with a queer look, "do you?"
"Father's name is Richard Addiscombe," said Dorothy doubtfully.
"Well, the best thing you can do now is to come home with me and get
some breakfast," he said. "It is no use going to the Park, for I have
just been to the station, and Miss Addiscombe was there, with all her
luggage, going off to the Continent."
Poor Dorothy's heart sank like lead.
"Oh, dear!" she said, "then it's been no use. Poor father!" and her eyes
filled with tears.
The gentleman did not speak, and in a few minutes they drove in at the
gates of a beautiful country house, and he lifted her down and took her
in with him, calling out "Elizabeth!"
A tall girl, about eighteen, came running to him, and after whispering
to her for a minute, he left Dorothy in her charge, and went into the
room where his wife was sitting.
"I thought you had gone to town?" she said.
[Sidenote: Mr. Lawrence's Mistake]
"Providentially, no," he said, so gravely that she looked surprised. "Do
you remember Addiscombe Graham, dear?"
"Has anything happened to him?" said Mrs. Lawrence. "I have just been
reading about him in the paper; all his life-saving appliances have had
gold medals at the exhibition. What is it, Edward? Of course, I know you
are a friend of his."
"A Judas sort of friend," said Mr. Lawrence. "Do you know what I've
done? I've nearly landed him in the Bankruptcy Court. Pemberton told me
a few weeks ago he had promised to give him some spare cash that would
be loose at the end of the year, and I persuaded him to put it in
something else. I said, 'Graham doesn't want it, he's simply _coining_
over his inventions,' and I thought it too. Now it appears he was
_counting_ on that money to pull him through the expenses."
The tall girl took Dorothy upstairs to a beautiful bathroom, got her
warm water, and asked if she would like a maid to do her hair.
After a little while she came for her again and took her into a very
pretty room, where there was a dainty little table laid for breakfast.
"When you have finished," she said, "just lie on the sofa and rest. I am
sorry I can't stay with you, but I must go and feed the peacocks."
[Illustration: HER HOSTESS HAD BEEN FEEDING THE PEACOCKS.]
Dorothy took a little toast and tea, but she did not feel so very hungry
after all, and for a time was quite glad to lie down on the couch. Once
or twice she got up and looked out of the window. Her girl hostess was
moving across the lawn. She had evidently been feeding the peacocks,
and was now gathering flowers. How pleasant all this wealth and comfort
seemed to Dorothy! And then, by comparison, _she_ was feeling so
miserable!
Everything was quite quiet in the house save for the telephone bell,
which kept sounding in the hall. Then she heard Mr. Lawrence calling
out: "Are you _there_? Look sharp! Yes, to-day. Money down! Do you
understand?" Then he would ring off and call up some one else. Last of
all his voice changed from a business tone to a very friendly one. "Are
you there? What cheer, old chap? _That's_ all right! I'll see you
through. Two o'clock, Holborn Restaurant."
Dorothy could not hear what was said on the other side. How surprised
she would have been if she had known the last conversation was with her
own father!
Then a very kind-looking lady came in and kissed her. "The motor is
round," she said. "I'm so glad to have seen you, dear. We all admire
your father very much."
Dorothy felt bewildered but followed her out, and there was a lovely
motor, and her friend in it!
"You won't faint by the way this time," he said, "eh? Now, if you can
keep your own counsel, little lady, you may hear some good news
to-night."
They were tearing along the level road already, and almost in a flash,
it seemed to Dorothy, they were passing the church of her own village.
"Oh, please let me get out!" she said to Mr. Lawrence in an agony. "If
mother heard the motor she might think it was Miss Addiscombe, and be so
disappointed. You have been kind, very, very kind, but I can't help
thinking about father."
He let her out, and waving his hand, was soon off and out of sight.
Dorothy walked slowly and sadly home. It seemed as if she had been away
for _days_, and she was half afraid to go in, but to her surprise
nothing seemed to have happened at all. Only Dick came rushing out, and,
to her surprise, kissed her.
[Sidenote: A Heroine]
"I say, Dollie!" he began, "where _have_ you been? You gave me an awful
fright. Don't tell any one I called you a brute."
"Is mother frightened?" said Dollie. "I--I meant to help, but I've done
nothing."
