"Well, I am unhappy, but not sorry. No, no; don't ask me, I cannot pray."



CHAPTER XLIII.

SUSAN.

Mrs. Willis came back at a very late hour from Sefton. The police were confident that they must soon discover both children, but no tidings had yet been heard of either of them. Mrs. Willis ordered her girls to bed, and went herself to kiss Hester and give her a special "good-night." She was struck by the peculiarly unhappy, and even hardened, expression on the poor child's face, and felt that she did not half understand her.

In the middle of the night Hester awoke from a troubled dream. She awoke with a sharp cry, so sharp and intense in its sound that had any girl been awake in the next room she must have heard it. She felt that she could no longer remain close to that little empty cot. She suddenly remembered that Susan Drummond would be alone to-night: what time so good as the present for having a long talk with Susan and getting her to clear Annie? She slipped out of bed, put on her dressing-gown, and softly opening the door, ran down the passage to Susan's room.

Susan was in bed, and fast asleep. Hester could see her face quite plainly in the moonlight, for Susan slept facing the window, and the blind was not drawn down.

Hester had some difficulty in awakening Miss Drummond, who, however, at last sat up in bed yawning prodigiously.

"What is the matter? Is that you, Hester Thornton? Have you got any news of little Nan? Has Annie come back?"

"No, they are both still away. Susy, I want to speak to you."

"Dear me! what for? must you speak in the middle of the night?"

"Yes, for I don't want any one else to know. Oh, Susan, please don't go to sleep."

"My dear, I won't, if I can help it. Do you mind throwing a little cold water over my face and head? There is a can by the bedside. I always keep one handy. Ah, thanks—now I am wide awake. I shall probably remain so for about two minutes. Can you get your say over in that time?"

"I wonder, Susan," said Hester, "if you have got any heart—but heart or not, I have just come here to-night to tell you that I have found you out. You are at the bottom of all this mischief about Annie Forest."

Susan had a most phlegmatic face, an utterly unemotional voice, and she now stared calmly at Hester and demanded to know what in the world she meant.

Hester felt her temper going, her self-control deserting her. Susan's apparent innocence and indifference drove her half frantic.

"Oh, you are mean," she said. "You pretend to be innocent, but you are the deepest and wickedest girl in the school. I tell you, Susan, I have found you out—you put that caricature of Mrs. Willis into Cecil's book; you changed Dora's theme. I don't know why you did it, nor how you did it, but you are the guilty person, and you have allowed the sin of it to remain on Annie's shoulders all this time. Oh, you are the very meanest girl I ever heard of!"

"Dear, dear!" said Susan, "I wish I had not asked you to throw cold water over my head and face, and allow myself to be made very wet and uncomfortable, just to be told I am the meanest girl you ever met. And pray what affair is this of yours? You certainly don't love Annie Forest."

"I don't, but I want justice to be done to her. Annie is very, very unhappy. Oh, Susy, won't you go and tell Mrs. Willis the truth?"

"Really, my dear Hester, I think you are a little mad. How long have you known all this about me, pray?"

"Oh, for some time; since—since the night the essay was changed."

"Ah, then, if what you state is true, you told Mrs. Willis a lie, for she distinctly asked you if you knew anything about the 'Muddy Stream,' and you said you didn't. I saw you—I remarked how very red you got when you plumped out that great lie! My dear, if I am the meanest and wickedest girl in the school, prove it—go, tell Mrs. Willis what you know. Now, if you will allow me, I will get back into the land of dreams."

Susan curled herself up once more in her bed, wrapped the bed-clothes tightly round her and was, to all appearance, oblivious of Hester's presence.



CHAPTER XLIV.

UNDER THE HEDGE.

It is one thing to talk of the delights of sleeping under a hedgerow, and another to realize them. A hayfield is a very charming place, but in the middle of the night, with the dew clinging to everything, it is apt to prove but a chilly bed; the most familiar objects put on strange and unreal forms, the most familiar sounds become loud and alarming. Annie slept for about an hour soundly; then she awoke, trembling with cold in every limb, startled, and almost terrified by the oppressive loneliness of the night, sure that the insect life which surrounded her, and which would keep up successions of chirps, and croaks, and buzzes, was something mysterious and terrifying. Annie was a brave child, but even brave little girls may be allowed to possess nerves under her present conditions, and when a spider ran across her face she started up with a scream of terror. At this moment she almost regretted the close and dirty lodgings which she might have obtained for a few pence at Oakley. The hay in the field which she had selected was partly cut and partly standing. The cut portion had been piled up into little cocks and hillocks, and these, with the night shadows round them, appeared to the frightened child to assume large and half-human proportions. She found she could not sleep any longer. She wrapped her shawl tightly round her, and, crouching into the hedgerow, waited for the dawn.

That watched-for dawn seemed to the tired child as if it would never come; but at last her solitary vigil came to an end, the cold grew greater, a little gentle breeze stirred the uncut grass, and up in the sky overhead the stars became fainter and the atmosphere clearer. Then came a little faint flush of pink, then a brighter light, and then all in a moment the birds burst into a perfect jubilee of song, the insects talked and chirped and buzzed in new tones, the hay-cocks became simply hay-cocks, the dew sparkled on the wet grass, the sun had risen, and the new day had begun.

Annie sat up and rubbed her tired eyes. With the sunshine and brightness her versatile spirits revived; she buckled on her courage like an armor, and almost laughed at the miseries of the past few hours. Once more she believed that success and victory would be hers, once more in her small way she was ready to do or die. She believed absolutely in the holiness of her mission. Love—love alone, simple and pure, was guiding her. She gave no thought to after-consequences, she gave no memory to past events: her object now was to rescue Nan, and she herself was nothing.

Annie had a fellow-feeling, a rare sympathy with every little child; but no child had ever come to take Nan's place with her. The child she had first begun to notice simply out of a naughty spirit of revenge, had twined herself round her heart, and Annie loved Nan all the more dearly because she had long ago repented of stealing her affections from Hester, and would gladly have restored her to her old place next to Hetty's heart. Her love for Nan, therefore, had the purity and greatness which all love that calls forth self-sacrifice must possess. Annie had denied herself, and kept away from Nan of late. Now, indeed, she was going to rescue her; but if she thought of herself at all, it was with the certainty that for this present act of disobedience Mrs. Willis would dismiss her from the school, and she would not see little Nan again.

Never mind that, if Nan herself was saved. Annie was disobedient, but on this occasion she was not unhappy; she had none of that remorse which troubled her so much after her wild picnic in the fairies' field. On the contrary, she had a strange sense of peace and even guidance; she had confessed this sin to Mrs. Willis, and, though she was suspected of far worse, her own innocence kept her heart untroubled. The verse which had occurred to her two mornings before still rang in her ears:

"A soul which has sinned and is pardoned again."

The impulsive, eager child was possessed just now of something which men call True Courage; it was founded on the knowledge that God would help her, and was accordingly calm and strengthening.

Annie rose from her damp bed, and looked around her for a little stream where she might wash her face and hands; suddenly she remembered that face and hands were dyed, and that she would do best to leave them alone. She smoothed out as best she could the ragged elf-locks which the gypsy maid had left on her curly head, and then covering her face with her hands, said simply and earnestly:

"Please, my Father in heaven, help me to find little Nan;" then she set off through the cornfields in the direction of the gypsies' encampment.



