains what Jane meant when she said they were a chop behind or below us; she meant that we paid for our chops and they didn't, and so we were sometimes a chop, and even more ahead of them, for they couldn't get the butcher to send them a new chop when they hadn't paid for the last one.

At last things got very bad there, and they became bankup, I think the nurse said, I know it was something like hiccup, and there was a nasty dirty man, who smelt of tobacco, stuck into the house, and he ordered all about, and had his food taken to him in the sitting-room, and smoked, and had mugs of porter in the best bedroom, and stretched his legs out and stuck his dirty boots one on each side of the ormolu clock on the drawing-room chimney-piece. They said he was a bailiff, and that he made himself master in the house.

Mr. Jones went about more sweet and gentle than ever, and sniffed every now and then; nothing can be imagined more meek, and gentle, and forbearing, and suffering, than he was. But then he was no longer master of the house. The bailiff was. He sat at the nursery window, and tried to keep the children there, but they cried, and kicked, and screamed; they wanted to go and see the bailiff, but the bailiff didn't want to see them, so Mr. Jones sat on a stool, the nurse's stool, on which she used to sit when tubbing the baby; but they had no nurse any more, because they were bankups. The nurse had gone away, and had not been paid her wages. And so Mr. Jones sat at the window and looked out and sniffed, and all the children squalled and kicked. It was very terrible to think of, that house and all these children, and the ormolu clock, and the antimacassars, and the lawn mowing machine, and Mrs. Jones, and the parrot, and the umbrella stand, all had a new master in the house—that horrible bailiff. Then there came a sale, and nearly everything was sold, except Mr. and Mrs. Joneses toothbrushes, on which papa said a fancy price was set, and they were bought in by some rich relative of the family. Papa said perhaps they were heirlooms.

It was all very miserable. After that Mr. Jones went away, and sniffed piteously as he went. Mrs. Jones went after him, and Mr. Jones carried the baby, and Mrs. Jones carried the last baby but one, and then after Mrs. Jones came ten children, or eleven, I cannot say which. I was as uncertain as was Mr. Jones, because, you see, they never would keep quiet in one place for me to count them, but bobbed about here and there, and put one out in reckoning.

My dear mamma was not very well at the time, and was much upset at all this. She was so kind, she would have helped Mr. and Mrs. Jones if she could, but papa said they were past help. The only way was to buy that horrid tobackerish man out of the house, and it would cost a lot of money to do that, and next year he would be there again, and Mr. Jones would never be a twelvemonth master in his house.

I was sent away soon after to school, mamma was not well, and wished it; and my sister Jane and Mary went with the governess somewhere for a little holiday trip. I thought it very hard that when they went for a holiday I should have to go to school. I fancy that the governess, Miss Smith, could not manage to teach my sisters and me together, for they were a tremendous awful way ahead of me, and if Miss Smith had to be doing what are called equations with Jane, and compound fractions with Mary, and then with me to come to simple addition and multiplication; or be doing the celestial globe, or one hemisphere with them, and come down to the terrestrial globe, or at a stride to the other hemisphere with me, it would be too great a jump, and she might strain her back, and have to lie on a board like one of the elder Joneses, till the board was sold at the auction and went for four and sixpence.

I was sent to school, and I was very unhappy there at first, it was all so new and so strange to me. I wanted mamma to come and kiss me when I was in bed; and then I couldn't have jam on my bread always at tea, as I did at home. They did not set me very hard lessons to do at first, but they were not out of the books I had at home. At home, when I had done a sum, then I could suck my slate pencil and look-out of the window, or play with puss, till Miss Smith had done with Jane or Mary or both, so I had a good long rest after each effort I made to add numbers together. But at school I was kept sharp at work, and when I had done one sum was set another; and when I had written one line in my copy book, I was not allowed to run to the teacher and tease her to look at it and say it was beautiful, before I went on to write the second line.

I did not like the cat either. It had been white once, but it was not well cared for, or did not care for itself properly, and it always made me think of Mr. Jones, it had such a way of screwing up its nose, just as he did when he sniffed. Often when I was alone in my bed I thought about the Jones family, and how terrible it was for them to have that nasty man put into the house, ordering them about, eating their food, drinking their stout, and acting as their lord and master.

One day, about a fortnight after I had gone to school, I had a letter from Aunt Fanny.

This is her letter.

"MY DARLING TOOTSIE,

"What do you think? What will you say, my sweet pet? Strange things have happened since you went away. It is perhaps well that you are not at home now, nor Jane, nor Mary, for the house has been quite turned topsy-turvy.

"I can hardly think you will believe your old auntie when she tells you that a NEW MASTER has invaded the house, and holds sovereign sway there. He is a perfect tyrant. What he wants he yells for, and it must be given him at once. Never was there seen anyone more exacting and despotic. Your mamma is ill, but perhaps she is as well as might be expected under the circumstances. As for your dear papa, he is nowhere—simply nowhere. I also am made a slave of this tyrant, and all the servants are kept dancing attendance on him.

"Good-bye, my sweetest pet,

"Ever your doting aunt,

"FANNY."

There! I uttered a cry, and burst into tears. It had come about in our dear, dear home as it had in that of the Joneses. There was the same horrible tobackerish man in our beautiful drawing-room, putting his legs up on our mantelshelf, where was such a sweet bit of embroidered vandyke work mamma had done, with sunflowers on it.

O my mamma! my mamma! I threw myself on the floor and sobbed.

The teachers came to me and told me not to cry. They asked me what was the matter, but I could not, I would not, tell them that a horrid tobackerish bailiff as a new master was in our home, our sweet home; that my own darling papa was now nowhere—I suppose had run away; that the servants—dear Martha, who always gave me a lollipop whenever I went into the kitchen, and Susan, who had such funny stories to tell me, all were trampled under foot by this cruel, tyrannical, nasty tobackerish monster.

What did Aunt Fanny mean by saying papa was nowhere? Did she mean that he was dead, or that he was running away? That little boy in Struvelpeter who went out in the wind and rain with a big umbrella was carried off by the wind, getting smaller and smaller, till he smalled to a pin's head, and then was nowhere—was darling papa going, or gone, like that little boy?

I sobbed and cried all night. I could eat nothing next day, I was so unhappy. I thought how my poor mammy must suffer with that new master roaring for his stout and pipe, and beefsteaks and potatoes, and just what he liked, and setting down his porter pot on mamma's polished piano, and puffing his smoke into the cage where are Jane's canaries.

Then a new idea came into my head. I remembered that that nasty man, the bailiff, could be bought off. I had heard my father say as much, that the only way to be rid of him was to give him money. So I pulled out my purse, a sweet little purse that Aunt Fanny had given me on my birthday, and in it was a jubilee florin, all of silver, quite bright, like our spoons at dinner. I had also a fourpenny bit that Miss Smith had given me, and a sixpence from mamma, and another sixpence from papa, and that made—

1 Jubilee florin
1 Fourpenny bit
2 Sixpences
—
4 Shillings; no, five sixpences—no, I can't do it, as I am not yet in compound addition.

I dried my tears and asked one of the school mistresses how much money it was, and she said three shillings and fourpence. But I had a wax doll that had blue eyes which rolled, and when you squeezed its stomach it said "Pa!" I thought I would sell it, so I offered it to all the girls in the school, and one girl gave me tenpence for it, and a button that had sparkling sort of stuff on it. That increased my store to four shillings and twopence. I thought if I could only get a little more and make up five shillings I might be able to buy out the odious man, and then perhaps my darling papa might come sailing down to us out of nowhere, and mamma might get better. But the head mistress of the school heard that I was selling my toys and my pink sash, and she was very angry, and called me to her, and asked me what I was about. When I was asked I was obliged to answer, for papa and mamma would not wish me to disobey, and certainly not to tell an untruth, so I said, "Please, Miss Tomkins, papa is bankrup', and there's a nasty beastly—"

"Hush, don't say beastly."

"A horrid, awful, tobackerish bailiff in the house, and mamma is ill, and papa has run away, and is—and is—is—is—is Nowhere!" Then I burst into tears, and I thought my heart would break.

When I looked up I saw Miss Tomkins looking almost green. She called to her an attendant, and said she must at once send a telegram to have me removed. I was too delicate, too unsuited to scholastic life, to remain any longer under her charge.

I found Miss Tomkins rather stiff towards me after that; she did not seem to pity my darling mother for having that dreadful creature in the house, nor my father for having been blown away into nowhere, but rather to pity herself for having taken me in, the child of such distressed and afflicted parents.

Next day I was sent off to the station, and committed to the guard, who put me out on the platform at the town where is my home. There was Aunt Fanny waiting for me. I uttered a cry, and flew to her arms.

"Oh, auntie! auntie! Is he still there?"

"Who, darling?"

"The—the—new master?"

"Of course he is."

"O dearest auntie. I have got nearly—not quite five shillings. Can I get rid of him for that?"

My dear aunt looked grave.

"You are not jealous, are you, pet?"

"Jealous! Oh aunt! I hate him! I could kill him."

"My Tootsie! this is not yourself, indeed it is not. Your mother will not love you the less because of him."

I smothered my tears. My heart beat furiously. I did not know how to bear it—the sight of the horrid, beastly, tobackerish monster in our pretty, tidy, sweet home.

I said no more in the cab to auntie, who I felt was hurt at what I said; but aunt is so good and so kind that she could not hate or be uncivil even to such an one as the New Master.

We reached home. The door was opened. Susan was smiling. Then I saw Martha—she held some sweets in her hand; she was laughing.

"Oh, missie! what will you say! He is such a darling!"

He—the bailiff, smelling of smoke! putting his pot of stout on my mamma's piano!

"How can you say so, Susan? You are wicked, heartless," I said.

"Come and see him, and kiss him," said my aunt.

