CHAPTER III.

Sunday morning dawns, hot and still, but clearer than the day before.

Aunt Hetty and her nieces are sitting in the bay-windowed room, which

has the usual furniture of seaside lodgings. They have just gone through

their morning readings, and are ready to begin breakfast when Claude

comes downstairs.

"How is the wrist, dear boy?" Aunt Hetty asks tenderly.

In jumping out of the boat last night he has managed to get a sprain,

but is disposed to treat the matter lightly.

"Oh, it will soon be well, thanks," he says, taking his place, and

giving a smile to Bee.

A little later they all set out for church, and Bee and Claude attract

many an admiring glance as they walk together along the terraces. She

wears her new frock, of some soft creamy stuff, and a quaint "granny"

bonnet of ivory satin lined with pale blue; her short skirts display

silk stockings and dainty little shoes of patent leather. Aunt Hetty,

her tall thin figure draped with black lace, follows with Dolly, that

little witch of eight years old, who is the pet and plague of the good

lady's life. Other seaside visitors look after the party from Nelson

Lodge, and discuss them freely among themselves; but they do not speak

from personal knowledge of Lady Henrietta Jocelyn and her charges. All

they know is that Lady Henrietta is the maiden aunt of the two girls,

and that they were committed to her care by her brother who died in

India.

The church is large, recently built, and smells strongly of mortar and

varnish. In winter Mr. Carey has to preach to a scanty congregation; but

in summer, when the lodging-houses are full, there is always a goodly

number of worshippers.

The Jocelyns, whose home is in town, are accustomed to attend St.

George's, Hanover Square, and never feel perfectly comfortable in this

seaside church, which is, as Bee says, "so dreadfully new, and so

unfurnished." She wishes they could all worship out of doors, among the

rocks, with the blue sea murmuring near them; and yet she likes to hear

Tim's voice, as he stands among the other surpliced boys and leads the

singing.

Not that Tim is by any means an ideal chorister. His surplice makes his

brown skin look browner, and his curly head blacker than ever; and there

is not a heavenly expression in his quick dark eyes. He is not in the

least like one of those saintly boys we read of sometimes, who sing and

lift their glances upward, and pass gently and speedily away from this

wicked world. Judging from Tim's robust appearance he has many a year of

earthly life before him, and many a hot battle to fight with the flesh

and the devil.

But it is a marvellous voice that comes from the lad's massive throat; a

voice that goes up like a lark's song, carrying heavy hearts to higher

regions with its notes. In future days there are some who will remember

that morning's anthem, which Tim sings with all his triumphant power and

thrilling sweetness. A few fishermen, standing just within the doors,

listen entranced, and one rugged old fellow puts up a hard hand to hide

his eyes.

"The floods have lifted up, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their

voice; the floods lift up their waves.

"The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than

the mighty waves of the sea.

"Thy testimonies are very sure; holiness becometh Thine house, O Lord,

for ever."

The service comes to an end, and Aunt Hetty and her children walk

homeward along the terraces, under a glaring sun. The sea is still calm,

but a light breeze is stirring, creeping off the water and breathing

across the hot sand and shingle. Bee gives a deep sigh of satisfaction

as the zephyr kisses her rosy cheeks.

"It's going to be just a little cooler, Empey," she says, as they draw

near Nelson Lodge.

"Yes; it must be jolly on the sea to-day," he remarks, following a

little cutter with longing eyes.

When the midday meal is ended, Aunt Hetty repairs to the sofa to read

Jeremy Taylor; and Dolly, having discovered an illustrated copy of the

"Pilgrim's Progress," is silently gloating over a picture of Apollyon,

dragon-winged, with smoke coming out of his nostrils. For fifteen or

twenty minutes Claude and Bee whisper by the open window, and then a

gentle sound from the sofa tells them that good Jeremy has lulled Aunt

Hetty to repose.

Claude gives Bee an expressive glance which plainly says, "Come along."

Dolly's back is turned towards them; moreover, she has just lighted upon

a whole family of fiends, and cannot take her eyes off the book. So the

pair slip out of the room unheard and unseen, and gain the beach without

let or hindrance.

They shun the pier, and foot it briskly along the shore till they have

left most of the promenaders behind. On and on they go till they get to

the low rocks, and the smooth yellow sands strewn with mussel and cockle

shells; and then they sit down to rest, and listen to the music of the

tide.

"You must take me to White Cove one day, Empey," says Bee, after a

pause. "There are the most lovely shells to be found there, and agates,

and things. Mr. Carey said that somebody once picked up a bit of amber

there."

"I could row you there at once," returns Claude, "if it wasn't for this

wrist of mine."

"Oh, but it's Sunday; Aunt Hetty wouldn't like us to go."

"She wouldn't mind it if I reasoned with her," responds Mr. Molyneux

with perfect confidence in his own powers of argument. "All those little

prejudices of hers could soon be got rid of."

"Drake says it's rather dangerous near White Cove," observes Bee after

another silence; "because of all the sunken rocks, you know."

"No, I don't know: I've never been there. But you've set me longing to

see the place, old chap."

"Oh, it's lovely!" she cries, with enthusiasm. "Thousands and thousands

of sea-birds sit on the cliffs; and there are lots of little caves, all

hung with silky green sea-weeds, so quiet and cool."

Claude leans back against the low rock behind him, and looks out across

the sea with eyes half-closed. The horizon line is sharp and clear

to-day; the blue of the sky meets, but does not mingle with the deeper

blue of the ocean; a few white sails can be distinctly seen. Now and

then a gull flashes silvery wings in the sunshine, and its cry comes

wailing across the water to the shore.

"Why, there's Tim!" says Bee, pointing to a broad-shouldered figure

moving leisurely along the sand.

He hears the well-known voice, and turns instantly.

"Well, he may make himself useful to-day," remarks Claude, with a sudden

inspiration. "I daresay he'll be glad enough to row to the cove if we

ask him."

Tim is more than glad, he is delighted to be included in the plans of

Claude and Bee. To tell the truth, Sunday afternoon is generally rather

a lonesome time to Tim Crooke. He has no vocation for Sunday-school

teaching, and always feels intensely grateful to Mr. Carey for not

bothering him to take a class. The little vicarage is, however, a dreary

house when master and servants are out; and Tim is usually to be found

wandering on the shore till the hour for tea.

"Bill Drake is down yonder," says Tim, waving his hand towards a block

of stone some distance off. "And he's got a little boat, a battered old

thing, but----"

"Any old thing will do," interrupts Claude, rising eagerly. "We are not

going to show off in front of the pier, you know; we only want to get

away to White Cove and enjoy ourselves. Do you know the place, Crooke?"

"Yes, very well. I've been there several times with Mr. Carey; it's a

wonderful place for gulls. I suppose there are thousands of them."

"Well, come along," cries Claude; and Bee springs gladly to her feet. It

delights her to see the magnificent Empey growing so friendly with that

good old Tim, and as she trips on, leaving dainty footprints on the

sands, her mind is busy with plans for the coming days. "This is only

the beginning of pleasures," she says to herself; the holidays will last

a long time, and they can enjoy many excursions about the coast. It is

all going to be perfectly jolly, now that Claude has really consented to

accept Tim; for Tim is so good-natured and useful that she hardly knows

what they would do without him.

The little boat is a battered old thing indeed, but nobody is inclined

to find fault with it. Bill Drake is quite ready to let the young

gentleman have his way; Bee steps in lightly enough, and seats herself;

the lads follow, and then Tim pushes off, leaving Bill standing grinning

on the shore.

A happy girl is Bee Jocelyn as the boat glides on, and the fresh air

fans her face. She has put on her broad-brimmed hat again; and the light

breeze lifts her bright silky tresses, and spreads them round her head

like a golden veil. She dips one little hand in the water--the beautiful

sunny water that is as green as an emerald when you look deep into its

depths; and then she trails her fingers in the sea and smiles at Claude.

"Oh, Empey," she says, "how nice it would be if one of Undine's

sea-relations were to put a coral necklace, all red and glittering, into

my hand!"

"Or some strings of pearls," suggests Tim.

"She will have a set of pearls one day," remarks Claude, in that quiet

tone of his. "They were my mother's, and they are waiting in India for

Bee."

There is an unwonted softness in Tim's black eyes. He is a

stout-hearted, matter-of-fact lad, people say, not given to dreaming;

and yet he is seeing visions this afternoon. He sees Bee, not in her

sailor's hat and girlish frock, but in white robes, with all her wealth

of hair plaited up, and the pearls glistening on her neck. He sees the

merry face grown graver, yet lovelier than ever; and then he tries to

picture her home in that far-off land that he will never behold; a land

of dark faces, and temples, and palms, and flowers.

And Claude will be with her always; what a beautiful poetical life these

two will live together! All the poetry is for them, and all the prose

for Tim. His thoughts don't shape themselves into these very words,

perhaps; but he does certainly feel that it is a dull path which lies

before Tim Crooke.

While he dreams, he pulls as steadily as usual, and they are drawing

nearer and nearer to the little cove. Soon they gain a full view of

those cliffs where the sea-birds sit, tier upon tier, like spectators in

a circus, and the calm air is filled with strange cries. Bee claps her

hands in delight; the sight is so novel, and the birds that have taken

wing sweep so gracefully around their rocky haunts, that there is a

charm, past explaining, in the whole scene.

Meanwhile the tide is rising fast and floats the boat onward to White

Cove. They are making for a landing-place just at the foot of the

sea-birds' cliff, and Tim pulls cautiously, telling Claude to keep a

sharp look-out for the rocks that lie treacherously hiding under the

flood.

"There's the Chair!" cries Bee suddenly. "Look, Empey, we are quite

close to it! It was Mr. Carey who gave it that name, because you see

it's exactly like a chair, and it has a seat, and a little ledge where

your feet may rest. Mr. Carey got up there once; it's quite easy to

climb."

"At high water the tide comes almost up to the footstool of the Chair,"

says Tim. "I've noticed it standing up out of the sea with a bird or two

perched on its seat. It looks very funny then, when all the rocks near

it are quite covered."

