HELENA HEATH.



THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 76.)

CHAPTER X.

Beyond the meadow lay a field of wheat, tall and yellow, although not yet quite ripe for the sickle. Stooping until my hands almost touched the ground, I ran as fast as possible under the shelter of the friendly hedge, until, reaching the cornfield, I scrambled through another hedge, and lay down on my face amidst the wheat.

But still it was impossible to feel in the slightest degree safe, the road being only a few yards distant, while I distinctly heard the sound of approaching wheels. If it had not been for the bend in the lane, I should scarcely have been able to delay capture many minutes, and even as it was, I lay quaking while I wondered whether Mr. Turton would be able to see me from the road.

The cab passed my hiding-place, however, so that I began to hope it might not be going to stop, until on the point of rising, I heard the horse pulled up, heard the door opened, and recognised Mr. Turton's voice as he told Augustus to alight.

'The boy must be hiding somewhere hereabouts,' he exclaimed.

'He might easily have got into that wood,' said Augustus, and I regretted that in my haste I had not taken to the wood on the other side of the road.

While Augustus and his father must have gone to inspect the woods, I heard the sound of an approaching motor-car, and guessed that it had stopped close to the cab on the other side of the hedge.

I lay on my face with the thick wheat growing high all around, my eyes raised to the hedge, above which I could see the top of a man's straw hat. I supposed that his motor-car had broken down, but at any rate, his companion alighted and came on to the raised path, so that I could see her hat and face.

She looked about my own age, although she must have been unusually tall. Young as she was, she wore a thick veil, which she had turned back under the brim of her white hat. A quantity of fair hair hung loose, and she had dark, rather mischievous, but friendly-looking eyes.

The next moment I heard Mr. Turton and Augustus returning from the wood, to inquire whether the driver of the motor-car had seen any one answering to my description. For the car had been coming to meet the cab, as if the driver were making for Polehampton.

'A boy of about fifteen,' said Mr. Turton, as they all drew nearer to the hedge. 'I saw him—I am almost certain it was he—about this spot. Then I lost him in the bend of the lane, and I thought it was possible that you might have seen him running to meet you.'

'I don't remember seeing a boy,' was the answer; 'but then, this wretched car is enough to occupy all my attention. Did you see a boy, Jacintha?' he added.

'No, Uncle,' she answered, and I thought what a strange name it was—one which I certainly had not heard before. 'Has he run away from school?' she asked, with obvious interest, the next moment.

'Yes,' said Mr. Turton, while I could imagine Augustus's snigger; 'he has caused me an immense deal of trouble, and I am extremely anxious to take him back with me—extremely anxious.'

While I lay in the wheat, able to see the tops of their heads as they moved closer to the hedge, it did not seem altogether improbable that Mr. Turton would gain his wish; and while he was still discussing me with the driver of the motor-car, whom 'Jacintha' had addressed as 'Uncle,' the girl came quite close to the hedge, turning to look at the ripening corn. As my eyes were upraised, they looked straight into hers, which seemed to hold them as if I were fascinated.

Now, I thought, everything is over with me! I had not realised that I could be so easily seen by any one looking down into the field from the higher path. Jacintha was evidently startled; she stepped abruptly backwards, as I supposed, to tell Mr. Turton that she had found the object of his search. I was already making up my mind how to act. Mr. Turton was unlikely to be a very swift runner, while I knew that I could give Augustus a pretty good start. The moment Jacintha came back to the hedge to point out my hiding-place I determined to rise from the ground, dart towards the adjoining field where the sheep were pastured, and taking a line across country, at the worst I would lead them all a good chase before I gave in.

A second later, though it seemed a long second in my suspense, Jacintha returned to the hedge and again looked down into my upturned face. Gradually her lips parted in a smile, and then my heart began to thump against my ribs, for I knew that she was not going to betray me. As I smiled back in my relief, she nodded her head ever so slightly, and turning, walked away from the hedge.

'Why don't you drive on to Barton?' she cried, raising her voice, I supposed, for my especial benefit.

'Barton? How far is that?' asked Mr. Turton.

'Five miles, isn't it, Uncle?' she answered.

'Five and a half,' he said. 'You keep bearing to your right.'

'But,' suggested Augustus, 'I feel certain Everard disappeared about here.'

'Is that his name?' asked Jacintha.

'Yes, Jack Everard.'

'Perhaps he has gone down through a trap-door,' said Jacintha with a laugh, and Augustus sniggered in return. How I wished there had only been Augustus to deal with, with perhaps Jacintha to look on during the process. But it would not have been his boots that I should have blacked!

'Uncle!' cried Jacintha, 'do you remember the steep lane we passed on our left?—that would be on your right,' she added, evidently turning to Mr. Turton.

'What about it?' he asked.

'There was a finger-post which said "Pathway to Barton." If they were to take that path don't you think they would get to Barton more quickly?'

'Why, yes, of course,' was the answer.

'Then,' said Mr. Turton, 'if we follow the road, we might be able to intercept the boy. I am very much obliged to this young lady. But in case you should see him after all,' he continued, 'allow me to give you this card. If you could manage to detain him while you communicate with me at Castlemore you would confer the greatest favour.'

I could not catch the answer, but a few minutes later, I heard the cab-door shut and knew that Mr. Turton and Augustus, thanks to Jacintha, had been driven off in the direction of Barton, five and a half miles distant. So that they would have eleven miles to drive before they returned to this spot, leaving me at least two hours (reckoning for the search at Barton and so forth) to make good my escape.

In the meantime the motor-car still continued to make strange noises, and every now and then its owner gave vent to curious exclamations.

'Don't you think,' suggested Jacintha, 'it would be best to try to get as far as the farrier's we passed opposite the footpath to Barton?'

'Upon my word, I almost think it would!' was the answer. 'Come, suppose you take your seat.'

'Oh!' cried Jacintha, 'but if you don't mind I think I would sooner walk—it is not far, you know.'

So a few moments later the motor-car made stranger noises than ever and moved away, evidently with difficulty, and when it had gone a little distance Jacintha came to the hedge again.

'It's all right now,' she cried, and rising I came to the edge of the field.

'I am most awfully obliged to you,' I said.

'What made you run away?' she asked eagerly.

'I was not going to stand all that,' I answered.

'All what?' she asked.

'I don't think I had better stay,' I said. 'Because they might change their minds and come back.'

But Jacintha shook her head.

'I don't think they will,' she answered. 'Because I heard him tell the driver to go to Barton. What shall you do?' she asked.

'I shall go to the left as they have gone to the right.'

'I wish we could give you a lift,' she cried.

'Where are you going?' I inquired.

'You see,' she explained, 'I really live in London, only I am staying now with my uncle and aunt—I always come to stay with them in the summer.'

'Do you live near here?'

'Why,' she returned, 'we have come miles and miles this morning. My uncle has just bought a motor-car—a beauty. We started quite early—soon after seven, and it began to rain just before, so my aunt wouldn't come. We were going to Polehampton, and we have broken down lots of times, though we get along splendidly in between.'

'I slept at Polehampton last night,' I said.

'Where are you going?' she asked.

'To London.'

'Why didn't you take the train?' inquired Jacintha.

'You see I had no money,' I explained. 'I sold my watch and chain, but a tramp robbed me.'

'Where do your people live in London?' she asked.

'I have no people.'

'Oh, I am sorry!' she exclaimed. 'What are you going to do?'

'Well,' I said, 'I don't quite know till I get there.'

Jacintha's face grew very solemn.

'I wish I could tell Uncle,' she said. 'You know he is most awfully nice, only I am afraid he might put you in the motor-car and drive after the cab—we could catch it easily if we tried.'

'Yes, of course,' I answered.

'Uncle will be wondering why I am so long,' she continued. 'I expect we shall go straight back now the motor-car has gone wrong.'

'Where to?' I inquired, from sheer curiosity to learn as much about her as possible.

'Uncle lives at Colebrook Park,' she answered.

'Where is that?'

'About a mile this side of Hazleton,' she said, on the point of going away. 'I do hope those people won't catch you,' she continued, 'and that you will reach London all right, though it doesn't seem much use if you haven't got any people. I never knew any one who had run away before,' she added, regarding me with evident interest, and with that to my great regret Jacintha walked away.

'Thank you ever so much,' I cried, and then in order to see the last of her, I came round into the road, standing on the path watching until a bend took her out of sight. Even then I did not at once set out on my journey, but, having taken the precaution to bring some bread and cheese in my pocket, I sat down to eat it, near the spot where Jacintha had recently stood, when I saw something shining on the path.

Taking it in my hand, I found that it was a heart-shaped locket, which doubtless belonged to Jacintha. I imagined that she had worn it suspended from a chain round her neck, that it had caught in one of the twigs of the hedge and been broken off when she started back in astonishment on first seeing me lying amidst the corn.

Ignoring any possible risk from her uncle, I now thought only of returning the locket, and accordingly set forth at a run, nor stopped until I reached the farrier's shop, opposite the footpath to Barton. Then I saw, to my extreme disappointment, no sign of a motor-car before the door.

(Continued on page 94.)



A STORY OF STANLEY.

Sir H. M. Stanley, the famous African explorer, once had a strange and unpleasant experience, from which he was saved by his presence of mind and readiness of resource. He was travelling in Africa, and had to stay some time at a village. The people here were extremely ignorant and superstitious and quite unused to the ways of white men. After a time some of them noticed him making entries in his note book—for this was new country to him, and it was important that he should remember what he saw—and not understanding what he was doing they jumped to the conclusion that he was bewitching them in some mysterious way. This report spread all over the village, and a crowd of about five hundred savages collected, and threatened to kill the explorer at once unless he destroyed the book. Stanley was, naturally, very unwilling to give up all the notes which had cost him so much trouble and danger to collect, but on the other hand it would be very much worse to lose his life. Suddenly he had a bright idea. He happened to have with him a volume of Shakespeare's plays: he thought that in all probability the savages would not know one book from another, so he offered it to them instead of his note-book. The natives were quite taken in. They accepted the Shakespeare, and, amid much rejoicing, burnt it to ashes, thus breaking, as they thought, the spell that Stanley had cast upon them.



