"Here it is!" (hope revived.)

"No, it's only the pepper." (Mitigated despair and ransacking continued.)

"Maybe it'll be in this parcel," suggested McAllister, holding up one which had not yet been untied.

"Oh! bring it to me, Mr Macannister!" cried Mrs Sudberry with unwonted energy, for her happiness was dependent on salt that day, coupled, of course, with weather and scenery. "Faugh! no, it's your horrid onions, Mr MacAndrews."

"Why, you have forgotten the potato salad, Mr Macdonald," exclaimed Lucy.

"No, I have not: it can be made in five minutes, but not without salt. Where can the salt be? I am certain it could not have been forgotten."

The only individual of the party who remained calmly indifferent was Master Jacky. That charming creature, having made up his mind to feed on jam tart, did not feel that there was any need for salt. An attentive observer might have noticed, however, that Jacky's look of supreme indifference suddenly gave place to one of inexpressible glee. He became actually red in the face with hugging himself and endeavouring to suppress all visible signs of emotion. His eye had unexpectedly fallen on the paper of salt which lay on the centre of the table-cloth, so completely exposed to view that nobody saw it!

"Why, here it is, actually before our eyes!" shouted George, seizing the paper and holding it up.

A small cheer greeted its discovery. A groan instantly followed, as George spilt the whole of it. As it fell on the cloth, however, it was soon gathered up, and then Mr Sudberry ordered everyone to sit down on the grass in a circle round the cloth.

"What a good boy Jacky has suddenly become!" remarked Lucy in some surprise.

"Darling!" ejaculated his mother.

"A very good little fellow," said Flora, with a peculiar smile.

Jacky said nothing. Hector's eye was upon him, as was his upon Hector. Deep unutterable thoughts filled his swelling heart, but he spoke not. He merely gazed at the jam tart, a large portion of which was in a few minutes supplied to him. The immediate result was crimson hands, arms, and cheeks.

While Hector was engaged in concocting the potato salad the kettle upset, extinguished the fire, and sent up a loud triumphant hiss of steam mingled with ashes. Fortunately the potatoes were cooked, so the dinner was at last begun in comfort—that is to say, everyone was very hot, very much exhausted and excited, and very thirsty. Jacky gorged himself with tart in five minutes, and then took an opportunity of quietly retiring into the bushes, sheltered by which he made a detour unseen towards the place where the boat had been left.

Alas for the picnic party that day, that they allowed Hector to prevail on them to begin with his potato salad! It was partly composed of raw onions. After having eaten a few mouthfuls of it, their sense of taste was utterly destroyed! The chickens tasted of onions, so did the cheese and the bread. Even the whiskey was flavoured with onions. The beefsteak-pie might as well have been an onion-pie; indeed, no member of the party could, with shut eyes, have positively said that it was not. The potatoes harmonised with the prevailing flavour; not so the ginger-bread, however, nor the butter. Everything was oniony; they finished their repast with a sweet onion-tart! To make things worse, the sky soon became overcast, a stiff breeze began to blow, and Mr McAllister "opined" that there was going to be a squall.

A piercing shriek put an abrupt termination to the meal!

Intent on mischief; the imp had succeeded in pushing off the boat and clambering into it. For some time he rowed about in a circle with one oar, much delighted with his performances. But when the breeze began to increase and blow the boat away he became alarmed; and when the oar missed the water and sent him sprawling on his back, he gave utterance to the shriek above referred to. Luckily the wind carried him past the place where they were picnicking. There was but one mode of getting at the boat. It was at once adopted. Hector threw off his coat and vest, and swam out to it!

Ten minutes later, they were rowing at full speed for the foot of the loch. The sky was dark and a squall was tearing up the waters of the lake. Then the rain came down in torrents. Then it was discovered that the cloaks had been left at Hazlewood Creek, as the place where they had dined was named. To turn back was impossible. The gentlemen's coats were therefore put on the ladies' shoulders. All were soaked to the skin in a quarter of an hour. Jacky was quiet—being slightly overawed, but not humbled! His mother was too frightened to speak or scream. Mr Sudberry rubbed his hands and said, "Come, I like to have a touch of all sorts of weather, and won't we have a jolly tea and a rousing fire when we get home?" Mrs Sudberry sighed at the word "home." McAllister volunteered a song, and struck up the "Callum's Lament," a dismally cheerful Gaelic ditty. In the midst of this they reached the landing-place, from which they walked through drenched heather and blinding rain to the White House.

Thus, drearily, the picnic ended!



STORY ONE, CHAPTER 8.

CONCERNING FOWLS AND POOLS.

One morning the Sudberry Family sat on the green hill-side, in front of the White House, engaged in their usual morning amusement—feeding the cocks and hens.

It is astonishing what an amount of interest may be got up in this way! If one goes at it with a sort of philanthropico-philosophical spirit, a full hour of genuine satisfaction may be thus obtained—not to speak of the joy imparted to the poultry, and the profound glimpses obtained into fowl character.

There were about twenty hens, more or less, and two cocks. With wonderful sagacity did these creatures come to perceive that when the Sudberrys brought out chairs and stools after breakfast, and sat down thereon, they, the fowls, were in for a feed! And it was surprising the punctuality with which they assembled each fine morning for this purpose.

Most of the family simply enjoyed the thing; but Mr Sudberry, in addition to enjoying it, studied it. He soon came to perceive that the cocks were cowardly wretches, and this gave him occasion to point out to his wife the confiding character and general superiority of female nature, even in hens. The two large cocks could not be prevailed on to feed out of the hand by any means. Under the strong influence of temptation they would strut with bold aspect, but timid, hesitating step, towards the proffered crumb, but the slightest motion would scare them away; and when they did venture to peck, they did so with violent haste, and instantly fled in abject terror.

It was this tendency in these ignoble birds that exasperated poor Jacky, whose chief delight was to tempt the unfortunate hens to place unlimited confidence in him, and then clutch them by the beaks or heads, and hold them wriggling in his cruel grasp; and it was this tendency that induced him, in the heat of disappointment, and without any reference whatever to sex, to call the cocks "big hens!"

The hens, on the other hand, exhibited gentle and trusting natures. Of course there was vanity of character among them, as there is among ladies; but, for the most part, they were wont to rush towards their human friends in a body, and peck the crumbs—at first timidly, then boldly—from their palms. There was one hen—a black and ragged one, with only half a tail, and a downtrodden aspect—which actually went the length of jumping up on little Tilly's knee, and feeding out of her lap. It even allowed her to stroke its back, but it evidently permitted rather than enjoyed the process.

On the morning in question, the black hen was bolder than usual; perhaps it had not breakfasted that day, for it was foremost in the rush when the family appeared with chairs and stools, and leaped on Tilly's knee, without invitation, as soon as she was seated; whereupon Tilly called it "a dear darling pretty 'ittle pet," and patted its back.

"Why, the creature seems quite fond of you, my child," said Mrs Sudberry.

"So it is, mamma. It loves me, I know, by the way it looks at me with its beautiful black eye. What a pity the other is not so nice! I think the poor darling must be blind of that eye."

There was no doubt about that. Blackie's right eye was blinder than any bat's; it was an opaque white ball—a circumstance which caused it no little annoyance, for the other eye had to do duty for both, and this involved constant screwing of the head about, and unwearied watchfulness. It was as if a solitary sentinel were placed to guard the front and back doors of a house at one and the same time. Despite Blackie's utmost care, Jacky got on her blind side more than once, and caught her by the remnant of her poor tail. This used to spoil Tilly's morning amusement, and send her sorrowful into the house. But what did that matter to Jacky? He sometimes broke out worse than usual, and set the whole brood into an agitated flutter, which rather damaged the happiness of the family. But what did that matter to Jacky?

Oh! he was a "darling child," according to his mother.

For some time the feeding went on quietly enough. The fowls were confiding. Mr Sudberry was becoming immensely philosophical; Mrs Sudberry was looking on in amiable gratification; George had prevailed on a small white hen to allow him to scratch her head; Fred was taking a rapid portrait of the smallest cock; Lucy had drawn the largest concourse towards herself by scattering her crumbs on the ground; Jacky had only caught two chickens by their beaks and one hen by its tail, and was partially strangling another; and the nine McAllister dogs were ranged in a semicircle round the group, looking on benignantly, and evidently inclined to put in for a share, but restrained by the memory of past rebuffs—when little Blackie, standing on Tilly's knee, and having eaten a large share of what was going, raised itself to its full height, flapped its wings, and gave utterance to a cackle of triumph! A burst of laughter followed—and Tilly gave a shriek of delighted surprise that at once dissolved the spell, and induced the horrified fowl to seek refuge in precipitate flight.

"By the way," said Mrs Sudberry, "that reminds me that this would be a most charming day for your excursion over the mountains to that Lake What-you-may-call-it."

What connection there was between the little incident just described and the excursion to Lake "What-you-may-call-it" we cannot pretend to state; but there must have been some sort of connection in Mrs Sudberry's brain, and we record her observation because it was the origin of this day's proceedings. Mr Sudberry had, for some time past, talked of a long walking excursion with the whole family to a certain small loch or tarn among the hills. Mrs Sudberry had made up her mind,—first, that she would not go; and second, that she would get everyone else to go, in order to let Mrs Brown and Hobbs have a thorough cleaning-up of the house. This day seemed to suit for the excursion—hence her propounding of the plan. Poor delicate Tilly seldom went on long expeditions,—she was often doomed to remain at home.

