To her dark and gloomy life he had come like some beautiful, brilliant

bird of Heaven, and she prized him and delighted in him. It was

something of the same sort of natural passion that a child feels for its

first wonderful wax doll, or its first beautiful live pet, only it was

much more intense, inasmuch as this was a living, loving talking doll—a

beautiful, intelligent human pet.

And so she kissed him, and hugged him, and shook him, and danced him,

and prattled to him, and called him all the sweet names that, on such

cases, spring spontaneously to the lips of girls and women.

And Lenny, in his gracious, genial nature, gave kiss for kiss, and

caress for caress.

I think if poor Drusilla, waking in her agony of bereavement, that same

morning, could have seen, as in a magic glass, these two friends—the

girl and the baby,—she would have been contented,—no, not that, but she

would have felt comforted.

“Lenny love Met,” said the child, patting her cheeks.

“And ‘Met’ loves Lenny dearly, dearly, dearly! and nobody shall hurt

him—they shall kill ‘Met’ first!”

Now, as “hurt” and “kill” were words that had never been introduced into

this cherished baby’s vocabulary, he did not understand and did not know

how to reply; but he felt that _love_ was meant throughout, and he knew

how to answer _that_. So he patted Meg’s cheeks and kissed her lips.

And now as the long-lingering light of day stole into that wretched

attic-chamber, it brought out strange pictures. The yellow rays of the

sun, striking obliquely through the window in the roof, fell upon the

corner occupied by Meg and Lenny, and lighted up a picturesque

group,—the beautiful, golden-haired, blue-eyed baby-boy, fair as one of

Rafael’s pictured angels, with his rosy arms clasped around the neck of

the wild, dark, gipsyish girl, who held him on her lap; and their

surroundings,—the poor pallet, the little stone-jug of milk, the bare

boards, and the broken walls. This was the only sunny scene in the room.

In the shadows were other scenes, best left in darkness,—the beldam in

her foul bed, and the two men sprawling on the naked floor. All these

were dead to all surrounding life, for they were heavily sleeping off

the effects of the last night’s gin-drinking.

To return to the “sunny” spot occupied by the girl and the baby. She was

still caressing him.

“Would Lenny like his breakfast now?” she asked.

“Yes, Lenny like breakfas’. But go in baf-tub first.”

“Go—where?” inquired the girl, quite bewildered.

“In baf-tub! baf-tub! baf-tub! wash!”

“Oh, bath-tub! My bonny bird, we have got no bath-tub here, but ‘Met’

will wash you clean—will she?”

“Yes, Met wash.”

“Will Lenny be afraid to stay here while ‘Met’ goes to fetch water?”

“’Faid? what ’faid?”

“You don’t know? Well, I hope you never will.”

“What ’faid? what ’faid? what ’faid?” peremptorily demanded this

despotic little inquisitor.

“’Faid is—bad, naughty,” said Meg, after some little perplexity.

“No, Lenny not ’faid.”

“And will Lenny let ‘Met’ go get some water?”

“Yes.”

“And sit here and don’t move until I come?”

“Yes.”

Away ran the girl, and as quickly as she could borrow a bucket and fetch

the water she returned to the room.

She washed the child very thoroughly and then dressed him in the clean

suit that had been provided by Everage.

“But dese ain’t Lenny tose,” observed the child.

“No, Lenny has got no clean clothes here, so Lenny must wear these,”

said the girl.

And the child trusted her and was content with the answer.

“And now Lenny will have his breakfast?” she asked.

“Yes; and Met have _hers_ too,” answered the child.

The girl then went to the sleeping men and felt in their pockets. She

knew very well that both had cheated their employer in the matter of the

price of the milk and the blanket that they had been sent to buy on the

previous night, and so she judged they must have the odd change they had

swindled Everage out of still in their possession.

She was right. She found a sixpence in Roger’s pocket and two shillings

in Bill’s. She replaced all the money except one of the shillings, which

she confiscated to the use of the right owner, as she called little

Lenny.

Having possessed herself of this fund, she turned to the child and took

him by the hand, saying:

“Will Lenny take a walk with ‘Met’?”

“Lenny want bekfas first.”

“Well, we are going out to buy milk for breakfast—nice new milk. Will

Lenny go?”

“Pose Doosa tome?” objected the child.

“But Doosa won’t come before we get back.”

“Well, den Lenny go wid Met.”

And they walked out together down to the corner of the alley to the

cellar where the milk was sold.

And Meg bought new milk and fresh rolls, and a little cheap white mug

and plate, all for nine pence.

And then she took Lenny back to the attic and gave him his breakfast

clean.

And through all this the beasts in the attic slept on.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

LENNY’S EXPERIENCES.

Oh! strange new world

That has such people in it!—SHAKESPEARE.

The beldam was the first to awake. She looked at the child and asked if

he had slept well, and if he had had anything to eat, and having

received satisfactory answers, she set about preparing her own

breakfast.

It was her daily custom, in returning home at evening to pick up and put

into her wallet almost any sort of trash she might find about the

streets; not only rags, but paper, straw, dry leaves, chips, sticks, and

so forth.

Of these she now made just fire enough in the rusty grate to boil her

kettle and make her tea.

And then she took from a small bundle a store of crusts and bones and

broken victuals, all of which she arranged on the end of the rickety

table; and so she made her morning meal.

“You may have what’s left. And mind you take care of that child while

I’m gone.”

And with these orders, given of course to Meg, she put on her smashed

bonnet and took her bundle of matches and went off to her usual haunts.

And she did this, notwithstanding that she had received ten pounds the

night before. Such with her was the force of habit, or of rapacity.

After she had gone Meg made a meal of the fragments she had left, and

washed it down with milk, now turned sour, that had been provided for

Lenny on the preceding evening.

Then she cleared the table, and straightened the bed, and tidied the

miserable room as well as she could.

All this time little Lenny was watching her gravely, and occasionally

turning his eyes with solemn curiosity upon the sleeping men on the

floor.

When Meg had got through her housework, even to the rolling up of little

Lenny’s pallet, she came back to the child and sought to amuse him with

the ancient histories entitled “Red Riding Hood,” “Goody Two Shoes,”

“Cinderella,” “Jack the Giant Killer,” and so forth.

And although of course Lenny had heard these venerable chronicles a

hundred times before—as what child has not?—he was ready to listen to

them a hundred times more—as what child is not?

But at the end of every story he would ask:

“Met, why not Doosa tome?”

“Doosa will be sure to come, my pretty. Now let me tell you another

story.”

—“Tome soon?”

“Yes, she will come soon. Now let me tell you about Hop-O’-My-Thumb.”

Lenny sighed.

Did you ever hear a baby sigh? It is the most pathetic sound in nature.

Fortunately they don’t often sigh; they generally prefer to scream.

Another story was told; and then a song was sung; and so with telling

stories and singing songs, Meg tried to comfort and amuse the child.

But at last he said again:

“_Oh_, Met! _why_ not Doosa tome? I want see Doosa, so bad.” And his

little lips began to tremble and his bosom to heave. But he had been

taught that it was naughty to cry so he struggled valiantly to keep from

doing so. But how could he bear hope deferred any better than his

biggers?

His courage at last gave way and he burst out sobbing:

“I want to see Doosa! I want to see Doosa! I want to see Doosa so bad!”

Meg took him up in her arms and began to walk him up and down the room

and sing to him; but his heart-breaking sobs arose above her song; and

at last in despair she herself burst into tears and dropped down into

her chair and hugged him to her heart, sobbing:

“Oh, my pretty, pretty boy, what can Meg do to comfort you? It was such

a sin to take you from your mother!”

What a germ of a perfect gentleman little Lenny was!

As soon as he saw that his crying grieved his friend, he stopped short

with a gasp or two, and put his arms around her neck, and laid his face

to hers, and began to kiss and coax her.

“Don’t ky, Met; Lenny so sorry mate Met ky! Don’t ky, Met! Lenny be dood

boy—’deed Lenny will. Let Lenny wipe eye.”

And he took up the hem of his little frock, and tried to stretch it up

to her eyes to dry her tears.

And she clasped him to her heart in almost hysterical passion, and

kissed him, and shook him, and danced him until he laughed. And then a

sort of tacit, but well understood, compromise took place between

them—that one would not cry if the other did not, that is if either

could help it.

It was long past noon when the men woke from their drunken sleep.

First Red Roger tumbled up from the floor, rubbed his eyes, stared about

him, yawned, and sat down on the side of the bed to steady himself.

Then he got up, and walked across the room to where Meg sat with the

child. He stared at him for a few moments, while little Lenny met the

stare with unquailing eyes, and Meg trembled lest the ruffian should

miss the shilling from his pocket; and then, saying:

“Keep that little fellow close, mind you!” he took himself off, greatly

to Meg’s relief.

Then Black Bill reared his lofty height from the boards, tottered on his

feet, reeled towards the table, sat down upon it, for a few moments, to

yawn and stretch his limbs, and then he went away.