THE CAPTAIN'S CIGAR.

The ship was on fire! The boats were lowered, and were quickly filled by the terrified passengers and crew. Amid the general excitement, the captain alone remained cool and collected, and when the time came for him to follow the others, he did a very curious thing. Before descending the ladder into the boat, he shouted to his sailors, 'Hold on for a minute!' Then he drew a cigar from his pocket, and deliberately lighted it with a scrap of the burning rope which lay close by. This done, he went down steadily and slowly, and ordered his men to push off.

One of the passengers asked him afterwards, 'How could you stop at such a moment to light a cigar?'

'Because,' replied the captain, 'it seemed to me that unless I did something to divert the minds of the people in the boat, there would probably be a panic. Then the boat would have been upset, for, as you know, it was over-crowded. My seemingly strange act attracted your attention. Watching me, you forgot your fright and your own danger for the moment, and so we got off in safety.'

Apparent folly is sometimes wisdom in disguise.

E. D.



THE PUFF-ADDER.

The Puff-adder is the most common, as well as the most deadly, of African snakes. It is generally about four feet long; the evil-looking head is broad and flat, while the body, which is as thick as a man's arm, tapers very suddenly towards the tail. The puff-adder is of a uniform brown colour, checked with bars of darker brown and white. It is slow and torpid in all its movements, and is peculiarly dangerous from its habit of lying half buried in the sandy track, not caring to move out of the way of passers-by, as other snakes generally do; still, if not molested or trodden upon, it does not attack man. If any unfortunate creature, however, should be bitten by this reptile, death occurs in a few hours. When irritated or alarmed, this snake has the power of swelling out the whole body, from which fact it derives its popular name.



McLEOD OF CLERE.

(Concluded from page 83.)

III.

It was Sports day at Oakwood School, a glorious 18th of June. Guests were gathering from near and far, and every lodging and primitive inn in the neighbouring villages was reaping a harvest from the invasion of relatives and friends of boys past and present. On the school tower, a landmark for miles, the house flag and the Union Jack floated proudly. The hundred boys looked a goodly sight below, clad alike in white with varying racing colours in broad sashes and ties.

It was Paul Fife's third term, and he had just been welcoming Captain Ferrers. 'I must go directly,' said the boy; 'I am in the sack race for boys under twelve. I must tie Boh up first, or he will come rushing after me and spoil my chance.'

Alert and active, Paul hurried off, and Captain Ferrers joined Dr. Rayne.

'So glad you think we are taking care of him,' said the Doctor. 'He is a favourite with us all; not quite a typical English boy yet, though. I am glad to see so many "old boys" here to-day, and parents too. Bless me, there's General McLeod of Clere; I have not seen him for years. It must bring back many sad memories: his son was here years ago, a splendid fellow—his death was a terrible blow,' and Dr. Rayne went off to speak to his old friend.

The bell rang for the sack race, and there was a general movement to the starting-post, where the eight small boys in for the final were standing, each tied up to the neck in his sack, ready for the start. The old General was keenly interested, and was standing immediately behind Paul.

The master starter yielded to the request, 'May we have our caps off?' and uncovered one after the other each little competitor's head. General McLeod made a hurried exclamation as the dark head before him was bared. Paul heard him, but had no time to look round, for with an 'Are you ready?—are you ready?—off!' the boys were started. Blundering, tumbling, struggling up again, they rounded the opposite post, and came hopping in, Paul an easy first. As he touched the winning tape, his uplifted face beaming with pride, the old General turned white to the lips, and stretching out his trembling hand he laid it on the head of the laughing boy, and gasped uncertainly, 'Miguel Sarreco!'

* * * * *

There was very earnest talk in the Head Master's study that night, between Dr. Rayne and the General and Captain Ferrers, glad of a quiet hour at last.

'If I might suggest it,' said Dr. Rayne, 'you should tell your story first, General; it may throw light on small things, which otherwise may escape my friend Ferrers's notice and remembrance of all concerning this poor little child.'

'I quite agree with you, and will reserve my story until after,' and Captain Ferrers sat down, listening eagerly while the General began.

'I must go back many years. My wife, as you know, Rayne, was of Portuguese descent, an ancestor of hers having married a senora in Lisbon, after the Peninsular war. She (my wife) inherited a little property there, and in some business connected with it I had met, at different times, a far distant connection of hers, Don Manuel Sarreco, with whom I became fast friends. About fifteen years ago I received an urgent message to go to him at once. I travelled day and night, only to find him dying—he had been mortally wounded in a duel. He knew me, and urged on me his last request, to take his two children and bring them up as my own in England. I hesitated, but his entreaties and the love I had for him prevailed, and I took on myself the charge. The eldest was a beautiful girl of seventeen, Miguel two years younger. They were wonderfully alike, only in the boy's case the raven black hair had a lock of white on one side, the "Sarreco streak," as it was proudly called, which appeared in the family generation after generation. I brought the children home with certain of their most cherished possessions, some fine riding-horses, and a pair of curious dogs of Andalusian breed.

'My son, Hugh (as you know) had joined the army, and having helped in the final subjugation of Burmah, was then stationed at Mandalay, in command of native troops. I sent the boy Miguel to Harton, and Inez rapidly picked up English at home. Two years later Hugh returned, as he had obtained a year's leave. To make a long story short, he fell in love with Inez, and they were married before he returned to Burmah.

'I ought to mention that, some months before, the addition of two fine puppies of the Andalusian stock had become the pride of our kennels: they were born the day of the wedding of the Princess Louise with the Duke of Fife, and were unanimously christened "Fife" and "Louise." The dog I saw to-day was the same breed. When Hugh and Inez went away, Fife was an important part of the luggage. We went to see them on board, waving good-byes as the vessel steamed away, and I never saw them again.'

The General's voice faltered and failed, but soon he resumed: 'You may perhaps remember the sad bathing accident at Harton School, of which no one quite knew the end. Miguel Sarreco was one of the two boys drowned; his dog, Louise, had apparently tried to save him, for their bodies were washed in together some hours after the accident. The boy had been the only young one left with us at Clere: he was the darling of us all. Judge, therefore, the shock I felt to-day when a face like his looked into mine, and his own dog apparently jumped as formerly round him.

'Inez was so shocked by the news that a change from Mandalay was suggested, and Hugh obtained the command of Fort Sardu, one of the outpost stations in the Shan States. The Dacoit attack on this fort you will remember. We were just rejoicing over a letter from Hugh, telling of the birth of a little son, when we were stunned by the ghastly news of the massacre of every living soul at Fort Sardu.

'I travelled out to Burmah at once, hoping against hope. But all had perished. A sentry near the jungle alone was living, sorely wounded. When questioned, he was delirious, but just before he died he had quieted, and said that Pahna, the Karen woman, had got away into the jungle, but her arm was wounded, and as she went he heard the wailing of a child, and a dog with burning hair had rushed out from one of the huts after her. No one could say if it was truth or delirium, but every inquiry was made. No such woman had been heard of, nor had she returned to any of the Karen encampments, so if she had got away she must have died in the jungle, they said. The body of an infant had been seen among the dead at the fort and buried with the others, so that the sentry's tale seemed but a myth.

'Many months later, a letter, delayed some while, reached me from my boy. It had been written the day after the child's birth apparently. I have it here. After some private matter he says: "Our little son is a fine fellow, very dark, and his thick black hair has the 'Sarreco streak' very visible, which Inez is absurdly delighted at. The English nurse has jungle fever, and is kept away, but Pahna, the Karen woman, is a splendid substitute: she is the wife of my faithful native servant. Pahna is devoted to 'Bebe Ingalay.' Her English is curious; Inez she usually called 'Missee Sahib,' but now she has got to 'Missee Mahkloo,' 'Thakin Mahkloo' meaning me—her nearest rendering of McLeod." You start, Captain Ferrers?'

'Yes; I will say why presently—please go on,' said Captain Ferrers. 'I cannot say how interested I am.'

'The letter goes on,' resumed the General: '"Inez hung the Ragged Cross, the 'Sarreco badge,' round the baby's neck for a few moments to dub him true 'Sarreco.' Pahna looks on it as a charm especially his own, and hangs it over his cot. 'Fife' watches the little one jealously, so he is well protected."

'That is practically all,' said the General, folding the thin letter reverently with hands that trembled; 'but I feel surer and surer—my heart tells me that the little boy Paul Fife must be my own flesh and blood. He is Miguel Sarreco's very image: the same haughty poise of the head, and lean, sinewy body; but when he speaks, the voice is my son's, and the curve of the lips his also.'

'I think I can help you,' said Captain Ferrers, rising. 'I have here in my pocket-book the exact description of the finding the dying woman and the child in the jungle as given me by the Tounghi, "Maung Yet"—he is still to be found, I believe, if more is required. Her dying words over and over were as you see: "Thakin Ingalay—Bebe—Mah Kloo." He took the last to be the woman's own name, and impressed me with the same idea. But it must be meant for Macleod. This alone, coupled with the white lock of hair, is almost proof-positive. But still further, the dog was there, and on his brass collar (which I removed at once, not to risk losing it) was the word "Fife," the name of his owner, we thought, and so we called the child Fife too. Last, but not least, I believe I have in safe keeping the veritable "Sarreco badge" you mention, a curious kind of gold cross, fastened to a thin gold chain. Maung Yet gave it to me as a charm found on the dead woman. I may add that these Karen women are wonderfully faithful; probably both husband and her own infant were slain early in the fight, and she had alone been able to take away the English baby, and had carried him all those weary miles, saving him only to die herself. The hardships endured are terrible to think of.'

There was a pause—the old General's head was bowed over his clasped hands. Then he rose to his full height and said: 'It is quite enough to assure me of what I felt sure of before. I thank God for all His mercy! and now I should just like to kiss my little grandson before I go. I will be here again early to-morrow.'

Captain Ferrers and Dr. Rayne, both frequent visitors at Clere, assert that the General grows younger. It may well be so, for the dark clouds of sorrow have lifted, and the sun shines for him with the laughter of a happy child. He can look hopefully forward now to life's evening. He is not the last of the McLeods.

MARTIA.



THE STARTLED HARES.

