CHAPTER XV.--A MYSTERIOUS MATTER.

Elsie was beside herself with rage. She had not naturally a very even

temper, but never in her life had she felt in such a passion. Directly

her two companions loosed their hold upon her she jumped up, and struck

the door of the carriage, screaming loudly, "Let me out! let me out!"

She caught hold of the wooden framework, and shook it till it rattled

again, while Mrs. Donaldson, well knowing it was locked, sat calmly

smiling at her impotent wrath.

Then the child turned furiously upon her tormentors. Her passion knew no

bounds; she felt as if she could have torn that wicked "fairy mother"

to pieces. It was such a fit of passionate rage as blinds reason and

takes away the power of thinking--such a mad, ungovernable fury as would

have led an older stronger person to some desperate deed.

[Illustration: "SHE ... STRUCK THE DOOR OF THE CARRIAGE" (_p. 199_).]

Elsie caught hold of Mrs. Donaldson's arm, and screamed at her. "You

bad, wicked thing! let me out! I'll kick you! I'll bite you if you

don't! Let me go to Duncan, I tell you, you wicked creature! I'll get

out of the window!" and Elsie flew at it, and began tugging away at the

strap.

The gentleman took her up in his arms and flung her down on the seat,

where Elsie lay screaming and sobbing, and beating the cushions with her

hands, grinding her teeth, and flinging herself about like a mad thing.

They let her go on as she would for a time. After a while the gentleman

bent over her, and, catching hold of her wrists with the firm grasp of

his powerful hands, made her sit upright. "Listen," he said, putting his

head close to her face, and looking so ugly and evil that Elsie felt as

if she could have struck him; "we have had enough of this. If you are

wise you will behave properly, then no harm will come to you. If you

make a disturbance, you will bring down upon yourself a fate that you

will not like."

It was not so much the words themselves as the menacing way they were

hissed in the child's ear that made them so terrible.

But Elsie was not then thinking of herself, and no threat against her

took any hold upon her mind. She returned him a sulky glance of

defiance, which made him scowl.

Then Mrs. Donaldson came and sat on the other side of Elsie, and began

speaking.

"So long as you do what we bid you, your brother is safe," she said, in

a voice of quiet decision. "He is quite at our mercy, and will be well

cared for, if you are good. Any naughtiness on your part will only

injure him. The moment you misbehave he will be turned into the streets,

to find his way home as best he can. He will be brought to you in a week

if you have not been the cause of his being lost in the meantime."

"I don't believe you," Elsie said sulkily; "you are too far from Duncan

to hurt him."

Mrs. Donaldson smiled. "You can do just as you like," she said. "I only

warn you. Duncan is in the hands of my people. I can send them a

message all the way from London in five minutes, and before you know

anything about it they will have done with Duncan whatever I tell them.

You forget that I am the 'fairy mother.'"

Then flashed through Elsie's mind something she had heard her mother and

granny talking about, which granny would not believe. It was about a

wire which took messages all over the world as quickly as you could

write them. Her mother had tried to explain it, but granny declared it

sounded like some wicked thing done by evil spirits, and she wasn't

going to believe it. Elsie was inclined to feel very much like poor old

granny, who thought the world was turning topsy-turvy since her young

days. But although she could not understand it, Elsie had a dim uneasy

feeling that there was too much likelihood of Mrs. Donaldson's words

being true ones for her to disregard them.

She could think of nothing else now but Duncan. If any one hurt him,

whatever should she do? If only they gave her Duncan back again it

seemed as if no trouble would be great.

Mrs. Donaldson's words had brought Elsie to a more reasoning frame of

mind. "I will do everything, if you promise me you will fetch Duncan or

take me back to him," she said eagerly. "You will take care of him,

won't you?" she cried entreatingly. "Promise me nothing bad shall happen

to him. You will send a message about what they are to do to him, won't

you? but oh! I do wish you would let me go back to him before a week. He

will be so frightened and lonely, and perhaps he will call me like he

did in the night when he was frightened; and he's never been with

strange folk before. He's real timid, too, when people are bad to him,

and dursn't say a word, only he's scared like all the time." Elsie could

not help crying at the thought of poor Duncan's terror in Sandy

Ferguson's cottage, and the way he had hidden it till they were away out

of hearing.

Mrs. Donaldson turned away her head uneasily. Something in Elsie's love

for her brother had touched a tender chord. It reminded her of a little

brother she had loved, and who had died. She had been a different

creature in those days, and perhaps for a moment she wished that she

were a child again, with the innocent love for her little brother to

draw her away from a bad, wicked life. Perhaps the recollection of him

made her think for a moment of the life beyond the grave, in which he

was peacefully living, but which could only be a terror for her.

But an angry glance from her companion dispelled the passing softness.

"You shall both be safe so long as you obey me," she said. "Duncan, I

will tell you now, is safe in the hospital. At a word from me Meg will

fetch him away. At present he is well tended, with kind doctors and

nurses to give him everything he wants, and he will soon be well, for it

is only a bad cold he has taken."

Elsie sank back with a sigh of relief. She pictured poor little Duncan

lying on a soft white bed, with kind people bending over him, as Mrs.

MacDougall had done when she was sick. It brought a great feeling of

peace to her mind. She would do anything they wished her, to be sure

that Duncan was safe. The only thing that troubled her now was whether

Mrs. Donaldson had spoken truly; for children are quick to find out who

may be trusted, and Elsie had no faith in either of these two people.

Elsie believed herself that Meg would take Duncan if it depended at all

upon her, for although her behaviour had been strange, Elsie could not

forget her kindness in the night, when there had been no one near.

Nothing would ever make Elsie think that it was not true and genuine. It

was, indeed, her faith in Meg's goodness that was her one consolation.

She clung to that much more than to all Mrs. Donaldson's statements.

Presently the train stopped. "Uncle William" came, and sat very close to

Elsie on one side, Mrs. Donaldson on the other, and each took one of her

hands with an appearance of great affection. Elsie sat perfectly still.

She had no intention of making any more disturbance. If Duncan's safety

depended on her being quiet, no mouse should be more quiet than she was.

Mrs. Donaldson seemed pleased. "I see you are a sensible little girl,"

she said. "Now, you must mind what I tell you. Remember, I shall not

tell you when I send the message, but directly you are troublesome it

will go. I may not tell you till the week is gone; but you may feel

quite sure that it will not be sent unless you disobey or are naughty.

Do you quite understand?"

Elsie replied that she did, and Mrs. Donaldson continued--

"Do not mention Duncan again, not even to me when I am quite alone. He

is always Donald."

"I will not forget," Elsie replied.

"And you will have no Uncle William when you get to London. This

gentleman is your Grandpapa Donaldson. Now, I have seen that you are

clever enough when you choose. Do not forget."

The train had again started on its way, and was rushing along at a

tremendous rate, being an express. Mrs. Donaldson had got Elsie's hand

in hers, and had kept the child's attention fixed upon herself. The

gentleman was now seated in another corner. When Elsie next turned her

head towards him, he had utterly changed. In the place of a dark-looking

man with a small moustache was an elderly gentleman, with a face quite

bare, except for some small grey whiskers and a bald head. He was

lounging back most unconcernedly in the carriage, looking through his

spectacles at the objects so swiftly flying past them.

Elsie uttered an exclamation of wonder. "A real fairy has been at work,

you see, Effie," Mrs. Donaldson said laughingly.

"Hey, what, my dear?" the old gentleman said, bending over as if a

little deaf. "Did you speak?"

"Effie wants to know where her uncle William has gone," Mrs. Donaldson

shouted.

"Uncle William? what, has she got an uncle William, Mary? Who is he?

Here Effie, my dear, will you have a bun?"

Elsie went over to him in a state of the most complete bewilderment, and

took from him the tempting bun that he held out to her. As she did so

she had a good look at him. Certainly it was not the same person who had

called himself Uncle William.

His face was quite changed. In place of the black hair was a small

fringe of iron grey locks. This man was years older. His very coat was a

different colour.

"Won't you give grandpapa a kiss for that nice bun?" the old gentleman

said in a quavering old voice. Elsie went timidly, and gave him a small

hasty kiss on the cheek.

He caught hold of her, and made her do it over again. "What, you puss!"

he cried, "are you frightened of grandpapa, who gives you all the nice

things? Dip your hand in my bag, and take out what you like."

He opened a small black valise, and disclosed delicious fruits and cake.

Elsie drew forth a large mellow pear. "If Duncan could have it," she

thought as she bit a juicy mouthful.

"Do you like grandpapa better than Uncle William?" Mrs. Donaldson

whispered in her ear.

"I do not know," Elsie answered; "but I couldn't dislike him any more,"

she added, with a little shudder.

Mrs. Donaldson laughed most good-humouredly. "Then you must like him

better," she said, "and that is a good thing. Grandpapas are always

kind, you know. Go and talk to yours, but you must speak loud, because

he is getting a little deaf."

Elsie obeyed. The old gentleman looked round, and smiled. It was a very

gracious smile, but somehow not one that Elsie liked. "That's right,

come and talk to grandpapa," he said. "Can you read nicely? Here is a

pretty book with pictures, out of a fairy pocket grandpapa keeps for his

children." As he spoke he drew out a book in most brilliant binding of

scarlet and gold. It was full of pictures, and altogether charming.

Elsie grew more and more bewildered.

What had become of that dreadful man who had hissed his threats in her

ear? He had quite vanished; there was no doubt about that. No one could

be more different than this mild old man, who kept on saying kind things

in his cracked voice. Elsie, watching him very narrowly, thought she saw

something that reminded her of the Uncle William who had so mysteriously

disappeared, and wondered whether this might be really his father. Yet

that did not make his presence there any the less mysterious.

One effect this incident had on Elsie's mind was to make her stand more

than ever in awe of her strange companions. She could not get rid of a

half belief that they could do really whatever they liked with both her

and Duncan. Although she had not any real faith in their goodness, she

had certainly a great dread of their strange power.

The journey was a long one, with few stoppages. The train flew on at a

frightful pace through the hill country, where from the windows could be

seen the bare bleak peaks of Cumberland, varied with nearer slopes of

soft green grass and verdant valleys. On, on through the great grimy

towns of the manufacturing counties; on and on through dark tunnels,

swinging round curves, over rivers, skirting woods, still rushing on,

with an occasional shriek and scream, as of relentless fury; still on

and on, long after the day had closed and the stars had begun to twinkle

in the sky, till at last the great goal of London was reached.

There is now a gathering together of parcels and packages. The old

gentleman, Grandpapa Donaldson, sets them down on the seat, and fumbles

at the door. "Why doesn't that idiot unlock it?" he mutters, in a tone

that brings strangely to mind the adventure on the lonely road where she

first saw the "fairy mother."

"Don't be impatient, father," Mrs. Donaldson exclaims in a wavering

voice; and Elsie, looking up at her, sees that her face is pale and her

lips tightly set.

She draws a long black veil over her face as she stands waiting.

Presently a porter comes. The door is opened. Two men spring into the

carriage, and close the door after them.

"The game is up! you are my prisoners!" falls in dreadful tones on poor

Elsie's frightened ears.

(_To be continued._)

HOW TO MAKE PRETTY PICTURE-FRAMES.

"Your room looks so pretty, Nellie," sighed my cousin Bella; "you should

just see mine at home; it's as bare as a barrack."

"Why don't you improve it, then?" was my practical rejoinder.

"Why, it costs such a lot," answered Bella.

"My decorations are very inexpensive, I assure you," said I. "Now these

frames, for instance----"

"Oh, they are sweet! they are really," interrupted my cousin.

"Cost next to nothing," I continued. "Shall we make a pair for you to

take home? That would be something to start with, at any rate."

Bella was delighted at the idea, which we forthwith carried out; and now

for the benefit of little folk, who may like to know how to make

something pretty for their rooms, at a small cost, I will proceed to

relate what these said frames were made of, and how we made them.

First of all, we got a good stock of materials, such as small fir-cones,

oak-balls, tiny pieces of bark, beech-nuts, bits of silvery lichen

stolen from the trunks of trees, the little crinkly black cones of the

alder, in fact everything of the kind that we could pick up in our

rambles about the lanes and woods.

Bella called our gleanings, "the harvest of a roving eye;" and children

who live in the country will have no difficulty in gathering in such a

harvest, as will suffice for the making of dozens of frames. Of course,

autumn is the best time to get them.

The next thing was to decide upon the pictures, for it is always better

to make your frame to fit your picture, than to be obliged to hunt for a

picture the right size for your frame. Christmas-cards do very nicely;

those with a light ground look the best, as the frames are dark. I

happened to have two of those fancy heads that are seen in picture-shop

windows nowadays (cabinet size).

For these, I first cut out a paper pattern of the frame, an oval about

8-1/2 inches long, and 6-3/4 inches broad; then I drew a line inside the oval,

about 1-3/4 inches from the edge, and cut the middle out. When I had

succeeded to my satisfaction in making a correct pattern, I laid it on a

sheet of thin millboard, traced the outline inside and outside the oval

with a pencil, and cut it out. Of course, when once you have the pattern

in cardboard, it is very easy to cut any number of frames, but it is

always a little difficult to get a perfect oval just the exact size for

your picture.

My cousin and I then bound both edges with strips of old black stuff,

about an inch wide, cut on the cross. I then rushed for the glue-pot,

and let me here remark that _very strong_ glue is an absolute necessity,

or the cones will continually drop off.

We began to stick on the cones, &c., as fast as we could, while the glue

was hot, and for this part of the work I can give no special directions.

All that is wanted is a little taste and dexterity, for of course you

must try to avoid making your frames look stiff. Begin at the top of the

frame, and make it higher and more imposing than the sides; put first a

fir-cone, and then a couple of beech-nuts, and then an oak-ball, or a

piece of lichen, and so on.

Cones which are too large and heavy for these small frames are very

useful to pull to pieces, to stop gaps with, for no bare places should

be left; and the black alder-cones are capital little fellows to stick

in here and there, for you will nearly always pick them up two or three

together on a tiny sort of black branch, which will fit in nicely

between the other cones. With anything round like oak-apples, it is a

good plan to slice off a piece and to glue the flat side to the

cardboard.

When we had finished sticking on the cones, we left the frames to get

dry and firm, and the following day we finished them; and this is the

way it should be done.

Put the frame on an old cushion, or something soft, cone side downwards.

If you decide to have a glass over your picture, you must get a piece

beforehand at a glazier's, about the same size as the picture. Rub if

bright with a leather, put a small dab of glue in each corner, and place

it in the frame.

But before you do this, you should slip a narrow strip of ribbon through

a small ring--like those which umbrellas are fastened with--and glue the

ends on to the millboard, in the centre.

This is, of course, to hang your picture up by.

Now put your picture face downwards on to the glass, and be careful to

see that you have it straight. Then glue a small strip of paper across

each corner to keep it in position.

The last thing to be done is to gum a piece of paper all over the back;

and this makes a neat finish to your frame. You must leave it for a few

hours to get thoroughly well stuck, and then it is quite ready to be

hung up.

SHEILA.

HIS FIRST SKETCH.

Beneath a cottage window,

Upon a summer day,

Two little ones are whiling

The sunny hours away.

A portrait of his sister

The boy draws on the wall;

The little maid remonstrates,

She likes it not at all.

At first she sits there pouting--

A tear is in her eye;

But peals of merry laughter

Burst from her by-and-by.

What cares the budding artist?

He plies his brush with zest;

He is in downright earnest,

Though she is but in jest.

Art-fire is in his spirit,

For Nature lit the flame;

The first step he has taken

Upon the road to fame.

In childhood's early morning,

Ere opened yet the flower,

Within his soul is dawning

The future artist's power!

ASTLEY H. BALDWIN.

SOME FAMOUS RAILWAY TRAINS AND THEIR STORY.

_By_ Henry Frith.

III.--THE "FLYING SCOTCHMAN."

"One minute, sir; just let my mate brush up the dust a bit, and sprinkle

a drop o' water on the foot-plate, and we'll be all right and

comfortable."

So said an engine-driver on one occasion to the writer, and we are

reminded of it when we step up to the "eight-foot" engine which is to

carry us from King's Cross Station to York. To pull the fastest train in

Great Britain, or indeed in the world, for one hundred and eighty-eight

miles, at more than forty-eight miles an hour, is first-rate running.