"How could you help?" said Dick, surprised. "Mother stayed in bed; she
is only getting up now."
A boy came up with a telegram. Dick took it and after holding it a
moment tore it open.
"Oh, Dick!" expostulated Dorothy, "opening mother's telegram!"
But Dick threw his cap high up in the air, and shouted "_Jubilate!_"
Then he rushed up the stairs, Dorothy timidly following.
This was the wire:
"_See daylight. Meeting Lawrence at Holborn Restaurant._--FATHER."
"Don't shut Dorothy out," said Mrs. Graham, holding the yellow paper,
and with tears of joy standing in her eyes. "Why, my little girl, how
pale you are! I wish I had not told you. You need never have known. Mr.
Lawrence is just the man."
"Oh, mother!" said Dorothy, springing into her arms, and beginning to
laugh and cry at once, yet happier than she had ever been in her life
before. "But if you hadn't told me it couldn't have happened."
When Mr. Lawrence and father came down together that evening and the
whole story was told, Dorothy, to her surprise, found when thinking
least about herself she had suddenly become a heroine, even in the eyes
of Dick.
[Sidenote: A very unusual hunting episode, that nearly ended in a
tragedy.]
A Strange Moose Hunt
BY
HENRY WILLIAM DAWSON
Some years ago, while living in Canada, in a village situated on the
bank of a large river, I was a spectator of a moose hunt of a most novel
and exciting character.
That you may the better understand what I am going to relate I will
first introduce you to our village Nimrod.
As his real name is no concern of ours I will here give him his popular
nickname of "Ramrod," a name by which he was well known not only in our
village but for a considerable distance around. It was conferred upon
him, I suppose, because he walked so upright and stiff, and also perhaps
because he at one time had worn the Queen's uniform.
A queer old stick was Ramrod. He knew a little of most mechanical things
and was for ever tinkering at something or other, useful or otherwise as
the case might be. He could also "doctor" a sick cow or dog, and was
even known to have successfully set the broken leg of an old and
combative rooster.
His mechanical turn of mind was continually leading him to the
construction of the most wonderful arrangements of wood and iron ever
seen. In fact, his operations in this direction were only held in check
by one want, but that a great one, namely, the want of a sufficiency of
cash.
[Sidenote: A Mystery]
Now for the greater part of one spring Ramrod had shut himself up in his
woodshed, and there he was heard busy with hammer and saw all day long,
except when called forth by the tinkle of the little bell attached to
the door of his shop, where almost anything might have been purchased.
Many were the guesses as to "what can Ramrod be up to now?" And often
did we boys try to catch a glimpse of what was going on within that
mysterious shed; but in vain. Ramrod seemed to be always on the alert,
and the instant an intrusive boy's head appeared above the first dusty
pane of the small window by which the shed was lighted, it was greeted
with a fierce and harsh gar-r-ar-r-r, often accompanied with a dash of
cold water, which the old fellow always seemed to have in readiness.
But one day as a lot of youngsters were down on the river bank preparing
for an early swim they were startled by the advent of another lad, who,
with scared looks and awful voice, declared that Ramrod was "making his
own coffin," and that he, the boy, had seen it with his own eyes.
The rumour spread, and many were the visits paid that afternoon to the
little shop by the river.
But Ramrod kept his secret well, and baffled curiosity had to return as
wise as it came. Ramrod was determined that his work should not be
criticised until completed. He had evidently heard the saying that
"women, children, and fools should not be allowed to see a thing until
finished."
At last one day the great work _was_ completed, and turned out to be,
not a coffin, but what the happy builder called a boat. But to call it a
boat was a misnomer, for the thing was to be propelled not by oars but
by a paddle.
And certainly through all the ages since the construction of the ark of
Noah was never such a boat as this. It would be impossible to convey in
words a true idea of what the craft was like. Perhaps to take an
ordinary boat, give it a square stern, a flat bottom without a keel, and
straight sides tapering to a point at the bow, would give an approximate
idea of what the thing actually was, and also how difficult to navigate.
The winter had been unusually uneventful. Nothing had happened to break
the cold monotony of our village life, so that when one day an excited
and panting individual rushed up the river bank screaming out "A moose,
a moose in the river!" it was only natural that we should all be thrown
into a state of ferment.