Four hares were at dinner one day— The sweetest of herbage was theirs— And as they all nibbled away They seemed to be rid of their cares; For the grass was so green and the sky was so blue, They had plenty to eat and nothing to do.

The sun shone so brightly that day, They did not think danger was near; The hunters and dogs were away, There was nothing around to cause fear. When, alas! from the sky there dropped with a plump, A something which made their poor hearts give a jump.



Poor Fred was knocked backward at once, And Charlie fell flat on the ground, While Peter stretched out his long legs And fled without making a sound; But Tom, who was boastful, cried, 'Stop! Don't you see, It is only a kite from its string broken free!

'Just let me catch hold of that boy, I'll give him a box on the ear— I'll teach him to fly his old kite Beside us, to cause us such fear.... Why, there is the boy! After all, I will wait— I must hurry off home, it is getting quite late!'

Then off with a rush went brave Tom, His heart beating loud with dismay; While Charlie, and Peter, and Fred Cried, 'Isn't Tom valiant to-day?' And the boy shook with laughter to see Tom in flight, For he knew that fine words never drive away fright!

D. B. M.



THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 87.)

CHAPTER XI.

The blacksmith, a tall, broad-shouldered man, wearing a leather apron, stood at the door with a hammer in his right hand, his shop being a kind of barn beneath a tall elm-tree, directly opposite the narrow lane, with a board signifying that it was a footpath to Barton. It was exactly the place I should have selected in order to get away from the main road had I known of its existence.

'Has the motor-car gone?' I inquired, stopping in front of the blacksmith's.

'Don't see much sign of it, do you?' he answered, rather gruffly.

'How long ago did it start?' I asked.

'About a quarter of an hour,' said the smith, and I saw that it would be useless to think of following it in the hope of overtaking Jacintha. Perhaps it was just as well, as she had suggested that her uncle might take me forcibly back to Mr. Turton, whose eagerness to bring me once more to Castlemore still furnished matter for surprise.

But still, even if I ran some risk, I was determined to lose no time in returning the locket to its owner, who had certainly done me a good turn. My direction, which a little while ago had appeared uncertain, was now decided for me, and henceforth, instead of directing my steps towards London, I aimed at reaching Hazleton, whence the journey could be continued with greater safety from pursuit.

'Can you tell me how far it is to Hazleton?' I asked before moving on from the smithy.

'Jim,' cried the blacksmith, turning towards a man who was hammering a horse-shoe, 'here's the champion walker wants to know how far to Hazleton.'

'About thirty miles,' said Jim.

'Which is the way?' I demanded.

'Bear to your left till you come to the main road,' said the smith, 'then take the left again.'

Having thanked the man, I walked on, still looking sharply out for Mr. Turton's cab, until I came to a small village with a green, on which a few boys were playing cricket. Here there were two forked roads, and after staying five minutes to watch the game, I followed that to the left. I took the precaution to place the locket in my empty watch-pocket for greater safety, and as I left the village behind, I took out all the money in my possession—four shillings and sevenpence—and counted it, although I knew perfectly well what it amounted to. Even if the weather remained fine, which appeared extremely doubtful, I could not hope to reach Hazleton in less than two days, and then I must hang about the entrance to Colebrook Park until I succeeded in seeing Jacintha alone. As to what was to happen after that, I did not trouble myself; Hazleton had now become my fixed destination, and by securing a free bed in the open air for two nights, I reckoned it would be possible to fare well on the way.

Now that I had set my back towards Barton, I felt perfectly safe from Mr. Turton, and the road became so hilly and beautiful, with woods and undulating fields on each hand, that it soon began to engage all my attention. Villages came close together, and, indeed, the only drawback that afternoon was the lowering sky, which certainly foreboded a bad night.

At about five o'clock I passed through a kind of model village, with some quaint cottages and a few nourishing shops, in one of whose windows I saw some extremely tempting-looking small pork pies. Having eaten only bread and cheese for dinner, I was beginning to feel ravenously hungry, so, entering the shop, I inquired the price.

'Twopence each,' said the girl behind the counter, 'fresh made this morning.'

'I will have one,' I answered, when it occurred to me that if I was going to sleep out of doors, it might be wise to buy two, keeping one in reserve for supper. Then I asked for a glass of milk, and as there was a penny change out of sixpence, I bought a large cake of chocolate.

On leaving the shop, the sky looked blacker and more threatening than ever, and I wondered whether Jacintha and her uncle had arrived home yet. Eating one of the pork pies as I walked on, I followed it by half the cake of chocolate, and then the rain began, with large drops, which made me dread a thunder-storm.

After a little while the rain ceased, however, and quickening my steps, I began to think I should be driven to pay for a night's lodging after all. Presently I came to a kind of open moor, covered with bracken, bramble, and brilliant patches of heath. A rabbit scampered across the road, but there was no one to be seen, although a railway ran close at hand through a cutting on the right. I could see the tops of the signal-posts and hear the rush of passing trains now and then. When I had walked a mile or more across the moor, the rain began again with flashes of vivid lightning and long rolls of thunder. I turned up my collar and buttoned my jacket, which was soon nearly wet through, and at last stood up in the wet bracken under a beech-tree. A more vivid flash of lightning, however, reminded me that I had heard of the danger of standing beneath trees in storms; so, plunging into the deluge again, I followed the road up a steep hill, in the hope of seeing a village, or some kind of shelter, from the crest.

But the only human habitation in sight was a solitary house, which looked curious enough amidst those lonely surroundings. It stood at the corner of a cross-road still several hundred yards distant, a new-looking house, built of red bricks, with a tiled roof, with a garden and railings in front. Determined to find shelter somewhere, I set off down the hill at a run, and, as I drew near the house, rejoiced to see that it was apparently empty. By the iron railings stood a black board, announcing that it was to be let unfurnished, while the wisps of straw about the path seemed to show that the tenants had but recently forsaken it, because of its lonely situation, no doubt. Opening the gate, I went up the stone steps and stood beneath a small porch before its front door, where at least I was out of the rain, which now poured down in torrents. On each side of the small porch was a shelf, evidently intended to support flower-pots, and underneath one of the shelves I saw an old sack.

This I picked up and examined, and finding that it was not very dirty, I thought there could be no harm in taking possession of it, for if the rain continued, the sack would serve the purpose of a cape to protect my shoulders. Placing it round them at once, I stood gazing at the rain, while the evening gradually darkened. The thunder sounded as if it were exactly overhead, and the lightning seemed to dance around me. Presently I began to wonder how to pass the night, since it would be madness to leave this shelter in the deluge, while yet I could not very comfortably remain where I was.

It must have been between seven and eight o'clock when a happy thought occurred. How idiotic to feel doubtful where to sleep when here was a whole house apparently at my disposal! It could not injure anybody if I made it a shelter for myself for the night, whereas it would be an immense boon to have a roof over one's head until the rain ceased—although it looked as if it never would leave off.

Drawing the sack over my head, I came forth from my shelter and inspected the front of the house, only to find that every window was securely fastened. Going round to the side gate of lattice-work, I found it unlocked, however, and made my way at once to the back garden. There, by great good fortune, was a window with the bottom pane broken, and having enlarged the hole, I was able to put in a hand and push back the fastener, so that to open the window and effect an entrance was the work of a few seconds.

Having shut the window, I looked about, and saw that I stood in a kind of breakfast-room, entirely empty; but on going to the adjoining kitchen, there was a heap of shavings and paper by a packing-case in one corner, and on this I determined to make a bed. The rain still pelted, the thunder rolled, and the lightning flashed, while the interior of the house seemed dismal and oppressive, I confess to a feeling of timidity which I had not experienced since I left Castlemore—such as, indeed, I had scarcely been conscious of in my life before. The evening was already dark, and the night promised to be absolutely black. When I went to the kitchen door and looked out into the stone-floored passage, I could scarcely see my hand before me, and there was no means of obtaining a light.

Returning to the kitchen, I shut the door, and, making the most of the still remaining light, I began to prepare my bed for the night, but as I turned the shavings a mouse ran over my hand, and for the moment I felt so startled that I walked to the farther side of the room.

There I began to persuade myself that there was no danger to be feared from a mouse, and presently, returning to the corner, I shook out the shavings and pieces of paper until they somewhat resembled the shape of a bed. A few minutes later, however, it seemed to become suddenly black, save when the flashes of lightning lighted the room, for, of course, the windows were without blinds. Sitting down on the bed, I determined to eat my supper and try to sleep, not caring how early I woke, so long as it was daylight. I congratulated myself on the possession of the second pork-pie and the chocolate, and lest the morning should prove as wet as the night, I only ate half of my provender, although I could very readily have dispatched the whole.

Then, having taken off my boots and spread the sack out to dry, I said my prayers and lay down at full length; but, instead of falling asleep at once, my thoughts turned to the past, and I seemed to live over again every interview I had ever had with Captain Knowlton. When I remembered his cheerful personality, it seemed impossible to realise that he could be dead, and yet by this time I had not the slightest hope of ever seeing him again. I tried to dwell on Mr. Bosanquet's encouraging words, but it was useless to-night as I lay watching the lightning; and, oppressed by grief at Captain Knowlton's loss, I could not keep back a few tears. Then I must have fallen asleep, for, I know not how much later, although the kitchen was still in total blackness, I found myself sitting up, and thinking for the moment that I was back in my room with Smythe and the other fellows at Mr. Turton's. Before I had quite realised the actual surroundings, I grew cold from head to foot, with that uncomfortable sensation called goose-flesh, as if every individual hair were standing on end. My teeth began to chatter as I strained my ears to listen.

There could be no doubt about it. I could distinctly hear a low, pitiful weeping apparently just above my head. That the sounds came from some human being in intense distress I entertained no doubt whatever, and yet, inconsistently enough, I felt frightened out of my wits. Rising, I felt my way by the empty dresser to the door, and there stood listening. Still the melancholy sound continued; such a dismal wailing as I had never heard before. How I longed for the day to break, or even for the lightning, which had now ceased, although in unison with the sounds of continuous weeping I heard the rain beating against the window-panes.