CHAPTER XLV.

TIGER.

It was still very, very early in the morning, and the gypsy folk, tired from their march on the preceding day, slept. There stood the conical, queer-shaped tents, four in number; at a little distance off grazed the donkeys and a couple of rough mules; at the door of the tents lay stretched out in profound repose two or three dogs.

Annie dreaded the barking of the dogs, although she guessed that if they set up a noise, and a gypsy wife or man put out their heads in consequence, they would only desire the gypsy child to lie down and keep quiet.

She stood still for a moment—she was very anxious to prowl around the place and examine the ground while the gypsies still slept, but the watchful dogs deterred her. She stood perfectly quiet behind the hedgerow, thinking hard. Should she trust to a charm she knew she possessed, and venture into the encampment? Annie had almost as great a fascination over dogs and cats as she had over children. As a little child going to visit with her mother at strange houses, the watch-dogs never barked at her; on the contrary, they yielded to the charm which seemed to come from her little fingers as she patted their great heads. Slowly their tails would move backward and forward as she patted them, and even the most ferocious would look at her with affection.

Annie wondered if the gypsy dogs would now allow her to approach without barking. She felt that the chances were in her favor; she was dressed in gypsy garments, there would be nothing strange in her appearance, and if she could get near one of the dogs she knew that she could exercise the magic of her touch.

Her object, then, was to approach one of the tents very, very quietly—so softly that even the dog's ears should not detect the light footfall. If she could approach close enough to put her hand on the dog's neck all would be well. She pulled off the gypsy maid's rough shoes, hid them in the grass where she could find them again, and came gingerly step by step, nearer and nearer the principal tent. At its entrance lay a ferocious-looking half-bred bull-dog. Annie possessed that necessary accompaniment to courage—great outward calm; the greater the danger, the more cool and self-possessed did she become. She was within a step or two of the tent when she trod accidentally on a small twig; it cracked, giving her foot a sharp pain, and very slight as the sound was, causing the bull-dog to awake. He raised his wicked face, saw the figure like his own people, and yet unlike, but a step or two away, and, uttering a low growl, sprang forward.

In the ordinary course of things this growl would have risen in volume and would have terminated in a volley of barking; but Annie was prepared: she went down on her knees, held out her arms, said, "Poor fellow!" in her own seductive voice, and the bull-dog fawned at her feet. He licked one of her hands while she patted him gently with the other.

"Come, poor fellow," she said then in a gentle tone, and Annie and the dog began to perambulate round the tents.

The other dogs raised sleepy eyes, but seeing Tiger and the girl together, took no notice whatever, except by a thwack or two of their stumpy tails. Annie was now looking not only at the tents, but for something else which Zillah, her nurse, had told her might be found near to many gypsy encampments. This was a small subterranean passage, which generally led into a long-disused underground Danish fort. Zillah had told her what uses the gypsies liked to make of these underground passages, and how they often chose those which had two entrances. She told her that in this way they eluded the police, and were enabled successfully to hide the goods which they stole. She had also described to her their great ingenuity in hiding the entrances to these underground retreats.

Annie's idea now was that little Nan was hidden in one of these vaults, and she determined first to make sure of its existence, and then to venture herself into this underground region in search of the lost child.

She had made a decided conquest in the person of Tiger, who followed her round and round the tents, and when the gypsies at last began to stir, and Annie crept into the hedgerow, the dog crouched by her side. Tiger was the favorite dog of the camp, and presently one of the men called to him; he rose unwillingly, looked back with longing eyes at Annie, and trotted off, to return in the space of about five minutes with a great hunch of broken bread in his mouth. This was his breakfast, and he meant to share it with his new friend. Annie was too hungry to be fastidious, and she also knew the necessity of keeping up her strength. She crept still farther under the hedge, and the dog and girl shared the broken bread between them.

Presently the tents were all astir; the gypsy children began to swarm about, the women lit fires in the open air, and the smell of very appetizing breakfasts filled the atmosphere. The men also lounged into view, standing lazily at the doors of their tents, and smoking great pipes of tobacco. Annie lay quiet. She could see from her hiding-place without being seen. Suddenly—and her eyes began to dilate, and she found her heart beating strangely—she laid her hand on Tiger, who was quivering all over.

"Stay with me, dear dog," she said.

There was a great commotion and excitement in the gypsy camp; the children screamed and ran into the tents, the women paused in their preparation for breakfast, the men took their short pipes out of their mouths; every dog, with the exception of Tiger, barked ferociously. Tiger and Annie alone were motionless.

The cause of all this uproar was a body of police, about six in number, who came boldly into the field, and demanded instantly to search the tents.

"We want a woman who calls herself Mother Rachel," they said. "She belongs to this encampment. We know her; let her come forward at once; we wish to question her."

The men stood about; the women came near; the children crept out of their tents, placing their fingers to their frightened lips, and staring at the men who represented those horrors to their unsophisticated minds called Law and Order.

"We must search the tents. We won't stir from the spot until we have had an interview with Mother Rachel," said the principal member of the police force.

The men answered respectfully that the gypsy mother was not yet up; but if the gentlemen would wait a moment she would soon come and speak to them.

The officers expressed their willingness to wait, and collected round the tents.

Just at this instant, under the hedgerow, Tiger raised his head. Annie's watchful eyes accompanied the dog's. He was gazing after a tiny gypsy maid who was skulking along the hedge, and who presently disappeared through a very small opening into the neighboring field.

Quick as thought Annie, holding Tiger's collar, darted after her. The little maid heard the footsteps; but seeing another gypsy girl, and their own dog, Tiger, she took no further notice, but ran openly and very swiftly across the field until she came to a broken wall. Here she tugged and tugged at some loose stones, managed to push one away, and then called down into the ground:

"Mother Rachel!"

"Come, Tiger," said Annie. She flew to a hedge not far off, and once more the dog and she hid themselves. The small girl was too excited to notice either their coming or going; she went on calling anxiously into the ground:

"Mother Rachel! Mother Rachel!"

Presently a black head and a pair of brawny shoulders appeared, and the tall woman whose face and figure Annie knew so well stepped up out of the ground, pushed back the stones into their place, and, taking the gypsy child into her arms, ran swiftly across the field in the direction of the tents.



CHAPTER XLVI.

FOR LOVE OF NAN.

Now was Annie's time. "Tiger," she said, for she had heard the men calling the dog's name, "I want to go right down into that hole in the ground, and you are to come with me. Don't let us lose a moment, good dog."

The dog wagged his tail, capered about in front of Annie, and then with a wonderful shrewdness ran before her to the broken wall, where he stood with his head bent downward and his eyes fixed on the ground.

Annie pulled and tugged at the loose stones; they were so heavy and cunningly arranged that she wondered how the little maid, who was smaller than herself, had managed to remove them. She saw quickly, however, that they were arranged with a certain leverage, and that the largest stone, that which formed the real entrance to the underground passage, was balanced in its place in such a fashion that when she leaned on a certain portion of it, it moved aside, and allowed plenty of room for her to go down into the earth.