"It really is curious," Claude is beginning to say, when there is a bump

and a terrible grating noise. The boat has struck against one of those

traitorous rocks, and her rotten planks have given way. Long before they

can reach the landing-place she will be full of water; there is already

a stream flowing in through the rent in her side, and Tim, quiet and

cool, takes in every detail of the case before Claude has begun fully to

realise their condition. Without a moment's hesitation he pulls straight

towards the little strip of sand that is to be seen at the base of the

Chair.

"Quick, Claude," he says in decided tones, "the wind is rising, and the

tide is coming in fast. You must get Bee up into the Chair, and you'll

have to follow her; although there's hardly room for two."

"Do you mean that we shall have to stay up there till the tide goes

out?" asks Claude. "Why, it's absurd! Is there no other way to----"

"There _is_ no other way to save your lives, so far as I can see. Now

don't lose time; the Chair isn't so easy to climb, after all. There are

little dents in the rock where your toes may go, but no projections

anywhere. It's just a smooth block of stone."

Poor Bee, who knows that Tim must have good reasons for being serious,

tries to obey him without delay. But how could she ever have fancied

that this dreadful rock was easy to climb! It is nearly as slippery as

glass, and affords so little hold for hands or feet that she is almost

in despair. The boys encourage her with their voices; Claude is

scrambling up after her--not without difficulty, however, for his

sprained wrist gives him many a sharp twinge. And then at last, after

terrible efforts, the "footstool" ledge is gained, and Bee drags herself

up to the seat of the chair.

But what a seat it is! Merely a niche which looks as if it had been

scooped out of the solid stone and furnished with a narrow shelf. How

will it be possible for her to make herself very small, and leave space

for Claude?

Even in these fearful moments she finds herself thinking of the eleven

swan princes in the fairy tale, and that little rock in mid ocean on

which they stood crowded together when the sun went down. Claude is

here, squeezed into the narrow niche by her side, and he is calling out

to Tim, down below.

"Come up, Tim," he cries, and there is a ring of agony in his voice now.

But Tim's answer reaches them, clear and loud, above the roar of the

advancing tide.

"I shall not come; there isn't room for three. You know that well

enough."

"But, Tim, what will you do? I'll come down, and give you my place."

"Stay where you are," Tim shouts sternly. "You've got Bee to take care

of. And there's a heavy sea rolling in, she'll have to sit fast."

As Tim speaks the flood is surging up to his knees, and the wind, too,

is rising higher and higher. All around him the waves are foaming over

the sunken rocks, and the sea-thunder grows louder and more terrible

every moment.

"I'll come down," cries Claude, making a desperate movement to descend.

"You sha'n't stop there and drown alone! Do you think I'll be such a

hound as to let you?"

But Bee with all her strength, holds him back. "Empey, _dear_ Empey,"

she moans, "stay for my sake!"

"I'll take my chance," Tim sings out cheerily. "I can swim; I mean to

try for the landing-place."

"You're mad; the tide will dash you on the rocks!" groans Claude, in

despair. And then, so slight is his foothold that he nearly loses his

balance in looking downward; and Bee, clinging to him, screams with

terror.

"I can't bear it!" he says wildly.

How fast the waters rise! Great waves are breaking against the sides of

the Chair, and leaping up nearer and nearer to the ledge whereon the

pair support their feet. Once more Claude calls to Tim, passionately,

almost fiercely,--

"I'll never forgive myself if you are lost! Tim, Tim, where are you?"

And the clear voice comes up, somewhat faintly, from below. "It's all

right. God bless you and Bee."

A mighty billow flings its cloud of foam over the faces of Claude and

the shrinking girl by his side, and blinds them with salt spray. But

high as the tide is, the Chair is still above its reach, and although

the wave may sprinkle them, it cannot swallow them up. Only they are

deafened as well as blinded, and Bee feels that she is losing her

senses. Surely her brain is wandering, else she could never hear the

notes of the anthem again, and Tim's voice singing the words of the old

psalm in such exulting tones,--

"The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than

the mighty waves of the sea."

* * * * *

When night is closing over the little watering-place there are

rejoicings and lamentations in Nelson Lodge. Aunt Hetty's heart is full

of gratitude; Claude and Bee brought safely home by old Drake, have

fallen asleep at last in their rooms, while she steals from chamber to

chamber to look first at one tired young face and then at the other. But

the tears hang on Claude's lashes as he sleeps; and more than once Bee

moves restlessly on her pillow and murmurs Tim's name.

The wind, that has been blowing hard all through the night, subsides

soon after sunrise. Clouds clear away from the east, and the golden

morning shines upon the creamy cliffs of White Cove. Just at the foot of

one of the low rocks lies Tim; his brown face turned up to the sky, and

his curly hair matted with sea-weed. His life-work is done.

Only Tim;--yes, Master Claude; but what would the world be without such

souls as Tim's? Fine manners, fine speech, and fine clothes, of these he

had none, but he had what glorifies the earth's greatest sons, he had

what the angels rank highly and what God loves, a brave, true, unselfish

heart.

SMITH'S SISTER.

_A STORY BY A BOY ABOUT A GIRL._

BY ROBERT OVERTON.

Before I tell you the story about Smith's sister in particular (said

Stanislaus Yarrow), I wish to make a few remarks about sisters in

general.

Sisters are of two kinds--your own and other fellows'. There are

boys--especially older ones--who consider their own sisters worse than

other fellows' sisters.

("Hear, hear," cried Martin Abbott, who was strongly suspected of having

fallen in love with Dr. Audlem's maiden aunt, who was not much more than

forty).

But the general opinion amongst boys is that all sisters--all girls, in

fact--are muffs and nuisances.

("So they are," agreed a number of voices cordially).

I thought so myself once. But Smith's sister taught me to take a higher

view of girls. I admit that they have defects--they can't help 'em.

There are times when I doubt if even boys are perfect. I freely admit

that there is a certain amount of idiocy in the ways and manners of

girls in general. Far be it from me to deny that they squeak and squeal

when there is no occasion for squeaking and squealing. There is no use

in denying that they are afraid of mice. Even Smith's sister visibly

shuddered when I offered to give her my biggest piebald rat, to be her

very own for ever. But we ought to be charitable and try to overlook

these things, for, as I said just now, they can't help 'em.

What I insist upon is that there's real grit in girls all the same.

This is how I work it out: Smith's sister was a brick--Smith's sister is

a girl--therefore, as one girl can be a brick, so can other girls, other

sisters, be bricks.

Now for my true yarn. To separate the circumstances of the story from

the story itself, I will first give you the circumstances.

Smith and I lived next door to each other, and were close chums,

especially at intervals. He was a very generous chap--he'd give a friend

anything he'd got. When he was laid low with illness last summer, I

slipped into his bedroom by way of the verandah, to have a look at him,

and he gave me the scarlet fever. He was such a very generous chap that

he never wanted to keep anything all to himself. The fever stayed with

both of us as long as it could, and left us a good deal weaker than it

found us. Finding us both in need of a long and thorough change, Smith's

father and mine put their heads together, and finally decided to send us

to North Wales for the rest of the summer and the autumn. The idea was

promptly carried out.

They didn't, strictly speaking, "send" us, for they came with us. In

fact, it was quite a carriage-ful of us that steamed away north-west

from Paddington--namely, Smith, myself, Smith's father and mother, my

father and mother, a number of boxes, portmanteaux, and parcels, and

Smith's sister. I put her last because at the time she was last in my

estimation.

We had a lovely journey, to a lovely little out-of-the-way and

out-of-the-world station, which was spelt with all consonants, and

pronounced with three sneezes, a cough and two gasps. From the station

we had a long drive to the remote farmhouse in which our fathers had

taken apartments.

In this delicious old farmhouse we soon made ourselves--Smith and

I--quite at home. It was in a beautiful valley. Tremendous hills rose

all round it. On the very tops of some of the mountains there was snow

almost all the year round. Glens, and brooks, and streams, and

waterfalls simply abounded.

After a fortnight our two fathers had to return to London, leaving

behind them our mothers, us, and Smith's sister.

Oh, what a time we had then! Smith shot me by accident in the leg with

the farmer's gun--Smith himself got almost drowned in two different

streams, and was once carried over a waterfall, and dashed against the

stones. On all three occasions he was getting black in the face when

pulled out. I fell down a precipice in the mountains, and was rescued

with the greatest difficulty. On another occasion a neighbouring farmer

caught us trespassing, and thrashed us with a stick till he was too

tired to hold it any longer. Smith got bitten by a dog supposed to be

mad, and a horse kicked me in the stomach.

All was gaiety and excitement. Ah! when shall we have such times again?

We made inquiries as to whether we were likely to catch scarlet fever a

second time.

Now Smith's sister screamed at our accidents; she was afraid to join us

in any of our adventures. She was as old as myself, and only a year

younger than Smith, but as timid as a chicken--or so we thought her, for

so she seemed. We tried at first to encourage her, to bring her out a

little; but it was no good--we just had to leave her to herself.

"She hasn't pluck enough to come with us," Smith used to say as we set

off on our rambles--"let her stop at home and play with the fowls."

You must understand that we didn't dislike her--we simply despised her.

I think contempt is worse than dislike--at all events, it is harder to

bear. Week after week passed away, till at length the end of September

approached. In a few days we were to go home again.

Now high as all the hills were, there was one that towered above the

others. From the very first, Smith and I had been warned not to attempt

to scale this monarch of the mountains, whose crown was sometimes

visible, sometimes hidden in the clouds. Being warned not to do it, we

naturally wanted to do it. We had made, in fact, several tries, but had

always been frustrated. Once or twice Mr. Griffiths--the farmer at

whose house we were staying--caught us starting, and turned us back.

"Up towards the top of that mountain," he said, on the last occasion,

"is a place so difficult of access, except by one way, that it is called

the 'Eagles' Home.' Lives have been lost there. The hill is

dangerous--the clefts are steep and deep. Leave it alone. There are

plenty of other hills to climb that are not so dangerous."

That reference to the Eagles' Home was more than we could stand. We

could make out the very spot he meant. Fancy being up there with the

eagles near the sky--fancy birds-nesting in the clouds!

"Yarrow," said Smith firmly, "we must do it."

"Or perish in the attempt," I agreed recklessly, quoting from a book I'd

read.

What we meant was, of course, that before our visit ended we must climb

that hill, at all events as high as the Eagles' Home.

Our approaching return to London left us with no time to lose. We had

only four clear days before us.