Afraid to open the door, feeling that I would gladly endure any penalty in exchange for a box of matches, I did not make the least attempt to go to sleep again, but stood close to the kitchen window on the look-out for the first sign of dawn. Never had time seemed to pass so slowly. The sounds of mice in one corner made me shudder, and for once in my life I was thoroughly and shamefully terrified.

The first shade of grey on the ceiling caused a feeling of intense relief, and I began to upbraid myself for timidity. As the light gained brightness, courage returned, and when at last it was day, although nothing could have appeared much more dismal than the outlook from the window, I determined to pull myself together and to make a tour of inspection.

(Continued on page 102.)



THE BEST BEGINNING.

Gustavus Adolphus, King of Sweden, was not only an excellent ruler and fine general, but deeply religious.

On one occasion, at the beginning of a great war, he landed his troops in Germany. Directly he landed in the early morning, after giving some necessary orders to some of his officers, he retired a few paces from them and knelt down to pray. He noticed that this action on his part appeared to surprise some of his men; whereupon he said, 'The man who has finished his prayers has done one half of his daily work.'



PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

5.—ARITHMOGRAPH.

A word of ten letters; a woman's name.

1.—4, 8, 7, 10. A great river. 2.—7, 1, 3, 4. Not fat. 3.—7, 8, 10, 5, 6. A vassal, or the lord to whom he is bound. 4.—2, 1, 3, 7. Young meat. 5.—2, 8, 7, 10. Very bad. 6.—9, 3, 8, 7. A horny substance; and a small, pointed piece of metal. 7.—5, 6, 4, 10, 2, 3. A city in Switzerland. 8.—9, 3, 2, 10. The body of a church. 9.—5, 3, 8, 9.—Something obtained.

C. J. B.

[Answer on page 130.]

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 58.

3.—1. Bucharest. 2. Rouen. 3. Brunswick. 4. Budapest. 5. Santiago. 6. San Francisco. 7. Benares. 8. Prague 9. Valparaiso. 10. Nantes.

4.—Amble-side, in the Lake District, near which place lived Wordsworth, Dr. Arnold, and Harriet Martineau.



THE INDIAN'S CONSCIENCE.

An Indian once asked his neighbour for some tobacco. The neighbour put his hand in his pocket and gave him a handful. The next morning the Indian came again, and brought a quarter-dollar which he had found between the tobacco. The neighbour was surprised at such honesty, and asked the Indian why he had not kept the money.

'It is just like this,' he answered. 'In my heart I have a good man and a bad man. The good man said, "The money does not belong to you; give it back to its owner." The bad man said, "It has been given to you; it belongs to you." The good man replied, "That is not true, and such conduct is evil; the tobacco belongs to you, but the money belongs to him who has given it away by mistake; you must give it back again." The bad man answered, "Think no more about it, and do not let such a trifle disturb you. Keep the money." I was in doubt as to which voice of my heart I should listen to. At last I lay down in bed, but the good man and the bad man quarrelled so all the night in my heart that I had no peace, so I felt obliged to bring you back your money.'



THE LIME OR LINDEN.

The Lime, or Linden, is very notable amongst our trees on account of its beauty and usefulness, and also because it will grow anywhere. It is especially a London tree, for we see it in parks, squares, many private gardens, and along some roads in the metropolis. But the smoke of London seldom allows the tree to attain its full size. Often the stroller in July, passing along a road or lane, becomes suddenly aware of a delicious scent floating upon the summer breeze. He looks up, to find this perfume comes from a lime, putting forth its clusters of flowers upon their leafy branches—flowers to which, by day or night, crowds of bees, flies, and other insects resort. About the suburbs of London the lively sparrows often have their assemblies in lime or plane-trees; and in most years, the London limes, towards autumn, put forth a few fresh leaves.

The lime is a hardy tree, and flourishes even in the cold regions of Sweden and Russia. It is supposed to have been introduced to Britain by the Romans, who brought trees and plants into these islands from various countries where the Roman banners had been carried. Amongst the Swiss, this tree has been regarded as an emblem of liberty, and planted for a memorial. From the lime, called in Sweden 'lind,' the greatest of our early botanists took his name; it was chosen by him because a large lime-tree overhung his father's house, and so he has always been known as Linnaeus.

'Linden' comes from the Swedish name, but 'lime' is an ignorant mistake, which cannot be altered now. Properly, the tree belongs to the citron family, akin to the orange and lemon, and the other name of the linden seems at first to have been 'line,' because the bark was used for making cord and other lines.

From 'bast,' as the inner bark is called, a great number of mats are made in Russia, and sent all over Europe; a small quantity is also woven in Lincolnshire and Monmouthshire. Hats and shoes have been made from lime-bark, and the solid wood is serviceable in many ways. It has supplied bowls, plates, sounding-boards for pianos; and some beautiful carving—that of Gibbons, for example—has been executed in lime-wood. It is white, but very tough when properly dried.

A handsome tree when solitary, the lime is particularly beautiful in an avenue. There is a famous avenue of large size at Ware Park, and another remarkable one in the Cathedral yard at Winchester.



CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

III.—PROFESSOR CHARLES' FIRST VOYAGE.

Notwithstanding the superior power of Professor Charles' gas balloon, the Montgolfiers stuck to their hot air, 'for,' said they, 'see how much cheaper it is, and how much more quickly the balloon can be inflated—about ten minutes against three days.' So, in answer to frequent demands, their air-ships sailed into the skies, and even the applause of royal hands increased the uproar with which each successful experiment was greeted.

On the morning of September 19th, 1783, the road between Paris and Versailles was crowded to excess. The stream of carriages seemed endless, and the eager throng pushed its way between the vehicles till there was hardly room for horse or man to move. The windows all along the route were full of faces, while the house-tops themselves were invaded by sight-seers. And all this excitement was because the King had commanded Stephen Montgolfier to send a balloon up from the gardens at Versailles. This time, however, there were to be passengers, and as no human being had ever breathed the upper air before, it was questioned whether he could do so and live. The pioneers, therefore, should not be human, and in due course a cock, a sheep, and a goose were chosen. These were the first living passengers in the cloud-cruisers, and after a voyage at a great height, of eight minutes in duration, they returned to the earth in perfect health. But what bird or animal could have wondered if, after that 19th of September, they had quacked, and crowed, and bleated with more pride than before?

Then Montgolfier was busier still, and on November 21st, in a fire-balloon specially decorated for such a great occasion, two gentlemen, named Pilatre de Rozier and D'Arlande, made the first ascent. Of the former of these we shall have to speak again.

But as hot air, as a means of flight, has been surpassed by hydrogen gas, we ought to give more attention here to the grand voyage made eleven days later by Professor Charles and his skilful helper, M. Robert. During the preparations all went well. The balloon was made and fitted at the Tuileries, with a lovely car in the shape of a fairy's boat, bright with blue panels and golden ornaments. But when things had gone thus far, trouble began.

On November 29th a rumour (too soon confirmed) ran through Paris that the King forbade the ascent to be made. At midnight Charles was aroused from sleep and summoned to appear before a high official, who presented him with the royal order to give up his project. We may readily believe that after this he passed a restless night, and his trouble became harder to bear when his enemies whispered that he himself had asked for the order to be made because, at the last moment, his courage had failed him. Sad to say, such whispers as these will travel as fast and far as shouts of praise, and Professor Charles felt thoroughly depressed. But there was some comfort in the heavy rain that fell, for no one could expect the balloon to ascend in such weather, and before the clouds cleared away perhaps his difficulties would clear away too.

The King, however, was deaf to all appeals; maybe he thought Professor Charles was too valuable to France to run the risk of being killed. But if this was the reason, there were four hundred thousand people in Paris who did not agree with him, and when the next morning broke quite cloudless, they gathered at the Tuileries in a somewhat impatient manner. Who was to be obeyed, the people or the King? Well, up to the last minute Professor Charles would not decide. The arrangements were continued. The great balloon was moved into the open space, with a small one, five and a half feet in diameter, beside it. This was to be sent up first, to see if the air was sufficiently quiet. The rope which controlled it was placed in the hand of Stephen Montgolfier, 'for,' said Professor Charles, 'it was you who first showed us the way to the clouds.' At a signal given, M. Montgolfier cut the rope, and for a moment the attention of the spectators was engrossed by this little pioneer as it rose into the blue above them.

Finally, at a quarter past one, M. Charles made up his mind to keep his promise to the people, and disobey the King for once, and, accompanied by M. Robert, stepped into the blue and golden car. Amid a deafening tumult, that must have been heard at Versailles, they rose slowly into the air. His own description of the voyage has been preserved, and as he was a man who could describe what he felt and saw (and let all 'chatterboxes' know that this is harder than it seems), no story could be more interesting. They rose straight up for one thousand eight hundred feet, and then hung poised in the air. The view was entrancing, and as the aeronauts looked down at the Tuileries and the buzzing crowd, Professor Charles felt as though he had escaped from a swarm of wasps ready to sting him without mercy if he failed to please them. However, his troubles from that point of view were over, and he turned his thoughts to the delights of his voyage. Presently they heard the report of a cannon, which meant that the people of Paris could no longer see them. Far below, like a silver brook, wound the river Seine, and twice the balloon floated across it. Village after village drifted away beneath them, till, at the end of two happy hours, they settled in a broad meadow at Nesle, twenty-seven miles from Paris. Here they were joined by three Englishmen who had ridden after them from Paris on horseback. These Englishmen, together with the village clergyman, signed Professor Charles' papers to prove that they had witnessed his descent, while the awestruck peasants gathered round and helped to hold the balloon.

The sun had already set, but the gas was not all gone, and so Professor Charles went up once more, this time alone. He clapped his hands as a signal to the peasants to let go, and ten minutes later was soaring at a height of nine thousand feet. In that ten minutes he had passed from an atmosphere of spring to that of winter; for although it was December 1st, it was warm weather on the earth. Perfect silence was around him, and when he clapped his hands the noise was quite startling. As already stated, the sun had set when he left the earth, but now he saw it again just above the far horizon. All below was dark with shadow, and on him and his balloon alone the sun was shining. Delighted by these new experiences, he turned his eyes in all directions. Not a human being was visible, not a human voice could be heard, and while he looked and listened the sun sank out of sight once more. Professor Charles, for the first time in his life, had seen two sunsets in one day. Perhaps he thought that was enough, for he pulled the valve-line, and a few minutes later alighted in a field two miles from his starting-place, and the home of one of the Englishmen. The next morning he and Robert entered Paris in triumph, and a few hours later, through another gate, the balloon entered in triumph too, being escorted by bands of music and crowds of people.



