the train at Highland Station. She was pretty and distinguished looking.
Nobody would have passed her without observing that. Her four trunks and
a hat-box had been swung down to the platform by the baggage-master, and
the few passengers who, so late in the fall, stopped at this little
out-of-the-way station in the hills had all tramped homeward through the
rain, or been picked up by waiting conveyances. There was no one to meet
Grace, and it made her feel homesick and lonely. As she stood alone on
the rough unpainted board walk in front of the passenger-room a sense of
desolation crept into the very marrow of her bones. She couldn't
understand it, this indifference on the part of her family. The ticket
agent came out and was about to lock the door. He was going home to his
mid-day dinner.
"I am Grace Wainwright," she said, appealing to him. "Do you not suppose
some one is coming to meet me?"
"Oh, you be Dr. Wainwright's darter that's been to foreign parts, be
you? Waal, miss, the doctor he can't come because he's been sent for to
set Mr. Stone's brother's child's arm that he broke jumping over a
fence, running away from a snake. But I guess somebody'll be along soon.
Like enough your folks depended on Mr. Burden; he drives a stage, and
reckons to meet passengers and take up trunks, but he's sort o' half
baked, an' he's afraid to bring his old horse out when it rains--'fraid
it'll catch the rheumatiz. You better step over to my house 'long o' me;
somebody'll be here in the course of an hour."
Grace's face flushed. It took all her pride to keep back a rush of
angry, hurt tears. To give up Paris, and Uncle Ralph and Aunt Hattie,
and her winter of music and art, and come to the woods and be treated in
this way! She was amazed and indignant. But her native good sense showed
her there was, there must be, some reason for what looked like neglect.
Then came a tender thought of mamma. She wouldn't treat her thus.
"Did a telegram from me reach Dr. Wainwright last evening?" Grace
inquired, presently.
The agent fidgeted and looked confused. Then he said coolly: "That
explains the whole situation now. A despatch did come, and I calc'lated
to send it up to Wishin'-Brae by somebody passing, but nobody came along
goin' in that direction, and I clean forgot it. It's too bad; but you
step right over to my house and take a bite. There'll be a chance to get
you home some time to-day."
At this instant, "Is this Grace Wainwright?" exclaimed a sweet, clear
voice, and two arms were thrown lovingly around the tired girl. "I am
Mildred Raeburn, and this is Lawrence, my brother. We were going over to
your house, and may we take you? I was on an errand there for mamma.
Your people didn't know just when to look for you, dear, not hearing
definitely, but we all supposed you would come on the five-o'clock
train. Mr. Slocum, please see that Miss Wainwright's trunks are put
under cover till Burden's express can be sent for them." Mildred stepped
into the carryall after Grace, giving her another loving hug.
"Mildred, how dear of you to happen here at just the right moment, like
an angel of light! You always did that. I remember when we were little
things at school. It is ages since I was here, but nothing has changed."
"Nothing ever changes in Highland, Grace. I am sorry you see it again
for the first on this wet and dismal day. But to-morrow will be
beautiful, I am sure."
"Lawrence, you have grown out of my recollection," said Grace. "But
we'll soon renew our acquaintance. I met your chum at Harvard, Edward
Gerald, at Geneva, and he drove with our party to Paris." Then turning
to Mildred: "My mother is no better, is she? Dear, patient mother! I've
been away too long."
"She is no better," replied Mildred, gently, "but then she is no worse.
Mrs. Wainwright will be so happy when she has her middle girl by her
side again. She's never gloomy, though. It's wonderful."
They drove on silently. Mildred took keen notice of every detail of
Grace's dress--the blue cloth gown and jacket, simple but modish, with
an air no Highland dressmaker could achieve, for who on earth out of
Paris can make anything so perfect as a Paris gown, in which a pretty
girl is sure to look like a dream? The little toque on the small head
was perched over braids of smooth brown hair, the gloves and boots were
well-fitting, and Grace Wainwright carried herself finely. This was a
girl who could walk ten miles at a stretch, ride a wheel or a horse at
pleasure, drive, play tennis or golf, or do whatever else a girl of the
period can. She was both strong and lovely, one saw that.