Some who possessed firearms rushed off to get them out, while others ran
along the bank seeking a boat.
As, however, the ice having only just "run," the boats and punts
ordinarily fringing the river were still all up in the various barns and
sheds where they had been stowed at the close of navigation, their
efforts were in vain, and they could only stand fuming and casting
longing eyes at the now retreating moose.
For of course the animal had turned as soon as he perceived the hubbub
which his appearance under such unusual circumstances had created.
Instead, therefore, of crossing the river, it now made for an island
which was about half a mile out in the stream.
It had a good distance to swim, however, before it could accomplish
that, and in the meantime preparations were being made a short way up
the river which promised serious trouble for Mr. Moose.
Of course, you may be sure that Ramrod had caught the excitement with
the rest of us, and was equally desirous of the capture of the moose.
But he was a modest man and would let others have a chance first.
After a little while, though, when it became evident that unless
something was done pretty soon the moose would escape, it was noticed
that he became graver, and that his face wore a puzzled look of
uncertainty.
[Sidenote: Ramrod's "Coffin"]
All at once, however, the doubt vanished, and Ramrod started off towards
his house as fast as his long stiff legs would carry him.
When he emerged he bore in one hand an ordinary rope halter, with a
noose at one end, just such a halter as was used by all the farmers for
securing their horses to their stalls. In his other hand was a paddle,
and with these harmless-looking implements he was about to start in
chase of the moose.
Quickly proceeding to the river bank, he drew out from beneath a clump
of bushes the "coffin," and, unheeding alike the warnings of the elders
and derisive shouts of the youngsters, elicited by the appearance of his
curious-looking craft, he knelt down in the stern and set out on his
perilous adventure.
But he had not gone far before it was seen that something was wrong.
The boat had a will of its own, and that will was evidently exerted in
direct opposition to the will of its owner.
It went, but how? No schoolboy ever drew a truer circle with a bit of
string and a slate-pencil than that cranky craft made on the placid
surface of the river each time Ramrod put a little extra strength into
his stroke.
At last, however, the gallant boatman managed to make headway, and,
aided by the current, he now rapidly approached the moose, which was
considerably distressed by the great length of its swim.
But the instant the animal became aware that it was being pursued, it
redoubled its efforts to gain the island, which was not very distant.
And this it would have succeeded in doing had it not been for the almost
herculean exertions of Ramrod, by which it was eventually headed up
stream again.
And now a stern chase up and down and across the river ensued. It really
did not last long, though it seemed hours to us who were watching from
the bank.
Just as Ramrod thought he had made sure of the moose this time, and
dropping his paddle would seize the halter to throw over the head of the
animal, the latter would make a sudden turn, and before the baffled
hunter could regain command of his boat, would be well on his way down
stream again.
All this time the crowd collected on the bank were greatly concerned
about Ramrod's safety.
They saw, what he did not, that the affair would end in his getting a
ducking at the very least. But worse than that was feared, as, once
overturned, the miserable conception of a boat would be beyond the power
of any one in the water to right it again. And, moreover, the water was
still intensely cold, and a very few minutes would have sufficed to give
the cramp to a much stronger man than Ramrod.
Perceiving all this, some of the more energetic had from the first
bestirred themselves in preparations for launching a boat.
But this occupied some time, for, as I have said, the boats usually to
be seen fringing the bank during the summer months had not yet made
their appearance. Oars also and tholepins had to be hunted up, and by
the time all this was accomplished the need of help out there on the
river was very urgent indeed.
Plenty of pluck had Ramrod, or he would have given up the chase when he
found himself becoming so exhausted, by the tremendous exertion
necessary to keep control of his cranky craft, that he had scarcely
sufficient strength left to follow the deer in its many dodges and
turnings.
But strong as the moose was, its time had come. Suddenly the animal
stopped, gave a scream that made the blood curdle in all our veins, and
would have sunk out of sight only that, with a last desperate effort,
Ramrod got up with it, and this time succeeded in throwing the halter
over its head and drawing the noose tight.
[Sidenote: An Upset]
Thoroughly exhausted as the moose appeared to be, this act of Ramrod's
roused it to make one more effort for life and freedom. Turning quickly
about and snorting furiously, it made for its assailant, and before
Ramrod could check it had capsized the boat and sent that worthy head
over heels into the water.