Mr Sudberry shouted, "Capital! huzza!" clapped his hands, and rushed into the house to prepare, scattering the fowls like chaff in a whirlwind. Fired by his example, the rest of the family followed.

"But we must have our bathe first, papa," cried Lucy.

"Certainly, my love, there will be time for that." So away flew Lucy to the nursery, whence she re-issued with Jacky, Tilly, Mrs Brown, and towels.

The bathing-pool was what George called a "great institution." In using this slang expression George was literally correct, for the bathing-pool was not a natural feature of the scenery: it was artificial, and had been instituted a week after the arrival of the family. The loch was a little too far from the house to be a convenient place of resort for ablutionary purposes. Close beside the house ran a small burn. Its birthplace was one of those dark glens or "corries" situated high up among those mountains that formed a grand towering background in all Fred's sketches of the White House. Its bed was rugged and broken—a deep cutting, which the water had made on the hill-side. Here was quite a forest of dwarf-trees and shrubs; but so small were they, and so deep the torrent's bed, that you could barely see the tree-tops as you approached the spot over the bare hills. In dry weather this burn tinkled over a chaos of rocks, forming myriads of miniature cascades and hosts of limpid little pools. During heavy rains it ran roaring riotously over its rough bed with a force that swept to destruction whatever chanced to come in its way.

In this burn, screened from observation by an umbrageous coppice, was the bathing-pool. No pool in the stream was deep enough, in ordinary weather, to take Jacky above the knees; but one pool had been found, about two hundred yards from the house, which was large enough, if it had only been deeper. To deepen it, therefore, they went—every member of the family.

Let us recall the picture:—

Father, in shirt sleeves rolled up to the shoulders, and trousers rolled up to the knees, in the middle of the pool, trying to upheave from the bottom a rock larger than himself—if he only knew it! But he doesn't, because it is deeply embedded, therefore he toils on in hope. George building, with turf and stone, a strong embankment with a narrow outlet, to allow the surplus water to escape. Fred, Lucy, Tilly, and Peter cutting turf and carrying stones. Mother superintending the whole, and making remarks. Jacky making himself universally disagreeable, and distracting his mother in a miscellaneous sort of way.

"It's as good as Robinson Crusoe any day!" cries father, panting and wiping his bald forehead. "What a stone! I can't budge it." He stoops again, to conquer, if possible; but the great difficulty with father is, that the water comes so near to his tucked-up trousers that he cannot put forth his full strength without wetting them; and mother insists that this must not be done. "Come, George and Fred, bring the pick-axe and the iron lever, we must have this fellow out, he's right in the middle of the pool. Now, then, heave!"

The lads obey, and father straddles so fiercely that one leg slips down.

"Hah! there, you've done it now!" from mother.

"Well, my dear, it can't be helped," meekly, from father, who is secretly glad, and prepares to root out the stone like a Hercules. Jacky gets excited, and hopes the other leg will slip down and get wet, too!

"Here, hand me the lever, George; you don't put enough force to it." George obeys and grins. "Now then, once more, with will—ho! hi! hup!" Father strains at the lever, which, not having been properly fixed, slips, and he finds himself suddenly in a sitting posture, with the water round his waist. As the cool element embraces his loins, he "h-ah-ah!" gasps, as every bather knows how; but the shock to his system is nothing compared with the aggravation to his feelings when he hears the joyful yell of triumph that issues from the brazen lungs of his youngest hope.

"Never mind, I'll work all the better now—come, let us be jolly, and clear out the rest of the pool." Good man! nothing can put him out. Gradually the bottom is cleared of stones, (excepting the big one), and levelled, and the embankment is built to a sufficient height.

"Now for the finishing touch!" cries George; "bring the turf; Fred—I'm ready!" The water of the burn is rushing violently through the narrow outlet in the "dike." A heavy stone is dropped into the gap, and turf is piled on.

"More turf! more stones! quick, look alive!—it'll burst everything— there, that's it!"

All hands toil and work at the opening, to smother it up. The angry element leaks through, bursts, gushes—is choked back with a ready turf; and squirts up in their faces. Mother is stunned to see the power of so small a stream when the attempt is made to check it thoroughly; she is not mechanically-minded by nature, and has learned nothing in that way by education. It is stopped at last, however.

For a quarter of an hour the waters from above are cut off from those below, as completely as were those of the Jordan in days of old. They all stand panting and silent, watching the rising of the water, while George keeps a sharp eye on the dike to detect and repair any weakness. At last it is full, and the surplus runs over in a pretty cascade, while the accommodating stream piles mud and stones against the dike, and thus unwittingly strengthens the barrier. The pool is formed, full three feet deep by twenty broad. Jacky wants to bathe at once.

"But the pool is like pea-soup, my pet—wait until it clears."

"I won't—let me bathe!"

"O Jacky, my darling!"

He does; for in his struggles he slips on the bank, goes in head foremost, and is fished out in a disgusting condition!

So the bathing-pool was made. It was undoubtedly a "great institution;" they did not know at the time, that, like many such institutions, it was liable to destruction; but they lived to see it.

Meanwhile, to return from this long digression, Lucy, Tilly, and Jacky bathed, while Mrs Brown watched and scolded. This duty performed, they returned to the house, where they found the remainder of the party ready for a journey on foot to Lake "What-you-may-call-it," which lake Lucy named the Lake of the Clouds, its Gaelic cognomen being quite unpronounceable.



STORY ONE, CHAPTER 9.

A GRAND EXCURSION OVER THE MOUNTAINS.

Little did good Mr Sudberry think what an excursion lay before him that day, when, in the pride of untried strength and unconquerable spirits, he strode up the mountain-side, with his dutiful family following like a "tail" behind him. There was a kind of narrow sheep-path, up which they marched in single file. Father first, Lucy next, with her gown prettily tucked-up; George and Fred following, with large fishing-baskets stuffed with edibles; Jacky next, light and active, but as yet quiescent; timorous Peter bringing up the rear. He, also, was laden, but not heavily. Mr Sudberry carried rod and basket, for he had been told that there were large trout in the Lake of the Clouds.

Ever and anon the party halted and turned round to wave hats and kerchiefs to Mrs Sudberry, Tilly, and Mrs Brown, who returned the salute with interest, until the White House appeared a mere speck in the valley below, and Mrs Brown became so small, that Jacky, for the first time in his life, regarded her as a contemptible little thing! At last a shoulder of the hill shut out the view of the valley, and they began to feel that they were in a deep solitude, surrounded by wild mountain peaks.

It is a fact, that there is something peculiarly invigorating in mountain air. What that something is we are not prepared to say. Oxygen and ozone have undoubtedly something to do with it, but in what proportions we know not. Scientific men could give us a learned disquisition on the subject, no doubt; we therefore refer our readers to scientific men, and confine our observations to the simple statement of the fact, that there is something extremely invigorating in mountain air. Every mountaineer knows it; Mr Sudberry and family proved it that day beyond dispute, excepting, by the way, poor Peter, whose unfortunate body was not adapted for rude contact with the rough elements of this world.

The whole party panted and became very warm as they toiled upwards; but, instead of growing fatigued, they seemed to gather fresh strength and additional spirit at every step—always excepting Peter, of course. Soon a wild spirit came over them. On gaining a level patch of springy turf, father gave a cheer, and rushed madly, he knew not, and cared not, whither. Sons and daughters echoed the cheer, and followed his example. The sun burst forth at the moment, crisping the peaks, gorges, and clouds—which were all mingled together—with golden fires. Each had started off without definite intention, and they were scattered far and wide in five minutes, but each formed the natural resolve to run to the nearest summit, in order to devour more easily the view. Thus they all converged again and met on a neighbouring knoll that overtopped a terrific precipice which over hung a small lake.

"The—Lake—of the—Clouds!" exclaimed Lucy, as she came up, breathless and beaming.

"Impossible!" cried her father; "McAllister says it is on the other side of the ridge, and we're not near the top yet. Where are Peter and Jacky?"

"I cannot see them!" said George and Fred, in a breath.

"No more can I," cried Lucy.

No more could anybody, except a hunter or an eagle, for they were seated quietly among grey rocks and brown ferns, which blended with their costume so as to render them all but invisible.

The party on the knoll were, however, the reverse of invisible to Jacky and his exhausted companion. They stood out, black as ink, against the bright blue sky, and were so sharply defined that Jacky declared he could see the "turn-up of Lucy's nose."

The reader must not suppose that Master Jacky was exhausted, like his slender companion. A glance at his firm lip, flushed cheek, sturdy little limbs, and bright eyes, would have made that abundantly plain. No, Jacky was in a peculiar frame of mind—that was all. He chose to sit beside Peter, and, as he never condescended to give a reason for his choice, we cannot state one. He appeared to be meditatively inclined that day. Perhaps he was engaged in the concoction of some excruciating piece of wickedness—who knows?

Suddenly Jacky turned with a look of earnest gravity towards his companion, who was a woebegone spectacle of exhaustion. "I say, we'd better go on, don't you think?"

Peter looked up languidly, sighed heavily, and laid his hand on the fishing-basket full of sandwiches, which constituted his burden. It was small and light, but to the poor boy it felt like a ton. Jacky's eyes became still more owlishly wide, and his face graver than ever. He had never seen him in this condition before—indeed, Jacky's experience of life beyond the nursery being limited, he had never seen any one in such a case before.

"I say, Peter, are you desprit blow'd?"

"Desprit," sighed Peter.

Jacky paused and gazed at his companion for nearly a minute.