Very dark and dismal and uninviting did the rude steps, which led nobody knew where, appear. For one moment Annie hesitated; but the thought of Nan hidden somewhere in this awful wretchedness nerved her courage.

"Go first, Tiger, please," she said, and the dog scampered down, sniffing the earth as he went. Annie followed him, but she had scarcely got her head below the level of the ground before she found herself in total and absolute darkness; she had unwittingly touched the heavy stone, which had swung back into its place. She heard Tiger sniffing below, and, calling him to keep by her side, she went very carefully down and down and down, until at last she knew by the increase of air that she must have come to the end of the narrow entrance passage.

She was now able to stand upright, and raising her hand, she tried in vain to find a roof. The room where she stood, then, must be lofty. She went forward in the utter darkness very, very slowly; suddenly her head again came in contact with the roof; she made a few steps farther on, and then found that to proceed at all she must go on her hands and knees. She bent down and peered through the darkness.

"We'll go on, Tiger," she said, and, holding the dog's collar and clinging to him for protection, she crept along the narrow passage.

Suddenly she gave an exclamation of joy—at the other end of this gloomy passage was light—faint twilight surely, but still undoubted light, which came down from some chink in the outer world. Annie came to the end of the passage, and, standing upright, found herself suddenly in a room; a very small and miserable room certainly, but with the twilight shining through it, which revealed not only that it was a room, but a room which contained a heap of straw, a three-legged stool, and two or three cracked cups and saucers. Here, then, was Mother Rachel's lair, and here she must look for Nan.

The darkness had been so intense that even the faint twilight of this little chamber had dazzled Annie's eyes for a moment; the next, however, her vision became clear. She saw that the straw bed contained a bundle; she went near—out of the wrapped-up bundle of shawls appeared the head of a child. The child slept, and moaned in its slumbers.

Annie bent over it and said, "Thank God!" in a tone of rapture, and then, stooping down, she passionately kissed the lips of little Nan.

Nan's skin had been dyed with the walnut-juice, her pretty, soft hair had been cut short, her dainty clothes had been changed for the most ragged gipsy garments, but still she was undoubtedly Nan, the child whom Annie had come to save.

From her uneasy slumbers the poor little one awoke with a cry of terror. She could not recognize Annie's changed face, and clasped her hands before her eyes, and said piteously:

"Me want to go home—go 'way, naughty woman, me want my Annie."

"Little darling!" said Annie, in her sweetest tones. The changed face had not appealed to Nan, but the old voice went straight to her baby heart; she stopped crying and looked anxiously toward the entrance of the room.

"Tum in, Annie—me here, Annie—little Nan want 'oo."

Annie glanced around her in despair. Suddenly her quick eyes lighted on a jug of water; she flew to it, and washed and laved her face.

"Coming, darling," she said, as she tried to remove the hateful dye. She succeeded partly, and when she came back, to her great joy, the child recognized her.

"Now, little precious, we will get out of this as fast as we can," said Annie, and, clasping Nan tightly in her arms, she prepared to return by the way she had come. Then and there, for the first time, there flashed across her memory the horrible fact that the stone door had swung back into its place, and that by no possible means could she open it. She and Nan and Tiger were buried in a living tomb, and must either stay there and perish, or await the tender mercies of the cruel Mother Rachel.

Nan, with her arms tightly clasped round Annie's neck, began to cry fretfully. She was impatient to get out of this dismal place; she was no longer oppressed by fears, for with the Annie whom she loved she felt absolutely safe; but she was hungry and cold and uncomfortable, and it seemed but a step, to little inexperienced Nan, from Annie's arms to her snug, cheerful nursery at Lavender House.

"Tum, Annie—tum home, Annie," she begged and, when Annie did not stir, she began to weep.

In truth, the poor, brave little girl was sadly puzzled, and her first gleam of returning hope lay in the remembrance of Zillah's words, that there were generally two entrances to these old underground forts. Tiger, who seemed thoroughly at home in this little room, and had curled himself up comfortably on the heap of straw, had probably often been here before. Perhaps Tiger knew the way to the second entrance. Annie called him to her side.

"Tiger," she said, going down on her knees, and looking full into his ugly but intelligent face, "Nan and I want to go out of this."

Tiger wagged his stumpy tail.

"We are hungry, Tiger, and we want something to eat, and you'd like a bone, wouldn't you?"

Tiger's tail went with ferocious speed, and he licked Annie's hand.

"There's no use going back that way, dear dog," continued the girl, pointing with her arm in the direction they had come. "The door is fastened, Tiger, and we can't get out. We can't get out because the door is shut."

The dog's tail had ceased to wag; he took in the situation, for his whole expression showed dejection, and he drooped his head.

It was now quite evident to Annie that Tiger had been here before, and that on some other occasion in his life he had wanted to get out and could not because the door was shut.

"Now, Tiger," said Annie, speaking cheerfully, and rising to her feet, "we must get out. Nan and I are hungry, and you want your bone. Take us out the other way, good Tiger—the other way, dear dog."

She moved instantly toward the little passage; the dog followed her.

"The other way," she said, and she turned her back on the long narrow passage, and took a step or two into complete darkness. The dog began to whine, caught hold of her dress, and tried to pull her back.

"Quite right, Tiger, we won't go that way," said Annie, instantly. She returned into the dimly-lighted room.

"Find a way—find a way out, Tiger," she said.

The dog evidently understood her; he moved restlessly about the room. Finally he got up on the bed, pulled and scratched and tore away the straw at the upper end, then, wagging his tail, flew to Annie's side. She came back with him. Beneath the straw was a tiny, tiny trap-door.

"Oh, Tiger!" said the girl; she went down on her knees, and, finding she could not stir it, wondered if this also was kept in its place by a system of balancing. She was right; after a very little pressing the door moved aside, and Annie saw four or five rudely carved steps.

"Come, Nan," she said joyfully, "Tiger has saved us; these steps must lead us out."

The dog, with a joyful whine, went down first, and Annie, clasping Nan tightly in her arms, followed him. Four, five, six steps they went down; then, to Annie's great joy, she found that the next step began to ascend. Up and up she went, cheered by a welcome shaft of light. Finally she, Nan, and the dog found themselves emerging into the open air, through a hole which might have been taken for a large rabbit burrow.



CHAPTER XLVII.

RESCUED.

The girl, the child, and the dog found themselves in a comparatively strange country—Annie had completely lost her bearings. She looked around her for some sign of the gypsies' encampment; but whether she had really gone a greater distance than she imagined in those underground vaults, or whether the tents were hidden in some hollow of the ground, she did not know; she was only conscious that she was in a strange country, that Nan was clinging to her and crying for her breakfast, and that Tiger was sniffing the air anxiously. Annie guessed that Tiger could take them back to the camp, but this was by no means her wish. When she emerged out of the underground passage she was conscious for the first time of a strange and unknown experience. Absolute terror seized the brave child; she trembled from head to foot, her head ached violently, and the ground on which she stood seemed to reel, and the sky to turn round. She sat down for a moment on the green grass. What ailed her? where was she? how could she get home? Nan's little piteous wail, "Me want my bekfas', me want my nursie, me want Hetty," almost irritated her.