"Kiss him! I will die first."

"See him, at all events."

"I don't want to see him. I want to see my mamma—and oh, where is my papa?"

Then mamma's door opened, and out came papa, back from Nowhere. I rushed to him. I was in his arms in an instant.

"Come and see him," said my father, and he carried me into my mother's room.

"Where is he?" I asked, looking round for the monster.

"Here, pet; kiss him," said mamma—and held up to me the sweetest, dearest Baby Brother!

Peter.

A RUSSIAN STORY.

BY FANNY BARRY.

————————

IT was Fair Day in the village of Vuicksa, and a throng of gaily dressed peasants, walked up and down the broad, sandy road between the booths, or stood in groups bargaining or talking with the proprietors of the various stalls. There was a deafening clatter, the sellers, striving to attract the buyers, by descriptions of their wares, shouted out at the top of their voices; and all were busily eating their favourite sunflower seeds—the husks of which, peeled off and thrown aside, strewed the ground thickly in all directions.

In one place, a tall woman with a brilliant handkerchief tied over her head, and a holiday gown of brightest red; was haranguing an old wizened man in a long grey coat, bound round the waist with a green sash.

"It's all very well, Ivan Panovitch. You ask a rouble for these shoes, and your conscience tells you they are not worth eighty copecks. Satisfy yourself now by doing a just deed. Let me have them for eighty-five! You will sleep better for it, you will indeed."

The old man shrugged his shoulders, and turned towards an impish-looking boy, who sat cross-legged on a box by his side.

"What do you say, Peter, shall we let the worthy Katrina have them for eighty-five?"

The child shook his long dark hair, and looked at the old man with a sharp glance from his bright grey eyes.

"Certainly not," he said, decidedly; "they are worth ninety—not a copeck less."

He got down leisurely from his box, and coming up to the counter, took one of the shoes and tapped it critically.

"Good work and good material," he said, gravely; "not a copeck less than ninety;" and he clambered up on to his seat again.

"He is a clever child, my Peter," said the old man, chuckling with glee. "He knows the price of every shoe in the stall better than I do myself. He has had an eye for a shoe ever since he was a baby."

After more haggling, "the worthy Katrina" finally bought the pair of shoes she had set her heart upon, and prepared herself for a little neighbourly conversation. She lived in a little wooden house next door to the one-roomed log hut inhabited by Ivan Panovitch and his adopted child, Peter; and frequently ran in to do a little sweeping up and scrubbing for the old man, whom she had known from her childhood.

Who little Peter was nobody knew. Ivan had found him early one morning as he went to his work in the great iron foundry close by, done up in a shawl of grey homespun, and lying upon a heap of "slag," the refuse of the smelting furnace.

Peter was a baby then, but even at that period of his life he was not like other babies. He looked up at Ivan with a pair of bright, serious eyes, and did not cry when he was lifted up and carried into the old man's house.

Ivan did not know in the least what to do with him, and felt embarrassed as the sharp eyes followed his every movement.

He had never had anything to do with children, but his first thought was that the baby must be hungry, and he hesitated and considered deeply as to what it would be best to give it to eat. "I can't leave it out there for any stray dogs to sniff at," he said to himself. "I wonder where it comes from! I shall go to the priest, and the police, to enquire, but meantime what shall I do with it? I'll warm up a little kwass, and give it some pieces of black bread in it."

This strange food was accordingly prepared, and the baby, who remained solemnly staring at everything about it, was fed by the old man with bits of the soaked bread, administered in a gaily-coloured wooden spoon.

Katrina happening to pass by, and seeing the door open, came in just in time to see Ivan seated on a stool with the little grey bundle on his knees, holding up its head with one arm, whilst with a face of the greatest gravity he prodded at its mouth with the spoon.

"Hi! yi! Ivan Panovitch, what have you got there? A child! What a strange-looking creature! It is solemn as a young owl! And what in the world are you doing to it?"

"I am feeding it," replied Ivan Panovitch, with some pride. "It was not exactly crying, but it had a hungry appearance. Where it comes from, I know no more than you do. I found it by the slag heap and what I am to do with it, the good Lord alone knows!"

Ivan crossed himself devoutly, spoon in hand, and laying down the infant on the old sheepskin spread on the white plastered stove, he put the wooden bowl he had been using on the shelf; wiped the spoon on the tail of his long grey coat, and looked at Katrina as if expecting that she would make some suitable suggestion.

"I guess who the child belongs to," she said, seating herself beside the baby, and beginning to examine its clothing to see if there was any mark or sign to distinguish it. "Did you see those gypsies, little father, who came through the village, yesterday, with the dancing bears? One of the women—a miserable creature with black hair—had a child tied up in a bundle on her back. Look at this little 'charm,' Ivan Panovitch, tied round the poor thing's neck. It isn't a Christian cross, or a Saint's picture, but a strange three-cornered brass thing with a hole in it. 'That' means no good, you may be sure. The people have cast off the child, and are far enough away by this time."

"If that's so I shall keep it," answered Ivan Panovitch, and as he was slow in taking up an idea, but held to it tenaciously when he had once got it, Katrina did not remonstrate, but only observed with Russian fatalism,—

"Well, little father, certainly it is the Lord's will, and we cannot struggle against it. I can't take it myself, for I have too many to look to already, but I will fasten it up a cradle, and look after it sometimes, when I can. Don't feed it on kwass though. I will show you how to make it some food that won't kill it."

So it was that Peter became an inmate of Ivan Panovitch's little log hut, and though enquiries were made in every direction, no one found out anything more about him.

Ivan had him christened by the priest, and tied a cross round his neck by the side of the brass triangle, which, for some reason he could hardly have explained to himself, he left where some loving hand had perhaps tied it.

"It can't do any harm," Ivan said to himself. "The cross must be stronger than any heathenish sign like that, and he may as well have every chance he can."

The choice of a name had very much perplexed the old man, but he finally decided on "Peter," as, being the name of a favourite brother, and of a Saint, it seemed a happy combination which it would be impossible to improve upon.

So little Peter stayed, and grew in a slow but visible manner. He never cried, but would lie all the time Ivan was at the works, in his swinging cradle hung like a hammock from the ceiling, looking round at the log room with his great grey eyes, and playing with the wooden figures Ivan carved for him from pieces of pine wood.

Ivan was astonished what a difference the baby made in his life. It was quite an affair to feed him before he started to his work, and a still greater affair to give him a bath on Saturday evening, when the old man would cover himself with the sheepskin for an apron, and let Peter splash about in a tub full of warm water.

Peter thoroughly enjoyed this ceremony, and would take the wooden animals to bathe with him, and delighted to splash old Ivan as he looked at him with admiring delight! The drying process was generally hurried over very rapidly, as Peter would wriggle about like a little eel, and make faces at Ivan every time he attempted to touch him with the sheepskin apron, which also acted as a towel.

When once he was in the cradle again Peter would crow and chatter, and laugh till—as his indulgent foster father remarked—"it was more like a monkey than a child!"

Ivan devoted every spare minute to him. He had his own coloured wooden bowl on the shelf—the best one the house could boast of—he had the gayest spoon, the warmest covering, and strange little garments composed by Ivan himself with much toil and thought in the long winter evenings.

At a very early age he had a pair of odd little blue trousers sewn for him. They were cut out after the same design as Ivan's own; his best pair being spread out flat, and nailed against the wall, that their shape might be exactly copied.

They turned out when finished to be too long in the leg, but this difficulty was obviated by the addition of three tucks, "which could be let out as the child grew," as Ivan sagely remarked. They also evinced an inclination to drop off when Peter moved, and a string had to be run into the waistband to tie them up—but this also was a good thing, as it could be enlarged when the child got older.

Ivan, indeed, felt that he should never be capable of undertaking a second pair.

"I have made them now because I am in the full use of my faculties," he said to Katrina, "but in a year or two I shall not have the brain for them. That pair and the shirt have aged me. A woman would hardly understand the trouble I had in letting in the pieces under the arms. Threading the needle alone took me hours. I have trained Peter to do that now. He sits by me and hands me the thread and pins as I want them. He is a very intelligent child."

So little Peter grew up. He soon learned to help his adopted father, and became more handy than boys twice his age. He could cook the soup for dinner, brew tea in the Samivar, wash out the hut when it had to be treated to such a luxury, salt the cucumbers and fish for the winter, bargain at the market, and get better bargains than Ivan himself.

He was still a strange-looking boy, small and thin, with great dark eyes and a shrill voice. He took violent likes and dislikes to everyone he came across. Katrina was never a friend of his, she had corrected him too often when he was a baby, but her children he was fond of, and their dog "Panoff" was his devoted slave.

He loved Panoff, though he was old, ugly, and despised—perhaps because of that—and he placed him in his affections only next to Ivan, his foster father, who he looked upon as a being quite apart from all the rest of the world.

Ivan had endeavoured to instil his own simple beliefs in religion into the child's mind, and they went to Church very regularly and observed all the fasts, eating no butter or animal food, but having a little oil with their fish occasionally as a treat.

Peter wearied of this sometimes, and would have liked to buy some of the nice things he saw at the baker's, but he never dreamt of asking his father for a copeck, and stifled his longing without saying a word about it to anybody but Panoff.

By the side of their hut stood a little box-like shelter, shaped like a dove cot, on the top of a tall pole—a kindhearted preparation for the birds in winter time, which is often seen outside a Russian peasant's house. This Peter always kept strewn with grain or crumbs, scrambling up the pole for the purpose like a young monkey; and sometimes when it was freezing and food was scarce, he would save a piece of his own black bread, without saying anything to Ivan.