"I say, d'ye think you could walk if you tried?"

"Oh, yes!" (with a groan and a smile;) "come, I'll try to push ahead now."

"Here, give me the basket," cried Jacky, starting up with sudden and tremendous energy, and wrenching the basket out of Peter's hand. He did it with ease, although the small clerk was twice the size of the imp.

Peter remonstrated, but in vain. Mrs Brown, a woman of powerful frame and strong mind, could not turn Jacky from his purpose—it was not likely, therefore, that an amiable milk-and-water boy, in a state of exhaustion, could do it. Jacky swung the basket over his shoulder with an amount of exertion that made him stagger, and, commanding Peter to follow, marched up the hill with compressed lips and knitted brows.

It was an epoch in the mental development of Jacky—it was a new sensation to the child. Hitherto he had known nothing but the feeling of dependence. Up to this point he had been compelled by the force of circumstances to look up to everyone—and, alas! he had done so with a very bad grace. He had never known what it was to help any one. His mother had thoroughly spoiled him. Strange infatuation in the mother! She had often blamed the boy for spoiling his toys; but she had never blamed herself for spoiling the boy. "Darling Jacky! don't ask the child to do anything for you—he's too young yet." So Jacky was never asked to help any one in any way, except by Mrs Brown, who did not "ask," but commanded, and, although she never rewarded obedience with the laurel, either literally or figuratively, she invariably punished disobedience with the palm. Little Tilly always did everything she wanted done herself; and could never do enough for Jacky, so that she afforded no opportunity for her brother to exercise amiable qualities. Thus was Jacky trained to be a selfish little imp, and to this training he superadded the natural wickedness of his own little heart. But now, for the first time, the tables were turned. Jacky felt that Peter was dependent on him—that he could not get on without him.

"Poor Peter, I'll help him—he's a weak skinny chap, and I'm strong as a lion—as a elephant—as a crokindile—anything! Come on, Peter, are you getting better now?" Thus they went up the hill together.

"Ha! there they are at last, close under this mound. Why, I do believe that Jacky's carrying the basket!"

Mr Sudberry was bereft of breath at this discovery; so was everyone else. When the boy stumped up the hill and flung down the basket with an emphatic, "there!" his father turned to the small clerk—

"How now, sir, did you bid Jacky carry that?"

"Please, sir—no, sir;" (whimpering), "but Master Jacky forced it out of my hand, sir, and insisted on carrying it. He saw that I was very tired, sir—and so I am, but I would not have asked him to carry it, if I had been ever so tired—indeed I would not, sir."

"I'm not displeased, my boy," said Mr Sudberry, kindly, patting him on the head; "I only wanted to know if he offered."

"Of course I did," cried the imp, stoutly, with his arms akimbo—"and why not? Don't you see that the poor boy is dead beat; and was I goin' to stand by and see him faint by his-self; all alone on the mountain?"

"Certainly not!" and Mr Sudberry seized Jacky and whirled him round till he was quite giddy, and fell on the heather with a cheer, and declared that he would not budge from that spot until they had lunched. Need we say that Mr Sudberry himself was the subject of a new sensation that day,—a sensation of a peculiarly hopeful nature,—as he gazed at his youngest son; while that refined little creature crammed himself with sandwiches and ginger-bread, and besmeared his hands and visage with a pot of jam, that had been packed away by his mother for her own darling's special use?

"My poor lad, you must not come any farther with us. I had no idea you were so much fatigued. Remain here by the provisions, and rest in the sunshine till we return."

So Mr Sudberry gave Peter a plaid that had been carried up to serve as a table-cloth, and told him to wrap well up in it, lest he should catch cold. They left him there on the knoll, refreshed and happy, and with a new feeling in his breast in regard to Jacky, whom, up to that day, he had regarded as an imp of the most hopelessly incorrigible description.

"Over the mountain and over the moor" the Sudberrys wandered. The ridge was gained, and a new world of mountains, glens, gorges, and peaks was discovered on the other side of it, with the Lake of the Clouds lying, like a bright diamond, far below them. They descended into this new world with a cheer. A laugh or a cheer was their chief method of conversation now—their spirits as well as their bodies being so high. "Not a house to be seen! not a sign of man! the untrodden wilderness!" cried Mr Sudberry.

"Robinson Crusoe! Mungo Park! Pooh!" shouted George. "Hooray!" yelled Jacky. The whole party laughed again, and down the slope they went, at such a pace that it was a miracle they did not terminate their career in the lake with the poetic name.

At this point everyone was suddenly "seized." Mr Sudberry and George were seized with an irresistible desire to fish; Fred was seized with a burning desire to sketch; Lucy was seized with a passionate desire to gather wild flowers; and Jacky was seized with a furious desire to wet himself and wade with his shoes on. He did it too, and, in the course of an hour, tumbled into so many peat-bogs, and besmeared himself with so much coffee-coloured mud, that his own mother would have failed to recognise him. He was supremely happy—so was his father. At the very first cast he, (the father), hooked a trout of half a pound weight, and lost it, too! but that was nothing. The next cast he caught one of nearly a pound. George was equally successful. Fortune smiled. Before evening began to close, both baskets were half full of splendid trout; Lucy's basket was quite full of botanical specimens; Fred's sketch was a success, and Jacky was as brown as a Hottentot from head to foot. They prepared to return home, rejoicing.

Haste was needful now. A short cut round the shoulder of the ridge was recommended by George, and taken. It conducted them into a totally different gap from the one which led to their own valley. If followed out, this route would have led them to a spot ten miles distant from their Highland home; but they were in blissful ignorance of the fact. All gaps and gorges looked much the same to them. Suddenly Mr Sudberry paused:—

"Is this the way we came?"

Grave looks, but no reply.

"Let us ascend this ridge, and make sure that we are right."

They did so, and made perfectly certain that they were wrong. Attempting to correct their mistake, they wandered more hopelessly out of their way, but it was not until the shades of night began to fall that Mr Sudberry, with a cold perspiration on his brow, expressed his serious belief that they were "lost!"



STORY ONE, CHAPTER 10.

LOST ON THE MOUNTAINS.

Did ever the worthy London merchant, in the course of his life, approach to the verge of the region of despair, it was on that eventful night when he found himself and his family lost among the mountains of Scotland.

"It's dreadful," said he, sitting down on a cold grey rock, and beginning slowly to realise the utter hopelessness of their condition.

"My poor Lucy, don't be cast down," (drawing her to his breast), "after all, it will only be a night of wandering. But we must keep moving. We must not venture to lie down in our wet clothes. We must not even rest long at a time, lest a chill should come upon you."

"But I'm quite warm, papa, and only a very little tired. I could walk for miles yet." She said this cheerily, but she could not help looking anxious. The night was so dark, however, that no one could see her looks.

"Do let me go off alone, father," urged George; "I am as fresh as possible, and could run over the hills until I should fall in with—"

"Don't mention it, George; I feel that our only hope is to keep together. Poor Peter! what will become of that boy?"

Mr Sudberry became almost, desperate as he thought of the small clerk. He started up. "Come, we must keep moving. You are not cold, dear? are you sure you are not cold?"

"Quite sure, papa; why are you so anxious?"

"Because I have a flask of brandy, which I mean to delay using until we break down and cannot get on without it. Whenever you begin to get chilled I must give you brandy. Not till then, however; spirits are hurtful when there is hard toil before you, but when you break down there is no resource left. Rest, food, sleep, would be better; but these we have no chance of getting to-night. Poor Jacky! does he keep warm, George?"

"No fear of him," cried George, with forced gaiety. "He's all right."

Jack had broken down completely soon after nightfall. Vigorously, manfully had he struggled to keep up; but when his usual hour for going to bed arrived, nature refused to sustain him. He sank to the ground, and then George wrapped him up in his shooting-coat, in which he now lay, sound asleep, like a dirty brown bundle, on his brother's shoulders.

"I'll tell you what," said Fred, after they had walked, or rather stumbled, on for some time in silence. "Suppose you all wait here for ten minutes while I run like a greyhound to the nearest height and see if anything is to be seen. Mamma must have alarmed the whole neighbourhood by this time; and if they are looking for us, they will be sure to have lanterns or torches."

"A good idea, my boy. Go, and pause every few minutes to shout, so that we may not lose you. Keep shouting, Fred, and we will wait here and reply."

Fred was off in a moment, and before he had got fifty yards away was floundering knee-deep in a peat-bog. So much for reckless haste, thought he, as he got out of the bog and ran forward with much more caution. Soon those waiting below heard his clear voice far up the heights. A few minutes more, and it rang forth again more faintly. Mr Sudberry remarked that it sounded as if it came from the clouds: he put his hands to his mouth sailor fashion, and replied. Then they listened intently for the next shout. How still it was while they sat there! What a grand, gloomy solitude! They could hear no sound but the beating of their own hearts. Solemn thoughts of the Creator of these mighty hills crept into their minds as they gazed around and endeavoured to pierce the thick darkness. But this was impossible. It was one of those nights in which the darkness was so profound that no object could be seen even indistinctly at the distance of ten yards. Each could see the other's form like a black marble statue, but no feature could be traced. The mountain peaks and ridges could indeed be seen against the dark sky, like somewhat deeper shadows; but the crags and corries, the scattered rocks and heathery knolls, the peat-bogs and the tarns of the wild scene which these circling peaks enclosed—all were steeped in impenetrable gloom. There seemed something terrible, almost unnatural, in this union of thick darkness with profound silence. Mr Sudberry was startled by the sound of his own voice when he again spoke.