"Oh, Nan," she said at last piteously, "have you not got your own Annie? Oh, Nan, dear little Nan, Annie feels so ill!"

Nan had the biggest and softest of baby hearts—breakfast, nurse, Hetty, were all forgotten in the crowning desire to comfort Annie. She climbed on her knee and stroked her face and kissed her lips.

"'Oo better now?" she said in a tone of baby inquiry.

Annie roused herself with a great effort.

"Yes, darling," she said; "we will try and get home. Come, Tiger. Tiger, dear, I don't want to go back to the gypsies; take me the other way—take me to Oakley."

Tiger again sniffed the air, looked anxiously at Annie, and trotted on in front. Little Nan in her ragged gypsy clothes walked sedately by Annie's side.

"Where 'oo s'oes?" she said, pointing to the girl's bare feet.

"Gone, Nan—gone. Never mind, I've got you. My little treasure, my little love, you're safe at last."

As Annie tottered, rather than walked, down a narrow path which led directly through a field of standing corn, she was startled by the sudden apparition of a bright-eyed girl, who appeared so suddenly in her path that she might have been supposed to have risen out of the very ground.

The girl stared hard at Annie, fixed her eyes inquiringly on Nan and Tiger, and then turning on her heel, dashed up the path, went through a turnstile, across the road, and into a cottage.

"Mother," she exclaimed, "I said she warn't a real gypsy; she's a-coming back, and her face is all streaked like, and she has a little'un along with her, and a dawg, and the only one as is gypsy is the dawg. Come and look at her, mother; oh, she is a fine take-in!"

The round-faced, good-humored looking mother, whose name was Mrs. Williams, had been washing and putting away the breakfast things when her daughter entered. She now wiped her hands hastily and came to the cottage door.

"Cross the road, and come to the stile, mother," said the energetic Peggy—"oh, there she be a-creeping along—oh, ain't she a take-in?"

"'Sakes alive!" ejaculated Mrs. Williams, "the girl is ill! why, she can't keep herself steady! There! I knew she'd fall; ah! poor little thing—poor little thing."

It did not take Mrs. Williams an instant to reach Annie's side; and in another moment she had lifted her in her strong arms and carried her into the cottage, Peggy lifting Nan and following in the rear, while Tiger walked by their sides.



CHAPTER XLVIII.

DARK DAYS.

A whole week had passed, and there were no tidings whatever of little Nan or of Annie Forest. No one at Lavender House had heard a word about them; the police came and went, detectives even arrived from London, but there were no traces whatever of the missing children.

The midsummer holiday was now close at hand, but no one spoke of it or thought of it. Mrs. Willis told the teachers that the prizes should be distributed, but she said she could invite no guests and could allow of no special festivities. Miss Danesbury and Miss Good repeated her words to the schoolgirls, who answered without hesitation that they did not wish for feasting and merriment; they would rather the day passed unnoticed. In truth, the fact that their baby was gone, that their favorite and prettiest and brightest schoolmate had also disappeared, caused such gloom, such distress, such apprehension that even the most thoughtless of those girls could scarcely have laughed or been merry. School-hours were still kept after a fashion, but there was no life in the lessons. In truth, it seemed as if the sun would never shine again at Lavender House.

Hester was ill; not very ill—she had no fever, she had no cold; she had, as the good doctor explained it, nothing at all wrong, except that her nervous system had got a shock.

"When the little one is found, Miss Hetty will be quite well again," said the good doctor; but the little one had not been found yet, and Hester had completely broken down. She lay on her bed, saying little or nothing, eating scarcely anything, sleeping not at all. All the girls were kind to her and each one in the school took turns in trying to comfort her; but no one could win a smile from Hester, and even Mrs. Willis failed utterly to reach or touch her heart.

Mr. Everard came once to see her, but he had scarcely spoken many words when Hester broke into an agony of weeping and begged him to go away. He shook his head when he left her and said sadly to himself:

"That girl has got something on her mind; she is grieving for more than the loss of her little sister."

The twentieth of June came at last, and the girls sat about in groups in the pleasant shady garden, and talked of the very sad breaking-up day they were to have on the morrow, and wondered if, when they returned to school again, Annie and little Nan would have been found. Cecil Temple, Dora Russell, and one or two others were sitting together and whispering in low voices. Mary Price joined them, and said anxiously:

"I don't think the doctor is satisfied about Hester, Perhaps I ought not to have listened, but I heard him talking to Miss Danesbury just now; he said she must be got to sleep somehow, and she is to have a composing draught to-night."

"I wish poor Hetty would not turn away from us all," said Cecil; "I wish she would not quite give up hope; I do feel sure that Nan and Annie will be found yet."

"Have you been praying about it, Cecil?" asked Mary, kneeling on the grass, laying her elbows on Cecil's knees and looking into her face. "Do you say this because you have faith?"

"I have prayed and I have faith," replied Cecil in her simple, earnest way. "Why, Dora, what is the matter?"

"Only that it's horrid to leave like this," said Dora; "I—I thought my last day at school would have been so different and somehow I am sorry I spoke so much against that poor little Annie."

Here Cecil suddenly rose from her seat, and going up to Dora, clasped her arms round her neck.

"Thank you, Dora," she said with fervor; "I love you for those words."

"Here comes Susy," remarked Mary Price. "I really don't think anything would move Susy; she's just as stolid and indifferent as ever. Ah, Susy, here's a place for you—oh, what is the matter with Phyllis? see how she's rushing toward us! Phyllis, my dear, don't break your neck."

Susan, with her usual nonchalance, seated herself by Dora Russell's side. Phyllis burst excitedly into the group.

"I think," she exclaimed, "I really, really do think that news has come of Annie's father. Nora said that Janet told her that a foreign letter came this morning to Mrs. Willis, and somebody saw Mrs. Willis talking to Miss Danesbury—oh, I forgot, only I know that the girls of the school are whispering the news that Mrs. Willis cried, and Miss Danesbury said, 'After waiting for him four years, and now, when he comes back, he won't find her!' Oh dear, oh dear! there is Danesbury. Cecil, darling love, go to her, and find out the truth."

Cecil rose at once, went across the lawn, said a few words to Miss Danesbury, and came back to the other girls.

"It is true," she said sadly, "there came a letter this morning from Captain Forest; he will be at Lavender House in a week. Miss Danesbury says it is a wonderful letter, and he has been shipwrecked, and on an island by himself for ever so long; but he is safe now, and will soon be in England. Miss Danesbury says Mrs. Willis can scarcely speak about that letter; she is in great, great trouble, and Miss Danesbury confesses that they are all more anxious than they dare to admit about Annie and little Nan."

At this moment the sound of carriage wheels was heard on the drive, and Susan, peering forward to see who was arriving, remarked in her usual nonchalant manner:

"Only the little Misses Bruce in their basket-carriage—what dull-looking women they are?"

Nobody commented, however, on her observation, and gradually the little group of girls sank into absolute silence.

From where they sat they could see the basket-carriage waiting at the front entrance—the little ladies had gone inside, all was perfect silence and stillness.