"Scotchmen" run also from the Midland Station at St. Pancras, and from

Euston, but the quickest one is that on the Great Northern, and it is

also the most punctual.

Now, what do you say to a journey of one hundred and five miles, to

Grantham? We will leave King's Cross, if you please, at ten in the

morning--a nice comfortable time. We have had our breakfast, and the

engine has had its meal of coal and plenty of water. It will want

something, for it will travel fast.

Here we are puffing up the incline, between the walls, and through the

little tunnels which abound near London, on our way to Barnet. We could

tell tales of Barnet, had we time. We could give you a long--perhaps

much too long--description of the place near which the Yorkists and

Lancastrians contended on that fatal fifth of April, when the Great

Warwick was slain and Edward made king.

But our engine-driver does not care for history much. He would rather

tell us of his terrible winter journey a few years ago (in 1880), when

he had to keep time, and _did_ keep time, through snow and wind, the

bitter blast making icicles on the engine out of steam, and hanging

inches long from the carriage roofs.

Now our "Flying Scotchman" runs through Peterborough--the Proud, as it

was once called, when its monastery flourished, and where is now the

splendid cathedral on which the Ironsides of Cromwell laid such hard

hands. Shame upon them who destroyed the beautiful chapter-house and

cloisters! Perhaps you do not associate your history at your school with

the actual places you see, young readers, but a little time bestowed

upon the history of the places you pass in a holiday trip will very

greatly assist you in gaining a good knowledge of the past.

Look at Peterborough. Here lies Queen Katherine, and here lay Mary,

Queen of Scots, for a while, till James buried her in Westminster; and

Scarlett, the sexton, who buried both queens, lies in the nave. But we

cannot pause at Peterborough, though we should like to do so, for our

iron steed is steaming along, and our driver is thinking of the ice and

snow which he had to contend against. The Midland line runs overhead

near here, and after a rapid run we pull up at Grantham.

[Illustration: "HIS FIRST SKETCH." (_See p. 204._)]

During our stay we hear a little tale from our "fireman," who remembers

on one of his trips an engine getting loose in front of the up express,

and how he and another man got on a fresh engine, and ran after it on

the other line. Oh, what a chase they had after the runaway! and at last

they caught it in time to prevent a serious accident. It was a brave,

but rash act, to set off after a "mad" engine, which had run away, no

one knew how, out of the siding on to the main line.

From Grantham to Doncaster the railway opens up so many memories. We

pass Newark, near which the ruins of the old castle may be seen. King

John died here; Cardinal Wolsey lodged here, and James I. also stayed

within its walls; the whole place teems with memories of Charles and his

Parliamentary foes. We pass on near Sherwood Forest, where Robin Hood

and his merry men lived, and fought, and stole the king's deer; and then

past Doncaster, where the engines and carriages of the Great Northern

Railway, which ends near here, are made and repaired.

Doncaster was a very important place in olden times, and a whole volume

of adventures might be written concerning the personages who visited it.

While we are talking, the "Flying Scotchman," the quickest of all the

Scotch trains, goes tearing along to York. We have heard of Dick

Turpin's celebrated ride to York on his bonnie "Black Bess," but we have

a finer horse--a green-painted steed--to ride on. In the "good old

times" which we read about so much it took four days to get to York,

sleeping on the road; now our trains run the distance in less than four

hours! Coaching is very pleasant as an amusement, but for business we

must have our Iron Horse.

We can lunch at York. Our train waits for no one, but if we like we can

eat our sandwich on the platform, and look over old York city, with its

dear old Minster, its river, its red-roofed houses; and if we close our

eyes for a few minutes, our mental vision will show us many stirring

scenes here.

We can imagine the Scots hovering around old York, assisted by the

Britons, attacking the gouty Emperor Severus, who afterwards built one

of the great walls across Britain to supplement Hadrian's rampart from

the Solway to the "Wall's End"--a name now "familiar in our mouths as

household" coals. Do you remember what the old worn-out Roman Emperor

said at York when he was dying? He looked at the urn of gold in which

his ashes were to be carried to Rome, and remarked, "Thou shalt soon

hold what the world could scarcely contain!" Then we can see the end of

the great Roses' Wars, the heads on the grim spikes of the city gates,

while a long procession of kings and queens files out from the cathedral

doors, on whose site a church has stood ever since Easter, 627 A.D.

If we had only time to sit and recall all the grand events which have

happened in York Minster, we should have to wait for the next "Flying

Scotchman," and perhaps for the next after that.

"Any more going on?" "Yes, we are." "Quick, please; all right." The

train can't wait while we dream about the past; and have we not

Darlington in front of us? Ah! there we must stop a little. Here are the

cradles of all the "Flying Scotchmen," "Wild Irishmen," "Dutchmen,"

"Zulus"; of the four hundred expresses of England, and the thousands of

other trains, fast and slow, which traverse the United Kingdom and the

world. Yes, Darlington was the nursery of the locomotive railway-engine,

and Mr. Pease the head nurse who taught it to run on the Stockton and

Darlington line in 1825. To the Darlington Quaker family Stephenson's

success was due, and the success of Stephenson's locomotive was owing to

Hadley--William Hadley--who has been rightly called the "Father of the

Modern Locomotive."

We are now on the North-Eastern line, which ends at

Berwick-on-Tweed--for the true Great Northern, though its carriages run

over the whole route, does not work the traffic all the way. The

North-Eastern hurries us along towards Newcastle-on-Tyne, over Robert

Stephenson's high-level bridge, and then over the North British line at

Edinburgh.

What do we see from this breezy elevation? "Oh, earth, what changes hast

thou seen!" What does a writer say of this? "The mountain stream beneath

us, once a broad shallow, now affords depth for the heaviest ships. Away

on the northern bank the Roman wall lies hid, its arrowy route just

marked by a burial heave of the turf. Before us stands the massive keep,

with sturdy Norman walls--the trains of the North-Eastern are scrunching

on the curve within a yard of it. Stephenson's engine looks down on

Elizabethan gables;" and so on. Near Newcastle--at Wylam and

Killingworth--the first locomotive engines were born which changed the

country and revolutionised travelling.

The warders at Berwick no longer look out from the castle walls to

descry the glitter of Southern spears. The bell-tower from which the

alarm was sounded is now silent--the only bell heard within the

precincts of the castle being that of the railway porter, announcing the

arrival and departure of trains. The Scotch express passes along the

bridge, and speeds southward on the wings of steam. But no alarm spreads

across the Border now.

We shall cross the Tweed presently, and pass through the country of the

Moss-troopers and the territories of the Lords Marchers, the scene of so

many conflicts and fatal raids. We first cross the Coquet, "the stream

of streams," the poet calls it:--

"There's mony a sawmon lies in Tweed,

An' mony a trout in Till;

But Coquet--Coquet aye for me,

If I may have my will!"

We get a view of the Cheviots; and Tweed-mouth passed, we cross the

"Royal Border Bridge," and run into Berwick.

What a record of battle has Berwick! In these peaceful times at home we

can hardly picture the old walls on which we walk manned with armoured

soldiery, and King John within his house, a burning torch in his hand,

setting fire to the town, or hanging up the people by the feet till they

told where their money-bags were hidden. In those days and in Edward's

time, the "Flying Scotchmen" were Highlanders who were dispersed by the

English king. Wallace avenged the slaughter, and seized Berwick; Robert

Bruce and Douglas climbed into the town with their trusty men. Half

Wallace's body was sent here as a trophy, and the Countess of Buchan was

hung out from the walls in a cage!

Beacons again burn in the bell-tower, and Edward and Bruce again engage,

and Berwick was only finally deprived of its warlike appearance when

James the First united England and Scotland. These are some of the tales

the old stones tell us as we pause in Berwick, which within our own

memory was so specially mentioned in all forms of national prayer and

thanksgiving, as being a kind of neutral ground upon the Border.

Now puffing through Dunbar, past the Field of Preston-pans, and through

a district ever memorable in the history of Scotland, we reach the

modern Athens "Auld Reekie"--Edinburgh the Beautiful--where the "Flying

Scotchman" folds his wings and "flies" no more. His work is done this

journey!

A FORAGING EXPEDITION IN SOUTH AMERICA.

_By the Author of "How the Owls of the Pampas treated their Friends,"

&c._

On the branch of a gigantic tree in one of the South American forests a

young ant was reposing; he had been working hard all day, being a brisk,

spirited fellow, and so he was rather tired, and he lazily watched an

old relation of his own, who was slowly climbing the trunk towards him,

his fine white polished head glancing against the bark.

"Well, Long-legs," cried the young cousin, as his elder approached,

"where are you going at this late hour? I should have fancied that you

would have been asleep after all the trouble you had in marching

to-day."

[Illustration: "HE ... EXECUTED A LITTLE WAR-DANCE."]

"My dear Shiny-pate," said the old warrior, as he settled in a little

crevice and stretched out his tired limbs, while he rolled up a tiny,

tiny blade of grass for a would-be cigar, "I am the bearer of news."

"Why, what is the matter?" cried Shiny-pate anxiously, jumping up so

suddenly that he hit his poor little head sharply against a projecting

knob.

"Silly goose! nothing is the matter," answered his friend, "only you are

a little grander than you thought you were: you are promoted to be an

officer--a lieutenant, in fact; so now you can assist me on our

marches."

"Oh! Long-legs, is it really true?" exclaimed the young ant. "Am I to be

an officer, to march the men about, to lead them to glory?" and he tried

to shout "hurrah," but did not know how, so he only executed a little

war-dance on the branch of the tree, while his old friend looked on,

smiling grimly.

"Now I hope you will distinguish yourself, my child," said he

paternally, when Shiny-pate was tired of skipping about. "You will very

soon have an opportunity of showing your valour, for to-morrow we are

to undertake a dangerous expedition to a distant country, and your

courage will be tried."

So saying, he began creeping down the tree, disregarding the entreaties

of his young companion, to stay a little longer and tell him where they

were going. "No, no," he muttered; "that will be time enough to-morrow;

go to sleep and be strong."

Very good advice, certainly; but when children are put to bed before the

sun has set in the long summer evening, while the birds are still

singing, and the bats have not begun to come out, and they feel

desperately inclined to play a little longer, I am afraid they don't

relish it much.

However, Shiny-pate was a good, sensible little creature, and he went

off very meekly, but he awoke early in the morning, ready for the fray.

"Breakfast first," said he to himself; but no: the older officers said

they had to fight first, and eat afterwards; so they soon began to

arrange their marching order.

A column of ants, at least a hundred yards in length, but not very wide,

was soon formed; each leader had charge of twenty workers. The officers

were not expected to march in the main line, but to walk outside their

company, and keep it in order; and great was our hero's pride and

delight when he surveyed his own particular men, and thought what an

example of bravery he would set them.

At last all were ready, and the army moved off in beautiful order. The

officers ran up and down the ranks, inspecting everything, their white

helmets glistening in the sun, and as Shiny-pate's position was well to

the front, he had great opportunities.

[Illustration: "THE ARMY MOVED OFF."]

After they had proceeded for some time with great gravity and care, they

came to a tree from which hung a couple of nests belonging to the large

wasps of the country, and after a moment's discussion it was decided

that the ants should mount and rifle them as a first move, so the

obedient soldiers hastened on, and Shiny-pate, who knew nothing of the

enterprise, joyfully waved his sword at the head of his troops. How

astonished, how disgusted he was, when he felt the first wasp-sting he

had ever experienced!

He almost fell from the nest with amazement, but he would not give

in--"No, never, die first!" he thought, so he rushed on, and was among

the foremost to enter the cells where the young pupae were carefully

walled in, and tearing them from their cosy cradles, the ants proceeded

to devour them.

[Illustration: "SALUTING HIS COMMANDER" (_p. 209_).]

However, though the nests were large, and the grubs many in number,

there were not half or quarter enough for the army. More and more ants

came trooping up the tree, trying to squeeze into the places where there

was no room for them, and mournfully calling out that they also were

very hungry. So as soon as the pasteboard domicile was empty, the little

creatures descended from their elevation, and again pursued their line

of march, this time without any incident occurring until they saw in the

distance the figure of a man.

Now most of the ants had never seen a human being before, but what did

that matter? Their ardour rose, their eyes sparkled, their long slender

limbs raced over the ground, and soon the person who had been silly

enough to stand and watch the advancing host was covered with the nimble

insects, who quickly ran up into his coat-pockets, down his neck, and,

in fact, wherever there was any aperture, inserting their sharp fangs,

and injecting their poison, until he yelled with fear and pain. He had

not been very long in the country, and did not understand the habits of

the creatures, so at first he remained in his absurd position, capering

about, and trying to brush off the ants. But as he found that their

numbers so increased every moment, he began to get really alarmed, lest

he should soon be "eaten up alive," and so he ran away very

ignominiously, being pursued for some distance by the host of insects;

but as soon as he had outrun them, the difficult task of trying to

detach those already fastened to his person began. The fierce little

insects preferred being pulled to pieces to letting go their hold, and

their hooked mandibles remained securely fixed in poor John Lester's

skin long after their bodies had been torn off.

Fortunately for himself, Shiny-pate was not included in the number who

lost their lives. When the onslaught began, Long-legs commanded him to

keep his detachment quiet, as their services were not required; so the

steady little ant obeyed orders, and though he stood on tip-toe with

impatience, and trembled with excitement, he kept out of the fray.

"Now it is all over--march!" cried Long-legs authoritatively, as John's

flying coat-tails disappeared round a tree.

"Shall we not wait for the others?" inquired a young officer very

politely, saluting his commander with the back of his tiny foot in true

military style.

[Illustration: "AN ARMY OF ANTS" (_p. 210_)]

"None of them will ever return," replied the colonel sternly. "Do your

duty, and obey orders."

So the army again started off, and after a long and dusty march the

pioneers came in sight of a pretty little cottage; but I must relate who

the inhabitants were before I go any farther.

The house belonged to an Irish gentleman of the name of Wolfe, who,

after emigrating to South America, and building a house for his family,

a few months before this story opens, brought out his wife, four

children, and their old and faithful servant, called John Lester, to

keep him company, and help him in the new life he had chosen for

himself.

Mrs. Wolfe was rather an inexperienced young lady, and the manners and

customs of the place and people, particularly those of the coloured

servant, Chunga, astonished her immensely. The white lady had a great

horror of creeping things of all kinds; she could hardly bear to get

into her bath, for she sometimes found a centipede, as long as her hand,

drowned in it.

At night, when the lamp was lighted, cockchafers and insects of all

kinds buzzed and flew round it, until their wings were singed; then they

danced hornpipes on the table over Mrs. Wolfe's work or writing, falling

most likely into the ink-bottle first, and then spinning about with

their long legs, smearing everything with which they came in contact,

till she used to run away and implore her husband to "kill them all and

have done with it." The children thought it was rather fun, except when

a scorpion stung them. They had a play about the lizards, which were

pretty and harmless, and they used to count how many different kinds of

beetles were killed each night.

Sometimes the baby screamed when a particularly large spider walked

across its face; but these little trials had to be borne.

On the morning of this memorable day, as Mrs. Wolfe was employed in some

household duties, Chunga rushed into the verandah, joyfully crying--

"Oh, missie! oh, missie! de birds are come!"

"What birds?" inquired her mistress in amazement, wondering what new

object was going to be exhibited to her, but almost expecting to see a

creature with three legs, or two heads.

"De pittas, missie; de ant-thrushes, you call them," said the black

woman, gleefully. "Now missie's house will be clean; massa is away, all

de tings will be turned out," and as she spoke, she seized her

mistress's dress, and, gently drawing her to the open door, directed her

attention to several dark-coloured, short-tailed birds which were

hopping from tree to tree in the neighbourhood.

"I don't see anything extraordinary about them," said Mrs. Wolfe, in a

disappointed tone; "they are only small ugly birds."

"But look dere, missie," persisted Chunga, pointing towards the forest,

from the dark shades of which Shiny-pate and his battalions were

emerging.

"Why, it is an army of ants!" cried the Irish lady. "How curious! how

pretty!"

"Dey is coming here," remarked Chunga carelessly, as she watched the

procession.

[Illustration: "THE WARRIORS DASHED IN."]