These worthy gentlemen seldom breakfasted at home.

All that day, Meg had a hard time with little Lenny. The poor girl told

all the stories and sung all the songs she knew, and did her best to

comfort and amuse him. And the baby-boy tried his best to be a little

gentleman, and to keep his promise not to cry; yet every little while,

he would burst into heart-breaking sobs and tears, and cries, the burden

of which was:

“I want to see Doosa! I want to see Doosa so much!”

At length, late in the afternoon, he succumbed to the influence of

excitement, and fell asleep. And then Meg made his pallet with one hand,

while she held him with the other, and laid him down.

Leaving him asleep, she went out and spent her last three-pence left of

the shilling, and bought him a mug of milk and a penny-roll for his

supper. These she brought home, and put away. And then she sat down to

watch by the sleeping boy.

That evening Everage came in before the return of the others.

“I am glad I have found you alone, my girl,” he said. “I have brought a

little money to buy some clean bedding for the boy, and I think I would

rather trust you to spend it than another. Can you do it?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“It doesn’t take much to buy cheap bedding for a baby and the cheaper

you can get this the better, so it is clean. Here are ten shillings;

will that do?”

“Yes, sir; and if there’s any over I will keep it to buy milk for him.”

“Quite right. And now let me look at him,” said Everage, going up and

gazing on the sleeping child.

There was a tear resting on little Lenny’s rosy cheeks, which Everage in

his awakening remorse could not endure to see; so he quickly turned away

his head, and he asked Meg:

“Has the child cried much to-day?”

“Oh yes, sir; he has cried a great deal indeed for his mother.”

“Poor child! But he will soon forget her, and—he shall be taken care of.

We will get him to the Highlands after a while, and then he will grow

into a sturdy mountaineer,” said Everage to himself.

And soon after this he got up and went away.

Later, the two men and the woman came in and drank themselves drunk, and

then flung themselves down to sleep themselves sober. Little Lenny slept

on in his pallet watched by Meg.

So passed the first day of the child’s captivity.

On the second and third days the old crone abandoned her post at St.

Mary’s le Strand, and, hoping to make more by the beautiful boy, dressed

him in rags, and telling him it was all for fun, and promising to take

him to Drusilla, went out to beg with him.

But she carefully avoided the haunts where he or she had been seen, and

took to other quarters of the city. On one of these begging excursions

at the Railway Station, Lenny had recognized Dick and called to him, as

has been related. But the beldam hastily covered the boy’s head with a

ragged shawl, plunged into the crowd and disappeared, leaving Dick

bewildered.

On that night, when she took the child home to the miserable garret, she

found Everage waiting there.

Everage was in a great panic. He told her that posters were out all over

London advertising the loss of the child, describing his person and

dress, and offering a large reward for his recovery. He assured her

that, if the child were found in their possession, the whole lot of them

would be sent to prison and to penal servitude, and enjoined them to

keep him very closely in the attic until a favorable opportunity should

occur of taking him out of the country.

He promised them further and greater rewards if they would faithfully

follow his instructions; and having received their pledge to obey him,

he left the house.

From this day Lenny was confined to the miserable attic and taken care

of by Meg. She watched him by night, and tended him by day; she washed,

dressed and fed him; she tried to amuse and console him; she sung all

the songs she knew and told all the tales; and she wept when he cried,

and she smiled when he laughed; and, though her nature was truthful, she

told lots of lies to little Lenny to account for the non-appearance of

Doosa, promising every morning that Doosa would certainly come that day.

Little Lenny at first believed this; but daily disappointment at length

disturbed his faith. And day by day he pined and pined, wailing in a

tone of despair that nearly broke Meg’s heart:

“No, no, no, Doosa not tome. _Doosa done away! Doosa done away!_”

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE PEACE-OFFERING.

I give thee all

I can, no more.

Alexander Lyon arrived in London on the morning train, and in a pouring

rain. He was pale and faint from his long illness and his fatiguing

journey, but he was sustained by intense mental excitement.

His first thought, on leaving the train, was this:

How should he find his lost child in this boundless Babylon?

For the advertisement in the Times, of that morning, had already

informed him that the baby-boy was still missing.

Sending on his valet with his luggage to Mivart’s, he himself got into a

cab and drove to the Morley House. Arrived there, he went into the

reading-room to make inquiries, for the child might have been found,

even after that last advertisement had been sent to the paper.

“Has the lost boy been found up to this morning?” he inquired of the

bookkeeper or clerk of the house.

“No, sir,—nor ever will be, I fear; but here is Mr. Hammond—perhaps he

can tell you more,” answered that official.

Alexander turned, and found himself face to face with Dick.

They had parted in anger the last time they had spoken together; but

now, for different reasons, both forgot that anger,—Alexander, in his

recovered sanity and in his gratitude for Dick’s services; and Dick

himself in the frankness of his heart and the compassion he felt for the

sick and suffering man. Their hands met, and——

“Dick!”

“Alick!”

Were the first words they spoke.

“Has the child been heard of?”

“No,” sighed Hammond.

“Come out, and walk with me; I wish to ask you about it.”

“But it is pouring rain, and you have been ill. You are so still. Let us

go into some unoccupied private parlor and have coffee ordered there.

You will need it.”

“Just as you please, Dick.”

Hammond beckoned a waiter to show them to a private room: and, when they

had reached it, he ordered breakfast for two to be brought there.

“Now tell me of _her_. How is she? How does she bear this heavy sorrow?”

inquired Alexander, as soon as the waiter had left the room.

“Badly enough. She scarcely ever eats or sleeps. She is wasted to a

shadow. She is dying—she will die, unless the child is restored,”

answered Dick.

“The child shall be restored, if he is above ground!” said Alick,

bringing his fist down heavily upon the table.

Dick shook his head, and sighed.

“I tell you he shall. I arose from my death-bed to seek for him, and

find him, and bring him to his mother—and I will do it!”

“Will you go to her and tell her that?” said Dick, solemnly.

“No, I will not. There is too much—too much to be forgiven me. I will

not go near until I can place her child in her arms. And, Hammond, mind,

this is a confidential interview—do not speak to her of it, or of me.”

“Certainly not, if such is your wish.”

“Does she pray now as she used to pray in all her troubles?”

“She does little else than pray; she does nothing else but pray and

search for her child.”

“_She_ search?”

“Yes, she lives in a cab; has lived so ever since the child was lost.”

“And does she believe that she will find him?”

“Yes. She believes that he is alive, and therefore to be found. It is

her belief in that theory which keeps her alive through all the agony of

suspense. If she thought he was dead she would die. I am sure of it.”

“Keep up that faith in her heart, Dick. Lead her to believe also in the

restitution of her child as an event that may occur any day, any hour,

as you know it may.”

Dick sighed heavily.

“But it may! And it shall! I, too, sinner that I am, have learned to

pray. I pray daily, hourly, that I may be permitted to find the child

and bring it as a peace offering to my dear, injured wife. And I shall

do it. I feel sure that I shall.”

“Heaven grant that you may,” sighed Dick; “but recollect that already

everything has been done that experience, interest, energy, money,

skill, can do.”

“But not all that _despair_ can do! Oh, Dick! I have so set my heart on

finding this child and bringing him to his mother that I shall surely do

it.”

“The Lord send it.”

“And therefore, Dick, I want you to prepare her to expect the child; or,

rather, to believe it probable that he will soon be found; so that when

I do bring him to her she may not die from a shock of joy.”

“I will do as you request, Alick; but I shall have to act with great

discretion in the matter.”

“Certainly you will, and you can. Does she know anything about——” Alick

hesitated to name the _affair of honor_ of which he was now so heartily

ashamed. “Does she know anything about——”

“Your illness in Jersey, or its cause?” said Dick, delicately coming to

his help. “Of course not. We were not going to tell her anything to add

to her troubles.”

“You were right!—But what a heartless wretch she must think me, to be in

town and to show no interest in the loss of my child!” exclaimed

Alexander.

Dick could not help remembering that Drusilla had had quite cause enough

to believe him a “heartless wretch” without this. But Dick was very

good-natured, so he said:

“She knows that you were not in town. She went to your hotel at once to

apprize you of the loss of your child——”

“She did! Drusilla did that!” exclaimed Alexander, interrupting him.

“Yes, she did—within an hour after the discovery was made, and——-”

“Bless her! bless her!” fervently ejaculated Alexander.

—“She was told that you had left town for Southampton. I think she

received the impression that you had sailed for America.”

“I am very glad of that. But is it not strange that she did not see that

ill-natured paragraph in the papers referring to the——”

“Not at all. The paragraph in question was in but one day’s issue, and

that was the day she was in her greatest agony about her child; and

besides, she never has looked at paper or book since her heavy loss. She

has done nothing but pray and search, as I said before.”

“Poor child! poor child! Dick, tell her nothing of me. I do not wish

that she shall see me, or hear from me, until I bring her the child. But

give my love and thanks to my uncle, and tell him what I am about. But

here comes the waiter.”

