Hardly had we left the cave that day, and put off from the shore, ere

cat's-paws began to ruffle the water. They came in from the west, and

before we had got half-way to the distant headland a steady breeze was

blowing. We had hoisted our sail, and were running before it with the

speed of a gull on the wing.

Once round the point, we had a beam wind till we entered the fiord,

then we had to beat to windward all the way home, by which time it was

blowing quite a gale.

It went round more to the north about sunset, and then, for the first

time, we noticed a yacht of small dimensions on the distant horizon. Her

intention appeared to be that of rounding the island, and probably

anchoring on the lee side of it. She was in an ugly position, however,

and we all watched her anxiously till nightfall hid her from our view.

I retired early, but sleep was out of the question, for the wind raged

and howled around the house like wild wolves. About twelve o'clock the

sound of a gun fell on my ears. I could not be mistaken, for the window

rattled in sharp response.

I sprang from my couch and began to dress, and immediately after my aged

relative entered the room. He looked younger and taller than I had seen

him, but very serious.

"The yacht is on the Ba,"[2] he said, solemnly.

[Footnote 2: _Ba_ means a sunken rock.]

They were words to me of fearful significance. The yacht, I knew, must

soon break up, and nothing could save the crew.

I quickly followed my relative into the back drawing-room, where Maggie

was with her mother. We gazed out into the night, out and across the

sea. At the same moment, out there on the terrible Ba, a blue light

sprang up, revealing the yacht and even its people on board. She was

leaning well over to one side, her masts gone, and the spray dashing

over her.

"Come!" cried Maggie, "there is no time to lose. We can guide their boat

to the cave. Come, cousin!"

I felt dazed, thunderstruck. Was I to take active part in a forlorn

hope? Was Maggie--how beautiful and daring she looked now!--to assume

the _role_ of a modern Grace Darling? So it appeared.

The events of that night come back to my memory now as if they had

happened but yesterday. It is a page in my past life that can never be

obliterated.

We pulled out of the fiord, Maggie and I, and up under lee of the

island; then, on rounding the point, we encountered the whole force of

the sea and wind. There was a glimmering light on the wrecked yacht, and

for that we rowed, or rather were borne along on the gale. No boat, save

a Shetland skiff, could have been trusted in such a sea.

As we neared the Ba, steadying herself by leaning on my shoulder, Maggie

stood half up and waved the lantern, and it was answered from the wreck.

Next moment it seemed to me we were on the lee side, and Maggie herself

hailed the shipwrecked people.

"We cannot come nearer!" she cried; "lower your boat and follow our

light closely."

"Take the tiller now," she continued, addressing me, "and steer for the

light you see on the cliff. Keep her well up, though, or all will be

lost."

We waited--and that with difficulty--for a few minutes, till we saw by

the starlight that the yacht's boat was lowered, then away we went.

The light on the cliff-top moved slowly down the wind. I kept the boat's

head a point or two above it, and on she dashed. The rocks loomed black

and high as we neared them, the waves breaking in terrible turmoil

beneath.

Suddenly the light was lowered over the cliff down to the very water's

edge.

"Steady, now!" cried my brave cousin, and next moment we were round a

point and into smooth water, with the yacht's boat close beside us. The

place was partly cave, partly "_noss_." We beached our boats, and here

we remained all night, and were all rescued next morning by a

fisherman's yawl.

The yacht's people were the captain, his wife, and one boy--the whole

crew Norwegians, Brinster by name.

My story is nearly done. What need to tell of the gratitude of those

Maggie's heroism had saved from a watery grave!

But it came to pass that when, a few months afterwards, a beautiful new

yacht came round to the fiord to take those shipwrecked mariners away,

Cousin Maggie went with them on a visit.

It came to pass also that when I paid my very next visit to R---- in the

following summer, I found living at my relative's house a Major Brinster

and a Mrs. Brinster.

And Mrs. Brinster was my Cousin Maggie, and Major Brinster was my Cousin

Maggie's fate.

THE PEDLAR'S PACK.

BY LUCIE E. JACKSON.

Colonel Bingham was seated in his library facing the window that looked

out on to the green sloping lawn, the smiling meadow, and the dark belt

of firs which skirted the wood. There was a frown on his brow, and his

eyes wore a perplexed look. On the opposite side of the room stood a

young girl of seventeen balancing herself adroitly on the ridge of a

chair, and smiling with evident satisfaction at her own achievement.

The colonel was speaking irritably.

"You see, you can't even now sit still while I speak to you, but you

must poise yourself on your chair like a schoolboy. Is it a necessary

part of your existence that you must behave like a boy rather than a

girl?"

Patty hung her head shamefacedly, and the smile left her lips.

"And then, what is this that I hear about a rifle? Is it true that

Captain Palmer has lent you one?"

"Only just to practise with for a few weeks. Dad, don't be angry. He has

a new one, so he doesn't miss it. Why"--warming to her subject and

forgetting for the moment that she was in great danger of still further

disgracing herself in her father's eyes by her confession--"I can hit

even a small object at a very considerable distance five times out of

six."

The perplexed look deepened in her father's eyes, but the irritability

had cleared away. He toyed with the open letter that he held in his

hand. "I suppose it is for this as well as for your other schoolboy

pranks that your aunt has invited only Rose. But I don't like it--it is

not right. If it were not for the unfairness to Rose, I should have

refused outright. As it is, the invitation has been accepted by me, and

it must stand, for Rose must not be deprived of her pleasures because

you like----"

"Invitation! What invitation?" interrupted Patty.

"Your aunt is giving a big ball on the 13th, and she is insistent that

Rose should be present. It will be the child's first ball, and I cannot

gainsay her. But, Patty, I should like you both to go. You are

seventeen, are you not?"

"Seventeen and a half," returned Patty with a little choke in her voice.

It was the first she had heard of the invitation, and it stung her to

think that Lady Glendower thought her too much of a hoyden to invite her

with the sister who was but one year older. Patty was girl enough to

love dancing even above her other amusements, and the unbidden tears

came into her eyes as she stood looking forlornly at her father.

Colonel Bingham coughed, and tapped his writing-desk with the letter.

"Seventeen and a half," he repeated, "quite old enough to go to a ball.

Never mind, Patty, I've a good mind to give a ball myself and leave out

her younger daughter, only that it would be too much like _tu quoque_,

and your aunt has a reason for not extending her invitation here which I

should not have in relation to your cousin Fanny, eh, Patty?"

But Patty's eyes were still humid, and she could only gaze dumbly at her

father with such a pathetic look on her pretty face that Colonel Bingham

could not stand it.

"Look here, child," he said, "why aren't you more like your sister Rose?

Then her pleasures would be always yours----"

"Who's talking about me?" asked a gay voice, and into the room walked

Patty's sister Rose.

"I am. I have been telling Patty about the invitation."

"Poor Patty!" said Rose, and she put her arm sympathetically round

Patty's neck. "Aunt Glendower is most unkind, I think."

"It can't be helped," murmured Patty, choking back the rising sob. "If I

had been born a sweet maiden who did nothing but stitch at fancy-work

all day long perhaps she would have invited me, but I can't give up my

cricket, my riding my horse bare-backed, my shooting, just for the sake

of a ball or two that Aunt Glendower feels inclined to give once a year.

Much as I love dancing, I can't give up all these pleasures for an

occasional dance."

"Rose has pleasures too," said her father quietly, "but they are of the

womanly kind--music, painting, reading, tending flowers."

Rose laughed gaily as Patty turned up her pretty nose scornfully.

"Let Patty alone, dad. You know very well that you would grow tired of

too much sameness if Patty showed the same tastes that I have."

Colonel Bingham glanced fondly at her and then at Patty, whose face, in

spite of her brave words, was still very tearful-looking. He knew that

in his heart he loved his two daughters equally--his "two motherless

girls," as he was wont to call them--and although he belonged to the old

school of those who abhor masculine pursuits for women, yet he felt that

Rose's words were true, and for that very dissimilarity did he love

them.

"Heigho," said Patty, jumping off her chair, "I am not going to grieve

any more. Let's talk of Rose's dress, and when she is going."

"We both start to-morrow."

"To-morrow? And do you go too, dad?"

"Yes, Patty. I have business in town with my lawyer, which I have been

putting off from day to day, but now I feel I shall take the opportunity

of transacting it with him on the occasion of taking Rose up with me.

Besides, I can't let her go to her first ball without being there to see

how she looks."

"And what about the dress?"

"Aunt says she will see to that, so we have to start a few days before

the ball takes place for Celine to get a dress ready for me," said Rose,

looking tenderly at Patty as she spoke, for the two girls loved each

other, and it hurt her to think that Patty must be left behind.

"You won't be nervous, child?" asked her father.

"Nervous, father! dear me, no, a tomboy nervous? Why, I have Mrs.

Tucker, cook, and Fanny to bear me company, and if you take the groom we

shall still have the stable boy," returned Patty triumphantly.

"I am glad you sent away that new coachman, dad," said Rose earnestly.

"I never liked his face, it always looked so sly and sneaking."

"Yes, I am glad too, and we must endeavour to find one when we are in

town, and perhaps bring him back with us, Rose--the place is a lonely

one without a man when I am away." He spoke the last words to himself,

but the girls heard him and laughed. They knew no fear. Why should they?

Nothing had ever come near to harm them during the short years of their

existence in their country home.

Colonel Bingham had of late questioned the wisdom of continuing to live

with his daughters in his beautiful, isolated house. It was three miles

from the nearest village, post-office, and church, and there was not

another habitation within that distance; it was five miles from the

nearest market town. But his heart clung to it. Hadn't he and his bride,

twenty years before, chosen this beautiful spot of all others to build

their house upon and make it their home? Had not his wife loved every

nook and cranny, every stick and stone of the home they had beautified

within and without? And therein lay the colonel's two chief objections

to leaving the place--it was beautiful--and--his wife had loved it.