What could she do besides! Mildred, with the reins lying loosely over
old Whitefoot's back, thought and wondered. There was opportunity for
much at the Brae.
Lawrence and Grace chatted eagerly as the old pony climbed hills and
descended valleys, till at last he paused at a rise in the path, then
went on, and there, the ground dipping down like the sides of a cup, in
the hollow at the bottom lay the straggling village.
"Yes," said Grace, "I remember it all. There is the post-office, and
Doremus's store, and the little inn, the church with the white spire,
the school-house, and the manse. Drive faster, please, Mildred. I want
to see my mother. Just around that fir grove should be the old home of
Wishing-Brae."
Tears filled Grace's eyes. Her heart beat fast.
The Wainwrights' house stood at the end of a long willow-bordered lane.
As the manse carryall turned into this from the road a shout was heard
from the house. Presently a rush of children tearing toward the
carriage, and a chorus of "Hurrah, here is Grace!" announced the delight
of the younger ones at meeting their sister. Mildred drew up at the
doorstop, Lawrence helped Grace out, and a fair-haired older sister
kissed her and led her to the mother sitting by the window in a great
wheeled chair.
The Raeburns hurried away. As they turned out of the lane they met Mr.
Burden with his cart piled high with Grace's trunks.
"Where shall my boxes be carried, sister?" said Grace, a few minutes
later. She was sitting softly stroking her mother's thin white hand, the
mother gazing with pride and joy into the beautiful blooming face of her
stranger girl, who had left her a child.
"My middle girl, my precious middle daughter," she said, her eyes
filling with tears. "Miriam, Grace, and Eva, now I have you all about
me, my three girls. I am a happy woman, Gracie."
"Hallo!" came up the stairs; "Burden's waiting to be paid. He says it's
a dollar and a quarter. Who's got the money? There never is any money in
this house."
"Hush, Robbie!" cried Miriam, looking over the railing. "The trunks will
have to be brought right up here, of course. Set them into our room, and
after they are unpacked we'll put them into the garret. Mother, is there
any change in your pocket-book?"
"Don't trouble mamma," said Grace, waking up to the fact that there was
embarrassment in meeting this trifling charge. "I have money;" and she
opened her dainty purse for the purpose--a silvery alligator thing with
golden clasps and her monogram on it in jewels, and took out the money
needed. Her sisters and brother had a glimpse of bills and silver in
that well-filled purse.
"Jiminy!" said Robbie to James. "Did you see the money she's got? Why,
father never had as much as that at once."
Which was very true. How should a hard-working country doctor have money
to carry about when his bills were hard to collect, when anyway he never
kept books, and when his family, what with feeding and clothing and
schooling expenses, cost more every year than he could possibly earn?
Poor Doctor Wainwright! He was growing old and bent under the load of
care and expense he had to carry. While he couldn't collect his own
bills, because it is unprofessional for a doctor to dun, people did not
hesitate to dun him. All this day, as he drove from house to house, over
the weary miles, up hill and down, there was a song in his heart. He was
a sanguine man. A little bit of hope went a long way in encouraging this
good doctor, and he felt sure that better days would dawn for him now
that Grace had come home. A less hopeful temperament would have been apt
to see rocks in the way, the girl having been so differently educated
from the others, and accustomed to luxuries which they had never known.
Not so her father. He saw everything in rose-color.
As Doctor Wainwright towards evening turned his horse's head homeward he
was rudely stopped on a street corner by a red-faced, red-bearded man,
who presented him with a bill. The man grumbled out sullenly, with a
scowl on his face:
"Doctor Wainwright, I'm sorry to bother you, but this bill has been
standing a long time. It will accommodate me very much if you can let me
have something on account next Monday. I've got engagements to
meet--pressing engagements, sir."
"I'll do my best, Potter," said the doctor. Where he was to get any
money by Monday he did not know, but, as Potter said, the money was due.
He thrust the bill into his coat pocket and drove on, half his pleasure
in again seeing his child clouded by this encounter. Pulling his gray
mustache, the world growing dark as the sun went down, the father's
spirits sank to zero. He had peeped at the bill. It was larger than he
had supposed, as bills are apt to be. Two hundred dollars! And he
couldn't borrow, and there was nothing more to mortgage. And Grace's
coming back had led him to sanction the purchase of a new piano, to be
paid for by instalments. The piano had been seen going home a few days
before, and every creditor the doctor had, seeing its progress, had been
quick to put in his claim, reasoning very naturally that if Doctor
Wainwright could afford to buy a new piano, he could equally afford to
settle his old debts, and must be urged to do so.