Breakfast was brought in and arranged upon the table, and the friends

drew up to it.

Alexander ate nothing, but he drank down in quick succession about six

cups of coffee; for “sorrow is dry,” just as surely as if the drunkards

had never said it was, and made it an excuse for more drinking.

Then Alexander got up from the table and said:

“I would like to meet you here every morning about this hour for a few

minutes to compare notes. Would it be convenient or agreeable?”

“Certainly—both, Alick. I am entirely at your service. And God grant you

success!”

Then Alexander took up his hat and gloves, saying:

“I am going to Police Head-Quarters first.”

Dick laughed lugubriously.

“Alick,” he said, “the detective police have been using their utmost

skill to find the lost child. They have been hard at work for a month.”

“I know it, but they work in a routine; they also have come to move in a

groove. The thieves know the detectives’ ways by this time and elude

them. I shall go about the business in an original manner. Good-by,

Dick. I thank you earnestly for all your patient forbearance and

goodness to me. Help them to take care of my poor girl.”

“Certainly I will. But, Alick! do you take care of _yourself_. It is

very damp.”

“Never fear. No one takes cold who has so much else to think about and

do. Well, once more—good-by till to-morrow, Dick.”

And the friends shook hands and parted.

Alexander threw himself into his cab, and drove off to Scotland Yard.

There he saw the chief of police, and had a long talk with him. Under

the seal of confidence, he explained something of the circumstances of

his marriage, his temporary estrangement from his wife, who bore his

family name; and of his subsequent accession to the title and estate of

Killcrichtoun—a title which, it appeared, his wife shrank from sharing

until they should be reconciled. This, he said, he divulged that the

chief might understand why it was that he took so deep an interest, and

was willing to pay so high a reward, and give besides all his own time

and attention for the recovery of the lost child.

These circumstances and all others he deemed necessary he explained to

the chief, who, by the way, had heard it all before from Dick, although

he did not deem it discreet to interrupt Lord Killcrichtoun’s narrative

by telling him so.

Alexander also made some suggestions as to the best manner of conducting

the further search, that the chief declared to have been inspired.

After leaving Scotland Yard, Alexander went to his apartments at

Mivart’s, where he found that his valet had unpacked and arranged his

clothes and toilet apparatus, and had brought up the letters and papers

that had accumulated for him during him absence.

He looked over his letters, but found nothing of great importance.

Then he sent for the clerk of the house and made inquiries as to who had

called on him, or what had happened concerning him during the last

month.

He heard in reply several things in which we are not interested, and one

thing in which we are, rather—namely, the visit of two ladies, who

inquired for him in connection with the missing child.

Of course he knew at once that the ladies referred to must have been

Anna and Drusilla, and the child little Lenny.

He made very particular inquiries concerning these visitors merely

because he liked to hear of Drusilla; and having learned all that the

clerk had to tell, he thanked and dismissed him.

For the next eight days Alexander occupied himself by carrying into

execution all the ingenious plans he had originated for finding the

child; but as none of these plans succeeded, it is not necessary to

detail them.

It was fated that the father should find the child when he was not

looking for him, but when he was in the act of performing a piece of

disinterested benevolence.

And this is how it came about:

Among other better thoughts that had visited Alexander on his bed of

illness were certain reflections in connection with his distant

relative—our poor gentleman. His mind dwelt much upon the poor usher and

his half-famished family, and he reproved himself for his late strange,

incomprehensible blindness, thoughtlessness and selfishness in regard to

them.

“A wife and six children to be fed and clothed on sixty pounds a year!

Good Heaven! how could I have been so preoccupied as not to think of

this when I had the power to help them—I who fling away every day of my

idle and worthless life as much as he gets for his hard work and

usefulness a whole year. I ought to do something for him. I ought to

have done it long ago. But the question is—what to do? He is as proud as

Satan, and he would not take money.”

After much reflection, Alexander hit upon a plan of helping the poor

gentleman without hurting his pride. It was a plan that required some

considerable sacrifice on Alexander’s part; and when you hear of it I

think you will say that it was generous, if not magnanimous.

On Alexander’s arrival in London, and for the first eight days after

that, he had been so occupied with the search for his child that he had

almost forgotten his plans for the relief of poor Everage; but on this

ninth day he opened his eyes in the morning with these thoughts:

“I have been here more than a week, and spent all my time, energy and

ingenuity in the search, and I have not found my child yet.”

And then he fell into profound reverie, in the midst of which some good

angel whispered to his spirit:

“You have been here eight days, intent only upon finding your child and

taking him to his mother as a peace offering, and all for your own

happiness; and you have not once thought of the poor gentleman and his

famishing family.”

“No, I have not,” said Alexander to himself, “when it would have

required no more than fifteen minutes to have done it either. I will

find time to see poor Everage to-day, and put him out of his misery.”

And he kept his word.

He knew exactly where the Newton Institute was situated, and he knew the

hour of the afternoon at which the boys were dismissed, and at that hour

he walked towards the Institute to meet Everage as the latter should

come out after his pupils. He met first a troop of boys, and afterwards

saw _him_ come creeping along. But oh! how changed since Alexander had

last seen him! He was now pale, thin, haggard, and somewhat gray. His

eyes were cast down, and his shoulders were bowed, and he crept along

like an old man of eighty.

The truth is that the poor gentleman had mistaken his vocation—it was

not that of a deep-dyed villain; he had no genius for crime, and

moreover, he had no stomach for it; it did not agree with him; he could

not digest it; it made him ill, and was like to kill him unless he could

get it off his stomach, or—his conscience.

His passions, his poverty, and his temptations had drawn him on to a

deed which, just as soon as it was done, filled his soul with a

corroding remorse.

Of all who suffered from the abduction of little Lenny, Clarence

Everage, the abductor, suffered the most. Every night he was drawn by

some irresistible influence to look upon his little victim.

He was himself a very loving father, and he had a little girl of Lenny’s

age, who was his favorite child, named Clara, after himself; and when he

saw poor Lenny fading in the close confinement of that dark, damp attic,

and for the want of sunshine, and weeping and wailing for his mother,

the sinner’s remorse was intensified to agony. He let his own family

suffer that he might bring a few dainties to little Lenny.

The other lodgers in the house, who had never had a glimpse of the

baby-boy, but who knew that a child had been put to “mind” with Mother

Rooter, and who saw this poor, shabby gentleman come every night to

bring it “goodies,” jumped to the natural conclusion that he was the

father of the boy, whom for some reason or other he was keeping in

concealment; and this supposition shut out the suspicion that little

Lenny was the missing child whose loss was posted all over London. We

who know the facts easily see the connection between the two sets of

circumstances; but they who did not even suspect them, could see no such

relations.

So deep was the remorse of poor Everage, that it not only dried up his

blood, and wasted his flesh, and bowed his frame, and blanched his hair,

but it drove him to the desperate determination to take the child and go

to police head-quarters and give himself up as its abductor. And so

fixed was his resolution that he was only waiting for his wife to get

safely over her confinement, which was daily expected, before he should

do this.

In this very frame of mind, and thinking of this very purpose, he came

down the street to where Alexander was waiting for him.

“Poor soul!” thought Alick, as he gazed upon him, “he is ageing very

fast. His cares are too much for him. Or, perhaps, he has been ill, or

in some distress even greater than usual. I ought to have looked after

him long ago. I will do it at once.”

And Alick quickened his steps to overtake the poor gentleman, who, in

his deep preoccupation of mind, had passed without even lifting his eyes

from the ground.

Alexander quickly overtook him, and, lightly touching his arm, said:

“Everage?”

The poor gentleman started, turned around, and, seeing Alexander, looked

aghast, as a criminal might at a constable.

“How do you do, Everage? I fear you have been ill,” said Alick.

Everage shook in every limb, and said nothing.

“You _have_ been ill, that is plain enough! Come—shall we hail a cab,

and go to Véry’s? It is _my_ turn now, you remember,” said Alick

cheerfully.

But Everage continued to gaze at him aghast, until at length he got

breath enough to gasp:

“Good Heaven, my lord, is it you?”

“Come, Everage; your nerves are all unstrung, and you’re shocked to see

me looking so like a ghost. Indeed, I had liked to have been one. But

here I am, alive at least, and likely to get well. Come—shall it be

Véry’s?”

“No, no, no—not that!” groaned the poor gentleman.

“The green-turtle soup is prime; now shall we go to that place in the

Exchange?”

“No, no, no, Lord Killcrichtoun! I can go nowhere to eat or to drink

with you! I cannot! I cannot! Heaven have mercy on me! I am a lost

soul.”

“Why, what is the matter with you, Everage?”

“I am ill, ill, ill!”

“Your nervous system is broken down; life has been too hard with you, my

friend! But come—I have news for you that will cheer you up! Let us drop

into the nearest tavern, and get a private room, where we may converse

confidentially,—here is the ‘King’s Head’ near, shall we go there and

have something comfortable?”