"We'll make the ascent immediately after dinner to-morrow," said Smith.

"Right you are," replied I.

The next day arrived. Dinner was always over soon after one at the

farmhouse, and by two o'clock, having slipped quietly and secretly off,

we were beginning our climb up the hillside. For more than an hour we

made slow but easy progress, taking a rest every now and then for a

minute or two. We must have got up a considerable distance, but neither

the mountain-top nor the Eagles' Home seemed much nearer. On and up we

trudged, walking faster and determined to take no more rests. We noticed

how much colder it was, and cast uneasy glances at the dipping sun.

We met a shepherd going down, and stopped him to ask some questions. He

told us that there was an easy way and a hard way to reach the Eagles'

Home. The easy way was to follow the path worn up the hill to the left.

That would take us _above_ the spot. Still following the path as it

curved round to the right, we should find a comparatively easy way down

to the "home of the eagles," unless we lost the road, and tumbled down

one of the many steep declivities.

"Which was the hard way?" we asked.

With a smile, he pointed straight up the mountain-side. It wasn't far

that way, he said--only that way would take us farther than we wanted to

go. We looked up the frowning pathless mountain--and knew what he meant.

We must take the safer and longer way.

"Not that we're _afraid_ of the other," said Smith.

"Of course not," I replied.

In vain the shepherd tried to dissuade us from going any further in the

failing light: in vain he told us of the dangers we should run. We

thanked him, put him off with some excuse about going "a little"

further, and turned resolutely on up the "path" he had pointed us to. It

was by no means the sort of path we were accustomed to.

On and on and on--I don't know how far we went. But the farther we went

the more silent we became. Each knew the other knew that he was getting

more and more uneasy at every step. Each knew the other wasn't going to

be the first to admit that he was funky.

It grew so awfully cold. It became so awfully dark.

"The moon will be up by-and-by," Smith said.

"Yes," said I; "we shall be all right then. What's this?"

It was too dark to see it, but we felt it in our faces. We put our hands

on our sleeves and felt it there.

Snow!

We both gave in then, and funked it without disguise. We turned to go

down, to get home. We tried at first to disbelieve it, but it wasn't

long before we both gave up the pretence.

"We're lost!" we cried together.

That was just our position. In the cold, dark night, in the midst of a

rapidly-rising storm and fast-falling snow, we were lost on the wild

Welsh mountains.

We stumbled about. For a long time--I don't know how long, but it was a

long time--we stumbled about. That is the only expression I can use, for

soon we didn't know whether we were moving up or down, left or right. We

were so numbed, so bewildered. It was so cold up there, though October

had not yet set in, that we had a vague idea that if we didn't keep on

moving we should be frozen still, meeting the fate of many other

mountaineers.

You must bear in mind that we had nothing to eat, nothing to drink, and

only our summer clothes on. Neither of us had a watch, so we could only

judge what the time was. Smith's hope that the moon would soon rise

hadn't been realised, for everything above was as dark and black as

everything was beneath.

At last a frightful thing happened. Our feet slipped at the same moment,

and the next moment we were both falling through space. My previous slip

down a precipice was nothing compared with that awful fall in the

darkness. Only one thing saved us. Before we struck the ground, we

managed to break the full force of our fall by grasping the roots and

branches of some low-growing shrubs and bushes which we felt without

seeing. We slipped then less rapidly from hold to hold, until, with a

thud, we struck the earth. It seemed more like the earth striking us.

Smith gave a loud scream of pain--then all was silent.

Smith fainted. I cried. Smith recovered and cried. I left off crying,

and took his turn at fainting. There's nothing like telling the truth.

We both prayed. I won't tell you about that, because praying is a thing

to _do_, not to talk about.

We didn't move about any more. That fall proved that moving about was

too dangerous. Poor old Smith _couldn't_ move. He couldn't even stand

up. He tried to once and sank down again with a yell. He had sprained

his ankle.

Please imagine for a moment that this adventure is being played on the

stage, and let the curtain fall. Now imagine the curtain raised again.

In the meantime, the storm has died down. The winds are not howling

now, the snow is not falling. The heavens above us are not so black we

can see parts of the mountain that drops from our feet into the deep

invisible valley below. We can see enough to make out where we are. We

are in the Eagles' Home. Our ambition has been realised--but in what a

way! We reached the spot neither by the pathway nor up the rugged

steep--we rolled from the top; we came through the air with the

snowflakes.

Pretty snowflakes! Smith is hopelessly crippled, and I--the other

snowflake--am simply a living collection of bumps and bruises. We must

spend the rest of the bleak night strung up on this dizzy height. We

must wait till the morning--if we can live through the night.

What's that, down there--far away down there?

A light! a number of lights. They're moving--moving up. They've reached

the spot where we met the shepherd who told us of the two ways.

They've stopped. Hark! What's that?

A shout--a hail--loud and long continued, as though a lot of people are

calling together.

Hurrah! We're saved. The farmer has turned out a rescue party to find

and save us. Hurrah!

Gathering all my strength--all I have left--I answer the hail. Smith

joins me as well as he can. Once, twice, thrice we shout. We catch the

distant cry that tells us we have been heard.

For a minute the lights are stationary. Then--their bearers sending up

another great hail as though to tell us they know where we are and are

coming--we see the lanterns flashing forward up the track which leads

above our heads, and then round to the Eagles' Home. Mr. Griffiths, who

knows the hills as well as he knows his own farm lands, has told them

where we are from the direction of our frantic voices.

So cheer up, Smith--they're coming.

But they'll be such a long time coming--and we're so cold and numbed.

Smith is fainting again. So am I, I'm afraid--you must remember I am

knocked about. It will be such a long time before the coming help

reaches us.

Will it? Then what's that solitary light stealing up the jagged steep

below us? Who is it coming to us by the "hard" way, straight up the

precipitous mountain-side? It must be Griffiths--he's crawling up the

rough boulders--he's clinging hold of roots and branches, swinging

himself over the clefts. The shepherd said it couldn't be done--but

Griffiths is doing it. How torn his hands must be!

I can't be quite fainting, because I can see that Griffiths' lantern is

coming nearer and nearer.

Listen! I can hear his voice--only it sounds such a weak voice. That is

because I am getting so weak now myself, though I manage to call back,

that Griffiths may know just where we are....

Griffiths has reached us. Griffiths is attending to poor old Smith. Now

he's got his arm round me. Griffiths is pouring a cordial down my throat

that brings life back into me. I can feel my heart beating again. I'm

better now. I'll shake Griffiths by the hand. I dare say I shall

by-and-by. But this is the hand of SMITH'S SISTER!

The strain of this theatrical style, and of the present tense, is more

than I can stand any longer, so I hope it is quite clear to you what had

happened. Just a few words to sum up.

When the rescue party formed by Mr. Griffiths--as soon as it was obvious

that Smith and I had lost ourselves--set out, Smith's sister set out

with them. Griffiths ordered her back. She went back, collared a lantern

and a flask all to herself (in view of the party separating--what a

thoughtful girl!), followed and rejoined them. When they stopped and

halloaed to find whereabouts we were, he ordered her back again, but not

until she had heard the hasty consultation which resulted in the party

sticking to the safer way to us. She heard about the "two ways," and she

dared the one that everybody else was afraid of. The ascent up the

mountain's face was suggested, but only Smith's sister had the pluck to

make it. This was the girl we had scorned and laughed at. This was the

girl whom we had told to stop at home and play with the chickens!

About an hour after she reached us with the "first help" that may have

saved our lives, we saw the lights of Griffith's party on the crest

above us. We exchanged shouts, and they let down a rope at once, and

hauled us up. Long before this, Smith's sister had bound up his injured

ankle neatly and lightly with her own handkerchief and our

handkerchiefs.

You should have seen the farmer's face--and, indeed, the faces of all

the others too--when they realised how she had reached us.

It is all very well for her to say that she didn't know what she was

doing--that she couldn't have done in the light what she did in the

dark. All I am concerned with is the fact that she did do what I have

told you she did.

Referring to the proposition I laid down soon after I started--about

there being real grit in girls after all--you will understand what I

meant when I wind up my yarn with the familiar quotation, Q. E. D.

THE COLONEL'S BOY.

BY H. HERVEY.

Marjorie had never got on well with her brother's guardian. He was a

bachelor, stern and autocratic, and with no admiration for woman's ways,

and she instinctively felt that he did not understand her.

His love for Miles Weyburne, the son of a brother officer who had fallen

in a skirmish with an Indian frontier tribe thirteen years ago, was a

thing recognised and beyond question.

Even at the age of ten the boy's likeness to his father had been

remarkable. He had the same dark, earnest eyes, the same frank, winning

manner, the same eager enthusiasm; he was soon to develop, to the secret

pride of his guardian, the same keen interest in his profession, with a

soundness of judgment and a fearless self-reliance peculiarly his own.

He had gained his star after scarcely a year's service, and had then got

an exchange into his guardian's regiment.

Colonel Alleson held the command of a midland regimental district. He

had the reputation of being somewhat of a martinet, and was not

altogether popular with his men.

Marjorie generally spent her holidays with her aunt in the town, and the

Colonel occasionally went to see her; but he was nervous and

constrained, with little to say for himself, and Marjorie always did her

best to show to a disadvantage when he was there. "He's such a crabby

old thing," she would say, when Miles grew enthusiastic over the grave,

taciturn officer,--"besides, he hates girls, you know he does, and I'm

not going to knuckle under to him." Her brother had explained that the

Colonel's ideas were old-fashioned, so she sometimes talked slang on

purpose to shock him. She listened to his abrupt, awkward sentences with

a half listless, half criticising air. She was a typical school-girl at

the most characteristic age,--quick to resent, impatient of control,

straightforward almost to rudeness. The Colonel might be a father to her

brother--he never could be to her. She often thought about her father

and mentally contrasted the two: she thought, too, though less often, of

the mother who had died the very day that that father had fallen in

action, when she herself was little more than a year old.

Miles had been spending his leave with his aunt, and the day before his

return to Ireland to rejoin the battalion, he biked over to the barracks

in company with his sister to say good-bye to his guardian.

"I suppose this is another of the Colonel's fads," Marjorie remarked,

glancing at the notice board as she got off her bicycle outside the

gates. "What an old fuss he is, Miles."