"Here!" echoed Mrs. Wolf in horror; "what for? What shall we do? They

will eat all the things in my store-room, they will bite my children!"

and she flew to the nursery as she spoke.

But the advancing host moved steadily along, the officers gave orders to

enter the house, and our young hero, though quite a novice in the work,

was one of the first to creep through a slit in the walls.

"Now," cried Long-legs, "first kill the cockroaches and other small

game. Come on; don't be afraid."

So the warriors dashed into the principal room, mounted the rafters, and

began a fierce battle. The sleepy cockroaches, fat and heavy from good

living, sprawled about, but made a very poor fight. Shiny-pate and two

or three of his men would seize one of the kicking old fellows, and

either push him or pull him to the edge of the rafters, whence he would

fall with a dull thud on the floor, when he was generally too much

stunned to make any more resistance, but even if he did he was soon

overpowered, bitten, and dragged out of the house.

When the rafters were cleared, our hero was running swiftly across the

floor, when a choky voice called him, and he saw his old friend's head

protruding from an aperture in a large wooden chest.

"Come here! come here!" cried Long-legs. "There are loads of them

inside, and I want help."

"Loads of what?" inquired Shiny-pate, rather incredulously.

"Of all kinds of food," replied the colonel; "but unfortunately it is

very hard to get at them; they are hidden among the folds of some white

stuff that almost suffocates me."

Shiny-pate at once proceeded to crawl into the chest, but fortunately

Chunga, who knew the habits of the little insects, had been going

round the house opening every press and box, and now she flung aside the

cover of the great linen-chest, and in darted the little marauders, and

speedily drew forth hundreds of the hideous cockroaches.

But soon all the small game was cleared off, and yet the attacking party

cried for more, and cast hungry eyes at Mrs. Wolfe and the children, who

had been skipping about on the floor, trying not to stand on anything,

for foraging ants are not to be trifled with; and Chunga said,

solemnly--

"If missie kills any ants, they kill her."

So the fear of touching any of them had greatly impeded the lady's

movements; she had to step gently on the points of her toes whenever she

saw a clear space. She had to rescue her baby from the cradle, and her

other children from different parts of the house; and then each child,

as it was carried away, began to cry for some particular toy that had

been left behind, so that getting them safe and sound into the garden

was a work of time. However, at last they were all seated round their

mother, only dreadfully hungry, and longing for their breakfast, while

the house remained in undisturbed possession of the ants.

At last, even Chunga thought it wise to beat a retreat, so she came

gliding gently out, bringing the welcome news that she had seen several

ants carrying off an immense scorpion, which "must have been de one dat

stung massa, and made him so ill a few days before;" and that the ants

were now attacking the rats and mice.

"Rats and mice!" screamed all the children in delight. "Will they kill

the horrible things?"

[Illustration: "THE CAT ... STOOD WITH GLARING EYES."]

"The rats that fought poor Kitty," pursued George, for this had been a

sore trouble to the children. Mrs. Wolfe had brought a fine handsome

tortoise-shell cat from Ireland with her, thinking how delightful it

would be to have her house quite free from vermin, only, unfortunately,

they were so very numerous that poor "Lady Catherine," as the children

named their pussy, though she did her best at first, could not by any

possibility keep their numbers in check, and she now lived a miserable

life, being afraid of moving from her master's protection, and growing

daily thinner and weaker from the combined influences of fear, and being

unable to perform her usual duties; and as the children loved her

dearly, and treated her like one of themselves, they all set up a howl

of dismay when their darling's name was mentioned to them.

It was answered by a fearful burst of caterwauling from the interior of

the house. The shrieks and yells were really terrific, and the whole

party, regardless of their enemies inside, rushed back again to the

door, and peeping in, beheld a sight which was almost ludicrous.

There was a shelf near one of the children's beds at a great height from

the floor, and to this Lady Catherine (the cat) had mounted, but now she

was surrounded, and her retreat completely cut off. There were ants to

right of her, ants to left of her, and ants in front of her; and as the

little creatures, led on by Shiny-pate the valorous, attacked her with

determined precision, the cat, with every hair bristling up on her body,

stood with glaring eyes, lifting first one foot and then another to

escape her tormentors. Sometimes she stood on her hind legs and

frantically tore the insects from her coat, but she wanted courage

enough to make the very high jump from the shelf to the floor.

Mrs. Wolfe and the children were so distressed at the sight, that

kind-hearted Chunga offered to try and save their favourite, and she

crept cautiously into the house, trying to avoid standing on the ants

with her bare feet. Lady Catherine's screams redoubled when she saw a

friend approaching, but she did not treat the black woman very kindly,

for as soon as she stood under the shelf the cat made one frantic leap

to her shoulders, and inserting her sharp claws, held on tenaciously.

It was now Chunga's turn to scream, which she did in good earnest; and

as she found she could not detach the cat, she fled from the house with

her burden clinging tightly to her copper-coloured shoulders, and ran

almost into the arms of John Lester, who was returning home. He was

quick enough to see what had happened, so, snatching up an old broom

with one hand he seized Lady Catherine with the other, and gave her such

a sweeping as she had never experienced before, and which, indeed, she

strongly objected to; but her cries were disregarded, and she was soon

free from the insects, and the children joyfully clutched hold of her.

[Illustration: "THE LIVING CHAIN OF INSECTS" (_p. 213_).]

But meantime Shiny-pate had been carried off in a coil of Chunga's hair,

whence he had crept from the cat's fur, and very uncomfortable he felt.

He knew that his single arm could never overcome the Indian woman; he

was deserted by his troops, and he had no one to direct him. He thought

he had better try to alight from his precarious position, and endeavour

to rejoin his men; but when he moved, Chunga--whose nerves were a little

upset--cried, "Oh! Massa John, brush me too, brush me;" and began

tearing her hair down to make ready for the performance. But just at

that moment another insect dropped from the tree above her down on her

arm, and administered such an electric shock that a thrill ran up to her

shoulder, her hands fell, and Shiny-pate, seizing his opportunity, ran

swiftly down her back and rushed towards the house, where the scene of

confusion was but little abated.

The ants had by this time slain every living thing which had occupied

the dwelling, and dragged them into the long grass outside; and the

soldiers, after their hard fighting, were endeavouring to satisfy their

hunger. This, however, the officers objected to, for they knew by

experience what would happen; the pittas had not accompanied them on

their march for nothing. The ugly black birds had their eyes wide open,

and knew what they were about; they had been waiting and watching all

this time, hopping about on the neighbouring trees, and now at last

their turn came. The ants gorged with their prey could not escape: down

pounced the pittas, and they certainly made the most of their

opportunity. The hardened veterans, the most agile warriors, were

gobbled up in a moment, and the officers in despair ran here and there,

seeing the carnage, but being quite unable to prevent it.

At last, by the time Mrs. Wolfe and her family ventured back to their

clean and well-swept house, Shiny-pate by frantic exertions had managed

to collect his own troop--he had only lost two of his twenty soldiers.

So our little insects again set out. They were dreadfully tired, and

they lagged behind, though their leader longed to overtake some of the

advance-guard, which had already gone on. Poor little fellow! his first

day's fighting had certainly been an arduous one, and it was not over

yet; his exertions to keep his men in order were wonderful. But after

marching some distance the ants saw before them a little stream of

water, running merrily along, but presenting a serious barrier to their

progress.

Shiny-pate at first thought the water might not extend far, and led his

company along the bank; but as he found to his dismay that the stream

grew wider instead of narrower, his fertile little brain began to devise

a plan, and soon he had hit upon a very ingenious one. He selected a

shrub with a long branch, which extended across part of the stream, and

having marched his men to the very extremity of this bough he caught

hold of it with his fore-legs and hung down, ordering one of the

soldiers to creep down his body and hang on to the end of it; another

followed and clung to the second ant, and so on. By this means the

living chain of insects, when long enough, was wafted by the wind to the

other bank of the stream, where the foremost ant caught a firm hold, and

the brave Shiny-pate then swung off his bough, and followed by all the

others crept carefully across their companions' bodies, until the

foremost ant, who had been holding on all this time by his hind legs,

being relieved from the weight of his comrades, was able to twirl round

and obtain a safer footing.

The danger was surmounted, and the officer now inspected his little

troop with triumph; indeed, he spoke a few encouraging words which

actually caused his soldiers to salute in a body, as they could not

cheer, and cry with one voice that they were not afraid to go anywhere

with him.

This was, of course, very gratifying to such a young officer, and our

hero was beginning to thank his enthusiastic followers when a slight

noise attracted his attention, and he suddenly remembered that the time

for vigilance was not over: for in the tree above them he beheld a

little ant-eater slowly uncoiling itself before beginning its nightly

excursion.

Shiny-pate saw its long slimy tongue being uncoiled like a piece of

ribbon when the animal yawned; and well he knew that any ant who was

unfortunate enough to touch that sticky object would never return to

tell the tale; he therefore instantly determined on flight.

So our hero ordered a stampede, but he kept last of all the party, ready

to sacrifice himself for the general good if need be; and after a little

time his exertions were rewarded, for he happily overtook the main body

of ants under the guidance of old Long-legs, and the worthy veteran was

so pleased at seeing his young companion safe that he actually fell on

his neck and hugged him; and there is no saying what might have happened

next if two twinkling lights had not appeared in the distance. They were

only fire-flies that an Indian had tied to his feet in order to illumine

his path, but the sight made the friends restrain their transports until

they reached home.

Then, after all their labours and adventures, they gave themselves up to

enjoyment. Long-legs, Shiny-pate, and other distinguished officers who

had done their duty for their home and relations, were chaired by their

admiring soldiers and carried round the nest, while the fire-flies lit

up the triumphal march, and the beetles sang in chorus.

We leave Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe enjoying for the first time a house cleared

of both reptiles and insects, and Lady Catherine purring her delight at

being relieved from her enemies. No doubt, if she could have given us

the benefit of her thoughts, she would have joined the bipeds in

saying--

"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good."

[Illustration: "A LITTLE ANT-EATER SLOWLY UNCOILING ITSELF."]

OUR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

THE DREAM OF PILATE'S WIFE.

[Illustration: FORTRESS OF ANTONIA, JERUSALEM (CALLED PILATE'S HOUSE).]

It was early morning, not yet seven o'clock. Yet Pontius Pilate, the

Roman Governor of Judea, was astir. For the Paschal Feast of the Jews

was fast approaching, and having heard rumours of strange things going

on amongst them, he anticipated some serious disturbance. He was,

therefore, in no pleasant humour, and his dark brow was contracted, his

teeth were firmly set, and in his stern and somewhat fierce eyes was a

look of mingled anger, scorn, and disgust.

How weary he was of these perpetual riots! How he despised the conquered

Jews and their pretensions of religion, while their actions were mean

and vile. They professed a sanctity superior to that of any nation upon

earth. And yet he knew that every day they indulged in flagrant sins,

and were influenced by motives that others would scorn to yield to. Oh!

if he dared but show them what he thought of them and their hollow

professions. But he must restrain his feelings. Several times already,

in his impatience of their ways, he had given vent to his wrath in

actions that, he knew too well, would not bear the examination of his

master, the emperor of Rome.

The Roman emperors, bad as some of them were, liked to know that all

their provinces were well governed, that the people had no just cause of

complaint; and that their customs, religions, and prejudices were

respected. And they would punish severely any governor who, by misrule,

brought dishonour on the name of Rome.

Pilate knew that he had wilfully trampled upon the religious prejudices

of the Jews, and that when they had risen up against him he had

massacred them by the thousand. He remembered how he had once brought

some Roman eagles from Caesarea to Jerusalem, where no heathen ensign

could be suffered; how he had also placed there some gilt votive

shields, dedicated to the Emperor Tiberius; and how, to bring water from

the pools of Solomon into the city, he had taken money from the sacred

treasury. He remembered, too, how, when the Jews had rebelled against

these proceedings, he had sent disguised soldiers amongst them, to stab

them with daggers concealed beneath their garments; how he had once

massacred 3,000 of them, and how at another festal season, 20,000 dead

bodies had strewed the courts of the Temple. And up before his mind

there came also the recollection of how, at one of their feasts, he had

killed some Galileans, and mingled their blood with that of their

sacrifices upon the altar; and how he had also attacked the Samaritans,

as they worshipped upon Mount Gerizim.

Yes, he had given the Jews just cause of complaint; and if he vexed them

further, they might report him to Rome, and have him banished or put to

death. So he would have to be careful how he treated them for the

future.

The knowledge of this in nowise calmed his perturbed spirit. And as he

wondered how, in case of another riot, he should manage to curb his

wrathful and impatient disgust, he paced uneasily the Hall of Judgment.

This was an apartment in a splendid edifice--which was known as the

fortress of Antonia--in which he resided when at Jerusalem, an old

palace of Herod the Great. Its floors were of agate and lazuli. The

ceilings of its gilded roofs were of cedar painted with vermilion. The

bema, on which he sat to administer justice, was probably the golden

throne of Archelaus. In front of the Hall of Judgment was a costly

pavement of variously coloured marble, called by the Jews Gabbatha. Yet

amid all this splendour he was but ill at ease.

And now suddenly the Roman procurator stopped and listened. Hooting and

yelling, there were the wild cries of a dreaded mob, as he had

anticipated. Yes, it was even so. They had begun early enough, those

Jews. What could it be all about?

Nearer and nearer came the ominous sounds. He went to the door of his

apartment, and looked out. There, coming across the bridge that spanned

the Tyropeon Valley, was an infuriated crowd, venting their spleen

upon some poor victim, whom they were evidently bringing to him. His

arms were fast bound to His side. A rope was round His neck. And they

were dragging Him along, as if He were some wild beast that they had

caught in the act of making ravages amongst them.

After Him came the chief men of Jerusalem, the Sanhedrists, with,

perhaps, the High Priest at their head, followed by the chief priests

and scribes, and a great crowd of people.

Now they reached the Hall of Judgment; and the foremost of them were

dragging the poor Man up the noble flight of stairs.

The Roman knight scowled as they approached, and darted at them a look

of bitterest resentment.

What faces they had! Did ever any one see features so distorted by

wicked passions? How he would have liked to drive them all away! But he

must not. They were evidently in a fury; and what might they not do, if

he opposed them?

He turned to look at their prisoner, expecting to see some

murderous-looking fellow, who had been taken in some act of wicked

outrage. But what a different sight met his view!

Instead of a defiant thief or murderer, a pale and weary Man stood

before him. A world of suffering was in His sorrowful eyes; but there

was no trace of violence there. He had the purest, noblest, most open

countenance that Pilate had ever beheld; and the governor's attention

was arrested. In the face of that poor, worn-out sufferer were expressed

the meekness and gentleness of a lamb, the deepest tenderness and pity,

the most ineffable sweetness and perfect calmness, the majesty of a

king, the perfection of a god. Who could He be? Was He really only

human? Or had the spirit of some of the Roman gods come down and taken

up its abode in Him? Pilate could not tell; but he was amazed and

confounded; and in his contemplation of that wondrous countenance he

forgot for a while his trouble and vexation.

All too soon, however, he was recalled to the business before him. The

Jews were clamouring outside the Hall to have sentence of death passed

upon their Victim.

But it was not so easy to gain their point as they had expected. The

Roman knight, who had not hesitated to order his soldiers to fall upon

the ignoble Jews, could not condemn, without trial, that Man who was

undoubtedly the one perfect type of the human race. And he sternly

demanded, "What accusation bring ye against this Man?"

Then came a storm of bitter invective and false accusations. He had been

stirring up the people against the Roman government, they said. He had

been forbidding them to pay tribute to Caesar; and proclaiming Himself a

King.

As Pilate looked upon Jesus, he felt that there was no sedition in Him.

_They_ were rioters, he knew too well; but as for that Man--well, there

might be some truth in His kingship, there was something so noble, so

majestic about Him. And entering the hall, into which Jesus had been

led, he asked, "Art _Thou_ the King of the Jews?"

"I am a king," Jesus, acknowledged, as He thought of the myriads of

bright-winged angels who in the Better Land had flown to do His bidding,

and of the thousands upon thousands of faithful followers, not yet born,

who would some day share His throne. "I am a King, but not of this

world." And at His simple words Pilate's heart misgave him still more.

Who _could_ this strange man be, who was so far above all other men?