Presence of mind is a splendid quality, and Ramrod possessed it to the
full. Retaining his hold of the halter, he endeavoured to right the
boat, but soon perceiving the impossibility of so doing, he relinquished
the attempt, and being a good swimmer, boldly struck out for the island,
that being the nearest land.
Refreshed by his involuntary bath, and not yet feeling the effects of
the cold, Ramrod made no doubt but that he should easily accomplish the
task.
As for the moose, it was completely done up, and was now no more trouble
than a log of wood. The effort by which it had overturned the boat was
the last it made, and its captor was now quietly towing it ashore.
But cold water does not agree with all constitutions, especially if the
body has been fatigued and heated before its application.
Cramp seized upon poor Ramrod, and though he made a gallant and
desperate struggle to reach land with the aid of his arms alone, he felt
that only by a miracle could he do so.
Moment by moment he felt himself growing weaker and less able to
withstand the chill which was striking through to his very heart.
At last the supreme moment came. He could go no farther. Brave and
collected to the last, he raised his eyes to heaven as in thought he
commended his soul to his Maker.
At that instant the sound of oars struck his ear, and the hope it
brought him gave him sufficient strength to keep up until a friendly
hand grasped him under the arm.
With his last little bit of strength he raised his hand, still grasping
the halter, and smiled triumphantly; then he lost consciousness.
The "coffin" was brought ashore afterwards, but no one had the hardihood
to navigate it. Even towing it was a trial of temper, for it kept
swinging from side to side with a heavy jerking motion with every pull
at the oars.
Ramrod, I am glad to say, lived to have many a quiet paddle in his queer
boat whenever he went a-fishing; and this, it appears, was all he
intended it for when he built it.
Thus ended this famous moose hunt, but the talk of it lasted for many a
year; and whenever a pleasure-party were out on the river enjoying a
sail by moonlight, this was the one story that was never stale, and
mention of "Ramrod's coffin" would cause a smile to appear on the face
of even the most grave.
The moose, when brought ashore, proved to be quite young, though
full-grown, as its horns were not much more than "buds."
[Sidenote: Edith Harley was called upon to play a rather difficult part.
But her patience and her obedience to the call of duty brought their own
reward.]
A Girl's Patience
BY
C. J. BLAKE
"A letter from Rachel! Is it possible she can have relented at last?"
Dr. Harley looked across the breakfast-table at his wife as he spoke;
and the children, of all ages and sizes, who were busy with their bowls
of porridge, stopped the clatter of tongues and spoons to listen.
"Read it, dear," said Mrs. Harley, in her slow, gentle voice. "It must
be ten years since Rachel wrote that last dreadful letter. Surely she
must have learnt to forgive and forget by this time!"
"Send some of these children away, then. Maude and Jessie can stay; but
it is time the others were getting ready for lessons."
There was a hurried, scrambling finish of the simple breakfast; then a
little troop of boys and girls filed out of the rather shabby
dining-room, and Dr. and Mrs. Harley were alone with their elder
daughters.
"'MY DEAR BROTHER,'" began the doctor,--"'I am
growing an old woman now, and in spite of the good
reasons I had for ceasing to write, or to
communicate with you in any way, I do not feel
that I can keep up the estrangement from my own
flesh and blood any longer.
"'If you like to let bygones be bygones, I, on my
side, am quite willing to do the same. I am
writing, too, because I have heard a good deal, in
one way or another, about your large and expensive
family, and the difficulty you have in making both
ends meet. It has been more than hinted to me that
I ought to render, or at least offer, you some
assistance. I have thought perhaps the best thing
would be to take one of your girls for a six
months' visit; to stay longer, or, indeed, always,
if I should, after such a trial, continue to be
pleased with her.
"'I don't want a young child, but one old enough
to be companionable. Of course I would provide for
education, and everything, so long as she stayed
with me. It would surely be a relief to have even
one of such a number taken off your hands, and it
would be the girl's own fault if the relief were
not made permanent. If this should meet your
views, write at once, and fix a date for one of
your daughters to come to me. Your affectionate
sister,
"'RACHEL HARLEY.'"
"Oh, papa!" exclaimed Maude and Jessie in a breath, "how could we ever
leave you, and dear mamma too! We should be miserable away from home."