"The boy must have gone too far. I cannot hear—"

"Hush!"

"Hi!" in the far distance, like a faint echo. They all breathed more freely, and Mr Sudberry uttered a powerful response. Presently the shout came nearer—nearer still; and soon Fred rejoined them, with the disheartening information that he had gained the summit of the ridge, and could see nothing whatever!

"Well, my children," said Mr Sudberry, with an assumption of cheerfulness which he was far from feeling, "nothing now remains but to push straight forward as fast as we can. We must come to a road of some sort in the long-run, which will conduct to somewhere or other, no doubt. Come, cheer up; forward! Follow close behind me, Lucy. George, do you take the lead—you are the most active and sharp-sighted among us; and mind the bogs."

"What if we walk right over a precipice!" thought Fred. He had almost said it, but checked himself for fear of alarming the rest unnecessarily. Instead of cautioning George, he quietly glided to the front, and took the lead.

Slowly, wearily, and painfully they plodded on, stumbling at times over a rugged and stone-covered surface, sometimes descending a broken slope that grew more and more precipitous until it became dangerous, and then, fearing to go farther—not knowing what lay before—they had to retrace their steps and search for a more gradual descent. Now crossing a level patch that raised their hopes, inclining them to believe that they had reached the bottom of the valley; anon coming suddenly upon a steep ascent that dashed their hopes, and induced them to suppose they had turned in the wrong direction, and were re-ascending instead of descending the mountain. All the time Jacky slept like a top, and George, being a sturdy fellow, carried him without a murmur. Several times Fred tried to make him give up his burden, but George was inexorably obstinate. So they plodded on till nearly midnight.

"Is that a house?" said Fred, stopping short, and pointing to a dark object just in front of them. "No, it's a lake."

"Nonsense, it's a mountain."

A few more steps, and Fred recoiled with a cry of horror. It was a precipice full a hundred feet deep—the dark abyss of which had assumed such varied aspects in their eyes!

A long detour followed, and they reached the foot in safety. Here the land became boggy.

Each step was an act fraught with danger, anxiety, and calculation. Whether they should step knee-deep into a hole full of water, or trip over a rounded mass of solid turf, was a matter of absolute uncertainty until the step was taken.

"Oh that we had only a gleam of moonshine," said Lucy with a sigh. Moonshine! How often had George in the course of his life talked with levity, almost amounting to contempt, of things being "all a matter of moonshine!" What would he not have given to have had only a tithe of the things which surrounded him at that time converted into "moonshine!"

A feeble cheer from Fred caused an abrupt halt:—

"What is it?"

"Hallo!"

"What now?"

"The lake at last!—Our own loch! I know the shape of it well! Hurrah!"

Everyone was overjoyed. They all gazed at it long and earnestly, and unitedly came to the conclusion that it was the loch—probably at the distance of a mile or so. Pushing forward with revived spirits, they came upon the object of their hopes much sooner than had been anticipated. In fact, it was not more than two hundred yards distant. A wild yell of laughter mingled with despair burst from Fred as the lake galloped away in the shape of a white horse! The untravelled reader may possibly doubt this. Yet it is a fact that a white horse was thus mistaken for a distant lake!

The revulsion of feeling was tremendous. Everyone sighed, and Mr Sudberry groaned, for at that moment the thought of poor Peter recurred to his mind. Yet there remained a strange feeling of kindliness in the breast of each towards that white horse. It was an undeniable proof of the existence of animal life in those wild regions, a fact which the deep solitude of all around had tempted them madly to doubt—unknown even to themselves. Besides, it suggested the idea of an owner to the horse; and by a natural and easy process of reasoning they concluded that the owner must be a human being, and that, when at home, he probably dwelt in a house. What more probable than that the house was even then within hail?

Acting on the idea, Mr Sudberry shouted for two minutes with all his might, the only result of which was to render himself extremely hoarse. Then George tried it, and so did Fred, and Jacky awoke and began to whimper and to ask to be let down. He also kicked a little, but, being very tired, soon fell asleep again.

"You must let me carry him now!" said Fred.

"I won't!"

Fred tried force, but George was too strong for him, so they went on as before, Lucy leaning somewhat heavily on her father's arm.

Presently they heard the sound of water. It filled them with mitigated joy and excitement, on the simple principle that anything in the shape of variety was better than nothing. A clap of thunder would have raised in their depressed bosoms a gleam of hope. A flash of lightning would have been a positive blessing. Mr Sudberry at once suggested that it must be a stream, and that they could follow its course—wade down its bed, if necessary—till they should arrive at "something!" Foolish man! he had been long enough in the Highlands by that time to have known that to walk down the bed of a mountain-burn was about as possible as to walk down the shaft of a coal-mine. They came to the edge of its banks, however, and, looking over, tried to pierce its gloom. There was a pale gleam of white foam—a rumbling, rustling sound beneath, and a sensation of moisture in the atmosphere.

"It rains!" said Mr Sudberry.

"I rather think it's the spray of a fall!" observed George.

Had Mr Sudberry known the depth of the tremendous gulf into which he was peering, and the steep cliff on the edge of which he stood, he would have sprung back in alarm. But he did not know—he did not entertain the faintest idea of the truth so he boldly, though cautiously, began to clamber down, assisting Lucy to descend.

Man, (including woman), knows not what he can accomplish until he tries. Millions of glittering gold would not have induced any member of that party to descend such a place in the dark, had they known what it was— yet they accomplished it in safety. Down, down they went!

"Dear me, when shall we reach the foot? We must be near it now."

No, they were not near it; still down they went, becoming more and more alarmed, yet always tempted on by the feeling that each step would bring them to the bottom.

"What a noise the stream makes! why, it must be a river!"

No, it was not a river—it was a mere burn; quite a little burn, but— what then? Little men are always fussier and noisier than big men; little boys invariably howl more furiously than big boys. Nature is full of analogies; and little streams, especially mountain streams, always make more ado in finding their level than big rivers.

They got down at last, and then they found the stream rushing, bursting, crashing among rent and riven rocks and boulders as if it had gone furiously mad, and was resolved never more to flow and murmur, but always to leap and roar. It was impassable; to walk down its banks or bed was impossible, so the wanderers had to re-ascend the bank, and roam away over black space in search of another crossing. They soon lost the sound in the intricacies of cliffs and dells, and never again found that stream. But they found a narrow path, and Fred announced the discovery with a cheer. It was an extremely rugged path, and appeared to have been macadamised with stones the size of a man's head. This led them to suspect that it must be a ditch, not a path; but it turned out to be the dry bed of a mountain-torrent—dry, at least, as regards running water, though not dry in respect of numerous stagnant pools, into which at various times each member of the party stepped unintentionally. It mattered not—nothing could make them wetter or more miserable than they were—so they thought. They had yet to learn that the thoughts of men are forever misleading them, and that there is nothing more certain than the uncertainty of all human calculations.



STORY ONE, CHAPTER 11.

STILL LOST!

Meanwhile, Mrs Sudberry was thrown into a species of frenzied horror, which no words can describe, and which was not in any degree allayed by the grave shaking of the head, with which Mr McAllister accompanied his vain efforts to comfort and re-assure her. This excellent man quoted several passages from the works of Dugald Stewart and Locke, tending to show, in common parlance, that "necessity has no law," and that the rightly constituted human mind ought to rise superior to all circumstances—quotations which had the effect of making Mrs Sudberry more hysterical than ever, and which induced Mrs Brown to call him who offered such consolation a "brute!"

But McAllister did not confine his efforts solely to the region of mind. While he was earnestly administering doses of the wisdom of Stewart and Locke to the agitated lady in the parlour, Dan and Hugh, with several others, were, by his orders, arming themselves in the kitchen for a regular search.

"She's ready," said Dan, entering the parlour unceremoniously with a huge stable lantern.

"That's right, Dan—keep away up by the slate corrie, and come down by the red tarn. If they've taken the wrong turn to the right, you're sure to fall in wi' them thereaway. Send Hugh round by the burn; I'll go straight up the hill, and come down upon Loch Cognahoighliey. Give a shout now and then, as ye goo."

Dan was a man of action and few words: he vouchsafed no reply, but turned immediately and left the room, leaving a powerful odour of the byre behind him.

Poor Mrs Sudberry and Tilly were unspeakably comforted by the grave business-like way, in which the search was gone about. They recalled to mind that a search of a somewhat similar nature, in point of manner and time, was undertaken a week before for a stray sheep, and that it had been successful; so they felt relieved, though they remained, of course, dreadfully anxious. McAllister refrained from administering any more moral philosophy. As he was not at all anxious about the lost party, and was rather fond of a sly joke, it remains to this day a matter of doubt whether he really expected that his nostrums would be of much use. In a few minutes he was breasting the hill like a true mountaineer, with a lantern in his hand, and with Hobbs by his side.

"Only think, ma'am," said Mrs Brown, who was not usually judicious in her remarks, "only think if they've been an' fell hover a precipice."

"Shocking!" exclaimed poor Mrs Sudberry, with a little shriek, as she clapped her hands on her eyes.

"Poor Jacky, ma'am, p'raps 'e's lyin' hall in a mangled 'eap at the foot of a—"

"Leave me!" cried Mrs Sudberry, with an amount of sudden energy that quite amazed Mrs Brown, who left the room feeling that she was an injured woman.