Where had He come from? And where was His kingdom? Was He in some

mysterious way connected with the heavens?

Oh, how he wished that those Jews had settled the matter amongst

themselves, and that he could avoid having anything to do with it! They

were resolved, he could see, on having His blood; and he dared not go

altogether against them. Yet how could he condemn _a Man like that_?

But, suddenly, his face brightened. Some one in the crowd said that

Jesus belonged to Galilee. Then he could send Jesus to Herod, the

tetrarch of Galilee, who was then in Jerusalem, having come up to the

feast. By doing so he should throw the responsibility on to Herod, and

should then not be compelled either to vex the Jews, on the one hand,

and thus bring about his own punishment, or to crucify this Man, who was

so great a mystery to him, and, perhaps, bring down upon himself the

anger of the gods.

Pilate heaved a great sigh of relief, as Jesus was led away to Herod.

Now he was free, he thought, and, if that more than innocent Man were

put to death, as He would be, he, at least, would be guiltless of his

blood, and very cleverly he had managed it, without stirring up against

himself the wrath of the Jews.

But it was not to be so.

Before long the dreaded mob returned. Herod had sent Jesus away, finding

no fault in Him. And the Jews brought him again to Pilate.

Heavily as lead the hooting and the yelling fell upon the governor's

ears. What should he do? What _could_ he do? Oh, if only he had not

acted so wrongly in the past, he might have dared to do right now! If

only he had not violated the Roman law he might now have vindicated its

majesty! He might have told the Jews that he, a Roman governor, could

not think of so gross an injustice as condemning such a Man, and that

they were only actuated by envy and hatred. Oh, if he could only wipe

out his past offences, and stand clear concerning the Jews, he might,

also, stand clear concerning this Jesus, who was called the Christ!

But his hands were stained with crime; and, like a child who tells a

second falsehood to get out of the trouble of having told a first, he

must make the guilt of a still deeper dye.

But could he not in some way conciliate the Jews, and save Jesus as

well? he wondered. Yes; he would pretend to look upon Him as guilty; but

would remind them of the custom of releasing some prisoner at the

Passover; and try to persuade them to have Jesus set free. But they

preferred Barabbas; and Pilate tried another plan. He would inflict upon

Jesus the painful and humiliating punishment of scourging and let Him

go.

But what right had he to do that to an innocent Man? How fast he was

yielding! And what a coward a guilty conscience had made of him!

But much as he was to blame, there was sent to him a warning that could

not be despised.

That morning, a troublous dream had come to Claudia Procula, Pilate's

wife, who was a Jewish proselyte. And now, messengers from her came

running out of breath, and standing before the golden bema, delivered

the message she had sent; "Have thou nothing to do with that just Man;

for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of Him."

This troubled Pilate more and more; and his face paled, and his strong

limbs trembled. He remembered how, not very long before, when Caesar's

enemies were plotting against his life, a dream had come to his wife,

Calpurnia, who had sent to warn him not to go to the meeting of the

senate, on the Ides of March. But he went in spite of the dream, and was

murdered! And now, a similar warning was sent to him to strengthen him

to do right. Should he heed it, and let the innocent Jesus go free? It

was still in his power to refuse to crucify Him; and what remorse he

would save himself? and what bitter anguish! But notwithstanding the

warning dream, he took the last fatal step.

"_Ibis ad crucem_," "Thou must go to the cross," he said to Jesus, and

to the attendant, "_I miles, expedi crucem_," "Soldier, go prepare the

cross."

Unable to shake off that ominous dream, he called for water, and washed

his hands, saying, "I am innocent of the blood of this just person." But

he could not wash away his responsibility, or that last greatest crime

of giving up to the fiendish malice of a cruel mob the Innocent One

about whom he had had such misgivings and such a warning.

From that day all peace of mind fled from him; and before long he was

pining away in bitter exile and poverty; the very punishment having come

upon him that he had tried to avert.

H.D.

BIBLE EXERCISES FOR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

37. Who was the only woman to whom it is recorded that Jesus used the

tender word "Daughter"?

38. Where does St. John tell us that those who are untruthful shall have

no part with the people of God in the holy city?

39. Which of the greater prophets prophesied that God's people should be

"named the Priests of the Lord?"

40. Where, in the book of the Revelation, are we shown that Jesus still

appears in heaven as the Lamb once slain?

41. Where are we told that children, as well as grown-up people, are

known by their works?

42. Where are we assured that if, in difficult circumstances, we are

influenced by the fear of man, we shall bring trouble upon ourselves,

while, if we trust in God, we shall be safely kept?

43. About whom did Jesus use the only word of unmixed contempt that He

is recorded to have spoken?

44. What four things does Solomon speak of as being "little upon the

earth, but they are exceeding wise"?

45. Where is the custom, followed by Pilate, of washing the hands as a

sign of innocence of crime, spoken of in the Old Testament?

46. What wise man exhorts us to keep our garments always white; and who

tells us that a part of pure religion consists in keeping ourselves

unspotted from the world?

47. What great heathen king called God "a revealer of secrets"?

48. Where are we assured that, to the upright, light arises in the

darkness?

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (25-36.--_See p. 156_).

25. Twice. In St. Matt. vi. 9-13 and St. Luke xi. 2-4.

26. In Job xxviii. 28.

27. From the words, "I went into Arabia" (Gal. i. 17), coupled with his

speaking of Sinai in iv. 24, 25.

28. In Prov. xvi. 32.

29. In Ps. lvi. 8.

30. Only in the New Testament (Acts vii. 60; 1 Cor. xv. 6, 18; 1 Thess.

iv. 13-15; 2 Pet. iii. 4).

31. As giving up the ghost, and being gathered to their people (Gen.

xxv. 8, xxxv. 29, xlix. 29, 33; Numb. xx. 24, 26, xxvii. 13, &c).

32. St. Matthew and St. Mark (St. Matt. xxvi. 36--45; St. Mark xiv.

32-41).

33. In the genealogy of our Lord, given by St. Matthew (St. Matt. 1. 6).

34. Seven (Gen. vii. 7-10). God himself (Gen. vii. 16).

35. Ten (2 Sam. xviii. 15).

36. It was first placed in David's tent, and afterwards in the

Tabernacle at Nob, whence it was given again to David (1 Samuel xvii.

54, xxi. 1, 9).

CONTENTMENT.

[Illustration: " ... IN THE HOME-GARDEN OUR DEAR LITTLE MAY SITS CALMLY

AT REST ON THIS BEAUTIFUL DAY."]

Sweet Summer-time dawns with a flush o'er the skies,

The bees and the butterflies come in her train,

While the dear little children, with joy in their eyes,

Stand watching the lark as he mounts to the skies,

While singing his joyous refrain.

The meadow is sprinkled with beautiful flowers,

The hedge with its sweet-scented blossoms of snow.

How bright is the sunshine! how fresh are the showers!

How happy the children, these holiday hours,

As shouting and singing they go!

But Summer (who stole on the footsteps of Spring)

Is driven in turn far out of our view,

When ruddy-hued Autumn her mantle must fling

O'er meadow and orchard, till each growing thing

Is transformed to a beautiful hue.

Then the little ones, laughing, must hie them away

To the blackberry wood and the nut-growing ground;

But in the home-garden our dear little May

Sits calmly at rest, on this beautiful day,

Contented with what she has found.

D. B. McKEAN.

LITTLE FE.

So he was left an heir at the age of ten years--heir to all the fortune

of his dead aunt, which consisted of two shillings and fourpence, a

flower-basket, a pebble with a hole drilled through it, and a dying

woman's blessing. "Truly," you will say, "he was rich."

He was small and thin, this little heir, and one poor leg was drawn up

three inches higher than the other, which obliged him to walk with those

wooden things called crutches. He was called Fe; but his name was of

very little use to him, as he could neither read nor write it.

An old woman had promised "to see after him for a bit" at his aunt's

death. She lived in a room in the same wretched lodging-house which had

sheltered Fe and his aunt for the past six years.

I have not told you yet that my heir did not live in London, but in a

large busy town in the south of England.

Fe's temporary guardian, Mrs. Crump, was short and cross, and not very

young; her nose was slightly hooked, her eyes were black, and rather

sharp. She wore a jet black frizzled wig, which contrasted well with the

primrose-tinted skin; her voice showed her bad temper, for it was sharp

and harsh, like the creaking of a door.

After having settled and arranged everything, she bade Fe follow her

into her black little room, and that was the last he ever saw of his

poor little old home, where for ten long grown-up years he had lived, to

go to rest weak, hungry, and ill, and to rise more weak, hungry, and

miserable still. Yet in that little home there had also lived a thin,

worn-out woman, who had never spoken a harsh word to him, but had often

tried to stay his tears with her kisses. And Fe knew now--and the

knowledge was agony--that he would never rest his eyes upon that sweet

mother-face again.

Mrs. Crump earned what she could get by selling flowers in the streets.

She thought she could not turn poor Fe to better account than by making

him sell them too, so she arranged half her bunches in Fe's basket, and

tied it round his neck. Then she took him with her, and while she went

round to the houses Fe stood in the principal streets, and offered his

flowers to the passers-by.

Old Mrs. Crump soon made the discovery that "the heir" sold many more

than she did during the day, but such was her vanity that she could not

at first bring herself to believe that people preferred to buy of the

pale-faced cripple boy than of her, with her jet black wig and creaking

voice. When she found it was really the case, she was very angry. But

besides being a very jealous old woman, she was naturally avaricious in

the extreme, and she kept all Fe's earnings, and only gave him very

scanty food in return.

She did not care to give up "seeing after him for a bit," yet she

allowed a strong dislike to grow up against the boy in her own old cross

heart.

One day, as Fe stood by the side of the street, with his basket hanging

from his neck, and a bit of sunlight shining straight into his eyes, he

felt some one touch his arm, and when he turned his head, he saw a young

lady leaning towards him. She had long shining hair and blue eyes, there

were dimples and bright pink on her cheeks; she slipped sixpence into

his hand, whispering something about keeping it quite for himself, and

then passed on, walking very quickly.

When Fe looked up to thank her, he saw only the flowing shining hair

under a round black hat in the distance. Fe thought about the money for

a long time: it was the first gift he had ever received, and he wondered

if he might really keep it for himself. He thought how often, when he

was so hot and thirsty, he might buy a little milk, and it seemed

refreshing only to think of it. Then he remembered that Mrs. Crump took

all the pence he earned, and he felt sure that she disliked him very

much, and would take away his sixpence the moment she saw it. So at last

he twisted it in a leaf out of his basket, and pushed it through a hole

into the lining of his cap, for safety.

When he went back with Mrs. Crump in the evening, and she asked him for

his earnings, that little sixpence in his cap felt like a stone, seeming

to weigh him down to the ground; and when he went to the corner where he

slept, he lay down on his little ragged bed, cold and miserable; and

though he was tired out, he could not sleep for thinking of his great

wickedness in concealing the sixpence.

Then he looked round the room, and thought how much whiter and sweeter

his old home was; he remembered, too, how his kind aunt used to kiss him

if he cried, and he held up his little pale wet face, almost hoping he

should feel that kiss once more; he longed so intensely for a little

love, poor little "heir!"

Mrs. Crump's room was, like herself, dirty and ugly: perhaps it may be

silly to say so, but I do think that rooms generally resemble their

inmates.

The ceiling of this one was brown and peeled, the walls were covered

with old newspapers, with here and there a scrap of brown

wrapping-paper, making unsightly and hideous patterns; the whole was

splashed with dirt and mildew; the floor was rotten at places, and

black, and quite slippery with grease and dirt; the window had four

panes, two of which were stuffed with rags.

As little Fe's tired eyes wandered round this dirty room, they fell upon

the figure of Mrs. Crump sleeping in a bed in the opposite corner of the

room. She was breathing heavily, and after Fe had listened for some time

to her short snores, he felt so miserable and lonely and wicked, that he

formed the brave resolution of arousing her, and confessing to her the

history of the sixpence.

It was strange that what Fe would have trembled to confess in the broad

daylight he felt strong and brave enough to acknowledge by the light of

the pale moon. He crawled up, after a few minutes' thought, and after

diving about his ragged bed, he found his cap, and took from the leaf

his precious sixpence; then he crept to the side of Mrs. Crump's bed,

shivering, but determined. But suddenly he halted, and gave a scream of

fright; a band of moonlight fell across the bed, and certainly there lay

Mrs. Crump, but her nightcap had slipped off, and her black wig lay on a

chair by her bedside. Poor Fe, in his childish ignorance, had never had

a doubt about the wig; in fact, he had never understood that people wore

such things. When he saw Mrs. Crump without hair, and the moonlight

making her still more awful-looking, he was quite overwhelmed with fear.

The old woman rose up hastily at the scream, and she saw only little Fe

quite motionless, with a wild, strained look of fright in his eyes. When

she made out in a half-asleep way that it was the child she detested who

had dared to disturb her, wigless and asleep, her wrath boiled up, and

when the same moonbeam showed her the shining silver clasped in the

little hand, it fell hissing and spluttering and burning hot on the poor

child's head, as he knelt speechless and trembling with fright.

She made up her mind in one instant that it must be some money he had

taken for the flowers, and had kept back from her. "You wicked, thievish

boy!" she shrieked. "I'll teach you to thieve, and then pry about arter

people be a-bed; so good as I've been to ye, too. Ye jest leave my door

for good to-night."

And in a fit of passion she rolled out of bed, scolding and shaking poor

Fe the while. She pulled him down the three creaking steps and out into

the cold wet street--and there, with one more cruel push, she left him,

friendless and alone.

With a sob and a gasp he saw her shut the door, but the fright and

shaking had been too much for his weakened frame. He seemed for a few

moments to feel again all the dreadful pain and anguish he remembered

having felt when he was very ill once long ago. His aching, weary little

head seemed too heavy for him to bear, and with a moan of pain he fell

forward, and lay where he fell insensible.

The moon looked down on the child's small form, and sorrowed for the

little heir, and for her own unkindness in throwing the beams of her

light just across old Mrs. Crump in her bed, and she stooped and kissed

the poor boy as he lay on the hard cold stones, and tried in vain to

warm him with her silvery light.

Bad old Mrs. Crump slept late on into the next morning, and this was the

reason that she knew nothing more of what happened to the poor

friendless little heir.

A doctor set out very early next morning to see a poor invalid woman who

lived in the same street as little Fe's cruel guardian.

He was a short, plain little man, but his beaming smile hid the

ugliness, and made the face tell that he was true and kind and good, and

the eyes seemed to think it best to tell their own tale, in case the

smile alone might not be trusted, and they glistened and shone, and told

of every kindly thought and feeling of which the little man carried a

big heart-full.

He was a clever doctor, and this woman he knew was poor. He did not

expect payment from her, neither did he from the white-faced, crippled

boy lying in the street, with mud on his face and clothes, and clinging

to his brown hair. But he lifted him into his carriage tenderly and

lovingly, and ordered his servant to drive quickly to the hospital.

As he raised Fe's helpless little form, something fell with a chink on

the stones; but he did not wait to see what it was then.

There in the hospital lay little Fe, and he was for many days

unconscious, and they whispered that his life must be very short, and

that he would never be strong again.

The kind little doctor, who attended him most regularly, was speaking to

a young lady one day of the poor little heir. He said, "The boy has

consumption, and the cold of the streets added to his weakness, and some

sudden shock, has so increased the disease, that I fear his days on

earth will be few."

The young lady begged the doctor to take her to see the boy as soon as

he was able. And one day, when Fe was better and well enough to sit up

in bed, to his great joy he saw once more the pretty face with the pink

and dimples, and shining curling hair; and the sight seemed to refresh

him, and make him stronger and happier.

Before she went away she told him that he should go away soon, and be

made quite well again in some beautiful country place.

This girl with the shining hair spoke in a low sweet voice to the doctor

about him; she said, "Move him to my home, doctor; don't let him die in

this hot town, where there is no air." And the doctor said, "We will try

it, but he cannot last long."

So after a few weeks my little heir was tenderly borne away from this

hot, noisy town, where he had lived but to suffer; and on the day he

left a poor starving woman found his sixpence on the muddy pavement, and

she cried for joy, and prayed over it, and bought with it bread which

helped to save the life of her poor half-famished child. So even little

Fe's sixpence brought a blessing with it.