The kind old King evidently forgave Professor Charles for disobeying him, for he immediately presented him with a pension, and first-class lodgings in the Tuileries, where he continued his studies till his death in 1823.

JOHN LEA.



THE JEALOUS KITTENS.

When Jack and Tom were little kits, No settled home had they; But Mother found within the barn A hamper full of hay, And there she took her children two, And told them what they ought to do.

She said, 'Now, darlings, make no noise, And if you do no harm, And learn your business, you will live In comfort at the farm. Just catch a mouse—for that's your trade— And then your fortune will be made.'

Now, when the kits were left alone They soon began to play, For neither cats nor children can Be busy all the day; But as they tossed the hay about, A little mouse came creeping out!

'Look! look!' cried Jack, with eager eyes. 'I see!' cried Tom, 'I see! You go and seek another mouse, And leave this mouse to me.' 'Indeed, I won't!' cried Jack at once; 'You surely take me for a dunce!

'That mouse is mine—I saw it first; So, Tom, away you go, And let me tackle it at once, And lay the rascal low.' But naughty Tom would not submit; He said, 'It's mine—I'll capture it.'

But while they quarrelled loud and long, They quite forgot their prey, And when at last they made it up Miss Mouse had slipped away— For if you fight and disagree, You ne'er will catch the enemy.



THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 95.)

CHAPTER XII.

The most probable explanation of the noise I had heard seemed to be that the house had not after all been empty—indeed, it could not be empty! Although the regular occupants had gone they might have left some one behind as a caretaker, who certainly must be in the depths of despair. Heedless of the fact that my presence might be resented, I opened the kitchen door, crossed the stone-paved passage, and going up a few stairs, came to a fair-sized hall. Here there were four doors, one leading out to the porch where I had found shelter yesterday afternoon, one to a room right at the back, and two which apparently opened respectively into the drawing-room and dining-room.

As the front room was above the kitchen I determined to try that first, for thence the weird sounds of the night had seemed to come. Advancing rather nervously towards it, I gathered sufficient courage to turn the handle, when, discovering that the door had been locked from the outside, I began to hesitate about turning the key.

Unless somebody had been shut in by mistake, how had he or she obtained admission? But as I stood there hesitating, I suddenly broke into a laugh of perfect relief. The truth now seemed plain enough. I could hear scampering feet, and an eager whine, which ended in an impatient bark. Opening the door, I saw a small rough-coated terrier with a patch by his tail; bounding forward he began to yelp and spring and fawn upon me, licking my hands and showing every sign of joy and satisfaction.

I think my own pleasure was almost equal to the terrier's. It is impossible to make any one understand the intense joy of finding a companion after the night I had passed. Although he looked rather thin, his condition did not suggest that he had been locked up longer than a day or two; but picking him up in my arms while he whined and licked my face, I carried him downstairs, and turning on the tap over the sink let him drink as much water as he wished. Fortunately I had still half of the pork-pie in my pocket, and it was good to see him eat it bit by bit from my hand. It was true that my remaining small piece of chocolate made an unsatisfactory breakfast, and that the terrier eyed me a little reproachfully even when I ate that, but he would not leave me for an instant, and in less than half an hour it seemed as if he had belonged to me all my life.

'What's your name, old chap?' I asked, and he wagged his stump of a tail as if he would have told me if he could. 'Anyhow,' I said, 'you must have a name of some sort. What shall it be?'

It took some time to decide upon a suitable name, and then we did not arrive at anything more original than 'Patch.' Having settled this pressing question, I stripped to the waist and had a good wash at the sink, drying myself as well as I could on the shavings which had served as a bed. By this time the rain had almost ceased, and I began to think that it might be advisable to get outside the house before I chanced to be seen. So, having got through the window with Patch in my arms, I shut it again and was going round to the front when I saw that the terrier was poking his muzzle into every nook and corner, as if in search of his lawful owner.

Still, he came to my whistle, and not forgetting the sack, I went round to the front of the house, standing under the porch at the top of the steps until presently the rain entirely ceased, the clouds broke, and the sun shone in a feeble kind of way.

The first order of the day was breakfast, then to make my way to Hazleton with the object of returning Jacintha's locket. With the sack rolled up beneath my arm, with Patch running excitedly around me, I set forth along the muddy road across the moor. Having left this behind and followed a winding lane for some distance, we seemed to be approaching a village. Passing one or two houses, we crossed over a railway bridge, passed a dozen or more cottages, and then, at the corner of two roads, I saw what appeared to be a kind of mixture between a temperance hotel and a mission hall.

After the various escapades through which I had passed since leaving Castlemore, my clothes were in a sad condition, my boots especially being coated with mud, so that for a moment I shrank from entering the building. Summoning courage, however, I pushed open the door and found myself in a bare-looking room with several large illuminated texts on the walls, and three wooden tables, at one of which a man was seated drinking a cup of tea.

A clock over the mantelpiece showed that it was a quarter-past ten, although I had thought it considerably later. As Patch followed me into the room, leaving damp footmarks on the clean linoleum, a short thin-faced woman, with fair hair drawn very tightly back, entered from the opposite door with a wet dish in one hand and a cloth in the other.

'We can't have dogs in here!' she cried by way of greeting.

'Will it matter if I nurse him?' I asked.

'If he doesn't spoil my floor,' she answered, and as I took Patch up in my arms she added, 'What is it you want?'

'I should like some breakfast.'

'Tea and bread and butter?' she asked.

'How much are eggs?' I inquired.

'Three-halfpence each. Tea a penny the cup, bread and butter a halfpenny a slice.'

I made a hasty calculation in my mind, and being extremely hungry determined to spend sixpence, though it made a rather serious inroad into my remaining four shillings and a penny.

'I will have two boiled eggs, four slices of bread and butter, and a cup of tea,' I answered. Soon afterwards, while I sat with Patch on my knees, the other customer left the room. When the woman returned with my breakfast and received the sixpence in exchange, I was agreeably surprised by her altered manner. At first she had created an unfavourable impression, but now as I ate she stood watching with kindly interest, presently remarking, however, that it was beginning to rain again.

'How far is it to Hazleton?' I asked.

'Close on twenty-six miles,' she answered.

'I was told that it was thirty yesterday,' I said, 'and I know I have walked ten miles since.'

'Are you walking to Hazleton?' she inquired.

'Yes.'

'Well, you won't be able to get far on your way in this rain,' she replied, and indeed it was again coming down in torrents. 'We make up beds here,' she added. While she was speaking, a small, fair-headed child of four or five years ran into the room, and, encouraged by the way the woman caught him up and kissed him, I thought that I would confide in her.

'You see,' I explained, 'I have only three and sixpence to last me to Hazleton, and this weather I can't get along very quickly—that is the worst of it.'

She pursed her lips as she looked into my face. 'Well,' she answered, 'I can give you a bed for sixpence if you're not too particular. Then there's dinner——'

'I shall not care about dinner,' I said, feeling perfectly satisfied after two eggs and four thick slices of bread and butter, 'if I could have some bread and cheese for supper.'

Finally, she agreed to give me some tea in the afternoon, some supper, a bed, and a plain breakfast the following morning, for one and ninepence; this would leave the same sum to carry me to Hazleton, beyond which my plans did not at present extend. The woman, moreover, offered to tie Patch up in an out-house and give him some scraps, and later in the day she said that if I would go to bed early she would wash my shirt, which sadly needed such attention. Altogether it seemed that I had found a friend; and as the rain did not cease all day, I amused myself reading such books as the place contained. At six o'clock I had supper and went to bed, putting everything but my cap and cloth clothes outside my door, where, after a long night's sleep, I found them nicely ironed and folded. On coming downstairs, I borrowed some boot-brushes, so that on Wednesday morning I set out looking far more respectable than I had done on my arrival, in excellent spirits, with one and ninepence in my pocket and Patch at my heels.

A short distance from the reading-room, or whatever it ought to be called, I met a postman who told me it was only twenty-three miles to Hazleton, although, after I had covered quite four miles more, a member of the county police told me it was still twenty-two miles. Seeing that it would be impossible in any event to reach Colebrook Park to-day, although I could easily manage the distance to-morrow, I did not hurry, but, the sun being hot, allowed Patch several rests by the way, until on making another inquiry at about half-past five that evening, I was informed that Hazleton was still eighteen miles distant.

Although the day had been fine, the ground was still wet, far too wet to sleep out of doors with comfort. I had economised as much as possible, but walking is hungry work, and now I found myself with only one and fourpence by way of capital. The consequence was that a free lodging of some kind must be discovered, and I looked about vainly for another empty house.

At about six o'clock I happened to pass a farm; a good-natured-looking man stood leaning against a gate, smoking a pipe.

'Should you mind if I were to sleep in one of those barns?' I asked.

'On the tramp?' he exclaimed.

'To Hazleton,' I said.

'Pretty near twenty miles.'

'No one seems to know exactly how far it is,' I answered, and he chuckled as he puffed at his pipe. Then he began to eye me inquisitively, and presently, knocking out his pipe with a good deal of deliberation, he turned and walked away. I was beginning to feel that I had met with a rebuff, when he looked back and told me to follow him.

'Better pick up that terrier,' he said, 'because of the chickens.'

With Patch in my arms I followed the farmer round the house to an empty shed behind.

'You can have a shake-down here if you don't mind being locked in,' he said; and, although I would rather not have had the key turned, I at once consented. It was a large shed, and quite clean and fresh, but entirely bare. When I had been there about half an hour a maid opened the door, with a plate of cold beef and potatoes in her hand, and she stayed talking while Patch and I shared the meal. Soon after she had gone, taking the plate and knife and fork, the farmer came again, followed by a man with an armful of straw.

'I shall not lock you up,' he said, 'though I have been done so often you can't tell whom to trust and whom not. If you go to the back door to-morrow morning, you will get some breakfast.'

