Jim caught a grin on the faces of the sergeant and some of the other bystanders, and setting his teeth he held on grimly. This was evidently a favourite trick of Brown Billy's, and the sergeant knew it. Well, they should see that British grit was not to be beaten.

Seemingly conquered, Brown Billy dropped again on all-fours. Scarcely had Jim begun to congratulate himself on his victory when Billy's head went down between his forelegs, his hind-quarters rose, and Jim was neatly deposited on hands and knees a few feet ahead.

The grins were noticeably broader as Jim rose, crimson with vexation.

"Thought you could sit him, eh?" laughed the sergeant. "Well, you kept on longer than some I've seen, and you didn't try to hug him around the neck, either. You're not the first old Billy has played that trick on, by a long way. You'll make a rider yet! Come along and let us see what else you can do."

[Sidenote: Enrolled]

As a result of the searching examination Jim underwent he found himself enrolled as a recruit. He was glad to find that there were among his new companions others who had fallen victims to Brown Billy's wiles, and who in consequence thought none the worse of him for his adventure.

Into the work that followed Jim threw himself with all his might. Never had instructors a more willing pupil, and it was a proud day for Jim when he was passed out of the training-school as a qualified trooper.

Jim found himself one of an exceedingly small party located apparently a hundred miles from anywhere. Their nearest neighbours were a tribe of Indians, whose mixture of childishness and cunning shrewdness made them an interesting study. These gave little trouble; they had more or less accepted the fact that the white man was now in possession of the domains of their forefathers, and that their best course was to behave themselves. When the presence of the police was required, Jim was almost amused at the docility with which his directions were generally obeyed.

He delighted in the life—the long rides, the occasional camping out on the plains far from any dwelling, the knowledge that he must rely upon himself. He felt more of a man; his powers of endurance increased until he took a positive pleasure in exercising them to their fullest possible extent. Meanwhile, nothing more exciting happened than the tracking and capture of an occasional horse-thief.

Winter set in early and hard. Snow fell until it lay feet deep, and still the stormy winds brought more. One day the sergeant came in with a troubled face.

"Wightman's horses have stampeded," he announced. "They'll be gone coons if they're not rounded up and brought in."

"Let me go, sergeant!" said Jim.

The sergeant shook his head. "It's no work for a young hand. The oldest might lose his bearings in weather like this."

"Let me go, sergeant!" Jim repeated. "If those horses are to be brought in I can do it." There was a world of pleading in his tone, and the sergeant guessed the reason.

"I meant no reflection on you, my lad," said he. "It's no weather for anybody to be out in. All the same, if those horses aren't to be a dead loss, somebody's got to round them up."

Finally Jim got his way. In a temporary lull about midday he set out on his stout horse, well wrapped up in the thick woollen garments provided for such times as these, and determined to bring in those horses, or perish in the attempt.

"They went off sou'-west," shouted the sergeant. "I should——" A furious blast as the gale recommenced carried away whatever else he might have said, and Jim was alone with his good horse on the prairie.

There was no hesitancy in his mind. South-west he would push as hard as he could go. The animals had probably not gone far; he must soon come up with them, and the sooner the better.

Gallantly his steed stepped out through the deepening snowdrifts. Fain would the sensible animal have turned and made his way back to his stable, but Jim's credit was at stake, and no turning back was allowed. Mile after mile was covered; where could those animals be in this storm?

Ha! a sudden furious rush of wind brought Jim's horse nearly to its knees. How the gale roared, and how the snow drove in his face! Up and on again, south-west after those horses!

But which was the south-west? The daylight had completely faded; not a gleam showed where the sun had set. Jim felt for his pocket-compass; it was gone! The wind, blowing apparently from every quarter in succession, was no guide at all. Nothing was visible more than a yard away; nothing within that distance but driving snowflakes. Any tracks of the runaways would be covered up in a few moments; in any case there was no light to discern them.

[Sidenote: Lost!]

However, it was of no use to stand still. By pressing on he might overtake his quarry, and after fright had driven them away, instinct might lead them home. That was now the only chance of safety. Would he ever find them?

Deeper and deeper sank his horse into the snow; harder and harder it became to raise its hoofs clear for the next step. Snorting with fear, and trembling in every limb, the gallant beast struggled on. He must go on! To stop would be fatal. Benumbed as he was by the intense cold, bewildered by the storm, with hand and voice Jim cheered on his steed, and nobly it responded.

Suddenly it sank under him. A hollow, treacherously concealed by the snow, had received them both into its chilly depths.

"Up again, old boy!" cried Jim, springing from the saddle, and tugging at the rein, sinking to the waist in the soft snow as he did so. "Now then, one more try!"

The faithful horse struggled desperately to respond to the words. But its strength was spent; its utmost exertions would not suffice to extricate it. The soft snow gave way under its hoofs; deeper and deeper it sank. With a despairing scream it made a last futile effort, then it stretched its neck along the snow, and with a sob lay down to die. Further efforts to move it would be thrown away, and Jim knew it. In a few minutes it would be wrapped in its winding-sheet.

With a lump in his throat Jim turned away—whither? His own powers had nearly ebbed out. Of what use was it to battle further against the gale, when he knew not in which direction to go?

With a sharp setting of the teeth he set himself to stimulate into activity his benumbed faculties. Where was he? What was he doing there? Ah, yes, he was after those stampeded horses. Well, he would never come up with them now. He had done his best, and he had failed.

Taking out his notebook, as well as his benumbed powers would let him, Jim scrawled a few words in the darkness. The powers of nature had been too strong for him. What was a man to set himself against that tempest?

But stay! there was One stronger than the gale. Man was beyond hearing, but was not God everywhere? Now, if ever, was the time to call upon Him.

No words would come but the familiar "Our Father," which Jim had said every night for longer than he could remember. He had no power to think out any other petition. "Our Father," he muttered drowsily, "which art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done. . . ."

The murmur ceased; the speaker was asleep.

They found him a few days later, when the snow had ceased to fall, and the wind swept over the prairie, stripping off the deadly white covering, and leaving the khaki jacket a conspicuous object. The sergeant saw it, and pointed—he could not trust his voice to speak. Eagerly the little band bent over the body of their comrade.

"Why, he's smiling! And see here! he's been writing something in his notebook. What is it?"

Reverently they took the book from the brown hand, and the sergeant read the words aloud:

"Lost, horse dead. Am trying to push on. Have done my best."

"That he did. There was good stuff in him, lads, and perhaps he was wanted up aloft!"

A solemn hush held the party. "'I did my best,'" said a trooper softly at length. "Ah, well, it'll be a good job for all of us, if when our time comes we can say that with as much truth as he!"



[Sidenote: Mary sacrificed herself to help another. The renunciation in time brought reward.]

Mary's Stepping Aside

BY

EDITH C. KENYON

"How very foolish of you! So unbusinesslike!" cried Mrs. Croft angrily.

"I could not do anything else, Hetty. Poor Ethel is worse off than we are. She has her widowed mother to help; they are all so poor, and it was such a struggle for Mrs. Forrest to pay that L160 for Ethel's two years' training in the Physical Culture College. You know, when Ethel and I entered for training, there was a good demand for teachers of physical culture, but now, alas! the supply exceeds the demand, and it has been such a great trouble to Ethel that she could not get a post, and begin to repay her mother for the outlay. She failed every time she tried to secure an appointment; the luck seemed always against her. And now she was next to me, and I had only to step aside to enable her to receive the appointment."

"And you did so! That is just like you, Mary. You will never get on in the world. What will people say? They are already wondering why my clever sister is not more successful."

"Does it really matter what people think?" questioned Mary, and there was a far-away look in her blue eyes, as she glanced through the window at the wide stretch of moorland to be seen from it.

She had been to London to try to secure an appointment as teacher of physical culture at a large ladies' college. There were several applicants for the appointment, which was worth L100 a year and board and lodging, not bad for a commencement, and she was successful.

The lady principal came out to tell her so, and mentioned that Ethel Forrest, her college friend, was the next to her, adding that the latter appeared to be a remarkably nice girl and very capable. In a moment, as Mary realised how terrible poor Ethel's disappointment would be, she resolved to step aside in order that her friend might have the appointment.

The lady principal was surprised, and a little offended, but forthwith gave Ethel Forrest the post, and Mary was more than repaid by Ethel's unbounded gratitude.

"I can't tell you what it is to me to obtain this good appointment," she said, when they came away together. "Poor mother will now cease to deplore the money she could so ill afford to spend on my training. You see, it seemed as if she had robbed the younger children for me, and that it was money thrown away when she could so ill spare it, but now I shall repay her as soon as possible out of my salary, and the children will have a chance."