"Has he been giving you a lesson in manners?"

"Not he." She tossed back her wavy, golden-brown hair as she spoke. "I

should like to see him try it on."

Miles gave a short little laugh.

"He got into an awful rage the other day because somebody came through

here on a bicycle. How are you to read the notice all that way off?"

Miles was not listening to her. Hearing the sound of wheels, he had

turned round and caught sight of the Colonel's dog-cart. Marjorie

glanced mischievously at him, and just as the Colonel entered the

gateway, she deliberately mounted her bicycle and rode through before

his eyes. There was just room for her to pass. The Colonel reined in,

and looked sternly round. "Stop!" he said. Marjorie obeyed. Wheeling her

bicycle forward, she said in her politest manner:

"I beg your pardon. Did you want me?"

"This is quite contrary to regulations."

"Yes, I know," she answered, looking straight at him. "I read the

notice, but I don't see the sense of it."

There were one or two soldiers standing near, and they exchanged glances

and smiled. Miles coloured up with shame and vexation. The Colonel gave

the reins to his groom and got down without another word. He held out

his hand to Miles as the dog-cart passed on.

"I want to speak to you," he said shortly, and he walked on in front of

them.

"I hope I shall see you again, Miles," he began, as they ascended the

steps leading to his quarters. "I have only a few minutes to spare now.

Come up this evening, will you?"

"Yes, Colonel."

Marjorie moved towards the door. The colour mounted to her cheeks as the

Colonel stepped forward to open it for her. Miles, feeling that he ought

to say something, waited behind a minute.

"I'm sorry about--about this," he said. "I don't understand it."

"I do, perfectly--well, good-bye, my boy."

His grave, stern face softened wonderfully as he grasped Miles' hand.

"What an old crosspatch he is," began Marjorie as her brother came up

with her. "I daren't for the life of me ride through there again. Did

you see, Miles, he was quite white with rage when I cheeked him? Those

Tommies thought it awful sport."

"What a little ass you are," said Miles crossly, "to make all that row

before the men."

Marjorie looked away. "It served him jolly well right," she said,

pedalling faster.

They rode home the rest of the way in silence.

Miles was away with his battalion at the front, and Marjorie was

spending a fortnight of the Christmas holidays with a school friend at

Eastbourne. The two girls were hurrying down the esplanade together one

bright, frosty morning in January when Marjorie suddenly found herself

face to face with the Colonel. His eyes were bent down, and he passed

without recognising her. With a few hurried words to her chum, she ran

after him.

"How do you do, Colonel? I didn't know you were here."

He started as she addressed him. "I only came yesterday," he said; "I

have got a few days' leave."

"Did you hear from Miles last mail? I did."

"Yes. He has been very regular so far."

"You must miss him awfully. Are you going this way?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll come a little way with you, if I may; I wanted to say

something."

Putting her hands into her jacket pockets, she looked very gravely at

him.

"I am sorry I was rude that day I came into the Barracks," she said

hurriedly. "I have been thinking about it. It was horrid of me, when the

soldiers were there. Will you forgive me?"

"Certainly," he said nervously, putting his hands behind him, and

walking faster.

"You see, I want to be friends with you," she added frankly, "because of

Miles. He thinks such a lot of you--the dear boy; good-bye."

Her dark eyes, generally so mocking and mischievous, had grown suddenly

earnest, and his heart warmed towards her, as he held out his hand.

"Good-bye, Marjorie," he said, "you are very much alike, you and Miles."

"Are we?" she said simply, flushing a little. "I didn't know. I am

glad."

She walked back to her chum with a beating heart. "He's not so bad," she

said to herself. "I wish he liked girls."

Spion Kop had been abandoned, and the British Army was in orderly

retreat, when Miles found himself cut off with the remnant of his

company, by the enemy. The death of his captain had left him in command,

and realising his responsibility, he made up his mind to act promptly.

"We are cut off, men," he explained briefly to his soldiers; "will you

hoist the white flag, or trust to me to bring you through?"

"No surrender, and we stand by you, sir," answered the serjeant major

gruffly. "Is it agreed, boys?"

There was a general assent.

It was a gallant deed, that desperate dash to rejoin the division,

though accomplished at a terrible cost. Miles, leading the forlorn hope,

was soon to pay the price of his daring. They were all but through when

he fell, shot by a chance bullet.

An hour later his battered troops came up with the British forces. Three

or four stragglers dropped into camp as the serjeant major was making

his report.

"Ah!" said the colonel, expressively--"you got through?"

"Yes, sir, beastly hard work, too."

"Who brought you?"

"Lieutenant Weyburne, sir."

"I thought so. He's the kind of fellow for that sort of thing. Is he

in?"

"He was shot, sir."

"Shot, poor boy. What will Alleson say?"

It was Wednesday morning, and the entire strength of the Depot had

turned out on parade. The Colonel, tall and dignified in the faultless

neatness of undress uniform, was standing in his characteristic

attitude, with his hands behind him and his head thrown slightly back.

His blue eyes looked out, grave and watchful, from under the peak of his

fatigue cap, and the tense interlocking of his gloved fingers was the

only sign of his mental unrest.

Yet the vision of Miles was before him--Miles bold, earnest,

high-spirited, Miles in the full joy of life and strength, with the

light of affection in his eyes; Miles again with his boyish face white

and drawn and his active young form still in death.

He had loved the boy, his boy as he always called him, more even than he

had realised, and life seemed very blank without the hope of seeing him

again.

It was two days since his name had appeared in the lists of killed and

wounded, and that afternoon the Colonel went down to see Marjorie, who

had returned from Eastbourne a few days before. She looked unusually

pale when she came into the room, and though she ran forward eagerly

enough to greet him, her eyes were tearful and her lips quivering, as

she put her hand into his.

"I thought of writing to you"--began the Colonel nervously, "but----"

"I'm glad you came," said Marjorie, "very glad. I shouldn't mind so much

if we knew just how he died," she added sorrowfully.

"We know how he would face death, Marjorie!"

She put her arms on the table, and hid her face with a stifled sob.

"He was your boy, and you'll miss him so," she went on. "There's no one

like him, no one half so dear or half so brave. If I were only a boy I

might try to be like him and make you happy--but I can't, it's no use."

She was looking up at him with those dark eyes of hers, just as his boy

had looked at him when he said good-bye three months ago, and he could

not trust himself to speak.

"I suppose you get used to things," she said with a sigh.

The Colonel put his hand on her head. "Poor child," he said in a husky

voice, "don't think about me."

"Miles loved you," she answered softly, going up close to him. "I'm his

sister. Let me love you, too."

He drew her to him in a tender fatherly manner, that brought instant

comfort to her aching, wilful little heart.

"Your father was my friend, Marjorie," he said,--"the staunchest friend

man ever had. I have often wondered why we failed to understand each

other."

"You don't like girls," said Marjorie, "that's why."

The Colonel smiled grimly.

"I didn't," he said. "Perhaps I have changed my mind."

Lord Roberts had entered Pretoria, and the Colonel sat in his quarters

looking through the list of released prisoners. All at once he gave a

start, glanced hastily around, and then looked back again. About half

way down the list of officers, he read:

"Lieut. M. Weyburne (reported killed at Spion Kop)."

Miles was alive: there had been some mistake. The bugle sounded. It was

a quarter past nine. He walked out on to the parade-ground with his

usual firm step, smiling as he went. Miles was alive. He could have

dashed down the barrack-square like a bugler-boy in the lightness of his

heart.

People who met him that day hastened to congratulate him. He said very

little, but looked years younger.

Three weeks later there came a letter from Miles, explaining how he had

been left upon the ground for dead, and on coming to himself, had fallen

unarmed into the hands of the Boers. He had never fully recovered from

his wounds, and by the doctor's orders had been invalided home, so that

his guardian might expect him about ten days after receiving his letter.

It was a happy home-coming. The Colonel went down to Southampton to meet

him, and when he reached his aunt's house he found a letter from

Marjorie awaiting him. "The Colonel's a dear," she wrote; "I understand

now why you think such a lot of him."

Miles turned with a smile to his guardian.

"You and Marjorie are friends at last, Colonel," he said.

"Yes, my boy," he returned gravely; "we know each other better now."

'TWIXT LIFE AND DEATH.

_A MANX STORY._

BY CLUCAS JOUGHIN.

PART I.

Deborah Shimmin was neither tall nor fair, and yet Nature had been kind

to her in many ways. She had wonderful eyes--large, dark, and full of

mute eloquence--and if her mouth was too large, her nose too irregular,

and her cheeks too much tanned by rude health, and by exposure to the

sun as the village gossips said, I, Henry Kinnish, poetic dreamer, and

amateur sculptor, thought she had a symmetry of form and a grace of

movement which wrought her whole being into harmony and made her a

perfect example of beauty with a plain face; and every one knew that

Andrew, the young village blacksmith and rural postman, loved her with

all the might of his big, brawny soul.

These two ideas of Deborah's beauty and Andrew's love for her, were

revealed to me one day when, with Deborah's master, his lumbering sons

and comely daughters, and my chum Fred Harcourt, an artist from "across

the water," we were cutting some early grass in May, just before the

full bloom of the gorse had begun to fade from the hillsides and from

the tops of the hedges where it had made borders of gold for the green

of the fields all the spring.

A soft west wind, which blew in from the sea, made waves along the uncut

grass to windward of the mowers, and played around the skirts of

Deborah, making them flutter about her, while the exertion of the

haymaking occasionally let loose her long, strong black hair.

But the face of Deborah was sad; for the village policeman had laid a

charge against her before his chief to make her account for her

possession of a large number of seagulls' eggs, to take which the law of

the Island had made a punishable offence, by an act of Tynwald passed to

protect the sea fowl from extinction.

The eggs, all fresh, and newly taken from the nests, had been found on

Deborah's dressing-table; but Deborah indignantly denied all knowledge

of the means by which they had got there. There was a mystery about it

to every one, for fresh clutches were seen there every morning, and the

innocent Deborah made no attempt to conceal them. Where, then, could

they come from but from some nests of the colony of seagulls which lived

in the haughs that dropped down into the sea from Rhaby Hills? But no

woman, young or old, could climb the craigs where the gulls had their

nests. It was a feat of daring only performed by reckless boys and young

men who were reared on the littoral, and who were strong and spirited

craigsmen by inheritance and by familiarity with the dangerous sport of

egg-collecting among the giddy heights of precipices on which, if they

took but one false step, they might be hurled to certain destruction

below.