I have slept in more comfortable places, but still the shed was quite as good as anything I had a right to expect, while Patch's presence proved the greatest comfort. He lay down close beside me, artfully taking advantage of the straw, and when I felt very lonely—for I could not get to sleep for some time—I put out a hand and felt his coat.

(Continued on page 106.)



THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 103.)

It was half-past six the next morning when I went to the farmer's back door, where the rough-looking maid provided me with a cup of coffee and a chunk of bread and butter, then, followed by Patch, I set out that Thursday morning on the road to Hazleton. The weather could not have been better, although the middle of the day promised to be excessively hot.

As I trudged along the pleasant road, I had some wild idea of reaching Hazleton that evening, but this was soon destroyed, for about a mile from the farm where we had slept, I noticed that Patch was limping. Sitting down on a heap of stones by the roadside, I looked at his near hind paw, and saw that it was nastily cut, so that he could only walk in great pain. I suppose he had trodden on a piece of glass in the road.

Now I realised that I was in an awkward plight. Of course, Patch must on no account be left behind; but, on the other hand, how was I to get him along? Tearing a piece off the edge of the sack, I frayed out some of the thread and made a kind of bag, which I put over the wounded paw, tying it round the leg. This took some time, and, as the job was finished and Patch was licking my hand by way of thanks, I saw a large van approaching from the direction of the farm, driven by one of the fattest men I had ever seen. The cart was laden with bottles of ginger-beer and mineral waters, but, as it passed us by, at a fair pace, a nosebag, which was tied behind, fell off into the road.

The driver, alone in the van, was entirely unaware of his loss until, rising from the heap of stones, I shouted to him to stop, and, picking up the nosebag, ran after the van. Pulling up his horse, he leaned down to take the bag, and then asked where I was going.

'To Hazleton,' I answered, as usual.

'That is about seventeen miles,' he said.

'The worst of it is,' I continued, 'my dog has cut his foot and can't walk.'

'Like a lift, doggie?' asked the fat driver.

'We should most awfully!' I exclaimed, eagerly.

'Well, now, listen to me,' was the answer. 'My round doesn't take me as far as Hazleton, but I am going to Watcombe, and that's ten miles short. We shall not get there much afore evening, because you see I have to travel a good bit out of the main road, and stop at ever so many places on the way.'

At any rate, the proffered lift would take me within ten miles of Colebrook Park, whereas without such help I did not see how I was to get even so far unless I carried Patch in my arms. Besides, the drive was tempting in itself, the only drawback being that my remaining capital of one and fourpence would have to bear an extra strain, and, in case of more bad weather, it would probably be exhausted before I reached my destination. However, in a very few moments Patch and I were seated on the top of a wooden box full of lemonade bottles, the fat driver whipped up his horse, and we sped gaily along the country road.



CHAPTER XIII.

As I sat on the box of lemonade bottles, with a hand on Patch lest he should show a desire to jump down from the van, I noticed that he was sniffing curiously at the back of the driver's coat; and presently the driver in his turn began to look with equal interest at the terrier.

'He seems to know you,' I remarked.

'Come to that,' was the answer, 'I seem to know him. Looks to me most uncommon like Mr. Westrop's dog, he does.'

'Who is Mr. Westrop?' I inquired, holding Patch more tightly.

For a few minutes, without answering (for the fat driver was slow of speech and spoke in a deep voice which seemed to come from the direction of his boots), he divided his attention between the horse and the dog, and then fixed his small eyes on my face.

'The question is,' he said slowly, 'where did you get him?'

'You see, I found him,' I replied.

'Mr. Westrop's been in a bad way about his dog,' continued the driver. 'A very bad way. What do you think about it, Sam, old chap?'

The terrier, to my sorrow, showed what he thought about it by wagging his stumpy tail and whining with satisfaction, so that it would have been ridiculous to attempt to persuade myself that he failed to recognise the name of 'Sam.'

'I know most people betwixt here and Barton,' said the driver, laying his whip gently across the horse. 'Come to that, so I ought.'

'Do you live at Barton?' I asked, thinking of Mr. Turton and Augustus, and their wasted drive to that town.

'Just this side,' was the answer. 'That's where our factory is—half a mile this side of Barton. And every day of every week, for fifteen years or more, I've driven round the country with this van.'

'Are you going back to-night?' I inquired.

'Why, of course,' he exclaimed. 'Back by the straight road, after I've done my round.'

We had already left the wider road, and as the driver spoke he pulled up the horse at the door of a small rustic inn. Fastening his reins to a hook on his seat, he slowly dismounted, took a box of bottles from the van, carried it into the inn, returning after a short interval with the same box filled by a similar number of empty bottles. Then he climbed up to his seat again, unhooked the reins, and cried 'Gee-up' to the horse, which at once started at a smart trot along the lane.

'Now about this dog,' he began. 'Mr. Westrop used to live at the Beacon on Ramleigh Forest—I can remember before the house was built. He moved out last Friday to a house near Barton, and sure enough he has lost his terrier. Where did you find him? That's what I should like to know.'

'I don't know whether the house was called the Beacon,' I answered, 'because I didn't see any name. Patch had got locked in the drawing-room.'

'Well, now!' cried the driver, 'who would have thought the dog was fool enough for that! Locked in the drawing-room, were you, Sam, old chap? And how did you get him out?'

When at some length I explained how I had been caught in the storm, and sought shelter in the empty house, and slept in the kitchen, and had been frightened by the ghostly noises in the middle of the night, the driver leaned forward and laughed so uproariously that I felt afraid lest he should fall from his seat on to the horse: and as soon as his merriment permitted him to speak, he turned to me with his great red face redder than ever.

'Well,' he cried, 'you are a nice young man for a small party, you are! A nice young burglar, to be sure! Going and breaking into people's houses, cool as you please, and stealing their dogs. Howsoever,' he added, 'Mr. Westrop will be no end glad when I take Sam back to him to-night.'

I clasped Patch more closely.

'You're—you are not going to take him back?' I said.

'Why, what do you think?' he demanded. 'You wouldn't go and keep a dog that didn't belong to you!'

I am afraid I might have been tempted to keep Patch or Sam, whichever he ought to be named, on any terms, if circumstances had permitted; and useful as the lift on my way had appeared, I began to regret that I had ever seen the driver or his van. But before I had time to reply we were pulling up in front of another inn, where another box of mineral waters was carried in, and a box of empty bottles was brought out.

'Not but what,' the driver continued, 'I am sorry to take the dog from you, because he is just the sort you could soon grow fond of—aren't you, Sam? But right is right,' said the driver, looking straight in front of him, as he laid the whip on his horse.

During the next two hours we stopped at numerous inns, and I might have been able to enjoy the drive through the country lanes, and the remarks which the driver exchanged with almost every one we met, if it had not been for the necessity of restoring Patch to his rightful owner. It was impossible to pretend that the driver had not right on his side, but the fact remained that the terrier's companionship had become very valuable, and I would have borne a great deal rather than give him up. On the other hand, I began to persuade myself that it would have been perhaps difficult to keep him in London, especially if I succeeded in obtaining work as quickly as I hoped, when necessarily I should be occupied most of the day.

When we stopped at a more important inn at one o'clock, the driver took from beneath his seat two plates, one covering the other, and tied up in a clean napkin. Without a moment's hesitation, he offered to share his meal with me, and there appeared to be quite enough rabbit-pie for two. After dinner, as we drove on again, he became more talkative, and asked a good many questions about myself, with the result that he soon learned where I was going after I left Hazleton, and how much money I had in my pockets, though I did not mention the gold locket.

'Now where did you think of sleeping to-night?' he asked, and I told him that I intended to wait to see what might turn up in the way of shelter. 'You see,' he continued, 'I always like fair play. Fair play is a jewel. It was you who found the dog, though you had no business to have been on the spot, so to speak. But Mr. Westrop is pretty sure to give me a tip for bringing Sam back, and I don't see why you should not have your share.'

'Oh, that is all right,' I answered.

'Of course it is, because I am going to make it all right,' he said. 'I told you I would set you down at Watcombe, ten miles from Hazleton; but half a mile short of that my sister-in-law lets lodgings. I will speak to her, and arrange that you shall have some supper and a bed and breakfast, and then I think we can cry quits, eh—what do you say?'

I said that it was very kind of him, and he proved as good as his promise. The house was not particularly tempting-looking, but, at all events, it was far better than no place to sleep in. I climbed down from the van, followed by Patch, from whom I was so soon to part, and accompanied the driver into a kind of kitchen, where a tall, stout woman in a cotton dress was busily employed as we entered. She glanced at me once or twice while the driver carried on a whispered conversation and handed her some money. Then she went out at a back door and returned with a piece of rope.

'This is the only bit I can find,' she said.

'That's enough,' answered the driver, and, going down on his knees, he whistled to Patch, who went obediently, and stood wagging his tail while a loop was fastened round his neck. I followed when the driver led him out at the door, lifting him into the van, and tying the end of the rope to the rail behind his own seat. Standing on an empty box, Patch looked down at me and whimpered, so that I climbed on to one of the wheels to pat his coat and hold his muzzle as a last good-bye. The driver mounted to his seat and unhooked the reins.

'Down you jump!' he cried. 'So long! be good!' and, whipping up his horse, he drove away, while Patch began to run about on the top of the box, and strained at the rope as if he were as sorry to leave me behind as I was to let him go.

(Continued on page 117.)



THE REASON WHY.

Louis XIV., King of France, was very fond of playing at chess. One day he was having a game with one of his courtiers, and during the game made a false move, to which his adversary respectfully called his attention. The King, who did not easily suffer contradiction, did not wish to acknowledge that he was wrong, and appealed to the noblemen who surrounded the table, but none of them made any reply. Just then the Duke de Grammont came into the room, and immediately the King saw him he appealed to him, and wished to explain to him the subject of the dispute, but the Duke hardly allowed him to finish.



'Your Majesty is certainly wrong,' he said, with a firmness of tone which astonished the King, and caused him to frown.

'How do you know that I am wrong, Monsieur le Duc?' replied the King; 'you have not even given me time to explain to you what the question was.'