So did his daughters too, for that matter; but they were growing up, and

newer scenes and livelier surroundings were now needed for them. The

colonel often caught himself pondering over the matter, and one of the

reasons for his wishing to visit his sister was that of laying the

matter open before her, and hearing her opinion from her own lips.

At an early hour the next morning Colonel Bingham, Rose, and the groom,

with two of the horses, had left the house.

There was nothing to alarm Patty. The beautiful home with its peaceful

surroundings was perfectly quiet for the two days that followed, and if

Patty, in spite of her brave heart, had felt any qualms of fear, they

had vanished on the morning of the third day, which dawned so

brilliantly bright that she was eager to take her rifle and begin

practising at the target she herself had set up at the end of the short

wood to the left of the house.

Meanwhile, the housekeeper had set both maids to work in turning out

several unused rooms, and a great amount of brisk work was going on. The

trim housemaid, Fanny, who was the housekeeper's niece, had come down

the back stairs with an armful of carpets, and had brushed into the

flagged yard before she noticed a pedlar-like-looking man standing

before the back door with a pack upon his back.

"What do you do here?" she called out sharply.

The man appeared weighted down with his bundle, which looked to Fanny's

eyes a good deal bigger than most of the pedlars' packs that she had

seen.

"I am on my way through the country-side selling what maids most love--a

bit of ribbon, a tie, a good serviceable apron, a feather for the hat,

and many a pretty gown; but on my way from the village I met a friend

from my own part of the country, which is not in this county, but two

counties up north, who tells me that my wife is lying dangerously ill.

If I wish to see her alive I must needs travel fast, and a man can

scarce do that with as heavy a pack on his back as I bear. What I

venture to ask most respectfully is that I may place my pack in one

corner of this house, and I will return to fetch it as soon as ever I

can."

He gave a furtive dab to his eyes with the corner of a blue-checked

handkerchief he held in one hand, and hoisted his bundle up higher with

apparent difficulty.

Fanny looked gravely at him "Why didn't you leave your pack at the

village inn?" was all she said.

"I would have done so had I met my friend before leaving the village,

but I met him just at the entrance to the wood, and it seemed hopeless

to trudge all that way back with not only a heavy burden to bear, but a

still heavier heart."

He sighed miserably as he spoke, and Fanny's soft heart was touched.

The man spoke well--better than many pedlars that Fanny had met with,

and his tone was respectful, albeit very pleading. Fanny's heart was

growing softer and softer. He looked faint and weary himself, she

thought, and oh! so very sad----

"Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? Ain't those carpets finished yet?"

The housekeeper's voice sounded sharply at the top of the back

staircase.

The pedlar looked scared. Fanny beckoned him with one finger to follow

her.

"Coming, aunt," she called back. And, still silently beckoning, she

conducted the pedlar into the small breakfast-room.

"Put it down in this corner," she said, "and come for it as soon as you

can."

"May I beg that it will remain untouched," said the pedlar humbly. "It

contains many valuables--at least to me--for it comprises nearly all

that I possess in the world."

"No one will touch it in here, for this room is never used."

"I cannot thank you enough for your compassion----" began the pedlar,

when the sharp voice was heard again.

"Fanny, cook's waitin' for you to help her move some things. Are you

comin' or not?"

"Coming now," was Fanny's answer, and, shutting the breakfast-room door,

she hustled the pedlar out into the flagged yard without ceremony.

With a deferential lifting of his cap the pedlar again murmured his

grateful thanks, and made his way out the way he had come in. Fanny

waited to lock the yard gate after him, murmuring to herself: "That

gate didn't ought to have been left open--it's just like that lazy boy

Sam to think that now Britton's gone off with the horses he can do as he

likes."

It was not until the furniture in the room had been moved about to her

satisfaction that the housekeeper demanded to know the reason for

Fanny's delay downstairs.

"It isn't cook's business to be waitin' about for you," she said

sharply, "she's got her other duties to perform. What kept you?"

Then Fanny told what had caused the delay, and was aghast at the effect

it produced upon her aunt.

"I wouldn't have had it happen just now for all my year's wages," the

housekeeper exclaimed hotly. "What do we know about the man and his

pack?"

"He looked so white and quiet-like, and so sad," pleaded her niece half

tearfully.

"That's nothin' to us. I promised the master before he went away that I

wouldn't let a strange foot pass over the doorway while he was away. And

here you--a mere chit of a housemaid--go, without sayin', 'With your

leave,' or, 'By your leave,' and let a dirty pedlar with his pack

straight into the breakfast-room. He's sure to have scented the silver

lyin' on the sideboard for cleanin' this afternoon. If I didn't think

he'd gone a long way from here by this I would send you after him to

tell him to take it away again."

Having delivered herself of this long, explosive speech, the housekeeper

proceeded in the direction of the breakfast-room to review the pack, and

Fanny and the cook followed in her wake.

"As I thought," she ejaculated, eyeing the pack from the doorway, "a

dirty pedlar's smellin' pack." But the tone of her voice was mollified,

for the pack looked innocent enough, although it was somewhat bulky and

unwieldy in appearance.

Her niece took heart of grace from her tone, and murmured

apologetically:

"He's got the loveliest things in that bundle that ever you'd see,

aunt. Feathers, ribbons, dresses, aprons, and he'll unpack them all when

he comes back to let us see them."

"A pack o' tawdry rubbish, I have no doubt," was her aunt's reply; "only

fit for flighty young girls, not for gentlemen's servants."

Thus silenced, Fanny said no more, and the three women betook themselves

to their different occupations.

After half an hour's work her girlish glee was still unabated, and on

passing the door of the breakfast-room mere curious elation impelled her

to open it softly and to look in. A perplexed look stole into her eyes

as they rested on the black object in the corner. It was there sure

enough, safe and sound, but had it not been shifted from the corner in

which the pedlar had placed it, and in which her aunt had seen it in

company with herself and the cook? No, that was impossible. She had only

fancied that it was right in the corner, and Fanny softly shut the door

again without making a sound, and went on with her daily duties.

This time her aunt employed her, and she was not free again till another

two hours had passed. It was now close on the luncheon hour, and Fanny

thought she would just take one little peep before setting the

luncheon-table for the young mistress who would come home as usual as

hungry as a hunter.

Gently she turned the handle, and stood upon the threshold. Her eyes

grew fixed and staring, her cheek blanched to a chalky white. Without

all doubt--_the pack had moved_!

Fanny stood rooted to the spot. Wild, strange ideas flitted through her

brain. There was something uncanny in this pack. Was it bewitched? She

dared not call her aunt or the cook: she was in disgrace with both, and

no wonder, the poor girl thought miserably, for the very sight now of

that uncouth-looking object in the corner was beginning to assume

hideous proportions in the girl's mind. She must watch and wait, and

wait and watch for every sign that the pack made, but oh! the agony of

bearing that uncanny secret alone! Oh for some one to share it with

her!

A figure darkened the window of the breakfast-room, and Fanny caught

sight of her young mistress's form as it passed with the rifle over her

shoulder.

With a soft step she left the room, and intercepted her on the other

side of the verandah. "Miss Patty," she whispered miserably.

Patty turned, her pretty face lighting up with a good-humoured smile as

she nodded and said, "Luncheon ready, Fanny? I am simply ravenous."

"Ye-es, I think so, miss. But oh! miss, I want to speak to you badly."

Fatty came forward with the smile still on her lips. "Has Mrs. Tucker

been scolding you dreadfully, you poor Fanny?"

"Then she's told you?" gasped the girl.

"She's told me nothing. I haven't seen her, but you look so woebegone

that I thought she had been having a pitch battle with you for

neglecting something or other, and you wanted me to get you out of the

scrape."

Fanny groaned inwardly. No, her aunt had said nothing, and she must

brace herself up, and tell the whole story from beginning to end. The

beginning, she began to think, was not so dreadful as the end. Oh that

she could dare to disbelieve her eyes, and declare that there was no

end--no awful, uncanny end!

At length, in the quiet of the verandah, the story was told, and Fanny's

heart misgave her more and more as she observed the exceeding gravity of

her young mistress's bright face as the story neared its finish. When

the finish did come, Patty's face was more than grave; the weight of

responsibility was on her, and to young, unused shoulders that weight is

particularly difficult to bear.

"Come and show me where it is," was the only remark she made, but Fanny

noticed that the red lips had lost some of their bright colour, and the

pink in the soft cheeks was of a fainter tinge than when she had first

seen her.

Without making the slightest sound, without one click of the handle,

Fanny opened the door, and Patty looked in. Her courage came back with

a bound. Fanny was a goose, there was nothing to be alarmed about.

She looked up to smile encouragingly at Fanny, when the smile froze on

her lips, for Fanny's face was livid. Without a word she beckoned her

young mistress out of the room, and as softly as before closed the door.

Then, turning to her, she whispered through her set teeth:

"_It has moved again!_"

A cold shiver ran down through Patty's spine, but she was no girl to be

frightened by the superstitious fancies of an ignorant serving maid.

"Nonsense, Fanny!" she said sharply, "you are growing quite crazed over

that stupid pack. I saw nothing unusual in it, it looked innocent enough

in all conscience."

"You never saw it move," was the answer, given in such a lifeless tone

that Patty was chilled again.

"I'll tell you what, Fanny. I'll go in after luncheon, and see if it has

moved from the place I saw it in."

"Did you notice the place well where it stood?" asked Fanny.

"Yes," replied Patty, "I'd know if it moved again. Don't tell Mrs.

Tucker or cook anything about it. You and I will try to checkmate that

pack if there is anything uncanny in it. Now tell cook I am ready for

luncheon if she is."

But when the luncheon came on the table Patty had lost all hunger. She

merely nibbled at trifles till Fanny came to clear away.

"I'm going to that room," she whispered. "If Mrs. Tucker should want me,

or perhaps Sam might, for I told him I was going to see how well he had

cleaned the harness that I found in the loft, then you must come in

quietly and beckon me out. Don't let any one know I am watching that

pack."