"I couldn't let the birds starve," he would say to himself, and would overcome the temptation to eat up the last morsel, which often came over him so strongly, he could hardly resist it—but somehow he always "did." When he was very hard put to it, he made a little prayer, and begged that his appetite might become smaller; but he was surprised to find that this never seemed to be answered.

Ivan Panovitch worked at the iron works, until he became too old for the hard life. Out of his earnings, he had managed to save, what appeared to him, and to his neighbours, quite a little fortune; and with it he had invested in a store of boots and shoes of all kinds. Plaited bark shoes, such as were worn by himself and most of his friends; women's boots, with showy patent leather ornaments and elastic sides; black leather holiday top boots for the men, with bright red tops; and shoes of every imaginable sort and description.

"I want the child to be brought up to some thriving trade," he said to Katrina, when he first started his stall at the weekly market. "I want him to feel he can get on, and make a way for himself, and I think boots are as thriving as anything. You see, I have argued it all out. People 'must' have boots whatever happens; they can't walk about on 'slag' barefoot; and as the 'slag' won't cease to exist, but will probably spread about more and more, and as people are every day wishing to become more and more fashionable, I am pretty sure always to have a market. Why only yesterday old Marsha Ivanovna, who has never known anything but a bark shoe since she was born, came driving her cart out of the forest, and sold a pig in the market to buy herself a pair of smart shoes, and all because her grand daughter-in-law from Mourum was married in kid slippers with sandals! These new fashions will make my fortune, but I don't like them."

No sooner was the shoe trade started than Peter became a connoisseur in boots, and indeed very soon knew far more about them than his adopted father, who looked on at his acquirements with more than parental pride.

"You save me all trouble, my child," he often said to Peter. "You are the pride of my life. Fortunate was the day I found you on the 'slag' heap!"

Many people might have thought—and indeed, did not hesitate to say—that Peter was not much to be proud of. He was certainly a very ugly little boy, but to old Ivan he appeared (for love is a wonderful softener of defects) the most remarkable child that ever lived.

He still wore the celebrated blue homespun trousers, which had become a sort of part of himself—a portion of his being, without which he would not have been Peter at all.

The last tuck had been let out long ago, and the string had departed from the waistband.

Ivan himself had become so used to them, that ever since the letting out of the last tuck he had measured the child's height by them with a measuring stick, which he borrowed from a shop close by. The measures were written in charcoal high up on the white plaster of the stove (so that they should not be rubbed off), and in large round figures of a peculiar make, known only to Ivan himself, whose everyday calculations were conducted on a many-wired frame, with a series of little coloured balls that slid up and down.

The list was headed by a large "Peter," in Russian, and the date, followed by a sketch of a leg in a trouser, with "1st year, 4½ inches" ("from the ground to the hem," as Ivan would explain to anyone who asked him), "2nd year, 6¼ inches," "3rd year, 7½," and so on, up to the day when Peter and his "father" stood in the stall at the Fair, and bargained about the shoes with the "worthy Katrina."

Thus the blue trousers became historical, and were immortalized in a frescoe, and Peter approached rapidly to the time when he would arrive at the dignity of his first pair of top boots. These he was to choose himself on the very day my story commences, and he had been enduring much wear and tear of spirit in deciding which pair of the numerous stock would be the best and wisest to fix upon.

Some had better soles, some brighter "tops," some better leather. Altogether he was quite worn-out with the struggle to decide.

He had put three pairs on one side, and whenever he was not observed by his adopted father, he hovered over these, pinching the leather, and tapping upon the soles, and then, putting them in natural attitudes, as if they were walking, he would go off to a distance to contemplate the effect. Each boot was good of its kind, each had some almost cruel advantage over its brethren. At last Peter decided that he would draw lots for them. He marked the boots with numbers on the soles, and gave Ivan small papers to hold with figures to correspond. He then drew one, and the number he first chose was to be the decisive one.

He positively trembled as he put out his little hand and took a paper; but he never thought of disobeying the verdict.

Number five became his property. A good, stout, serviceable pair of boots, though not so red at the tops as he could have wished. Still you cannot have everything in this world, and "use is better than show," as he told himself with much philosophy.

Katrina had been looking on at the "lottery" with her little daughter Maria, who was the greatest contrast to Peter that could possibly be imagined. Maria was almost white-haired, through bleaching in the sun; she had a fair, rosy face, and blue eyes, and her long holiday cotton dress of emerald green was tied in round the waist with a bright gold band. Her little legs were rolled up in linen bands tied with string, instead of stockings, and bark shoes were on her feet. She also was eating sunflower seeds, and looking at Peter out of her small eyes, as if wondering what he would do next. Indeed she regarded him as so eccentric that nothing would have surprised her.

"Will you come for a walk with me, and get a cake?" said Peter very grandly, as he jumped over the counter, and took Maria's little soft hand. "Panoff shall come too; and see, I have my new boots on," and Peter looked at his new acquisitions with secret pride. "Next year I am to have a felt hat with peacocks' feathers round it, like father Ivan's. Shan't I look grown-up then, Maria?"

"Quite a tall man," said little Maria, admiringly.

The children threaded their way through the noisy groups till they came to the sweet stall, where cakes of every description, and most unwholesome appearance, decorated with gold leaf and pictures, were disposed in tempting heaps.

Peter bargained for a cake horse on which Maria had set her affections, and when this was secured he turned away, having bought a very dry-looking biscuit for Ivan, and nothing for himself.

"Oh, Peter, you shall have one of the legs," said Maria. "How kind of you to spend all your money on me."

But Peter would not hear of breaking up the animal. He liked to do things in a princely manner, and was secretly much pleased at the added respect with which Maria spoke to him now he had acquired the dignity of top boots.

Ivan accepted the biscuit gratefully, as he would have accepted a handful of sand if Peter had chosen to make him a present of it!

"He is a marvellous boy," he said to Katrina, who like some other people was not too fond of hearing any children praised but her own.

"Oh, I daresay," she replied, "but wait till it comes to doing anything he doesn't like—we shall see then!"

Peter, who heard this, looked at her with flashing eyes. "You are a disagreeable woman," he said hotly, but Ivan hushed him up, and apologised to Katrina—keeping the peace as well as he could between these two who never understood each other.

So the Fair went on, and Peter worked very hard to attract customers to his adopted father's stall. He felt very proud as he threaded his way amongst the throng, with a string of gaily-coloured shoes across one shoulder; and he fitted them on to several barefooted and unsuspecting infants before they knew what he was doing, and so talked over the parents that they were induced, by the handsome appearance of their children's feet, to buy the slippers on the spot. Very likely they repented it five minutes after, but that was not Peter's affair.

As he was crossing the sandy road to return to Ivan with his roubles, he stumbled up against two gentlemen who were evidently strangers to the place. They were dressed very fashionably, and Peter noticed their pointed patent leather boots with a feeling of professional awe and admiration.

They had rather disagreeable faces, though their hats were so wonderfully new and shiny. One of them had a large red pin in his necktie, that was almost the size, and just the shape, of a bird's egg. "Perhaps it 'was' a bird's egg," thought Peter. "If so, how pleasant it would be to live in a country where birds laid such eggs as that!"

"Why here's a young bootmaker, Nicholas!" said one to the other, with a laugh. "Not the kind 'we' want, though, is it?"

His companion smiled, so that his black waxed moustache seemed to curl up to his eyebrows.

"It may be a twig of the same branch, though," he said, with what Peter thought a very disagreeable expression indeed.

"Here, you child," said the first speaker, "come up to the Post House to-morrow morning, and bring some thick boots for us to see. Come alone—do you hear?—and early. We don't want a crowd."

"We may be able to dig something out of him; he looks sharp," he added in an aside to his friend.

Peter flew off to his adopted father, with his unusually large mouth extended to its utmost limits by a broad smile.

"Oh, little father, such luck! We must give a candle to S. Peter! The grand gentleman at the Post House wants boots. I am to take them there, quite alone, to-morrow morning!"

The next day, about nine o'clock, Peter set off for the Post House, carrying the boots in a bag over his back.

He was shown into an empty room, and putting his bag on the floor behind the door, he looked about to see what he could amuse himself with until the gentlemen came in.

There were some Russian and French books strewed about the table, which was covered with what Peter considered to be an exceedingly elegant table cover, with vast pink roses on a red ground. There were cigarettes, and cigar cases, and writing materials; but better than all, Peter discovered underneath the table a row of the most beautiful shoes and slippers!

He was afraid of pulling them out, in case their owners should come in, in the middle; so he dragged the edges of the table cloth well round him, and began to examine the treasures with sparkling eyes.

What soles! What stitching! His heart beat with emulation. "If only I could sell shoes like that, I should be quite happy!" he said to himself.

Before Peter had half finished his admiration the door opened, and, to his horror, in walked the two gentlemen of the Fair!

Peter was quite paralyzed. How could he come out from his ridiculous position without making himself appear a mere silly child? They could not know he had been prompted only by professional zeal. They would refuse to buy boots of him. He would be degraded for ever!

While these thoughts chased each other rapidly through his head, the two gentlemen had seated themselves by the window, and lighted their cigarettes.

"We shall get him now, or someone quite near enough," said the man with the black moustache. "As soon as the Cossacks come we can do the thing quietly. We must satisfy Boris somehow. As we were told to hunt down a 'Nihilist shoemaker' we can't do better than take old Panovitch. I daresay he has no ideas at all, but that's not 'our' business. We must think of the reward. He has been 'plotting against the Tzar,' endangering the peace of the kingdom; away with him to Siberia!" and the young man leant back in his chair, and laughed heartily.

The first part of this speech Peter had listened to in blank astonishment; at the last words he sprang from under the table with a roar like a little wild animal.

His violent movement upset the table, and the two strange gentlemen bounded from their seats.

"Oh, it's our young friend of the Fair," said the Black Moustache, coolly, as he picked up the tablecloth and gazed at Peter, whose eyes were literally blazing with fury.