“No, no, no; I told you I would go nowhere to eat or drink with you, my

lord!”

“Is your digestive apparatus so much out of order as all that? Well,

then, if you don’t go to eat and drink, we will go to talk. I tell you I

have news for you—‘you will hear of something to your advantage,’ as the

mysterious newspaper paragraphs say.”

“Well, well, I will go with you, my lord; and perhaps I will tell you

‘something to _your_ advantage,’” he muttered, in a low tone.

So they went to the King’s Head, and Alick called for a private parlor,

where they sat down to talk.

“Everage,” said Alick, gravely, “I have had a long and dangerous fit of

illness, from which I have scarcely yet recovered.”

“Indeed, my lord! I had not heard of it: but, really now I observe that

you do not look well. I am sorry, my lord.”

“Everage, you heard of the affair in which I was engaged? the——”

The word stuck in his throat; he would not utter it.

Everage looked puzzled for a moment.

“You know—the affair in which I was engaged in Jersey! the——”

“Oh, yes, certainly, my lord; I heard of the——”

And, in courtesy, the poor gentleman paused exactly where his friend had

done.

“Well, Everage, I was severely wounded, and, in the illness that

followed, I came nearer facing my Judge than I ever expected to do,

without hearing my sentence. In the convalescence that followed, you may

believe that I was brought to very serious reflection. Among other

subjects, I thought of you, Everage, and took myself to task for not

having done so before—nay, now, do not shrink and turn from me; I mean

no such an impertinence as patronage to you, Everage. I would just as

soon venture to patronize one of the royal princes. But I thought of a

plan for improving the circumstances of your family, which even you

might meet without detriment to your honest pride.”

“Oh, Heaven! oh, Heaven, have mercy on me!” groaned the poor gentleman.

“Everage, you are exhausted; you really _must_ have something,” said

Alick.

And he rang for a waiter, and ordered brandy; which was quickly brought.

Everage gulped a small glassful and then said:

“You thought of me—you thought of me on your sick-bed! You think of me

still in your days of deep affliction! for you _cannot_ have come to

London without learning the loss of——”

Everage’s voice broke down in sobs.

“My child? yes; I learned the loss from the newspapers—from the very

first newspapers that fell into my hands after I was convalescent. I

have thought of little else since my arrival. For the last eight days, I

have done nothing but devise and carry out plans for his recovery. But,

this morning, I remembered you and your affairs, and reproached myself

for forgetting them. So, now——”

“But, about your child,—how _can_ you think of any one or of anything

while he is missing?”

“Because I cherish a great faith that I shall soon find him. But about

your affairs. I wish to speak of _them_,” said Alick.

The poor gentleman waved his hand with a gesture of resignation and

became silent.

“Everage, on that bed of illness and self-examination, I made many a

retrospection of my past life, and many a resolution for my future one.

Among my retrospections was a review of my motives in going to so much

trouble and expense in establishing my claim to the Barony of

Killcrichtoun, which I really did not want. I believe now that my only

incentives to that action were idleness and _ennui_. I had nothing to

do; and I was weary of my life. But having made the discovery of my

descent from the old baron, I took some little interest in tracing back

the lineage; and found some little excitement in following up the

investigation and proving my claim. But as soon as all that was over and

I found myself addressed on all sides as ‘Lord Killcrichtoun,’ ‘your

lordship,’ and ‘my lord,’—on my soul, Everage, I felt heartily ashamed

of myself and title——”

“Yet it is an ancient and an honorable title,” sighed the poor

gentleman, and he thought—“He values it so lightly, this proud

Virginian, while I—I have staked my soul upon the bare chance of some

day gaining it!”

“Yes, it is an ancient and honorable title; and it would well become an

English heir—it would well become yourself, Everage! And but for me you

would have been the bearer of it.”

“But for you, my lord, I should never have heard of my remote connection

with it.”

“Everage, my friend, will you do me the favor to leave out all reference

to that title in speaking to me? To hear it so applied makes me feel

like a fool and that is a fact. I am a plain Republican gentleman, a

little proud or perhaps I should say, conceited, on account of my old

State, and still more so in respect of my native country; but I am not

such an ass as to want to be a ‘Lord.’ Enough of that. What I have said,

what I may yet say of myself will only be to explain my plan for you.

Listen. Everage; I shall not claim your attention very long.”

“I am listening, sir.”

“I am going to try to be reconciled to my poor wife. (My illness brought

me to my senses on that subject also.) I am going to try to be

reconciled to my wife; and then we are going to return to our native

land. But before I do either—before I do anything—I shall make over the

Killcrichtoun estate to _you_.”

At this announcement the poor gentleman sprang to his feet, as if he had

been shot from his chair; then, sinking back again, he covered his face

with his hands and uttered such deep, heart-rending groans as could only

be wrenched from a bosom wrung by remorse.

“Everage! Everage! my friend, what is the matter? Good Heavens! how

nervous you are! How shattered your health must be! But you will recover

your strength again when you leave this stifling atmosphere composed of

smoke and fog, and get away to the bracing breezes of the Highlands!”

said Alick, kindly.

“Too late! too late! too late!” moaned Everage.

“Too late? No, it isn’t. You have no fatal malady. You are only broken

down by hard work! You will recover in the Highlands. Think how your

children will enjoy the freedom and fine air of the mountains. And you

can take them to Killcrichtoun and enter on possession as soon as you

like. The necessary deeds of conveyance of the land shall be made out as

soon as I can get the slow lawyers to do it.”

“It is too much! it is too much! Great Heaven! this is too much to bear!

You overwhelm me, my lord!” groaned Everage.

“But why do you say so? Everage! look here! I really do think that you

have more right—a great deal more right to the estate than I have. You

and all your ancestors were British born. I and my immediate progenitors

were American born. What right had I to come over here and claim this

title and estate? None whatever in _right_, whatever I might have had in

law. And I cannot continue to hold it and to transmit it to my son,

unless I expatriate myself and become a British subject. And I will not

do that. Therefore I do not _want_ Killcrichtoun. A man is not even to

be thanked for giving away what he don’t want. As I said before, I shall

make over the whole of the landed estate to _you_. I wish to Heaven I

could also give you the title; but that cannot be so transferred, I

believe; so the title must be dropped; for, of course, I cannot continue

to bear it in my own country—it would make me simply ridiculous. When,

however, you become the owner of Killcrichtoun, although you cannot be

the baron, yet you will have the territorial title, according to the

custom of Scotland. You will be called ‘Killcrichtoun’ or ‘Everage of

Killcrichtoun.’ Come, come! cheer up, man!”

“Too much! it is too much! too much and too late!” groaned the poor

gentleman, as he sat with his hands clasped tightly around his head, his

bosom heaving and his eyes streaming with tears.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE PEACE-OFFERING.—_Continued._

To Alick there seemed something awful in Everage’s tremendous emotion.

He had been a very handsome, fine-looking man, with that natural air of

majesty and grace which not even the bitterness of poverty and servitude

could take from him; but now he was all broken down.

Deep compassion moved the heart of Alick as he gazed on him.

“What is the matter, Everage?” he softly inquired.

“Coals of fire! Coals of fire!” answered the conscience-stricken man.

And covering his bowed face with his hands, ‘he wept bitterly,’ as

repentant Peter wept.

Alexander looked on with awe for an instant, and then turned away his

head; he could not bear to see such abject grief.

At length, with an effort, Everage gained a mastery over his passion and

raised his head, and with a look of anguish still upon his face, and in

a voice still vibrating with intense emotion, he said:

“You ask me what is the matter? Remorse is killing me! Remorse! and now

your kindness!”

“‘Remorse,’ Everage?” exclaimed Alexander, in consternation.

“Yes, remorse! I am a criminal of the darkest dye! I am not worthy to

live!”

“A criminal!—You!”

“Yes, I!—a God forsaken criminal.”

“God never forsakes the greatest criminal, being penitent. But you,

Everage! I cannot understand! I cannot believe you to be a criminal,”

answered Alexander, unable to recover from his consternation, and

mentally running over the sins most likely to be committed by a poor

gentleman under the influence of overpowering temptation. Was it

embezzlement? swindling? No, he could have had no opportunity of

dabbling in either of these. Was it forgery? Yes, it was most likely

forgery. The poor usher had probably, under the pressure of terrible

want, forged his employer’s name to a check, or a note, or something of

the sort, and was now dying of remorse and shame, and perhaps also of

terror. And Alick resolved to help him, if help were possible.

“Everage,” he asked kindly, “do you wish to confide in me?”

“I wish to CONFESS to you, since the offense was committed against you,”

groaned the heart-broken man.

“Against _me_?” exclaimed Alexander, in a tone of surprise that was not

without pleasure; for he instantly thought—“Oh, if he has only forged

_my_ name to a cheque or a note, or anything of the sort, it will be

perfectly easy to save him. It will only be for me to take up the paper

without saying anything about it; or, at worst, to acknowledge the

signature.” Then, speaking softly, he said:

“Tell me everything, Everage, freely as one sinner speaking to another;

for I, too, have sinned too deeply to have any sort of right to judge

harshly. Speak freely, Everage.”