And now Fe, who had never heard the song of the birds, or smelt the

sweet country air before, was well nursed and cared for at the home of

this girl with the shining hair. He faded gradually day by day, but he

felt at rest and happy, though his weakness was very great. At last, one

day he begged for more air, as he was faint; and they carried him out

into a hay-field, and there, with his head pillowed on the hay, with the

soft blue sky above him, and the scent of flowers in the air, with the

low of cows and hum of bees in the distance, and the sweet scythe music

sounding near him, and the touch of the girl's fair soft hand on his

brow, my little heir passed away without even a moan, only a little sigh

of relief, of happiness, and rest.

Then a grand sweet smile fell upon his face, which there had never been

room for during his life.

Over his little grave (the heir's grave) the beautiful girl placed a

small grey stone cross, and the only inscription upon it--

In loving memory of Fe.

THE PRINCE AND HIS WHIPPING-BOY.

Whether or not it is a bad thing to get punished will largely depend

upon the punishment, but when you deserve to be punished, and some one

else is at hand to receive it in your stead, then punishment is apt to

become a farce. Just consider this: _I_ deserve the whipping, but _you_

are hired to take it for me. Perhaps you think this is a joke, but I am

really in earnest. I am alluding to a practice which was actually once

in vogue--though never to a great extent--in this and other countries.

By whipping one boy instead of another it was hoped that the feelings of

the offender would be so worked upon, that he would refrain from doing

wrong rather than have an innocent lad punished.

Well, the long retinue of servants in the households of kings usually

included a whipping-boy, kept to be whipped when a prince needed

chastisement. What a funny occupation! D'Ossat and Du Perron, who

ultimately rose to the dignity of cardinals in the Roman Catholic

Church, were whipped by Pope Clement VIII. in the place of Henri IV. And

there stood for Charles I. a lad called Mungo Murray, whose name would

seem to show that he was of Scottish birth. The most familiar example of

whipping-boy is mentioned by Fuller in his "Church History." His name

was Barnaby Fitzpatrick, and the prince whose punishments he bore was

Edward, son of bluff King Hal, who was afterwards Edward VI., the

boy-king of England.

The scene which the picture on the next page brings vividly before us

represents one aspect of the use of whipping-boys. It tells its story

well. The young prince would seem to have incurred his tutor's

displeasure, and the birch is about to be employed upon the person of

the unfortunate Fitzpatrick. But Prince Edward cannot bear to see poor

Barnaby flogged instead, and is interceding with his grave guardian on

behalf of the lad. By all accounts which we have the boy-king was a

clever and amiable youth, and his untimely death in his sixteenth year

would appear to show that he stood much more in need of the tenderest

care than of the birch. It need hardly be added that as soon as he

mounted the throne the services of Fitzpatrick could no longer be in

request. You may whip a prince, but when that prince becomes king, even

while still a boy, the rod must be banished forthwith. Shakespeare says

"uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," and this must be especially

true in such a case as that of the hapless young Edward, who had to

discharge all the kingly duties without being old enough to feel much,

if any, interest in them. His courtiers spoke of him as if he were a boy

Solomon, and he cannot have needed much castigation, even through the

medium of Barnaby Fitzpatrick.

[Illustration: PRINCE EDWARD'S WHIPPING-BOY. (_See p. 220._)]

STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

_By_ EDWIN HODDER ("OLD MERRY").

IV.--CURIOUS CUSTOMS AND REMARKABLE INCIDENTS.

In my recent talks about the Coronations and the Royal Funerals, the

scenes that passed before us were intimately connected with the history

of England. The matters upon which I shall touch to-day are to a large

extent more particularly connected with the Abbey itself. No mean

personages were the abbots of the "West Monastery," or Westminster, in

early times. They were independent of any English bishop, and therefore

once in two years had to present themselves at Rome. Some of the abbots

were old, and some very fat, and were perhaps tempted to think their

independence dearly purchased by a journey so long and toilsome. The

monastery was exceedingly rich--it had possessions in ninety-seven towns

and villages, seventeen hamlets, and 216 manors. William I. gave the

Abbey some lands in Essex, in exchange for one of its manors, to which

he took a fancy, and upon which "Royal Windsor" has since risen.

The Abbots of Westminster claimed a tithe of all the fish caught in the

river between Gravesend and Staines. When St. Peter (according to the

legend I have already told you) consecrated his own church on Thorney,

he said, on parting with Edric the fisherman, "Go out into the river;

you will catch a plentiful supply of fish, whereof the larger part shall

be salmon. This have I granted on two conditions: first, that you never

fish again on Sundays; secondly, that you pay a tithe of them to the

Abbey of Westminster." And as long as it was possible the monastery kept

its grasp on the Thames fisheries. In 1282, the abbot, in defence of his

claim, defeated the Rector of Rotherhithe in the law courts, and the

original grant by St. Peter was put forward as authority for the rights

of the convent in the matter. Almost to the end of the fourteenth

century it was the custom for a fisherman once a year to take his place

beside the prior, bringing a salmon for St. Peter. The fish was carried

in state through the refectory, the prior and all the brethren rising as

it passed.

The Abbey and its precincts for a long period comprised a vast group of

buildings, quite cut off by pleasant meadows and gardens from the

neighbouring city. From King Street the approach was under two grand

arches and past the Clock Tower, where once hung and swung Great Tom of

Westminster, now in St. Paul's Cathedral. The entrance to Tothill Street

marks the site of the gatehouse or prison of the monastery, in which

many illustrious prisoners were confined before its demolition, in 1777.

Amongst them may be named Sir Walter Raleigh, John Hampden, and Lilly

the astrologer.

There is so much that is interesting connected with the sanctuary, the

cloisters, and the chapter-house, that I shall devote my next talk

specially to those buildings. The abbot's house, now the deanery, saw

many notable scenes in the Middle Ages. Especially was it so with the

Jerusalem Chamber, of which the low rough wall runs off from the south

side of the western portal of the Abbey. There is an entrance to it from

the nave. It was in this chamber that Henry IV. died. He was purposing a

journey to the Holy Land, when, in 1412, fearfully afflicted with

leprosy, he came up to London for his last Parliament. Soon after

Christmas, he was praying at St. Edward's Shrine, when he was taken so

ill that his death before the shrine seemed probable. He was, however,

carried to the Jerusalem Chamber, and on learning its name, praised God

that the prophecy that he should die in Jerusalem would be fulfilled.

His son, the gay and dissolute Prince Harry, attended his father in his

last moments, and then retired to an oratory, and spent a long day on

his knees. Henceforth the latter was a changed character, and every one

was astonished at the way in which he shook off the past, and devoted

himself to his new duties as an English king.

Round the shrine of St. Edward are several small chapels, but of their

dedication or the special devotions originally carried on in them very

little seems to be known. We know that there were altars with perpetual

lamps burning, and venerated crucifixes, and an abundance of relics.

Those placed here by Henry III. I have already spoken of; besides these,

there was a "Girdle of the Virgin" and other fragments of holy dresses,

given by Edward the Confessor. Good Queen Maud gave a large portion of

the hair of Mary Magdalene; and amongst other relics deposited here at

various times were "a phial of the Holy Blood" and the vestments of St.

Peter. At the porch of the Chapel of St. Nicholas was buried, in 1072,

a Bishop Egelric, who had been imprisoned for two years at Westminster,

but who by his "fastings and tears had so purged away his former crimes

as to acquire a reputation" for sanctity. His fetters were buried with

him, and his grave was a place of great resort for pilgrims in the time

of the early Norman kings.

[Illustration: LITTLE FE'S FRIEND. "_LITTLE FE_" (_p. 218_).]

But it was the shrine of Edward the Confessor, with its beautiful

surroundings, its grand musical services, and its abundant holy relics,

that formed the chief attraction to pilgrims, and yet only the barest

hints and allusions have come down to us as to what was going on for

centuries in the great centre of English religious life.

Of one event that took place at the beginning of the sixteenth century

we have full particulars. Islip (under whom Henry the Seventh's Chapel

was completed) was abbot when the red hat of a cardinal was sent from

Rome to adorn the head of Wolsey. The Pope's messenger rode through

London with the hat in his hand, and with the Bishop of Lincoln riding

on one side of him and the Earl of Essex on the other. A grand escort of

nobles and prelates accompanied. The Lord Mayor and Aldermen on

horseback and the City guilds were ranged along Cheapside. The hat was

carried triumphantly at the head of the procession to Westminster, and

received at the Abbey door by Abbot Islip and several other abbots, all

in their robes of state. For three days the hat reposed on the high

altar, and then came Wolsey with a grand retinue from his palace at

Charing Cross to the Abbey, and a goodly company of archbishops,

bishops, and abbots, performed a solemn service. Wolsey knelt on the

altar steps, and the Archbishop of Canterbury put the hat on the new

cardinal's head. "Te Deum" was sung, and then the assembled nobles and

prelates rode back in state to a grand banquet at Wolsey's palace.

In 1539 the monastery was dissolved, and as the Reformation advanced,

various changes took place in the Abbey services. Instead of an abbot, a

dean now bore sway. Much of the property of the Abbey was transferred to

the great city cathedral, which gave rise to the proverb of "robbing

Peter to pay Paul." The hallowed relics disappeared, as well as

Llewellyn's crown and other historic mementoes; monuments were damaged,

and Edward's bones ejected from their ancient shrine. For a time the

Abbey was in real danger, and some of the outlying property was given up

to Protector Somerset to induce him to spare the sacred edifice. We read

in the convent books of twenty tons of Caen stone being given him from

some of the ruined buildings. A few years afterwards it seemed as if the

old order of things were going to be restored, and the Spanish husband

of Queen Mary attended a grand mass of reconciliation in the Abbey, to

signalise the return of England to her ancient faith. Six hundred

Spanish courtiers, in robes of white velvet striped with red, attended

the king from Whitehall, and the Knights of the Garter joined the

procession. The queen was absent, from indisposition. After the long

mass, which lasted till two in the afternoon, the king and courtiers

adjourned to Westminster Hall, where Cardinal Pole presided over a

solemn reconciliation of the English Church with Rome. Soon afterwards

King Edward's Shrine was restored and his body replaced therein, several

altars were re-erected, and masses and processions went on as of old.

But Abbot Feckenham--the last mitred abbot in England--had only ruled

for a year when Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, sent Feckenham to

prison, threw down the stone altars and transformed the Abbey into the

"Collegiate Church of St. Peter, Westminster," which is still the lawful

name of the edifice.

Henceforth the Abbey was academic as well as ecclesiastical, and

Elizabeth was very proud of her Westminster College.

The old Abbey witnessed some strange scenes in the times of the

Puritans. The ecclesiastical vestments had been already sold, the

tapestries removed to the Houses of Parliament, the college plate melted

down, and Henry VII.'s Chapel despoiled of its brass and iron, when, in

1643, the Abbey was subjected to actual desecration. The Royalist

stories of soldiers smoking and singing round the communion table, and

playing boisterous games about the church and chapels, have not been

proved. But Sir Robert Harley, who had taken down the Eleanor crosses at

Cheapside and Charing Cross, destroyed the richly-ornamented altar

erected in memory of Edward VI. The crown, sceptre, and coronation robes

were brought out of the treasury, and Wither, the poet, was arrayed in

them for the amusement of the party engaged in the affair. Soon

afterwards these historic national treasures were sold.

For nearly six years the celebrated Westminster Assembly of Divines sat

in the Chapel of Henry VII. and the Jerusalem Chamber, compiling

catechisms and confessions of faith, which are still of authority

amongst the Presbyterians. Whilst the assembly was sitting, Bradshaw

(who sentenced Charles I. to death) was living at the deanery. He used

to be fond of climbing up into a solitary chamber in the south-western

tower, which was long reputed to be haunted by his ghost.

At the Restoration the Protestant services, of course, replaced the

Presbyterian ones, and we catch a glimpse of Charles II. conducted round

the Dean's Yard by the famous Westminster schoolmaster, Dr. Busby. On

this occasion, as the story goes, the doctor kept his hat on his head

for fear his boys should think there was a greater man than himself in

the world. The Stuarts had learned nothing from adversity, and on May

20th, 1688, an occurrence in the Abbey shows us what was the feeling of

the nation. On that day Dean Sprat began to read King James's

Declaration of Indulgence. Immediately, there was such a tumultuous

noise in the church that nobody could hear him speak. Before he had

finished, the congregation had disappeared, and only the officials and

Westminster scholars remained gazing at the dean, who could scarcely

hold the proclamation for trembling.

I want now to call your attention once more to the Chapel of Henry VII.,

in which the banners of the Knights of the Bath form a conspicuous

feature. We first heard of these knights in connection with the

coronation of Richard II. They rode in the coronation processions till

the end of the seventeenth century. It was originally the custom at each

coronation for a number of knights to be created before the royal

procession started from the Tower. For a long time they were not

connected with any special order, but as the bath formed a conspicuous

feature in the ceremonies of their creation, they gradually assumed in

consequence the name of Knights of the Bath. The king used to bathe with

them, all being placed in large baths and then wrapped up in blankets.

In 1725 the order was reconstructed; membership in it was henceforth to

be the reward of merit. William, Duke of Cumberland, afterwards known as

the "Butcher of Culloden," was the first knight under the new rules. He

was only four years of age, and was accordingly excused from the bath,

but presented his little sword at the altar. To suit the number of

stalls in the chapel the number of knights was limited to thirty-six.

After the installation ceremonies the royal cook stood by the Abbey door

with a cleaver, and threatened to strike off the spurs of any unworthy

member of the order. Extensive alterations were made in the order in

1839, and no banners have since been added to those hanging in the

chapel. The banner of Earl Dundonald was taken down in 1814, and kicked

down the chapel steps in consequence of charges of fraud brought against

him. In after years these charges were disproved, and on the day of his

funeral in 1860, the banner, by command of the Queen, was again placed

in its ancient position.

THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

_By the Author of "The Heir of Elmdale," &c. &c._

CHAPTER X.--EDDIE'S ENEMY.

Mr. Clair was very much surprised the next morning by a visit from Mr.

Murray. Bertie had quite forgotten to mention anything about his meeting

with him till he heard the visitor announced, and then it was too late

for explanations. It was quite enough for Uncle Clair and Aunt Amy to

know that he was a friend of the boys' to ensure a kindly and cordial

welcome, but Eddie looked rather black at the visitor, and greeted him

coldly.

As the children were on the point of going out, Mr. Murray said they

ought to be off, and not lose another moment of the morning sunshine.

"The sun and fresh air you get before noon, and the sleep before

midnight, are what make strong, healthy, wealthy men and women of you,"

he said; "so be off, and perhaps I shall find you on the beach later

on."

Rather reluctantly Eddie followed Bertie, who was already half-way down

the stairs. "I wonder what he wanted?" he grumbled, when they reached

their favourite haunt beside an old boat just above high water mark,

where Agnes almost directly afterwards joined them. "To see how badly

off we are, I suppose. I don't like meeting any one who ever knew us at

Riversdale."

"Why, Eddie?" Bertie asked, in open-mouthed wonder. "I thought you would

be delighted to see an old friend. I was, I can tell you, when I met him

yesterday."

"Oh! you saw him before? I suppose you asked him to come and see us,"

Eddie cried angrily.

"No, I didn't; he said he would come himself, and asked for Uncle

Clair's address; and he was always very good to us, Eddie: he gave me a

steam-engine, don't you remember? and you a box of paints. He used to

call you a little genius when he came to Riversdale. He's a dear old

man, Agnes," Bertie added, turning in search of sympathy from his

brother's gloomy face.

"I don't like any one who knew us when we were rich to see us now,"

Eddie cried suddenly. "They must despise us!"

"Eddie," Agnes cried, a world of reproach in her voice, and sudden tears

in her soft eyes, on hearing what he had said, "Eddie dear, how can you

say so? how can you ever think such dreadful things? as if it matters a

bit whether people are rich or poor, so long as they do right!"

[Illustration: "AGNES ... AFTERWARDS JOINED THEM" (_p. 224_).]

"But we're not poor," Bertie cried exultantly: "that's the fun of it!