When the mowers had made all but the last swath, and there were only a

few more rucks of the early hay to be made in the field, Cubbin, the

rural constable, came in from the highroad with Andrew, the smith. The

hot and sweated mowers did not stop the swing of their scythes, but they

talked loudly amongst themselves in imprecations against the new law

which made it a criminal offence for a lad to take a few gull's eggs,

which they, and their fathers before them, had gone sporting after in

the good old times when men did what they thought right.

The bronzed face of Deborah Shimmin paled, her lips set into a resolve

of courage when she saw Andrew in the hands of the police; and I learnt

for the first time that Andrew was looked upon as the robber and Deborah

as the receiver of the stolen eggs. I saw more than this, I saw, by one

look, that the heart of Deborah and the heart of the tall, lithe lad,

who now stood before me, were as one heart in love and in determination

to stand by each other in the coming trial.

The big hands of the young smith were thrust into his pockets, and a

smile played over his honest face; but Deborah looked at the constable

with a hard, defiant look, and then bent over her work again as if

waiting to hear him say something dreadful which she was resolved to

throw back into his face, though her hand trembled as she held the fork,

which moved now faster and stronger than before.

But Cubbin was a man of the gospel of peace though he was an officer of

the law, and he only looked sadly on the face of Deborah as he asked her

whether it would not be better for her to say where she got her supply

of eggs from than allow him to get a summons against Andrew.

"I have told you before that Andrew never gave me the eggs!" cried the

girl, her face flushed with the crimson setting of the sun, "and I don't

know where they came from. I can't say anything different, and I wish

you would not trouble me, Mr. Cubbin!"

Fred and I called Cubbin, the constable, to one side, and asked him to

allow us a day or two to solve the mystery of the eggs--a little

arrangement which may seem strange to dwellers in towns, but which was

quite practicable at this time in this far-off place, and which he soon

agreed to allow.

I had been out shooting corncrakes that day, and Fred Harcourt had come

with me for a day in the meadows, as his brush and palette had wearied

him of late, and he longed to stretch his limbs and to see my spaniels

work in the weedy hedges and in the meadows, where the grass had stood

the test of the dry spring. We had taken off our coats to help our

neighbour with his sunburnt grass, and our guns were laid across them.

The spaniels had fallen asleep--using the coats as beds. While

conversing with Cubbin we had walked quietly to get our coats, and I saw

that one of the sleeping dogs was still hunting in his dreams. There was

nothing uncommon about this, for dogs will hunt in their sleep; but

some inner voice said to me that Deborah Shimmin, being a highly strung,

nervous girl, might hunt in her sleep also, and that such things as

somnambulists walking the roofs of high houses had been heard of, and I

remembered a lad in my own boyhood's days who was awakened early one

morning by the riverside with his rod in his hand and his basket slung

over his nightshirt. But I did not communicate my theory of the solution

of the mystery of the eggs to Cubbin, the constable.

When the policeman left the field I entered into a kindly talk with

Deborah Shimmin, and was not long in learning what the girl herself had

probably never thought of, that on the public reading of the Act for the

protection of sea-fowl, on the Tynwald day of the previous year, she had

been impressed by the thought that Andrew would now be forbidden to

employ his agility and his courage in a form of sport she often tried to

dissuade him from.

I knew before this that she had recently lost her mother, and had

suffered a bereavement through a favourite brother being lost at sea one

stormy night at the back-end herring fishing off Howth Head.

"Poor Deborah," I said to Fred, "she is all nerves, and the hand of

life's troubles is holding her; surely she must be innocent of

encouraging her lover in risking his life--the only precious life left

to her now!"

"And the jolly Andrew," said Fred, "certainly looked the most amusing

picture of innocence, as Cubbin trotted him along the grass! But your

theory of the somnambulant business is a bit fanciful, all the same."

PART II.

At ten o'clock that night Fred Harcourt and I were bivouaced within

sight of the only door of the house where Deborah Shimmin worked as a

domestic help in the family of her uncle. The night was not dark, it

seldom is dark in these northern islands so late in May, but there was

a light of the moon at its first quarter, and a glint of some stars

shone down upon us as we hearkened to the stillness of the air and to a

frequent movement of a tired horse in the stable.

Our bivouac was a clump of trammon trees (elders) at the corner of the

orchard which adjoined the farm buildings. Between us and the dwelling

house there was a disused pigsty. At about a quarter to eleven o'clock a

man, with a red setter dog at his heels and a fowling piece on his arm,

came sneaking up, and crept into the sty.

Then there was another long spell of silence, not broken, but rather

intensified, by the words which I whispered to Fred Harcourt that the

fellow who crept into the sty was Kit Kermode, and that he could be

after no good.

At midnight a cock crew at the far end of the village, and a dog barked.

Then there was silence again, save that every now and again a sedge

warbler, far away by the stream near Shenvarla, sang a faintly audible

song. Our position on the slope of the foot-hill at Gordon House was

between the village and the hills which girt the sea coast. This made my

theory of the sleep-walking to the cliffs more plausible. But while we

lay low in the clump of trammon trees the appearance of Kit Kermode,

with his cat-like walk and his eyes that could wink slander faster than

any old woman's tongue could wag it, gave me a theory, or at least a

speculation, in another direction.

In soft whispers to Fred Harcourt, who was new to the village, I told

him how the rascal Kermode hated Andrew the blacksmith. "He hates him,"

I said, "I do verily believe, for his good honest face, his manly

outspoken tongue, his courage, and his power of arm, but most of all he

hates him since Andrew, years ago as an innocent and unthinking lad, ran

after him in the village street and handed him a reminder of some money

which he owed his master."

"But what can that have to do with Deborah Shimmin's gulls' eggs?" asked

Fred, whose mind never seemed to see anything but pictures of divers

colours and inspiring outlines in the happy dreamland he lived in, all

unconscious of the world's cruelty, and hate, and love of evil.

I had just finished telling him that a man like Kermode might bribe a

boy to get him gulls' eggs, and sneak up to Deborah's window and quietly

reach in and place the eggs on her dressing-table, as a means of getting

Deborah and Andrew into trouble. I had just finished giving this outline

of the thought in my mind, I say, when the door of the farmhouse opened

and Deborah Shimmin, clad only in her nightdress, stepped lightly forth

and started up the hillside.

The next moment the man, his gun in the hollow of his arm and the red

setter dog at his heels, crawled forth from the pigsty, looked round as

if to make certain he was not watched, and followed the white figure of

the girl as she glided up the zig-zag path in the direction of the

haughs which formed the wild sea coast.

It did not take Fred and me very long to take off our boots and

noiselessly follow, guided by the figure in white, rather than by the

man who went before us, for the dim light of the moon and the northern

night made his dark dress difficult to see in the shadows of the hedges

and trees.

I knew that Deborah would take the usual path to the rocks, and bade

Fred follow close behind me while I took a shorter route. In ten minutes

we were again under cover when the girl passed close by us, her long

hair knotted roughly into a mass of rolls about her large and

well-formed head. Her eyes were open, and fixed in a glassy stare

straight ahead. She seemed to move along, rather than walk, and had no

appearance of either hesitation or haste; and Kermode, with his dog and

his gun, stealthily followed in her wake not twenty yards behind.

While we were crossing the field bordering the Gordon haughs, keeping

under the shadow of a gorse-clad hedge, Deborah disappeared over the

cliff, and the man, watched by Fred and myself, crept up to the edge of

the cliffs down which the poor girl had descended.

Before another minute had elapsed, Kermode had stretched himself out

his full length on a craig which overlooked the precipitous rocks down

which Deborah had disappeared. We then secured the cover of a mound not

thirty feet away from him.

The dog gave a low whine when he saw the head of his master craned out

to watch the movements of the white figure descending the rocks, and

then all was quiet as before.

Fred's suspense and anxiety for the safety of the girl was apparent in

his hard breathing; but my own were inconsiderable, for I knew that if

undisturbed by any noise unusual to the night, or any interference by

the fellow who now held the future happiness of Andrew, the smith, in

his hands she would safely climb up the haugh and make her way home to

bed, all unconscious of the awful position she had placed herself in.

Wicked as I knew the man to be, I did not now imagine that he had any

other intention in watching around the house than to try to discover

Andrew paying a nocturnal visit, with some gulls' eggs for his

sweetheart. This would have been a mean enough act, but it seems a small

thing beside the cruel and murderous deed he would have committed but

for the providential presence and prompt action of Fred Harcourt and

myself.

Fred and I lay low, with our chins resting on our hands, not daring even

to whisper. The dog whined a little now and again, and we heard the

subdued cries of seagulls as they flew off, alarmed in the darkness,

over the sea. Still Deborah did not make her appearance on the top of

the cliff. It seemed a long time that we lay and watched thus, but it

could not have been so long as it seemed.

Then Kermode, without raising himself from watching the climbing girl,

reached back for the gun which he had placed on the ground by his side.

He raised it to the level of his face, resting his left elbow on the

ground, and I heard the click of the hammer as he cocked it. Then I saw

his thumb and finger go into his waistcoat pocket.

"Good God!" I said in a loud whisper, as I sprang to my feet, for I

knew in one awful moment that the villain was feeling for a cap to

discharge a shot in the air above the head of Deborah, who would wake up

at the shock, and fall to the base of the craig in her terrible fright.

So intent was Kermode in his fell design of frightening the girl to her

destruction that he did not hear me, or notice the growl of his dog, or

feel the vibration of our tread as we both bore down upon him. We should

have been too late if it had not been for the life-long habit of the

wretch to secure himself from danger or suspicion. With his finger on

the trigger, all ready to pull, he paused one moment to raise himself

and look about. That moment saved the life of Deborah Shimmin, for the

would-be murderer was the next instant under the knee of Fred Harcourt

and his throat in his grip, while my hand was over the nipples of the

gun. While we were all on the ground together, and the setter dog had a

hold of Harcourt's leg, the tall form of Cubbin, the policeman, bent

over us. I had lowered the hammers of the gun and thrown it to one side

to grasp the dog, for Harcourt would not let go his hold of Kermode's

throat lest he should shout and wake the girl.