'I know undoubtedly,' replied the Duke of Grammont, 'for all these gentlemen, whom your Majesty was consulting at the moment I arrived, only replied by their silence. They would every one have hastened to take your part if your Majesty had been right.'

The King was struck with the sense of this argument, and admitted that he had made a mistake.



INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

III.—HOW BUTTERFLIES, FLIES, AND SNAILS FEED.

(Concluded from page 78.)

When the method of feeding employed by the Snail is compared with that of the Butterfly or the common Fly, a very striking difference in the construction of the mouth-parts will be noticed. The common snail (fig. D), for example, feeds by the constant licking, or rather rasping, motion of a very wonderful tongue—a tongue which, stretched out, appears to be longer than the whole body! Yet only a small portion of this curious organ is in use at one time.



This tongue (fig. F) consists of a long flat ribbon, or 'radula,' as it is called, the surface of which is beset by a series of minute teeth, set in rows across the ribbon. The number of these teeth varies greatly in the different species of Mollusca—the group to which the snail belongs. In some there may be as few as sixteen; in others, in some relatives of our garden snail, for example, there may be as many as forty thousand! The working portion of this ribbon is fixed to a sort of tough cushion, which, by means of muscles, can be drawn forward and protruded from the mouth, where it is worked backwards and forwards with a licking or rasping action that effectually scrapes away, in a fine pulp, the edge of the cabbage leaf on which the creature is feeding. The teeth serve, in fact, the same purpose as the horny spines on the tongue of the lion, or, on a small scale, of the cat. You all must have noticed how rough a cat's tongue is when, in a burst of affection, pussy insists on licking your hand. If she went on licking long enough she would wear away the skin. As the snail's teeth wear away in front they are replaced from the reserve store which is kept in a sort of pocket, which lies behind the 'cushion' in the drawing of a section of a snail's head (fig. E). It is here that new teeth are being constantly formed, and pushed forward to supply those lost.



In this drawing, by the way, you will notice a long arrow (A-B): this marks the passage which the food takes from the mouth to the gullet, and thence to the stomach. The head of the arrow points towards the snail's interior.

In many mollusca, the teeth, instead of resembling one another throughout the series, are of different kinds, very large and very small teeth alternating one with another in endless variety.

The horny jaws, to which reference has been made, are generally not conspicuous; but in the Cuttle-fish and Octopuses they are of huge size, and have been aptly compared to the beak of a parrot. But we must return to this subject again on another occasion, for it is one of quite unusual interest.



AN OLD-FASHIONED GRACE.

This little 'grace before meat' was written two hundred and fifty years ago by Robert Herrick, a Devonshire clergyman who became a famous poet. 'Paddocks' is an old name for 'frogs,' and 'benison' means blessing; 'heaving up' means 'lifting up in prayer.'

Here a little child I stand, Heaving up my either hand; Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, For a benison to fall On our meat and on us all.—Amen.



CURIOUS NAMES IN LONDON CITY.

Time and progress have swept away many of the old streets, lanes, and alleys for which London City was remarkable. Most of them had names with a meaning, though it is sometimes difficult to find this out now. One reason is that, as the years went on, names often got altered in very odd ways. There were few of what might be called 'fancy' names, such as are now often given to new streets or roads. Frequently a name arose from the business of the people who lived in the street, or perhaps it kept in remembrance some notable person who had a house there. Occasionally it happened that a lane or alley had several names, and it is not easy to tell which is the oldest. The citizens sometimes gave two or three streets the same name.

When it could be done, old names have been kept, or not much altered, though the street is changed. Old-time Londoners would stare at Cannon Street of nowadays, so different from the Candle-wick or Candlewright Street of the past, where lived dealers in tapers and candles. It is said that Paternoster Row got its name from the fact that stationers and writers had shops there, who sold, among other things, copies of the Lord's Prayer. It had an Amen Corner, and Creed Lane is also near. Afterwards mercers and lacemen invited customers to shops in the Row, and finally it became famous for books and magazines.

Chancery Lane and Fetter Lane still keep the old names they had when their appearance was not that of streets or business thoroughfares, but quiet lanes between Holborn and Fleet Street, dotted with private houses. Fetter Lane had nothing to do with fetters or prisoners; it was so called because 'fewters,' or idle persons, were often found lurking amongst the back gardens. One of the short turnings out of this lane had the odd name of Three Leg Alley; nobody seems to know why. It is supposed that Gracechurch Street is a reminder of a church in the locality, St. Benet's, Grasschurch, thus called because near the church was a herb-market, where wild or garden plants were sold. Occasionally the name is found in books written by chance as Gracious Street. At first the Gresham Street of our day was called Cateaton Street, but an old writer about London states that this was also shortened to 'Catte.' There was a surname Catte or Katt, which might have belonged to a person who built houses along the street. Hog Lane, Spitalfields, we are told, was visited now and then by the porkers that were allowed to range in the fields and obtain what food they could. Doubtless they strolled up the lane on the chance of getting fragments from the kitchens of citizens. Was Duck Lane, Smithfield, damp enough to be attractive to ducks? It may once have been, but later it was known as Duke Street.

Many places in the city were named from eatables or other articles that were sold in them. This was the case with Pudding Lane and Pie Corner; Milk Street, too, is supposed to have been a milk market, but Honey Lane was not a depot for honey, nor remarkable for its sweetness. The historian Stow says that it was both narrow and dark, needing much sweeping to keep it clean. The Poultry was a market for fowls, and Scalding Alley, close by, had houses in which people scalded poultry and prepared them for sale. An old name given to Grocers' Alley was Coney-slope Alley, for it had a market where coneys or rabbits could be bought. In Rood Lane formerly stood the Church of St. Margaret Pattens, beside which the women offered pattens to by-passers. These wooden elevators for the feet were much in demand at the time when London streets were often deep in mud, and the fields splashy or sticky with clay. But they did not sell bucklers in Bucklersbury; so far as we know, it was called after a citizen named Buckle, to whom the manor belonged. Grub Street did not have at all a pretty name, though some say it was first Grape Street; then it was altered to Milton Street in honour of our great poet. Little Britain or Britagne Street had a residence belonging to the Dukes of Brittany, and Barbican was notable for its Roman tower, around which were large gardens.



EARNING AN HONEST PENNY.

'I wish we could scrape enough money together to buy poor old Father a pair of slippers for his birthday,' said Jack; 'his old ones are all in holes, and I know he can't afford a new pair—he has had so many expenses since Mother's illness.'

Geoffrey looked up from his home-lessons and sighed deeply. 'My money-box is quite empty,' he remarked, 'and Nellie and Hilda have not a farthing in the world.'

'That is true enough,' laughed Nellie. 'But, oh, Jack,' turning to her eldest brother, 'if only we could do something for Father, I should be so glad! He seems so worried lately, and I am sure it's because he can't get Mother all the nice things she ought to have now that she is getting better.'

'Couldn't I take out a broom and sweep a crossing?' asked Geoffrey; 'that would bring in a little, and I would not mind what I did, if it helped.'

'You must find your crossing first,' returned Jack. 'The roads are as dry as a bone at present, so that won't work, little stupid!'

'Little stupid' sighed again. 'If only I knew how to earn an honest penny!' he murmured.

'Or twopence,' said Hilda. 'I think twopence would be a little better.'

'I would rather it was half-a-crown,' put in Nellie.

There was silence for a moment; then Jack said slowly: 'I wonder what became of Uncle Harry after he went out to Australia. Father never writes to him; he doesn't know where he is now, and we have moved so many times that I expect Uncle does not know where we are either. I dare say if he knew we were so badly off he would help us.'

'It's no good talking about Uncle Harry,' said Geoff; 'the question is, Can we help Father?'

'Look here,' cried Jack, suddenly; 'supposing, instead of saying "Can we," we say "We must." Supposing,' he added, 'we all make up our minds to earn a shilling each as best we can, so that we may have four shillings to buy Father some slippers?'

'Capital!' exclaimed Nell; 'but how are we to earn it?'

'Oh, we must each hit upon a plan for ourselves,' returned Jack; 'I vote we draw lots for the first victim to-night, and we will allow each victim two days to earn the shilling in, and then will draw for the next.'

Of course, they all began to puzzle their young brains about plans; but Jack cut some slips of paper into different lengths, and, placing them between his thumb and first finger, while he clasped his other fingers tightly over the ends inside his hand, he bade them each take one, and whoever drew the longest was to earn the first shilling.

Well, they all drew, and Jack took the slip which was left; but Nellie got the longest, and she retired to the window, and stared out for inspiration.

'I know what I shall do,' she announced, at last; 'I'll cut my twelve chrysanthemums out of my garden, take them down to town, and sell them in the street for a penny each.'

'Nellie!' cried Jack; 'you mustn't think of doing such a thing! Father would not like it, and I am sure we should not. You are not half strong enough to go out into the streets.'

But Nell was firm. 'It's the only thing I can think of, Jack,' she replied, 'and I will do it. We must earn some money somehow, and no one will recognise me if I put on my old frock, and a shawl over my head. We can't help being poor, Jack, and it is an honest way of earning a shilling.'

Jack, however, looked a little worried. He admired Nellie's pluck, but he did not like the thought of her going out into the streets alone. Nevertheless, after some discussion, it was decided that she should have her way, on condition that Jack went with her to see that she was quite safe. It was agreed that the matter should be kept dark, and that if Mother asked where Jack and Nellie had gone next evening, the others were to say it was a secret.

So, after tea the following day, the two children stole out. Mother was resting in her own room, and Geoffrey and Hilda were at their lessons, though it must be confessed they found it hard to give their whole attention to them.

It was a good mile and a half down to the town, but Nellie trudged bravely on with her treasured chrysanthemums (she alone knew what it cost her to cut them), and Jack walked a little behind, for his sister said that flower-girls never had any one to escort them, and he must not let any one see he belonged to her.

When they arrived in town, Nellie took up her station at a busy corner, and timidly offered her flowers for sale, while her brother stood in a doorway not far off, pretending to read a book by the light of a street lamp, but in reality he was watching to see that she came to no harm.