Still for a moment the poor gentleman remained silent, he knew that,

after having told all, his bosom would feel somewhat relieved, yet he

could scarcely bring himself to utter his own shame.

“I will tell you everything. And the more willingly because reparation

is still in my power.”

“But, Everage, if such reparation should in any way distress you, it

need not be made. Nay, if the confession itself will distress you,

withhold it, my friend. If, as you say, the offense is against me, you

need not tell it; and believe me, neither you nor any one else shall

ever hear of it,” said Alick, kindly.

“Every gentle, generous word you speak stabs my heart like a reproach. I

must tell you all. It will shame me, but it will relieve me to do so.

Reparation must be made; and it will not distress but comfort me to make

it; nay, it will almost do away my guilt. It is a measure that I had

already resolved upon. I was only waiting for my poor wife to get over

her impending _accouchement_ before carrying it into effect; for in my

poor Belle’s present critical condition, the excitement of a criminal

trial would surely kill her. And thus my little girls would be bereft of

both parents.”

“Everage, you talk wildly! If the offense is against me, it is already

condoned. You may reveal it or not as you please. For myself, I do not

see the need of your doing so.”

“That is because you do not know the nature of my crime! Lord

Killcrichtoun, it was I who caused your child to be abducted!—There!

kill me where I stand if you like! No one will think of blaming you,”

said Everage, in a broken voice, as he tottered to his feet and stood

before little Lenny’s father.

But Alexander gazed at him in amazement and incredulity for a full

minute before he found ideas or words to reply. Then he exclaimed:

“Everage, you are mad to think so! What motive could you possibly have

had for getting possession of my child? You who have so many of your

own? I say you are mad to think it.”

“No,” said Everage, dropping back in his chair and covering his face.

“No, not mad _now_: but I was mad then, when I caused the child to be

carried off! I was mad blind, and Heaven-forsaken!”

“Not Heaven-forsaken, Everage, or you would not have been brought to

this confession. But is this really true? You caused the child to be

carried off? You said the reparation was still in your power!—_that_

means the child still lives! Where is he? Is he in London? Is he in our

reach? Is he well?” inquired Alexander scarcely able to control the

violence of his emotions—his strangely mingled and warring emotions—of

astonishment, indignation, ecstasy and impatience.

“Yes, to all your questions,” answered Everage, dropping his face into

his hands.

“But, good Heaven, what _possible_ motive _could_ you have had for

carrying off my child? You _must_ have been mad!”

“I was! I was, my lord! mad and blind and God-forsaken! I was tempted

beyond——”

“Stop, Everage! don’t tell me just now. I must see my boy immediately.

Can you take me to him now?”

“Yes,” answered the poor gentleman, in an almost inaudible voice.

“How far is it?” asked Alexander, with his hand upon the bell.

“About two miles from here,” breathed Everage.

“Then we must have a carriage,” observed Alexander, ringing the bell.

“A cab, immediately!” he said, as the waiter appeared.

“And now, Everage,” he continued, when they were left alone together

again, “now tell me what could possibly have caused you to have my child

carried off. Do you know his loss has nearly broken his mother’s heart?”

“Do I _not_ know it? Have I not felt it? felt it day and night since the

devil deluded me into doing this deed? Lord Killcrichtoun, look at me!

See the wreck remorse has made of me! No sooner had I done this deed

than remorse, like a consuming fire, than which the fires of Hell cannot

be fiercer, entered my heart and burned my life away to this.”

“Burned your guilt away, Everage, but not your life.”

“This agony of remorse I would not have borne for a week, but for my

wife’s critical condition.”

“But she must have been very much distressed by the change in you.”

“She was; but she ascribed it all to overwork in the school. And I

soothed her by saying that after her confinement I should leave the

school. I did not tell her, _for the Old Bailey_.”

“Hush, Everage, there will be nothing of that sort. But you have not yet

told me what it was that tempted you to load thus your conscience.”

“I will tell you all—I will keep nothing back, and then you can do as

you please.”

But, before he could say another word, the waiter opened the door, and

announced the cab that had been ordered.

Alexander and Everage left the house, Everage tottering with weakness

and scarcely able to walk without the support of Alexander’s arm, which

was readily given him.

Everage gave the order.

“Black street, Blackfriars’ Road.”

And then, with the help of Alexander, entered the cab.

When they were both seated and the vehicle was in motion, Everage

commenced the story of little Lenny’s abduction, and the causes that led

to the act.

With a shame-bowed head, in a broken and almost inaudible voice, he

spoke of the bitterness of his poverty and his servitude; of the love,

which was agony, for his beautiful, pale-faced wife, and lovely, fading

little girls; of the jealousy with which he saw the Killcrichtoun

estate, that might have been his own, and the salvation of his famishing

family, pass away to a foreigner, so wealthy that he cared nothing for

the half-sterile Highland acres; of his belief that the present baron’s

life was so precarious that in a very short time no one but little Lenny

would stand between himself and the inheritance of Killcrichtoun; and of

the intensity of the temptation that finally maddened and conquered him,

and drew him on to crime; and finally, again he spoke of the fierce

remorse that like the fires of Tophet devoured his life.

“And now,” he concluded, “do with me what you will! I have nothing to

say in my defense, nothing whatever! You can prosecute me for the

abduction. You can send me to penal servitude for Heaven knows how many

years! It will be just! I only entreat you, in any case, not to let my

innocent family starve!”

“My poor Everage! I could not look in your face and see the wreck

remorse has made of you, and raise my hand or voice against you! ‘Penal

servitude!’ Your whole life has been penal servitude! Besides, besides,

in my more favored position, without any of the temptations that beset

you, I myself have been too great a sinner to dare to be a harsh judge!

In your position, Everage, heaven knows, I might have been tempted to do

the same things!” said Alexander, gravely.

“But I never meant to harm the child. I would have taken the best care

of him I could.”

“I believe you, Everage. And let me find the child alive and well, and

let me have the happiness of laying him upon his mother’s lap; and then

let the whole matter pass into forgetfulness. It shall not in any way

interfere with my plans for your welfare.”

“God bless you, sir!” wept the poor gentleman; “God, in his great mercy,

bless you!”

“Black street, sir,” said the cabman, pulling up his horses and waiting

further orders.

“Turn into it and drive on until you reach Bushe Lane. It is on the left

hand,” answered Everage.

The cabman turned his horses’ heads and drove down the street for some

distance and then pulled up again.

“Bushe’s Lane, sir.”

“Turn into it and go on until you reach Blood Alley. It is also on the

left side,” said Everage.

The cabman turned into the dark, unwholesome lane and drove on for a

short distance and then reined up his horses again.

“Blood Alley, sir,” he said.

“We must get out here, the alley is too narrow to admit the passage of

the carriage,” said Everage opening the door.

And both men stepped down at the entrance of the foul alley, dark,

loathsome and offensive to every material sense and moral sentiment.

“Wait here until we return,” said Everage to the cabman.

The man touched his hat in assent as he thought to himself:

“Them two coves be two detectives on the scent of thieves.”

Everage led the way and Alexander followed him, picking his steps as

well as he could through the fermenting filth of the alley, and

shuddering to think his child was exposed to such deadly air.

About midway down the alley Everage paused before a tall, tottering

tenement house, occupied by the lowest caste of thieves and beggars.

“Here is the place,” he said, opening the door and entering the

passage-way without either obstruction or even observation; for at this

hour the tenants were out upon their tramps.

Everage led the way up several flights of quaking stairs to the attic

floor, which certainly, from its height, had the advantage of a purer

air.

Everage opened a door immediately in front of the landing and signed

Alexander to enter.

Alick passed the threshold and found himself in a room with a sloping

roof and a skylight.

The room was clearer than when he saw it last, for Meg had been supplied

with soap, and had kept it so for little Lenny’s sake; but it was almost

as bare of furniture as before.

There were but two persons present—a wild-looking, dark-haired,

bare-footed girl walking the floor: and a child in her arms—a pale, wan

baby-boy, with his fair-haired head dropped heavily upon her shoulder,

his violet eyes closed, and his long fringed eyelids lying down upon his

dead white cheeks. His little clothes were old and faded and patched,

but as clean as hands could make them.

As the two men entered the room the girl looked up, pointed to the

sleeping child and signed them to be quiet.

It was too late. Poor little Lenny had become a nervous and irritable

sleeper. The slightest noise would awaken him. And now the sound of

approaching footsteps startled him from his sleep, and he awoke with a

shiver. His first words were:

“Doosa tome, Met?”

Then looking up and seeing only two men, he dropped his head upon Meg’s

shoulder and wailed forth his disappointment:

“Doosa not tome! Doosa not tome! Lenny want see Doosa! Lenny want to see

Doosa so bad!”