The old mare quickened her pace as she saw her stable door ahead of her.
The lines hung limp and loose in her master's hands. Under the pressure
of distress about this dreadful two hundred dollars he had forgotten to
be glad that Grace was again with them.
Doctor Wainwright was an easy-going as well as a hopeful sort of man,
but he was an honest person, and he knew that creditors have a right to
be insistent. It distressed him to drag around a load of debt. For days
together the poor doctor had driven a long way round rather than to pass
Potter's store on the main street, the dread of some such encounter and
the shame of his position weighing heavily on his soul. It was the
harder for him that he had made it a rule never to appear anxious before
his wife. Mrs. Wainwright had enough to bear in being ill and in pain.
The doctor braced himself and threw back his shoulders as if casting off
a load, as the mare, of her own accord, stopped at the door.
[Illustration: "HERE I AM,YOUR MIDDLE DAUGHTER, DEAREST."
The house was full of light. Merry voices overflowed in rippling speech
and laughter. Out swarmed the children to meet papa, and one sweet girl
kissed him over and over. "Here I am," she said, "your middle daughter,
dearest. Here I am."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A SURE CURE.
Poor Bobby's sick! Dear little lad,
He's got a pain; it hurts him awful bad.
Just see his face!
In every line of it a trace
Of how he suffers from that pain.
What's that? His plate is back again
For buckwheat cakes? Oho, I see!
'Tis nearly nine o'clock. Ho!--hum!--tell me
What is this woe
That lays poor Bobby low
Each morning just at school-time, yet so fleet is?
Is it the olden time Nineoelockitis
That as a boy I had so frequently?
That comes at half past eight, and seems to last
From then till nine, or say a quarter past,
And then departs, and leaves him all the day
With twice the strength with which to go and play?
Oh--well--if this be so
I'll worry not. The symptoms well I know.
Only, instead of cakes to cure his ills,
Take him a spoon and fill it up with squills,
And by to-morrow
I doubt he'll suffer from his present sorrow.
A STRANGE DISCOVERY.
BY HUBERT EARL.
Napoleon and his army of soldiers were marching across the Alps in
Switzerland before descending into Italy upon that famous campaign in
which all Italy bowed low to the French conqueror. Up the long steep
slopes the soldiers toiled in the shadow of the frowning and overhanging
cliffs. Here and there patches of bare rock appeared, where the snow had
been swept off by the fierce gusts of wind. For miles the army was
strung along the roads, and wearily the men walked as they struggled
with the heavy cannon. These cannon were mounted on improvised sleds,
and the soldiers pulled them over the snow with ropes. At times one of
the sleds would slip and tumble over a precipice, carrying with it a
number of the men who were dragging it along. The air was bitterly cold,
and many of the soldiers died on the road, or from weakness fell off the
cliffs, to be dashed to pieces on the rocks below.
An officer had been riding back and forth along his command most of the
day, helping here and encouraging there, and by kindly acts urging his
men to bravely laugh off their despondency. Cold, frozen, poorly clad,
and with but little to eat, such conditions were too crushing to arouse
much enthusiasm among the soldiers, but a faint cheer time and again
reached this officer's ears as he shouted his commands.
Darkness was gathering fast, and it was desirable that this officer's
detachment should reach a small plateau some distance ahead before
camping for the night. In order to reach this it was necessary to cross
a narrow dangerous part of the road with a sharp descent of some hundred
feet on one side and the walls of a cliff on the other.
The officer stood at the narrowest part directing the way. Most of the
detachment had passed the spot and three cannon had already made the
passage. The last one, larger than any of the others, was being slowly
but surely worked over, when there was a sudden sinking of the snow,
several shouts, and the heavy iron cannon commenced toppling over the
cliff.
"Throw a rope over the end there, quick!" shouted the officer, at the
same time grasping the rope attached to the forward end. But it was too
late, or else the frozen hands of the soldiers prevented their working
lively, and all but two of those having hold of the rope that was
attached dropped it in fear of being pulled over the cliff.