"Darling mamma, they will come back!" said Tilly, throwing her arms round her mother's neck, and bursting into tears on her bosom. "You know that the sheep—the lost sheep—was found last week, and brought home quite safe. Dan is so kind, though he does not speak much, and Hugh too. They will be sure to find them, darling mamma!"

The sweet voice and the hopeful heart of the child did what philosophy had failed to accomplish—Mrs Sudberry was comforted. Thus we see, not that philosophy is a vain thing, but that philosophy and feeling are distinct, and that each is utterly powerless in the domain of the other.

When Peter was left alone by his master, as recorded in a former chapter, he sat himself down in a cheerful frame of mind on the sunny side of a large rock, and gave himself up to the enjoyment of thorough repose, as well mental as physical. The poor lad was in that state of extreme lassitude which renders absolute and motionless rest delightful. Extended at full length on a springy couch of heath, with his eyes peeping dreamily through the half-closed lids at the magnificent prospect of mountains and glens that lay before him, and below him too, so that he felt like a bird in mid-air, looking down upon the world, with his right arm under his meek head, and both pillowed on the plaid, with his countenance exposed to the full blaze of the sun, and with his recent lunch commencing to operate on the system, so as to render exhaustion no longer a pain, but a pleasure, Peter lay on that knoll, high up the mountain-side, in close proximity to the clouds, dreaming and thinking about nothing; that is to say, about everything or anything in an imbecile sort of way: in other words, wandering in his mind disjointedly over the varied regions of memory and imagination; too tired to originate an idea; too indifferent to resist one when it arose; too weak to follow it out; and utterly indifferent as to whether his mind did follow it out, or cut it short off in the middle.

We speak of Peter's mind as a totally distinct and separate thing from himself. It had taken the bit in its teeth and run away. He cared no more for it than he did for the nose on his face, which was, at that time, as red as a carrot, by reason of the sun shining full on its tip. But why attempt to describe Peter's thoughts? Here they are—such as they were—for the reader to make what he can out of them.

"Heigh ho! comfortable now—jolly—what a place! How I hate mountains— climbing them—dreadful!—Like 'em to lie on, though—sun, I like your jolly red-hot face—Sunday! wonder if's got to do with sun—p'raps— twinkle, twinkle, little sun, how I wonder—oh, what fun!—won't I have sich wonderful tales—tales—tails—stories are tails—stick 'em on the end of puppy-dogs, and see how they'd look—two or three two-legged puppies in the office—what a difference now!—no ink-bottles, no smashings, no quills, plenty of geese, though, and grouse and hares— what was I thinking about? Oh, yes—the office—no scribbles—no stools, no desks, No-vember—dear me, that's funny! No-vember—what's a vember? Cut him in two can't join him again—no—no—snore!"

At this point Peter's thoughts went out altogether in sleep, leaving the happy youth in peaceful oblivion. He started suddenly after an hour's nap, under the impression that he was tumbling over a precipice.

To give a little scream and clutch wildly at the heather was natural. He looked round. The sun was still hot and high. Scratching his head, as if to recall his faculties, Peter stared vacantly at the sandwiches which lay beside him on a piece of old newspaper. Gradually his hand wandered towards them, and a gleam of intelligence, accompanied by a smile, overspread his countenance as he conveyed one to his lips. Eating seemed fatiguing, however. He soon laid the remnant down, drew the plaid over him, nestled among the heather, and dropped into a heavy sleep with a sigh of ineffable comfort.

When Peter again woke up, the sun was down, and just enough of light remained to show that it was going to be an intensely dark night. Can anyone describe, can anyone imagine, the state of Peter's feelings? Certainly not! Peter, besides being youthful, was, as we have said, an extremely timid boy. He was constitutionally afraid of the dark, even when surrounded by friends. What, then, were his sensations when he found himself on the mountain alone—lost! The thought was horror! Peter gasped; he leaped up with a wild shout, gazed madly round, and sank down with a deep groan. Up he sprang again, and ran forward a few paces. Precipices occurred to him—he turned and ran as many paces backward. Bogs occurred to him—he came to a full stop, fell on his knees, and howled. Up he leaped again, clapped both hands to his mouth, and shouted until his eyes threatened to come out, and his face became purple, "Master! Master! George! hi! hallo-o! Jacky! ho-o-o!" The "O!" was prolonged into a wild roar, and down he went again quite flat. Up he jumped once more; the darkness was deepening. He rushed to the right—left—all round—tore his hair, and gazed into the black depths below—yelled and glared into the dark vault above!

Poor Peter! Thus violently did his gentle spirit seek relief during the first few minutes of its overwhelming consternation.

But he calmed down in the course of time into a species of mild despair. A bursting sob broke from him occasionally, as with his face buried in his hands, his head deep in the heather, and his eyes tight shut, he strove in vain to blind himself to the true nature of his dreadful position. At last he became recklessly desperate, and, rising hastily, he fled. He sought, poor lad, to fly from himself. Of course the effort was fruitless. Instead of distancing himself—an impossibility at all times—doubly so in a rugged country—he tumbled himself over a cliff, (fortunately not a high one), and found himself in a peat-bog, (fortunately not a deep one). This cooled and somewhat improved his understanding, so that he returned to the knoll a wiser, a wetter, and a sadder boy. Who shall describe the agonies, the hopes, the fears, the wanderings, the faggings, and the final despair of the succeeding hours? It is impossible to say who will describe all this, for we have not the slightest intention of attempting it.

Towards midnight Dan reached a very dark and lonely part of the mountains, and was suddenly arrested by a low wail. The sturdy Celt raised his lantern on high. Just at that moment Peter's despair happened to culminate, and he lifted his head out of the heather to give free vent to the hideous groan, with which he meant, if possible, to terminate his existence. The groan became a shriek, first of terror, then of hope, after that of anxiety, as Dan came dancing towards him like a Jack-o'-lantern.

"Fat is she shriekin' at?" said Dan.

"Oh! I'm so glad—I'm so-o-ow-hoo!"

Poor Peter seized Dan round the legs, for, being on his knees, he could not reach higher, and embraced him.

"Fat's got the maister?"

Peter could not tell.

"Can she waalk?"

Peter couldn't walk—his limbs refused their office.

"Here, speel up on her back."

Peter could do that. He did it, and hugged Dan round the neck with the tenacity of a shipwrecked mariner clinging to his last plank. The sturdy Celt went down the mountain as lightly as if Peter were a fly, and as if the vice-like grip of his arms round his throat were the embrace of a worsted comforter.

"Here they are, ma'am!" screamed Mrs Brown.

She was wrong. Mrs Brown was usually wrong. Peter alone was deposited before the eager gaze of Mrs Sudberry, who fainted away with disappointment. Mrs Brown said "be off" to Peter, and applied scent-bottles to her mistress. The poor boy's grateful heart wanted to embrace somebody; so he went slowly and sadly upstairs, where he found the cat, and embraced it. Hours passed away, and the Sudberry Family still wandered lost, and almost hopeless, among the mountains.



STORY ONE, CHAPTER 12.

FOUND.

We left Mr Sudberry and his children in the nearly dry bed of a mountain-torrent, indulging the belief that matters were as bad as could be, and that, therefore, there was no possibility of their getting worse.

A smart shower of rain speedily induced them to change their minds in this respect. Seeking shelter under the projecting ledge of a great cliff, the party stood for some time there in silence.

"You are cold, my pet," said Mr Sudberry.

"Just a little, papa; I could not help shuddering," said Lucy, faintly.

"Now for the brandy," said her father, drawing forth the flask.

"Suppose I try to kindle a fire," said George, swinging the bundle containing Jacky off his shoulder, and placing it in a hollow of the rocks.

"Well, suppose you try."

George proceeded to do so; but on collecting a few broken twigs he found that they were soaking wet, and on searching for the match-box he discovered that it had been left in the provision-basket, so they had to content themselves with a sip of brandy all round—excepting Jacky. That amiable child was still sound asleep; but in a few minutes he was heard to utter an uneasy squall, and then George discovered that he had deposited part of his rotund person in a puddle of water.

"Come, let us move on," said Mr Sudberry, "the rain gets heavier. It is of no use putting off time, we cannot be much damper than we are."

Again the worthy man was mistaken; for, in the course of another hour, they were all so thoroughly drenched, that their previous condition might have been considered, by contrast, one of absolute dryness.

Suddenly, a stone wall, topped by a paling, barred their further progress. Fred, who was in advance, did not see this wall—he only felt it when it brought him up.

"Here's a gate, I believe," cried George, groping about. It was a gate, and it opened upon the road! For the first time for many hours a gleam of hope burst in upon the benighted wanderers. Presently a ray of light dazzled them.

"What! do my eyes deceive me—a cottage?" cried Mr Sudberry.

"Ay, and a witch inside," said George.

"Why, it's old—no, impossible!"

"Yes, it is, though—it's old Moggy's cottage."

"Hurrah!" cried Fred.

Old Moggy's dog came out with a burst of indignation that threatened annihilation to the whole party; but, on discovering who they were, it crept humbly back into the cottage.

"Does she never go to bed?" whispered George, as they approached and found the old woman moping over her fire, and swaying her body to and fro, with the thin dirty gown clinging close to her figure, and the spotlessly clean plaid drawn tightly round her shoulders.

"Good-evening, old woman," said Mr Sudberry, advancing with a conciliatory air.

"It's mornin'," retorted the old woman with a scowl.

"Alas! you are right; here have we been lost on the hills, and wandering all night; and glad am I to find your fire burning, for my poor daughter is very cold and much exhausted. May we sit down beside you?"