"Yes, I know. That is why I did it," Mary said. "And I am happy in your happiness, Ethel darling."

"But I am afraid it is rather irksome for you, living so long with your sister and brother-in-law, although they are so well off," Ethel remarked, after a while.

"That is a small matter in comparison," Mary said lightly. "And I am so happy about you, Ethel, your mother will be so pleased."

It seemed to Mary afterwards, when she left Ethel and went by express to York, where she took a slow train to the little station on the moors near her sister's home, that her heart was as light and happy as if she had received a great gift instead of surrendering an advantage. Truly it is more blessed to give than to receive, for there is no joy so pure as "the joy of doing kindnesse."

But on her arrival at the house which had been her home since her parents died, she found herself being severely blamed for what she had done.

In vain Mary reminded her sister that she was not exactly poor, and certainly not dependent upon her. Their father had left a very moderate income to both his daughters, Hetty the elder, who had married Dr. Croft, a country practitioner, and Mary, who, as a sensible modern young woman, determined to have a vocation, and go in for the up-to-date work of teaching physical culture.

Finding she could make no impression upon her sister, Mrs. Croft privately exhorted her husband to speak to Mary about the disputed point.

That evening, therefore, after dinner, as they sat round the fire chatting, the doctor remarked: "But you know, Mary, it won't do to step aside for others to get before you in the battle of life. You owe a duty to yourself and—and your friends."

"I am quite aware of that," Mary replied, "but this was such an exceptional case. Ethel Forrest is so poor, and——"

[Sidenote: "Each for Himself!"]

"Yes, yes. But, my dear girl, it is each for himself in this world."

"Is it?" Mary asked, and again there was a wistful, far-away look in her blue eyes. With an effort, she pulled herself together, and went on softly: "Shall I tell you what I saw as I returned home across the moor from the station? The day was nearly over, and the clouds were gathering overhead. The wind was rising and falling as it swept across the moorland. The rich purple of the heather had gone, and was succeeded by dull brown—sometimes almost grey—each little floret of the ling, as Ruskin said, folding itself into a cross as it was dying. Poor little purply-pink petals! They had had their day, they had had their fill of sunshine, they had been breathed on by the soft breezes of a genial summer, and now all the brightness for them was over; they folded their petals, becoming just like a cross as they silently died away. You see," she looked up with a smile, "even the heather knows that the way of self-sacrifice is the only way that is worth while."

There was silence for a few minutes. The crimson light from the shaded candles fell softly on Mary's face, beautiful in its sincerity and sweet wistfulness.

The doctor shook his head. "I should never have got on in life if I had acted in that way," he said.

"You are quite too sentimental, Mary," remarked her sister harshly. "Why, the world would not go on if we all did as you do. All the same," she added, almost grudgingly, "you are welcome to stay here till you get another appointment."

Mary rose and kissed her. "You shan't regret it, Hetty," she said. "I will try to help you all I can while I stay, but I may soon get another appointment."

* * * * *

Fifteen months afterwards there was great rejoicing in Mrs. Forrest's small and overcrowded house in Croydon, because her youngest brother had returned from New Zealand with quite a large fortune, which he declared gallantly that he was going to share with her.

"Half shall be settled on you and your children, Margaret," he said, "as soon as the lawyers can fix it up. You will be able to send your boys to Oxford, and give your girls dowries. By the by, how is my old favourite Ethel? And what is she doing?"

"She teaches physical culture in a large ladies' college in the West End. It is a good appointment. Her salary has been raised; it is now L130, with board and lodging."

That did not seem much to the wealthy colonial, but he smiled. "And how did she get the post?" he said. "I remember in one of your letters you complained that her education had cost a lot, and that she was very unlucky about getting anything to do."

[Sidenote: Uncle Max]

"Yes, it was so, Max. But she owed her success at last to the kindness of a friend of hers, who won this appointment, and then stepped aside for her to have it."

"Grand!" cried Max Vernon heartily. "What a good friend that was! It is a real pleasure to hear of such self-sacrifice in this hard, work-a-day world. I should like to know that young woman," he continued. "What is she doing now?"

"I don't know," replied his sister. "But here comes Ethel. She will tell you."

Ethel had come over from the college on purpose to see her uncle, and was delighted to welcome him home. He was not more than ten years older than herself, there being more than that between him and her mother. His success in New Zealand was partly owing to his charming personality, which caused him to win the love of his first employer, who adopted him as his son and heir some six years before he died, leaving all his money to him. Ethel had pleasant memories of her uncle's kindness to her when a child.

When hearty greetings had been exchanged between the uncle and niece, Margaret Forrest said to her daughter: "I have been telling your uncle about your friend Mary Oliver's giving up that appointment for you, and he wants to know where she is now, and what she is doing."

"Ah, poor Mary!" said Ethel ruefully. "I am really very troubled about her. Her sister and brother-in-law lost all their money through that recent bank failure, and Dr. Croft took it badly. His losses seemed to harden him. Declaring that he could not carry on his practice in the country without capital, he sold it and arranged to go to New Zealand, though his wife had fallen into ill-health and could not possibly accompany him. He went abroad, leaving her in London in wretched lodgings. Then Mary gave up her good situation as teacher of physical culture in a private school, and took a less remunerative appointment so that she might live with her poor sister, and look after her, especially at nights. I believe there is a lot of night nursing. It's awfully hard and wearing for Mary, but she does it all so willingly, I believe she positively enjoys it, though I cannot help being anxious lest her health should break down."

"She must not be allowed to do double work like that," said the colonial. "No one can work by day and night as well without breaking down."

"But what is she to do?" queried Ethel. "She is obliged to earn money for their maintenance."

"We might put a little in her way," suggested Vernon.

Ethel shook her head. "She is very sweet," she said, "but I fancy she would not like to accept money as a gift."

Max Vernon assented. "Exactly," he said, "I know the sort. But she could not object to take it if it were her right."

Margaret Forrest smiled, scenting a romance. "I will have her here to tea on her next half-holiday," she said; "then you will see her."

But Vernon could not wait till then. He and Ethel made up a plan that they would go to Mrs. Croft's rooms that very evening, in order that he might personally thank Mary for her goodness to his niece.

Mary thought she had never seen such a kind, strong face as his, when he stood before her expressing his gratitude for what she had done for Ethel, and also his sympathy with her troubles, of which Ethel had told him.

That was the beginning, and afterwards he was often in her home, bringing gifts for the querulous invalid, and, better still, hope for the future of her husband, about whom he interested a friend of his, who was doing well out in New Zealand, and looking out for a partner with some knowledge of medicine.



It was at a picnic, under a noble tree, that Max asked Mary to marry him, and learned to his great joy how fully his love was returned.

Mary thought there was no one like him. So many had come to her for help, but only he came to give with both hands, esteeming all he gave as nothing if only he could win her smile and her approval.

So it happened that by the time Mrs. Croft had so far recovered as to be able to join her husband, her departure was delayed one week, in order that she might be present at her sister's wedding.

[Sidenote: Not so Foolish after all!]

"After all, Mary," she said, when at last she was saying goodbye, "your happiness has come to you as a direct result of your kindness to Ethel Forrest in stepping aside for her to have that appointment. You were therefore not so foolish after all."

Mary laughed joyously. "I never thought I was," she said. "There's an old-fashioned saying, you know, that 'it is more blessed to give than to receive.'"



[Sidenote: How a plucky girl averted a terrible danger from marauding Redskins.]

A Race for Life

BY

LUCIE E. JACKSON

The McArthurs were fortunate people. Everybody said that Mr. McArthur must have been born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, for though he had come to Tulaska with barely a red cent in his pocket, everything he attempted succeeded. His land increased, his cattle increased, his home grew in proportion to his land, his wife was a perfect manager, and his only child was noted for her beauty and daring.

A tall, graceful girl was Rosalind McArthur, with her mother's fine skin and Irish blue eyes, her father's strength of mind and fearless bearing. At nineteen years of age she could ride as straight as any man, could paddle her canoe as swiftly as any Indian, and could shoot as well as any settler in the land.

Added to all this, McArthur was a good neighbour, a kind friend, a genial companion, and a succourer of those in need of help. Thus when it became reported that the Indians had been making a raid upon a small settlement on the borders, and it was likely their next incursion would be directed against McArthur's clearing, the owners of small holdings declared their intention to stand shoulder to shoulder, and fight, if need be, for their more prosperous neighbour.

"I think it must have been a false report. Here have we been waiting, gun in hand, for the last two months, and not a sign of a Redskin's tomahawk have we seen," said Rosalind cheerfully, as she and her parents rose from their evening meal.