Suddenly on the stillness a sound broke—the sound of a girl running quickly; nearer and nearer came the steps, and the four or five who sat together under the oak-tree noticed the quick panting breath, and felt even before a word was uttered that evil tidings were coming to them. They all started to their feet, however; they all uttered a cry of horror and distress when Hester herself broke into their midst. She was supposed to be lying down in a darkened room, she was supposed to be very ill—what was she doing here?

"Hetty!" exclaimed Cecil.

Hester pushed past her; she rushed up to Susan Drummond, and seized her arm.

"News has come!" she panted; "news—news at last! Nan is found!—and Annie—they are both found—but Annie is dying. Come, Susan, come this moment; we must both tell what we know now."

By her impetuosity, by the intense fire of her passion and agony, even Susan was electrified into leaving her seat and going with her.



CHAPTER XLIX.

TWO CONFESSIONS.

Hester dragged her startled and rather unwilling companion in through the front entrance, past some agitated-looking servants who stood about in the hall, and through the velvet curtains into Mrs. Willis' boudoir.

The Misses Bruce were there, and Mrs. Willis in her bonnet and cloak was hastily packing some things into a basket.

"I—I must speak to you," said Hester, going up to her governess. "Susan and I have got something to say, and we must say it here, now at once."

"No, not now, Hester," replied Mrs. Willis, looking for a moment into her pupil's agitated face. "Whatever you and Susan Drummond have to tell cannot be listened to by me at this moment. I have not an instant to lose."

"You are going to Annie?" asked Hester.

"Yes; don't keep me. Good-bye, my dears; good-bye."

Mrs. Willis moved toward the door. Hester, who felt almost beside herself, rushed after her, and caught her arm.

"Take us with you, take Susy and me with you—we must, we must see Annie before she dies."

"Hush, my child," said Mrs. Willis very quietly; "try to calm yourself. Whatever you have got to say shall be listened to later on—now moments are precious, and I cannot attend to you. Calm yourself, Hester, and thank God for your dear little sister's safety. Prepare yourself to receive her, for the carriage which takes me to Annie will bring little Nan home."

Mrs. Willis left the room, and Hester threw herself on her knees and covered her face with her trembling hands. Presently she was aroused by a light touch on her arm; it was Susan Drummond.

"I may go now I suppose, Hester? You are not quite determined to make a fool of me, are you?"

"I have determined to expose you, you coward; you mean, mean girl!" answered Hester, springing to her feet. "Come, I have no idea of letting you go. Mrs. Willis won't listen—we will find Mr. Everard."

Whether Susan would really have gone with Heater remains to be proved, but just at that moment all possibility of retreat was cut away from her by Miss Agnes Bruce, who quietly entered Mrs. Willis' private sitting-room, followed by the very man Hester was about to seek.

"I thought it best, my dear," she said, turning apologetically to Hester, "to go at once for our good clergyman; you can tell him all that is in your heart, and I will leave you. Before I go, however, I should like to tell you how I found Annie and little Nan."

Hester made no answer; just for a brief moment she raised her eyes to Miss Agnes' kind face, then they sought the floor.

"The story can be told in a few words, dear," said the little lady. "A workwoman of the name of Williams, whom my sister and I have employed for years, and who lives near Oakley, called on us this morning to apologize for not being able to finish some needlework. She told us that she had a sick child, and also a little girl of three, in her house. She said she had found the child, in ragged gypsy garments, fainting in a field. She took her into her house, and on undressing her, found that she was no true gypsy, but that her face and hands and arms had been dyed; she said the little one had been treated in a similar manner. Jane's suspicions and mine were instantly roused, and we went back with the woman to Oakley, and found, as we had anticipated, that the children were little Nan and Annie. The sad thing is that Annie is in high fever, and knows no one. We waited there until the doctor arrived, who spoke very, very seriously of her case. Little Nan is well, and asked for you."

With these last words Miss Agnes Bruce softly left the room closing the door after her.

"Now, Susan," said Hester, without an instant's pause; "come, let us tell Mr. Everard of our wickedness. Oh, sir," she added, raising her eyes to the clergyman's face, "if Annie dies I shall go mad. Oh, I cannot, cannot bear life if Annie dies!"

"Tell me what is wrong, my poor child," said Mr. Everard. He laid his hand on her shoulder, and gradually and skillfully drew from the agitated and miserable girl the story of her sin, of her cowardice, and of her deep, though until now unavailing repentance. How from the first she had hated and disliked Annie; how unjustly she had felt toward her; how she had longed and hoped Annie was guilty; and how, when at last the clue was put into her hands to prove Annie's absolute innocence, she had determined not to use it.

"From the day Nan was lost," continued Hester, "it has been all agony and all repentance; but, oh, I was too proud to tell! I was too proud to humble myself to the very dust!"

"But not now," said the clergyman, very gently.

"No, no; not now. I care for nothing now in all the world except that Annie may live."

"You don't mind the fact that Mrs. Willis and all your schoolfellows must know of this, and must—must judge you accordingly?"

"They can't think worse of me than I think of myself. I only want Annie to live."

"No, Hester," answered Mr. Everard, "you want more than that—you want far more than that. It may be that God will take Annie Forest away. We cannot tell. With Him alone are the issues of life or death. What you really want, my child, is the forgiveness of the little girl you have wronged, and the forgiveness of your Father in heaven."

Hester began to sob wildly.

"If—if she dies—may I see her first?" she gasped.

"Yes; I will try and promise you that. Now, will you go to your room? I must speak to Miss Drummond alone; she is a far worse culprit than you."

Mr. Everard opened the door for Hester, who went silently out.

"Meet me in the chapel to-night," he whispered low in her ear, "I will talk with you and pray with you there."

He closed the door, and came back to Susan.

All throughout this interview his manner had been very gentle to Hester: but the clergyman could be stern, and there was a gleam of very righteous anger in his eyes as he turned to the sullen girl who leaned heavily against the table.

"This narrative of Hester Thornton's is, of course, quite true, Miss Drummond?"

"Oh, yes; there seems to be no use in denying that," said Susan.

"I must insist on your telling me the exact story of your sin. There is no use in your attempting to deny anything; only the utmost candor on your part can now save you from being publicly expelled."

"I am willing to tell," answered Susan. "I meant no harm; it was done as a bit of fun. I had a cousin at home who was very clever at drawing caricatures, and I happened to have nothing to do one day, and I was alone in Annie's bedroom, and I thought I'd like to see what she kept in her desk. I always had a fancy for collecting odd keys, and I found one on my bunch which fitted her desk exactly. I opened it, and I found such a smart little caricature of Mrs. Willis. I sent the caricature to my cousin, and begged of her to make an exact copy of it. She did so, and I put Annie's back in her desk, and pasted the other into Cecil's book. I didn't like Dora Russell, and I wrapped up the sweeties in her theme; but I did the other for pure fun, for I knew Cecil would be so shocked; but I never guessed the blame would fall on Annie. When I found it did, I felt inclined to tell once or twice, but it seemed too much trouble and, besides, I knew Mrs. Willis would punish me, and, of course, I didn't wish that.