"Yes, miss," was Fanny's answer, given so hopelessly that Patty put a

kind hand on her shoulder with the words:

"Cheer up, Fanny. I don't believe it's so bad as you make out. It is my

belief you have imagined that the pack moved."

"It isn't my fancy, it isn't," cried the girl, the tears starting to her

eyes. "If anything dreadful happens, then it is me that has injured the

master--the best master that a poor girl could have." And with her apron

to her eyes Fanny left the room.

She came back a minute later to see Patty examining the priming of her

rifle. "Miss Patty," she whispered aghast, "you ain't never going to

shoot at it!"

"I am going to sit in that room all the afternoon," said Patty calmly,

"and if that pack moves while my eyes are on it I'll fire into that pack

even if by so doing I riddle every garment in it." And without another

word Patty stalked out of the room with her rifle on her shoulder.

At the door of the breakfast-room she set her teeth hard, and opened the

door.

_The pack had moved since she saw it._

It was with a face destitute of all colour that Patty seated herself

upon the table to mount guard over that black object now lying several

yards away from the corner. Her eyes were glued to the bundle; they grew

large and glassy, and a film seemed to come over them as she gazed,

without daring even to wink. How the minutes passed--if they revolved

themselves into half hours--she did not know. No one called her, no one

approached the door, she sat on with one fixed stare at the pedlar's

pack.

Was she dreaming? Was it fancy? No, the pack was moving! Slowly, very

slowly it crept--it could hardly be called moving, and Patty watched it

fascinated. Then it stopped, and Patty, creeping nearer, stood over it,

and watched more closely. Something was breathing inside! Something

inside that pack was alive! Patty could now clearly see the movement

that each respiration made. She had made up her mind, and now she took

her courage in both hands.

She retreated softly to the opposite side of the room, and raising the

rifle to her shoulder fired.

There was a loud, a deafening report, a shrill scream, and a stream of

blood trickled forth from the pack. Fanny was in the room crying

hysterically, Mrs. Tucker and cook were looking over her shoulder with

blanched faces.

Patty, with her face not one whit less white than any of the others,

laid the smoking rifle on the table, and spoke with a tremulousness not

usual to her.

"Mrs. Tucker, some vile plot has been hatched to rob this house while

your master is away. That pack doesn't hold finery as Fanny was at first

led to believe, but it holds a man, and I have shot him."

With trembling hands and colourless lips Mrs. Tucker, with the help of

her maids, cut away the oilcloth that bound the pack together, and

disclosed the face of a short sturdy man, it was the face of the late

coachman, Timothy Smith! With one voice they cried aloud as they saw it.

"Dead! Is he dead?" cried Patty, shuddering and covering her face with

her hands. "Oh, Mrs. Tucker, and it is I who have killed him!"

A groan from the prostrate figure reassured the party as to the fatality

of the adventure, and aroused in them a sense of the necessity of doing

what they could to relieve the sufferings of their prostrate enemy.

The huddled-up position occupied by the man when in the pack made him,

of course, a good target, and made it possible for a single shot to do

much more mischief than it might have done in passing once through any

single part of his body. It was, of course, a random shot, and entering

the pack vertically as the man was crouching with his hands upon his

knees, it passed through his right arm and left hand and lodged in his

left knee, thus completely disabling him without touching a vital part.

With some difficulty they managed to get the wounded man on to a chair

bedstead which they brought from the housekeeper's room for the purpose,

and such "first aid" as Patty was able to render was quickly given.

"And now," said Patty, "the question is, who will ride Black Bess to the

village and procure help, for we must have help for the wounded as well

as aid against the ruffians who no doubt intend to raid the house

to-night."

"Sam, miss?" questioned the housekeeper timidly. All her nerve seemed to

have departed from her since the report of that shot had rung through

the house, and there was Timothy Smith's face staring up at her. Usually

a stout-hearted woman, all her courage had deserted her now.

"Yes," said Patty gravely, "I think we shall have to take Sam into our

confidence, unless I go myself. Perhaps, Mrs. Tucker, I had better go

myself. Sam is only a boy, and he might be tempted to tell the story to

everybody he met, and if the thieves themselves get wind of what has

happened we shall have small chance of ever catching them. Would you be

afraid if I rode off at once?"

Without any false pride the young girl saw how much depended on her, and

saw too the blanched faces of the two women as they looked in turn at

each other at the thought of their sole protector vanishing.

But it was only for a minute. Mrs. Tucker shook off with a courageous

firmness the last remnant of nervousness that possessed her.

"Go, and the Lord go with you, Miss Patty," she said.

* * * * *

As she rode along through the quiet country lanes smelling sweet of the

honeysuckle in the hedge and the wild dog-rose bursting into bloom,

Patty's thoughts travelled fast and furiously, every whit as fast as

Black Bess's hasty steps. Should she draw bridle at the village? No. She

made up her mind quickly at that. In all probability the would-be

thieves had made the village inn their headquarters for that day and

night, and the pedlar--the man she wished most to avoid--would be the

very person she would encounter. The village was small. Only one

policeman patrolled the narrow-street, and that only occasionally, and

how quickly would the news fly from mouth to mouth that a would-be

robbery had been detected in time to save Colonel Bingham's valuable

silver!

No, the pedlar would not be allowed to escape in that way if she could

help it. Every step of the five miles to the town of Frampton would she

ride, and draw help from there.

As she neared the village she walked her horse at a quiet pace, albeit

her brain was throbbing, and her nerves all in a quiver to go faster.

She nodded smilingly to the familiar faces as she met them in the

street, although she felt very far from smiling, and everywhere she

seemed to see the face of Timothy Smith. Then her heart gave a bound as

she saw, leaning against the wicket-gate of the village inn, three

men--two with the most villainous faces she had ever seen, and the third

bore the face of the man that Fanny had described as the pedlar. She was

not mistaken, then, when she thought they would make this their

headquarters.

She drew bridle as she neared the inn. Her quick brain saw the necessity

of it, if but to explain her presence there.

"Will you be so good as to ask the landlady to come out to me?" she

asked, with a gracious smile--the smile that the villagers always said

was "Miss Patty's own."

The pedlar lifted his cap with the same air that Fanny had so accurately

described, and himself undertook to go upon the mission.

"Bless you, Miss Patty," exclaimed the buxom landlady as she came out,

curtseying and smiling, followed in a leisurely manner by the pedlar,

"where be you a-ridin' that Black Bess be so hot and foam-like about the

mouth?"

Patty stooped forward and patted her horse's neck, fully aware that

three pairs of ears at the wicket-gate were being strained to catch her

answer.

"It is too bad of me to ride her so fast, Mrs. Clark. The fact of the

matter is I ought to be at Miss Price's this moment for tennis and tea,

but I am late, and have been trying to make up for lost time. However, I

must not breathe Black Bess too much, must I, or else I shall not be

allowed to ride her again?" and Patty smiled her bewitching smile,

which always captivated the heart of the landlady of the Roaring Lion.

An order for supplies for the servants' cellar, given in a firm voice,

justified her appearance in the village and satisfied the eager

listeners as to the object of her visit, after which, with a nod and a

smile, Patty rode onwards.

Not till she was out of sight and hearing of the village did she urge

Black Bess to the top of her bent, and they flew onwards like the wind.

Thud, thud, thud went the horse's hoofs, keeping time to the beating of

Patty's heart as she recalled again and again the villainous faces

leaning over the wicket-gate.

Even Black Bess seemed to realise the importance of her mission and it

was not long before Patty's heart grew lighter as she caught sight not

very far off of the spire of Trinity Church, and the turreted roof of

the Town Hall of Frampton. Reaching the town she drew rein at Major

Price's house, where, with bated breath, her story was received by the

major and his two grown-up sons. A message was sent to the police

station, and in a short while two burly sergeants of police presented

themselves, to whom Patty repeated her tale.

Arrangements were soon made. A surgeon was sent for and engaged to drive

over with the police.

"They rascals won't break in till darkness falls, miss," said one of the

men. "But we'll start at once in a trap. Better be too early than too

late."

The Prices would not hear of Patty riding Black Bess back. They

themselves would drive her home in the high dog-cart, and Black Bess

would be left behind to forget her fatigue in Major Price's comfortable

stables.

Of course they didn't go the way that Patty had come. It would never

have done to go through the village and meet those same ruffians, who

would have understood the position in the twinkling of an eye. Instead,

they took a roundabout way, which, although it took an extra half hour,

brought them through the wood on the other side of Colonel Bingham's

house.

"It is lonely--too lonely a place," muttered Major Price, as the two

conveyances swung round to the front of the house.

"But it's lovely, and we love it," answered Patty softly.

Then the door was opened cautiously by Sam, and behind him were the

huddled figures of Mrs. Tucker, cook, and Fanny. What a sigh of relief

ran through the assembly when the burly forms of the two policeman made

their appearance in the hall! And tears of real thankfulness sprang to

poor Fanny's eyes, whose red rims told their own tale.

Poor Patty's heart beat painfully as she conducted the six men to the

breakfast-room where the wounded coachman lay. She stood with averted

face and eyes as they bent over him, twining and re-twining her fingers

with nervous terror as she thought that it was her hand that had perhaps

killed him.

"Ah! this tells something," exclaimed one of the officers in uniform,

detaching as he spoke a small whistle fastened round the neck of the man

who lay all unconscious of that official attention. "This was to give

the alarm when all in the house were asleep. We shall use this when the

time comes to attract the men here."

Beyond the discovery of the whistle, and a revolver, nothing more of

importance was found, and all caught themselves wishing for the time for

action to arrive.

The surgeon dressed the man's wounds and declared him to be in no

immediate danger, after which they carried him upstairs to a remote

room, where it would be quite impossible for him to give any warning to

his confederates, even if he should have the strength.