Why, we have everything we want, haven't we? Everything," he repeated,

with a comprehensive glance all round, and an eloquent wave of his

somewhat tarry hands. "Why, we're never cold or hungry, or anything.

Eddie should come to the City for a while, if he wants to see poor

people. Why, I know a fellow in a warehouse near us--Watts his name

is--who has only one arm, and gets eighteen shillings a week. He has a

wife and a number of children, and he has to walk four miles every

morning to work, and four home again, because he can't afford fourpence

for a 'bus.' Oh, yes!" he continued; "if Eddie wants to know what it is

to be poor, let him come to the City!"

"I thought people in the City were rich," Eddie said, looking interested

for a moment. "Uncle Gregory said you were to make your fortune."

"Yes," Bertie replied, slowly and thoughtfully, "there's a lot of rich

people; but it seems as if there were twenty thousand times more people

very poor. I don't understand it at all."

"Nor I," said Agnes, in a very low voice; "but I agree with you, Bertie:

we're not poor a bit; but oh dear! _I_ was poor before poor papa died;

we often had nothing to eat but bread for days, and such a little mite

of fire. But why didn't you tell us, Bertie, that you met the gentleman

yesterday?"

"Just at first I forgot. You remember when I went up for that

fishing-line and hooks, and Teddy said we might fish from the chain

pier; I found you all gone there, and I ran after you as fast as ever I

could. While we were fishing I forgot everything, though I caught

nothing, and then, when I did think of it, I thought perhaps you

wouldn't care to know that our cousins are here."

Bertie spoke quickly, with flushed cheeks, averted eyes, and a good deal

of confusion.

"Our Cousins Dick and Harry Gregory?" Eddie said quietly.

"Yes; they and aunt were with Mr. Murray; and he asked me ever such a

lot of questions and said the funniest things. Of course he never had

heard a word of poor papa's death, and how we had to leave Riversdale;

and how he did pucker his eyebrows over it! And when I said I was in

Uncle Gregory's office, and you were with Uncle Clair learning to be an

artist, you should see how he wrinkled his forehead and scowled! Then he

asked me how I came to be here, and I told him, and how near I came to

missing you all, and I wondered whatever I should have done if I had. He

said I might have had a very happy time with my cousins: gone in a yacht

to the Isle of Wight and round the Land's End; and I couldn't help

looking surprised. It showed how little _he_ knew of Aunt Gregory,

though he was with her; and then he said he'd call and see Uncle Clair,

and I forgot to tell him, and that's all. Let us go and have a swim,

Eddie, and perhaps Agnes will like to rest here for a while."

For answer, Eddie threw himself on the smooth pebbly beach, and hiding

his face on his folded arms, sobbed bitterly, wildly almost. Bertie

looked and listened in dumb, helpless amazement. Eddie crying! it seemed

absurd, impossible! The rough, hardy, resolute boy would not have cried

in such a place for anything, "not," he said afterwards, in confidence,

to Agnes, "not if he had a tooth pulled out!" and that, in Bertie's

idea, was the climax of human misery, the height of human endurance. But

Eddie's sobs continued for a long time without either Agnes or Bertie

attempting to offer any consolation, for the simple reason that they did

not know in the least what was the matter with him. Once, indeed, Agnes

ventured to ask timidly if he were ill, and the answer was such a rough

"No, leave me alone!" that she sat and looked at Bertie for what seemed

two hours, and was in reality about nine or ten minutes.

The pains and passions, as well as the pleasures of childhood are very

fleeting, after all, and Eddie Rivers, in spite of his fifteen years,

was a very child, so that he recovered himself quickly, and looked round

with an expression of shameful defiance; but on Bertie's puzzled and

Agnes' sorrowful face he saw neither contempt nor amusement, and he

stammered out a sort of apology.

"I'm very sorry, Bertie, but I could not help it."

"Poor Eddie!" Agnes whispered sympathetically.

"I'm glad you are all right, Ted," Bertie cried, with an uncomfortable

feeling in his throat. "I thought you were going to be really bad."

"So I was, 'really bad,' Bert," Eddie answered, with a very unusual

accession of gentleness and humility. "I didn't like anybody or anything

a moment ago; I thought you were very selfish. I quite disliked those

unkind Gregory boys; I thought Mr. Murray came to see us just to make

fun of us. I was as wicked and miserable as ever I could be, and I do

wish we had our dear ponies, and could ride every day like other boys,

instead of moping down here on the beach."

"I thought you liked it, Eddie. I do, over anything," Bertie replied,

looking quite serious; "and I'm sure if Uncle Clair knew you wanted a

pony badly, he would let you have one. Why didn't you tell him?"

Eddie flushed angrily, and turned aside a little impatiently. "Uncle

Clair is far too good to me already. You don't understand me a bit,

Bertie: you never did; or you either, Agnes--no, you don't. You are both

quite happy and contented, but I'm not."

"Why?" Bertie asked. "Do, tell us, Eddie! Oh, I know! it's because you

have an enemy, and I believe he makes you think all kinds of absurd

things. Just tell me who he is, Ted, and I'll thrash him," Bertie

whispered eagerly.

"Thrash whom? I don't understand you, Bert." Eddie looked up with a

sudden appearance of interest, and Agnes drew a little away: she did not

quite understand the turn matters were taking; but Bertie meant to talk

the "enemy" question over thoroughly, and pulled Agnes back to add her

persuasions to his.

But Eddie looked so thoroughly amazed, that Bertie was quite at a loss

how to go on. If his brother had an enemy, he did not seem to know

anything about it; still, there were Uncle Clair's words: they must mean

something; and at last he repeated them, and said he was determined not

to have poor Eddie worried by any one in the world.

"Do you know what it means, Agnes? I don't. Do you know what Uncle Clair

meant?"

"I think I can guess," she replied, without looking at either of her

cousins. "I believe uncle meant that Eddie's enemy was _himself_,

because you know, dear, very often you won't let yourself be happy, and

make yourself quite miserable about nothing at all."

"Oh!" Eddie said, after a long silence, "do you think Uncle Clair meant

that?"

"Here he is, and Mr. Murray too," Bertie said, jumping up, and springing

forward, forgetting that poor Eddie's face still bore traces of his

recent distress, and that Agnes too looked very sad, and not a bit

inclined for company. They had not Bertie's happy knack of shaking off

unpleasant sensations and being cheerful in a moment. However, Uncle

Clair and Mr. Murray were standing beside them, and there was nothing

for it but to make the best of the situation, though Eddie, at least,

would have gladly been alone, to think over Agnes' words, and ask

himself if he really was his own enemy.

CHAPTER XI.--BERTIE GOES BACK TO BUSINESS.

Mr. Murray's conversation with Mr. Clair had been a long and interesting

one, as far as the boys were concerned. Mr. Murray heard every

particular of Mr. Rivers' losses which Mr. Clair knew, and also gained a

good insight into the character and temper of the lads. What he heard of

Bertie pleased him greatly, especially as it agreed exactly with what

Mr. Gregory said; about Eddie he looked a little grave, and puckered up

his forehead for full five minutes, as Mr. Clair described his

restlessness, discontent, and want of application, and, worst of all,

the foolish idea that he was really very clever, and very much

misunderstood and unappreciated by his relatives.

"The boy is fairly clever, but he's not a genius," Mr. Clair said. "If

he would only work, he might get on; but Eddie prefers to dream noble

things rather than do them; he will spend hours looking at beautiful

pictures, and then nearly break his childish heart because he can't do

something equally good. His ideas, his ambitions, are excellent, but he

will not work."

"Is there no other profession he might get on better at? Would he make a

lawyer, or a doctor, do you think?" Mr. Murray asked.

"I'm afraid not; he really wants to be an artist; besides, he's so proud

and sensitive, that he never would make his way in the world if he had

to mix with people, and fight for a place. Poor Eddie, I am sorry for

him," Mr. Clair said, kindly. "He has such an unhappy disposition."

"And the little girl?" Mr. Murray said. "How is she provided for? She is

Frank Rivers' child, I think you said?"

"Yes; and she's the worst off of them all. Being a girl, and so

delicate, I really do not see what's to become of her if anything should

happen to us. It's a great pity she is not stronger," Mr. Clair

remarked; "she has a wonderful talent for drawing, and is the most

patient, painstaking, intelligent pupil I ever met. If Eddie had only

half her diligence, he would get on much better."

Then he heard of the peculiarly solitary life Bertie led at Kensington,

and listened in wonder, while Mr. Clair said Eddie was never asked to

his uncle's, had never seen his cousins, and that he did not even know

the Gregorys were in Brighton.

"You see, we are very different sort of people, Mr. Murray: our tastes,

habits, and manner of life are so widely apart, that it is perhaps all

for the best that we should not meet frequently. Still, he is Eddie's

uncle: the boys are his first cousins; it seems a little odd that they

should be complete strangers."

"Odd! why, it's very strange. I can't comprehend it!" Mr. Murray cried,

looking quite fierce. "I must make them better acquainted. Ah! I've hit

on the very thing. I'm going to take the Gregory boys for a trip in my

yacht along the south coast; the Rivers lads shall come too. You must

all come: there's nothing to make people acquainted and set them at

their ease like a few days at sea in a small craft. Promise me you will

join us. We start on Monday morning, and will land you anywhere, and at

any time you like. A week's cruise would do you all good."

"I'm afraid you must excuse us, Mr. Murray. We should not be a very

welcome addition to your party," Uncle Clair said, coldly. "I have no

desire to force my acquaintance on Mr. Gregory."

"He's not coming with us, in the first place, and even if he were, I

suppose I am at liberty to choose what guests I please to accompany me

on my trip?" Mr. Murray cried, almost fiercely; "but"--turning to Mrs.

Clair--"we need not discuss that point: it's the children we were

talking about. It would be a first-rate opportunity for both lads to

make friends with their cousins."

"Yes," Aunt Amy answered, thoughtfully. "They have so few friends in the

world, poor children, that it would be a sad pity to miss a chance of

increasing them. I feel half inclined to accept your kind invitation for

the children's sake, but we have arranged to return home a week from

Monday, and I almost fear my husband's engagements will not permit him

to remain another day."

"Very well, Mrs. Clair; a week will, I think, be sufficient for our

purpose. I'll find out in that time what the lads are really made of.

I've had so many boys grow up under my eye, that I can read them pretty

accurately now, and what's more, study them when they least imagine I'm

thinking of them. As for your husband, he wants three months' complete

rest, and a cruise to the Mediterranean in my yacht; and he _shall_ have

it, later on!" and Mr. Murray seeming as if he were in a fearful passion

with some one, frowned quite terribly, and shook his head fiercely,

whereas he was only making a very kind and generous proposal to a poor

artist, who could never afford more than a brief holiday, and always

had, so to speak, to carry his profession along with him. Mr. Clair,

however, did not seem very pleased with the suggestion, however much he

might like it--and in his own mind he felt that he really needed just

such a complete rest and change of scene, soft climate, and freedom from

all care and anxiety, to enable him to shake himself free from a strange

feeling of dulness and languor that had been stealing over him lately,

and a sort of mental depression that was harder to bear than actual

illness. But three months away from his pupils and work seemed

absolutely out of the question to Mr. Clair, therefore he did not let

his mind dwell on it, but returned to the question of the children.

[Illustration: "THEY CAME TO THE LITTLE GROUP" (_p. 229_).]

"While I thank you for your very kind proposal, Mr. Murray, I'll make no

promises; let the boys choose for themselves. Bertie, of course, must

obtain his Uncle Gregory's permission, as he promised, without fail, to

be back at the office on Monday morning. I will not ever stand in the

way of the boys' pleasure or profit, but I think it is truer kindness to

have them go along quietly on the paths they have chosen. Bertie is

happy and contented enough now, but he's a high-spirited lad, fond of

the sea almost passionately; a voyage, be it ever so short, may unsettle

his mind for the office. Eddie is discontented enough already; I don't

really see what good can come of it. Of course, I don't really think

that either of the boys is going to make his fortune, recover

Riversdale, and live there in peace and plenty, ease and indolence, ever

after. That's a pretty poetical little romance, and serves to cheer the

children, and make their sudden change of circumstance more bearable,

but I know they will have to fight the battle of life each by himself,

and quite unaided. Neither possesses a magic wand to conjure up a

fortune."

"And why not, pray? Has not many a London 'prentice lad found that magic

wand in honest hard work and strict integrity? Why not Bertie Rivers as

well as another? But let it be as you say: leave it to the boys' own

choice. Suppose we go out and find them."

Mr. Clair went very willingly, and seemed as if he would be glad to have

the whole matter settled. Aunt Amy smiled encouragingly; she was really

anxious that the young cousins should know and love each other, and felt

almost sure that Eddie would be much happier if he had some friends of

his own age, especially if they were clever boys, who would make him

feel anxious to shine in their eyes, and excel at least in his beloved

painting, and that he talked so much of and performed so little.

Mr. Murray and Mr. Clair had not joined the children on the beach many

minutes before Uncle Gregory came along with his two sons, one walking

demurely on either side. When they came to the little group sitting and

lounging in somewhat undignified fashion under the lee of the old tarry

boat, they paused, Mr. Gregory looking somewhat astonished and

scandalised at seeing his old friend Mr. Murray--Murray and Co., one of

the most respected "houses" in the City of London--sprawling

full-length, with his hat over his eyes, while Mr. Clair made an

accurate two-inch sketch of him; but no matter what Mr. Murray did or

said, he was in a sense privileged, and Mr. Gregory greeted him

cordially, shook hands with Mr. Clair a little more stiffly, and

introduced his sons. Bertie, at the first approach of his uncle Gregory,

had edged to the other side of the boat, and watched the proceedings

with an amused twinkle in his eyes, that peered about half an inch over

the keel. Eddie was gravely polite, Agnes painfully shy, and Uncle Clair

seemed to have become quite a grand gentleman too in a moment; but Mr.

Murray never moved, and actually asked Mr. Gregory to sit down,

pointing to a vacant scrap of pebbly beach, and indicating the tarry

boat as something to lean against. At the proposition Bertie disappeared

altogether: it was too absurd to see Uncle Gregory's expression of

wonder, and he had to stuff his cap into his mouth to avoid laughing

aloud, but Mr. Murray did not seem to mind a bit.

"Rather stand, eh? Yes, of course; I dare say you do get sitting down

enough. I was just wanting to see you, to ask a favour. Can you give

this lad--where is he, Bertie"--Bertie emerged solemn-faced, and rather

scared, from the other side of the boat, and bowed to his uncle--"can

you give this youngster another week's holiday? I want him and his

brother, and this lassie here, to come for a sail with your boys. Mr.

and Mrs. Clair have also kindly promised to join us for a week, so that

we shall be quite a pleasant party, eh, lads? You would like it."

Dick and Harry Gregory instinctively drew nearer to their father, and

their faces expressed anything but lively satisfaction at the proposal.

On the other side, Eddie and Agnes had glanced at each other, and edged

behind Uncle Clair, who had resumed his sketching; only Eddie and Mr.

Gregory looked straight at each other, and old Mr. Murray from under his

shaggy eyebrows watched them both.

"Well, Bertie, would you like to go on this excursion very much?" Uncle

Gregory asked, in his hardest voice, and with his most chilling smile.

"No, thank you, uncle. I would rather go back to the office on Monday

morning."

"Thank you, Bert," Eddie whispered, giving his brother's hand a hearty

squeeze. "Of course we can't go without you."

Indeed, Bertie's words seemed to have brought a sort of relief to the

whole party. Mr. Gregory's smile was quite pleasant as he laid his hand

on the boy's head.

"You're quite right," he said, genially. "You and I are business people,

and can't afford taking holidays at random. We will go up to town

together, Bertie, on Monday morning, and I hope the others will enjoy

their trip."

"I'm sure Eddie will not care to go without Bertie," Uncle Clair said,

rising. "We must only wait for some more favourable opportunity for

becoming better acquainted with your lads, Mr. Gregory. Now, children,

it's dinner-time, and your Aunt Amy will be waiting. If you will join

us"--turning to Uncle Gregory--"it will give us much pleasure."