"I'm not your friend," cried Peter, in a voice he could scarcely recognize as his own—it was so loud and fierce. "I 'hate' you! but you shan't kill my little father. You shall send me to Siberia thirty times before you touch him!"

The boy had seized a paper knife from the floor, and even his odd scanty blue trousers could not deprive him of a certain wild grace and freedom, which in spite of his plain face, moved the two gentlemen to look at him with more attention.

"We can't bribe such a creature as this. What shall we do with him?" said the fair-haired man, gazing at his friend helplessly. "If he goes home all our plans will be upset, and we shall have to start off again on this vile, fatiguing journey to find another shoemaker, who mayn't be so easy to manage."

"Leave it to me. I've thought of a plan," replied Black Moustache. "I know of a nice safe place, where our friend can be taken care of till the evening," and before Peter could scream out he had tied a thick handkerchief over his mouth and bundled him up in a long cloak which covered his head and pinned his arms down to his sides.

Peter felt himself lifted up roughly and carried down some steps, and then along level ground, in spite of his struggles to get free, which seemed to amuse the two gentlemen, who laughed more and more loudly.

It seemed to Peter that they must have been walking miles before he was thrown down, not too gently, on to the ground, and half-dazed, found himself on the plain outside the village.

A belt of pine and birch trees hid them from the houses, and it was such a solitary spot that he knew very well that even if he screamed his loudest no one would be in the least likely to hear him. The road to Mourum ran across the plain, about two hundred yards from the spot on which they were standing, but it was very seldom used by either foot passengers or carts, as there was little traffic between the two villages.

The plain was all dotted over with disused ore pits and with piles of "slag," which had been carted there in past times, and now lay about in great heaps, grown over by rank weeds and bushes.

The gentleman with the black moustache seized Peter firmly by the hand and led him towards the mouth of one of the old shafts, which gaped black and gloomy like the entrance to a well.

Peter felt instinctively that it was no use trying to touch the hearts of his two tormentors. "My only chance would be to wriggle away and then run for it," he said to himself; and then, because he was a plucky little boy, and determined not to allow his enemies to see that he was on the point of crying, he forced back the tears and looked round to see if there was any hope of rescue. He had guessed instantly what they intended to do with him. He was to be let down one of the ore pits and left there until the evening.

"Don't be frightened, my dear little savage," said Black Moustache, cheerfully. "We will come and take you out again on our way to Mourum this afternoon. I should be sorry to leave you here longer than was necessary, and if you had not been such an unnatural child we should not have had to take all this trouble. You see what comes of deceit and interference."

As he spoke Black Moustache took a long piece of cord out of his pocket, and, notwithstanding that Peter fought for his liberty like a little tiger cat, the rope was tied firmly round his waist and he was lowered into the hole close beside them.

Down, down, Peter went, and the light got dimmer and dimmer, until he was in absolute darkness. He did not scream or cry out, but two great tears fell splash on to his hands as they clutched at the rope round his waist. What would father Ivan say if he could see him now! Oh, if he had only, "only" not met those gentlemen at the market! At last, to his relief, his feet touched the ground, and he saw that he had not gone so very far, after all. The opening at the top of the shaft was quite visible, and he could hear the two gentlemen talking as they walked rapidly away.

They had thrown the cord in on the top of Peter, and it fell in a tangled heap round his head. His first thought was to gather it up and fold it carefully together. He then examined the walls of his prison, groping about as well as he could in the darkness; but the sides of the shaft were too straight and crumbling for him to find any foothold, and he had to resign himself to the fact that it was hopeless to think of liberating himself.

"Ivan! Ivan Panovitch! Help! help! It is I, Peter! Panoff! Help!" he shouted again and again, but nobody answered. Indeed, he had very little hope that they "would," for he knew that it was seldom indeed that anyone wandered into the desolate neighbourhood of the iron pits.

His one chance was that "Panoff" might hear him, for the old dog was sometimes in the habit of straying about the country, poaching. So the child continued to shout until he was quite hoarse, and it seemed to him that hours must have passed by since he was first captured.

Peter had always been a little afraid of the dark; for, like most Russians, he was superstitious, and had heard terrible tales of ghosts and goblins. These now all came crowding into his mind; he could almost fancy he saw mocking faces grinning at him from the darkness; but he was really a brave child, and he determined that he would not give way to these horrible fancies.

He remembered what father Ivan had often told him—that nothing could hurt him while God and the holy angels watched over him; so he fingered the little cross round his neck, and prayed fervently that someone might be sent to take him out of his prison, or that, if this could not be done, father Ivan might be saved without him.

"Let me stop here, if you'll only save him!" cried little Peter, simply. "If you haven't time to do both, please, 'please' take care of father Ivan!"

No heroic soul ever made a greater sacrifice of self than Peter made at that minute, for the black hole became every moment more horrible to him, and a rustling of wings—which turned out to belong to a grey owl—almost paralyzed him with terror.

"Panoff! Panoff! Ivan! Help! help!" he screamed again; and this time his voice was answered by a loud and joyful bark, which sounded just at the edge of the shaft's mouth. Then a black head was thrust over, with more noisy barks of recognition, and Peter saw to his delight that it was Panoff indeed!

"Good dog! fetch someone! Fetch someone to help me! Hi! Panoff!" cried Peter, and Panoff wagged his tail, and ran round and round the pit, peering down, and whisking a small shower of sand and pebbles on to the child's head.

Peter's heart beat high with hope. If he could only make Panoff understand!

"Hi! Panoff! Fetch someone!" he shouted again and again; and at last the old dog seemed to realize what was expected of him, and galloped off, leaving Peter in a fever of excitement and suspense.

He could hardly believe his good fortune, when, in a very few minutes, Panoff came trotting back, barking reassuringly, followed by the sound of eager voices; and almost before Peter had realized what had happened, he found himself drawn up to the surface, and blinking like a little owl in the bright sunlight.

Panoff gambolled about him in excessive delight, jumping up to lick his face a dozen times in a minute.

The party of rescuers looked on curiously. They were dark-complexioned, rough-looking men, with long black hair, whom Peter knew at once to be gypsies.

He had often heard about them from his foster father, and looked upon them with awe as a roving people who never settled down anywhere in "Christian" fashion.

However, he determined to try and induce them to help him, and as soon as he had recovered himself a little he poured out his tale, and begged them frantically to save Ivan Panovitch from the police and Siberia.

The group consulted together in low voices. Then one of the men stepped forward, and took up the metal triangle that hung round Peter's neck, and which had slipped out over his shirt as he was pulled up.

"Where did you get this, young one?" he asked.

Peter described how father Ivan had found him, a little baby, lying on the "slag" heap.

"He is so good—there never was anyone so good!" cried Peter. "If only you'll hide him till these wicked gentlemen have gone away, Katrina will take care of the house and the boots."

"Well, we'll help you as much as we can," said the man, when Peter had finished his little story. "That badge round your neck shows that you once belonged to our tribe. Don't be frightened—we have too many children to want to claim you! Run off as fast as your legs will carry you and bring your old father here, and take this dog and lock him up safely somewhere. Do you hear? We don't want him to follow us. He is too fond of you, and might bring the Cossacks after us. Our carts and the rest of our people are waiting on the road yonder, for we were on our way to Vuicksa, but as soon as you join us we shall branch off into the forest. Hurry! hurry! We will lend you some old clothes, though you look the gypsy enough without them."

Peter scarcely waited to hear the end of the sentence. He had flown across the plain, rushed into the yard at the back of the hut, closely followed by Panoff; and, finding Ivan and Katrina planting some sunflowers there, he breathlessly related his adventures, and hurried the astonished old man through the woods to the place where the gypsies were waiting, almost before he had realized the unexpected misfortune which had overtaken him.

The gypsies instantly hurried the two away to their carts, and turning the horses' heads, they galloped off towards Mourum again. As they went along they threw an old coat over Ivan, and rubbed his face and Peter's with some crushed berries, which made them appear a dark brown colour. They next gave Peter an old shirt and some ragged brown trousers in exchange for his cherished blue ones.

Peter's heart gave a great bound as they passed a group of Cossacks riding along, but the men were laughing and talking, and did not even glance at the gypsies' cavalcade.

"Let's go and get this job done," said one, "then we shall have a chance of a little peace and rest at barracks," and they rode on merrily.

Ivan clutched Peter's hand. The old man seemed to have wrinkled and aged, and was trembling with fear and excitement. His life had hitherto been so uneventful that the unexpected misfortune seemed to have completely paralyzed him, and he clung to Peter pathetically as they sat in the bottom of the rough cart on a heap of straw.

"They are going to fetch me, my child," he said. "If it had not been for you I should never have escaped them! It is a blow, Peter, a sad blow. After living for seventy years respected by all the village, to be saved from Siberia by a pack of gypsies!"

The gypsies passed through Mourum, and pitched their camp in a clearing in the forest beyond. Here they put up their tents, lighted a fire, and, sitting about in picturesque groups, with their bright-coloured clothing showing vividly against the gloom of the fir trees, they cooked their food, and chatted together in their own strange language.

Meanwhile, Peter, sitting by Ivan's side, had begun to make friends with the gypsy children, and was spinning tops with them upon the trunk of a fallen tree. He was a real child in his power of throwing off troubles, and at that moment his merry laugh—for Peter "had" a very merry laugh—sounded like sweetest music to the old man's loving heart. His face lost its dazed, careworn expression, and a smile gradually stole over it as he watched the children's antics.

Suddenly, into the midst of this quiet woodland scene, one of the gypsy boys, who had been sent into Mourum, came rushing like a whirlwind.

"Get up! get up!" he shouted, "the Cossacks have come into the town, hunting for the old man and the boy. They are coming on here when they have searched the houses. Someone has told them we are hiding; there is no time to be lost!"