The hour came at last when poor Patty felt worn out with suspense and

fearful anxiety; came, when Mrs. Tucker and her two maids were strung up

to an almost hysterical pitch of excitement; came, when Sam was

beginning to look absolutely hollow-eyed with watching every movement of

the police with admiring yet fearful glances.

It was twelve o'clock. The grandfather's clock on the stairs had struck

the hour in company with several silvery chimes about the house, making

music when all else was still as death.

Up to that time the sky had been dark and lowering, causing darkness to

reign supreme, till the full moon, suddenly emerging from the heavy

flying clouds, lighted up the house and its surroundings with its

refulgent beams. Then suddenly throughout the silent night there rang

forth a low, soft, piercing whistle. Only once it sounded, and then dead

silence fell again. The wounded man started in his bed, but he could not

raise his hand, and the whistle was gone.

The eyes of the women watchers looked at each other with faces weary and

worn with anxiety and fear.

Then another sound broke the stillness. Another whistle--an answering

call to the one that had rung forth before! It had the effect of

startling every one in the house, for it came from under the very window

of the room in which they were gathered.

With an upraised finger, cautioning silence, the sergeant stepped to the

window and raised it softly.

"Hist!" he said in a thrilling whisper, without showing himself, "the

lib'ry winder."

He softly closed the casement again, having discerned in that brief

moment the moonlit shadows of three men lying athwart the lawn.

In stockinged feet the five men slid noiselessly into the library where

the Venetians had been so lowered as to prevent the silvery moonrays

from penetrating into the room. Placing the three gentlemen in

convenient places should their assistance be needed, one of the men in

uniform pushed aside the French window which he had previously

unfastened to be in readiness.

"Hist! softly there," he growled; "the swag is ours."

With a barely concealed grunt of satisfaction the window was pushed

farther open, and the forms of three men made their way into the room.

With lightning-like celerity the arms of the first man were pinioned,

and when the others turned to fly they found their egress cut off by the

three Prices, who stood pointing menacing revolvers at them.

"The game's up!" growled the sham pedlar. "Who blabbed?"

"Not Timothy Smith," said the elder sergeant lightly, as he adroitly

fastened the handcuffs on his man.

"What's come of him?"

"He's in bed, as all decent people ought to be at this time o'night,"

and the sergeant laughed at his own wit.

The police carried their men off in triumph in the trap, and the wiry

little pony, rejoiced to find his head turned homewards, trotted on

right merrily, requiring neither whip nor word to urge him on to express

speed, in total ignorance of the vindictive feelings that animated the

breasts of three at least of the men seated behind him.

Major Price and his two sons remained till the morning, for Patty had

broken down when all was over, and then a telegram summoned Colonel

Bingham to return.

"I am not exactly surprised," he said at length, when he had heard the

story; "something like this was bound to occur one day or other, and I

cannot be too thankful that nothing has happened to injure my dear brave

girl, or any of the household. Patty, I have felt so convinced of

something dreadful happening during one of my unavoidable absences from

home that I have made arrangements with an old friend of mine in town to

lease this place to him for three years."

"And when does he come?" asked Patty breathlessly.

"Next month. He is going to make it a fishing- and shooting-box, and

have bachelor friends to stay with him. So, my dear, we all clear out in

a month's time."

Patty gave a long-drawn sigh. Her father did not know whether it was one

of pleasure or regret.

"We can come back if we like after the three years," he whispered.

"I am glad we are going just now," she whispered back. "That pedlar's

eyes haunt me, and they are all desperate men."

These words were sufficient to make Colonel Bingham hurry on his

arrangements, so that before three weeks were over he and his whole

household were on their way to their new home.

As they got out of the train Colonel Bingham turned to Patty. "You and I

will drive to Lady Glendower's, where we shall stay the night."

"Oh, dad, darling dad, don't take me there. Aunt Glendower won't like a

hoyden to visit her."

"She will like to welcome a brave girl," answered her father quietly.

But as Patty still shrank away from the thought he added:

"I have told her all that has happened, and she herself wrote asking me

to bring you, and I promised I would."

Rose met her with soft, clinging kisses, and then Lady Glendower folded

her in an embrace such as Patty had not thought her capable of giving.

"I am proud of my brave niece," she whispered. "Patty, go upstairs with

Rose, and get Celine to measure you for your ball-dress. I am going to

give another ball next month, and you are to be the heroine."

Under skilful treatment Timothy Smith recovered his usual health, though

the injury to his hand and knee made him a cripple for the rest of his

life. The trial was another terrible experience for Patty, and Fanny

thought she would have died when she saw the prisoners stand forward in

the dock to receive sentence. "Five years' penal servitude," said the

judge, and Patty sometimes shudders to think that the five years are

nearly up.

THE UNBIDDEN GUEST.

BY F. B. FORESTER.

"No, sir," the old keeper said reflectively. "I don't know no ghost

stories; none as you'd care to hear, that is. But I could tell you of

something that happened in these parts once, and it was as strange a

thing as any ghost story I ever heard tell on."

I had spent the morning on the moor, grouse shooting, and mid-day had

brought me for an hour's welcome rest to the lonely cottage, where the

old superannuated keeper, father to the stalwart velvet-jacketed

Hercules who had acted as my guide throughout the forenoon, lived from

year's end to year's end with his son and half-a-dozen dogs for company.

The level beams of the glowing August sun bathed in a golden glow the

miles of purple moorland lying round us; air and scenery were good to

breathe and to look on; and now, as the three of us sat on a turf seat

outside the cottage door enjoying the soft sleepy inaction of the

afternoon, a question of mine concerning the folk-lore of the district,

after which, hardened materialist though I called myself, I was

conscious of a secret hankering, had drawn the foregoing remark from the

patriarchal lips.

"Let's hear it, by all means," said I, lighting my pipe and settling

myself preparatory to listening. A slight grunt, resembling a stifled

laugh, came from Ben the keeper.

"You'll have to mind, sir," he put in, a twinkle in his eye. "Dad

believes what he's agoing to tell you, every word of it. It's gospel

truth to him."

"Ay, that I do," responded the old man warmly. "And why shouldn't I?

Didn't I see it with my own eyes? And seein's believin', ain't it?"

"You arouse my curiosity," I said. "Let us have the story by all means,

and if it is a personal experience, so much the better."

"Well, sir," began the old man, evidently gratified by these signs of

interest, and casting a triumphant glance at his son, "what I've got to

tell you don't belong to this time of day, of course. When I says I was

a little chap of six years old or thereabouts, and that I'll be

eighty-five come Michaelmas, you'll understand that it must have been a

tidy sight of years ago.

"Father, he was keeper on these moors here, same as his son's been after

him, and as _his_ son"--with a glance of fatherly pride at the stalwart

young fellow beside him--"is now, and will be for many years to come,

please God. Him and mother and me, the three of us, lived together in

just such another cottage as this one, across t'other side of the moor,

out Farnington way. The railway runs past there now, over the very place

the cottage stood on, I believe; but no one so much as dreamt o'

railways, time I talk on. Not a road was near, and all around there was

nothin' but the moors stretching away for miles, all purple ling and

heather, with not a living soul nearer than Wharton, and that was a good

twelve miles away. It was pretty lonely for mother, o' course, during

the day; but she was a brave woman, and when dad come home at night,

never a word would she let on to tell him how right down scared she got

at times and how mortally sick she felt of hearing the sound of her own

voice.

"'Been pretty quiet for you, Polly?' dad would say at night sometimes,

when the three of us would be sitting round the fire, with the flame

dancing and shining on the wall and making black shadows in all the

corners.

"'Ye-es, so, so,' mother would answer, kind of grudging like, and then

she'd start telling him what she'd been about all day, or something as

I'd said or done, so as to turn his attention, you see, sir. And as a

woman can gen'rally lead a man off on whatever trail she likes to get

his nose on dad would never think no more about it; and as for mother

and me being that lonely, when he and the dogs were all away, why, I

don't suppose the thought of it ever entered his head. So, what with her

never complaining, and that, dad grew easier in his mind, and once or

twice, when he'd be away at the Castle late in the afternoon, he'd even

stay there overnight.

"Well, sir, one day when dad comes home to get his dinner he tells

mother as how there's a lot of gentlemen come down from London for the

shooting, and as he'd got orders to be on hand bright and early next

morning,--the meaning of that being that he'd have to spend the night at

the Castle. Mother didn't say much; 'twasn't her way to carry on when

she knew a thing couldn't be helped, and dad went on talking.

"'To-morrow's quarter-day, Polly, and you've got our rent all right for

the agent when he comes. Put this along wi' it, lass, it's Tom Regan's,

and he's asked me to hand it over for him and save the miles of

walking.'

"I don't know what come to mother, whether something warned her, or

what, but she give a sort of jump as dad spoke.

"'Oh, Jim,' says she, all in a twitter, 'you're never going to leave all

that money here, and you away, and the child and me all alone. Can't

you--can't you leave one of the dogs?'

"Dad stared at her. 'No,' he says, 'I can't, more's the pity. They're

all wanted to-morrow, and I've sent them on to the Castle. Why, Polly,

lass, what's come to you? I've never known you take on like this

before.'

"Then mother, seeing how troubled and uneasy he looked, plucked up heart

and told him, trying to laugh, never to mind her--she had only been

feeling a bit low, and it made her timid like. But dad didn't laugh in

answer, only said very grave that if he'd ha' known she felt that way,

he'd have took good care she wasn't ever left alone overnight. This

should be the last time, he'd see to that, and anyhow he'd take the

rent money with him and wouldn't leave it to trouble her. Then he kissed

her, and kissed me, and went off, striding away over the moors towards

Farnington--the sunset way I called it, 'cause the sun set over there;

and I can see him big and tall like Ben here, moving away among the

heather till we lost him at the dip of the moor. And I mind how, just

before we saw no more of him, he pulled up and looked back, as if

mother's words stuck to him, somehow, and he couldn't get them out of

his mind.