“And you shall see Doosa, my darling boy! You shall see Doosa before the

sun goes down. You shall sleep on your mother’s bosom to-night, little

Lenny!” exclaimed Alexander, in great agitation, as he went to the child

and held out his arms.

But Lenny turned away and clasped his own arms around Meg’s neck and

renewed his plaintive cry:

“I want to see Doosa! I want to see Doosa so bad! I don’t want anybody

esse!”

“And so you shall see Doosa, my beloved boy. Look at me, little Lenny!

don’t you know me?” coaxed Alexander.

“Ess, I do! But I want see Doosa!”

“Look at me, my darling! Come to me! I will take you to Doosa directly!”

pleaded Alexander, holding out his arms and gazing earnestly in the face

of his son.

Now little Lenny had been deceived by fair but false promises, and his

faith was failing. But there was an earnest truthfulness in the looks

and words of the man that now carried conviction to the heart of the

child. His face lightened, beamed, became transfigured with ecstasy:

“You tate me see Doosa? You tate me now?” he joyously exclaimed.

“Yes, my darling, now this moment! Come to me,” said Alexander, still

holding out his arms.

Lenny bounded into them.

“Oh, sir! you will not take him from me! It would break my heart! he is

all I have to love in the world, all that loves me! I would work my

fingers to the bones, I would for him! Please, sir, don’t take him

away!” cried Meg, lifting the corner of her apron to her eyes.

“I must take him to his mother, my girl. She too is pining for him,”

said Alexander, kindly.

“Oh, Lenny, you won’t leave me! You won’t leave poor Met?” she wept,

appealing to the child.

“No! no! no!” said Master Leonard, peremptorily. “_Not_ leave Met! Met

go too! Met go too! Met go too!”

“But, my darling, Met can’t go!”

“I will, I will, I will! Lenny love Met! Lenny not leave Met. Met go

too!”

“But, Met cannot go,” remonstrated the father.

“Oh, yes, sir, I can,” sobbed Meg. “If you will take him, I can go, if

you will let me; and I will be a faithful servant to him all my life,

and never want any wages.”

“Met go too! Met go too!” sang out little Lenny. It was the chorus of

the song.

“But, my girl, how can you go? I would willingly reward you for the care

you must have bestowed upon my child, who, but for you, might have

perished in this horrible place, but how can I take you away? you have

parents or guardians who must be consulted.”

Meg left off crying, and laughed aloud;

“No, sir; little ladies and gentlemen have them things, not the likes of

us! The people I live with ain’t no kin to me, though I do call the men

uncle, and the woman grannam; I am only their drudge, sir; I am free to

go with the child; if you will let me.”

“Met go too! Met go too!” cried the little despot, beginning now to

scream and kick with impatience.

He had not been used to have his will crossed. He had been accustomed to

prompt obedience from his white slaves.

“I see that you are ‘a chip of the old block,’” smiled Alexander.

“Met go too! Met go too!” screamed the young tyrant, making his feet fly

with such velocity that they looked like a drove of feet.

Meanwhile, Meg, with her apron to her eyes, was sobbing violently. A

scene was certainly impending.

“I think, sir, if I were you I would take the girl along. I think well

of her. I believe her account of herself to be true. And I believe it

would be a good work to take her from this haunt of sin and misery—alas!

I beg your pardon, I had forgotten myself, I have no right to preach,”

said the poor penitent, bowing his head.

“I will take her at your word, Everage; but, good Heaven, look down at

her feet!”

“Well, they are not cloven!” said the poor gentleman, with a sad attempt

at a pleasantry. “Give her a sovereign sir, and let her run out and fit

herself with a bonnet, and shawl, and a pair of shoes and stockings.

I’ll warrant she’ll do it all in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll do it in less time, sir; indeed I will, if you’ll only let me go

with little Lenny!”

“Very well; be quick,” said Alexander, handing over a sovereign.

“Oh, please, sir, give it to me in smaller change. If the shopkeeper was

to see the likes of me with a whole suvring at a time, they would stop

it, and send for the police,” said Meg.

“That is quite likely,” thought Alick, as he replaced the offered coin

in his purse, and then gave her a half sovereign in gold, and a half in

silver change.

Meg was as quick as her word. She hurried out, and, in fifteen minutes

hurried in, equipped for her ride. It was in less time than they

supposed she could have effected her purchases.

Then she took Lenny in her arms, and prepared to follow the two

gentlemen.

The whole party went down Blood Alley towards its outlet upon Bushe

Lane.

Little Lenny laughed and patted Meg’s cheeks, and prattled all the way.

“Going to see Doosa, Met! Met going to see Doosa too! Lenny love Met!

Lenny not leave Met! Met going to see Doosa!”

When they reached Bushe Lane, where the cab was waiting, the astute

cabman, looking around upon the party, said to himself:

“There—I knew it! They’ve caught one on ’em; and what a young sinner to

be the mother of a child that big!”

Everage put Meg and Lenny into the cab, and then followed with

Alexander.

Lenny was still full of joyous babble.

“Wide in cawidge, Met! Met wide in cawidge too!” he kept saying, as he

patted her cheeks and kissed her.

“They should never be separated,” murmured the poor gentleman, timidly,

as if speaking to himself.

“They shall not be, if I can help it,” replied Alexander who had read

with approval the letter of recommendation contained in Meg’s face.

They drove rapidly up Bushe Lane, through Black street, and up

Blackfriars’ road. But little conversation was carried on until they

reached the Strand.

When drawing near to Wellington street, where Everage lived, he said.

“But you will not take the child to his mother this afternoon?”

“Certainly,” replied Alexander.

“What—now, immediately?”

“Yes.”

“Will not the shock be too great?”

“No; I have heard that she is almost morbid on the subject, and is

constantly looking for the child, and expecting to find him, or to have

him brought home to her. I also had a sort of conviction that I should

have the happiness of finding him and carrying him as a peace-offering

to his mother. It was a very remarkable presentiment, I think.”

“Presentiments when believed in, often fulfil themselves,” said Everage.

“However that may be, I so firmly believed that I should find the child,

that I instructed his mother’s friends to encourage her hopes and keep

up her expectations of seeing him, so that when I should bring him to

her, she should not sustain a fatal shock of joy.”

By this time they had reached Wellington street, and at the request of

Everage the cab was drawn up.

The poor gentleman got out.

“Give me your hand, Everage,” said Alexander; and holding it, he added,

“I shall see you very soon, and remember, you are to have that Highland

property.”

Everage pressed the hand of his magnanimous friend with a look more

eloquent than words, and then turned and walked rapidly up Wellington

street.

“Drive on,” said Alexander.

“Where now, sir?” inquired the cabman, touching his hat.

“Morley House, Trafalgar square.”

In a very few minutes the cab drove up to the hotel and stopped.

One of the servants of the house, seeing Lord Killcrichtoun’s face at

the window, came out to him.

“Do you know if Mr. Hammond is in the house just now?” inquired

Alexander.

“Yes, sir; he is in the reading-room.”

“Take in my card and ask him if he will do me the favor to come out.”

The waiter vanished, and Dick soon made his appearance at the cab door.

“Oh, Dick! I have found him!” exclaimed Alick, pointing to the child.

“Little Lenny! Thank God!” cried Dick, jerking open the door, jumping

into the cab, and seizing little Lenny and seating himself.

“Oh, Dit! Dit! Lenny tome home see Doosa! Met tome too! Lenny wide in

tab! Met wide too! Lenny not leave Met! Lenny love Met!”

And so the child prattled on, patting Dick’s cheeks, and pulling his

whiskers, and kissing him.

“Oh, I am so glad! Where did you find him, Alick? How was it? Tell me

all about it!”

“Too long a story, Dick. I must take him to his mother. Can I do so with

safety?”

“I think so. I have constantly encouraged her hopes of finding the

child; and yet perhaps it would be well to be cautious. I will just step

up and prepare her a little. I will tell her that we have better hopes

than ever of finding her child; and that we have heard from him, and

know where he is; and that he is now on his way to her, and so forth.

But I will not tell her that _you_ are bringing him. I will leave that

delight to yourself.”

“Thank you, Dick. Make haste, and don’t be gone a moment longer than

necessary.”

“I will come back as soon as possible,” said Dick as he disappeared.

“See Doosa! see Doosa!” exclaimed little Lenny impatiently.

“Yes, my boy, you shall see Doosa, Dick has gone to look for Doosa and

tell her,” said Alexander.

“Dit done look for Doosa?”

“Yes, my darling.”

So Lenny prattled on.

Dick was gone rather longer than was expected, but at length he

returned.

“You can go to her now. I have led her to expect that a gentleman from

Jersey has found the child, and is on his way home with him, and that he

may arrive by any train now. The news has made her very happy, as you

may judge. And now you may go up to her. She is alone in her chamber.”

“Thanks, Dick! many thanks for your kindness. Come, Meg,” said Alick,

stepping out upon the sidewalk.