"Thank God if it be so," returned her mother.

"We'll not slacken our vigilance, however," was McArthur's answer.

At that instant a rapping at the house door was heard, and McArthur rose.

"It must be Frank Robertson. He'll probably want a shake-down, wife."

"He can have it if he wants it," was Mrs. McArthur's cordial answer.

"Many thanks, but he won't trespass on your hospitality," said the new-comer, a tall, handsome young settler, entering as he spoke. "No, McArthur, I cannot stay. I have come but for five minutes on my way back to the village."

"You can at least sit down," said McArthur, pulling forward a chair. "What is the latest news?"

"Nothing, beyond the report that the Indians appear to have shifted themselves elsewhere."

"Well, that is news," said Rosalind, looking up with a smile.

"You say, 'appear to have shifted themselves,'" said McArthur. "I shall still keep on the defensive. I wouldn't trust a Redskin for a good deal."

"True enough," was the answer. "McArthur, whom could you send to the village for need at a critical time?"

"I doubt if I could spare a man. Every hand would be wanted, every rifle needed, for I know not in what numbers the Redskins might come."

[Sidenote: "I could go!"]

"I could ride to the village," announced Rosalind calmly. "Golightly and I would cover the ground in no time."

"You, my darling!" Mrs. McArthur ejaculated in horror.

McArthur waved his daughter's words aside.

"You do not know, my child, what danger you would court."

"Of course, Miss McArthur is out of the question," said the young man, and smiled as Rosalind darted an indignant glance at him.

"At any rate, I am at your service if you need me," he continued. "I trust I may not be called out for such a purpose, but if I am, I and my rifle are at your disposal."

"Thanks, Robertson, you are a good fellow," returned McArthur heartily, grasping the young man's hand.

In a few minutes he rose to go. Rosalind accompanied him to the house door.

"Mr. Robertson," she said abruptly, as soon as they were out of hearing, "which would be the shortest cut to the village? By the woods or by the river?" He looked keenly at her.

"You meant what you said just now?"

"Of course I meant it. I—I would do anything to save my father's and mother's lives, and their property, which father has secured by dint of so much labour."

He took her hand in his.

"Rosalind," he said softly, "if anything happened to you, my life would be of no worth to me."

She flushed all over her fair skin.

"It is better to be prepared for an emergency," she answered gently, "and I do not think I would run such a great risk as you and my father think."

"You do not know the Redskin," was the grave answer.

"You heard my father say he couldn't spare a man. How much more use I would be if I brought help than stayed here and perhaps shot a couple of Indians, who might overpower us by their numbers. I was wondering if Golightly and the woods would be a shorter way than my canoe and the river?"

He had both her hands in his, and was looking down into her eyes.

"The woods and Golightly would be the swiftest way to communicate with us in the village."

"Then if need be I shall do it."

"Take the right-hand track straight through the wood, and God protect you, Rosalind. My house will be the first one you will come to. Let me be the first to spring to your aid. No man will step into the stirrup with greater alacrity than I. But, please God, there may be no need for you to go."

He lifted her hands to his lips and was gone.

Two days passed and nothing of moment happened. But on the evening of the third, two men in McArthur's employ entered the house breathless with excitement. Feathertop—an Indian chief noted for the number of scalps which adorned his person—had been seen in the vicinity of the small settlement.

McArthur, with a grim fixedness of countenance, saw to the priming of his rifle for the fiftieth time; and Rosalind, with her father's courage, examined her own weapon, which she had resolved to take with her for safety if Golightly had to be requisitioned.

"Rosalind, those chaps will be on us to-night or to-morrow morning."

It was McArthur who spoke, and Rosalind knew that her own misgivings had taken root also within her father's mind.

"Because of Feathertop?" she asked bravely.

"Yes. He is never lurking about unless he means business."

"Could David and Jim have been misinformed?"

"I don't think so."

"Then, father, I shall ride to the village."

[Sidenote: Rosalind's Resolve]

McArthur looked at his daughter. He saw her face, he saw her figure. Both were alive with determination and courage.

"Rosalind, you will kill your mother if you attempt to do such a thing."

"Don't tell her unless you are obliged. It is to save her that I do it. Give her a rifle—keep her employed—let her think I am with some of the neighbours. Father, we do not know if we shall be outnumbered. If we are, what will happen? All your cattle will go—your whole property will be ruined, and, worse than all put together, we shall probably lose our lives in a horrible manner."

"I acknowledge all that you say, but one of the men must go. You with your rifle can take his place, and do just as much execution as he can——"

David put his head in at the door.

"We've brought all the live-stock as close to the house as possible. Jim has been stealing round the plantation by the river, and says he has distinctly seen three Redskins on the other side of the river. We must be prepared for an attack this evening."

"David, can you get me Golightly without attracting attention? I am going to ride him at once to the village."

"Mercy on us!" exclaimed David. "Is there no one but you to do that?"

"No. You and all the rest must defend my father and mother. I shall keep on this side of the river, and will go through the wood. If I go at once I may prevent an attack. David, every minute is of value. Fetch me Golightly. Father, I am not of such importance as the men here, but I can ride, and I can defend myself with my rifle if need be."

"Then God go with you, my child."

Only McArthur, and David, and the moon saw Rosalind spring to her seat on Golightly's back. Only the moon saw her with flushed cheeks and beating heart riding for life through the trees of the forest. If only she could get clear of the first two or three miles, she was safe to reach her destination in time.

The track was clearly discernible except when the swiftly-flying clouds obscured the moon's light. The soughing of the wind in the tree-tops, together with the soft springy turf, helped to somewhat deaden the sound of Golightly's hoofs. The good horse scented danger in the air and in the tone of his mistress's voice, and with true instinct galloped through the wood, conscious of the caressing finger-tips which ever and anon silently encouraged him.

"Bang!"

It was unexpected, and Golightly sprang into the air, only to gallop on again like lightning. Rosalind's heart was going pretty fast now. She could see two or three dark forms gliding serpent-like through the trees, but Golightly's rapid progress baulked their aim. Ah, there are some figures in advance of her! Courage, Rosalind, courage! Her rifle is ready.

"Golightly, dear Golightly, save us both," she whispers. And Golightly tosses up his head with a little whinny of comprehension, and, bracing up every nerve, prepares for a rush through that ominous path blocked as it is by two dark figures.

[Sidenote: Rosalind's Rifle speaks]

"Bang!"

It is Rosalind's rifle this time, and a scream, shrill and piercing, rends the air. One form drops like a stone right across the path. But there is another to dispose of. His rifle is raised. Either Golightly or his mistress will receive the contents of that barrel. But Rosalind's hand never wavers as she points at that upraised arm.

"Bang!"

"Bang!"

The two shots resound almost simultaneously, but Rosalind's is first by half a second. Again a scream rends the air, and yet another, coming this time from the rear. Rosalind's palpitating heart prevents her from glancing about to learn the cause. She knows she has shot the Indian in the right arm, but she does not know, and will never know, that her opportune shot has saved herself and her steed from being fired at from behind as well as in front. For when the Indian's arm was struck, it directed the contents of his rifle away from the point he aimed at. He shot half a second after Rosalind's fire, and killed his chief Feathertop, who was lurking in the background, grinning horribly at his good fortune in taking aim at the back of the paleface and her flying steed.

Over the body of the dead Indian Golightly springs, paying no heed to the savage Redskin who stands aside from the trampling hoofs with his right arm hanging broken at his side. He is helpless, but he may yet do damage to Rosalind's cause. She lifts her rifle in passing him, and aims once more at his retreating form. He springs into the air, and, without a groan or cry, meets his death.

Rosalind has cleared her path from further danger. Ride swiftly though she does, no lurking forms are seen, no gliding figures block her way. But the danger she has gone through has taken all her strength from her. She leans her cheek on Golightly's sympathetic head and sobs out her gratitude to him.

When a foam-flecked steed dashed up to the first house in the village there was great commotion. Frank Robertson, with his mother and sisters, rushed out to find a white-faced Rosalind, spent and nearly fainting, sitting limply on Golightly's back. She had no words to explain her presence. She could only look at them with lack-lustre eyes. But Golightly turned his head as the young man lifted her gently off, and his eloquent eyes said as plainly as any words could say—

"Deal gently with her; she has gone through more than you will ever know, and has played her part bravely."

His comfort was looked after in as great degree as was Rosalind's. For while Rosalind lay on a couch, faint but smiling, and listening to the praises which the women-folk showered upon her, Golightly was stabled and rubbed down by two of Robertson's hired men, and caressed and given a good feed of corn with as many admiring words thrown in as ever his mistress had.