"Mother seemed queer and anxious all that afternoon. Long before dusk

she called me in from playing in the bit of garden in front of the door,

and shut and barred it closely, not so much as letting me stand outside

to watch the sunset, as I always liked to do. It was getting dark

already, the shadows had begun to fall black and gloomy all round the

cottage, and the fire was sending queer dancing gleams flickering up the

wall, when I hears a queer, scratching, whining noise at the door.

"Mother was putting out the tea-cups, and she didn't hear it at first.

But I, sitting in front of the fire, heard it well enough, and I tumbled

off my stool and ran to the door to get it open, for I thought I knew

what it was. But mother had pulled the bar across at the top and I

couldn't stir it.

"'There's something at the door that wants to come in,' I says, pulling

at it.

"'There ain't nothing of the sort,' says mother shortly, and goes on

putting out the tea. 'Let the door alone.'

"'Yes, there is,' I says. 'It's a dog. It's Nip, or Juno,' meaning the

brace of pointers that dad had usually in the kennels outside.

"Then mother, thinking that perhaps dad had found that one of the dogs

could be spared after all, and had told it to go home, went to the door

and opened it. I had been right and wrong too, for on the doorstep there

was a large black dog.

"My word! but he was a beautiful creature, sir, the finest dog I ever

set eyes on. Like a setter in the make of him, but no setter that ever

I saw could match him for size or looks. His coat was jet-black, as

glossy as the skin of a thoroughbred, with just one streak of white

showing down the breast, and his eyes--well, they were the very

humanest, sir, that ever I see looking out of a dog's face.

"Now mother, although she had expected to find a dog outside, hadn't

dreamt of anything except one of ourn, and she made like to shut the

door on him. But the creature was too quick for her. He had pushed his

head through before she knew it, and she scarcely saw how, or even felt

the door press against her when he had slipped past and was in the room.

"Mother was used to dogs, and hadn't no fear of them, but she didn't

altogether like strange ones, you see, sir, me being such a child and

all; and her first thought was to put the creature out. So she pulled

the door wide open and pointed to it, stamping her foot and saying, 'Be

off! Go-home.'

"It was all very well to say that, but the dog wouldn't go. Not a step

would he budge, but only stood there, wagging his tail and looking at

her with them beautiful eyes of his, as were the biggest and

beautifullest and softest I ever see in dog before or since. She took up

a stick then, but his eyes were that imploring that she hadn't the heart

to use it; and at last, for the odd kind of uneasiness that had hung

about her ever since dad had gone was on her still, and the dog was a

dog and meant protection whatever else it might be, she shut the door,

barred it across, and said to me that we would let it stop.

"I was delighted, of course, and wanted to make friends at once; but the

queer thing was that the dog wouldn't let me touch him. He ran round

under the table and lay down in a corner of the room, looking at me with

his big soft eyes and wagging his tail, but never coming no nearer.

Mother put down some water, and he lapped a little, but he only sniffed

at a bone she threw him and didn't touch it.

"It was quite dark by this time, and mother lit a candle and set it on

the table to see to have tea by. Afterwards she took her knitting and

sat down by the fire, and I leaned against her, nodding and half asleep.

The dog lay in the corner farthest from us, between the fireplace and

the wall; and I'd forgotten altogether about him, when mother looks up

sudden. 'Bless me,' says she, 'how bright the fire do catch the wall

to-night. I haven't dropped a spark over there, surely!' And up she gets

and crosses over to t'other side to where the firelight was dancing and

flickering on the cottage wall.

"Now, sir, whether it was no more than just the light catching them,

mind you, I can't say. I only know that as mother come to the corner

where that dog was a-lying, and he lifted his head and looked at her,

his eyes were a-shining with a queer lamping sort of light, that seemed

to make the place bright all round him. But it wasn't till afterwards

that she thought of it, for at that moment there came a sudden sharp

knock at the door.

"My eye! how mother jumped; and I see her face turn white. For in that

lonely out-of-the-way place we never looked for visitors after dark, nor

in the day time, many of 'em; and the sound of this knock now give her

quite a turn. Presently there come a faint voice from outside, asking

for a crust of bread.

"Mother didn't stir for a moment, for the notion of unbarring the door

went against her. The knock come a second time.

"'For pity's sake--for the sake of the child,' the voice said again,

pleading like.

"Now, mother was terrible soft-hearted, sir, wherever children were

concerned, and the mention of a child went straight home to her heart. I

see her glance at me, and I knowed the thought passing through her mind,

as after a moment's pause she got up, stepped across the room and

unbarred the door. On the step outside stood a woman with a baby in her

arms.

"Her voice had sounded faint-like, but there was nothing in the

fainting line about her when she had got inside, for she come inside

quick enough the moment mother had unbarred the door. She looked like a

gipsy, for her face was dark and swarthy, and the shawl round her head

hid a'most all but the wild gleam of her eyes; and all the time she kep'

on rock, rocking that child in her arms until I reckon she must have

rocked all the crying out of it, for never a word come from its lips.

She sat down where mother pointed, and took the food she was given, but

she offered nothing to the child. It was asleep, she said, when mother

wanted to look at it.

"Yes, she was a gipsy, and on the tramp across the moor she had missed

her way in the fog; for there was a heavy fog coming up. 'How far was it

to Farnington? Twelve miles? She'd be thankful to sit and rest by the

fire a bit, then, if mother would let her.' And without waiting for yes

or no, she turned round and put the child out of her arms down on the

settle at her back. Then she swung round again and sat staring with her

black eyes at the fire. I was sat on my stool opposite, and, child-like,

I never so much as took my eyes off her, wondering at her gaunt make,

the big feet in the clumsy men's boots that showed beneath her skirts,

and the lean powerful hands lying in her lap. Seems she didn't

altogether like me watching her, for after a bit she turns on me and

asks:

"'What are you staring at, you brat?'

"'Nothin',' says I.

"'Then if you wants to look at nothin',' says she with a short laugh,

'you can go and stare at the kiddy there, not at me.' And she jerked her

head towards the settle, where the baby was a-lying.

"'Ah, poor little thing,' says mother, getting up, 'it don't seem

natural for it to lie there that quiet. I'll bring it to the fire and

warm it a drop o' milk.'

"She bent down over the baby and was just about to take it in her arms,

when she give a scream that startled me off my stool, and stood up, her

face as white as death. For it was nothing but a shawl or two rolled

round something stiff and heavy as was lying on the settle, and no child

at all.

"I was a-looking at mother, and I had no eyes for the woman until I see

mother's face change and an awful look of fear come over it. And when I

turned to see what she was staring at with them wild eyes, the woman had

flung off her shawl and the wrap she wore round her head, and was stood

up with a horrid, mocking smile on his face. For it was no woman, sir,

as you'll have guessed, but a man.

"'Well, mistress,' he says, coming forward a pace or two, 'I didn't mean

to let the cat out of the bag so soon; but what's done's done. There's a

little trifle of rent-money put by for the agent, as I've taken a fancy

to; and that's what's brought me here. If you hand it over quietly, so

much the better for you; if not.... I'm not one to stick at trifles;

I've come for that money, and have it I will.'

"'I have not got it,' mother said, plucking up what heart she could, and

speaking through her white and trembling lips.

"'That don't go down with me,' said the fellow with an oath. 'I didn't

sleep under the lee of Tom Regan's hayrick for nothin' last night, and I

heard every word that was spoken between him and your Jim. You'd better

tell me where you've got it stowed, or you'll be sorry for it. You're a

woman, mind you, and alone.'

"Mother's lips went whiter than ever, but she said never a word. I had

begun to cry.

"'Hold your row, you snivelling brat,' the fellow said with a curse.

'Come, mistress, you'd best not try my patience too long.'

"Now, mother was a brave woman, as I've said, and I don't believe, if

the money had been left in her charge, as she'd have given it up tamely

and without so much as a word. But of course, as things were, she could

do no more than say, over and over again, as she hadn't got it. Then the

brute began to threaten her, with threats that made her blood run cold;

for she was only a woman, sir, and alone, except for me, a child as

could do nothing in the way of help. With a last horrid threat on his

lips the fellow turned towards the settle--there was a pistol hid in the

clothes of the sham baby we found out afterwards--when he was stopped by

something as come soft and noiseless out of the corner beyond and got

right in his way. I see what it was after a minute. Between him and the

settle where the pistol was lying there was standing that dog.

"The creature had showed neither sight nor sound of itself since the

woman had come in, and we'd forgotten about it altogether, mother and

me. There it stood now, though, still as a stone, but all on the watch,

the lips drawn back from the sharp white teeth, and its eyes fixed, with

a savage gleam in them, on the fellow's face. I was nothing but a child,

and no thought of anything beyond had come to me then; but I tell you,

sir, child as I was, I couldn't help feeling that the grin on the

creature's face had something more than dog-like in it; and for nights

to come I couldn't get the thought of it out of my head.

"Our visitor looked a bit took aback when he saw the creature, for most

of his sort are terrible feared of a dog. But 'twas only for a moment,

and then he laughed right out.

"'He's an ugly customer, but he won't help you much, mistress,' he said

with a sneer. 'I've something here as'll settle _him_ fast enough.' With

that he stretched out his hand towards the bundle on the settle.

"The hand never reached it, sir. You know the choking, worrying snarl a

dog gives before he springs to grip his enemy by the throat, the growl

that means a movement--and death! That sound stopped the scoundrel, and

kept him, unable to stir hand or foot, with the dog in front of him,

never moving, never uttering a sound beyond that low threatening growl,

but watching, only watching. He might have been armed with a dozen

weapons, and it would have been all the same. Those sharp, bared fangs

would have met in his throat before he could have gripped the pistol

within a foot of his hand; and he knew it, and the knowledge kept him

there still as a stone, with the dog never taking its watching, burning

eyes from his face.