Meg followed with little Lenny in her arms.

“You must come and show me her room, Dick,” said Alick.

“Certainly,” replied Hammond.

The whole party entered the house and passed up-stairs.

When they arrived at the door of Drusilla’s chamber, Alick took little

Lenny in his arms and said:

“I must enter alone. Dick, be so good as to take this girl to your wife

and tell her that she is to be an under nursemaid or something of the

sort. After I have seen Drusilla we will attend to the girl’s case.”

“Very well, Alick. Heaven speed you,” said Dick, beckoning to Meg, who

followed him meekly, and moving towards Anna’s room.

“Where Met gone? where Met gone?” impatiently demanded Lenny.

“Met has gone to see Anna,” answered Alexander.

“Met tome back soon?”

“Yes, she will come back soon.”

“Met go see Doosa too?”

“Yes, Met go see Doosa too. Now, Lenny, be a good, _quiet_ boy. We are

going to see Doosa.”

“Lenny be good boy den.”

“And mind, you must be very, very still. You must not jump and kick and

scream; if you do you will hurt Doosa,” said Alexander, looking very

gravely into the child’s face.

“Lenny be good boy! Lenny not hurt Doosa,” answered the child with

owlet-like solemnity.

Still Alick paused at the door. How many minutes he paused before he

could sufficiently compose himself for the joyous trial before him. But

then he had not yet recovered from the effects of his wound.

At length, with a prayer in his heart, he opened the door so softly as

not to disturb the inmate of the room.

She was sitting at the window, with her elbow resting on its sill, and

her head bowed upon her hand. How worn and wan she looked! Her face was

scarcely less white than the snowy robe she wore. Her face was turned

partly towards the window, and had an anxious, listening look, as if

constantly watching for the coming of some beloved and long-expected

one.

As soon as little Lenny saw his mother, he forgot all his promises, and

sang out with all the strength of his baby lungs:

“Doosa! Doosa! See Lenny tome home!”

She turned her head quickly, screamed, and started up to meet him; but

overwhelmed with emotion, sank back again into her chair and gasped for

breath.

“Hush, hush, my boy; see you have hurt Doosa; be very good now!”

whispered Alexander in a tone that awed the child into silence.

Then he crossed the room, knelt at her feet, and said:

“My wife, I have no word to say for myself. Let our child plead for me.”

And he laid little Lenny on her lap.

No, there was no scene that could he fully reported here.

Husband and child, both restored to her in an instant! It is a wonder

she had not died then and there! But she did not even faint. Heaven,

that had sustained her through such long-drawn-out, unutterable sorrows,

gave her strength now to meet the sudden shock of joy.

She gently put little Lenny aside for a moment, where the child, still

awed into silence, stood quietly.

She stooped and fell upon her Alick’s neck and clasped him to her; she

wept over him in ecstasy; she kissed him again and again, sobbing words

of the fondest endearment—sacred words not to be written here.

Lenny looked on in wonder and awe for some time; but at last his

impatience overcame every other emotion, and he sang out:

“Me, too! Me, too! Me, too! ’Top it, Doosa! Tate Lenny up!”

Alick, with a face radiant with joy, once more snatched up the child,

and kissed him rapturously, and put him in his mother’s arms, saying:

“Tell him who I am, darling wife! Tell him who I am!”

“Does he not know?” inquired Drusilla, who was covering her child with

caresses.

“No. I never felt that I had any right to tell him.”

“Lenny, love, do you know who that gentleman is?” she asked, looking

fondly at the child and then at the father.

“Ess I do! he bring Lenny home to Doosa,” answered the boy.

“Look at him, Lenny. He is your papa.”

“Lenny’s popper?” inquired the baby looking with great eyes at the

stranger, who had now taken on a new interest for him.

“Yes,” softly answered his mother.

“Lenny dot popper _too_?”

At this innocent question, in which so much was expressed, Alexander,

again conscience-stricken, turned away his head to hide the tears that

rushed to his eyes.

But for all reply, Drusilla stooped and kissed her child and handed him

back to his father.

The reconciliation was perfect.

Later, they went into the drawing-room, to which Dick brought Anna and

General Lyon all of whom, amid tears and caresses, offered their earnest

congratulations to the reunited pair; and rejoiced with an exceeding

great joy over the restoration of little Lenny.

But all this was nothing to the frantic delight of Pina when she heard

little Lenny had been found. She ran to him, she snatched him up, kissed

him and hugged him, and laughed and cried over him to such a degree that

even Master Leonard, who could bear a great deal of that sort of thing,

was obliged to order her to—

“’Top it.”

And then she ceased, and bore him off to dress him in all his finery for

dinner.

Yes, the reconciliation was perfect. And as it very seldom happens that

any human being suffers as Drusilla had suffered, so, also, it falls to

the lot of very few to be so happy as she was that evening and ever

thereafter.

She never learned the true history of little Lenny’s abduction. She was

left to believe in the policeman’s theory that the child had been stolen

by thieves for the sake of the jewelry on his person. She was told,

however, of Meg’s cherishing care of her baby, and she saw for herself

the strong attachment existing between them; and so she appointed Meg

under nursemaid, and fitted her out with a decent wardrobe. As to Meg’s

“parents and guardians,” the thieves of Blood Alley, they were left to

their own conjectures on the subject of her absence, and they probably

came to just conclusions, and being in possession of their ill-got

money, were also probably satisfied.

What else?

Clarence Everage, the sincerely repentant sinner whom misery had tempted

to crime for which nature had never intended him, and whom conscience

had afterwards constrained to confession and restitution—Clarence

Everage, the poor, proud gentleman, the oppressed public school

drudge—was put in possession of the Highland estate, and he became

Everage of Killcrichtoun.

Alexander advanced the funds to make the house habitable and the land

arable.

In the bracing air of the mountains his fading wife, and pale little

daughters grew rosy and happy, well and strong. Everage also recovered

his health and good looks, but never regained the raven hues of his

hair. And when his wife or any friend would suggest that it was

perfectly proper so young a man—so prematurely gray—should dye his hair,

he would shake his head with a melancholy smile and say:

“No, no! I wear my gray locks in memory of a great temptation and a

great fault, that might have been a fatal one but for the Lord’s

goodness.”

No one, not even his wife, knew what he meant. And no one ventured to

ask him. They saw that the matter was a sacred confidence between

himself and his Creator, with which none might intermeddle.

In truth, nobody ever knew all the circumstances of little Lenny’s

abduction except those immediately concerned in it. Alexander had been

generous in his recovered happiness, and had spared the name and fame of

the poor gentleman.

The Lyon family, of which little Lenny was the greatest lion of all, did

not immediately return to their own country. They made the tour of

Europe, and worked hard at it, and so they saw about one trillionth part

of what was worth seeing.

They were accompanied by the Seymours and by Francis Tredegar.

At the end of a year they went back to America, and down into Virginia.

Soon after their arrival several important family events occurred.

First, Drusilla presented little Lenny with a little sister, who was

named Annette, and who became his especial delight.

Next, Anna became the mother of a fine boy, to the direct controverting

of the gipsy fortune-teller’s prediction, which had promised her only

girls.

And finally, Nanny Seymour and Francis Tredegar were married; and the

young couple, after a prolonged bridal tour, took up their abode with

Colonel and Mrs. Seymour.

Pina made Jacob inexpressibly happy by accepting the dusky hand and

honest heart of that “gorilla.” Her place being made vacant by her

marriage was well filled by Meg, now grown to be a pretty

civilized-looking young woman, and promoted to be head of the nursery at

Crew Wood.

When I last heard of these friends of ours, General Lyon was still

living, in the enjoyment of a hale and happy age, at Old Lyon Hall,

surrounded by Anna and Dick and their children, who made their home with

him. And Hammond Hall was kept in good order by a steward and a

housekeeper. And in the fishing season, the family, with a party of

friends, usually occupy it for a few weeks. And there, as well as at Old

Lyon Hall, they are often joined by Alexander and Drusilla.

Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Lyon live chiefly at Crew Wood, where they spend

their days in doing good, and in rearing their beautiful young family.

Their other country seat, Cedarwood Cottage, is still in the care of

“Mammy” and her “old man.” And every winter Alick and Drusilla, with

their children, go there to be near Washington in the season. And Mr.

and Mrs. Hammond and General Lyon come to them. The old General never

loses his interest in what is going on at the capital.

THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Good Fiction Worth Reading.

A series of romances containing several of the old favorites in the

field of historical fiction, replete with powerful romances of love and

diplomacy that excel in thrilling and absorbing interest.

A COLONIAL FREE-LANCE. A story of American Colonial Times. By Chauncey

C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis.

Price, $1.00.

A book that appeals to Americans as a vivid picture of Revolutionary

scenes. The story is a strong one, a thrilling one. It causes the true

American to flush with excitement, to devour chapter after chapter,

until the eyes smart, and it fairly smokes with patriotism. The love

story is a singularly charming idyl.