"Dora Russell was always very nasty to me, and when I found she was putting on such airs, and pretending she could write such a grand essay for the prize, I thought I'd take down her pride a bit. I went to her desk, and I got some of the rough copy of the thing she was calling 'The River,' and I sent it off to my cousin, and my cousin made up such a ridiculous paper, and she hit off Dora's writing to the life, and, of course, I had to put it into Dora's desk and tear up her real copy. It was very unlucky Hester being in the room. Of course I never guessed that, or I wouldn't have gone. That was the night we all went with Annie to the fairies' field. I never meant to get Hester into a scrape, nor Annie either, for that matter; but, of course, I couldn't be expected to tell on myself."

Susan related her story in her usual monotonous and sing-song voice. There was no trace of apparent emotion on her face, or of regret in her tones. When she had finished speaking Mr. Everard was absolutely silent.

"I took a great deal of trouble," continued Susan, after a pause, in a slightly fretful key. "It was really nothing but a joke, and I don't see why such a fuss should have been made. I know I lost a great deal of sleep trying to manage that twine business round my foot. I don't think I shall trouble myself playing any more tricks upon schoolgirls—they are not worth it."

"You'll never play any more tricks on these girls," said Mr. Everard, rising to his feet, and suddenly filling the room and reducing Susan to an abject silence by the ring of his stern, deep voice. "I take it upon me, in the absence of your mistress, to pronounce your punishment. You leave Lavender House in disgrace this evening. Miss Good will take you home, and explain to your parents the cause of your dismissal. You are not to see any of your schoolfellows again. Your meanness, your cowardice, your sin require no words on my part to deepen their vileness. Through pure wantonness you have cast a cruel shadow on an innocent young life. If that girl dies, you indeed are not blameless in the cause of her early removal, for through you her heart and spirit were broken. Miss Drummond, I pray God you may at least repent and be sorry. There are some people mentioned in the Bible who are spoken of as past feeling. Wretched girl, while there is yet time, pray that you may not belong to them. Now I must leave you, but I shall lock you in. Miss Good will come for you in about an hour to take you away."

Susan Drummond sank down on the nearest seat, and began to cry softly; one or two pin-pricks from Mr. Everard's stern words may possibly have reached her shallow heart—no one can tell. She left Lavender House that evening, and none of the girls who had lived with her as their schoolmate heard of her again.



CHAPTER L.

THE HEART OF LITTLE NAN.

For several days now Annie had lain unconscious in Mrs. Williams' little bedroom; the kind-hearted woman could not find it in her heart to send the sick child away. Her husband and the neighbors expostulated with her, and said that Annie was only a poor little waif.

"She has no call on you," said Jane Allen, a hard-featured woman who lived next door. "Why should you put yourself out just for a sick lass? and she'll be much better off in the workhouse infirmary."

But Mrs. Williams shook her head at her hard-featured and hard-hearted neighbor, and resisted her husband's entreaties.

"Eh!" she said, "but the poor lamb needs a good bit of mothering, and I misdoubt me she wouldn't get much of that in the infirmary."

So Annie stayed, and tossed from side to side of her little bed, and murmured unintelligible words, and grew daily a little weaker and a little more delirious. The parish doctor called, and shook his head over her; he was not a particularly clever man, but he was the best the Williamses could afford. While Annie suffered and went deeper into that valley of humiliation and weakness which leads to the gate of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, little Nan played with Peggy Williams, and accustomed herself after the fashion of little children to all the ways of her new and humble home.

It was on the eighth day of Annie's fever that the Misses Bruce discovered her, and on the evening of that day Mrs. Willis knelt by her little favorite's bed. A better doctor had been called in, and all that money could procure had been got now for poor Annie; but the second doctor considered her case even more critical, and said that the close air of the cottage was much against her recovery.

"I didn't make that caricature; I took the girls into the fairies' field, but I never pasted that caricature into Cecil's book. I know you don't believe me, Cecil; but do you think I would really do anything so mean about one whom love? No, No! I am innocent! God knows it. Yes, I am glad of that—God knows it."

Over and over in Mrs. Willis' presence these piteous words would come from the fever-stricken child, but always when she came to the little sentence "God knows I am innocent," her voice would grow tranquil, and a faint and sweet smile would play round her lips.

Late that night a carriage drew up at a little distance from the cottage, and a moment or two afterward Mrs. Willis was called out of the room to speak to Cecil Temple.

"I have found out the truth about Annie; I have come at once to tell you," she said; and then she repeated the substance of Hester's and Susan's story.

"God help me for having misjudged her," murmured the head-mistress; then she bade Cecil "good-night" and returned to the sick-room.

The next time Annie broke out with her piteous wail, "They believe me guilty—Mrs. Willis does—they all do," the mistress laid her hand with a firm and gentle pressure on the child's arm.

"Not now, my dear," she said, in a slow, clear, and emphatic voice. "God has shown your governess the truth, and she believes in you."

The very carefully-uttered words pierced through the clouded brain; for a moment Annie lay quite still, with her bright and lovely eyes fixed on her teacher.

"Is that really you?" she asked.

"I am here, my darling."

"And you believe in me?"

"I do, most absolutely."

"God does, too, you know," answered Annie—bringing out the words quickly, and turning her head to the other side. The fever had once more gained supremacy, and she rambled on unceasingly through the dreary night.

Now, however, when the passionate words broke out, "They believe me guilty," Mrs. Willis always managed to quiet her by saying, "I know you are innocent."

The next day at noon those girls who had not gone home—for many had started by the morning train—were wandering aimlessly about the grounds.

Mr. Everard had gone to see Annie, and had promised to bring back the latest tidings about her.

Hester, holding little Nan's hand—for she could scarcely bear to have her recovered treasure out of sight—had wandered away from the rest of her companions, and had seated herself with Nan under a large oak-tree which grew close to the entrance of the avenue. She had come here in order to be the very first to see Mr. Everard on his return. Nan had climbed into Hester's lap, and Hester had buried her aching head in little Nan's bright curls, when she started suddenly to her feet and ran forward. Her quick ears had detected the sound of wheels.

How soon Mr. Everard had returned; surely the news was bad! She flew to the gate, and held it open in order to avoid the short delay which the lodge-keeper might cause in coming to unfasten it. She flushed, however, vividly, and felt half inclined to retreat into the shade, when she saw that the gentleman who was approaching was not Mr. Everard, but a tall, handsome, and foreign-looking man, who drove a light dog-cart himself. The moment he saw Hester with little Nan clinging to her skirts he stopped short.

"Is this Lavender House, little girl?"

"Yes, sir," replied Hester.

"And can you tell me—but of course you know—you are one of the young ladies who live here, eh?"

Hester nodded.

"Then you can tell me if Mrs. Willis is at home—but of course she is."

"No, sir," answered Hester; "I am sorry to tell you that Mrs. Willis is away. She has been called away on very, very sad business; she won't come back to-night."

Something in Hester's tone caused the stranger to look at her attentively; he jumped off the dog-cart and came to her side.

"See here, Miss——"

"Thornton," put in Hester.

"Yes, Miss—Miss Thornton, perhaps you can manage for me as well as Mrs. Willis; after all I don't particularly want to see her. If you belong to Lavender House, you, of course, know my—I mean you have a schoolmate here, a little, pretty gypsy rogue called Forest—little Annie Forest. I want to see her—can you take me to her?"