"'I'm done,' he owned at last, when minutes that seemed like hours had

gone by. 'I'm done this time, mistress, thanks to the dog-fiend you've

got here. I tell you I'd not have stopped at murder when I come in; but

that kid of yours could best me now. Make the devil brute take his eyes

off me, and let me go.'

"All trembling like a leaf, mother got to the door and drew back the

bar. The fellow crossed the kitchen and slunk out, and the dog went with

him. It followed him with its nose close at his knee as he crossed the

threshold, and the two of them went like that, out into the fog and over

the lonely moorland into the night. We never saw nor heard of the dog

again.

"There were gipsies in the neighbourhood, crossing the moor out Wharton

way, and when the story got about folk told us as 'twas known they had

some strange-looking dogs with them, and said that this one must have

belonged to the lot. But mother, she never believed in nothin' of the

sort, and to the day of her death she would have it as the creature had

been sent to guard her and me from the danger that was to come to us

that night. She held that it was something more than a dog, sir; and you

see there was one thing about it uncommon strange. When dad come back

that next morning, our two pointers, Nip and Juno, followed him into the

cottage. But the moment they got inside a sort of turn came over them,

and they rushed out all queer and scared; while as for the water mother

had set down for the black dog to drink, there was no getting them to

put their lips to it. Not thirsty, sir? Well, sir, seeing as there

warn't no water within six mile or so, and they'd come ten miles that

morning over the moor, you'll excuse me saying you don't know much about

dogs if you reckon they warn't thirsty!

"Coincidence you say, sir? Well, I dunno the meaning of that--maybe

it's a word you gentles gives to the things you can't explain. But I've

told you the story just as it happened, and I'd swear it's true, anyhow.

If a gentleman like you can't see daylight in it, t'ain't for the likes

of me to try; but I sticks to it that, say what folks will, the thing

was uncommon strange.... Not tried the west side, haven't you, sir?

Bless your heart, Ben, what be you a-thinking of? The birds are as thick

as blackberries down by the Grey Rock and Deadman's Hollow."

"That's a gruesome name," I said, rising and lifting my gun, while Ben

coupled up the brace of dogs. I noticed a glance exchanged between

father and son as the younger man lifted his head.

"Yes, sir," responded the former quietly; "the morning after that night

I've been telling you of, the body of a man was found down there, and

that's how the hollow got its name. Mother, she knew him again the

moment she set eyes on the dead face, for all he'd got quit of the

woman's clothes; and there warn't no mark nor wound on him, to show how

he'd come by his death. Oh, yes, sir; I ain't saying as the fog warn't

thick that night, nor as how it wouldn't have been easy enough for him

to ha' missed his footing in the dark; though to be sure there were

folks as would have it 'twarn't _that_ as killed him.... Good-day to

you, sir, and thank you kindly. Ben here'll see to your having good

sport."

* * * * *

It was vexing to find so much gross superstition still extant in this

last decade of the nineteenth century, certainly. Yet for all that, and

though the notion of a spook dog was something too much for the

materialistic mind to swallow, there is no use denying that, as I stood

an hour later in Deadman's Hollow, with the recollection of the weird

story I had just heard fresh in my memory, I was conscious of a cold

shiver, which all the strength of the August sunshine, bathing the

moorland in a glow of gold, was quite unable to lessen or to drive

away.

THE WRECK OF THE _MAY QUEEN_.

BY ALICE F. JACKSON.

There was something in the air. Something ominous. A whisper of which we

heard only the rustle, as it were--nothing of the words; but when one is

on the bosom of the deep--hundreds of miles from land--in the middle of

the Pacific Ocean--ominous whispers are, to say the least of it, a

trifle disconcerting.

"What is it?" whispered Sylvia.

"I don't know," I said.

"Anything wrong with the ship?"

But I could only shrug my shoulders.

Sylvia said, "Let us ask Dr. Atherton."

So we did. But Dr. Atherton only smiled.

"There was something behind that smile of his," said Sylvia,

suspiciously. "As if we were babies, either of us," she added, severely.

Yes, there was something suspicious in that smile. And Dr. Atherton

hadn't looked at us full in the face while he talked. Besides, there was

a sort of lurking pity in his voice; and--yes, I'm sure his lip had

twitched a little nervously.

"Why should he be nervous if there is nothing the matter with the ship?"

"And why should he look as if he felt sorry for us?"

"Let's ask the captain," I said.

"Just leave the ship in my keeping, young ladies," said the captain,

when we asked him. "Go back to your fancy-work and your books."

The _May Queen_ was not a regular passenger ship. Sylvia, and I, and

Dr. Atherton were the only passengers. She was laden with wool--a cargo

boat; but Sylvia and I were accommodated with such a pretty cabin!

We had left Sydney in the captain's charge. Father wanted us to have a

year's schooling in England; and we were coming to Devonshire to live

with Aunt Sabina, and get a little polishing at a finishing school.

Of course we had chummed up with Dr. Atherton, though we had never met

him before. One's obliged to be friendly with every one on board, you

know; and then he was the only one there was to be friendly with. He was

acting as the ship's surgeon for the voyage home. He was going to

practise in England. He was, perhaps, twenty-five--not more than

twenty-six, at any rate, and on the strength of that he began to

constitute himself a sort of second guardian over us.

We didn't object. He was very nice. And, indeed, he made the time pass

very pleasantly for us.

Sylvia was sixteen, and I was fifteen; and the grey-haired captain was

the kindest chaperon.

For the first fortnight we had the most delightful weather; and then it

began to blow a horrid gale. The _May Queen_ pitched frightfully, and

"took in," as the sailors said, "a deal of water."

For three days the storm raged violently. We thought the ship would

never weather it. I don't know what we should have done without Dr.

Atherton. And then quite suddenly the wind died away, and there came a

heavenly calm.

The sea was like a mill-pond. It was beautiful! Sylvia and I began to

breathe again, when, all at once, we felt that ominous something in the

air.

"Thud! thud! thud!" All day long we heard that curious sound--and at

dead of night too, if we happened to be awake. "Thud! thud! thud!"

unceasingly.

The sailors, too, forgot their jocular sayings, and seemed too busy now

to notice us. Some looked flurried, some looked sullen; but all looked

anxious, we thought. And they were working, working, always working away

at the bottom of the ship. And always that "thud! thud! thud!"

And then we learned by accident what the matter was.

"Five feet of water in the well!" It was the captain's voice.

And Dr. Atherton's murmured something that we did not catch.

We were in the cabin, and the door was just ajar. They thought we girls

were up on deck, I suppose. Sylvia flung out her hand and pressed me on

the arm; and then she put her finger on her lip.

"All hands are at the pumps," the captain said. "Their exertions are

counteracting the leak. The water in the well is neither more nor less.

I've just been sounding it again."

"Can't the leak be stopped?" asked Dr. Atherton.

"Yes, if we could find it. We've been creeping about her ribs all the

better part of the morning, but we cannot discover the leak."

"And the water's still coming in?"

"Still coming in. They're working like galley-slaves to keep it under,

but we make no headway at all. I greatly fear that some of her seams

have opened during the gale."

"And that means----"

"That means the water is coming in through numerous apertures," said the

captain grimly.

"Is the _May Queen_ in danger, captain?" asked Dr. Atherton in a steady

voice.

There was a pause. We could hear our own hearts beat. And then:

"I would to Heaven that those girls were not on board!"

"But we are!" It was Sylvia's voice. With a bound she had flung open the

door, and stood confronting the astonished pair. "We are here. And as we

are here, Captain Maitland, oh! don't, don't keep us in the dark!"

"Good heavens!" ejaculated the doctor.

And the captain said in his severest tones:

"Young lady, you've been eavesdropping, I see. Let me tell you that's a

thing I won't allow."

"Oh! Captain Maitland, is the ship in danger?" I cried.

But the captain only glared at me. He looked excessively annoyed.

Then Sylvia ran up and put her hand upon his arm.

"We could not help hearing," she said. "If the ship is in danger really,

it is better for us to know. Please, don't be vexed with us; but we'd

rather be told the truth. We--we----"

"Are not babies," I put in, with my heart going pit-a-pat.

"Nor cowards," added Sylvia, with a lip that trembled a little.

It made the captain cough.

"The--the _May Queen_ has sprung a leak?" she said.

"You heard me say so, I suppose."

"And the ship is in danger, Captain Maitland?"

"Can you trust me, young lady?" was his answer.

Sylvia put her hand in his.

"You know we trust you," she said.

He caught it in a hearty grasp; and gave me an encouraging smile.

"Thank you for that, my child. The _May Queen's_ got five feet of water

in her well, because she got damaged in that gale. So far we're managing

to pump the water out as fast as the water comes in. D'you follow me?"

"Yes," fluttered to her lips.

"So far, so good. Don't worry. Try not to trouble your heads about this

thing at all. Just say to yourselves, 'The captain's at the helm.' All

that can be done _is_ being done, young ladies. And," pointing upwards,

"the other CAPTAIN'S aloft."

He was gone. In a dazed way I heard Dr. Atherton saying something to

Sylvia. And a few minutes after that he, too, had disappeared. "Gone,"

Sylvia said in an awe-struck whisper, "to work in his turn at the

pumps."

No need to wonder now at that unceasing "Thud! thud!" The noise of it

not only sounded in our ears, it struck us like blows on our hearts.

We crept up on deck. We could breathe there. We could see. Oh! how awful

was the thought of going down, down--drowning in the cabin below!

Air, and light, and God's sky was above. And we prayed to the CAPTAIN

aloft.

The sea was so calm that danger, after having weathered that fearful

gale, seemed almost impossible to us. The blue water reflected the blue

heaven above; and when the setting sun cast a rosy light over the sky,

the sea caught the reflection as well.

It was beautiful.

"It doesn't seem so dangerous now, Sylvia," I whispered, "as it felt

during the gale."

"No," came through her colourless lips.

"There's not a ripple on the sea," I said; "and if they keep on pumping

the water out, we'll--we'll get to land in time."