No time was lost in collecting a good body of mounted men, and away they rode with Frank Robertson at their head, arriving in good time to save McArthur's home and family from savage destruction by the Redskins.

[Sidenote: Their Last Visit]

With the knowledge that their chief Feathertop was killed, the Indians' enthusiasm cooled, and those who could saved their lives by flying to their homes in the mountains. McArthur was never again troubled by a visit from them, and lived to rejoice in the marriage of his brave daughter to Frank Robertson.

The young couple settled within a couple of miles of McArthur's homestead, and as each anniversary of Rosalind's ride came round, it was a familiar sight to see old McArthur standing up amongst the great gathering of friends to praise the brave girl who jeopardised her life that moonlight night to save the lives and property of those dearest to her.



[Sidenote: Mittie's love of self might have led on to a tragedy. Happily the issue was of quite another kind.]

Which of the Two?

BY

AGNES GIBERNE

"It's going to be a glorious day—just glorious! Joan, we must do something—not sit moping indoors from morning till night!"

Mittie never did sit indoors from morning till night; but this was a figure of speech.

"I'm all alive to be off—I don't care where. Oh, do think of a plan! It's the sort of weather that makes one frantic to be away—to have something happen. Don't you feel so?"

She looked longingly through the bow-window, across the small, neat lawn, divided by low shrubs from a quiet road, not far beyond which lay the river. The sisters were at breakfast together in the morning-room, which was bathed in an early flood of sunshine.

Three years before this date they had been left orphaned and destitute, and had come to their grandmother's home—a comfortable and charming little country house, and, in their circumstances, a very haven of refuge, but, still, a trifle dull for two young girls. Mittie often complained of its monotony. Joan, eighteen months the elder, realised how different their condition would have been had they not been welcomed here. But she, too, was conscious of dulness, for she was only eighteen.

[Sidenote: "Think of Something!"]

"Such sunshine! It's just ordering us to be out. Joan, be sensible, and think of something we can do—something jolly, something new! Just for one day can't we leave everything and have a bit of fun? I'm aching for a little fun! Oh, do get out of the jog-trot for once! Don't be humdrum!"

"Am I humdrum?" Joan asked. She was not usually counted so attractive as the fluffy-haired, lively Mittie, but she looked very pretty at this moment. The early post had come in; and as she read the one note which fell to her share a bright colour, not often seen there, flushed her cheeks, and a sweet half-glad half-anxious expression stole into her eyes.

"Awfully humdrum, you dear old thing! You always were, you know. How is Grannie to-day?" Mittie seldom troubled herself to see the old lady before breakfast, but left such attentions to Joan.

"She doesn't seem very well, and she is rather—depressed. I'm afraid we couldn't possibly both leave her for the whole day—could we?" There was a touch of troubled hesitation in the manner, and Joan sent a quick inquiring glance at the other's face.

"No chance of that. We never do leave her for a whole day; and if we did we should never hear the end of it. But we might surely be off after breakfast, and take our lunch, and come back in time for tea. She might put up with that, I do think. Oh dear me! Why can't old people remember that once upon a time they were young, and didn't like to be tied up tight? But, I suppose, in those days nobody minded. I know I mind now—awfully! I'm just crazy to be off on a spree. What shall we do, Joan? Think of something."

"Mittie, dear——"

"That's right. You've got a notion. Have it out!"

"It isn't—what you think. I have something else to say. A note has come from Mrs. Ferris."

"Well—what then?"

"She wants me—us—to go to her for the day."

Mittie clapped her hands.

"Us! Both of us, do you mean? How lovely! I didn't know she was aware of my existence. Oh, yes, of course, I've seen her lots of times, but she always seems to think I'm a child still. She never asked me there before for a whole day. How are we to go? Will she send for us?"

"Yes, but—but, Mittie—we can't both leave Grannie all those hours. She would be so hurt."

"So cross, you mean. You don't expect me to stay behind, I hope! Me—to spend a long endless day here, poking in Grannie's bedroom, and picking up her stitches, and being scolded for every mortal thing I do and don't do, while you are off on a lovely jaunt! Not I! You're very much mistaken if that is what you expect. Will Mrs. Ferris send the carriage or the motor?"

"She is sending the boat. And her son——"

"What! is he going to row us? That nice fellow! He rows splendidly, I know. I shall get him to let me take an oar. It's as easy as anything, going down the stream. Oh, we must do it, Joan—we really, really must! Grannie will have to put up for once with being alone. Is he coming by himself?"

"Yes—no—I mean, he will drop his sister Mary at The Laurels and come on for us, and then take her up as we go back."

"The Laurels? Oh, just a few minutes off. Mary—she's the eldest. When does he come? Eleven o'clock! No time to waste. We must put on our new frocks. You had better tell Grannie at once that we are going. I shall keep out of her way. You'll manage her best."

"But if she doesn't like to be left?"

"Then she'll have to do without the liking! Yes, I know what you mean, Joan. You want me to stay here, and set you free. And I'm not going to do it. I simply won't—won't—won't! It's no earthly use your trying to make me. I'm asked too, and I mean to go."

"Mittie, you've not seen the note yet. I think you ought to read it. She asks me first—and then she just says, would I like to bring——?"

"It doesn't matter, and I don't want to see! It's enough that I'm invited." Mittie had a quick temper, apt to flare out suddenly. She jumped up, and flounced towards the door. "I shall get ready; and you'd better make haste, or you'll be late."

"And if I find that I can't be spared as well as you?"

Joan's eyes went to Mittie, with a look of grieved appeal. That look went home; and for a moment—only one moment—Mittie wavered. She knew how much more this meant to Joan than it could mean to herself. She knew that she had no right to put herself first, to snatch the joy from Joan. But the habit of self-indulgence was too strong.

[Sidenote: "It is all Nonsense!"]

"If you choose to stay at home, I shall go without you. It is all nonsense about 'can't'! You can go if you like."

* * * * *

Joan remained alone, thinking.

What could she say? Mittie, the spoilt younger sister, always had had her own way, and always insisted on having it. She would insist now, and would have it, as usual.

That Mittie would go was indeed a foregone conclusion, and Joan had known it from the first. The question was—could she go too? Would it be right to leave the old lady, depressed and suffering, all those hours—just for her own pleasure, even though it meant much more than mere pleasure?

The girls owed a great deal to Mrs. Wills. She was not rich, though she had a comfortable little home; and when she took in the two granddaughters, it meant a heavy pull on her purse. It meant, also, parting with a valued companion—a paid companion—whom she had had for years, and on whom she very much depended. This necessary step was taken, with the understanding that the two girls would do all in their power to supply her place. And Joan had done her best. Mittie seldom gave any thought to the matter.

In a general way, Joan would at once have agreed that Mittie should be the one to go, that she herself would be the one to stay behind.

But this was no ordinary case. In the summer before she had seen a good deal of Fred Ferris. He had been at home for three months after an accident, which, for the time, disabled him from work; and he had been unmistakably attracted by Joan. Not only had he made many an opportunity to see her, but his mother had taken pains to bring the two together. She liked Joan, and made no secret of the fact. Mittie had often been left out of these arrangements, and had resented it.

For a good while Fred Ferris had been away from home; but Joan knew that he was likely to come soon, and she built upon the hope. She had given her heart to Fred, and she indulged in many a secret dream for the future while pursuing her little round of daily duties, and bearing patiently with the spoilt and wayward Mittie.

And now—this had come!—this intimation of Fred's arrival, and the chance of a long delightful day with him—a day on which so much might hang!

And yet, if Mittie insisted on going, it would probably mean that she would have to give it up. That would be hard to bear—all the harder because Mittie knew at least something of the true state of affairs. She knew how persistently Fred Ferris had come after her sister, and she must at least conjecture a little of what her sister felt for Fred. Nobody knew all that Joan felt, except Joan herself; but Mittie had seen quite enough to have made her act kindly and unselfishly.

Joan's hopes had grown faint when she left the breakfast-table and went upstairs.

Mrs. Wills spent most of her time in her bedroom, sometimes hobbling across to a small sitting-room on the same floor. She was too infirm to come downstairs.

"Eh? What is it? I don't understand!"

The old lady was growing deaf, and when she objected to what was being said, she would become doubly deaf. Like her younger granddaughter, she had always been accustomed to getting her own way.

[Sidenote: "Your Turn now!"]

"You want to do—what?" as Joan tried to explain. "I wish you would speak more clearly, my dear, and not put your lips together when you talk. Mrs. Ferris! Yes, of course I know Mrs. Ferris. I knew her long before you came here. She wants you for the day? Well, one of you can go, and the other must stay with me. You've got to take turns. That is only reasonable. Mittie went last time, so it is your turn now."