"You are her father?" gasped Hester.

"Yes, my dear child, I am her father. Now you can take me to her at once."

Hester covered her face.

"Oh, I cannot," she said—"I cannot take you to Annie. Oh, sir, if you knew all, you would feel inclined to kill me. Don't ask me about Annie—don't, don't."

The stranger looked fairly non-plussed and not a little alarmed. Just at this moment Nan's tiny fingers touched his hand.

"Me'll take 'oo to my Annie," she said—"mine poor Annie. Annie's vedy sick, but me'll take 'oo."

The tall, foreign-looking man lifted Nan into his arms.

"Sick, is she?" he answered. "Look here young lady," he added, turning to Hester, "whatever you have got to say, I am sure you will try and say it; you will pity a father's anxiety and master your own feelings. Where is my little girl?"

Hester hastily dried her tears.

"She is in a cottage near Oakley, sir."

"Indeed! Oakley is some miles from here?"

"And she is very ill."

"What of?"

"Fever; they—they fear she may die."

"Take me to her," said the stranger. "If she is ill and dying she wants me. Take me to her at once. Here, jump on the dog-cart; and, little one, you shall come too."

So furiously did Captain Forest drive that in a very little over an hour's time his panting horse stopped at a few steps from the cottage. He called to a boy to hold him, and, accompanied by Hester, and carrying Nan in his arms, he stood on the threshold of Mrs. Williams' humble little abode. Mr. Everard was coming out.

"Hester," he said, "you here? I was coming for you."

"Oh, then she is worse?"

"She is conscious, and has asked for you. Yes, she is very, very ill."

"Mr. Everard, this gentleman is Annie's father."

Mr. Everard looked pityingly at Captain Forest.

"You have come back at a sad hour, sir," he said. "But no, it cannot harm her to see you. Come with me."

Captain Forest went first into the sick-room; Hester waited outside. She had the little kitchen to herself, for all the Williamses, with the exception of the good mother, had moved for the time being to other quarters. Surely Mr. Everard would come for her in a moment? Surely Captain Forest, who had gone into the sick-room with Nan in his arms, would quickly return? There was no sound. All was absolute quiet. How soon would Hester be summoned? Could she—could she bear to look at Annie's dying face? Her agony drove her down on her knees.

"Oh, if you would only spare Annie!" she prayed to God. Then she wiped her eyes. This terrible suspense seemed more than she could bear. Suddenly the bedroom door was softly and silently opened, and Mr. Everard came out.

"She sleeps," he said; "there is a shadow of hope. Little Nan has done it. Nan asked to lie down beside her, and she said, 'Poor Annie! poor Annie!' and stroked her cheek; and in some way, I don't know how, the two have gone to sleep together. Annie did not even glance at her father; she was quite taken up with Nan. You can come to the door and look at her, Hester."

Hester did so. A time had been when she could scarcely have borne that sight without a pang of jealousy; now she turned to Mr. Everard:

"I—I could even give her the heart of little Nan to keep her here," she murmured.



CHAPTER LI.

THE PRIZE ESSAY.

Annie did not die. The fever passed away in that long and refreshing sleep, while Nan's cool hand lay against her cheek. She came slowly, slowly back to life—to a fresh, a new, and a glad life. Hester, from being her enemy, was now her dearest and warmest friend. Her father was at home again, and she could no longer think or speak of herself as lonely or sad. She recovered, and in future days reigned as a greater favorite than ever at Lavender House. It is only fair to say that Tiger never went back to the gypsies, but devoted himself first and foremost to Annie, and then to the captain, who pronounced him a capital dog, and when he heard his story vowed he never would part with him.

Owing to Annie's illness, and to all the trouble and confusion which immediately ensued, Mrs. Willis did not give away her prizes at the usual time; but when her scholars once more assembled at Lavender House she astonished several of them by a few words.

"My dears," she said, standing in her accustomed place at the head of the long school-room, "I intend now before our first day of lessons begins, to distribute those prizes which would have been yours, under ordinary circumstances, on the twenty-first of June. The prizes will be distributed during the afternoon recess; but here, and now, I wish to say something about—and also to give away—the prize for English composition. Six essays, all written with more or less care, have been given to me to inspect. There are reasons which we need not now go into which made it impossible to me to say anything in favor of a theme called 'The River,' written by my late pupil, Miss Russell; but I can cordially praise a very nice historical sketch of Marie Antoinette, the work of Hester Thornton. Mary Price has also written a study which pleases me much, as it shows thought and even a little originality. The remainder of the six essays simply reach an ordinary average. You will be surprised therefore, my dears, to learn that I do not award the prize to any of these themes, but rather to a seventh composition, which was put into my hands yesterday by Miss Danesbury. It is crude and unfinished, and doubtless but for her recent illness would have received many corrections; but these few pages, which are called 'A Lonely Child,' drew tears from my eyes; crude as they are, they have the merit of real originality. They are too morbid to read to you, girls, and I sincerely trust and pray the young writer may never pen anything so sad again. Such as they are, however, they rank first in the order of merit and the prize is hers. Annie, my dear, come forward."

Annie left her seat, and, amid the cheers of her companions, went up to Mrs. Willis, who placed a locket, attached to a slender gold chain, round her neck; the locket contained a miniature of the head-mistress' much-loved face.

"After all, think of our Annie Forest turning out clever as well as being the prettiest and dearest girl in the school!" exclaimed several of her companions.

"Only I do wish," added one, "that Mrs. Willis had let us see the essay. Annie, treasure, come here; tell us what the 'Lonely Child' was about."

"I don't remember," answered Annie. "I don't know what loneliness means now, so how can I describe it?"

THE END

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The conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under the magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightly ranked among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. With this as the groundwork of his story Mr. Henty has interwoven the adventures of an English youth, Roger Hawkshaw, the sole survivor of the good ship Swan, which had sailed from a Devon port to challenge the mercantile supremacy of the Spaniards in the New World. He is beset by many perils among the natives, but is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion of an Aztec princess. At last by a ruse he obtains the protection of the Spaniards, and after the fall of Mexico he succeeds in regaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming Aztec bride.

"'By Right of Conquest' is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful Historical tale that Mr. Henty has yet published."—Academy.

In the Reign of Terror: The Adventures of a Westminster Boy. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by J. SCHoeNBERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.

Harry Sandwith, a Westminster boy, becomes a resident at the chateau of a French marquis, and after various adventures accompanies the family to Paris at the crisis of the Revolution. Imprisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds himself beset by perils with the three young daughters of the house in his charge. After hairbreadth escapes they reach Nantes. There the girls are condemned to death in the coffin-ships, but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector.

"Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat Mr. Henty's record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict.... The story is one of Mr. Henty's best."—Saturday Review.

With Wolfe in Canada; or, The Winning of a Continent. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.

In the present volume Mr. Henty gives an account of the struggle between Britain and France for supremacy in the North American continent. On the issue of this war depended not only the destinies of North America, but to a large extent those of the mother countries themselves. The fall of Quebec decided that the Anglo-Saxon race should predominate in the New World; that Britain, and not France, should take the lead among the nations of Europe; and that English and American commerce, the English language, and English literature, should spread right round the globe.