"Yes," she said, and held my hand a little tighter. After a while, "I

wonder if we're very far from land."

"Nine hundred miles, I think I heard Mr. Wheeler say." She shuddered.

Mr. Wheeler was the first mate.

I looked across the wild waste of water, and shuddered too. So calm--so

endless!

The men were working like galley-slaves down below, pumping turn and

turn about, watch and watch. We saw the relieved gang come up bathed in

perspiration. They were labouring for their lives, we knew.

Now and again some sailor, passing by, would say:

"Keep a good heart, little leddies," and look over his shoulder with a

cheerful smile.

It made us cheer up too.

We heard one say they were pumping one hundred tons of water every hour

out of the ship. It sounded appalling.

In a little while a light breeze began to blow. "From the south-west,"

somebody said it was.

And then we heard the captain give an order about "making all sail" in

the ship.

Every man that could be spared from the pumps set about it directly; and

soon great sails flew up flapping in the breeze, and the _May Queen_

went flying before the wind.

By-and-by Dr. Atherton came, and ordered us down to the saloon, and made

us each drink a glass of wine. And then Mr. Wheeler joined us; and we

sat down to supper just as we had done many a happy evening before--only

that the captain didn't come to the table as usual, but had his supper

carried away to him.

We learned that the captain had altered the ship's course, and "put the

_May Queen_ right before the wind," and that he was "steering for the

nearest land."

It comforted us.

"We have gained a little on the leak," the first mate said. "Three

inches!"

"Only three inches!" we cried.

"Three inches is a great victory," Mr. Wheeler replied. "I think it's

the turn of the tide."

"Thank God!" muttered Dr. Atherton.

We lay down in our narrow berths still comforted, and slept like tops

all night. I'm not sure that the doctor hadn't given us something to

make us sleep when he gave us a drink, as he innocently said, "to settle

and soothe our nerves."

"Thud! thud! thud!" The ominous sound was in my ears the moment I opened

my eyes, and all the terror of the preceding day came crowding into my

mind.

"Sara, are you awake?"

"Yes, Sylvia."

"Did you sleep?"

"Like a top."

"So did I."

Yes, we had slept, and while we slept the sailors had worked all night.

And all night long, like some poor haunted thing, the _May Queen_ had

glided on.

"Mr. Wheeler, has the water lessened in the well?"

"Good-morning, Miss Redding," was his reply.

His face was pale. Great beads of perspiration were rolling down his

cheeks. He began to mop them with a damp handkerchief.

At that moment Dr. Atherton came on the scene. "Good-morning, young

ladies," he said.

Such a slovenly-looking doctor! And we used to think him such a

sprucely-got-up man. There was no collar round his neck, and his hair

hung in damp strings on his forehead. And he had no coat on, not a

waistcoat either, nor did he look a bit abashed.

"Sleep well?" he said.

Mr. Wheeler seized the opportunity to slink away.

"_You_ haven't slept!" we cried.

He didn't reply. His haggard face, the red rims round his tired eyes

were answer enough.

"You've been up all night?" said Sylvia calmly.

I burst into a whimpering wail.

"No, don't, Miss Sara," urged the doctor soothingly.

Sylvia said, "Has more water come into the ship?"

"The water has gained on us a trifle," he said reluctantly.

"But Mr. Wheeler said we'd gained three inches yesterday."

"Go back into your cabin," he said. "Some breakfast will be sent to you

there directly. We--we are not fit to breakfast with ladies this

morning," he added.

"Oh! not to the cabin. Please let us go on deck."

"The captain's orders were the cabin," he said. "Hush, hush! Don't cry

any more, Miss Sara," patting my shoulder, "there's a good girl. It

would worry the captain dreadfully to hear you. His chief anxiety is

having you on board. You wouldn't make his anxiety greater, would you

now? See, Miss Sylvia, I rely on you. Take her to the cabin, and eat

your breakfast there. After breakfast," he added soothingly, "I daresay

you will be allowed to go on deck."

We went back. We sat huddled together. We held each other's hands.

Sylvia didn't cry. Her face was white. Her eyes were shining. "Don't,

Sara," she kept on saying, "crying can do no good."

Breakfast came. Neither of us ate much. How callously we sent the

greater part of it away! Afterwards we remembered it. At present we

could think of nothing but the leaking ship.

And "Thud! thud! thud!" It was like the heart of the _May Queen_,

beating, beating! How long would it take to burst?

After breakfast we were allowed to go on deck. Oh! how the brilliant

sunshine seemed to mock us there! And such a sea! Blue, beautiful,

peaceful, smiling! A vast mill-pond. And water, water everywhere!

Sea and sky! Nothing but sea and sky! And not a little, littlest speck

of Mother Earth!

"Mr. Wheeler, are we nearer land?"

"A little nearer, Miss Sylvia."

"How much nearer?"

"She's run two hundred and fifty miles," he said.

"Two hundred and fifty miles! And yesterday we were nearly a thousand

miles from land!"

"Yes, Miss Sara."

I could have screamed. It was sheer despair that kept me silent--perhaps

a little shame. Sylvia stood beside him with her hands clenched tight.

"Isn't there any likelihood of some ship passing by?"

"Every likelihood," he said.

At that moment the relieved gang came up. They were changed. Not the

brave hopeful men we had seen yesterday. They were disheartened. Indeed,

we read despair in many faces.

One big burly fellow lighted a pipe. He gave a puff or two. "No use

pumping this darned ship," he said. "She's doomed."

And as if to corroborate this awful fact a voice sang out:

"Seven feet o' water in the hold!"

This announcement seemed to demoralise the sailors. One burst out

crying. Another cursed and swore. Others ran in a flurried way about the

ship. For ten minutes or so all was confusion. And then a stentorian

voice rose above the din.

"All hands to the boats!" It was the captain's. And immediately every

man came scrambling from the pumps, and I felt my hand taken in an iron

grasp.

"We're going to abandon the ship. We're going to take to the boats. Come

down to your cabin and gather all you value. Be quick about it," said

the doctor, "there isn't much time to spare. They're going to provision

the boats before they lower them, so you can pack up all you want."

He spoke roughly. He pushed me along in front of him. I was so

dumfounded that I could not resent it. Down in the cabin he looked at

me. His stern eye dared me to faint.

I heard Sylvia say, "Can we take that little box?"

And I heard him answer, "Yes."

He was gone. I saw Sylvia, through a mist, pushing things into the box.

And the doctor was back again.

A fiery something was in my mouth, and trickling down my throat. I

tasted brandy.

"That's better," said the doctor, patting my back. "Make haste and help

your sister. Yes, Miss Sylvia, shove it all in." And then he began to

drag the blankets from our berths.

"The leddies ready? Leddies fust!" And down tumbled a sailor for the

trunk.

Up the companion-ladder for the last time, the doctor prodding me in the

back with his load of blankets. Sylvia, with a white face, carrying a

little hand-bag. And the captain coming to meet us in the doorway.

"This one first." And I was picked up in his arms as if I'd been a baby.

"Ready, Wheeler?" And I was lowered into the first mate's arms, and

placed on a seat in the cutter.

The next thing I knew was that Sylvia was by my side; and that the

doctor was tucking a blanket about our knees. After that four or five

sailors jumped into the boat, and the captain shouted in a frantic

hurry:

"Shove her off!"

The cutter fell astern. The long-boat then came forward, and all the

rest of the sailors crowded in. The captain was left the last.

"Hurry up, sir!" shouted Mr. Wheeler. But the captain had disappeared.

He had run down to his cabin for some papers.

"She's full of water!" cried one of the sailors in the long boat. And as

he spoke the _May Queen stopped dead, and shook_.

With a yell one of the men cut the rope that held the long-boat to the

ship, and shoved off like lightning from the sinking vessel.

Only in time.

The next moment the _May Queen_ pitched gently forward. Her bows went

under water.

"Captain!" shrieked the sailors in a deafening chorus.

Then her stern settled down. The sea parted in a great gulf. The waves

rolled over her upper deck. And with her sails all spread the _May

Queen_ went down into the abyss.

A hoarse cry burst from every throat; and the boats danced on the

bubbling, foaming water. The sailors stood up all ready to save him,

crying to each other that he'd come to the surface soon. But he never

did.

They rowed all round and round the spot, but not a vestige of the

captain did we see.

"Sucked under--by Heaven!" cried the first mate in a tone of horror.

And we were adrift on the Pacific.

ADRIFT ON THE PACIFIC.

BY ALICE F. JACKSON.

I.

The captain was drowned, and the _May Queen_ was wrecked, and we were

adrift on the ocean. Adrift in a cockle-shell of an open boat more than

six hundred miles from land! No--_no_! It's some horrible nightmare!

For the first few moments everybody sat benumbed, staring awe-struck

into each other's faces.

Then--"Christ have mercy on his soul!" somebody said.

And, "Amen!" came the answer in a deep whisper.

Then Mr. Wheeler gave some order in a voice that shook, and we rowed

from the fatal spot.

Sylvia sat with one hand covering her face. Her other arm crept round my

waist. I was so dazed I could hardly think--too bewildered to grasp what

had happened.

"Poor child!" said Dr. Atherton.

"Sara, Dr. Atherton is speaking to you ... Sara!"

I raised my head.

"Poor child!" I heard again. "Sit up and drink this," said the doctor's

voice, and I felt him chafing my hand.

"Miss Sara, won't you try to be brave? Look at Miss Sylvia," he said.

"She be a rare plucked 'un, she be. Cheer up, you poor little 'un!"

"While there is life, there's 'ope, little miss. Thank the Lord, we're

not all on us drowned."

I burst into tears, I was ashamed that I did; but it was oh! such a

relief to cry.

When I came to myself they were talking together. I heard in a stupefied

way.

"No immediate peril, thank God."

"Not in calm weather like this."

"Two chances for life--she must either make land, or be picked up by

some vessel at sea."