No reply, save a furtive scowl.

"What's that?" asked Moggy, sharply, as George deposited his dirty wet bundle on the floor beside the fire opposite to her.

The bundle answered for itself; by slowly unrolling, sitting up and yawning violently, at the same time raising both arms above its head and stretching itself. Having done this, it stared round the room with a vacant look, and finally fixed its goggle eyes in mute surprise on Moggy.

The sight of this wet, dirty little creature acted, as formerly, like a charm on the old woman. Her face relaxed into a smile of deep tenderness. She immediately rose, and taking the child in her arms carried him to her stool, and sat down with him in her lap. Jacky made no resistance; on the contrary, he seemed to have made up his mind to submit at once, and with a good grace, to the will of this strange old creature—to the amazement as well as amusement of his relations.

The old woman took no further notice of her other visitors. She incontinently became stone deaf; and apparently blind, for she did not deign to bestow so much as a glance on them, while they circled close round her fire, and heaped on fresh sticks without asking leave. But she made up for this want of courtesy by bestowing the most devoted attentions on Jacky. Finding that that young gentleman was in a filthy as well as a moist condition, she quietly undressed him, and going to a rough chest in a corner of the hut drew out a full suit of clothing, with which she speedily invested him. The garb was peculiar—a tartan jacket, kilt, and hose; and these seemed to have been made expressly for him, they fitted so well. Although quite clean, thin, threadbare, and darned, the appearance of the garments showed that they had been much-worn. Having thus clothed Jacky, the old woman embraced him tenderly, then held him at arm's-length and gazed at him for a few minutes. Finally, she pushed him gently away and burst into tears— rocking herself to and fro, and moaning dismally.

Meanwhile Jacky, still perfectly mute and observant, sat down on a log beside the poor old dame, and stared at her until the violence of her grief began to subside. The other members of the party stared too—at her and at each other—as if to say, "What can all this mean?"

At last Jacky began to manifest signs of impatience, and, pulling her sleeve, he said—

"Now, g'anny, lollipops!"

Old Moggy smiled, rose, went to the chest again, and returned with a handful of sweetmeats, with which Jacky at once proceeded to regale himself, to the infinite joy of the old woman.

Mr Sudberry now came to the conclusion that there must be a secret understanding between this remarkable couple; and he was right. Many a time during the last two weeks had Master Jacky, all unknown to his parents, made his way to old Moggy's hut—attracted thereto by the splendid "lollipops" with which the subtle old creature beguiled him, and also by the extraordinary amount of affection she lavished upon him. Besides this, the child had a strong dash of romance in his nature, and it was a matter of deep interest to him to be a courted guest in such a strange old hovel, and to be fondled and clothed, as he often was, in Highland costume, by one who scowled upon everyone else—excepting her little dog, with which animal he became an intimate friend. Jacky did not trouble himself to inquire into the reason of the old woman's partiality—sufficient for him that he enjoyed her hospitality and her favour, and that he was engaged in what he had a vague idea must needs be a piece of clandestine and very terrible wickedness. His long absences, during these visits, had indeed been noticed by his mother; but as Jacky was in the habit of following his own inclinations in every thing and at all times, without deigning to give an account of himself; it was generally understood that he had just strayed a little farther than usual while playing about.

While this was going on in Moggy's hut, George had been despatched to inform Mrs Sudberry of their safety. The distance being short, he soon ran over the ground, and burst in upon his mother with a cheer. Mrs Sudberry sprang into his arms, and burst into tears; Mrs Brown lay down on the sofa, and went into quiet hysterics; and little Tilly, who had gone to bed hours before in a condition of irresistible drowsiness, jumped up with a scream, and came skipping down-stairs in her night-gown.

"Safe, mother, safe!"

"And Jacky?"

"Safe, too, all of us."

"Oh! I'm so thankful."

"No, not all of us," said George, suddenly recollecting Peter.

Mrs Sudberry gasped and turned pale. "Oh! George! quick, tell me!"

"Poor Peter," began George.

"Please, sir, I've bin found," said a meek voice behind him, at which George turned round with a start—still supporting his mother.

Mrs Brown, perceiving the ludicrous nature of the remark, began to grow violent on the sofa, and to kick a little. Then Mrs Sudberry asked for each of the missing ones individually—sobbing between each question— and at each sob Tilly's sympathetic bosom heaved, and Mrs Brown gave a kick and a subdued scream. Then George began to tell the leading features of their misfortunes rapidly, and Mrs Brown listened intently until Mrs Sudberry again sobbed, when Mrs Brown immediately recollected that she was in hysterics, and recommenced kicking.

"But where are they?" cried Mrs Sudberry, suddenly.

"I was just coming to that—they're at old Moggy's hut, drying themselves and resting."

"Oh! I'll go down at once. Take me there."

Accordingly, the poor lady threw on her bonnet and shawl and set off with George for the cottage, leaving Mrs Brown, now relieved from all anxiety, kicking and screaming violently on the sofa, to the great alarm of Hobbs, who just then returned from his fruitless search.

"My son, my darling!" cried Mrs Sudberry, as she rushed into the cottage, and clasped Jacky in her arms. She could say no more, and if she had said more it could not have been heard, for her appearance created dire confusion and turmoil in the hovel. The lost and found wanderers started up to welcome her, the little dog sprang up to bark furiously and repel her, and the old woman ran at her, screaming, with intent to rescue Jacky from her grasp. There was a regular scuffle, for the old woman was strong in her rage, but George and Fred held her firmly, though tenderly, back, while Mr Sudberry hurried his alarmed spouse and their child out of the hut, and made for home as fast as possible. Lucy followed with George almost immediately after, leaving Fred to do his best to calm and comfort the old woman. For his humane efforts Fred received a severe scratching on the face, and was compelled to seek refuge in flight.



STORY ONE, CHAPTER 13.

VISITING THE POOR.

For some time after this the Sudberry Family were particularly careful not to wander too far from their mountain home. Mr Sudberry forbade everyone, on pain of his utmost displeasure, to venture up among the hills without McAllister or one of his lads as a guide. As a further precaution, he wrote for six pocket compasses to be forwarded as soon as possible.

"My dear," said his wife, "since you are writing home, you may as well—"

"My dear, I am not writing—"

"You're writing to London for compasses, are you not?"

"No," said Mr Sudberry with a smile. "I believe they understand how to manufacture the mariner's compass in Scotland—I am writing to my Edinburgh agent for them."

"Oh! ah well, it did not occur to me. Now you mention it, I think I have heard that the Scotch have sort of scientific tendencies."

"Yes, they are 'feelosophically' inclined, as our friend McAllister would say. But what did you want, my love?"

"I want a hobby-horse to be sent to us for Jacky; but it will be of no use writing to Edinburgh for one. I suppose they do not use such things in a country where there are so few real horses, and so few roads fit for a horse to walk on."

Mr Sudberry made no reply, not wishing to incur the expense of such a useless piece of furniture, and his wife continued her needlework with a sigh. From the bottom of her large heart she pitied the Scottish nation, and wondered whether there was the remotest hope of the place ever being properly colonised by the English, and the condition of the aborigines ameliorated.

"Mamma, I'm going with Flora Macdonald to visit her poor people," said Lucy, entering at the moment with a flushed face,—for Lucy was addicted to running when in a hurry,—and with a coquettish little round straw hat.

"Very well, my love, but do take that good-natured man to guide you—Mr What's-his-name, I've such a memory! Ah! McCannister; do take him with you, dear."

"There is no need, mamma. Nearly all the cottages lie along the road-side, and Flora is quite at home here, you know."

"True, true, I forgot that."

Mrs Sudberry sighed and Lucy laughed gaily as she ran down the hill to meet her friend. The first cottage they visited was a little rough thatched one with a low roof; one door, and two little windows, in which latter there were four small panes of glass, with a knot in each. The interior was similar to that of old Moggy's hut, but there was more furniture in it, and the whole was pervaded by an air of neatness and cleanliness that spoke volumes for its owner.

"This is Mrs Cameron's cottage," whispered Flora as they entered. "She was knocked over by a horse while returning from church last Sunday, and I fear has been badly shaken.—Well, Mrs Cameron, how are you to-day?"

A mild little voice issued from a box-bed in a corner of the room. "Thankee, mem, I'm no that ill, mem. The Lord is verra kind to me."— There was a mild sadness in the tone, a sort of "the world's in an awfu' state,—but no doot it's a' for the best, an' I'm resigned to my lot, though I wadna objec' to its being a wee thing better, oo-ay,"—feeling in it, which told of much sorrow in years gone by, and of deep humility, for there was not a shade of complaint in the tone.

"Has the doctor been to see you, my dear granny?" inquired Flora, sitting down at the side of the box-bed, while Lucy seated herself on a stool and tried to pierce the gloom within.

"Oo, ay, he cam' an' pood aff ma mutch, an' feel'd ma heed a' over, but he said nothin'—only to lie quiet an' tak a pickle water-gruel, oo-ay."

As the voice said this its owner raised herself on one elbow, and, peering out with a pair of bright eyes, displayed to her visitor the small, withered, yet healthy countenance of one who must have been a beautiful girl in her youth. She was now upwards of seventy, and was, as Lucy afterwards said, "a sweet, charming, dear old woman." Her features were extremely small and delicate, and her eyes had an anxious look, as if she were in the habit of receiving periodical shocks of grief, and were wondering what shape the next one would take.