But Mittie never cared about turns.

"I suppose you couldn't for once—just once, Grannie, dear—spare us both together?"

Joan said this with such a sinking of heart that, had the old lady known it, she would surely have yielded. A sick fear had come over the girl lest Fred might think that she was staying away on purpose—because she did not want to see him. But she only looked rather white, and smiled as usual.

"Spare you both! What!—leave me alone the whole day, both of you!" The old lady was scandalised. "I didn't think before that you were a selfish girl, Joan. Well, well, never mind!—you're not generally, I know. But of course it is out of the question, so lame as I am—not able to get anything that I want. That wasn't in the bargain at all, when we settled that you should live with me."

Joan knew that it was not. But it was very hard to bear!

She went to Mittie, and made one more attempt in that direction, ending, as she expected, unsuccessfully.

"It really is my turn, you know, Mittie, dear."

"Your turn? What! because I went to that silly tea last week? As if the two things could be compared!"

Mittie ran to the glass to inspect herself.

"Why didn't you just tell Grannie that you meant to do it, instead of asking whether she could spare you? So absurd! She would have given in then."

Joan might have answered, "Because I have some sense of duty!" But she said nothing—it was so useless.

She debated whether to write a note for Mittie to take, and then decided that she would run down to the river-edge and would explain to Fred Ferris himself why she might not go, not implying any blame to her sister, but just saying that she could not leave her grandmother.

The thought of this cheered her up, for surely he would understand.

But a few minutes before the time fixed for his arrival a message summoned her to the old lady, and she found that for a good half-hour she would be unable to get away. All she could do was to rush to Mittie and to give a hurried message—which she felt far from certain would be correctly delivered.

Then for a moment she stood outside Mrs. Wills's room, choking back the sobs which swelled in her throat, and feeling very sad and hopeless at the thought of all she would miss, still more at the thought that her absence might be misunderstood.

From the window, as she attended to her grandmother's wants, she had a glimpse of Mittie, running gaily down the garden, in her pretty white frock, carrying an open Japanese parasol in one hand, while from the other dangled her hat and a small basket of flowers.

"Oh, Mittie, I wouldn't have done it to you—if you had cared as I do!" she breathed.

When Mittie reached the stream, Ferris had that moment arrived.

He had made fast the painter, intending to run up to the house, and had stepped back into the boat to put the cushions right.

A straight well-built young fellow, he looked eagerly up at the sound of steps; and when Mittie appeared alone, a momentary look of surprise came. But, of course Joan would follow!

Mittie wore her prettiest expression. She dropped her hat into the boat, and he took her parasol, holding out a hand to help, as she evidently meant to occupy her seat without delay.



[Sidenote: "Your Sister is Coming?"]

"Your sister is coming?" he said.

"She doesn't like to leave Grannie. So you'll have to do with me alone," smiled Mittie. "Such a pity, this splendid day! I did my best to persuade her—but she wouldn't be persuaded."

There was an abrupt pause. Even Mittie's self-complacency could not veil from her his changed face, his blank disappointment.

In that moment she very fully realised the truth that Joan, and not herself, was the one really wanted. But she smiled on resolutely, careless of what Fred might think about Joan's motives, and bent on making a good impression.

"It's the first time I've been to your house—oh, for months and months! I'm so looking forward to a whole day there. And being rowed down the river is so awfully delightful. I did try my hardest to get Joan to come, too; but she simply wouldn't, and she asked me to explain."

This only made matters worse. Fred could hardly avoid believing that Joan's absence was due to a wish to avoid him. In Mittie's mind lay a scarcely acknowledged fear that, if she were more explicit, Fred might insist on seeing Joan; and, in that event, that she might herself be in the end the one left behind. She was determined to have her day of fun.

Ferris had grown suddenly grave. He made Mittie comfortable in her seat, cast loose, and took the oars; but he seemed to have little to say.

Almost in complete silence they went to The Laurels. Mittie's repeated attempts at conversation died, each in succession, a natural death.

When Mary Ferris appeared, surprise was again shown at the sight of Mittie alone. Mary Ferris did not take it so quietly as her brother had done. She was naturally blunt, and she put one or two awkward questions which Mittie found it not easy to evade.

The hour on that lovely river, to which she had looked forward as delightful, proved dull.

Fred Ferris had nothing to say; he could not get over this seeming snub from Joan. He attended silently to his oars, and somehow Mittie had not courage to suggest that she would very much like to handle one of them. Mary was politely kind, and talked in an intermittent fashion; but the "fun" on which Mittie had counted was non-existent.

When they reached the landing-place and stepped out Mrs. Ferris stood on the bank, awaiting them. And Mrs. Ferris, though able, when she chose, to make herself extremely charming, was a very outspoken lady.

There was no mistake about her astonishment. Her eyebrows went up, and her eyes ran questioningly over the white-frocked figure.

"What, only Mittie! How is this? Where is Joan?"

Mittie felt rather small, but she was not going to admit that she had been in the wrong.

"Joan wouldn't come," she said, smiling.

"Is she not well?"

"Oh yes; quite well. I did try to persuade her—but she wouldn't."

The mother and daughter exchanged glances. Fred was already walking away, and Mary remarked:

"Joan always thinks first of other people. I dare say she felt that she could not leave Mrs. Wills."

Mittie, conscious of implied blame, grew pink and eager to defend herself.

"She could have come—perfectly well! There wasn't the least reason why she shouldn't. Grannie was all right. Joan simply—simply wouldn't!" Mittie stopped, knowing that she had conveyed a false impression, but pride withheld her from modifying the words. "I told her she might—just as well."

Mrs. Ferris began to move towards the house. "It is a great pity," she said. "We all counted on having Joan. However, it cannot be helped now. I hope you will enjoy yourself, my dear. Mary will show you over the garden and the house."

To Mary she added: "The old castle must wait for another time, I think—when Joan is here."

Mittie cast a questioning look, and Mary said, in explanation: "Only an old ruin a few miles off. We meant to have an excursion there this afternoon."

Mittie loved excursions, and could not resist saying so. No notice was taken of this appeal; but somewhat later she overheard a murmured remark from Mrs. Ferris to Mary.

[Sidenote: "Certainly not—now!"]

"No, certainly not—now. Fred will not care to go. He is very much disappointed, poor boy! If only one could be sure that it means nothing!" But Mittie was not meant to hear this.

They were very kind to her, and she really had nothing to complain of on the score of inattention. Mary, who happened to be the only daughter at home, took her in charge and put her through a steady course of gardens, glasshouses, family pets, and old furniture—for none of which Mittie cared a rap. What she had wanted was a gay young party, plenty of fun and merriment, and for herself abundance of admiration.

But Fred made himself scarce, only appearing at luncheon and vanishing afterwards; and Mrs. Ferris was occupied elsewhere most of the time; while between Mary and herself there was absolutely nothing in common. Mary, though only the senior by two or three years, was not only clever, but very intelligent and well read, and she had plenty of conversation. But the subjects for which she cared, though they would have delighted Joan, were utter tedium to Mittie's empty little head.

Before an hour had passed, Mary's boredom was only less pronounced than Mittie's own.

It was so tiresome, so stupid of Joan not to come! Mittie complained bitterly to herself of this. If Joan had come too, all would have gone well. She could not help seeing that she had not been meant to come without Joan, still less instead of Joan.

With all her assurance, this realisation that she was not wanted and that everybody was regretting Joan's absence made her horribly uncomfortable.

When left alone for a few minutes, early in the afternoon, she tugged angrily at her gloves, and muttered: "I wish I wasn't here. I wish I had left it to Joan. I think they are all most awfully frumpish and stupid, and I can't imagine what makes Joan so fond of them!"

But she did not yet blame herself.

* * * * *

Five o'clock was the time fixed for return. Had Joan come it would have been much later.

At tea-time Fred turned up, and it appeared that he meant to get off the return-row up the river. He had engaged a boatman to do it in his stead. Mary would still go, and though Mittie proudly said it did not matter, she wouldn't in the least mind being alone, Mary only smiled and held to her intention.

But long before this stage of proceedings everybody was tired—Mary and Mittie especially, the one of entertaining, the other of being entertained.

Mary had tried every imaginable thing she could think of to amuse the young guest, and every possible subject for talk. They seemed to have arrived at the end of everything, and it took all Mittie's energies to keep down, in a measure, her recurring yawns. Mary did her best, but she found Mittie far from interesting.

When at length they started for the riverside, Fred went with the two girls to see them off; and Mittie felt like a prisoner about to be released.