The gypsy chief rose from his seat under a rough tent, and, quietly putting down his pipe, turned to his people.

"Get a cart ready immediately, Zedra," he said to one of the young men. "Put provisions in, and drive our two friends to the hut in Viletna wood, you know the one—near the village. Take care of them, and remain there till we come."

Zedra got up obediently, everyone rousing themselves to help. The horse was harnessed in an incredibly short time, and old Ivan Panovitch and Peter being lifted into the cart, it drove off rapidly down the twisting forest path.

The old man lay in a heap in the bottom of the cart, with his eyes closed, and without moving. The terror and excitement had been too much for him. He had fainted.

All Peter's frantic efforts to make him wake up had no effect, and at last the child turned despairingly to Zedra—

"He isn't dead! He can't be dead! Oh, tell me he isn't dead!"

"Nonsense, boy; give him a dose of this," and the gypsy brought out a leather bottle he carried in the pockets of his wide coat.

Peter poured some down Ivan's throat, and the old man opened his eyes with a dazed, weary expression.

"The boots, Peter, the boots!" he murmured. "What a pity, what a waste! The Cossacks will get them!"

Peter sat down amongst the straw and supported his foster father's head on his knees.

"He is only a bit mazed from the shock—he'll get all right soon," said Zedra, not unkindly; but Ivan did not get all right. On the contrary, his mind began to wander, until he did not even recognize Peter.

On they drove, out from the forest and across the dreary plain, with its scorched grass and stunted bushes; on and on, till Peter, in his misery, began to think this horrible journey would never be ended.

At last they entered a wood again, and reached, by forest paths, a hollow, which was so thickly surrounded by trees that at first it was quite invisible. On the slope of this hollow stood a rough log hut thatched with fir branches.

Here Zedra unharnessed the horse, and carrying poor Ivan Panovitch in his strong arms, laid him down on a coat and some straw which Peter had spread out on the floor of the hut.

This was the beginning of a long and tedious illness. Hardly ever conscious, the old man lay quietly in the hut, refusing all food except a little soaked bread, with which Peter fed him carefully from time to time.

Every day Zedra went out on long expeditions into the country, and brought back food of various kinds in the evening. Peter never asked where it came from, for he shrewdly guessed that it would be better not to enquire, and nothing seemed to matter much while Ivan Panovitch lay so ill.

But one evening the twilight fell and Zedra did not appear. The moon and stars shone out, and little Peter found himself quite alone in the gloomy wood with his poor sick foster father. It was so still and solitary that again dreadful tales came crowding into his mind, though he tried bravely to drive them away and think only of Ivan Panovitch.

He shut and bolted the rough door, and sat down by father Ivan to watch if he should show any signs of consciousness. A shaft of moonlight shone between the trees, in through a hole in the roof, and lighted up the old man's face. Two little stars appeared in the opening.

"We're not quite alone, for the angels are watching us," thought Peter. "What bright eyes they have, and how far they must be away! Perhaps if they look at father Ivan they will make him well again," and in the silence of the hut Peter prayed from his heart, as he had often done before, that the good old man might get better.

He then took off his own cross and the metal triangle from his neck, and laid them by the side of Ivan Panovitch.

"Perhaps these might help to cure him," thought little Peter, "for I seem to have tried everything else."

Ivan stirred feebly, and put out a hand to touch Peter. His eyes had recognition in them. "Oh, he is better! he is better!" cried Peter, and his heart sang for joy. He kissed the old man tenderly, and bent over him asking how he felt, and smoothing the grey hair softly with one of his rough little hands.

"I shall soon be better, Peter, my child—soon better," said Ivan feebly. "You'll go home, my little one, and take the money, it's hanging round my neck, and you'll go on at the market; but never buy patent leather, it cracks so! The good God will take care of you—don't forget that, Peter! I should like to have seen you in a felt hat, but perhaps it is better like this. You've been the light of my eyes, Peter, a wonderful boy. A wonderful boy!" murmured old Ivan. "Blessed was the day I found you on the 'slag' heap!"

"Oh, don't go, dear little father! Stop with me! Don't leave me!" cried Peter passionately, and threw himself down on his knees by the old man's side; but Ivan could not hear his voice any more. The eyes of the angels had looked down upon him, and little Peter's prayer was answered. Ivan was better—better than he had ever been in all his long toil-worn life. A happy smile was on his face; he seemed quietly sleeping.

*       *        *       *        *       *

Peter rushed from the hut out into the bright moonlight. The trees waved and whispered overhead, for the wind had risen. Instinctively Peter longed for human companionship. He ran rapidly towards the village, but all the houses were dark and silent, and he did not dare to knock at a door. Great waves of sorrow seemed rolling over him; he felt alone in the world; and after wandering up and down the street hopelessly, until he was too tired to walk any more, he sank down in an angle of one of the walls, and worn-out with watching and grief, he cried himself to sleep.

A good woman, from one of the cottages, found Peter the next morning, but he did not realize that she was a stranger. He thought he was at home in the little log hut at Vuicksa, and that Katrina was bending over him, and he kept begging her piteously to take him to father Ivan.

He was carried into a house close by, and for several days he lay tossing on the straw bed repeating pathetically the one cry for "Ivan!" "Ivan!"

Everyone was interested in him, and he was nursed with real Russian kindness; but no one could find out where he came from, until the appearance of Zedra; who had been caught in the act of stealing some vegetables on the very night of poor father Ivan's death, and was now only liberated on the payment of a heavy fine.

He came with the gypsy leader and some of the tribe, and Peter's story was soon known to the whole of the sympathizing village.

People who had felt sorry for him before now admired his courage and self-devotion, and everyone tried who could do most to help him.

A messenger was sent off to Vuicksa to bring back Katrina and little Maria, so that when Peter recovered, his first awakening should be to friendly faces and not to those of strangers.

Katrina came gladly, for in her heart she sincerely loved Ivan and Peter, and had waited anxiously, as the weeks passed and brought no news of them. Maria—looking very important in the responsibility of her first long journey—accompanied her mother, bringing a bag of her finest sunflower seeds, and the hind portion of the veritable gilt cake horse, that Peter had given her at the Fair more than a month ago, and which, being her greatest treasure, she considered a suitable offering for the invalid.

And Peter awoke one day to sense and reason—a sad awakening—but little Maria was there with the faithful Panoff, and Peter was young, and the world still held hope for him in the future.

His first act, when he recovered, was to beg the gypsies to return him his blue homespun shirt and trousers; and, clad in these, he went, as soon as he was strong enough, to visit the grave of father Ivan in the churchyard of the little village. The gypsies had cared for it, and on a wooden bar at the head these words were carved in crabbed Russian characters—

IVAN PANOVITCH,
THE BELOVED FATHER OF
PETER.

Peter stood looking at it for some time, and then he knelt down in the long grass and prayed silently.

Little Maria knelt too, with her hands clasped, and a bird, flying out from a tree close by, settled on the board at the head of the grave, and poured out a beautiful song of hope and thanksgiving.

Santa Klaus.

BY HELEN WILMOT-BUXTON.

————————

"ROBIN, do you know when the ship will come home?"

"What ship, Bab?"

"Why, the one mother is always talking about. Don't you know, whenever me or Paul wants anything, mother says, 'Not now, Bab, but 'some day,' when our ship comes home.'"

Robin was much older than Bab; she was nine years old.

"I wish our ship would be quick and come home, that I do," said Paul. "I think it will come soon, now, 'cause we have been waiting so long. Don't you, Robin?"

"Perhaps this Christmas," suggested Bab.

Robin says nothing.

She is sitting on the low rocking-chair, looking pensively into the glowing coals, and is wondering why she can no longer, like Bab and Paul, believe in the ship that has been expected for so long, and has not yet come—indeed, that seems as far as ever from coming.

Yes, sad as it may seem, Robin was actually beginning to doubt the very existence of the ship that used to make her young life so happy.

"I wonder if there really 'is' such a ship," thinks Robin to herself. "Ah! wouldn't it be nice if there were!"

"I think it must be a very big ship, Bab, don't you?" said little Paul, wistfully.

"Of course it must be big, because it is going to bring us so many things," said Barbara. "It is going to bring us everything we want."

"Robin, Santa Klaus will come to-night, you know, so we must not forget to hang up our stockings," said Paul.

Poor Robin! Not only was her faith in the ship gone, but that in Santa Klaus as well.

She had forebodings that this would be a very sad Christmas.

Father was ill, and mother had gone over the sea to him. It had happened so suddenly that nothing had been arranged for Christmas; indeed, no one had been able to think of anything but the sorrow and anxiety sickness always brings.

For the first time in her life, Robin was sad. It was not so much for herself, but for her father lying ill and her mother watching over him.

"I wonder what Santa Klaus will bring us," said Bab.

"I hope he'll bring me a whip and a box of soldiers," said Paul. "Then, too, I should like a wheel-barrow and a spade, and a drum, and—"

"Oh, Paul dear, Santa Klaus will not bring so much. Only think how big his pockets would have to be to hold all those things," said Robin.

"Well, I expect they are pretty large, or else how could he bring toys to all the little boys and girls in the world," Paul answered. "What would you like him to bring you, Robin?"

Robin looked thoughtful. "I should like him to bring me a letter saying father was quite well, and that he and mother would come back in time for Christmas."

"But won't mother?" cried Barbara, her eyes filling with tears.

"No, Bab dear, I don't think she will."

"Then we shan't have a Christmas tree, nor snapdragon, nor anything," said Paul.

"Is father very ill?" asked Barbara, plaintively.

"Don't cry, Bab dear—see, you are making Georgie begin. Father will soon get well. Mother said I was to try and make you happy, and that we were sure to be very good and do everything we were told. She would not like us to sit and cry."