THE TOWER OF LONDON. A Historical Romance of the Times of Lady Jane Grey

and Mary Tudor. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four

illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.

This romance of the “Tower of London” depicts the Tower as palace,

prison and fortress, with many historical associations. The era is the

middle of the sixteenth century.

The story is divided into two parts, one dealing with Lady Jane Grey,

and the other with Mary Tudor as Queen, introducing other notable

characters of the era. Throughout the story holds the interest of the

reader in the midst of intrigue and conspiracy, extending considerably

over a half a century.

IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING. A Romance of the American Revolution. By

Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson

Davis. Price, $1.00.

Mr. Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery,

and true love that thrills from beginning to end, with the spirit of

the Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking

a part in the exciting scenes described. His whole story is so

absorbing that you will sit up far into the night to finish it. As a

love romance it is charming.

GARTHOWEN. A story of a Welsh Homestead. By Allen Raine. Cloth, 12mo.

with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

“This is a little idyl of humble life and enduring love, laid bare

before us, very real and pure, which in its telling shows us some

strong points of Welsh character—the pride, the hasty temper, the

quick dying out of wrath.... We call this a well-written story,

interesting alike through its romance and its glimpses into another

life than ours. A delightful and clever picture of Welsh village life.

The result is excellent.”—Detroit Free Press.

MIFANWY. The story of a Welsh Singer. By Allan Raine. Cloth, 12mo. with

four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

“This is a love story, simple, tender and pretty as one would care to

read. The action throughout is brisk and pleasing; the characters, it

is apparent at once, are as true to life as though the author had

known them all personally. Simple in all its situations, the story is

worked up in that touching and quaint strain which never grows

wearisome, no matter how often the lights and shadows of love are

introduced. It rings true, and does not tax the imagination.”—Boston

Herald.

DARNLEY. A Romance of the times of Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey. By

G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis.

Price, $1.00.

In point of publication, “Darnley” is that work by Mr. James which

follows “Richelieu,” and, if rumor can be credited, it was owing to

the advice and insistence of our own Washington Irving that we are

indebted primarily for the story, the young author questioning whether

he could properly paint the difference in the characters of the two

great cardinals. And it is not surprising that James should have

hesitated; he had been eminently successful in giving to the world the

portrait of Richelieu as a man, and by attempting a similar task with

Wolsey as the theme, was much like tempting fortune. Irving insisted

that “Darnley” came naturally in sequence, and this opinion being

supported by Sir Walter Scott, the author set about the work.

As a historical romance “Darnley” is a book that can he taken up

pleasurably again and again, for there is about it that subtle charm

which those who are strangers to the works of G. P. R. James have

claimed was only to be imparted by Dumas.

If there was nothing more about the work to attract especial

attention, the account of the meeting of the kings on the historic

“field of the cloth of gold” would entitle the story to the most

favorable consideration of every reader.

There is really but little pure romance in this story, for the author

has taken care to imagine love passages only between those whom

history has credited with having entertained the tender passion one

for another, and he succeeds in making such lovers as all the world

must love.

CAPTAIN BRAND, OF THE SCHOONER CENTIPEDE. By Lieut. Henry A. Wise, U. S.

N. (Harry Gringo). Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson

Davis, Price, $1.00.

The re-publication of this story will please those lovers of sea yarns

who delight in so much of the salty flavor of the ocean as can come

through the medium of a printed page, for never has a story of the sea

and those “who go down in ships” been written by one more familiar

with the scenes depicted.

The one book of this gifted author which is best remembered, and which

will be read with pleasure for many years to come, is “Captain Brand,”

who, as the author states on his title page, was a “pirate of eminence

in the West Indies.” As a sea story pure and simple, “Captain Brand”

has never been excelled, and as a story of piratical life, told

without the usual embellishments of blood and thunder, it has no

equal.

NICK OF THE WOODS. A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By Robert

Montgomery Bird. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson

Davis, Price, $1.00.

This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life in

Kentucky was originally published in the year 1837. The novel, long

out of print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic

presentation of Indian and frontier life in the early days of

settlement in the South, narrated in the tale with all the art of a

practiced writer. A very charming love romance runs through the story.

This new and tasteful edition of “Nick of the Woods” will be certain

to make many new admirers for this enchanting story from Dr. Bird’s

clever and versatile pen.

GUY FAWKES. A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Wm. Harrison

Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank.

Price, $1.00.

The “Gunpowder Plot” was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament, the

King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England, was

weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient scheme of

extorting money from the people by imposing taxes on the Catholics. In

their natural resentment to this extortion, a handful of bold spirits

concluded to overthrow the government. Finally the plotters were

arrested, and the King put to torture Guy Fawkes and the other

prisoners with royal vigor. A very intense love story runs through the

entire romance.

THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER. A Romance of the Early Settlers in the Ohio

Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth, 12mo, with four illustrations by J. Watson

Davis. Price, $1.00.

A book rather out of the ordinary is this “Spirit of the Border.” The

main thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian

missionaries in the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader is given

details of the frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the

wilderness for the planting of this great nation. Chief among these,

as a matter of course, is Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and

at the same time the most admirable of all the brave men who spent

their lives battling with the savage foe, that others might dwell in

comparative security.

Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian “Village

of Peace” are given at some length, and with minute description. The

efforts to Christianize the Indians are described as they never have

been before, and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders

of the several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be

of interest to the student.

By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid

word-pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings

of the beauties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests.

It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by it

perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly

braved every privation and danger that the westward progress of the

star of empire might be the more certain and rapid. A love story,

simple and tender, guns through the book.

RICHELIEU. A tale of France in the reign of King Louis XIII. By G. P. R.

James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price,

$1.00.

In 1830 Mr. James published his first romance, “Richelieu.” and was

recognized at once as one of the masters of the craft.

In this book he laid the story during those later days of the great

cardinal’s life, when his power was beginning to wane, but while it

was yet sufficiently strong to permit now and then of volcanic

outbursts which overwhelmed foes and carried friends to the topmost

wave of prosperity. One of the most striking portions of the story is

that of Cinq Mar’s conspiracy; the method of conducting criminal

cases, and the political trickery resorted to by royal favorites,

affording a better insight into the statecraft of that day than can be

had even by an exhaustive study of history. It is a powerful romance

of love and diplomacy, and in point of thrilling and absorbing

interest has never been excelled.

WINDSOR CASTLE. A Historical Romance of the Reign of Henry VIII.,

Catharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth,

12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.

“Windsor Castle” is the story of Henry VIII., Catharine, and Anne

Boleyn. “Bluff King Hal,” although a well-loved monarch, was none too

good a one in many ways. Of all his selfishness and unwarrantable

acts, none was more discreditable than his divorce from Catharine, and

his marriage to the beautiful Anne Boleyn. The King’s love was as

brief as it was vehement. Jane Seymour, waiting maid on the Queen,

attracted him, and Anne Boleyn was forced to the block to make room

for her successor. This romance is one of extreme interest to all

readers.

HORSESHOE ROBINSON. A tale of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina in

1780. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J.

Watson Davis, Price, $1.00.

Among the old favorites in the field of what is known as historical

fiction, there are none which appeal to a larger number of Americans

than Horseshoe Robinson, and this because it is the only story which

depicts with fidelity to the facts the heroic efforts of the colonists

in South Carolina to defend their homes against the brutal oppression

of the British under such leaders as Cornwallis and Tarleton.

The reader is charmed with the story of love which forms the thread of

the tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail concerning

those times. The picture of the manifold sufferings of the people, is

never overdrawn, but painted faithfully and honestly by one who spared

neither time nor labor in his efforts to present in this charming love

story all that price in blood and tears which the Carolinians paid as

their share in the winning of the republic.

Take it all in all, “Horseshoe Robinson” is a work which should be

found on every book-shelf, not only because it is a most entertaining

story, but because of the wealth of valuable information concerning

the colonists which it contains. That it has been brought out once

more, well illustrated, is something which will give pleasure to

thousands who have long desired an opportunity to read the story

again, and to the many who have tried vainly in these latter days to

procure a copy that they might read it for the first time.

THE PEARL OF ORR’S ISLAND. A story of the Coast of Maine. By Harriet

Beecher Stowe. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

Written prior to 1862, the “Pearl of Orr’s Island” is ever new; a book

filled with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array themselves anew

each time one reads them. One sees the “sea like an unbroken mirror

all around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr’s Island,” and

straightway comes “the heavy, hollow moan of the surf on the beach,

like the wild angry howl of some savage animal.”

Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, which

came into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel’s wings,

without having an intense desire to know how the premature bud

blossomed? Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of the

character of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest, amid

the angry billows, pillowed on his dead mother’s breast.

There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that

which Mrs. Stowe gives in “The Pearl of Orr’s Island.”

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the

publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 53–58 Duane St., New York.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. P. 260, changed “In fact there very few passengers on board” to “In

fact there were very few passengers on board”.

2. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in

spelling.

3. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.