"Gag Kermode," I said to Cubbin, as I hit the dog just above the snout

with a stone, killing him by one blow.

Then Deborah Shimmin, holding something in a fold of her nightdress with

one hand, and climbing with the other, came up over the edge of the

cliff a few yards away from us.

She looked very beautiful as she stepped up on the sloping sward above

the haugh, with the pale moonlight just lighting her airy dress, and her

face all sad and careworn.

Leaving Kermode to the care of the constable, Fred and I noiselessly

followed the girl home, and saw her step over the obstacles in her path

as by instinct, turning her face neither to the right nor left.

We decided to awaken her before she reached the door of the farmhouse,

so that, according to the popular notion, she might never again become

somnambulent.

With this view I stepped before her as she approached the door, but was

astonished to find that she paused as if my presence blocked the way

before she yet saw me or touched me. But there was no misunderstanding

the blank stare in her wonderful eyes.

I gently put out my hand and took hers, as she put it out before her to

feel the influence of a presence she could not see.

She did not scream or faint. She awoke with a start, and let the eggs

fall on the ground.

At first she could not understand where she was, and just thought she

was dreaming; but by degrees it came to her that she was standing before

me in the pale moonlight when she thought she ought to be in bed.

Then I softly told her where she had been in her sleep, keeping back all

knowledge of Kermode's attempted revenge on Andrew, and how we had

decided to awake her. Then, with a little pleasant laugh, we both told

her that the mystery of the seagulls' eggs was solved, and that neither

Andrew nor she would be troubled again.

She fell to sobbing a little, and for the first time seemed to shiver

with the cold; then she lifted the latch and we bade her good night.

Nothing was done to Kermode, for the fellow swore he had no intention of

discharging the gun, and we could not prove he had, though the case was

clear enough in our eyes, and the deed would have been done had we not,

in God's providence, been there to prevent it.

Cubbin, the constable, it transpired afterwards, had overheard me giving

my theory of the sleep-walking to Fred in the hayfield, and he, too, had

been in hiding at the farm, and had watched and followed us all.

So there was a wonderful story for him to tell of how Deborah had made

good her defence against the charge he had laid against Andrew and her.

And the beautiful Deborah with the plain face became the bride of the

jolly Andrew, who was neither an artist nor an amateur sculptor, but

only a village blacksmith who had an eye for beauty of form and

character.

ROSE'S BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

_A TRUE STORY._

BY MARIE E. C. DELBRASSINE.

"Where is Rose?"

"Busy, as usual, with her mice and beetles, I suppose, father," answered

Ethel; "we have not seen her all this afternoon."

"She will probably be with you at teatime," said Dr. Sinclair, "after

which I should like you to ask her to come to me for a little while in

the surgery."

"Very well, father, I won't forget."

Dr. Sinclair retreated again to his surgery, which was arranged also as

his library, knowing that his willing helper would not fail to join him

there.

"I cannot think," said Maud, Ethel's sister, "what that girl finds to

interest her in all those horrid creatures--beetles and toads, and even

snakes, when she can get one; the other day I saw her handling a

slowworm as if it were a charming domestic pet. It was enough to make

one feel cold all over."

"Well, there is no accounting for taste; Rose never seems to care if she

is asked to a party or not," continued Ethel, "and she does not mind

helping father with his work, which I always find so tiresome, for he is

so dreadfully particular about it. Perhaps biologists are different from

other folks; I sometimes think there is something uncannny and queer

about them."

"I'm sure Rose is neither uncanny nor queer, she's just a brick," said

Jack, a schoolboy of fourteen, who was enjoying a Saturday half-holiday

at home with a new book, it being too wet to play cricket. "She is

always willing to do anything to help a fellow."

"Which means," said Ethel, "that you always expect girls to be your

slaves, when you are at home."

At this moment the door opened and Rose herself appeared.

"Well, Rose," said Maud, "have you pinned out a beetle, or taught your

pet ants to perform tricks?"

"Not this afternoon," said Rose; "I have had a delightful time with my

microscope, studying spiders and drawing slides for the magic lantern to

be used at my next little lecture to the G.F.S. girls."

"That sounds dry and uninteresting," yawned Maud. "Ah, here comes tea.

By the way, father would like you to go to his study afterwards. Poor

Rose, I expect he has some more tiresome work for you."

"Oh, don't call it tiresome, Maud dear; I quite enjoy it."

"It's a good thing you do. I hate being shut up there; it's such a

bore."

A quarter of an hour later a middle-aged man, whose snow-white hair made

him appear at first sight much older than he was in reality, might have

been seen busy over a manuscript, whilst a fair girl sat beside him,

reading out to him the notes he had made, and which he was working into

the book he was writing. The two seemed to work in perfect harmony.

Rose's father had been the rector of a remote country parish in

Cornwall. Most of his friends said that he was lost in such a

neighbourhood, and that it was a shame to have sent so able a man to

such a parish; but Mr. Sinclair never complained himself; he may

sometimes have thought it strange that other men were chosen before him

to occupy positions which he felt conscious he might well have filled,

but as his lot was cast in that Cornish nook, he had thrown himself

heart and soul into whatever work he found to do. The affection he won

from the rough fisherfolk, who regarded him as the father of the parish,

whose joys and sorrows, cares and anxieties, were all well known to him,

was as much to him as any brilliant worldly success. His means were

small, too small for his generous heart. He wished to give as good an

education as possible to his two children, Henry and Rose, and devoted

much time and trouble to that end. For several years he taught the boy

and girl together himself, Rose learning much the same lessons as her

brother; this laid the foundation of the accuracy which characterised

her in any task she undertook--a quality often lacking in feminine work.

Mr. Sinclair had been a good student of natural history, and had written

books and magazine articles which had been well thought of. Rose tried

to follow her father's pursuit; she would spend hours in reading about

birds and butterflies, and in making little researches herself. One of

her greatest pleasures had been to help her father, either by taking

notes for him or by writing at his dictation. She hoped herself some day

to add to her pecuniary resources by writing for biological papers or

even by giving lectures.

But the happy home life in the Cornish rectory was to end all too

quickly. Rose lost both her parents within a short time of each other;

her brother was at Oxford, working hard; and Rose was left alone, and

had to leave the home which was so dear to her.

It was then that her uncle, Dr. Sinclair, without a moment's hesitation,

offered her a home in his house. He did not listen to warning voices,

cautioning him against burdening himself with the charge of another

girl, for his own means were not large, and his family made many demands

upon his purse. He was a physician whose career might have been a

brilliant one had his practice been in London; but a fanciful and

invalid wife had rendered this impossible, as she declared she could

only exist in the pure air of the country.

So he had reluctantly abandoned his cherished hope of working as a

London doctor, and had settled near a small country town in

Gloucestershire, where he soon obtained most of the practice round; but

his scope was narrow. He nevertheless managed to keep in touch with his

profession, a profession in which he had entered heart and soul, making

various scientific researches in his laboratory, and sending the fruit

of them in clearly-written articles to medical papers. Now for this

work, either in writing short articles from his notes, or from his

dictation, a patient helper was of great assistance to him. His own

daughters, as already seen, disliked the work, and showed their father

no sympathy in it, whereas to Rose it was real enjoyment, filling, in a

measure, the void she felt in no longer helping her father. Between

uncle and niece a tacit sympathy had grown up. He encouraged her in her

natural history pursuits, and helped her to start the lectures she gave

to the G.F.S. girls in the neighbourhood. The suggestion had seemed

little likely to interest them, but Rose had been so clear and explicit

that the girls soon became eager for them.

Time went on in this way, when something happened which was again to

change Rose's circumstances. Truly it is that often trifles light as air

have an unknown weight of importance in them. One morning the letter-bag

brought a circular announcing that some "University Extension Lectures"

were to be given at C----, their nearest town, by a professor from

Oxford, the subject chosen being "Spiders," with notes from the

microscope.

When Dr. Sinclair had read it, he passed it, smiling kindly, to Rose.

"This is not for me," he said, "but I think I know some one whom it may

interest."

"Oh, uncle! how delightful," said Rose, when she had looked at it; "the

very thing I should enjoy!"

So it came to pass that Rose attended the lectures, entering very fully

into them, and taking careful notes.

At the close of the course, the lecturer said he would like any of the

students who felt sufficiently interested in the subject to write a

paper, and send it in to him, giving a summary of the lectures, and

asking any questions they might care to ask, at the end.

Rose and several others responded to the invitation, and wrote their

papers.

For some time Rose heard no more about it, but one morning she was

surprised to receive the following note:--

"DEAR MADAM,--I have felt much satisfaction in reading your

paper, which I return, with a few notes and answers to your

questions. It shows me with what intelligent interest you

have followed my lectures.

"It may interest you to know that an examination for a

scholarship at St. Margaret's Hall, the new college for

women, is shortly to be held at Oxford; and if you care to

pursue a subject for which you show much understanding, I

would suggest your trying for it. I don't promise you

success, but I think it is worth the venture. A friend of

mine, a lady living in Oxford, receives lady students

recommended by me, and would, I am sure, make you

comfortable on very moderate terms. Yours truly,

"B. FIELDING."

Rose read the letter two or three times and then passed it to her uncle.

Had she the means to go there--if, oh, _if_ she could only get the

scholarship, how delightful it would be!

"Come to my study," said Dr. Sinclair.

And as soon as the door was shut he said kindly,--

"I don't like you to lose this opportunity, dear child, so write and

tell Mr. Fielding you will go up to Oxford, if he will introduce you to

the lady he mentions."

"Oh, but, uncle," she said, "what Mr. Fielding may call moderate terms

may really mean a great deal more than should be paid for me."

"Never mind, little Rose," said Dr. Sinclair, "I meant to give my kind

little helper a birthday present, and this shall be it."

"Dear uncle, how kind of you. But remember, that whatever help, as you

term it, I may have given you, has always been a pleasure to me."

"And so, dear, is anything that I may do for you to me."

Thus it was settled, and a few days later, Dr. Sinclair himself started

for his own beloved Oxford with his niece. Jack and Maud went to the

station to see them off.

"Keep up your courage, Rose," said Jack, "you're pretty sure to pass,

for if any girl in England knows about creepy, crawley things, you do!"