She was so eager to escape that she ran ahead of her companions towards the landing-place, and Mary dryly remarked in an undertone: "Mittie has had about enough of us, I think. How different she is from Joan! One would hardly take them for sisters."

Fred was too downhearted to answer. He had felt all day terribly hopeless.

Suddenly he started forward. "I say!—wait a moment!" he called.

A slight turn had brought them in full view of the small boat floating close under the bank, roped loosely to the shore, and of Mittie standing above, poised as for a spring. She was light and active, and fond of jumping. At the moment of Fred's shout she was in the very act. No boatman was within sight.

Perhaps the abrupt call startled her; perhaps in any case she would have miscalculated her distance. She was very self-confident, and had had little to do with boating.

[Sidenote: An Upset]

One way or another, instead of alighting neatly in the boat, as she meant to do, she came with both feet upon the gunwale and capsized the craft.

There was a loud terrified shriek, a great splash, and Mittie had disappeared.

"Fred! Fred!" screamed Mary.

Fred cleared the space in a few leaps, and was down the bank by the time that Mittie rose, some yards off, floating down the stream, with hands flung wildly out. Another leap carried him into the water.

He had thrown off his coat as he rushed to the rescue; and soon he had her in his grip, holding her off as she frantically clutched at him, and paddling back with one hand.

He was obliged to land lower down, and Mary was there before him. Between them they pulled Mittie out, a wet, frightened, miserable object, her breath in helpless gasps and sobs, and one cheek bleeding freely from striking the rowlock.

"Oh, Mittie! why did you do it?" Mary asked in distress—a rather inopportune question in the circumstances. "We must get her home at once, Fred, and put her to bed."

They had almost to carry her up the bank, for all the starch and confidence were gone out of her; and she was supremely ashamed, besides being overwhelmed with the fright and the shock.

On reaching the house Fred went off to change his own soaking garments, and Mittie was promptly put to bed, with a hot bottle at her feet and a hot drink to counteract the effects of the chill.

She submitted with unwonted meekness; but her one cry was for her sister.

"I want Joan! Oh, do fetch Joan!" she entreated. "My face hurts so awfully; and I feel so bad all over. I know I'm going to die! Oh, please send for Joan!"

"I don't think there is the smallest probability of that, my dear," Mrs. Ferris said, with rather dry composure, as she sat by the bed. "If Fred had not been at hand you would have been in danger, certainly. But, as things are, it is simply a matter of keeping you warm for a few hours. Your face will be painful, I am afraid, for some days; but happily it is only a bad bruise."

"I thought I could manage the jump so nicely," sighed Mittie.

"It was a pity you tried. Now, Mittie, I am going to ask you a question, and I want a clear answer. Will you tell me frankly—did Joan wish to stay at home to-day, and to send you in her stead?"

Mittie was so subdued that she had no spirit for a fight. "No," came in a whisper. "I—she—she wanted awfully to come. And I—wouldn't stay at home. And Grannie didn't like to spare us both."

"Ah, I see!" Mrs. Ferris laid a kind hand on Mittie. "I am glad you have told me; and you are sorry now, of course. That will make all the difference. Now I am going to send Fred to tell your sister what has happened, and to say that you will be here till to-morrow."

"Couldn't he bring Joan? I do want her so!"

"I'm not sure that that will be possible."

But to Fred, when retailing what had passed, she added: "You had better motor over. And if you can persuade Joan to come, so much the better—to sleep, if possible; if not, we can send her home later."

Fred was off like a shot. The motor run was a very short affair compared with going by boat. On arrival, he found the front door of Mrs. Wills's house open; and he caught a glimpse of a brown head within the bow-window of the breakfast-room.

If he could only find Joan alone! He ventured to walk in without ringing.

Alone, indeed, Joan was, trying to darn a pair of stockings, and finding the task difficult. It had been such a long, long day—longer even for her than for Mittie.

[Sidenote: "Fred!"]

"Come in," she said, in answer to a light tap. And the last face that she expected to see appeared. "Fred!" broke from her. "Mr. Ferris!"

"No, please—I like 'Fred' best!" He came close, noting with joy how her face had in an instant parted with its gravity. "Why did you not come to us to-day?" he asked earnestly.

"I couldn't."

"Not—because you wanted to stay away?"

"Oh no!"

"Could not your sister have been the one at home?"

Joan spoke gently. "You see, Mittie has never before spent a day at your house. She wanted it so much."

"And you—did you want it, too—ever so little? Would you have cared to come, Joan?"

Joan only smiled. She felt happy beyond words.

"I've got to take you there now, if you'll come. For the night, perhaps—or at least for the evening. Mittie has had a wetting"—he called the younger girl by her name half-unconsciously—"and they have put her to bed for fear of a chill. And she wants you."

Naturally Joan was a good deal concerned, though Fred made little of the accident. He explained more fully, and an appeal to the old lady brought permission.

"Not for the night, child—I can't spare you for that, but for the evening. Silly little goose Mittie is!"

And Fred, with delight, carried Joan off.

"So Mrs. Wills can't do without you, even for one night," he said, when they were spinning along the high road, he and she behind and the chauffeur in front. He laughed, and bent to look into her eyes. "Joan, what is to happen when she has to do without you altogether?"

"Oh, I suppose—she might manage as she used to do before we came." Joan said this involuntarily; and then she understood. Her colour went up.

"I don't think I can manage very much longer without you—my Joan!" murmured Fred. "If you'll have me, darling."

And she only said, "Oh, Fred!"

But he understood.



[Sidenote: Here is a story of an out-of-the-way Christmas entertainment got up for a girl's pleasure.]

A Christmas with Australian Blacks

BY

J. S. PONDER

"I say, Dora, can't we get up some special excitement for sister Maggie, seeing she is to be here for Christmas? I fancy she will, in her home inexperience, expect a rather jolly time spending Christmas in this forsaken spot. I am afraid that my letters home, in which I coloured things up a bit, are to blame for that," my husband added ruefully.

"What can we do, Jack?" I asked. "I can invite the Dunbars, the Connors and the Sutherlands over for a dance, and you can arrange for a kangaroo-hunt the following day. That is the usual thing when special visitors come, isn't it?"

"Yes," he moodily replied, "that about exhausts our programme. Nothing very exciting in that. I say, how would it do to take the fangs out of a couple of black snakes and put them in her bedroom, so as to give her the material of a thrilling adventure to narrate when she goes back to England?"

"That would never do," I protested, "you might frighten her out of her wits. Remember she is not strong, and spare her everything except very innocent adventures. Besides, snakes are such loathsome beasts."

"How would it do, then, to give a big Christmas feast to the blacks?" he hazarded.

"Do you think she would like that?" I asked doubtfully. "Remember how awfully dirty and savage-looking they are."

"Oh, we would try and get them to clean up a bit, and come somewhat presentable," he cheerfully replied. "And, Dora," he continued, "I think the idea is a good one. Sister Maggie is the Hon. Secretary or something of the Missionary Society connected with her Church, and in the thick of all the 'soup and blanket clubs' of the district. She will just revel at the chance of administering to the needs of genuine savages."

"If you think so, you had better try and get the feast up," I resignedly replied; "but I do wish our savages were a little less filthy."

Such was the origin of our Christmas feast to the blacks last year, of which I am about to tell you.

My husband, John MacKenzie, was the manager and part proprietor of a large sheep-station in the Murchison district of Western Australia, and sister Maggie was his favourite sister. A severe attack of pneumonia had left her so weak that the doctors advised a sea voyage to Australia, to recuperate her strength—a proposition which she hailed with delight, as it would give her the opportunity of seeing her brother in his West Australian home. My husband, of course, was delighted at the prospect of seeing her again, while I too welcomed the idea of meeting my Scottish sister-in-law, with whom I had much charming correspondence, but had never met face to face.

As the above conversation shows, my husband's chief care was to make his sister's visit bright and enjoyable—no easy task in the lonely back-blocks where our station was, and where the dreary loneliness and deadly monotony of the West Australian bush reaches its climax. Miles upon miles of uninteresting plains, covered with the usual gums and undergrowth, surrounded us on all sides; beautiful, indeed, in early spring, when the wealth of West Australian wild flowers—unsurpassed for loveliness by those of any other country—enriched the land, but at other times painfully unattractive and monotonous.

Except kangaroos, snakes, and lizards, animal life was a-wanting. Bird and insect life, too, was hardly to be seen, and owing to the absence of rivers and lakes, aquatic life was unknown.

The silent loneliness of the bush is so oppressive and depressing that men new to such conditions have gone mad under it when living alone, and others almost lose their power of intelligent speech.