"I have brought you a bottle of wine," said Flora; "now don't shake your head—you must take it; you cannot get well on gruel. Your daughter is at our house just now: I shall meet her on my way home, and will tell her to insist on your taking it."

The old woman smiled, and looked at Lucy.

"This is a friend whom I have brought to see you," said Flora, observing the glance. The old woman held out her hand, and Lucy pressed it tenderly. "She has come all the way from London to see our mountains, granny."

"Ay?" said the old woman with a kind motherly smile: "it's a lang way to Lunnon, a lang way, ay. Ye'll be thinkin' we're a wild kind o' folk here-away; somewhat uncouth we are, no doot."

"Indeed, I think you are very nice people," said Lucy, earnestly. "I had no idea how charming your country was, until I came to it."

"Oo-ay! we can only get ideas by seein' or readin'. It's a grawnd thing, travellin', but it's wonderfu' what readin' 'll do. My guid-man, that's deed this therteen year,—ay,—come Marti'mas, he wrought in Lunnon for a year before we was marrit, an' he sent me the newspapers reglar once a month—ay, the English is fine folk. My guid-man aye said that."

Lucy expressed much interest in this visit of the departed guid-man, and, having touched a chord which was extremely sensitive and not easily put to rest after having been made to vibrate, old Mrs Cameron entertained her with a sweet and prolix account of the last illness, death, and burial of the said guid-man, with the tears swelling up in her bright old eyes and hopping over her wrinkled cheeks, until Flora forbade her to say another word, reminding her of the doctor's orders to keep quiet.

"Oo-ay, ye'll be gawin' to read me a bit o' the book?"

"I thought you would ask that; what shall it be?"

"Oo, ye canna go wrang."

Flora opened the Bible, and, selecting a passage, read it in a slow, clear tone, while the old woman lay back and listened with her eyes upturned and her hands clasped.

"Isn't it grawnd?" said she, appealing to Lucy with a burst of feeling, when Flora had concluded.

Lucy was somewhat taken aback by this enthusiastic display of love for the Bible, and felt somewhat embarrassed for an appropriate answer; but Flora came to her rescue:

"I have brought you a book, granny; it will amuse you when you are able to get up and read. There now, no thanks—you positively must lie down and try to sleep. I see your cheek is flushed with all this talking. Good-day, granny!"

"The next whom we will visit is a very different character," said Flora, as they walked briskly along the road that followed the windings of the river; "he dwells half a mile off."

"Then you will have time to tell me about old Moggy," said Lucy. "You have not yet fulfilled your promise to tell me the secret connected with her, and I am burning with impatience to know it."

"Of course you are; every girl of your age is set on fire by a secret. I have a mind to keep you turning a little longer."

"And pray, grandmamma," said Lucy, with an expressive twinkle in her eyes, "at what period of your prolonged life did you come to form such a just estimate of character in girls of my age?"

"I'll answer that question another time," said Flora; "meanwhile, I will relent and tell you about old Moggy. But, after all, there is not much to tell, and there is no secret connected with her, although there is a little mystery."

"No secret, yet a mystery! a distinction without a difference, it seems to me."

"Perhaps it is. You shall hear:—

"When a middle-aged woman, Moggy was housekeeper to Mr Hamilton, a landed proprietor in this neighbourhood. Mr Hamilton's gardener fell in love with Moggy; they married, and, returning to this their native hamlet, settled down in the small hut which the old woman still occupies. They had one daughter, named Mary, after Mr Hamilton's sister. When Mary was ten years old her father died of fever, and soon afterwards Moggy was taken again into Mr Hamilton's household in her old capacity; for his sister was an invalid, and quite unfit to manage his house. In the course of time little Mary became a woman and married a farmer at a considerable distance from this neighbourhood. They had one child, a beautiful fair-haired little fellow. On the very day that he was born his father was killed by a kick from a horse. The shock to the poor mother was so great, that she sank under it and died. Thus the little infant was left entirely to the care of his grandmother. He was named Willie, after his father.

"Death seemed to cast his shadow over poor Moggy's path all her life through. Shortly after this event Mr Hamilton died suddenly. This was a great blow to the housekeeper, for she was much attached to her old master, who had allowed her to keep her little grandson beside her under his roof. The sister survived her brother about five years. After her death the housekeeper returned to her old hut, where she has ever since lived on the interest of a small legacy left her by her old master. Little Willie, or wee Wullie, as she used to call him, was the light of old Moggy's eyes, and the joy of her heart. She idolised and would have spoiled him, had that been possible; but the child was of a naturally sweet disposition, and would not spoil. He was extremely amiable and gentle, yet bold as a young lion, and full of fun. I do not wonder that poor old Moggy was both proud and fond of him in an extraordinary degree. The blow of his removal well-nigh withered her up, body and soul—"

"He died?" said Lucy, looking up at Flora with tearful eyes.

"No, he did not: perhaps it would have been better if the poor child had died; you shall hear. When Willie was six years old a gang of gypsies passed through this hamlet, and, taking up their abode on the common, remained for some time. They were a wild, dangerous set, and became such a nuisance that the inhabitants at last took the law into their own hands, and drove them away. Just before this occurred little Willie disappeared. Search was made for him everywhere, but in vain. The gypsies were suspected, and their huts examined. Suspicion fell chiefly on one man, a stout ill-favoured fellow, with an ugly squint and a broken nose; but nothing could be proved either against him or the others, except that, at the time of the child's disappearance, this man was absent from the camp. From that day to this, dear little Willie has never been heard of.

"At first, the poor old grandmother went about almost mad with despair and anxiety, but, as years passed by, she settled down into the moping old creature you have seen her. It is five years since that event. Willie will be eleven years old now, if alive; but, alas! I fear he must be dead."

"What a sad, sad tale!" said Lucy. "I suppose it must be because our Jacky is about the age that Willie was when he was stolen, that the poor woman has evinced such a fondness for him."

"Possibly; and, now I think of it, there is a good deal of resemblance between the two, especially about the hair and eyes, though Willie was much more beautiful. You have noticed, no doubt, that Moggy wears a clean plaid—"

"Oh, yes," interrupted Lucy; "I have observed that."

"That was the plaid that Willie used to wear in winter. His grandmother spends much of her time in washing it; she takes great pains to keep it clean. The only mystery about the old woman is the old chest in one corner of her hut. She keeps it jealously locked, and no one has ever found out what is in it, although the inquisitive folk of the place are very anxious to know. But it does not require a wizard to tell that. Doubtless it contains the clothing and toys of her grandson. Poor old Moggy!"

"I can enlighten you on that point," said Lucy, eagerly opening the lid of a small basket which hung on her arm, and displaying the small suit of Highland clothing in which Jacky had been conveyed home on the night when the Sudberrys were lost on the hills. "This suit came out of the large chest; and as I knew you meant to visit Moggy to-day, I brought it with me."

The two friends reached the door of a small cottage as Lucy said this, and tapped.

"Come in!" gruffly said a man's voice. This was one of Flora's difficult cases. The man was bed-ridden, and was nursed by a grand-daughter. He was quite willing to accept comfort from Flora, especially when it took the shape of food and medicine; but he would not listen to the Bible. Flora knew that he liked her visits, however; so, with prayers in her heart and the Bible in her hand, she persevered hopefully, yet with such delicacy that the gruff old man became gruffer daily, as his conscience began to reprove him for his gruffness.

Thus, from hut to hut she went, with love to mankind in her heart and the name of Jesus on her lip; sometimes received with smiles and sent away with blessings, occasionally greeted with a cold look, and allowed to depart with a frigid "good-day!"

Lucy had often wished for some such work as this at home, but had not yet found courage to begin. She was deeply sympathetic and observant. Old Moggy was the last they visited that day. Flora was the only female she would tolerate.

"I've been tryin' to say't a' night an' I canna do't!" she said stoutly, as the ladies entered.

"You forget the words, perhaps, dear Moggy—'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath—'"

"Na, na, I dinna forget them, but I canna say them." So Flora sat down on a stool, and gently sought, by means of the Bible, to teach the old woman one of the most difficult lessons that poor human nature has got to learn in this world of mingled happiness and woe.



STORY ONE, CHAPTER 14.

A SURPRISE AND A BATTLE.

"Here! halloo! hi! Hobbs! I say," shouted Mr Sudberry, running out at the front door, after having swept Lucy's work-box off the table and trodden on the cat's tail. "Where has that fellow gone to? He's always out of the way. Halloo!" (looking up at the nursery window), "Mrs Brown!"

Mrs Brown, being deeply impressed with the importance of learning, (just because of Mrs Sudberry's contempt thereof), was busily engaged at that moment in teaching Miss Tilly and Master Jacky a piece of very profound knowledge.

"Now, Miss Tilly, what is the meaning of procrastination?" ("Ho! hi! halloo-o-o-o," from Mr Sudberry; but Mrs Brown, supposing the shout is meant for any one but herself; takes no notice of it.)

Tilly.—"Doing to-day what you might have put off till to-morrow." ("Halloo! ho! don't you hear? hi!" from below.)

Mrs Brown.—"No, you little goose! What is it, Jacky?"

Jacky.—"Doing to-morrow what you might have put off till to-day." ("Hi! halloo! are you deaf up there?")

Mrs Brown.—"Worse and worse, stupid little goose!"

Jacky, (indignantly).—"Well, then, if it's neither one thing nor t'other, just let's hear what you make it out to be—" ("Hi! ho! halloo! Mrs Bra-a-own!")

"Bless me, I think papa is calling on me. Yes, sir. Was you calling, sir?" (throwing up the window and looking out.)