Down it went into the black depths of the narrow crevice between the
mountains, and with it went the two men who had kept their hold, and
also the brave officer, for when the others had dropped the rope it had
become entangled in his feet. A short, despairing cry was all that rose
on the night air to tell the tale of those three deaths. Napoleon's
soldiers were too accustomed to such sights and the hopelessness of an
attempt at rescue to do more than shudder and move stubbornly on.
Through many such scenes the army made its way over the Alps.
Many years later, in the summer of 1847, a party of people were taking a
pleasure trip through Europe, and had stopped at one of the small
villages at the foot of the mountains. From here they made occasional
trips, exploring the surrounding neighborhood. In the party was a
geologist, who was making studies of the geological formations of the
Alps. Such work took him into unfrequented spots.
On one of these expeditions he wandered one day into a narrow chasm and
slowly worked along, making notes of the walls of stone that rose above
his head, seemingly coming together where he could see a narrow rift of
light. As he stumbled along, now and then stopping to examine a loose
stone, he came across a log-shaped rock. Upon closer inspection,
however, he saw it was an old rusty cannon, and sitting down upon it, he
fell to musing how it came there.
He had noted that the cannon was of a make used during Napoleon's time,
and concluded that it must be one of those that were lost over the
precipice when the great general had crossed into Italy. Stooping down,
he poked into its mouth, mechanically scraping out the dirt that had
accumulated there, and idly thought of the brave soldiers of those days.
Suddenly he noticed a leathern book, in fairly good condition, lying in
the little heap of dirt he had scraped out. Picking it up he opened it
and found it full of papers. Thinking then that it was of no great
importance, he placed it in his pocket and retraced his steps to the
village. That evening he examined its contents, and among some papers
relating to an old estate he found the following scrawl:
"I, one of Napoleon's officers, fell from the cliff above, dragged over
by a rope attached to this cannon. The two men that fell with me were
instantly killed, as I have not heard them moan nor seen them move. My
leg and left arm are broken, and I know that I am hurt internally.
Fortunately, I struck but once while falling, and then this soft bed of
snow prevented instant death. I have enough strength left to write this
and stick it into the mouth of the cannon, for possibly some one may
discover it. My papers and such as will prove the right to certain
property will be found in the leathern book, and I beg the finder will
place them in the hands of the proper owners. My strength is leaving me
and I must stop--" (Here followed the signature.)
Among the papers was found the right to an estate of considerable value,
and when, after great difficulty, the descendants and owners were
traced, it was discovered that the family had suffered more or less
privation from the loss of these papers, restored after so many years.
WHAT IT MEANS TO RUN AN OCEAN GREYHOUND.
BY THE CAPTAIN OF THE "NEW YORK."
Above all, it means unceasing vigilance. It is said that a man who rides
often over the same road can fall asleep in the saddle and still travel
it safely. Such a man would be drummed out of the steamship service.
Every man who has to do with the sailing of an ocean greyhound must be
on the alert every moment of his tour of duty. No matter how many scores
of times he may have sailed over the route between New York and
Southampton, he must be constantly on the lookout for all that he can
read in sea and sky, or in the earth beneath the sea. For two things he
is responsible--the safety and speed with which the journey is made.
Nothing else appeals to him. The greatest orator of the finest singer in
the world might appear and perform on deck, and I doubt whether the men
on the bridge would see him or hear him. The ship is like a great
cannon-ball that has been shot out of one port to strike the other. The
officers of the ship are to make that cannon-ball go true to the mark
without deviating in the least degree from the course. That duty is so
absorbing that nothing else can be allowed to interfere with it.
Gales cannot stop nor fogs hinder the swift passage of the transatlantic
liner. She flies onward with what seems to be an entire disregard of
storms. But these things are not disregarded. They are grappled with and
fought against, and man triumphs over the fury of the elements. Nothing
is left to chance. Every emergency that experience or imagination can
suggest is prepared for and studied out long in advance. Friends
sometimes ask the captain of a great ship if the nervous strain does not
exhaust him; if he is not depressed by the responsibility for so many
hundreds of lives and so many millions of dollars worth of property. The
answer to that question is always no. If the captain were to give
himself up to such reflections he would be unfit for his position. The
captain's experience is long and varied before he becomes master of an
ocean greyhound. His responsibility is small at first, but constantly
grows greater, until he is no more worried by it than you would be
worried by having to drive a pair of ponies.