When Rose returned some days later, she looked rather overstrained and

pale, and, to the surprise of Ethel and Maud, never looked at her

microscope, or at any of her treasures in the way of beetles and

tadpoles, but spent her time in complete idleness, except when she

helped them to do up some of their evening clothes for some forthcoming

dances; and they were surprised to see how deftly a biologist could sew.

One Saturday, as the three girls were sitting working together, Jack,

who was spending his half-holiday at home again, said, "Why, here comes

the telegraph boy!"

"Run and see who it is for," said Ethel, who had lately shown much more

sympathetic interest in Rose, and who began to realise that if Rose

obtained what she was so keenly set on, she, as well as others, might

miss the cousin who had been so kind and so unselfish an inmate of their

home. "Run and see, Jack; and if it is for any of us, bring it here."

Rose looked very white, but did not look up from her work.

"Addressed to Miss Rose Sinclair," said Jack, who soon returned.

Rose took the telegram with trembling fingers, and then tore it open.

It announced the following:--

"_Rose Sinclair passed first. Awarded scholarship St. Margaret's for

three years._"

"Oh, Ethel!" said Rose, "it is too good to be true."

"I knew you would pass," said Jack, "I always said you would, didn't I,

now?"

"Well," said Ethel, "we ought to be very glad for your sake."

"Yes," said Maud, "I congratulate you, Rose--but, I am very, very sorry

you are going away."

"Are you, dear?" said Rose; "I also shall feel lonely without all of

you, in this my second home. But let us go and tell uncle, for I

consider this his special birthday gift to me."

"So it is," said Dr. Sinclair, who appeared at that moment.

"Then your old uncle is much gratified in sending his niece to Oxford;

but he will miss his little girl very much."

Rose distinguished herself even far above Jack's expectation. After she

had concluded her college course, she devoted her time and knowledge to

giving lectures, for which she received remuneration, also to writing

articles for magazines, and subsequent events led to her settling in

Oxford. Whenever Dr. Sinclair wants an especially enjoyable holiday, he

goes to spend a few days with Rose, and the two compare notes on their

work. When he expresses his pleasure at her success, Rose loves to

remind him that she owes it greatly to his kindness that she was placed

in the way of obtaining it, through the birthday gift, which was to be

so helpful to her.

DOLLY HARDCASTLE'S ROSEBUDS.

_A CITY IDYLL_

BY CHARLES E. PEARCE.

Jack Cameron's office was a handsome apartment. It was approached by a

broad staircase, the balusters of which were impressive from their

solidity and design. The office door had a species of ornamental

pediment over it, and the room itself had panelled walls of a pale

green, a chimneypiece of portentous size, and a highly ornamental

ceiling.

Up the staircase tripped a little lady--a pleasant vision of a silk

blouse, butter-coloured lace, golden hair, fawn gloves, and tan

bottines, leaving behind her an atmosphere redolent of the latest

fashionable perfume mingled with the more delicate scent of the Marechal

Niel roses in her corsage.

She knocked at the door, and, as there was no response from within,

turned the handle.

"May I come in, please?" she said laughingly.

A young man was standing in a corner of the room opposite the

telegraphic machine, from which the "tape" was issuing with a monotonous

click. On this "tape"--a narrow strip of paper seemingly endless, which

fell on the floor in serpentine coils--were inscribed at regular

intervals some cabalistic characters unintelligible to the general

public, but full of meaning to the initiated.

He turned at the sound of the voice. "What! Dolly?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, Jack; didn't you expect me?"

"Of course--of course," answered Jack Cameron, rather confusedly.

The girl crossed the room, and, taking both the hands of the young man,

looked into his eyes.

"You are worried," said she softly.

"Oh, only a little. One is bound to have worries in business, especially

when the market's feverish. But I'm awfully glad you've come. I shall

forget all my bothers now you are here."

His tone brightened, and the shadow that was beginning to steal over the

girl's face disappeared.

They were engaged. The wedding-day was fixed for the following week;

naturally there was much to do in the way of house furnishing, and the

bride elect was happy. Shopping before marriage has a distinct charm of

its own. The feminine mind attaches to each purchase an ideal pleasure.

Then there is the special joy of being entrusted by her future husband

with money, and the pride of showing him how well she can bargain.

Jack Cameron was a stockbroker, and had done fairly well in South

Africans. But like a good many others he had kept his "Narbatos" too

long, and he saw his way to lose some money; not enough to seriously

damage his stability, but enough to inconvenience him at this especial

time when he was thinking of taking a wife.

Dolly Hardcastle knew nothing at all about this. Indeed, she knew

nothing about stockbroking. It seemed to her simply a pleasant, light,

gentlemanly profession, consisting principally in standing in

Throgmorton Street, with one's hat tilted backwards, smoking cigarettes,

eating oranges or strawberries according to the season, and talking

about cricket or football.

This was the first time she had been to Jack's office, and she was

prettily curious about everything--especially the telephone. She was not

satisfied until Jack had shown her how to work the apparatus.

The "ticker" was also an all-absorbing object of attention The

continuous "click, click," and the issuing of the tape without any

apparent motive power, had something of the supernatural about it. Dolly

looked at the white strips with wonder.

"What does this say, Jack? N-a-r-Narbatos, 2 1/2. What does it mean?"

Alas! Jack Cameron knew too well what it meant. Narbatos had gone down

with a "slump." When Miss Hardcastle called he was debating whether he

should sell. This quotation decided him.

"Dolly," said he hurriedly, "do you mind me leaving you for five minutes

alone while I run into the 'House'?"

No, Dolly did not mind. Business, of course, must be attended to. Jack

seized his hat, snatched a kiss, and vanished.

"Dear old Jack," said Dolly, seating herself at the office table and

staring at the ticker. "I wonder whether he has many callers? Whatever

shall I do if anybody comes?"

She was considering this matter, with the assistance of the paper-knife,

pressed against her pretty lips, when the sharp ting, ting, ting, of the

telephone startled her.

Somebody wanted to speak to Jack. It might be important. Hadn't she

better go to the telephone? It was so nice to be able to help her future

husband.

"I wonder whether I could imitate Jack's voice?"

She went to the telephone and did exactly as Jack had instructed her to

do. She heard a sepulchral voice say, "Are you there?"

"Yes," said Dolly boldly.

"I have an offer of 5,000 Rosebuds. Will you take the lot, as you said

you would when we were talking about them the other day? Wire just

come."

"Five thousand rosebuds!" cried Dolly, with flashing eyes and cheeks

like the flowers just mentioned. "Then Jack is going to have the church

decorated after all. Darling fellow; he hasn't even forgotten the wire

for fastening them."

The man at the other end was evidently impatient, for he shouted that

Jack must decide at once. As the matter was one which concerned Dolly,

she had no hesitation what answer to give.

"Yes," she declared, in as bass a tone as she could assume.

She felt half inclined to waltz round the room, but she was afraid of

disturbing the occupant of the office below. Gradually she sobered down,

and by the time Jack Cameron returned she was quite sedate.

Jack had sold his Narbatos, and had lost L500 over the deal. But it was

no use crying over spilt milk. The immediate effect was that he would

have to be very economical over his honeymoon expenses. However, he

wouldn't say anything about the matter to Dolly that day. He would carry

out his promise--give her a nice luncheon at Birch's.

And so, putting on a mask of gaiety to conceal his real feelings, he

piloted his fiancee across Broad Street and Cornhill.

That luncheon took a long time. Basking in the smiles of his Dolly, he

gradually forgot stocks, shares, backwardations, and contangoes. Then,

when they came from Birch's, Dolly wanted to see the new frescoes at the

Royal Exchange, and she had to be obeyed.

It was quite three o'clock when he bethought himself that, though wooing

was very pleasant, he had several important letters to write, and must

return to his office.

"Thank you, Jack, dear, for being so nice to me to-day," whispered

Dolly, as they strolled towards the entrance of the Exchange; "and thank

you especially for letting me have the church decorated. The roses will

make the dear old place look sweetly pretty."

Jack stared. Had his Dolly taken leave of her senses?

"Decorations--roses!" he exclaimed, mechanically. "I don't understand."

"Ah, that's very clever of you," laughed Dolly, "pretending you know

nothing about it. You wanted to surprise me."

"Upon my word I had no intention of having the church decorated. I

should like to please you, of course, but----"

Well, he had already decided that the church decoration was one of the

expenses he would do without.

"Come now, confess. Haven't you ordered a quantity of rosebuds? You must

have forgotten. Anyway, it's all right, for while you were away from

your office there came a message through the telephone asking whether

you'd take 5,000 rosebuds you were talking to somebody about the other

day and of course I said yes. Gracious! Jack, dear, what is the matter?"

"Rosebuds--telephone. Of course, I see what has happened," faltered the

young stockbroker. "Oh, Dolly--Dolly."

"What have I done? Nothing very serious, I hope. If you don't want to

have the church decorated, why, I--I--shan't mind very--very much."

"It isn't that at all," said Jack, looking very queer. "Of course you

didn't know. Unluckily the message didn't mean flowers, but shares in

the 'Rosebud Gold Mining Company.'"

"Oh!"

It was quite true that Jack had contemplated speculating in "Rosebud"

shares, but he had heard some disquieting rumours about the mine, and

had decided not to touch them. And here he was the prospective owner of

5,000! Only two days before the quotation was 10s., with a tendency to

drop. To take them up was impossible, to sell would mean a loss.

"Dolly," said he hurriedly, "let me see you into an omnibus." And, after

a hasty farewell, he packed the young lady into a Kensington 'bus, and

rushed to the Mining door of the Stock Exchange in Broad Street.

"What are Rosebuds?" he inquired excitedly of a well-known stockbroker.

"15_s._ 6_d._, buyers, 14_s._ 6_d._, sellers."

And they were 7_s._ 6_d._, 7_s._, when the market opened that morning.

What did it mean, and at what price had he, or rather, had Dolly, bought

them?

He knew from whom the telephonic message had come. He dashed into his

office and rang up the man, a member of a West End firm of brokers.

"Eight shillings," was the reply. "Congratulate you. Your profit already

will pay for your honeymoon and a little more besides. Of course you'll

sell. It's a market rig, and I happen to be in the know."