"Calling! no; I wasn't 'calling.' I was shrieking, howling, yelling. Is Hobbs there?"

"No, sir; 'Obbs is not 'ere, sir."

"Well, then, be so good as to go and look for him, and say I want him directly to go for the letters."

"'Ere I am, sir," said Hobbs, coming suddenly round the corner of the house, with an appearance of extreme haste.

Hobbs had, in fact, been within hearing of his master, having been, during the last half-hour, seated in McAllister's kitchen, where the uproarious merriment had drowned all other sounds. Hobbs had become a great favourite with the Highland family, owing to his hearty good humour and ready power of repartee. The sharp Cockney, with the easy-going effrontery peculiar to his race, attempted to amuse the household—namely, Mrs McAllister, Dan, Hugh, and two good-looking and sturdy-limbed servant-girls—by measuring wits with the "canny Scot," as he called the farmer. He soon found, however, that he had caught a Tartar. The good-natured Highlander met his raillery with what we may call a smile of grave simplicity, and led him slyly into committing himself in such a way that even the untutored servants could see how far the man was behind their master in general knowledge; but Hobbs took refuge in smart reply, confident assertion, extreme volubility, and the use of hard words, so that it sometimes seemed to the domestics as if he really had some considerable power in argument. Worthy Mrs McAllister never joined in the debate, except by a single remark now and then. She knew her son thoroughly, and before the Sudberrys had been a week at the White House she understood Hobbs through and through.

She was wont to sit at her spinning-wheel regarding this intellectual sparring with grave interest, as a peculiar phase of the human mind. A very sharp encounter had created more laughter than usual at the time when Mr Sudberry halloed for his man-servant.

"You must be getting deaf; Hobbs, I fear," said the master, at once pacified by the man's arrival; "go down and fetch—"

"Pray do not send him away just now," cried Mrs Sudberry: "I have something particular for him to do. Can you go down yourself, dear?"

The good man sighed. "Well, I will go," and accordingly away he went.

"Stay, my dear."

"Well."

"I expect one or two small parcels by the coach this morning; mind you ask for 'em and bring 'em up."

"Ay, ay!" and Mr Sudberry, with his hands in his pockets, and his wideawake thrust back and very much on one side of his head, sauntered down the hill towards the road.

One of the disadvantageous points about the White House was its distance from any town or market. The nearest shop was four miles off, so that bread, butter, meat, and groceries, had to be ordered a couple of days beforehand, and were conveyed to their destination by the mail-coach. Even after they were deposited at the gate of Mr McAllister's farm, there was still about half a mile of rugged cart-road to be got over before they could be finally deposited in the White House. This was a matter of constant anxiety to Mr Sudberry, because it was necessary that someone should be at the gate regularly to receive letters and parcels, and this involved constant attention to the time of the mail passing. When no one was there, the coachman left the property of the family at the side of the road. Hobbs, however, was usually up to time, fair weather and foul, and this was the first time his master had been called on to go for the letters.

Walking down the road, Mr Sudberry whistled an extremely operatic air, in the contentment of his heart, and glanced from side to side, with a feeling amounting almost to affection, at the various objects which had now become quite familiar to him, and with many of which he had interesting associations.

There was the miniature hut, on the roof of which he usually laid his rod on returning from a day's fishing. There was the rude stone bridge over the burn, on the low parapet of which he and the family were wont to sit on fine evenings, and commune of fishing, and boating, and climbing, and wonder whether it would be possible ever again to return to the humdrum life of London. There was the pool in the same burn over which one day he, reckless man, had essayed to leap, and into which he had tumbled, when in eager pursuit of Jacky. A little below this was the pool into which the said Jacky had rushed in wild desperation on finding that his father was too fleet for him. Passing through a five-barred gate into the next field, he skirted the base of a high, precipitous crag, on which grew a thicket of dwarf-trees and shrubs, and at the foot of which the burn warbled. Here, on his left, stood the briar bush out of which had whirred the first live grouse he ever set eyes on. It was at this bird, that, in the madness of his excitement, he had flung first his stick, then his hat, and lastly his shout of disappointment and defiance. A little further on was that other bush out of which he had started so many grouse that he now never approached it without a stone in each hand, his eyes and nostrils dilated, and his breath restrained. He never by any chance on these occasions sent his artillery within six yards of the game; but once, when he approached the bush in a profound reverie, and without the usual preparation, he actually saw a bird crouching in the middle of it! To seize a large stone and hit the ground at least forty yards beyond the bush was the work of a moment. Up got the bird with a tremendous whizz! He flung his stick wildly, and, hitting it, (by chance), fair on the head, brought it down. To rush at it, fall on it, crush it almost flat, and rise up slowly holding it very tight, was the result of this successful piece of poaching. Another result was a charming addition to a dinner a few days afterwards.

At all these objects Mr Sudberry gazed benignantly as he sauntered along in the sunshine, indulging in sweet memories of the recent past, and whistling operatically.

The high-road gained, he climbed upon the gate, seated himself upon the top bar to await the passing of the mail, and began to indulge in a magnificent air, the florid character of which he rendered much more effective than the composer had intended by the introduction of innumerable flourishes of his own.

It was while thus engaged, and in the middle of a tremendous shake, that Mr Sudberry suddenly became aware of the presence of a man not more than twenty yards distant. He was lying down on the embankment beside the road, and his ragged dress of muddy-brown corduroy so resembled the broken ground, on which he lay that he was not a very distinct object, even when looked at point-blank. Certainly Mr Sudberry thought him an extremely disagreeable object as he ended in an ineffective quaver and with a deep blush; for that man must be more than human, who, when caught in the act of attempting to perpetrate an amateur concert in all its parts, does not feel keenly.

Being of a sociable disposition, Mr Sudberry was about to address this ill-favoured beggar—for such he evidently was—when the coach came round a distant bend in the road at full gallop. It was the ordinary tall, top-heavy mail of the first part of the nineteenth century. Being a poor district, there were only two horses, a white and a black; but the driver wore a stylish red coat, and cracked his whip smartly. The road being all down hill at that part, the coach came on at a spanking pace, and pulled up with a crash.

The beggar turned his face to the ground, and pretended to be asleep.

Mr Sudberry noticed this; but, being interested in his own affairs, soon forgot the circumstance.

"Got any letters for me to-day, my man?"

Oh, yes, he has letters and newspapers too. Mr Sudberry mutters to himself as they are handed down, "Capital!—ha!—business; hum!— private; ho!—compasses; good! Any more?"

There are no more; but there is a parcel or two. The coachman gets down and opens the door of the box behind. The insides peep out, and the outsides look down with interest. A great many large and heavy things are pulled out and laid on the road.

Mr Sudberry remarks that it would have been "wiser to have stowed his parcels in front."

The coachman observes that these are his parcels, shuts the door, mounts the box, and drives away, with the outsides grinning and the insides stretching their heads out, leaving Mr Sudberry transfixed and staring.

"'One or two small parcels,'" murmured the good man, recalling his wife's words; "'and mind you bring 'em up.' One salmon, two legs of mutton, one ham, three dozen of beer, a cask of—of—something or other, and a bag of—of—ditto, (groceries, I suppose), 'and mind you bring 'em up!' How! 'that is the question!'" cried Mr Sudberry, quoting Hamlet, in desperation.

Suddenly he recollected the beggar-man. "Halloo! friend; come hither."

The man rose slowly, and rising did not improve his appearance. He was rather tall, shaggy, loose-jointed, long-armed, broad-shouldered, and he squinted awfully. His nose was broken, and his dark colour bespoke him a gypsy.

"Can you help me up to yonder house with these things, my man?"

"No," said the man, gruffly, "I'm footsore with travellin', but I'll watch them here while you go up for help."

"Oh! ahem!" said Mr Sudberry, with peculiar emphasis; "you seem a stout fellow, and might find more difficult ways of earning half a crown. However, I'll give you that sum if you go up and tell them to send down a barrow."

"I'll wait here," replied the man, with a sarcastic grin, limping back to his former seat on the bank.

"Oh! very well, and I will wait here," said Mr Sudberry, seating himself on a large stone, and pulling out his letters.

Seeing this, the gypsy got up again, and looked cautiously along the road, first to the right and then to the left. No human being was in sight. Mr Sudberry observed the act, and felt uncomfortable.

"You'd better go for help, sir," said the man, coming forward.

"Thank you, I'd rather wait for it."

"This seems a handy sort of thing to carry," said the gypsy, taking up the sack that looked like groceries, and throwing it across his shoulder. "I'll save you the trouble of taking this one up, anyhow."

He went off at once at a sharp walk, and with no symptom either of lameness or exhaustion. Mr Sudberry was after him in a moment. The man turned round and faced him.

"Put that where you took it from!" thundered Mr Sudberry.

"Oh! you're going to resist."

The gypsy uttered an oath, and ran at Mr Sudberry, intending to overwhelm him with one blow, and rob him on the spot. The big blockhead little knew his man. He did not know that the little Englishman was a man of iron frame; he only regarded him as a fiery little gentleman. Still less did he know that Mr Sudberry had in his youth been an expert boxer, and that he had even had the honour of being knocked flat on his back more than once by professional gentlemen—in an amicable way, of course—at four and sixpence a lesson. He knew nothing of all this, so he rushed blindly on his fate, and met it—that is to say, he met Mr Sudberry's left fist with the bridge of his nose, and his right with the pit of his stomach; the surprising result of which was that the gypsy staggered back against the wall.