The best ships of to-day are gigantic compared with the best of twenty
or even fifteen years ago. The _New York_ is 565 feet long, and of 63
feet beam. She extends 27 feet beneath the water. These mere figures do
not convey much of an impression of her size. If she should be lifted
out of the water, however, she would fill Broadway, from curb-stone to
curb-stone, from Chambers Street to Park Place, and a man standing on
her bridge could easily look into the fifth story of the houses on
either side. A ship of this size costs more than two millions of
dollars. Her engines have power equivalent to that of 20,000 horses. The
crew of the _New York_ averages 400 men all the year around. There are
70 in the navigating department, 180 in the engine department, and the
rest are in the steward's department.
[Illustration: SUNDAY MORNING MUSTER OF THE CREW.]
Just as the government of the city of New York is divided among the
Mayor, Aldermen, and boards and commissioners of various departments, so
the administration of a giant steamship is divided into specialties. The
Mayor is the chief officer of the city. The Captain is the chief officer
of the ship. He is more than that. From the time she leaves port until
she enters port he is master of the life and liberty of every person
aboard the ship, as well as of all the property in it. He is an
autocrat. Of course he must administer his authority wisely. Unwise
autocrats don't last long, whether afloat or ashore.
The head of each department is responsible for all that goes on in it.
The first officer is at the head of the crew, or navigating department.
The chief engineer directs everything connected with the engines. The
chief steward has full control of all that has to do with the comfort of
the passengers and crew. Each of these chiefs makes a written report at
noon every day. Thus the Captain is kept informed of everything
pertaining to the ship's welfare.
[Illustration: THE PROMENADE DECK OF THE "NEW YORK."]
Every one of the senior officers of the ship is a duly qualified master,
capable of taking her around the world if need be. The day is divided
into "watches," or tours of duty, of four hours each. One junior officer
is on the bridge with each senior officer on duty. The senior officer
directs the ship's course. He never leaves the bridge while he is on
watch. Should he do so he would be dismissed at once. There is no excuse
possible. It would be just as if he had died suddenly. His friends would
all feel sorry, but nothing could be done to help him. Two seamen are
always on watch in the bow of the ship, and two more in the fore-top.
Twice as many are on the lookout in thick weather. Observations are
taken every two hours. In the good old sailing-ship days the Captain was
content to "take the sun" at noon every day. If the sky was cloudy for a
day or two, it really didn't matter much, for he could jog along on dead
reckoning. But on an ocean greyhound, rushing over the course between
New York and Europe at the rate of more than twenty miles an hour, it is
highly important that the ship's position be known all the time. Fog may
come down at any moment, observations may not be obtainable for ten or
twelve hours. The positions of more than one hundred stars are known. By
observing any one of these the ship's whereabouts can be ascertained in
a few minutes. Of course the "road" becomes more or less familiar to a
man who crosses the ocean along the same route year after year. Yet this
familiarity never breeds contempt or any carelessness. No man knows all
the influences that affect the currents of the ocean. You may find the
current in one place the same forty times in succession; on the
forty-first trip it may be entirely changed. Sometimes a big storm that
has ended four or five hours before the steamship passes a certain place
may have given the surface current a strong set in one direction. There
is no means of telling when these influences may have been at work save
by taking the ship's position frequently.
Those of you who are familiar with boat-racing know how often a race is
lost by bad steering. The cockswain who lets his shell drift to one side
and then to the other loses much valuable time in getting back to the
course. You know that from the start of the race he has his eye fixed on
a certain mark, and that he steers straight for that mark. It is the
same way with the Captain of a steamship. His mark is the port on the
other side of the ocean. He aims at it all the time. If his ship should
go astray only for one hour she would lose valuable time getting back to
her course. Every unnecessary mile travelled not only causes loss of
time, but waste of coal, and wear and tear of machinery, ship, crew,
etc.
[Illustration: LOOKOUT IN THE FORETOP.]