"Not to-day, thank you, as I have an engagement; but Mrs. Gregory will

take an early opportunity of waiting on Mrs. Clair;" and after a great

many ceremonious bows and smiles, they separated; Mr. Gregory, his sons,

and Mr. Murray (frowning, shaking his head, clenching his hands in the

most ridiculous manner) going one way, Uncle Clair, with Agnes clinging

to his arm, and Eddie and Bertie behind, hurrying away in the opposite

direction; but not a single word was spoken till they reached the house,

and then Aunt Amy saw by their faces that the old gentleman's

good-natured plan had failed, for that time, at least; but if she

thought for a moment that Mr. Murray gave up an idea so easily after

once forming it, it showed that she knew nothing whatever either of his

goodness of heart or force of character.

CHAPTER XII.--AN EXCITING ADVENTURE.

Though Bertie looked cheerful enough as he walked with Uncle Clair and

Eddie to the railway station on Monday morning, he could not help

feeling very sorry at having to leave Brighton. The weather was so

glorious, the sea all rippling and dancing in the morning sunshine, the

streets so full of merry pleasure-seekers, that going back to the office

in Mincing Lane was dull enough. They Were very sorry to lose him, too:

there could be no mistake about that; ever since he had so promptly

declined for them all Mr. Murray's invitation, they felt a sort of

respectful admiration for him, though from very different reasons. Uncle

Clair thought it was very sensible to return to town when his Uncle

Gregory so clearly wished it; Eddie and Agnes thought it was quite

splendid of him to have saved them from becoming more intimately

acquainted with their cousins; while the latter, in their lofty,

patronising way, considered Bertie was not such a bad sort of fellow,

and they would be kinder to him when they got back home, but they

certainly did not want to have to introduce him to their Eton friends,

Lionel and Arthur Delamere, whom Mr. Murray had given them leave to

invite. They would be sure to ask where Eddie and Bertie went to school,

and so, of course, hear all about the office; besides, Eddie looked so

proud and reserved, he would hardly prove an agreeable companion, nor

was Mr. Clair regarded very favourably. Mr. Murray was more annoyed by

the failure of his plan than any one else, and yet he felt in a way that

Bertie was quite right, for his Uncle Gregory would not easily have

forgiven him had he acted differently.

Mr. Gregory was not at the station when they arrived, but just as the

train was starting he came up, and after one quick glance up and down

the platform, entered a carriage without having recognised Uncle Clair

or Eddie, and Bertie found himself in a compartment with several strange

gentlemen, who each had a newspaper that he turned over eagerly, and

Bertie could not help wishing that he too had something to read, though

I think he would have preferred either Don Quixote or Robinson Crusoe.

Then he fell to wondering what Eddie and Agnes were doing: whether they

were on the beach reading or sketching, and thinking how nice it would

be to meet them at the station on next Saturday afternoon, when they

purposed returning home, have the cabs all engaged, and then go back

with them to Fitzroy Square. After a time his head fell back into the

corner, and from thinking, Bertie fell into a pleasant dream, from which

he was aroused by a gentle touch. A gentleman was searching for a small

bag, which had slipped behind Bertie.

"Sorry to trouble you; thanks," he said, when he had found it. Then

leaning forward towards the gentleman opposite, he took out a packet of

papers neatly tied up. "It's very provoking," he said. "I came down here

on Saturday to get the governor's signature, and could not find trace or

tidings of him. He left an hour before I arrived, and if I don't find

him somewhere in town to-day, it will be a serious loss to our firm."

"You can afford it," the gentleman said, smiling.

"Yes; but our manager will be none the less angry about it. However, I

can't help it;" and then they talked about the money market and other

matters, till Bertie fell asleep again, and did not awake till they

reached London Bridge. There Mr. Gregory saw him, and gave him a seat in

his hansom, and the last thing Bertie saw as he left the platform was

the gentleman with his little black bag in his hand, hurrying along as

if for his life.

Bertie was very busy that morning: there were a great many letters to be

addressed and notices copied out; his uncle seemed hasty and impatient,

spoke harshly, and once or twice said he believed Bertie had left his

brains in Brighton. Then the office was very stuffy and gloomy, for

though the day was bright enough outside, very little sunshine found its

way through the dusty ground glass windows of the office in Mincing

Lane. Never in his life had Bertie so longed for luncheon-time; his head

ached, and more than once a great lump seemed to grow suddenly in his

throat as he thought of his past holidays; but the City at luncheon-time

is not the best possible place for dreaming or moping, and before he had

gone a hundred yards from the office door he came into violent collision

with a gentleman running down the steps of another office, who, without

pausing even to apologise, sprang into a cab that was waiting, without

observing that he had dropped a small leather bag he held in his hand.

Bertie, whose hat had been knocked off in the encounter, stooped to pick

it up, picked up the bag at the same time, and glanced at the hansom

fast disappearing amongst the crowd of others. It was no use to shout,

much less to run, but having begun to learn to think, he acted with a

good deal of decision. Hailing another cab that chanced to be near, he

bade the driver follow the one that had just started, as the gentleman

had dropped something, and the cabby, who had witnessed the whole

transaction, nodded and drove on; but a few minutes had been lost; the

first vehicle was a private one, with a good horse, Bertie's was a

worn-out old creature, that ought not to have been in harness at all, so

that it was just as much as the driver could do to keep it in sight. In

the City, owing to several blocks, they almost lost it; and when they

got into more fashionable regions amongst the less-frequented streets

and quiet squares of the West End, matters were still worse, but at

length, turning suddenly round a corner, they saw the identical cab

standing before a large, gloomy-looking house, and its occupant speaking

hurriedly to another gentleman on the steps. Bertie sprang out and ran

up, flushed, breathless, and excited.

"If you please, sir, you dropped this in Mincing Lane," he said, "and I

followed you as quickly as ever I could."

One of the gentlemen uttered a little cry of dismay, and almost

staggered against the railing for support. In his hurry and confusion,

his eagerness to deliver a pressing message, and get the documents back

to the City, he had not discovered their loss at all. The other

gentleman caught the boy by the arm, and then uttered an exclamation of

still greater astonishment. "Oh! Bertie Rivers, I see. So you found my

clerk's bag?"

"Yes, sir," Bertie replied, very much surprised to discover in the same

moment that one speaker was Mr. Murray, the other the gentleman who had

come up in the train with him that morning, the bag the very one that

had excited his curiosity on two previous occasions, and caused him to

be disturbed from his pleasant dream.

"How did you know the person it belonged to? Why did you come here with

it?" Mr. Murray asked, after a keen, searching glance at Bertie's face.

He was a shrewd, suspicious old gentleman, who had been deceived many

times in his life, much imposed upon, and therefore very cautious of

whom he trusted. Still, Bertie Rivers' face was truthful and frank

enough to satisfy anybody as he replied that he did not know in the

least to whom the bag belonged; "but I was going to my luncheon, sir,

and I ran against this gentleman; my hat got knocked off, and when I

stooped to pick it up I saw the bag. I felt sure the gentleman dropped

it, and I called; but he had driven off, so I just hailed another

hansom, and told the driver to follow the one just started. He said, 'I

saw it all,' and drove as quick as he could, and--that's all, sir."

"No, no, there's something more; you must tell me all about it

presently," and Mr. Murray pushed Bertie before him into a magnificent

library. "You sit there for ten minutes, while I see to this business,"

and he turned to the clerk, who had followed him. "Give me the papers,

and while I sign them thank that lad. He has done you a good turn

to-day."

The clerk thanked Bertie cordially, and at length Mr. Murray stood up,

thrust the papers into the bag, and with a curious glance, which seemed

to say plainly, "I'll see you later on about this," dismissed the man by

a wave of his hand, then he turned to Bertie, and caught him glancing at

the clock with much uneasiness.

"Now then, boy, you have done me a very great service to-day; what can I

do for you in return?"

Bertie flushed, hung his head, and then looked up resolutely. "If you

would be so kind as to pay the cabman," he stammered. "I forgot when I

engaged him that I had spent nearly all my pocket-money, and it takes

three days to get any from the savings' bank, and I--I couldn't ask

Uncle Gregory."

"Of course not; besides, the cab came here on _my_ business: it's _my_

duty to pay him, else I would not do it. Here, run out and give him

this," and Mr. Murray handed him a sovereign; "then come back to me."

"Please, sir, will you excuse me?" Bertie said earnestly. "I am so

afraid to be late."

"It can't be helped this time, Bertie. You must have something to eat,

and I'm going into the City presently, and will call and explain matters

to your uncle; but you must go in first and tell your own story, because

I don't want to deprive you of his praise when he hears what a shrewd,

honest boy you've been. Come on, and have luncheon with me, and tell me

why you said you preferred returning to the office to going for a week's

cruise in my yacht. I am really very anxious, Bertie Rivers, to know

what good reason you could have had for that very strange decision of

yours. Were you afraid of offending your Uncle Gregory?"

(_To be continued._)

ALL ABOUT SNAILS.

[Illustration]

German country children have a quaint little rhyme to ask the snail to

put out his horns. Translated, its meaning is like this:--

"Snail, snail, your four horns show,

Show me the four, and don't say 'No,'

Or I shall pitch you into the ditch,

And the crows that come to the ditch to sup,

Will gobble you up, gobble you up!"

In some parts of the south of England the children invite the snail out

still less politely. They chant over and over:--

"Snail, snail, come out of your hole,

Or else I'll beat you as black as a coal!"

This sounds very cruel, but they can't mean it, can they? Near Exeter

the country children have a more fanciful rhyme:--

"Snail, snail, shove out your horns,

Father and mother are dead,

Brother and sister are in the back-yard,

Begging for barley-bread."

The snail's parents and relations are meant, not their own. This reminds

us of what the little brown Italian children say in Naples; they sing to

the snail to look out and show his horns, as the snail-mamma is laughing

at him because she has now a better little snail at home. In some parts

of the south of Ireland there is a prettier rhyme than any of these, and

it asks him to come out to see a great visitor:--

"Shell-a-muddy, shell-a-muddy,

Put out your horns,

For the king's daughter is coming to town,

In a red petticoat and a green gown!"

The children who sing these rhymes think that if only they sing them

often enough, the horns will be put out at last. They have picked up the

snail, and he has tucked himself into his shell. After awhile, when his

first fright has worn off, perhaps he puts out his head just to see

where he is, or to look if the big live thing that startled him has gone

away.

The four snails in the picture have come out for a walk by the light of

the moon; they like to go out on fine dry nights, because when the

weather is dry they have been all day hidden in some corner of a lane or

garden. On wet days in summer weather they go out at all hours, always

carrying their little shell-houses on their backs, and ready at a

moment's notice to tuck themselves in, horns and all. One notices the

two long horns most, but they have another pair of very small ones as

well. In winter they sleep all the time in some crevice of an old garden

wall, or in a little hole in the ground covered with moss and leaves.

We often hear of "fattening-up" geese and turkeys, but how funny it

sounds to talk of fattening up a snail. The Romans, long, long ago, kept

snails in special gardens and fattened them on meal and boiled wine, and

ate them at their feasts. There are still snail-gardens in many places

on the Continent, but they are not fed on boiled wine now. In England,

as late as James the First's time, they were made into a favourite dish

with sauce and spices. The Italian peasants think large brown snails a

great treat; and the gipsies in many places make dinners and suppers of

the common little "shell-a-muddies." A larger kind are sold still at

Covent Garden Market, London, to be taken as a cure by people who are

ill.

LITTLE MARGARET'S KITCHEN, AND WHAT SHE DID IN IT.--X.

_By_ PHILLIS BROWNE, _Author of "A Year's Cookery," "What Girls can Do,"

&c._

"Apple fritters to-day," said Margaret.

"Yes, apple fritters to-day," replied Mary. "Won't it be delightful,

miss?"

"Let me see," said Mrs. Herbert, coming into the room at the moment, "we

are going to make something special to-day. Whatever is it?"

"Apple fritters!" said both the children in one breath.

"Oh yes, to be sure! It is apple fritters. You would not like to broil a

mutton chop instead, would you, Margaret?"

"Certainly not, mother!"

"Then we must take broiling for our next lesson. It will be all the

better, for I see cook has put the apples and the materials for the

batter ready for us. So let us set to work."

"But, mother, what do you think?" said Margaret, as she came up to the

table and looked round, "cook has made the batter for us; and we wanted

to make it ourselves. Is it not a pity?"

"Cook has partly made it, dear, because I told her to do so. Batter is

best when mixed some time before it is wanted. The whites of eggs,

however, are not put in until a few minutes before the batter is used;

so that part of making the batter has been left for you."

"It does not signify very much," said Mary; "we learnt how to make

batter when we made pancakes."

"This batter is not made in the same way, though, as pancake-batter,"

said Mrs. Herbert. "This is frying-batter, and it is mixed differently.

I will tell you how to mix it, and you must try to remember."

"We will write it down," said Margaret. "I have written down all the

recipes you have given us, so far, in a copy-book, and I am going to

keep them as long as I live."

"A very good plan. Listen then. Put a quarter of a pound of flour, with

a pinch of salt, into a bowl, pour in two table-spoonfuls of salad-oil,

stir a little of the flour with this, and add a gill (which is a quarter

of a pint, you know) of tepid water. Beat the batter till it is quite

smooth and no lumps remain. Thus much cook has done for us."

"Tepid water is water that is not hot enough to burn, is it not, ma'am?"

said Mary, inquiringly.

"That is not at all a safe rule to lay down. I should say, tepid water

is made by mixing two parts of cold with one part boiling water."

"Shall I strain off and beat the whites of the eggs, mother?" said

Margaret; "I can do that, you know."

"Yes, dear. You will need the whites of two eggs, and they must be

beaten till very stiff. When they are ready you mix them lightly into

the batter. Meantime Mary can peel the apples. Peel the skin off very

thinly, Mary, and stamp out the core with the little instrument called

the apple-corer. You see, it does the business very quickly. If we had

no apple-corer, we should either have to scoop out the core with the

point of a knife, when we should be in danger of cutting our fingers, or

we should have to take it from the slices separately. These apples must

be cut in slices across the core, you understand, before we can make the

fritters."

"How thick must the slices be, please, ma'am?" said Mary.

"Not thick at all. They must be as thin as you can cut them to keep them

whole. You will do very well if you can cut them all evenly, thin as a

shilling. Do you see that we wish to cook the apple inside, as well as

the batter outside it, and the thinner it is the more quickly it will

cook?"

Very busily Mary worked, but Margaret had beaten her egg-whites, and

stirred them in, long before she had finished.

"May I help Mary, mother?" then said Margaret, who did not enjoy

waiting.

"Yes, dear; you can prepare one apple, if you like. Before doing so,

however, put the fat on the fire. It was strained into a fresh saucepan

to be ready for us. It will take a little time to boil; but we must use

it the moment it boils. Remember that every minute, I might say every

second, that fat remains on the fire after it boils, and without being

used, it is spoiling."

"You will have to be quick, mother, if you are going to use the fat as

soon as it boils;" said Margaret after a minute or two. "It is boiling

already; see, it is bubbling all over. What shall I do? Shall I take it

off the fire?"

"It does not boil yet, dear; wait till it boils."

"But, mother, look. It is bubbling fast. Oh, no, it is not; it is

quieting down. How very strange! and I had not lifted it from the fire."

"This is exactly what I wanted you to find out. Water, when it boils,

bubbles and spirts; fat is still when it boils. If you watch this fat,

it will become quite still."

"How shall we know, then, when it boils?"

"By watching it carefully. When you see a thin blue fume rising from it,

it is hot enough. That is the sign. If you do not look closely it may

escape your notice, for it is only a thin fume you want, not a thick

smoke. If we were to let the fat remain till it smoked it would be

spoilt."

"Oh dear, how careful we have to be!" said Margaret.

"The slices of apple are quite ready, ma'am," said Mary.

"And the batter is quite ready," said Margaret.

"I see too, that cook has put a dish with kitchen paper on it for us to

put the fritters on as they are fried. And there is the fume. Do you see

it, children?"

"No, I see nothing," said Margaret.

"And I see nothing," said Mary.

"Look closely. Hold this piece of black paper behind, that will help

you. Be quick, we must not let the fat burn."

"Oh yes, I think I see something," said Margaret, who seemed rather

bewildered. "But I thought----"

"Think and work together, dear; we have no time to lose. Take a slice of

apple on a skewer, dip it in the batter, and when it is completely

covered, lift it up and drop it in the fat. Now do the same to another,

and another. You can fry two or three at once if only you are careful

that the fritters do not touch. As the batter blows out and forms

fritters, turn them over that they may be equally coloured on both

sides. They must be very pale brown, or rather fawn-coloured; on no

account let them get very brown."