"From Aunt Rachel's letter, I should think she must be a dreadfully
stiff sort of person," added audacious Jessie. "Please don't say that we
shall have to go."
"Not so fast, my dear," returned her father. "Only one of you all can
go, and I do not think either you or Maude could possibly be spared. But
what does mamma say?"
"You know my wretched health, Henry," said Mrs. Harley. "I never could
do without Maude to look after the housekeeping; and Jessie saves both
school and governess for the younger ones. But then there is Edith. Why
should not Edith go?"
[Sidenote: Edith Harley]
"Why, indeed?" repeated the doctor. "Edith does nothing but mischief--at
least, so far as the account of her doings reaches my ears. She is quite
too big for Jessie to teach, and we cannot afford to send her to a good
school at present, which is the thing that ought to be done. It really
seems to me a providential opening for Edith."
"Poor Edie!" sighed the mother again. "It would be a hard life for her,
I am afraid."
"Oh, nonsense, Maria! You were always unjust to Rachel. You think,
because she took such deep offence, that there can be nothing good in
her. Surely I ought to know my own sister's character! Rachel would do
her duty by any inmate of her home--of that I am quite certain."
"Well, Henry, it would be a help in many ways. Edith is growing such a
great girl, nearly fifteen now, and if it would lighten your cares to
have her provided for, I ought not to resist. But at least it would be
well to let her know what you think of doing, and hear what she says."
"I don't know that what she says need affect the question much. The fact
is, Maria, something will have to be done. We are exceeding what we can
afford even now, and the children will be growing more expensive instead
of less so. For my own part, I can only feel glad of Rachel's offer. I
must go now; but you can tell Edith, if you like; and tell her, too, to
hold herself in readiness, for the sooner the matter is settled the
better."
Edith Harley, called indifferently by her brothers and sisters the
Middle One and the Odd One, was the third daughter and the fifth child
of this family of nine. She was a rather tall, awkward girl, who grew
out of her frocks, and tumbled her hair, and scandalised her elder
sisters, in their pretty prim young ladyhood, by playing with the boys
and clinging obstinately, in spite of her fifteen years, to her hoop and
skipping-rope. An unfortunate child was this chosen one, always getting
into scrapes, and being credited with more mischief than she ever really
did.
It was Edith who had caught the whooping-cough through playing with some
of the village children, and had brought it home, to be the plague of
all the nine for a whole winter and spring.
It was Edith who took Johnnie and Francie down to the pondside to play,
and let them both tumble in. True, she went bravely in herself and
rescued them, but that did not count for very much. They were terribly
wet, and if they had been drowned it would have been all her fault.
It was Edith who let Tom's chickens out for a run, and the cat came and
killed two of them; that was just before she forgot to shut the
paddock-gate, when the donkey got into mamma's flower-garden and spoilt
all the best plants.
So poor Edith went on from day to day, thankful if she could only lay
her head upon her pillow at night without being blamed for some fresh
escapade, yet thoroughly happy in the freedom of her country life, in
the enjoyment of long summer-day rambles, and endless games with the
little brothers, who thought her "the jolliest girl that ever was," and
followed her lead without scruple, sure that whatever mischief she might
get them into she would bravely shield them from the consequences.
A country doctor, with a not very lucrative practice, Dr. Harley had,
when Edith was about ten years old, sustained a severe pecuniary loss
which greatly reduced his income. It was then that the governess had to
be given up, and the twin boys who came next to Maude and Jessie were
sent to a cheaper school. These boys were leaving now, one to go to the
university, through the kindness of a distant relative, the other to
pass a few weeks with the London coach who would prepare him for a Civil
Service examination.
Jessie, a nice, clever girl, with a decided taste for music, could teach
the four younger ones very well--had done so, indeed, ever since Miss
Phipps left; but in this, as in everything, Edith was the family
problem. She could not, or would not, learn much from Jessie; she hated
the piano and needlework, and even professed not to care for books.
[Sidenote: "Would it help Papa?"]
Yet she astonished the entire family sometimes by knowing all sorts of
odd out-of-the-way facts; she could find an apt quotation from some
favourite poet for almost any occasion, and did a kind of queer
miscellaneous reading in "a hole-and-corner way," as her brother Tom
said, that almost drove the sister-governess to distraction.