Such were hardly the most cheerful surroundings for a young convalescent girl, and so I fully shared Jack's anxiety as to how to provide healthy excitement during his sister's stay.

Preparations for the blacks' Christmas feast were at once proceeded with. A camp of aboriginals living by a small lakelet eighteen miles off was visited, and the natives there were informed of a great feast that was to be given thirty days later, and were told to tell other blacks to come too, with their wives and piccaninnies.

[Sidenote: A large order]

Orders were sent to the nearest town, fifty-three miles off, for six cases of oranges, a gross of gingerbeer, and all the dolls, penknives and tin trumpets in stock; also (for Jack got wildly extravagant over his project) for fifty cotton shirts, and as many pink dresses of the readymade kind that are sold in Australian stores. These all came about a fortnight before Christmas, and at the same time our expected visitor arrived.

She at once got wildly enthusiastic when my husband told her of his plan, and threw herself into the preparations with refreshing energy.

She and I, and the native servants we had, toiled early and late, working like galley-slaves making bread-stuffs for the feast. Knowing whom I had to provide for, I confined myself to making that Australian standby—damper, and simple cakes, but Maggie produced a wonderfully elaborate and rich bun for their delectation, which she called a "Selkirk bannock," and which I privately thought far too good for them.

Well, the day came. Such a Christmas as you can only see and feel in Australia; the sky cloudless, the atmosphere breezeless, the temperature one hundred and seven degrees in the shade. With it came the aboriginals in great number, accompanied, as they always are, by crowds of repulsive-looking mongrel dogs.

Maggie was greatly excited, and not a little indignant, at seeing many of the gins carrying their dogs in their arms, and letting their infants toddle along on trembling legs hardly strong enough to support their little bodies, and much astonished when, on her proposing to send all their dogs away, I told her that this would result in the failure of the intended feast, as they would sooner forsake their children than their mongrels, and if the dogs were driven away, every native would indignantly accompany them.

Maggie, with a sigh and a curious look on her face that told of the disillusioning of sundry preconceived English ideas regarding the noble savages, turned to look at Jack, and her lips soon twitched with merriment as she listened to him masterfully arranging the day's campaign.

[Sidenote: A Magnificent Bribe]

Marshalling the blacks before him like a company of soldiers—the women, thanks to my prudent instructions, being more or less decently dressed, the men considerably less decently, and the younger children of both sexes being elegantly clad in Nature's undress uniform—Jack vigorously addressed his listeners thus: "Big feast made ready for plenty black-fellow to-day, but black-fellow must make clean himself before feast." (Grunts of disapprobation from the men, and a perfect babel of angry protestation from the women here interrupted the speaker, who proceeded, oblivious of the disapproval of his audience.) "Black-fellow all come with me for washee; lubras and piccaninnies (i.e., women and children) all go with white women for washee." (Continued grumbles of discontent.) "Clean black-fellow," continued Jack, "get new shirtee, clean lubra new gowna." Then, seeing that even this magnificent bribe failed to reconcile the natives to the idea of soap and water, Jack, to the amusement of Maggie and myself, settled matters by shouting out the ultimatum: "No washee—no shirtee, no shirtee—no feastee," and stalked away, followed submissively by the aboriginal lords of creation.

The men, indeed, and, in a lesser degree, the children, showed themselves amenable to reason that day, and were not wanting in gratitude; but in spite of Maggie's care and mine, the gins (the gentler sex) worthily deserved the expressive description: "Manners none, customs beastly."

They were repulsive and dirty in the extreme. They gloried in their dirt, and clung to it with a closer affection than they did to womanly modesty—this last virtue was unknown.

We, on civilising thoughts intent, had provided a number of large tubs and soap, and brushes galore for the Augean task, but though we got the women to the water, we were helpless to make them clean.

Their declaration of independence was out at once—"Is thy servant a dog that I should do this thing?" Wash and be clean! Why, it was contrary to all the time-honoured filthy habits of the noble self-respecting race of Australian gins, and "they would have none of it." At last, in despair, and largely humiliated at the way in which savage womanhood had worsted civilised, Maggie and I betook ourselves to the long tables where the feast was being spread, and waited the arrival of the leader of the other sex, whose success, evidenced by sounds coming from afar, made me seriously doubt my right to be called his "better half."

After a final appeal to my hard-hearted lord and master to be spared the indignity of the wash-tub, the native men had bowed to the inevitable.

Each man heroically lent himself to the task, and diligently helped his neighbours to reach the required standard of excellence.

Finally all save one stubborn aboriginal protestant emerged from the tub, like the immortal Tom Sawyer, "a man and a brother."

Well, the feast was a great success. The corned and tinned meat, oranges, tomatoes, cakes and gingerbeer provided were largely consumed. The eatables, indeed, met the approval of the savages, for, like Oliver Twist, they asked for "more," until we who served them got rather leg-weary, and began to doubt whether, when night came, we would be able to say with any heartiness we had had "a merry Christmas."

Clad in their clean shirts, and with faces shining with soap-polish, the men looked rather well, despite their repulsive and generally villainous features. But the women, wrinkled, filthy, quarrelsome and disgusting, they might have stood for incarnations of the witch-hags in Macbeth; and as we watched them guzzling down the food, and then turning their upper garments into impromptu bags to carry off what remained, it is hard to say whether the feeling of pity or disgust they raised was the stronger.

After the feast, Jack, for Maggie's entertainment, tried to get up the blacks to engage in a corroboree, and give an exhibition of boomerang and spear-throwing; but the inner man had been too largely satisfied, and they declined violent exertion, so the toys were distributed and our guests dismissed.

When she and I were dressing that evening for our own Christmas dinner, Maggie kept talking all the time of the strange experience she had passed through that day.

[Sidenote: A Striking Picture]

"I'll never forget it," she said. "Savages are so different from our English ideas of them. Did you notice the dogs? I counted nineteen go off with the first native that left. And the women! Weren't they horrors? I don't think I'll ever feel pride in my sex again. But above all, I'll never forget the way in which Jack drove from the table that native who hadn't a clean shirt on. It was a picture of Christ's parable of the 'Marriage Feast,'" she added softly.

Before I could reply the gong, strengthened by Jack's imperative "Hurry up, I'm starving," summoned us to dinner.



[Sidenote: A story of Sedgemoor times and of a woman who was both a saint and a heroine.]

My Mistress Elizabeth

BY

ANNIE ARMITT

I committed a great folly when I was young and ignorant; for I left my father's house and hid myself in London only that I might escape the match he desired to make for me. I knew nothing at that time of the dangers and sorrows of those who live in the world and are mixed in its affairs.

Yet it was a time of public peril, and not a few who dwelt in the quiet corners of the earth found themselves embroiled suddenly in great matters of state. For when the Duke of Monmouth landed in Dorsetshire it was not the dwellers in great cities or the intriguers of the Court that followed him chiefly to their undoing; it was the peasant who left his plough and the cloth-worker his loom. Men who could neither read nor write were caught up by the cry of a Protestant leader, and went after him to their ruin.

The prince to whose standard they flocked was, for all his sweet and taking manners, but a profligate at best; he had no true religion in his heart—nothing but a desire, indeed, for his own aggrandisement, whatever he might say to the unhappy maid that handed a Bible to him at Taunton. But of this the people were ignorant, and so it came to pass that they were led to destruction in a fruitless cause.

[Sidenote: French Leave]

But there were, besides the men that died nobly in a mistaken struggle for religious freedom, others that joined the army from mean and ignoble motives, and others again that had not the courage to go through with that which they had begun, but turned coward and traitor at the last.

Of one of them I am now to write, and I will say of him no more evil than must be.

How I, that had fled away from the part of the country where this trouble was, before its beginning, became mixed in it was strange enough.

I had, as I said, run away to escape from the match that my father proposed for me; and yet it was not from any dislike of Tom Windham, the neighbour's son with whom I was to have mated, that I did this; but chiefly from a dislike that I had to settle in the place where I had been bred; for I thought myself weary of a country life and the little town whither we went to market; and I desired to see somewhat of life in a great city and the gaiety stirring there.

There dwelt in London a cousin of my mother, whose husband was a mercer, and who had visited us a year before—when she was newly married—and pressed me to go back with her.

"La!" she had said to me, "I know not how you endure this life, where there is nothing to do but to listen for the grass growing and the flowers opening. 'Twould drive me mad in a month."

Then she told me of the joyous racket of a great city, and the gay shows and merry sports to be had there. But my father would not permit me to go with her.

However, I resolved to ask no leave when the question of my marriage came on; and so, without more ado, I slipped away by the first occasion that came, when my friends were least suspecting it, and, leaving only a message writ on paper to bid them have no uneasiness, for I knew how to take care of myself, I contrived, after sundry adventures, to reach London.