"... Beautifully still it is, Miss Sylvia. Might have been shipwrecked

in a storm, you know."

It came to my confused senses that they were very good--these men; for

they, too, were in peril of their lives; yet the chief anxiety of one

and all was to calm mine and Sylvia's fears.

Another blanket was passed up for us to sit upon. And then they started

an earnest consultation among themselves.

There were four sailors in our boat. Gilliland--the big, burly fellow

who had lighted his pipe--and Evans, and Hookway, and Davis. Dr.

Atherton and the first mate made six; and Sylvia and I made eight.

The long-boat was a good deal bigger than the cutter; and she held

eighteen to twenty men.

We gathered from their talk that the _May Queen_, after Captain Maitland

had altered her course, had run two hundred and fifty miles out of what

they termed "the track of trade"; and that unless we got back to the old

track again, there was small chance of our being picked up by another

vessel.

On the other hand, to make for the nearest land, we would have to

traverse the ocean for some six hundred miles, and Mr. Wheeler, it

seemed, was hesitating as to which course to take.

The men in the long-boat bawled to the men in the cutter, and the men in

the cutter shouted their answers back, the upshot of which was that Mr.

Wheeler decided to get back into the track of trade.

"Make all sail," he shouted to the men in the long-boat, "and keep her

head nor' east."

And, "Ay, ay, sir," came the answer over the water.

The men in the cutter ran up the sails too, and soon we were sailing

after the long-boat. The longboat, however, sailed much faster than the

cutter. Sometimes she lowered her sails on purpose to wait for us.

The weather was perfect. The sea was beautiful. In the middle of the

Pacific Ocean, and hardly a ripple on the waves!

"We could hold out for weeks in weather like this!" cried the doctor

cheerfully. And then to Gilliland:

"The boats are well provisioned, you say?"

"A month's provisions on board, sir. That was the captain's orders. Me

and Hookway had the doing of it."

"And water?" asked the doctor anxiously.

"Plenty of water, and rum likewise," replied the sailor, with an

affectionate glance at one of the little barrels.

"I see only two small casks here," said the doctor sharply.

"Plenty more on board the long-boat. Ain't there, Hookway?"

"Plenty more, sir. The long-boat can stow away a deal more than the

cutter. When we've got through this keg of spirit," putting his hand on

one of the little casks, "and drunk up that there barrel of water, we've

only got to signal the long-boat, and get another barrel out of her."

"The food is on the long-boat, too, I suppose?"

"Right you are, sir. And here's a lump o' corned beef. And here's a loaf

o' bread. And likewise a bag o' biscuit for present requirements."

"Humph!" said the doctor, "I'm glad of that. Hand me up that loaf,

Davis, if you please. Mr. Wheeler, the spirits, of course, are in your

charge. May I ask you to mix a small mug of rum and water for these

ladies?"

"Oh! I couldn't drink rum, doctor," objected Sylvia.

"Oh! yes, you can. And you're going to eat this sandwich of corned beef

and bread. Excuse fingers, Miss Sara," he added, handing me a sandwich

between his finger and thumb. "Fingers were made before knives and

forks. And now you're to share this mug of rum and water."

"It's very weak, I assure you," said Mr. Wheeler, smiling. "Drink up

every drop of it," he added kindly. "It will do you both good."

We thanked him and obeyed. And while we ate our sandwiches the men ate

biscuit and beef; and then Mr. Wheeler poured them out a small allowance

of rum.

The cutter sailed smoothly. And the men told yarns. But every eye was on

the look-out for the smoke of some passing ship.

We saw none. Not a speck on the ocean, save the long-boat ahead. And

by-and-by the sun set, and a little fog crept up. And the night came on

as black as pitch and very drear.

Sylvia and I huddled close in the blanket that Dr. Atherton had tied

about our shoulders; and whispered our prayers together.

"To-morrow will be Sunday, Sylvia," I said.

And she whispered back: "They will pray for those that travel by water

in the Litany."

II.

I couldn't sleep. Every time I began to lose consciousness I started up

in a fright, and saw the _May Queen_ going down into the sea again; and

fancied I saw the captain struggling in the cabin. It was terrible.

I could hear the men snoring peacefully in the boat. They were all

asleep except the helmsman.

At midnight he roused up another man to take his place; and after that I

remembered no more till I started up in the grey dawn with a loud

"Ahoy!" quivering in my ears.

"Ahoy! A-hoy!"

Everybody was wide awake. Everybody wanted to know what the matter was.

And everybody was looking at the helmsman who was peering out at sea.

It was Gilliland. He turned a strange, scared face to the others in the

cutter, and:--"_The long-boat's not in sight!_" said he.

Somebody let out an oath. And every eye stared wildly over the sea. It

was quite true. Not a speck, not a streak we saw upon the ocean--the

long-boat had disappeared!

"God in heaven!" ejaculated the first mate. "She must have capsized in

the night!"

"And if we don't capsize, we'll starve," said the doctor, "_for she had

all our provisions on board_!"

There was an awful silence for just three minutes. Then the man who had

sworn before shot out another oath. Hookway began to rave like a madman.

Evans burst into sobs. Davis began to swear horribly, and cursed

Gilliland for putting the provisions in the other boat.

It was terrible.

Suddenly Sylvia's voice rose trembling above the babel, quaveringly she

struck up the refrain of the sailor's hymn:

_"O hear us when we cry to Thee_

_For those in peril on the sea."_

"God bless you, miss!" cried Gilliland. And taking up the tune, he

dashed into the first verse:

_"Eternal Father, strong to save,_

_Whose arm hath bound the restless wave._

_Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep_

_Its own appointed limits keep:"_

The doctor and the first mate joined in the refrain. And Hookway ceased

to rave. They sang the hymn right through. The last verse was sung by

every one. The "_Amen_" went up like a prayer at the end. And the

sailors, with their caps in their hands, some of them with tears in

their eyes, looked gratefully at Sylvia and murmured, "Thank you, miss."

Oh! the days that followed, and the long, hungry nights! Even now I

dream of them, and start up trembling in my sleep.

Sylvia and I have very tender hearts when we hear of the starving poor.

To be hungry--oh! it is terrible. But to be thirsty too! And to feel

that one is dying of thirst--and water everywhere!

For those first dreadful days Mr. Wheeler dealt out half a biscuit to

each--half a biscuit with a morsel of beef that had to be breakfast, and

dinner, and tea! And just a little half mug of water tinctured with a

drop of rum!

And on that we lived, eight people in the cutter, for something like

eleven days! Eleven days in a scorching sun! Eleven calm, horrible

nights!

We wanted a breeze. And no breeze came, though we prayed for it night

and day. The remorseless ocean was like a sheet of glass. The sun shone

fiercely in the heavens. It made the sides of the cutter so hot that it

hurt our poor hands to touch it.

And all those days no sign of a sail! Not a vestige of a passing ship!

Evans and Davis grumbled and swore. And so did Hookway sometimes.

Gilliland was the most patient of the sailors; and tried to cheer up

every one else with stories of other people's escapes.

On the _May Queen_ Sylvia and I had thought Mr. Wheeler rather a

commonplace sort of man. We knew him for a hero in the cutter. Often he

used to break off pieces of his biscuit, I know, to add to Sylvia's and

mine.

"Friends," he said on the eleventh day, "the biscuit is all gone." His

face was ghastly. His eyes were hollow. His lips were cracked and sore.

"And the water?" asked the doctor faintly.

"Barely a teaspoon apiece."

"Keep it for the women then," suggested Dr. Atherton.

"No!" shouted Davis with an oath.

And, "We're all in the same boat," muttered Evans.

Gilliland lifted his bloodshot eyes. "Hold your jaw!" he said.

Hookway groaned feebly.

They looked more like wild beasts than men, with their ghastly faces,

and their glaring eyes--especially Davis.

He looked at me desperately. He thought I was going to have all the

water.

"I won't take more than my share, Mr. Wheeler," I said. And I looked at

Sylvia. She was lying in the stern muttering feebly to herself. She

didn't hear.

"God bless you, miss!" said Davis, and burst into an agony of sobs.

The last spoonful of water was handed round, the doctor forcing Sylvia's

portion into her mouth.

And we wafted on, only just moving along, for there was no breeze. And

the sun beat on us. And the sea glared. And Davis cursed. And Hookway

writhed and moaned.

"Take down the sails," said the first mate. "They are useless without

any wind. Rig them up as an awning instead."

The men obeyed.

Then the doctor seized a vessel, and filling it with sea-water poured it

over Sylvia as she lay, soaking her, clothes and all.

"Oh, doctor!" I expostulated, wonderingly.

"I'm going to drench you too, Miss Sara. It will relieve the thirst," he

said.

Sylvia opened her eyes. "Oh! it's bliss!" she said.

Dr. Atherton then poured some salt water over me, and then over Mr.

Wheeler and himself, and told the sailors to drench themselves as well.

It _was_ a little relief--only a very little; and the heat gradually

dried us up again.

"Here, give me the baler!" cried Davis in a little while, and he caught

it out of Gilliland's hand. "D'ye think I'm going to die o' thirst with

all this water about?" And dipping it over the side of the cutter, he

lifted it to his mouth.

"Stop him!" shouted the doctor in a frenzy. "The salt water'll make him

mad!"

And Gilliland, with a desperate thrust, tipped it over his clothes

instead.

Davis howled. He tried to fight; but Gilliland was too strong for him,

and soon he was huddled up in the fore part of the boat, cursing and

swearing dreadfully.

After a time he quieted down, and then he became so queer.

"Roast beef!" he murmured, smacking his lips. "An' taters! An' cabbage!

An' gravy! An' Yorkshire pudden'! My eye! It's prime! And so's the beer,

my hearties!"

He smiled. The anguish died out of his face. He thought he was eating it

all. And then he began to finish off his dinner with apple pie.

"Stow your gab!" snarled Evans. "Wot a fool he is!"

And, indeed, it was maddening to hear him.