One honest penny was earned—two; then Nell grew bolder, and ran after a man whom she thought a likely customer. But he pushed her roughly on one side, and she fell upon the pavement. Jack could have kicked that man, but he was out of sight in an instant, so the boy went and helped Nellie to rise instead. Gathering up her flowers, he entreated her to return home, and not to trouble any more. But the little girl bravely held out, assured him she was not hurt, and in the end persuaded him to go back to his doorway.

Ten minutes passed away without any more flowers being sold, then Nellie held out the best of all to a kind-looking gentleman who was passing slowly by.

He stopped, looked at the child somewhat curiously, and then said, 'No, little lass, I do not want any flowers; but I wonder if you can tell me where Greenfield Road is, eh?'

Nellie started, for that was the name of the road where she lived. However, she simply directed him, and was turning away to seek for another customer when he slipped a bright half-crown into her hand. The child was so astonished that for the moment she could say nothing, and when she recollected herself the gentleman had gone, and Jack was by her side, asking what had happened.

'Well,' he said, when she had told him, 'no more selling flowers to-night, Nell, so you can just come home at once, for you have done your part and more,' and he would not hear of her staying there any longer.

Together the two started for home, feeling very happy indeed; but scarcely had they got inside the door when Geoffrey literally rushed at them.

'Oh, Jack! Nellie!' he cried, 'you can't think what a splendid thing has happened! Who do you think turned up ten minutes ago? Uncle Harry; yes, Uncle Harry! He has been hunting for us for days. Oh, it seems too good to be true! He's in the dining-room now, with Father, and——'

'Oh, is he?' said a voice from behind, and who should appear on the scene but the kind gentleman who had given Nell half-a-crown! 'Why!' he exclaimed, suddenly, 'what's this I see? Well, if it isn't——Why, what does it all mean?' he asked, turning round to Father, who had followed him out, and was looking equally puzzled.

There was an awkward silence. Nellie coloured, and in her nervousness, down went all her pretty flowers on to the floor. But Jack came to the rescue, and blurted out the whole story on the spot.

Father turned his head away as Jack explained; indeed, he was much touched by the children's thoughtfulness; but Uncle Harry patted Nell's head, and praised her for her pluck. He said that Father ought to be proud of his four children, and I am sure Father was, though he said they must never think of going into the streets to sell flowers again.

Of course, the earning an honest penny business came to an end, for Uncle Harry had come back much better off than when he went out to Australia, and he gave the children a shilling each to buy Father some slippers, and something else for themselves besides.

Later on, he and Father became partners in a business of their own, and Nellie never had to think of selling her flowers again, or Geoffrey of sweeping a crossing.

J. A. VIVIAN.



'GINGER FOR PLUCK.'

Thomas M'Calmont had blue eyes, a mop of red hair, a moderate share of brains, and a most insatiable thirst for adventure. When his school-fellows made insulting remarks about his red locks, he was wont to answer, 'Ginger for pluck;' and, indeed, on several occasions, he had acted up to this saying there and then on the persons of his unfortunate persecutors.

Tommy was only eleven years old. Mrs. M'Calmont, his mother, regarded him as the most wonderful boy in the world, and would have utterly spoilt him, after the fashion of adoring mothers, had it not been that Mr. M'Calmont, seeing nothing more wonderful in his son than a red-headed, mischievous boy, set himself most diligently to curb Tom's youthful energy, and make an honest, sensible fellow of him.

They lived in the country, and Tom had three miles to go to his school. But Mr. M'Calmont also had business in Barton, so the pair set out together each morning in a trap drawn by a steady-going horse, who never shied or ran away, or did anything at all exciting. Tom was set down at the door of his school at nine o'clock, and called for at half-past four precisely, just like a grocery parcel. Never a chance for a frolic over the fields in the clear morning air, never any scrapes to get into! No gentle dawdles through the lanes after school, with occasional excursions into hedge or spinny after wild creatures, or the chance of a nice creepy adventure in the darkness of some winter's evening. The whole business, Tom thought, was humdrum and commonplace.

But at last, one early springtime, it happened that Mr. M'Calmont had urgent business at the town of Greenhurst, twenty miles away. It was a cross-country journey, where railways did not fit, so Mr. M'Calmont departed in his trap, leaving Tom and his mother in sole possession for a whole fortnight at Red House. Mrs. M'Calmont was secretly rather glad to be able to spoil her son as she liked.

Tom made the most of his advantages, and mother and son together revelled in the glorious sense of doing everything they liked best. Tom's favourite dishes appeared at every meal, bedtime came a good hour later than usual, and Tom also managed three clear days' 'old-soldiering' on the strength of a slight cold. But the last morning of liberty came, and as Tom dressed he carefully turned over in his mind how he should celebrate it. It was a beautiful morning after a week of heavy rain, and Tom had no wish for another day of coddling indoors.

Tom's mother packed his lunch-case with many dainties, and kissed him good-bye. Tom felt rather mean, 'like a wriggle-up worm' as he afterwards put it, and he half resolved to give up his plan and go soberly to school, for, to tell the truth, he had already resolved to play truant. Unhappily, as he turned into the lane from the drive gates, a rabbit dashed across the road right in front of him, and frisked into the hedge in a most tantalising manner, as if to show his contempt for stupid human beings who plod along the beaten track. That killed all Tom's scruples, and he was soon scurrying through the fields, scrambling over hedges, leaping ditches, and getting his clothes into as pretty a pickle as could be desired.

What a splendid day he spent, following no settled route, but wandering here and there as the impulse of the moment directed, and feeling in all his boyish frame the gladness of life and of spring! He lunched in a little wood, with a fallen tree for a throne, and a rippling stream to play him music while he feasted. Then he sauntered leisurely on in the afternoon sunlight, many thoughts busy beneath his comical red thatch. The long hours in the open after his three days indoors made him sleepy at last, and he was glad to discover behind the temporary abode of a railway navvy a little rough wood hut, where, with a friendly dog for company, and some straw for a couch, he was soon fast asleep.

Tom was dreaming. He heard a babel of voices fierce and angry, and was striving very hard to hear what they were saying; but, though the voices seemed loud, he could not distinguish one word from another, and in trying to do so he awoke. The voices continued, but they were not loud at all, though rough and angry. They came from the navvy shelter, and Tom could hear plainly every word. He was about to move away when he heard his father's name mentioned, qualified with expressions of hatred. Plainly it was right that he should hear what these men had to say about his father, so Tom crouched nearer the wall of the hut and listened. His blue eyes grew big and round, and his face filled with horror.

Tom knew that the navvies at work in the district were not regular workmen, but a very rough set. A gang of them had been almost a terror to the neighbourhood, and Tom's father had been foremost in bringing the guilty ones to justice. Three of their friends were in the hut, one with a revolver. They had learned from a workman that Mr. M'Calmont was to return from Greenhurst that evening, and they were discussing the spot where they could best waylay and shoot him. 'We won't kill him, only damage him a bit,' were the last words Tom heard as he crept from his hiding-place and made his way quietly into the wood.

Tom's fear began to give way to excitement. He had an adventure at last, and all to himself. To go home for help would be no use and would only terrify his mother. The setting sun showed that the evening was advancing, and his father would soon be coming, so that the only thing was to go and hide near the spot where the men had planned to wait. This was where two roads merged into one, at the bottom of a steep hill overhung with trees. Mr. M'Calmont might come by either of the two roads—it would depend on whether he wished to go into Barton or not.

Tom made his way to his post as quickly as possible, and found himself a hiding-place in a hole beneath the hedge, where only a boy could wriggle, and where he hoped that in the dusk he would be unobserved. His post was just the point where the road forked; the men had planned to stand some yards from that point, where it was more shaded by trees, so Tom hoped that when he heard the trap approaching, and could distinguish on which road it was, he would have time to run and warn his father, who would then, he did not doubt, with the aid of his valiant son, be a match for any three men.

It was rather a lonely watch. Tom was getting hungry again and very tired and stiff. As the light faded, his excitement faded too, and it was almost a relief to hear the stealthy arrival of the conspirators. Then another long wait, until at last he heard the cart-wheels going over unrolled stones, which told that it was not on the Barton road. Out of his hiding-place he crept, and darted along the grass at the road-side. An unlucky stumble over a fallen branch betrayed him, but as he fell he shouted with all his might, 'Look out, Father, they are going to shoot you!' Then there was a rush, a crack as something came into violent contact with his head, the world went round, and then—darkness.

When Tom woke, the morning sun was shining into his own room. His mother was busy at the window, fixing the curtain to keep the light from his face, and Tom could see that she was crying. A great fear entered his mind, and, as his mother turned and looked at him, all he could say was 'Father?'

'Quite safe, my brave laddie, for you frightened the men away. My dear, brave boy.'

Then joy filled the heart of Thomas M'Calmont, and for once the fault of playing truant went unpunished.

JESSIE HARVEY.



GROWING UP.

When birthdays come, we always write Our names upon the nursery door, And carefully we mark the height, Each standing shoeless on the floor.

How strange to think birthdays will be When we shall never add one more To all those marks which gradually Are climbing up the nursery door!



SOME WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

IV.—THE GROTTOES OF HAN IN THE ARDENNES.

A narrow opening high on an oak-covered hill; a cluster of women, girls, and boys, each carrying a slight iron bar connecting two oil lamps; a crowd of tourists of many nationalities—all waiting to enter the Grottoes of Han. Presently the guide arrives, and delivers a brief speech as to the possible consequences should visitors deface or purloin the treasures of the cave, demanding silence during his explanations, and declaring that one light-bearer would accompany every four persons. He ceases, and away we go. Down, down, down, apparently into the very heart of the earth, through damp and chilly air and profound darkness, broken only by the glimmer of the friendly lamps. Then we cease descending, and emerge in a cavern where the lights are flashed upon thousands of fossilised insects, and on into the 'Hall of the Foxes,' where countless generations of their species lived, died, and were buried. After this the great caverns succeed each other rapidly, each with some special interest of its own, until we find ourselves in the 'Hall of the Trophies,' where electric light is installed to exhibit the marvels of the roof. A thick fringe of stalactites, many of immense size, descend to meet the columns of stalagmite ascending from the floor.