"I want a Christmas tree," said Paul.

"So do I, too," chimed in Georgie.

"Perhaps Santa Klaus will send us one if we are good," suggested Bab, brightening up. "Don't you think he will, Robin?"

Then they forgot all about the Christmas tree and Santa Klaus, and had a game of "fox and goose." They made so much noise that little Miss Frost, the owner of the house, to whose care the children had been temporarily consigned, came in to see what was the matter.

"Such a noise I never did hear," said Miss Frost. "I should have thought the room to be full of young colts instead of nicely brought up little girls."

"We were playing at 'fox and goose,'" said Robin. "Were we making too much noise, Miss Frost?"

"Too much noise! Why, Miss Robin, me and Mrs. Evans could not hear ourselves speak, with so much noise as that," said Miss Frost.

The younger children had taken hold of Robin's hand, and now stood hiding their faces in their sister's frock.

They were afraid of Miss Frost when she was displeased with them, and shrank from meeting her stern gaze.

"And such untidy, dirty little girls! What would mamma say, I wonder—she would be shocked to see such nails, that she would."

Robin hung her head. She had quite forgotten about the washing and hair brushing.

"I am very sorry, I am sure, Miss Frost, I forgot," she said humbly, "It is all my fault."

"Some little girls always forget," observed Miss Frost. "A young lady of your age ought not to forget; when I was a little girl, I can remember saving up my money on purpose to buy myself a nail brush, so that I might always be able to keep my nails nice."

This became interesting. The children had never realized before that Miss Frost had ever been a child. That she had passed through that delightful period, and actually saved up pennies, just as they were doing, invested her with a new interest. Both Barbara and Paul ventured to uncover their faces and look at her.

"How much was it?" asked Bab, putting a chubby finger between her lips.

"How much was it?" repeated Miss Frost, "I can't remember. It was a very nice one with an ivory back, I remember that."

"Did you have any money left?" enquired Paul.

"Bless my heart! how can I remember?"

"Did you get anything else besides when you were a little girl?" Paul asked, looking up into her face.

"Yes, I got books—nice, 'useful' books," said Miss Frost.

"Anything else?"

"I daresay," answered Miss Frost, not clearly remembering the circumstances of her early life.

"Did not you buy sweets ever?" enquired Paul.

"Never," said Miss Frost, closing her lips very tight.

Paul's interest died away at once.

"Nor dolls?" enquired Barbara.

"Dolls. Ah I yes, I had a lovely wax doll, which my mamma kept on the top shelf of her bureau, and which she was kind enough to let me play with, when I was a very good little girl," said Miss Frost.

"I shouldn't have cared for that," said Barbara. "When mother used to lock up my doll, I dressed up the sofa cushions and played with them. Why didn't you?"

"When I was a little girl, I was not allowed to pull about the furniture, as little girls seem to do now-a-days," Miss Frost answered with significant emphasis.

"You must have been a very unhappy little girl, I think, poor Miss Frost," Barbara said, deep sympathy in her voice.

"It is time for little girls to have their supper and go to bed," Miss Frost said, changing the subject of conversation with quite a startling rapidity.

"But it is Christmas Eve," said Barbara. "Mayn't we stay up?"

"Certainly not. I never heard of such a thing—never," said Miss Frost. "See, I have brought you bread and jam, that's because it is Christmas Eve, think of the poor little boys and girls that only have bread and butter. Ah! is it not nice," and Miss Frost made a grimace supposed to be expressive of supreme delight.

"But we have got to hang up our stockings," said Paul.

"Pack of nonsense!" said Miss Frost. "Fold them up neatly, and put them in the chair beside your bed."

"But Santa Klaus won't be able to find them, you know," said Barbara. "We always hang up our stockings on Christmas Eve. Didn't you, when you were a little girl?"

"I don't remember that I ever did," said Miss Frost. "What do you think you'll find in them, eh?"

"A wax doll and a scrap-book, some sweets, and perhaps something else," said Barbara.

"Well, I wouldn't expect too much if I were you," said Miss Frost. "Him, whom you spoke of, has been very busy, and it is possible he may forget to look in—he does sometimes, I have heard."

"He has never forgotten us—never," said Barbara.

"Eat your supper, my dear, and don't go romping again, there's good children," said Miss Frost, and so saying she left the room.

After supper the little ones clustered round Robin, who told them a story.

It was all about the ship that was to come, and was so absorbing in its interest that the clock struck seven long before anyone had the least idea it was bedtime.

Miss Frost prided herself upon her punctuality, and made her appearance before the clock had ceased striking.

"Oh! please let us stay up just a little tiny minute longer," coaxed Bab.

Miss Frost was not to be cajoled. "Come to bed at once, and don't be naughty," she said.

"You don't expect 'me' to go to bed at seven, do you, Miss Frost?" enquired Robin, incredulity in her voice.

"Why not, Miss Robin?"

"Because I am nine years old, and mother lets me stay up till eight always," objected Robin.

Miss Frost gave in, but not without a protest.

When she was a little girl of nine she invariably went to bed at seven, she said, and it was a good rule.

The children, having hung up their stockings, kissed and hugged Robin and Miss Frost, and cuddled down in their warm beds to dream about Santa Klaus and the ship. When the light had been extinguished Robin followed Miss Frost into the passage.

"Please," she said, "may I run as far as the toy shop?"

Miss Frost was in a hurry, and did not wish to keep her friends in the parlour waiting.

Without pausing to consider the motive of the request, she answered quickly, and in the negative—"Read your book in the nursery, and at eight I will come to put out the candle," she said.

And so, without another word, she hurried away, leaving Robin in rebellious tears.

"Mother told me I was to make the little ones happy, and how am I do that I should like to know if I can't go out and buy them toys? If mother were here she would do it—I know she would. They will be expecting presents all night, and when they wake up the first thing they will do will be to look in their stockings, and then how horribly disappointed they will be!"

She went to the cupboard, and reaching up to the top shelf, where her money-box was, sprang down with it in her hand.

Poor little Robin! She had saved her pennies for a whole year. It had been an act of self-denial, for she did not like saving so well as spending. But she had had an object in view—a definite purpose—and when one has an object steadily before one, a little self-denial is necessary before achieving it.

She counted out her savings—there were pennies in abundance, a few sixpences, some threepenny-bits, a great many farthings, and a stray shilling or two, for shillings did not as a rule fall in Robin's way.

And all this self-denial! What did it mean?

Had she saved and hoarded for the sake of giving the little ones a happy Christmas?

Oh, no! When she had begun to amass this wealth her object had been quite other.

She had saved five shillings and sixpence, and with this money her object might have been carried out. For five and sixpence she might have purchased a large new cage for her favourite "Goldie," as she called her bird—just the one she had set her heart upon.

"How I wish mother had said something about Christmas Eve," she said, counting the money for a second time. "It does seem such a pity, and I did so want 'Goldie' to have a new cage. How I wish there were such a person as Santa Klaus, but of course there is not, or else why should mother have come in so softly last Christmas Eve, and filled our stockings herself. She will be so unhappy when she remembers that she forgot to tell me what to do. I suppose it would be best to give up the cage; how happy I could make the little ones with five shillings' worth of toys; and as for Miss Frost, I must choose between her and mother."

So she put on her hat and cloak, and managed to slip out of the house unobserved, the money in her pocket.

Her conscience smote her, it is true, for thus openly disobeying Miss Frost, but she silenced it by thinking that she was doing what her mother had told her, and that, after all, it was better to obey her than Miss Frost.

Her heart beat quickly, and her eyes sparkled with excitement, for it was a novel sensation to be thus out in the streets among the shops alone, and in secret.

There was so much to be seen that she could scarcely tear herself away from the shops.

All and each had some new attraction.

At last, and after frequent stoppages, she reached a toy shop, and went boldly in, conscious of having five shillings in her pocket.

The shop was full of people, so she had to wait until her turn came to be served.

There was an old gentleman seated at the counter reading the newspaper. Robin wondered how it was possible for him to be as indifferent as he seemed to the beautiful things lying about him.

There were, indeed, countless treasures in that toy shop, and if I had the time I would try to describe some of them. As for Robin, her eyes were riveted upon a bird cage, just the very one she had dreamt of—the identical one Dickey at home would appreciate; in fact for any bird, even the most fastidious, a most desirable mansion. But it was marked five shillings. Among the cages and basket work, for one side of the shop was devoted to such things, she saw a knitting basket which she longed to buy for mother; then there was a tobacco-pouch which would have suited father precisely; but no, these things were not for Robin.

"Some day, when I am rich, I will get them—when the ship comes home," she said to herself, and then, turning resolutely to the toys and bon-bons, which she knew the children would like best, she carefully made her choice.

The man was fastening up her purchases—there were a doll, a scrap-book, a whip, reins, a box of soldiers, crackers, and I don't know what besides—in fact, a most tempting display. The time had come to pay, and Robin put her hand into her pocket to draw out her purse, feeling proud of possessing so much money.

Alas! the purse was gone, and the pocket too. The shop began to swim before her eyes. She felt hot and faint, she could scarcely breathe.

Where could it be? What had happened?

Little maidens, little maidens, take warning, and do not venture out into the streets alone with five and sixpence in your pockets.

"Aren't you well, my dear?" said the old gentleman, kindly.

Robin answered nothing; but turning, fled into the street, leaving her packages in the hand of the astonished shopman.

Her pocket was gone, quite gone; it had been cut out! Poor Robin!

Her precious savings; her little hoard—her self-denial—all, all gone—useless!

No wonder she gave a choking sob and burst into tears.

Hardly knowing where she went, she ran down a long, dark street, where there were fewer people. She had lost, not only her money, but her way.