I arrived at an ill time, for there was sickness in the house of my cousin Alstree. However, she made me welcome as well as might be, and wrote to my father suddenly of my whereabouts. My father being sore displeased at the step I had taken, sent me word by the next messenger that came that way that I might even stay where I had put myself.

So now I had all my desire, and should have been content; but matters did not turn out as I had expected. There might be much gaiety in the town; but I saw little of it. My cousin was occupied with her own concerns, having now a sickly baby to turn her mind from thoughts of her own diversion; her husband was a sour-tempered man; and the prentices that were in the house were ill-mannered and ill-bred.



There was in truth a Court no farther away than Whitehall. I saw gallants lounging and talking together in the Park, games on the Mall, and soldiers and horses in the streets and squares; but none of these had any concern with me.

* * * * *

The news of the Duke's landing was brought to London while I was still at my cousin's, but it made the less stir in her household because of the sickness there; and presently a new and grievous trouble fell upon us. My cousin Alstree was stricken with the small-pox, and in five days she and her baby were both dead. The house seemed no longer a fit place for me, and her husband was as one distracted; yet I had nowhere else to go to.

It was then that a woman whom I had seen before and liked little came to my assistance. Her name was Elizabeth Gaunt.

She was an Anabaptist and, as I thought, fanatical. She spent her life in good works, and cared nothing for dress, or food, or pleasure. Her manner to me had been stern, and I thought her poor and of no account; for what money she had was given mostly to others. But when she knew of my trouble she offered me a place in her house, bargaining only that I should help her in the work of it.

"My maid that I had has left me to be married," she said; "'twould be waste to hire another while you sit idle."

I was in too evil a plight to be particular, so that I went with her willingly. And this I must confess, that the tasks she set me were irksome enough, but yet I was happier with her than I had been with my cousin Alstree, for I had the less time for evil and regretful thoughts.

Now it befell that one night, when we were alone together, there came a knocking at the house door.

[Sidenote: A Strange Visitor]

I went to open it, and found a tall man standing on the threshold. I was used to those that came to seek charity, who were mostly women or children, the poor, the sick, or the old. But this man, as I saw by the light I carried with me, was sturdy and well built; moreover, the cloak that was wrapped about him was neither ragged or ill-made, only the hat that he had upon his head was crushed in the brim.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, and this frightened me somewhat, for we were two lone women, and the terror of my country breeding clung to me. There was, it is true, nothing in the house worth stealing, but yet a stranger might not know this.

"Doth Mrs. Gaunt still live in this house?" he asked. "Is she not a woman that is very, charitable and ready to help those that are in trouble?"

I looked at him, wondering what his trouble might be, for he seemed well-to-do and comfortable, except for the hat-brim. Yet he spoke with urgency, and it flashed upon me that his need might not be for himself, but another.

I was about to answer him when he, whose eye had left me to wander round the narrow passage where we were, caught sight of a rim of light under a doorway.

"Is she in that chamber, and alone? What, then, are you afraid of?" he asked, with impatience. "Do you think I would hurt a good creature like that?"

"You would be a cruel wretch, indeed, to do it," I answered, plucking up a little spirit, "for she lives only to show kindness to others."

"So I have been told. 'Tis the same woman," and without more ado he stalked past me to the door of her room, where she sat reading a Bible as her custom was; so he opened it and went in.

I stood without in the passage, trembling still a little, and uncertain of his purpose, yet remembering his words and the horror he had shown at the thought of doing any hurt to my mistress. I said to myself that he could not be a wicked man, and that there was nothing to fear. But, well-a-day, well-a-day, we know not what is before us, nor the evil that we shall do before we die. Of a surety the man that I let in that night had no thought of what he should do; yet he came in the end to do it, and even to justify the doing of it.

I waited outside, as I have said, and the sound of voices came to me. I thought to myself once, "Shall I go nearer and listen?" though it was only for my mistress's sake that I considered it, being no eavesdropper. But I did not go, and in so abstaining I was kept safe in the greatest danger I have been in throughout my life. For if I had heard and known, my fate might have been like hers; and should I have had the strength to endure it?

In a little time the door opened and she came out alone. Her face was paler even than ordinary, and she gave a start on seeing me stand there.

"Child," she said, "have you heard what passed between us on the other side of that door?"

I answered that I had not heard a word; and then she beckoned me to follow her into the kitchen.

When we were alone there I put down my candle on the deal table, and stood still while she looked at me searchingly. I could see that there was more in her manner than I understood.

"Child," she said, "I have had to trust you before when I have given help to those in trouble, and you have not been wanting in discretion; yet you are but a child to trust."

"If you tell me nothing I can repeat nothing," I answered proudly.

"Yet you know something already. Can you keep silent entirely and under all circumstances as to what has happened since you opened the street door?"

"It is not my custom to gabble about your affairs."

"Will you seek to learn no more and to understand no more?"

"I desire to know nothing of the affairs of others, if they do not choose to tell me of their own free will."

She looked at me and sighed a little, at the which I marvelled somewhat, for it was ever her custom to trust in God and so to go forward without question.

"You are young and ill prepared for trial, yet you have wandered alone—silly lassie that you are—into a wilderness of wolves."

"There is trouble everywhere," I answered.

"And danger too," she said; "but there is trouble that we seek for ourselves, and trouble that God sends to us. You will do well, when you are safe at home, to wander no more. Now go to bed and rest."

"Shall I not get a meal for your guest?" I asked; for I was well aware that the man had not yet left the house.

[Sidenote: "Ask no Questions!"]

"Do my bidding and ask no questions," she said, more sternly than was her custom. So I took my candle and went away silently, she following me to my chamber. When I was there she bid me pray to God for all who were in danger and distress, then I heard that she turned the key upon me on the outside and went away.

I undressed with some sullenness, being ill-content at the mistrust she showed; but presently she came to the chamber herself, and prayed long before she lay down beside me.

And now a strange time followed. I saw no more of that visitor that had come to the house lately, nor knew at what time he went away, or if he had attained the end he sought. My mistress busied me mostly in the lower part of the house, and went out very little herself, keeping on me all the while a strict guard and surveillance beyond her wont.

But at last a charitable call came to her, which she never refused; and so she left me alone, with instructions to remain between the kitchen and the street-door, and by no means to leave the house or to hold discourse with any that came, more than need be.

I sat alone in the kitchen, fretting a little against her injunctions, and calling to mind the merry evenings in the parlour at home, where I had sported and gossiped with my comrades. I loved not solitude, and sighed to think that I had now nothing to listen to but the great clock against the wall, nothing to speak to but the cat that purred at my feet.

I was, however, presently to have company that I little expected. For, as I sat with my seam in my hand, I heard a step upon the stairs; and yet I had let none into the house, but esteemed myself alone there.

It came from above, where was an upper chamber, and a loft little used.

My heart beat quickly, so that I was afraid to go out into the passage, for there I must meet that which descended, man or spirit as it might be. I heard the foot on the lowest stair, and then it turned towards the little closet where my mistress often sat alone at her devotions.

While it lingered there I wondered whether I should rush out into the street, and seek the help and company of some neighbour. But I remembered Mrs. Gaunt's injunction; and, moreover, another thought restrained me. It was that of the man that I had let into the house and never seen again. It might well be that he had never left the place, and that I should be betraying a secret by calling in a stranger to look at him.

So I stood trembling by the deal table until the step sounded again and came on to the kitchen.

[Sidenote: The Man Again]

The door opened, and a man stood there. It was the same whom I had seen before.

He looked round quickly, and gave me a courteous greeting; his manner was, indeed, pleasant enough, and there was nothing in his look to set a maid trembling at the sight of him.

"I am in luck," he said, "for I heard Mrs. Gaunt go out some time since, and I am sick of that upper chamber where she keeps me shut up."

"If she keeps you shut up, sir," I said, his manner giving me back all my self-possession, "sure she has some very good reason."

"Do you know her reason?" he asked with abruptness.

"No, nor seek to know it, unless she chooses to tell me. I did not even guess that she had you in hiding."

"Mrs. Gaunt is careful, but I can trust the lips that now reprove me. They were made for better things than betraying a friend. I would willingly have some good advice from them, seeing that they speak wise words so readily." And so saying he sat down on the settle, and looked at me smiling.

I was offended, and with reason, at the freedom of his speech; yet, his manner, was so much beyond anything I had been accustomed to for ease and pleasantness, that I soon forgave him, and when he encouraged me, began to prattle about my affairs, being only, with all my conceit, the silly lassie my mistress had called me.