"It is not only a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by flood and field."—Illustrated London News.

True to the Old Flag: A Tale of the American War of Independence. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.

In this story the author has gone to the accounts of officers who took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which American and British soldiers have been engaged did they behave with greater courage and good conduct. The historical portion of the book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures with the redskins on the shores of Lake Huron, a story of exciting interest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried through the book.

"Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against American emancipation. The son of an American loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile redskins in that very Huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of Hawkeye and Chingachgook."—The Times.

The Lion of St. Mark: A Tale of Venice in the Fourteenth Century. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.

A story of Venice at a period when her strength and splendor were put to the severest tests. The hero displays a fine sense and manliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of intrigue, crime, and bloodshed. He contributes largely to the victories of the Venetians at Porto d'Anzo and Chioggia, and finally wins the hand of the daughter of one of the chief men of Venice.

"Every boy should read 'The Lion of St. Mark.' Mr. Henty has never produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious."—Saturday Review.

A Final Reckoning: A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.

The hero, a young English lad, after rather a stormy boyhood, emigrates to Australia, and gets employment as an officer in the mounted police. A few years of active work on the frontier, where he has many a brush with both natives and bushrangers, gain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles down to the peaceful life of a squatter.

"Mr. Henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully constructed, or a better written story than this."—Spectator.

Under Drake's Flag: A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.

A story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the supremacy of the sea. The heroes sail as lads with Drake in the Pacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. The historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon, but this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure through which the young heroes pass in the course of their voyages.

"A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough, one would think, to turn his hair gray."—Harper's Monthly Magazine.

By Sheer Pluck: A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.

The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. His hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, is detained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war, but escapes, and accompanies the English expedition on their march to Coomassie.

"Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. 'By Sheer Pluck' will be eagerly read."—Athenaeum.

By Pike and Dyke: A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by MAYNARD BROWN, and 4 Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.

In this story Mr. Henty traces the adventures and brave deeds of an English boy in the household of the ablest man of his age—William the Silent. Edward Martin, the son of an English sea captain, enters the service of the Prince as a volunteer, and is employed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes through the great sieges of the time. He ultimately settles down as Sir Edward Martin.

"Boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the book, while the rest who only care for adventure will be students in spite of themselves."—St. James' Gazette.

St. George for England: A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.

No portion of English history is more crowded with great events than that of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers; the destruction of the Spanish fleet; the plague of the Black Death; the Jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in "St. George for England." The hero of the story, although of good family, begins life as a London apprentice, but after countless adventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire, and at last the trusted friend of the Black Prince.

"Mr. Henty has developed for himself a type of historical novel for boys which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labors of Sir Walter Scott in the land of fiction."—The Standard.

Captain's Kidd's Gold: The True Story of an Adventurous Sailor Boy. By JAMES FRANKLIN FITTS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.

There is something fascinating to the average youth in the very idea of buried treasure. A vision arises before his eyes of swarthy Portuguese and Spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes—sinister-looking fellows who once on a time haunted the Spanish Main, sneaking out from some hidden creek in their long, low schooner, of picaroonish rake and sheer, to attack an unsuspecting trading craft. There were many famous sea rovers in their day, but none more celebrated than Capt. Kidd. Perhaps the most fascinating tale of all is Mr. Fitts' true story of an adventurous American boy, who receives from his dying father an ancient bit of vellum, which the latter obtained in a curious way. The document bears obscure directions purporting to locate a certain island in the Bahama group, and a considerable treasure buried there by two of Kidd's crew. The hero of this book, Paul Jones Garry, is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water New England ancestry, and his efforts to reach the island and secure the money form one of the most absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press.

Captain Bayley's Heir: A Tale of the Gold Fields of California. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.

A frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in the heirship of a considerable property. The former falls into a trap laid by the latter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves England for America. He works his passage before the mast, joins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested with Indians to the Californian gold diggings, and is successful both as digger and trader.

"Mr. Henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of John Holl, the Westminster dustman, Dickens himself could hardly have excelled."—Christian Leader.

For Name and Fame; or, Through Afghan Passes. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.

An interesting story of the last war in Afghanistan. The hero, after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures among the Malays, finds his way to Calcutta and enlists in a regiment proceeding to join the army at the Afghan passes. He accompanies the force under General Roberts to the Peiwar Kotal, is wounded, taken prisoner, carried to Cabul, whence he is transferred to Candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army of Ayoub Khan.

"The best feature of the book—apart from the interest of its scenes of adventure—is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the Afghan people."—Daily News.

Captured by Apes: The Wonderful Adventures of a Young Animal Trainer. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.

The scene of this tale is laid on an island in the Malay Archipelago. Philip Garland, a young animal collector and trainer, of New York, sets sail for Eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities. The vessel is wrecked off the coast of Borneo and young Garland, the sole survivor of the disaster, is cast ashore on a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the place. The lad discovers that the ruling spirit of the monkey tribe is a gigantic and vicious baboon, whom he identifies as Goliah, an animal at one time in his possession and with whose instruction he had been especially diligent. The brute recognizes him, and with a kind of malignant satisfaction puts his former master through the same course of training he had himself experienced with a faithfulness of detail which shows how astonishing is monkey recollection. Very novel indeed is the way by which the young man escapes death. Mr. Prentice has certainly worked a new vein on juvenile fiction, and the ability with which he handles a difficult subject stamps him as a writer of undoubted skill.

The Bravest of the Brave; or, With Peterborough in Spain. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.

There are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so completely fallen into oblivion as those of the Earl of Peterborough. This is largely due to the fact that they were overshadowed by the glory and successes of Marlborough. His career as general extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been surpassed.

"Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work—to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth. Lads will read 'The Bravest of the Brave' with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure."—Daily Telegraph.

The Cat of Bubastes: A Story of Ancient Egypt. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.

A story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight into the customs of the Egyptian people. Amuba, a prince of the Rebu nation, is carried with his charioteer Jethro into slavery. They become inmates of the house of Ameres, the Egyptian high-priest, and are happy in his service until the priest's son accidentally kills the sacred cat of Bubastes. In an outburst of popular fury Ameres is killed, and it rests with Jethro and Amuba to secure the escape of the high-priest's son and daughter.

"The story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the perilous exodus into Asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed and full of exciting adventures. It is admirably illustrated."—Saturday Review.

With Washington at Monmouth: A Story of Three Philadelphia Boys. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.

Three Philadelphia boys, Seth Graydon "whose mother conducted a boarding-house which was patronized by the British officers;" Enoch Ball, "son of that Mrs. Ball whose dancing school was situated on Letitia Street," and little Jacob, son of "Chris, the Baker," serve as the principal characters. The story is laid during the winter when Lord Howe held possession of the city, and the lads aid the cause by assisting the American spies who make regular and frequent visits from Valley Forge. One reads here of home-life in the captive city when bread was scarce among the people of the lower classes, and a reckless prodigality shown by the British officers, who passed the winter in feasting and merry-making while the members of the patriot army but a few miles away were suffering from both cold and hunger. The story abounds with pictures of Colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of Washington's soldiers which are given show that the work has not been hastily done, or without considerable study.

THE END