"How shall we get them out?" said Margaret.

"Lift them by the skewer, and put them straight away on the paper to

drain. You should put everything on kitchen paper after frying before

you dish it; do not let things lie one on top of another, or they will

be spoilt."

"There, all the first ones are out," said Mary. "Shall we put some more

slices of apple in?"

"Wait a moment. You see there are two or three little specks of batter

which have got away all by themselves in the fat. We must take them out

at once with the skimmer, or they will burn and spoil the colour of our

fat. Also we must let the fat get hot again, watching for the fume

between each relay, because the cold batter and the cold apple will make

our fat a little cool. It will heat in a moment or two, but we must have

it properly hot, or the fritters will be greasy."

"I should have thought they would have been greasy with being put into

such a quantity of fat," said Margaret.

"No fear of that, if only the fat is hot enough. If the fat is not hot,

they will be most unpleasant; but if the fat is hot the heat will cook

the outside so quickly that the grease cannot get in, while that which

is on the surface will dry instantly."

"How quickly the fritters are cooked!" said Mary. "I never saw anything

like it."

"I thing frying fritters is even more interesting than frying pancakes,"

said Margaret.

"How pretty the fritters look, and how crisp they feel when we take them

out!" said Mary.

"They will not remain crisp very long, though, not more than five

minutes," said Mrs. Herbert. "We must send them in to grandmamma as

quickly as possible, if we wish her to have them in perfection. That is

why we make so much haste in frying, for fritters have lost their

excellence when they have lost their crispness."

"I suppose when we have dried them on the kitchen paper we had better

dish them and put them in the oven to keep hot, ma'am."

"No, put them in the screen; they will keep crisper than in the oven. We

shall not need to put them anywhere for more than a minute, however, for

they are just done. Dish them in a circle, sift a little white sugar on,

and they are ready."

"I have enjoyed making apple fritters very much," said Margaret.

"That is well. The best of it is that when you have learnt to make apple

fritters you can make fritters of any kind of fruit, for all the fruit

fritters are made in the same way. Some fruits are dipped in sugar

before being put in the batter, and it needs practice to keep the batter

over them. Sometimes fruit is soaked in syrup. Then it must be dried

before being dipped in the batter."

"I suppose it would not do to fry meat in batter, would it?" said Mary.

"Certainly it would. You can try it, if you like, one day."

"I should like, very much."

"Very well. Never do anything of this sort unless I am with you though,

dear, for fear you should burn yourself. Hot water is very hot, and a

little spilt on your hand would pain you very much, but hot fat would

pain you much more, and when it is used, a little carelessness might end

in a serious accident. Therefore I think small cooks like you ought not

to practise frying unless an older person is present to see that

everything is safe."

Cook passed through the kitchen as this was said, and the remark

evidently met with her approval.

(_To be continued._)

WHAT THE MAGIC WORDS MEANT.

A FAIRY STORY.

"It wasn't here last night? and how did it get here? and who nailed it

up? and what does it mean?" said Lilla.

[Illustration: "THERE WERE SEVERAL WORDS UPON THE BOARD."]

"I didn't nail it up," answered a Magpie, who hopped about from morning

till night in Lilla's garden, and never left off chattering.

"Of course not," returned Lilla; "I did not suppose that you did. But I

should like to understand the meaning of it."

And she gazed up at a great white board that had been fastened to the

garden wall. There were several words upon the board, and Lilla softly

repeated them.

"Air, all, and, and, earth, go, if, know, me, of, sea, so, through,

will, you, you."

"What nonsense! No sense in it at all," said Lilla; "yet they are

arranged alphabetically, air, all, two _and's_, and two _you's_ to

finish with."

"Oh, don't begin to calculate the words, or do it quicker," said the

Magpie impatiently. "Four fours sixteen. There are just sixteen of them:

that is multiplication."

"But not four of each sort," replied Lilla; "only one of most of them. I

wish I knew the exact meaning of it all. The only bit of sense I can

make out is 'Through will you,' but then there are two _you's_."

"That is one _you_ for you, and one _you_ for me," answered the Magpie.

"What you have got to do is to put all the words into a box, and shake

them well up, and we'll go through together."

"Oh!--where?--why--?" exclaimed Lilla, as her foot struck against a

silver box with the lid open; and on the ground lay a heap of cards with

the words she had read printed upon them. She looked up at the board.

There were no longer any words there, so of course they had fallen down.

"Pick them up, and put them in,

And you will then the game begin,"

said the Magpie, who thought he was wonderfully clever as he said this

to Lilla.

"Is it like making words from letters?" asked Lilla.

"Not at all. There you have to think and find out. Here you have nothing

to do but to shake, and when you have shaken long enough, the result

will come."

"How shall I know how many times to shake?"

"You won't know," returned the Magpie; "no one will know but the box

itself, and the box can tell to a quarter of a shake the right time.

Now--through!"

"Through what?"

"Through the board, of course," replied the Magpie. "What else is it

meant for?"

"But the thick wall is behind the board, and then the houses! This is

not country; it is the town."

"Pooh!" said the Magpie. "Have I learned human speech for nothing?

Now----"

And he flew at the board, giving it a gentle peck; and as he did so the

board split in two, and the crack widened, until it made an opening

large enough for Lilla, with the Magpie on her shoulder, to pass

through.

II.

Where?

Ah! that cannot be told until one has heard about the little boy who

lived far away in a country that Lilla had never heard of, for she knew

nothing about geography. She only knew about the town in which she

lived, and that there was a long street in it, and a great cathedral,

where she heard music issuing forth as she stood outside it; but she had

never been inside, nor had she ever been in any of the grand toy-shops

in the street. She had stood gazing in at the windows, and wishing for

the dolls, and the dolls'-houses, and the boxes of lambs, and the

work-baskets with silver thimbles in them; but there was no one to give

her any of these fine things. She lived with an old woman, who was

always scolding her, and who was especially angry if she tore her frock

or soiled her paletot.

[Illustration: "HE HAD ALSO A GOOD OLD GRANDFATHER."]

Now, with Rollo, the little boy, it was quite different; he had a mother

who was very kind to him, and gave him as many playthings as he wanted.

He had also a good old grandfather and a little sister who used to pull

his long curls and kiss his rosy cheeks. And Rollo was very happy.

But one day these three died, and Rollo was left alone. Of course Rollo

sat down and cried very bitterly: there was nothing else for him to do,

as he was but a small boy then. He cried for a long time, and then the

sun looked in upon him, and pitied him, and also dried the tears upon

his cheeks. Then the sea rolled up on to the shore, and sang "Lullaby,

lullaby," so sweetly, that Rollo fell fast asleep. And when he was

asleep, the Wind came, and took him in his arms, and carried him away

over the hills and valleys, and the great shining lakes and rivers,

away, away.

And when Rollo awoke from his sleep, he found himself in a beautiful

country, where fruit was ever to be found upon the trees, and the

flowers were always in bloom. The sun, the wind, the earth, and the sea

had said, "He shall be our child."

So Rollo was well taken care of, and nothing harmed him.

And it was in this very same beautiful country to which Rollo had been

carried by the Wind that Lilla suddenly found herself when she stepped

through the board with the Magpie on her shoulder.

III.

"It isn't the town, you see," said the Magpie; "there's not a house

near, and there's nothing but country, country everywhere."

"Oh, it's lovely!" said Lilla, clasping her hands; and then suddenly

remembering the silver box, she said--

"Shall I shake it?"

The Magpie nodded, and repeated these words--

"Ay, shake away; ay, shake away;

You p'r'aps must shake for many a day,

Before the end comes to our play.

But shake away, 'twill make us gay,

And help to cheer us on our way."

"The box?" exclaimed Lilla.

"No, what's in it. It's a magic spell, and when you can spell it out the

spell will be accomplished." As "accomplished" was a long word for the

Magpie to say, he said it twice or thrice, whilst Lilla kept shaking the

box, for she was very impatient to know what the end would be.

The Magpie fluttered his wings, and put his head on one side,

muttering--

"Not yet, not yet."

IV.

There came a burst of low sweet music, as if the south wind were

murmuring through the strings of many Aeolian harps. And chiming in with

the music came the far-off roar of the ocean. Then a flood of sunshine

fell over the earth, and the roses burst into bloom, so did the

eglantine, that had been hiding away till the sun gave the signal.

"Rollo passes by," said the Magpie.

"Rollo?"

"The child beloved by earth and sea and wind," said the Magpie. "Give

the box a shake, and look up."

Lilla did as she was desired.

"I only see a purple cloud," she said. "Does Rollo come from the

clouds?"

"Rollo lives here, so do not fear,

The Multiphobus his course can steer,"

answered the Magpie, looking straight at Lilla.

[Illustration: "LILLA ... PERCEIVED ... AN EXTRAORDINARY ANIMAL."]

"Multi----" and here Lilla stopped. She had never heard the word before.

"The Multiphobus," said the Magpie; and he spelt it over for her.

"Yes, the Multiphobus. What is a Multiphobus?"

"A creature that can do many things. He can live on the earth or in the

sea or in the air. He can run, swim, or fly, just as Rollo wishes. Rollo

is riding on the Multiphobus now. If you look up into the air you will

see him."

Lilla looked up, and perceived that what she had taken for a great

purple cloud sailing through the sky was in reality an extraordinary

animal, partly like a panther, partly like a hippopotamus, partly like a

bat and an eagle, for it had wings, claws, and feathers. And seated on

its breast, with one arm round its neck, and nestling close to it, was a

boy with a deerskin bound round him, and a crown of gay feathers on his

head.

Though the Multiphobus had an ugly face, yet he was evidently amiable,

and he and Rollo appeared to be talking together.

The Magpie nodded approvingly, but Lilla felt a little alarmed at so

enormous and nondescript an animal; and she trembled so much that the

box shook, and the words rattled violently inside.

"They want to get out," she said; "shall I open the lid?"

"Certainly not," replied the Magpie; "they will come out of themselves

when it is time. Stand still, and watch the Multiphobus descending."

It was easy to say "stand still," but not so easy for Lilla to do so;

she shook and shivered, and could only keep herself steady by supporting

herself against the trunk of a tall pine-tree.

Suddenly the Multiphobus ceased to work his wings, but he stretched them

out to their full extent, and then dropped quietly to the ground. When

he touched the earth, his wings fell off, and he looked like an ordinary

quadruped.

"He has only to say 'Wings,' and they come to him at once," explained

the Magpie.

But Lilla scarcely heard him; she was in a greater fright than ever. Not

only did the Multiphobus look more huge, but at that moment a

sharp-nosed Wolf appeared in sight, and Lilla's box rattled so loudly

that she was afraid he would hear it, and look round at her.

[Illustration: "ROLLO ... ADVANCED TO MEET HIM."]

She could not keep it still.

"No matter, no matter,

If it does make a clatter,"

said the Magpie.

"Will the Wolf hurt Rollo?" asked Lilla.

But the Magpie only whistled.

V.

And the Wolf, who walked slowly along, drew nearer and nearer to Rollo.

And Rollo, having taken off his feather crown, advanced to meet him.

"What tidings, friend Wolf?" said Rollo; "what have you come to tell

us?"

"There are strangers in the land," answered the Wolf, "and I come to

warn you."

The Multiphobus sprang up with a growl, and Lilla almost shrieked, while

the box rattled and rattled till it nearly jumped out of her hand.

"It will go, it will go!" said she.

"Hold it fast!" whispered the Magpie; "hold it fast!

"'On it will depend

What may be the end.

Come with me to the tree,

And then we shall see.'"

"To the tree where Rollo and the Multiphobus are standing?" asked Lilla.

"Where else?" asked the Magpie.

Lilla became nervous, and spoke in disjointed sentences.

"Oh no, no, no! I cannot go. I quake, I shake; I will not take a single

step. The box will break. Oh, how I quake!"

But the Magpie perched on her shoulder again, saying, "Do not be

foolish. Rollo will not let them hurt us;" and he gave Lilla a gentle

peck, which made her start forward, and when once she had made a move

she found that she could not stop herself: her feet carried her along

until she paused in front of Rollo.

And as she paused the lid of the box flew open, and the words jumped

out, and arranged themselves on the ground in the following order.

"Earth, air, and sea

All know of me,

And so will you

If you go through."

"Why, it's quite easy to read!" exclaimed Lilla in surprise. "I wonder I

never thought of it all this time."

"And it's just as I told you: four four's sixteen, four in each line and

four lines. However you count it, you will find it all fours," said the

Magpie.

"And it's about me," said Rollo, "for earth, air, and sea all know of

me; and brought me here and gave me the Multiphobus. And it's about you

also, for you have come through the board to come and see me. The

Multiphobus was talking about it when we were flying through the air."

"Was he?" said Lilla; "and he wasn't angry?"

"Angry! No, he is very glad for me to have a playfellow, for I am rather

lonely sometimes. And now we can play in the woods all day, and gather

strawberries and cherries and plums; and there's a little stove in one

of the caves, and I dare say you can make cakes?"

"Of course I can," answered Lilla, "and tea and coffee."

"Ah! that will be nice. And I will be king and you shall be queen, and

we will have a merry time, and the Multiphobus will carry us wherever we

want to go."

"I am afraid of him," returned Lilla.

"Oh, you need not be. I am quite sure you'll give a paw to Lilla; won't

you, Multiphobus?"

"I will give two," said the Multiphobus, standing on his hind legs and

stretching out his fore paws to Lilla.

She shook them, and felt at ease with him at once.

The Magpie fluttered about.

"I am not going home by myself," said he. "I shall stay here if Lilla

does."

"That you shall," replied Rollo; "we will all live in this beautiful

land together."

[Illustration: "THE WIND HAD LULLED THEM TO SLEEP."]

Ah! what a beautiful land it was! The two children wandered through it

hand in hand, and revelled in all its glories--now underneath the

stately forest trees, or breaking through the tangled brushwood all

radiant with green and gold, and crimson leaves and lovely flowers, or

now sitting on the river-bank listening to the stories the river told

them of the lands through which it had passed; whilst the Wind sang so

many wonderful songs that Lilla begged to hear them over again.

And after the Wind had lulled them to sleep among the soft clover and

wild thyme, the moon and stars peeped out and sent them beautiful

dreams, whilst two nightingales sat among the roses and sang "Lullaby,

lullaby" as sweetly as the southern wind.

So that whether waking or sleeping the children were happy.

Sometimes Lilla would say--

"Ah! if it had not been for the words on the board, I should still have

been living with the cross old woman in the town with the long street

and the cathedral. And she would have gone on scolding me for ever and

ever; and whatever should I have done, I wonder."

"You may thank me," said the Magpie, "for having brought you away;

that's very certain."

"You may thank me also," said the Multiphobus, "and I am sure you ought

to do so, for it was I who nailed up the board with the magic words upon

the garden wall."

And of course, as I need not tell you, Lilla did thank them.

JULIA GODDARD.

A YOUNG ROMAN'S SACRIFICE.

A TRUE STORY.

Once upon a time, many hundred years ago, when Rome was mistress of the

world, and the Romans were braver and stronger than any one else, there

lived a boy of thirteen whose name is still remembered. Lucius Valerius

was fond of his lessons, but most of all did he love poetry; so,

although he was only thirteen years old, he made up his mind that he

would try to win the gold medal and ivory lyre which were given every

five years to the boy who should write the best poem.

Lucius not only tried, but he succeeded, and one day, before all the

school and a number of visitors, the prizes were presented to him. Now

besides the medal and lyre which every one who gained them valued very

much, there was something else which they thought far grander. A statue

of the prize-winner was placed in the school and crowned with laurel.

You may imagine how the boy's heart beat with joy as he saw the judge

step forward to crown his statue, but just at that moment Lucius caught

sight of a young man who had also tried for the prize, and who looked

most downcast and miserable.

Lucius sprang forward, seized the laurel crown, and put it on the head

of the poor fellow who had been unsuccessful.

"You are more deserving of it than I am," he said; "I obtained it more

on account of my youth than my merit, and rather as an encouragement

than as a reward."