"My dear, what are you crying about?" said a kind voice. "Have you lost anything?"

She looked up and recognized the elderly gentleman who had been reading the newspaper in the toy shop.

"I—I have lost my money and—and my way," sobbed Robin.

"Bless my soul!" said the old gentleman. "What a horrible catastrophe. May I be allowed to ask how much?"

"Five shillings and sixpence," answered Robin, drying her eyes.

"Two half-crowns and a sixpence, eh?"

"No; shillings, sixpences, and pennies, and half-pennies, and farthings," explained Robin. "I had been saving up, you know, and I came out to buy toys and things to put in Barbara's, and Paul's, and Georgie's stockings."

"And do you mean to tell me that Barbara, Paul and Georgie wear stockings big enough to hold a five shillings' worth of goods?" exclaimed the old gentleman, with evident incredulity. "Why, they must be giants!"

Robin's sobs gave way to mirth.

"No; of course I was not going to put the doll and the scrap-book in, only the little things," she explained.

"What is your name, my dear?"

"Robin."

"Any relation to the Robin Red-breast? Barbara, Paul, and Georgie are your sister and brothers?"

Robin was astonished at the penetrating nature of the old gentleman's intellect.

"And you were going to buy them Christmas presents with your own money; all your little capital you were going to invest in toys, in fact."

Robin looked up, puzzled.

"I was going to buy them toys to make them forget what a dull Christmas it is, because, you know, father is ill, and mother had to go and nurse him, and so we are all alone. Then the little ones don't understand that there is not such a person as Santa Klaus, and they have hung up their stockings, which if I don't fill will—"

"Remain empty," remarked the old gentleman. "But surely, little maid, 'you' believe in Santa Klaus?"

"No, I don't," said Robin, with superior wisdom. "I am nine years old, and I guessed it was mother who put the things in our stockings, so I kept awake, and saw her come in. I was very sorry when I found out. I liked to think there really was a Santa Klaus."

"And so there is, of course," said the old gentleman.

"What! Do you believe in him?" cried Robin.

The old gentleman winked knowingly, then placed his finger to his lips with an air of supreme mystery.

"If I had thought there was I should have bought that bird cage," said Robin. "I wanted it dreadfully, and have saved all my money to get it; and now it is all gone."

"Well, the fact is, my dear, Santa Klaus has been playing you a trick," said the old gentleman.

Robin looked up wistfully.

"Do you think he has?" she asked, doubtfully, her eyes beginning to twinkle.

"Haven't a doubt of it—Santa Klaus is a very sly personage, very sly. Perhaps you can't believe it, my dear, but the fact is, I have discovered the identical sum that you have lost in my waistcoat pocket, and I have a shrewd suspicion that Santa Klaus knows how it came there."

"But is it in pennies, farthings, sixpences, and two shillings?" questioned Robin, "because, you know, mine was."

"That is precisely the point I was going to draw your attention to; I see that you are a very sharp little girl; it is conclusive, you see, my dear."

The old gentleman began to rattle the money in his pocket, and it sounded very pleasant in Robin's ears. "Oh! do let me see it!" she cried.

Her companion winked mysteriously, as if he had particular reasons of his own for refusing this natural request.

"Better not, my dear," he said, impressively. "Money has a habit of flying away from me when I take it out of my pocket. We'll let it repose in safety."

She looked up wonderingly into the kind face, and a rather troubled expression came into her bright eyes.

"We had better go back to the toy shop, and fetch your parcels; I told the man you had forgotten your purse," said the old gentleman.

"But is it true, 'really?'" asked Robin, much puzzled.

"Certainly; quite true."

"Then I wish Santa Klaus had not frightened me, because he has given me a headache," said Robin, plaintively.

"He is a mischievous dog, but it does not do for us to make personal remarks, he is rather huffy, and I think I had better keep your money, and pay the man, lest he should be up to some new trick."

"I always thought he was such a kind, little man," said Robin.

The old gentleman laughed immoderately.

"So he is; he is the best-natured fellow alive, only full of his fun," he said.

"Did he give you my pocket as well?" said Robin, incredulously.

"No; he kept that for a keep-sake, I expect. You must not forget to make yourself a new one. Where do you live, my dear?"

"At Miss Frost's, No. 6, Lovelace Terrace."

"Ah. Well, here we are at the toy shop. I'll fetch your parcels. Wait here for me."

Robin would have liked to have seen the money paid over the counter, for that would have proved without further doubt the truth of her new friend's statement.

She did not like to doubt the old gentleman's word, of course, but when a little girl has ceased to believe in the existence of Santa Klaus, it is difficult for her to conquer her incredulity all at once.

Presently he came out, with the packages in his arms, and they resumed their walk.

Robin soon forgot all her troubles, and her headache among them, her new friend was so kind and so entertaining.

She confided to him her disobedience to Miss Frost, and asked him if she had acted very wickedly in taking the matter into her own hands.

"There is Miss Frost herself, on the door-step, looking for you," said the old gentleman.

"Yes; and she looks very angry, too," Robin whispered, holding her friend's hand with a tighter clasp. "Do speak for me, and take my part, please."

"Never fear, my dear," said the old gentleman. "I'll take the entire blame, I assure you."

Robin could not but admire the noble resolution and daring of her companion, and much envied him his courage.

He went forward with a polite bow, confronting the awful Miss Frost with a bland smile.

"Excuse me, my dear madam," he said, "but my little friend and I have been looking at the shops; if there is any blame, I assure you it rests upon me alone."

Miss Frost smiled.

"Ah, sir, if that's the case, of course—but—the fact is, I was anxious, very anxious. May I enquire your name, sir?"

The old gentleman had handed his parcels to Robin. He stepped a few paces back and raised his hat.

"Madam," he said, "I am Santa Klaus!"

The next minute he had gone. I don't mean that he disappeared into space—he did not do that. He walked slowly and with stately pace to the end of the terrace, where he turned the corner and was lost to sight.

"What did the gentleman say his name was?" enquired Miss Frost.

"He said he was Santa Klaus," said Robin; "I don't understand it." Then, following Miss Frost into the passage, she added, in a tremulous voice, but with a brave little face, "It was not his fault, it was mine, Miss Frost. I went out to buy these toys for the children, and I lost my way. Will you forgive me, please? I—I hope you won't be very angry."

Miss Frost looked grave, but after administering a severe reproof, she kissed Robin and even helped her to arrange the toys.

"I think I'll hang up my stocking as well, but I don't expect to find anything in it, because you know, Miss Frost, I don't believe in Santa Klaus—not 'quite,' at least," she added thoughtfully.

When Robin awoke next morning she rubbed her eyes very hard, for what do you think she saw—there, at the foot of her bed, was the very identical bird cage she had seen in the shop. Surely she was dreaming. To assure herself of its reality, she rose from her bed and touched the visionary object. It was substantial, and so admitted of no further doubt. Then she awoke the others, and there was tremendous excitement.

"Robin, look at your stocking—it is full of candied fruit and bon-bons!" cried Barbara.

"So it is," said Robin. "Then it is true after all."

"What a dear, sweet darling, Santa Klaus is; how I do love him. I knew he wouldn't forget us," cried Barbara.

Then they laughed and clapped their hands, and, as it was still early, tumbled all four into one bed, and Robin related to them her last night's adventure with Santa Klaus, and it was the nicest story she had ever told them, because it was quite true.

But I have something more to tell you which was better far than the presents sent by Santa Klaus.

When Miss Frost came in with the hot water, she was laden with letters and Christmas cards, and there was a scramble, of course—a scramble in which, strange to say, Robin took no part.

The fact was, she was slowly and laboriously making out a letter from mother, and the contents of this letter was of a nature so pleasing that she could think of nothing else.

"Bab, Paul, Georgie, listen!" she cried. Then, as the uproar still continued, she mounted the table, and from this commanding position succeeded in obtaining a hearing.

"News! news! such news!" Robin cried. "Father is better and is coming home. He and mother are on their way now—only think of it!"

The shouting recommenced after that, and all four children fell to embracing each other.

Then they stationed themselves at the window waiting for the arrivals, and in the new and glad excitement poor Santa Klaus was for the time quite forgotten.

Wattie and the Wolves.

BY FRANCES CLARE,

AUTHOR OF "A CHILD'S PILGRIMAGE," "A STORE OF STORIES," &c.

————————

WATTIE Moate was the eldest child and only son of a small fruit farmer in Worcestershire. He was a brave, honest, manly lad, and the pride of his father and mother and good old grandmother and was devoted to his little sister, Hetty, who was seven years younger than himself, and the pet and darling of them all; and no wonder, for Hetty was one of the sweetest, dearest, prettiest little girls in the county of Worcestershire. Her eyes were as blue as a Highland lake in summer, her cheeks were like damask roses, her round arms were dimpled, her little fat hands were dimpled, and when she laughed—which she very often did—the corners of her cherry mouth were dimpled also. Of course she was a little spoilt with so many people to make much of her, and therefore she liked to do as she liked, and not as other and wiser folk liked, and she gave them all a great deal of trouble by the scrapes she got into, but she was so loving and winning, and so penitent when she had been naughty, that it was not difficult to forgive her. And after a time something happened that made her almost as thoughtful as her brother. I will tell you what it was.

When Hetty was seven years of age, and Wattie fourteen, their father, Farmer Moate, decided to try and "better himself," that is to say, to improve his fortune, and in order to do so he sold his little fruit farm and emigrated to the newly opened up State of Michigan, in the backwoods of America. But though he took the old carved bureau, the old eight-day clock, and the old spinning wheel with him as well as his wife and his children, he couldn't take the old grandmother, for she slept "under the daisies" in Bromsgrove churchyard, and when her little granddaughter forgot to be good the kind old grandmother could never plead for her forgiveness any more.