Sell? Of course he would. A profit of over L1,800 would recoup him for

his loss of that morning, and leave him a handsome balance in the

bargain.

"Dolly, dearest," he whispered that night, "the rosebuds are all right.

The old church shall be smothered in them from end to end."

And so it was, but like a prudent man he never explained that but for

Dolly's unconscious assistance there might have been no roses and

perhaps very little honeymoon. He was afraid Dolly might want to help

him again!

A TALE OF SIMLA.

BY DR. HELEN BOURCHIER.

There was a dinner-party that night at the lieutenant-governor's, and

those of the governed who had followed him from his territory of Lahore

up to Simla were bidden to the feast. In one of the pretty private

sitting-rooms of the Bellevue Hotel three ladies were discussing

chiffons in connection with that function.

"Elma doesn't care for dinner-parties," Mrs. Macdonald said regretfully.

Elma was her daughter, and this was her first season in Simla.

"Oh, mother, I like the parties well enough!" said Elma. "What I hate is

the horrid way you have of getting to parties."

"What do you mean?" the third lady asked.

"Elma means that she doesn't like the jampans," Mrs. Macdonald

explained.

"I am always frightened," said Elma in a low voice, and a little of the

delicate colour she had brought out from England with her faded from her

lovely face. "It seems so dreadful to go rushing down those steep,

narrow lanes, on the edge of a precipice, in little rickety two-wheeled

chairs that would turn over in a minute if one of the men were to

stumble and fall; and then one would roll all down I don't know how many

feet, down those steep precipices: some of them have no railings or

protection of any kind, and in the evening the roads are quite dark

under the overhanging trees. And people have fallen over them and been

killed--every one knows that."

"Elma cannot speak Hindustani," the mother further explained, "and the

first time she went out she called '_Jeldi, jeldi!_' to the men, and of

course they ran faster and faster. I was really rather alarmed myself

when they came tearing past me round a corner."

"I thought _jeldi_ meant 'slowly,'" said Elma.

"Well, at any rate you have learnt one word of the language," said Mrs.

Thompson, laughing.

"I should not mind so much if mother was with me," said the girl; "but

those horrid little jampans only hold one person--and mother's jampannis

always run on so fast in front, and my men have to keep up with them. I

wish I wasn't going this evening."

"She has the sweetest frock you ever saw," said Mrs. Macdonald, turning

to a pleasanter aspect of the subject. "I must say my sister-in-law took

great pains with her outfit, and she certainly has excellent taste."

"Didn't you ever feel nervous at first," Elma asked, "when you went out

in a jampan on a dark night down a very steep road?"

Mrs. Thompson laughed. "I can't say I remember it," she said. "I never

fancied myself going over the _kudd_--the 'precipice' as you call it. I

suppose I should have made my husband walk by the side of the jampan if

I had been afraid."

Then she got up to go, and Mrs. Macdonald went out with her and stood

talking for a minute in the long corridor outside her rooms.

"She is a very lovely creature," said Mrs. Thompson pleasantly. "I

should think she is quite the prettiest girl in Simla this year."

"I think she is," the mother agreed; "but I am afraid she will be very

difficult to manage. She is only just out of the schoolroom, you know,

and girls are so unpractical. She doesn't care to talk to any one but

the subalterns and boys of her own age--and it is so important she

should settle this year. You know we retire next year."

"It is early days yet," said the other cheerfully.

She had come out to India herself as the bride of a very rising young

civilian, and she knew nothing of the campaign of the mothers at Simla.

Elma indeed looked a lovely creature when she came out of her room an

hour or two later to show herself to her mother before she stepped into

the hated jampan. Her dress was a delicate creation of white lace and

chiffon, with illusive shimmerings of silver in its folds that came and

went with every one of her graceful movements. She was a tall and

slender girl, with a beautiful long white throat, smooth and round, that

took on entrancing curves of pride and gentleness, of humility and

nobleness. She had splendid rippling hair of a deep bronze, that had

been red a few years earlier; and dark blue dreamy eyes under broad dark

eyebrows; a long sweep of cool fair cheek, and a rather wide mouth with

a little tender, pathetic droop at the corners.

"That frock certainly becomes you to perfection," said the mother. "I

hope you will enjoy yourself; and do try not to let the boys monopolise

you this evening. It is not like a dance, you know, and really, it is

not good form to snub all the older men who try to talk to you."

Elma lifted her long lashes with a glance of unfeigned surprise. "Oh,

mother," she said humbly, "how could I snub any one? I am afraid of the

clever men. I like to talk to the boys because they are as silly as I am

myself, and they would not laugh at me for saying stupid things."

"No one is going to laugh at you, goosey," said her mother.

"I wish I was not going," said Elma.

The ayah came out of the bedroom, and wrapped the tall young figure in a

long white opera-cloak; and then they all went down together to the

front verandah, where the jampans waited with the brown, bare-legged

runners in their smart grey and blue liveries.

Mrs. Macdonald started first. "Don't call out _jeldi_ too often, Elma,"

she called back, laughing: "I don't want to be run over."

And the ayah, hearing the word _jeldi_, explained to the jampannis that

the Miss Sahib desired, above all things, fleetness, and that she had no

mind to sit behind a team of slugs.

Elma got in very gingerly, and the ayah settled her draperies with

affectionate care. The dark little woman loved her, because she was

gentle and fair and never scolded or hurried.

The night was very dark. The road was by narrow backways, rough, heavily

shadowed, and unprotected in many places. The jampannis started off at a

run down the steep path as soon as they had passed through the gate, and

Elma sat trembling and quaking behind them, gripping both sides of the

little narrow carriage as she was whirled along. Once or twice it bumped

heavily over large stones in the road; and when they had gone some

little distance a dispute seemed to arise between the runners. They

stopped the jampan and appealed to her, but she could not understand a

word they said. She could only shake her head and point forward. Several

minutes were lost in this discussion, and when at length it was decided

one way or the other, the men started again at a greater speed than

ever, to make up for the lost time.

They bumped and flew along the dark road, and whirled round a corner too

short. One of the men on the inner side of the road stumbled up the

bank, and, losing his balance, let go the pole, and the jampan heeled

over. Elma's startled scream unnerved the other runners, who swerved and

stumbled, and in a moment the jampan was overturned down the side of the

_kudd_. The white figure in it was shot out and went rolling down the

rough hillside among the scrub and thorny bushes and broken stakes that

covered it.

The jampannis ran away; and after that one scream of Elma's there was

silence on the dark road.

It seemed to her that she was years rolling and buffeting down that

steep hillside, which happily at that point was not precipitous. Then

something struck her sharply on the side and stopped her farther

progress. She did not faint, though the pain in her side gripped her

breath for a moment. For all her delicate ethereal appearance, she was a

strong girl, and, like many timid people, found courage when a disaster

had really happened. She could not move. She was pinned down among the

short, stiff branches of a thorny shrub; but she screamed again as loud

as she could--not a scream of terror, but a call for help. Then she lay

and listened. All about her there was no sound but the rustling murmur

of the leaves and the tiny, mysterious noises of the little creatures of

the night whose realm she had invaded. Now and again she tried to move

and disentangle herself from the strong branches that held her; but they

pressed her down, the thorns pinned her clothes, and her bruised side

ached with every movement--and she was forced to lie still again and

listen for some sound of the jampannis, who must surely be looking for

her.

Presently, on the road above, there sounded, very faint and far off, the

tramp of shod feet. She called again, and the tramp quickened to a run,

and a man's voice shouted in the distance: "Hullo! Hullo!"

As the steps came nearer above her, she cried again: "Help! I am

here--down the _kudd_."

In the leafy stillness her shrill young voice rang far and clear.

"Where are you?" came the answering voice.

"Down the _kudd_."

The steps stopped on the road above.

"Are you there?" the voice called. "I see something white glimmering."

"I am here," she answered; then, as the bushes crackled above her, she

called a warning: "It is very steep. Be careful."

Very slowly and cautiously the steps came down the steep side of the

_kudd_ to an accompaniment of rolling stones and crashing and tearing

branches, and now and then a muttered exclamation. Then she was aware of

a white face glimmering out of the darkness.

"Are you there?" said the voice again, quite close to her.

"Yes, I am here, but I cannot move; the branches hold me down."

"Wait a moment. I will get a light."

She was lying on her back, and, turning her head a little, she could see

a match struck and the face it illuminated--a strong, dark, clean-shaven

face; a close-cropped, dark, uncovered head. The match was held over her

for a moment, then it went out.

"I see where you are," said the rescuer, "we must try to get you out.

Are you hurt?"

"I have hurt my side, I think," she said.

Without more words he knelt down beside her and began to tear away and

loosen the short, sturdy branches; then he took her under the shoulders,

and drew her slowly along the ground. There was a great rending and

tearing in every direction of her delicate garments; but at last she was

free of the clinging thorns and branches.

"I am afraid the thorns have scratched you a good deal," he said in a

very matter-of-fact voice. "Will you try if you can stand up now? Lean

on me."

Elma scrambled to her feet, and stood leaning against him--a glimmering,

ghostly figure, whose tattered garments were happily hidden by the

darkness.

"Do you think you can manage to climb back to the road now?" he asked;

"there may be snakes about here, you know."

"I will try," said Elma.

"I will go first," he said. "You had better hold on to my coat, I think.

That will leave my hands free to pull us up."

Very slowly and laboriously they clambered back again to the road above;

there was no sign of the jampannis, and the jampan itself had gone over

the _kudd_ and was no more to be seen.

They sat down exhausted on the rising bank on the other side of the

road.

"How did you get here?" he asked.

"My jampan went over the side, down the precipice," said Elma, "and I am

afraid those poor jampannis must have been killed."

The stranger laughed long and loud, and Elma, in the reaction of her

relief, laughed too.

"I have not the slightest idea what you are laughing at," she said.

"You have not been long in this country?" he asked.

"Why?"

"You do not know the jampanni. As soon as the jampan tilted they let go,

and directly they saw you had gone over they ran away. Killed! Well,

that is likely! I daresay they will come back here presently to pick up

the pieces, when they have got over their panic: they are not really

bad-hearted, you know. We will wait a little while and see."

There was silence between them for a few peaceful moments; then Elma

said gently, "I thank you with all my heart."

"Oh, not at all!" said the stranger politely.