Farmer Moate's new house was called Creek Cot, and it stood in an open clearing near some great woods, even as the old Worcestershire farm house had done.

But here all resemblance ended, for the English house had been a red brick one, with a tiled roof, on which the yellow-flowered ginger root and the friendly house-leek grew and flourished, whilst the American dwelling was merely a log hut, or shanty, whose sole adornment was a coat of green paint.

And oh, how different was the vast American forest from the quiet Bromsgrove woods; for in the latter you would sometimes unwittingly startle a rabbit or hare, but in the former it might happen that a wolf or a panther would startle "you."

One day it happened that Hetty was not very well, and as there were many things needed in the humble home, and Farmer Moate wanted some implements, Mrs. Moate decided to go with her husband, in order to consult the doctor about Hetty's ailment and also to replenish the empty medicine chest—a very necessary piece of business; for far away in the backwoods the possession of a few simple drugs may sometimes mean the saving of a life. So, on the day of which I am speaking, Mr. Moate and his wife set out with their wagon to go to Cliftonville, the nearest town. But it was at least seven miles distant from Creek Cot, and the farmer did not altogether like leaving Wattie to take charge of the house, although the sturdy little fellow was almost inclined to be vexed at the very idea of anyone fearing for "him."

"Never trouble for me, daddy," he said. "I shall have a splendid time, and I'll take care of Hetty, never fear."

"I don't, my lad; I don't," cried the farmer. "God bless thee. You'll see mother and me back long before nightfall."

"All right," shouted the lad, and then he went into the cabin and tidied up: that is to say, he made up the fire (as it was a bitterly cold winter's morning), and put the kitchen in neat order. For you must know that Wattie was what country people in Worcestershire called a "handy boy," by which I think they mean that he could turn his willing brown hands to many and various uses.

After he had finished this task he took Hetty on his knee, and told her an amusing tale, which brought a smile on her pale little face, and she seemed so much better that when the story was ended Wattie went out into the clearing and brought in a good supply of logs for the fire; then he looked in the fowl pen, found two newly-laid eggs, brought them back into the shanty, boiled one for his sister, put the other by in the cupboard for his mother, and began to make Hetty a long-promised doll's house.

"It will be splendid when it's done," said the cheerful boy, as he cut up strips of white pine wood and glued them together, "and you won't make a hole in the roof for the dolls to go in by as you did in the last one, will you, darling, for Brother Wattie is taking extra pains with this?"

"I'll take great care of this one," replied Hetty, "because it's new, but you might please put me a back and a front door in if you've time, will you?"

"Yes; and I tell you what, Hetty, I mean to try and finish as much as I can of the house before daddy gets back from Cliftonville," said the eager Wattie, who little thought how much would have happened when he saw his father and mother again.

Time passed on.

Wattie and Hetty took their simple meal of bread and milk, and after that the first floor of the doll's new residence was completed and duly admired; then, as it was too dark for Wattie to get any more wood, the doll's house was set away on the top of the bureau until another day.

And still Mr. and Mrs. Moate did not return, and when night began to draw on the lad guessed that something had unexpectedly detained his parents, and began to feel a little, only a little, lonely, as well indeed he might, for Creek Cot stood quite by itself, and as far as eye could see stretched the great dark forest.

But you must remember that besides being handy and industrious, Walter Moate was also a brave little fellow, so he resolved not to give way to foolish fears, and as he had no one to cheer him up he determined to cheer up himself, and in order to do this he began to whistle.

He whistled all the tunes he had heard in "the Old Country," as his mother always called it; he whistled all the airs he had learnt in the New. He whistled "God save the Queen" as he put a big log of wood on the fire, and he had begun to whistle "The Star-spangled Banner" when he went outside the log cabin to put up the shutters.

But he never finished the tune; for to his horror he beheld some slowly moving, dark, and terrible forms—forms as of large, thin dogs in the distance—forms which skulked and prowled round the clearing outside his home.

And as he glanced at the dimly seen, but only too well recognized objects, a long, shrill, whining howl came borne on the keen, clear, frosty, air; and the lad, his worst fears confirmed, put his hands to his ears and cried—

"Oh, father, if only you were here! Oh do make haste home; it's the wolves!" For he had heard old hunters' stories, and though this was his very first winter in Michigan, he guessed at once what these terrible visitors were.

Hardly could his trembling fingers close the shutters, scarcely could his limbs bear him into the house, so feeble did he feel from fear. But he made all the haste he could, and once inside he shut the door and barred it with a feeling of thankfulness that he was inside, and longing, oh how fervently, for his father's return.

He looked at Hetty, who lay on the broad settle near the fire in a sweet and peaceful sleep, and made up his mind not to frighten her if he could possibly help it. "It would make her ill again," he thought.

"I must keep them outside somehow," he murmured; then he took down a wood-cutter's axe from the wall, planted himself near the strongly-barred door, and listened.

Listened as if there was nothing to do but listen—listened until it seemed as if all other senses had failed and were all merged in that one intense power of hearing.

And all at once he thought of grandmother, sitting as she used to sit and spin in the homestead near Bromsgrove woods, of grandmother telling his sister the story of Little Red Riding Hood.

But those days were past. Grandmother neither toiled nor spun any longer, and the wolves were at their own door.

Yes, they were at the very door, for their howling sounded quite close to his ear, and he saw the door shake and knew they were trying to force it; and again he put his hands to his ears, as if to shut out the sound which refused to be shut out.

Then the door all at once ceased shaking, and there was a curious gnawing sound. And the oil in the lamp sank down, the light grew dimmer, dimmer, dimmer; soon, very soon, they would be in total darkness—save, indeed, for the firelight—if the lamp were not replenished. So, trembling, Wattie refilled the lamp, and just as he lit it Hetty awoke and looked around her.

And her still sleepy blue eyes fell on a large hairy paw which was thrust through an aperture in the bottom of the door, where it joined the step of the roughly-built log cabin.

"Look, Wattie, look!" she exclaimed, "a doggie wants to get in. See, see, there's its paw."

"All right, love," said Wattie, in a voice which he tried to make cheerful, "all right; you go to sleep and leave me to see to the dogs."

But Hetty, who from her corner could not see very clearly what was going on, was more amused than frightened, and begged her brother not to be cross with the poor dog, but to "give it a bone, and then it would go away."

"But, darling, they're not dogs, they're wolves," said poor Wattie, feeling it was best to tell her.

"Wolves! What, like Red Riding Hood's wolf, Wattie? They won't hurt us, will they?"

"No, darling, I won't let them!" said Wattie, setting his teeth and looking stern, as he felt he could die, if need were, for his little sister. At this moment the paw came through again, and this time it was pushed farther into the room. Without a word Wattie seized his axe, and bringing it down with all his might, and with the skilful stroke he had learnt since he had been in the backwoods, he smote off the evilly intruding limb. A howl followed, then a silence, and then another paw was thrust under the door to share the fate of the former one.

Hetty lay quite still on the settle, and watched her heroic defender.

"Oh, Wattie, don't you wish father and mother would come? Why don't you get father's gun and shoot them? You can shoot now, you know; and didn't Mr. Hughes say that was what you would have to do if the wolves came around this winter?"

"Yes; but, Hetty dear, father took his gun with him—he never likes to go away without it. Oh, Hetty! do you remember Mr. Hughes saying that if anyone blew out a bladder and hung it in the wind that the wolves would never come very near it? Oh, if we only had a bladder!"

"Why, we have! Mother said she must buy some lard to-day when she looked at the empty bladder."

"Oh, you good girl to remember that! Where is it, Hetty?"

"Up in the loft. I saw it when I was up there with mother this morning. But I was poorly, you know, so I didn't care to play with it then, and I hung it up in the loft. Father blew it out and tied a piece of string to it, and told me I might have it to play with, as I couldn't buy balls out here in the backwoods."

"Oh, Hetty, God must have put it into father's heart to do that. Come, dear, take my hand while there's a minute's silence, and we'll baulk them yet."

Quickly the two ascended the ladder into the loft, and there, sure enough, was the bladder, fastened to a rafter and swaying about in the wind, which came keenly in through the rough little shutters of the window which lighted the loft.

Very quickly Wattie pushed open the shutter; very quickly, but very firmly, he tied the string to the hook which held the shutter, making sure that the other end of the string was fast to the bladder. Then he left it to flutter in the now rapidly-rising wind, and, with his little sister, descended the ladder again, and piled more logs on the fire and waited.

"Why," he said, after a pause of anxious watching, "Farmer Hughes must have known what he was talking about, after all!"

No paw was thrust under the door, although Wattie awaited it with uplifted axe. The fierce howling changed to a half-fearful whine, and it was more distant, too. After a while it almost ceased.

Presently, Hetty said, "I'm not a bit afraid, Wattie; I'll say my prayers and go to sleep. I know you'll take care of me," and she nestled into her brother's arms and fell asleep, thoroughly tired out; nor did she even awaken when Wattie started up at the sound of a shot at some distance, then another and another in quick succession, and then the welcome, welcome sound of his father's shout!

Gently laying the sleeping child on the settle, Wattie rushed to the door.

"My boy, what has happened? Have you been frightened by the wolves? I've settled some of the brutes to-night, at any rate. How is Hetty? We've been delayed because the doctor was away from home, and mother here is nearly out of her mind with anxiety about you. And what's that fluttering up at the loft window?"

Wattie soon related all that had happened after his father's departure, and when his mother hugged and kissed and cried over him, and his father called him a little hero, and even had tears in his eyes as he said it, Wattie felt prouder than ever he had done in his life, and thought he was richly rewarded for all that he had gone through during that terrible, never-to-be-forgotten night with the wolves.

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Table of Contents

- Stories Jolly: Stories New: Stories Strange & Stories True.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE