I talked of my home and my own kindred, and the friends I had had—which things had now all the charm of remoteness for me—and he listened with interest, catching up the names of places, and even of persons, as if they were not altogether strange to him, and asking me further of them.

"What could make you leave so happy a home for such a dungeon as this?" he asked, looking round.

Then I hung my head, and reddened foolishly, but he gave a loud laugh and said, "I can well understand. There was some country lout that your father would have wedded you to. That is the way with the prettiest maidens."

"Tom Windham was no country lout," I answered proudly; upon which he leaned forward and asked, "What name was that you said? Windham? and from Westover? Is he a tall fellow with straw-coloured hair and a cut over his left eye?"

"He got it in a good cause," I answered swiftly; "have you seen him?"

"Yes, lately. It is the same. Lucky fellow! I would I were in his place now." And he fell straightway into a moody taking, looking down as if he had forgotten me.

"Sir, do you say so?" I stammered foolishly, "when—when——"

"When you have run away from him? Not for that, little maid;" and he broke again into a laugh that had mischief in it. "But because when we last met he was in luck and I out of it, yet we guessed it not at the time."

"I am glad he is doing well," I said proudly.

"Then should you be sorry for me that am in trouble," he answered. "For I have no home now, nor am like to have, but must go beyond seas and begin a new life as best I may."

"I am indeed sorry, for it is sad to be alone. If Mrs. Gaunt had not been kind to me——"

[Sidenote: Interrupted]

"And to me," he interrupted, "we should never have met. She is a good woman, your mistress Gaunt."

"Yet, I have heard that beyond seas there are many diversions," I answered, to turn the talk from myself, seeing that he was minded to be too familiar.

"For those that start with good company and pleasant companions. If I had a pleasant companion, one that would smile upon me with bright eyes when I was sad, and scold me with her pretty lips when I went astray—for there is nothing like a pretty Puritan for keeping a careless man straight."

"Oh, sir!" I cried, starting to my feet as he put his hand across the deal table to mine; and then the door opened and Elizabeth Gaunt came in.

"Sir," she said, "you have committed a breach of hospitality in entering a chamber to which I have never invited you. Will you go back to your own?"

He bowed with a courteous apology and muttered something about the temptation being too great. Then he left us alone.

"Child," she said to me, "has that man told you anything of his own affairs?"

"Only that he is in trouble, and must fly beyond seas."

"Pray God he may go quickly," she said devoutly. "I fear he is no man to be trusted."

"Yet you help him," I answered.

"I help many that I could not trust," she said with quietness; "they have the more need of help." And in truth I know that much of her good work was among those evil-doers that others shrank from.

"This man seems strong enough to help himself," I said.

"Would that he may go quickly," was all her answer. "If the means could but be found!"

Then she spoke to me with great urgency, commanding me to hold no discourse with him nor with any concerning him.

I did my best to fulfil her bidding, yet it was difficult; for he was a man who knew the world and how to take his own way in it. He contrived more than once to see me, and to pay a kind of court to me, half in jest and half in earnest; so that I was sometimes flattered and sometimes angered, and sometimes frighted.

Then other circumstances happened unexpectedly, for I had a visitor that I had never looked to see there.

I kept indoors altogether, fearing to be questioned by the neighbours; but on a certain afternoon there came a knocking, and when I went to open Tom Windham walked in.

I gave a cry of joy, because the sight of an old friend was pleasant in that strange place, and it was not immediately that I could recover myself and ask what his business was.

"I came to seek you," he said, "for I had occasion to leave my own part of the country for the present."



Looking at him, I saw that he was haggard and strange, and had not the confidence that was his formerly.

"There has been a rising there," I answered him, "and trouble among many?"

"Much trouble," he said with gloom. Then he fell to telling me how such of the neighbours were dead, and others were in hiding, while there were still more that went about their work in fear for their lives, lest any should inform against them.

"Your father's brother was taken on Sedgemoor with a pike in his hand," he added, "and your father has been busy ever since, raising money to buy his pardon—for they say that money can do much."

"That is ill news, indeed," I said.

"I have come to London on my own affairs, and been to seek you at your cousin Alstree's. When I learnt of the trouble that had befallen I followed you to this house, and right glad I am that you are safe with so good a woman as Mrs. Gaunt."

"But why should you be in London when the whole countryside at home is in gaol or in mourning? Have you no friend to help? Did you sneak away to be out of it all?" I asked with the silly petulance of a maid that knows nothing and will say anything.

"Yes," he said, hanging his head like one ashamed, "I sneaked away to be out of it all."

It vexed me to see him so, and I went on in a manner that it pleased me little afterwards to remember. "You, that talked so of the Protestant cause! you, that were ready to fight against Popery! you were not one of those that marched for Bristol or fought at Sedgemoor?"

"No," he said, "I did neither of these things."

"Yet you have run away from the sight of your neighbours' trouble—lest, I suppose, you should anyways be involved in it. Well, 'twas a man's part!"

He was about to answer me when we both started to hear a sound in the house. There was a foot on the stairs that I knew well. Tom turned aside and listened, for we had now withdrawn to the kitchen.

"That is a man's tread," he said; "I thought you lived alone with Mrs. Elizabeth Gaunt."

"Mrs. Gaunt spends her life in good works," I answered, "and shows kindness to others beside me."

I raised my voice in hopes that the man might hear me and come no nearer, but the stupid fellow had waxed so confident that he came right in and stood amazed.

[Sidenote: "You!"]

"You!" he said; and Tom answered, "You!"

So they stood and glared at one another.

"I thought you were in a safe place," said Tom, swinging round to me.

"She is in no danger from me," said the man.

"Are you so foolish as to think so?" asked Tom.

"If you keep your mouth shut she is in no danger," was the answer.

"That may be," said Tom. Yet he turned to me and said, "You must come away from here."

"I have nowhere to go to—and I will not leave Mrs. Gaunt."

"I am myself going away," the man said.

"How soon?"

"To-night maybe; to-morrow night at farthest."

"'Tis a great danger," said Tom, "and I thought you so safe." Again he spoke to me.

"Is there danger from you?" the man asked.

"Do you take me for a scoundrel?" was the wrathful reply.

"A man will do much to keep his skin whole."

"There are some things no man will do that is a man and no worse."

"Truly you might have easily been in my place; and you would not inform against a comrade?"

"I should be a black traitor to do it."

Yet there was a blacker treachery possible, such as we none of us conceived the very nature of, not even the man that had the heart to harbour it afterwards.

Tom would not leave me until Mrs. Gaunt came in, and then they had a private talk together. She begged him to come to the house no more at present, because of the suspicions that even so innocent a visitor might bring upon it at that time of public disquiet.

"I shall contrive to get word to her father that he would do well to come and fetch her," he said, in my hearing, and she answered that he could not contrive a better thing.

The man that, as I now understood, we had in hiding went out that night after it was dark, but he came back again; and he did so on the night that followed. Mrs. Gaunt, perceiving that she could not altogether keep him from my company, and that the hope of his safe departure grew less, began to show great uneasiness.

"I see not how I am to get away," the man said gloomily when he found occasion for a word with me; "and the danger increases each day. Yet there is one way—one way."

"Why not take it and go?" I asked lightly.

"I may take it yet. A man has but one life." He spoke savagely and morosely; for his manner was now altered, and he paid me no more compliments.

There came a night on which he went out and came back no more.

"I trust in God," said Mrs. Gaunt, who used this word always in reverence and not lightly, "that he has made his escape and not fallen into the hands of his enemies."

The house seemed lighter because he was gone, and we went about our work cheerfully. Later, when some strange men came to the door—as I, looking through an upper window, could see—Mrs. Gaunt opened to them smiling, for the place was now ready to be searched, and there was none to give any evidence who the man was that had lately hidden there.

[Sidenote: Arrested]

But there was no search. The men had come for Elizabeth Gaunt herself, and they told her, in my hearing, that she was accused of having given shelter to one of Monmouth's men, and the punishment of this crime was death.

It did not seem to me at first possible that such a woman as Elizabeth Gaunt, that had never concerned herself with plots or politics, but spent her life wholly in good works, should be taken up as a public enemy and so treated only because she had given shelter to a man that had fled for his life. Yet this was, as I now learnt, the law. But there still seemed no possibility of any conviction, for who was there to give witness against her of the chief fact, namely, that she had known the man she sheltered to be one that had fought against the King? Her house was open always to those that were in trouble or danger, and no question asked. There were none of her neighbours that would have spied upon her, seeing that she had the reputation of a saint among them; and none to whom she had given her confidence. She had withheld it even from me, nor could I certainly say that she had the knowledge that was charged against her. For Windham was out of the way now—on my business, as I afterwards discovered; and if he had been nigh at hand he would have had more wisdom than to show himself at this juncture.

When I was taken before the judge, and, terrified as I was, questioned with so much roughness that I suspected a desire to fright me further, so that I might say whatever they that questioned me desired, even then they could, happily, discover nothing that told against my mistress, because I knew nothing.

In spite of all my confusion and distress, I uttered no word that could be used against Elizabeth Gaunt.

I saw now her wise and kind care of me, in that she had not put me into the danger she was in herself. It seemed too that she must escape, seeing that there was none to give witness against her.

And then the truth came out, that the villain himself, tempted by the offer of the King to pardon those rebels that should betray their entertainers, had gone of his own accord and bought his safety at the cost of her life that had sheltered and fed him.

When the time came that he must give his evidence, the villain stepped forward with a swaggering impudence that ill-concealed his secret shame, and swore not only that Elizabeth Gaunt had given him shelter, but moreover that she had done it knowing who he was and where he came from. And so she was condemned to death, and, in the strange cruelty of the law, because she was a woman and adjudged guilty of treason, she must be burnt alive.

She had no great friends to help her, no money with which to bribe the wicked court; yet I could not believe that a King who called himself a Christian—though of that cruel religion that has since hunted so many thousands of the best men out of France, or tortured them in their homes there—could abide to let a woman die, only because she had been merciful to a man that was his enemy. I went about like one distracted, seeking help where there was no help, and it was only when I went to the gaol and saw Elizabeth herself—which I was permitted to do for a farewell—that I found any comfort.

"We must all die one day," she said, "and why not now, in a good cause?"

"Is it a good cause," I cried, "to die for one that is a coward, a villain, a traitor?"

"Nay," she answered, "you mistake. I die for the cause of charity. I die to fulfil my Master's command of kindness and mercy."

"But the man was unworthy," I repeated.

"What of that? The love is worthy that would have helped him; the charity is worthy that would have served him. Gladly do I die for having lived in love and charity. They are the courts of God's holy house. They are filled full of peace and joy. In their peace and joy may I abide until God receives me, unworthy, into His inner temple."

"But the horror of the death! Oh, how can you bear it?"

"God will show me how when the time comes," she said, with the simplicity of a perfect faith.

[Sidenote: Death by Fire]

And of a truth He did show her; for they that stood by her at the last testified how her high courage did not fail; no, nor her joy either; for she laid the straw about her cheerfully for her burning, and thanked God that she was permitted to die in this cruel manner for a religion that was all love.

I could not endure to watch that which she could suffer joyfully, but at first I remained in the outskirts of the crowd. When I pressed forward after and saw her bound there—she that had sat at meals with me and lain in my bed at night—and that they were about to put a torch to the faggots and kindle them, I fell back in a swoon. Some that were merciful pulled me out of the throng, and cast water upon me; and William Penn the Quaker, that stood by (whom I knew by sight—and a strange show this was that he had come with the rest to look upon), spoke to me kindly, and bid me away to my home, seeing that I had no courage for such dreadful sights.

So I hurried away, ashamed of my own cowardice, and weeping sorely, leaving behind me the tumult of the crowd, and smelling in the air the smoke of the kindled faggots. I put my fingers in my ears and ran back to the empty house: there to fall on my knees, to pray to God for mercy for myself, and to cry aloud against the cruelty of men.

Then there happened a thing which I remember even now with shame.

The man who had betrayed my mistress came disguised (for he was now at liberty to fly from the anger of the populace and the horror of his friends) and he begged me to go with him and to share his fortunes, telling me that he feared solitude above everything, and crying to me to help him against his own dreadful thoughts.

I answered him with horror and indignation; but he said I should rather pity him, seeing that many another man would have acted so in his place; and others might have been in his place easily enough.

"For," said he, "your friend Windham was among those that came to take service under the Duke and had to be sent away because there were no more arms. He was sorely disappointed that he could not join us."

"Then," said I suddenly, "this was doubtless the reason why he fled the country—lest any should inform against him."

"That is so," he answered; "and a narrow escape he has had; for if he had fought as he desired he might well have been in my place this day."

"In Elizabeth Gaunt's rather!" I answered. "He would himself have died at the stake before he could have been brought to betray the woman that had helped him."

"You had a poorer opinion of him a short while ago."

"I knew not the world. I knew not men. I knew not you. Go! Go! Take away your miserable life—for which two good and useful lives have been given—and make what you can of it. I would—coward as I am—go back to my mistress and die with her rather than have any share in it!"

He tarried no more, and I was left alone. Not a creature came near me. It may be that my neighbours had seen him enter, and thought of me with horror as a condoner of his crime; it may be that they were afraid to meddle with a house that had fallen into so terrible a trouble; or that the frightful hurricane that burst forth and raged that day (as if to show that God's anger was aroused and His justice, though delayed, not forgotten) kept them trembling in their houses.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: A Knocking at Nightfall]

What would have befallen me if I had been left long alone in that great and evil city I know not, for I had no wits left to make any plans for myself. At nightfall, however, there came once more a knocking, and when I opened the door my father stood on the threshold. There seemed no strangeness in his presence, and I fell into his arms weeping, so that he, seeing how grievous had been my punishment, forbore to make any reproach.

The next day began our journey home, and I have never since returned to London; but when I got back to the place I had so foolishly left I found it sadder than before. Many friends were gone away or dead. Some honest lads, with whom I had jested at fair-times, hung withering on the ghastly gallows by the wayside; others lay in unknown graves; others languished in gaol or on board ship. My father's own brother, though his life was spared, had been sent away to the plantations to be sold, and to work as a slave.

It was some time before Tom Windham—that had, at considerable risk to himself, sent my father to fetch me—ventured to settle again in his old place; and for a long time after that he was shy of addressing me.

But I was changed now as much as he was. I had seen what the world was, and knew the value of an honest love in it. So that, in the end, we came to an understanding, and have been married these many years.



[Sidenote: What is girl life like in newer Canada—in lands to which so many of our brothers are going just now? This article—written in the Far North-West—supplies the answer.]

Girl Life in Canada

BY

JANEY CANUCK

If you leave out France, Canada is as large as all Europe; which means that the girls of our Dominion live under climatic, domestic, and social conditions that are many and varied. It is of the girls in the newer provinces I shall write—those provinces known as "North-West Canada"—who reside in the country adjacent to some town or village.

It is true that many girls who come here with their fathers and mothers often live a long distance from a town or even a railroad.

Where I live at Edmonton, the capital of the Province of Alberta, almost every day in the late winter we see girls starting off to the Peach River district, which lies to the north several hundred miles from a railroad.

[Sidenote: A Travelling House]

How do they travel? You could never guess, so I may as well tell you. They travel in a house—a one-roomed house. It is built on a sled and furnished with a stove, a table that folds against the wall, a cupboard for food and dishes, nails for clothing, and a box for toilet accessories. Every available inch is stored with supplies, so that every one must perforce sleep on the floor. This family bed is, however, by no means uncomfortable, for the "soft side of the board" is piled high with fur rugs and four-point blankets. (Yes, if you remind me I'll tell you by and by what a "four-point" blanket is.)

The entrance to the house is from the back, and the window is in front, through a slide in which the lines extend to the heads of the horses or the awkward, stumbling oxen.

You must not despise the oxen, or say, "A pretty, team for a Canadian girl!" for, indeed, they are most reliable animals, and not nearly so delicate as horses, nor so hard to feed—and they never, never run away. Besides—and here's the rub—you can always eat the oxen should you ever want to, and popular prejudice does not run in favour of horseflesh.

Oh, yes! I said I would tell you about "four-point" blankets. They are the blankets that have been manufactured for nearly three hundred years by "the Honourable Company of Gentlemen Adventurers of England trading into Hudson's Bay," known for the sake of conciseness as the "H.B. Company." These blankets are claimed to be the best in the world, and weigh from eight to ten pounds. The Indians, traders, trappers, boatmen, and pioneers in the North use no others. They are called "four-point" because of four black stripes at one corner. There are lighter blankets of three and a half points, which points are indicated in the same way. By these marks an Indian knows exactly what value he is getting in exchange for his precious peltry.

After travelling for three or four weeks in this gipsy fashion, mayhap getting a peep at a moose, a wolf, or even a bear (to say nothing of such inconsequential fry as ermine, mink, beaver, and otter), the family arrive at their holding of 160 acres.

It does not look very pleasant, this holding. The snow is just melting, and the landscape is dreary enough on every side, for as yet Spring has not even suggested that green is the colour you may expect to see in Nature's fashion-plate. Not she!

But here's the point. Look you here! the house is already built for occupancy, and has only to be moved from the sled to the ground. There is no occasion for a plumber or gasfitter either, and as for water and fuel, they are everywhere to be had for the taking.

Presently other rooms will be added of lumber or logs, and a cellar excavated. But who worries about these things when they have just become possessors of 160 statute acres of land that have to be prepared for grain and garden stuff? Who, indeed?

Here is where the girl comes in. She must learn to bake bread and cakes, how to dress game and fish, and how to make bacon appetising twice a day. She must "set" the hens so that there may be "broilers" against Thanksgiving Day, and eggs all the year round. She has to sow the lettuces, radishes, and onions for succulent salads; and always she must supply sunshine and music, indoors and out, for dad and mother and the boys.

Perhaps you think she is not happy, but you are sadly mistaken. She is busy all day and sleepy all night. She knows that after a while a railroad is coming in here, and there will be work and money for men and teams, which means the establishment of a town near by, where you may purchase all kinds of household comforts and conveniences, to say nothing of pretty blouses, hats, and other "fixings." Oh, she knows it, the minx! She is the kind of a girl Charles Wagner describes as putting "witchery into a ribbon and genius into a stew."

But let us take a look at the girl who lives in the more settled parts of the country, near a town.

If she be ambitious, or anxious to help the home-folk, she will want to become a teacher, a bookkeeper, Civil Service employee, or a stenographer. To accomplish this end, she drives to town every day to attend the High School or Business College. Or perhaps she may move into town for the school terms.

Of all these occupations, that of the teacher is most popular. Teachers, in these new provinces, are in great demand, for the supply is entirely inadequate. As a result, they are especially well paid.

If the teacher is hard to get, she is also hard to hold; for the bachelor population being largely in the majority, there are many flattering inducements of a matrimonial character held out to the girl teacher to settle down permanently with a young farmer, doctor, real estate agent, lawyer, or merchant. You could never believe what inducements these sly fellows hold out. Never!

In town our girls find many diversions. She may skate, ride, play golf, basket-ball, or tennis, according as her purse or preference may dictate.

If there be no municipal public library, or reading-room in connection with the Young Women's Christian Association, she may borrow books from a stationer's lending-library for a nominal sum, so that none of her hours need be unoccupied or unprofitable.

[Sidenote: Young Men and Maidens]

In Canadian towns and villages the Church-life is of such a nature that every opportunity is given young girls to become acquainted with others of their own age. There are literary, temperance, missionary, and social clubs in connection with them, some one of which meets almost every night. In the winter the clubs have sleigh-rides and suppers, and in the summer lawn-socials and picnics much as they do in England, or in any part of the British Isles.

Compared with girls in the older countries, it is my opinion that the Canadian lassie of the North-West Provinces has a keener eye to the material side of life. This is only a natural outcome of the commercial atmosphere in which she lives.

She sees her father, or her friends, buying lots in some new town site, or in a new subdivision of some city, and, with an eye to the main chance, she desires to follow their example. These lots can be purchased at from L10 to L100, and by holding them for from one to five years they double or treble in value as the places become populated.

As a result, nearly all the girls employed in Government offices, or as secretaries, teachers, or other positions where the salaries are fairly generous, manage to save enough money to purchase some lots to hold against a rise. After investing and reinvesting several times, our girl soon has a financial status of her own and secures a competency. She has no time for nervous prostration or moods, but is alert and wideawake all the time.

Does she marry? Oh, yes! But owing to her financial independence, marriage is in no sense of the word a "Hobson's choice," but is generally guided entirely by heart and conscience, as, indeed, it always should be.

Some of the girls who come from Europe or the British Isles save their dollars to enable the rest of the family to come out to Canada.

"Wee Maggie," a waitress in a Winnipeg restaurant, told me the other day that in three years she had saved enough to bring her aged father and mother over from Scotland and to furnish a home for them.

Still other girls engage in fruit-farming in British Columbia, or in poultry-raising; but these are undertakings that require some capital to start with.

An increasingly large number of Canadian girls are taking University courses, or courses in technical colleges and musical conservatoires, with the idea of fitting themselves as High School teachers or for the medical profession.

In speaking of the girls of Western Canada, one must not overlook the Swedish, Russian, Italian, Galician, and other Europeans who have made their home in the Dominion.

The Handicrafts Guild is helping these girls to support themselves by basketry, weaving, lace and bead making, pottery, and needlework generally. Prizes are offered annually in the different centres for the best work, and all articles submitted are afterwards placed on sale in one of their work depositories. This association is doing a splendid work, in that they are making the arts both honourable and profitable.

While this article has chiefly concerned itself with the domestic and peaceful pursuits of our Canadian girls, it must not be forgotten that in times of stress they have shown themselves to be heroines who have always been equal to their occasions.

Our favourite heroine is, perhaps, Madeleine de Vercheres, who, in the early days when the Indians were an ever-present menace to the settlers on the St. Lawrence River, successfully defended her father's seignory against a band of savage Iroquois.

Her father had left an old man of eighty, two soldiers, and Madeleine and her two little brothers to guard the fort during his absence in Quebec.

[Sidenote: A Girl Captain]

One day a host of Indians attacked them so suddenly they had hardly time to barricade the windows and doors. The fight was so fierce the soldiers considered it useless to continue it, but Madeleine ordered them to their posts, and for a week, night and day, kept them there. She taught her little brothers how to load and fire the guns so rapidly that the Indians were deceived and thought the fort well garrisoned.

When a reinforcement came to her relief, it was a terribly exhausted little girl that stepped out to welcome them at the head of the defenders—Captain Madeleine Vercheres, aged fourteen!

Yes, we like to tell this story of Madeleine over and over.

We like to paint pictures of her, too, and to mould her figure in bronze; for we know right well that she is a type of the strong, brave, resourceful lassies who in all ranks of our national life, may ever be counted upon to stand to their posts, be the end what it may.

Gentlemen, hats off! The Canadian girl!



[Sidenote: Evelyne resented the summons to rejoin her father in New Zealand. Yet she came to see that the call to service was a call to true happiness.]

"Such a Treasure!"

BY

EILEEN O'CONNELL

"Evelyne, come to my room before you go to your singing lesson. I have had a most important letter from your father; the New Zealand mail came in this morning."

"Can I come now, Aunt Mary?" replied a clear voice, its owner appearing suddenly at the head of the stairs pinning on to a mass of sunny hair a very large hat. "I want to go early, for if I arrive first, I often get more than my regular time, and you know how greedy I am for new songs."

Mrs. Trevor did not reply; she walked slowly into her morning-room and stood at the window looking perplexed and serious, thinking nothing about her niece's lessons, and looking at, without seeing, the midsummer beauty of her garden. A few minutes later the door opened, and she turned to the young girl, who with a song on her lips danced merrily into the room.

At the sight of Mrs. Trevor's face she stopped suddenly, exclaiming, "Something is wrong! What has happened?"

"You are right, Eva, something has happened—something, my child, that will affect your whole life." With a falter in her voice the woman continued, "You are to leave me, Evelyne, and go out to New Zealand. You are needed in your father's house."

[Sidenote: "I Refuse to Go!"]

"To New Zealand?—I refuse to go."

"You have no choice in the matter, dearest. Your mother has become a confirmed invalid, and is incapable of looking after the children and the house. Your father has naturally thought of you."

"As a kind of servant to a heap of noisy boys, half of whom I never have seen even. I daresay it would be very convenient and very cheap to have me. However, I shall not go to that outlandish place they live at in New Zealand, and you must tell father so."

"But I cannot, Evie. There is no choice about it. Your parents have the first claim on you, remember."

"I deny that," said the girl passionately; "they cared so little about me that they were ready to give me to you and go to New Zealand without me; that fact, I think, ends their claims. And Auntie, having lived here for eight years, and being in every way happy, and with so much before me to make life worth living, how can they be so selfish as to wish to ruin my prospects and make me miserable?"

"Eva, Eva, don't jump to conclusions! Instead of believing that the worst motives compelled your father's decision, think it just possible that they were the highest. Put yourself out of the question for the moment and face facts. Your parents were not willing to part with you; believe me, it was a bitter wrench to both to leave you behind. But settling up country in the colony was not an easy matter for my brother with his delicate wife and four children. Marjory was older than you, so of course more able to help with the boys, and knowing that his expenses would be very heavy and his means small, I offered to adopt you; for your sake, more than other considerations, I think, my offer was accepted. Since Marjory's death your mother has practically been alone, for servants are scarce and very expensive. Now, poor soul, her strength is at an end; she has developed an illness that involves the greatest care and rest. You see, darling, that this is no case for hesitation. The call comes to you, and you must answer and do your duty faithfully."

The girl buried her face in the sofa cushions, her hat lay on the floor.

"I hate children—especially boys," she said sullenly when she spoke. "Surely in eight years a doctor ought to be able to make enough to pay a housekeeper, if his wife can't look after his house."

"You don't understand how hard life is sometimes, or I think you would be readier to take up part of a burden that is dragging down a good and brave man."

"To live in an uncivilised country, where probably the people won't speak my own language——"

"Don't betray such absurd ignorance, Eva," replied Mrs. Trevor; "you must know that New Zealand is a British colony, inhabited mainly by our own people, who are as well educated and as well mannered as ourselves."

"And just when I was getting on so well with my singing! Mr. James said my voice would soon fill a concert hall, and all my hopes of writing and becoming a known author—everything dashed to the ground—every longing nipped in the bud! Oh! it is cruel, cruel!"

"I knew, dear child, that the blow would be severe; don't imagine that it will be easy for me to give you up. But knowing what lies before us, the thing to do is to prize every hour we are together, and then with courage go forward to meet the unknown future. The boys are growing up——"

"Hobbledehoys, you may be sure."

Mrs. Trevor smiled, but said nothing. "And in addition to them, there is the baby sister you have never seen."

"And never wish to," added Eva ungraciously.

"We shall have much to think of, and when once you have become used to the idea, I should strongly advise you to settle to some practical work that will help when you are forced to depend on yourself."

Eva did not reply. Mentally she was protesting or blankly refusing to give up her life of ease, of pleasures, and congenial study in exchange for the one offered her in the colony.

"Friends of your father are now home and expect to return in September; so, having arranged for you to accompany them, we must regard their arrangements as time limit. It is always best to know the worst, though, believe me, anticipation is often worse than realisation."

The sword had fallen, cutting off, as Evelyne Riley was fully convinced, every possibility of happiness on earth so far as she was concerned. Time seemed to fly on fairy wings; Mrs. Trevor made all necessary preparations, and before Evelyne realised that her farewell to England must be made, she stood on the deck of the outgoing steamer "Waimato" at the side of a stranger, waving her hand forlornly to the woman whose heart was sore at parting with one she had learned to look upon as her own child.

[Sidenote: In New Zealand]

Six weeks later, Eva landed at Wellington. The voyage had not interested her much, and she was glad to end it. She had read somewhere that it was usual to wear old clothes on board, but for landing to choose smart and becoming ones, and Eva had bestowed quite some thought on the subject. Her dark serge lay at the bottom of her trunk, and for the important occasion she decided on her most cherished frock and the new hat, which in Richmond she had worn on high-days and holidays. Certainly she looked very attractive. Almost sixteen, tall and very fair, Eva was a beautiful girl, and as the eyes of Dr. Riley fell on her, he wondered in amazement at the change that had taken place in the pale, slight child he had left with his sister. Could this really be Evelyne? If so, how was she going to suit in the simple surroundings to which she was going? He gazed in dismay at the expensive clothes and fashionable style of one who soon would need to patch and darn, to bake and cook, run the house on practical lines, and care for children.

Somewhat nervous and much excited, Eva allowed herself to be kissed and caressed, asking after her mother in a constrained fashion, for, try as she would, she bore a grudge against one who was the cause of her changed life.

A shadow overcast the doctor's face as he replied, "Your dear mother will not welcome you at our home as we had hoped. She lies very ill in a hospital at present, awaiting a severe operation, the success of which may save her life—God grant it may—but the boys and Babs are wild with excitement and longing to see you. We ought to reach 'Aroha' before they are in bed. It is only nine o'clock, and we can go part of the way by train; then we shall have a long buggy drive through the bush."

That day Eva never forgot. Travelling with one who was practically a stranger to her and yet her nearest relative, the girl felt embarrassed. She wanted to hear about her future surroundings and ask questions about the children, but she found it hard to disguise her disappointment in having to leave her old home and to pretend enthusiasm about her brothers and sister; she feared that her father would read her thoughts and be hurt and offended, so relapsed into silence. Once they left the railway they said goodbye to civilisation, Eva felt positive.

The country was at its loveliest; the early summer brought a beauty of its own. Rains had washed every leaf and refreshed each growing thing. Great trees, veritable giants, reared their heads proudly towards the sky, bushes were in full leaf, the ground on either side of the road was carpeted with thick moss that had grown for long years without being disturbed. From out of a cloudless sky the sun shone brilliantly, and the travellers gladly exchanged the high-road for the shelter of the bush. The day was undoubtedly hot, and Eva in her holiday raiment felt oppressed and weary before the carriage came in sight of the first houses that comprised the growing little township in which her father held an important position as medical man.

The style of house brought a curve of contempt to the girl's lips, but she offered no opinions. Suddenly, without a remark, her father checked the horses, as a small group came to a halt in the middle of the road and began waving their hats and shouting wildly.

"There's a welcome for you, Eva!"

"Who are they? I mean—how did those boys know I was coming?"

"They are your brothers, dear; jolly little chaps every one of them, even though they are a bunch of rough robins."

Eva shivered; her brothers—those raggety tags!

They presented a picturesque though unkempt appearance. Jack was eating a slice of bread and jam; Dick had Babs—somewhat in a soiled condition from watering the garden—on his back; Charlie, the incorrigible, with a tear in his knickers and a brimless hat on the back of his curly head, was leaping about like an excited kangaroo.

[Sidenote: "An Impossible Crowd!"]

The doctor held out his arms to the three-year-old little girl, who looked shyly at the pretty lady and then promptly hid her face. Eva's heart sank; she knew she ought to say or do something, but no words of tenderness came to her lips. The child might be attractive if clean, but it looked neglected, while the boys were what she described as "hobbledehoys." "An impossible crowd," she decided with a shudder, and yet her life was to be spent in their midst.

"Leave your sister in peace, you young rascals!" said the doctor; "she is tired. Dick, put on the kettle; Eva will be glad of some tea, I know. Welcome home, dear daughter. Mother and I have longed for you so often, and my hopes run high now that you have come. I trust you will be a second mother to the boys and Babs."

"I will try," Eva replied in a low voice.

Her father noticed her depression, so wisely said little more, but going out to see a patient, left her to settle into her new surroundings in her own fashion.

Next morning Eva wakened early and looked out of her window, which was shaded by a climbing rose that trailed right across it. The house was boarded and shingled, one little piece of wood neatly overlapping the other; it was only two stories high, with deep eaves and a wide verandah all around it.

Breakfast once over, Eva made a tour of the rooms, ending up in the kitchen, accompanied, of course, by all the boys and Babs at her heels. Uncertain what to do first, she was much astonished at a voice proceeding from the washhouse saying in familiar fashion, "Where on earth are you all?" There had been no knock at the door, no bell rung—what could it mean?

Standing unconcernedly in the middle of the room unrolling an apron stood a little woman of about forty years.

"Good day to you, Eva; hope you slept well after your journey. Come out of the pantry, Jack, or I'll be after you."

"May I ask whom I am talking to?" asked Eva icily, much resenting being addressed as "Eva."

"I am Mrs. Meadows, and thought I'd just run in and show you where things are. You'll feel kind of strange."

"Of course it will take some time to get used to things, but I think I should prefer doing it in my own way, thank you."

"Perhaps that would be best," replied Mrs. Meadows. "To-day is baking day; can you manage, do you think?"

"I suppose I can order from the baker?"

The woman smiled. "'Help yourself' is the motto of a young country, my dear; every one is her own cook and baker, too. Let me help you to-day, and by next week things will seem easier, and you will be settled and rested. Your mother is my friend; for her sake I'd like to stand by you. Will you tidy the rooms while I see to the kitchen?"

Fairly beaten, Eva walked upstairs, hating the work, the house, and everything in general, and Mrs. Meadows, whom she considered forward, in particular.

The next three days were trials in many ways to the doctor's household, himself included. The meals were irregular, the food badly cooked, but the man patiently made allowances, and was silent. It was a break in the monotony of "sweep and cook and wash up" when Sunday arrived and the family went to church. The tiny building was nearly filled, and many eyes were turned on the newcomer. But she noticed no one. The old familiar hymns brought tears to her eyes, and her thoughts stole away from her keeping to the dear land beyond the seas. However, she rallied and joined heartily in the last hymn, her voice ringing out above all others.

When next she saw Mrs. Meadows the conversation turned to church and congregation. After telling her details she thought were interesting, Mrs. Meadows said, "You have a nice voice, Eva, but you mustn't strain it."

[Sidenote: Eva's Top Notes]

"Do you think I do?" she replied. "I was trained at the Guildhall School, and I suppose my master knew the limits of my voice. He approved of my top notes. Perhaps you don't know what the Guildhall School is, though," she added insolently.

"On the contrary, my father was one of the professors until he died. Don't think that in New Zealand we are quite ignorant of the world, Eva."

The conversation upset the girl sadly. She was vain of her voice and anxious to make the most of it. She went into the kitchen to make a pie, heedless that Jack had found a jar of raisins and was doing his best to empty it as fast as he could, and that Charlie was too quiet to be out of mischief. The paste was made according to her ability, certainly neither light nor digestible, and was ready for the oven, when suddenly a giggle behind her made her turn to behold that wretched boy Charlie dressed in her blue velvet dress, best hat, and parasol.

"You wicked boy, how dare you?" she cried, stamping her foot, but the boy fled, leaving the skirt on the floor. Picking it up, she gave chase to recover the hat, and when at last she returned to her pie, she found that Jack had forestalled her and made cakes for himself out of it and a marble tart for her.

Eva did not trust herself with the boys that morning; she literally hated them. Still, she must master herself before she could master them, and show once and for all that she was able to deal with the situation. Shutting herself into the parlour, she sat quiet, trying to think and plan, but in vain—she could not calm herself.

She took up a book and attempted to read and forget her annoyances in losing herself in the story, but that, too, failed. Her trials were countless. Not sufficient were to be found in the house, but that interfering Mrs. Meadows must criticise her singing.

She opened the piano, determined to listen to herself and judge what truth there was in the remark. She ran over a few scales, but was interrupted by a rough-looking man shouting, "Stop that noise, and come here! It'd be better if you looked after the bits of bairns than sit squealing there like a pig getting killed. Don't stare so daft; where's yer father?"

Eva rose in anger, but going up to the man, words died on her lips—her heart seemed to stand still, for in his arms he held Babs, white and limp.

"What has happened—is she dead?"

"Don't know; get her to bed." But Eva's hands trembled too much to move them, so the old Scotch shepherd pushed her aside, muttering, "Yer feckless as yer bonny; get out of the way." Tenderly his rough hands cared for the little one, undressing and laying her in her bed.

"She's always after the chickens and things on our place, and I think she's had a kick or a fall, for I found her lying in a paddock."

"Where were you, Eva? Hadn't you missed Babs? I thought at any rate she would be safe with you," said her father.

Eva's remorse was real. Her mother dying, perhaps, the children entrusted to her, and she—wrapped up in herself and her own grievances—what use was she in the world? But oh! if Babs were only spared how different she would be! If she died, Eva told herself, she would never be happy again.

She went downstairs wretched and helpless, and once more found Jessie Meadows in possession of the kitchen. "How is Babs?"

"Conscious, I think—but I don't know," and the girl buried her face and wept passionately.

"There, there, Eva, we've all got to learn lessons, and some are mighty hard. Take life as you find it, and don't make trouble. The change was a big one, I know, but you'll find warm hearts and willing hands wherever men and women are. I just brought over a pie and a few cakes I found in my pantry——"

"I can't accept them after being so rude."

[Sidenote: A Short Memory]

"Were you rude, dear? A short memory is an advantage sometimes. But we'll kiss and be friends, as the children say, and I will take turns with you in nursing Babs."

What Eva would have done without the capable woman would be hard to say, for the child lay on the borders of the spirit land for weeks. When the crisis was past her first words were, "Evie, Evie!" and never before had Eva listened with such joy and thankfulness to her name. The child could not bear her out of sight; "pretty sister" was doctor, nurse, and mother in one. Unwearied in care, and patient with the whims of the little one, she was a treasure to her father, whose harassed face began to wear a happier expression.

"I have great news to tell," he began one evening when, with Babs in his arms and the boys hanging around in their usual fashion, they were sitting together after tea.

"Tell, tell!" shouted the audience; but the doctor shook his head, while his eyes rested on Eva.

"Is it about mother?" she whispered, and he nodded.

"Mother is well, and coming home."

"Mother's coming back!" was echoed throughout the house to the accompaniment of a war dance of three excited kangaroos until sleep closed all eyes.



The day of the arrival was memorable in many ways to the young girl. In the morning came an invitation to sing at a concert, an hour later Mrs. Meadows' brother arrived, laden with good things for the returning invalid, and with a letter from an editor in Wellington, which brought a flush of delighted surprise to Eva's face.

Mrs. Meadows herself came over later.

"The editor is a friend of mine, Eva," she said; "and in rescuing a story of yours from Jack, I found him a contributor. Not for what you have done, but for what I'm certain you can do if you will write of life and not sentimental rubbish. You are not offended, are you?"

Eva's eyes glistened. "Offended with you—you who have laden me with kindness, and helped me to find all that is worth having in life! I have learned now to see myself with other eyes than my own."

Eva's doubts were set to rest once and for ever when she saw the frail mother she had really forgotten, and felt her arms around her as she said, "My daughter—thank Heaven for such a treasure!"



[Sidenote: Rosette was a girl of singular resolution. Through what perils she passed unscathed this story will tell.]

Rosette in Peril

A Story of the War of La Vendee

BY

M. LEFUSE

A loud knocking sounded at the door.

"Jean Paulet," cried a voice, "how much longer am I to stand and knock? Unbar the door!"

"Why, it is Monsieur de Marigny!" exclaimed the farmer, and hurried to let his visitor in.

"Ah, Jean Paulet! You are no braver than when I saw you last!" laughed the tall man who entered, wrapped in a great cloak that fell in many folds. "I see you have not joined those who fight for freedom, but have kept peacefully to your farm. 'Tis a comfortable thing to play the coward in these days! And I would that you would give a little of the comfort to this small comrade of mine." From beneath the shelter of his cloak a childish face peered out at the farmer and his wife.

"Ah, Monsieur! that is certainly your little Rosette!" exclaimed Madame Paulet. "Yes, yes, I have heard of her—how you adopted the poor little one when her father was dead of a bullet and her mother of grief and exposure; and how, since, you have loved and cared for her and kept her ever at your side!"

"Well, that is finished. We are on the eve of a great battle—God grant us victory!" he said reverently—"and I have brought the little one to you to pray you guard and shelter her till I return again. What, Jean Paulet! You hesitate? Before this war I was a good landlord to you. Will you refuse this favour to me now?" asked de Marigny, looking sternly down on the farmer from his great height.

"I—I do not say that I refuse—but I am a poor defenceless man; 'tis a dangerous business to shelter rebels—ah, pardon! loyalists—in these times!" stammered Jean Paulet.

"No more dangerous than serving both sides! Some among this republic's officers would give much to know who betrayed them, once, not long ago. You remember, farmer? What if I told tales?" asked de Marigny grimly.

"Eh! but you will not!" exclaimed the terrified man. "No, no! I am safe in your hands; you are a man of honour, Monsieur—and the child shall stay! Yes, yes; for your sake!"

De Marigny caught up Rosette and kissed her. "Sweetheart, you must stay here in safety. What? You are 'not afraid to go'? No, but I am afraid to take you, little one. Ah, vex me not by crying; I will soon come to you again!" He took a step towards the farmer. "Jean Paulet, I leave my treasure in your hands. If aught evil happen to her, I think I should go mad with grief," he said slowly. "And a madman is dangerous, my friend; he is apt to be unreasonable, to disbelieve excuses, and to shoot those whom he fancies have betrayed him! So pray you that I find Rosette in safety when I come again. Farewell!"

But before he disappeared into the night, he turned smiling to the child. "Farewell, little one. In the brighter days I will come for thee again. Forget me not!"

* * * * *

Round Jean Paulet's door one bright afternoon clustered a troop of the republican soldiers, eyeing indolently the perspiring farmer as he ran to and fro with water for their horses, and sweetening his labours with scraps of the latest news.

"He, Paulet," suddenly asked the corporal, "hast heard anything of the rebel General Marigny?"

"No!" replied the farmer hurriedly. "What should I hear? Is he still alive?"

"Yes, curse him! So, too, is that wretched girl, daughter of a vile aristocrat, that he saved from starvation. Bah! as if starving was not too good a death for her! But there is a price set on Marigny, and a reward would be given for the child too. So some one will soon betray them, and then—why, we will see if they had not rather have starved!" he said ferociously.

"I—I have heard this Marigny is a brave man," observed the farmer timidly.

"That is why we want the child! There is nothing would humble him save perchance to find he could not save the child he loves from torture. Ha! ha! we shall have a merry time then!"

"Doubtless this Marigny is no friend to the republic," said the farmer hesitatingly.

The corporal laughed noisily as he gathered up his horse's reins. "Head and front of this insurrection—an accursed rebel! But he shall pay for it, he shall pay; and so will all those fools who have helped him!"

And the little band of soldiers rode away, shouting and jesting, leaving Jean Paulet with a heart full of fear.

With trembling fingers he pushed open the house door, and, stepping into the kitchen, found Rosette crouched beneath the open window. "Heard you what they said—that they are seeking for you?" he gasped.

Rosette nodded. "They have done that this long time," she observed coolly.

[Sidenote: "They must find You!"]

"But—but—some time they must find you!" he stammered.

Rosette laughed. "Perhaps—if I become as stupid a coward as Jean Paulet."

The farmer frowned. "I am no coward—I am an experienced man. And I tell you—I, with the weight of forty years behind me—that they will find you some time."

"And I tell you—I," mimicked Rosette saucily, "with the weight of my twelve years behind me—that I have lived through so many perils, I should be able to live through another!"

"'Tis just that!" said the farmer angrily. "You have no prudence; you take too many risks; you expose yourself to fearful dangers." He shuddered.

"What you fear is that I shall expose you," returned Rosette cheerfully. "He, well! a man can but die once, Farmer Paulet."

"That is just it!" exclaimed the farmer vivaciously. "If I had six lives I should not mind dying five times; but having only the one, I cannot afford to lose it! And, besides, I have my wife to think of."

Rosette meditated a moment. "Better late than never, Farmer Paulet. I have heard tell you never thought of that before." The sharp little face softened. "She is a good woman, your wife!"

"True, true! She is a good woman, and you would not care for her to be widowed. Consider if it would not be better if I placed you in safety elsewhere."

"Jean Paulet! Jean Paulet!" mocked Rosette; "I doubt if I should do your wife a kindness if I saved your skin."

Jean Paulet wagged a forefinger at her angrily. "You will come to a bad end with a tongue like that! If it were not for the respect I owe to Monsieur de Marigny——"

"Marigny's pistol!" interrupted Rosette.

"Ah, bah! What is to prevent my abandoning you?" asked the farmer furiously.

Rosette swung her bare legs thoughtfully. "Papa Marigny is a man of his word—and you lack five of your half-dozen lives, Jean Paulet."

"See you it is dangerous!" returned her protector desperately. "My wife she is not here to advise me; she is in the fields——"

"I have noticed she works hard," murmured Rosette.

[Sidenote: To the Uplands!]

"And I will not keep you here. But for the respect I owe Monsieur de Marigny, I am willing to sacrifice something. I have a dozen of sheep in the field down there—ah! la, la! they represent a lifetime's savings, but I will sacrifice them for my safety—no, no; for Monsieur de Marigny, I mean!" he wailed. "You shall drive them to the uplands and stay there out of danger. I do not think you will meet with soldiers; but if you do, at the worst they will only take a sheep—ah! my sheep!" he broke off distressfully. "Now do not argue. Get you gone before my wife returns. See, I will put a little food in this handkerchief. There, you may tell Monsieur de Marigny I have been loyal to him. Go, go! and, above all, remember never to come near me again, or say those sheep are mine. You will be safe, quite safe."

Rosette laughed. "You have a kind heart, Jean Paulet," she mocked. "But I think perhaps you are right. You are too much of a poltroon to be a safe comrade in adversity."

She sprang from her chair and ran to the doorway. Then she looked back. "Hark you, Jean Paulet! This price upon my head—it is a fine price, he? Well, I am little, but I have a tongue, and I know what my papa de Marigny knows. Ah! the fine tale to tell, if they catch us! Eh? Farewell."

She ran lightly across the yard, pausing a moment when a yellow mongrel dog leaped up and licked her chin. "He, Gegi, you love me better than your master does!" she said, stooping to pat his rough coat. "And you do not love your master any better than I do, eh? Why, then you had better keep sheep too! There is a brave idea. Come, Gegi, come!" And together they ran off through the sunshine.

* * * * *

It was very cold that autumn up on the higher lands, very cold and very lonely.

Also several days had passed since Rosette had ventured down to the nearest friendly farm to seek for food, and her little store of provisions was nearly finished.

"You and I must eat, Gegi. Stay with the sheep, little one, while I go and see if I can reach some house in safety." And, the yellow mongrel offering no objection, Rosette started.

She was not the only person in La Vendee who lacked food. Thousands of loyal peasants starved, and the republican soldiers themselves were not too plentifully supplied. Certainly they grumbled bitterly sometimes, as did that detachment of them who sheltered themselves from the keen wind under the thick hedge that divided the rough road leading to La Plastiere from the fields.

"Bah! we live like pigs in these days!" growled one of the men.

"It is nothing," said another. "Think what we shall get at La Plastiere! The village has a few fat farmers, who have escaped pillaging so far by the love they bore, as they said, to the good republic. But that is ended: once we have caught this rascal Marigny in their midst, we can swear they are not good republicans."

"But," objected the first speaker, "they may say they knew nothing of this Marigny hiding in the chateau!"

"They may say so—but we need not believe them!" returned his companion.

"Ah, bah! I would believe or not believe anything, so long as it brought us a good meal! How long before we reach this village, comrade?"

"Till nightfall. We would not have Marigny watch our coming. This time we will make sure of the scoundrel."

Rosette, standing hidden behind the hedge, clenched her hands tightly at the word. She would have given much to have flung it back at the man, but prudence suggested it would be better to be discreet and help Marigny. She turned and ran along under the hedge, and away back to where she had left her little flock, her bare feet falling noiselessly on the damp ground.

"Ah, Gegi!" she panted, flinging herself beside the yellow mongrel, "the soldiers are very near, and they are going to surprise my beloved papa de Marigny. What must we do, Gegi, you and I, to save him?"

Gegi rolled sharply on to his back and lay staring up at the skies as if he was considering the question. Rosette rested her chin on her drawn-up knees and thought fiercely. She knew in what direction lay the chateau of La Plastiere, and she knew that to reach it she must cross the countryside, and cross, too, in full view of the soldiers below; or else—and that was the shorter way—go along the road by which they encamped.

Rosette frowned. If they spied her skulking in the distance, they would probably conclude she carried a message that might be valuable to them and pursue her. If she walked right through them? Bah! Would they know it was Rosette—Rosette, for whose capture a fine reward would be given?

She did not look much like an aristocrat's child, she thought, glancing at her bare brown legs and feet, and her stained, torn blue frock. Her dark, matted curls were covered with a crimson woollen cap—her every garment would have been suitable for a peasant child's wear; and Rosette was conscious that her size was more like that of a child of seven than that of one of twelve. She had passed unknown through many soldiers—would these have a more certain knowledge of her?

[Sidenote: "How am I to Settle it?"]

"Oh, Gegi!" she sighed; "how am I to settle it?"

Gegi wagged his tail rapidly and encouragingly, but offered no further help.

If she went across country the way was longer far, and there was a big risk. If she went near those soldiers and was known, why, risk would become a certainty. That Death would stare into her face then, none knew better than Rosette; but Death was also very near Rosette's beloved de Marigny, the man who had cared for her and loved her with all the warmth of his big, generous heart.

"Ah! if my papa de Marigny dies, I may as well die too, Gegi," she whispered wearily. The yellow mongrel cocked one ear with a rather doubtful expression. "Well, we must take the risk. If papa de Marigny is to live, you and I, Gegi, must take him warning!" Rosette cried, springing to her feet; and Gegi signified his entire approval in a couple of short barks. "I will take the sheep," his little mistress murmured; "'tis slower, but they will be so pleased to see them. Poor Jean Paulet!" she thought, with a faint smile.

Gegi bounded lightly through a gap in the hedge, and dashed up to the soldiers inquisitively. With an oath, one of the men hurled a stone at him, which Gegi easily dodged, and another man stretched out his hand for his musket.

"There are worse flavours than dog's meat," he observed coolly. "Come, little beast, you shall finish your life gloriously, nourishing soldiers of the republic!" He placed his gun in position.

"He! you leave my dog alone!" called Rosette sharply, as she stepped into the roadway. "He has the right to live," she added, as she moved jauntily up to them. Her pert little face showed nothing of the anguish in her heart.

"Not if I want him for my supper," observed the soldier, grinning at his comrades, who changed their position to obtain a better view of the coming sport.

"But you do not," corrected Rosette. "If you need to eat dog, search for the dog of an accursed fugitive!"

The men laughed. "How do we know this is not one?" they asked.

"I will show you. He, Gegi!" she called, and the dog came and sat in front of her. "Listen, Gegi. Would you bark for a monarchy?" The yellow mongrel glanced round him indifferently. "Gegi!" his mistress called imperiously, "do you cheer for the glorious republic?" And for answer, Gegi flung up his head and barked.

"You see?" asked Rosette, turning to the grinning man. "He is your brother, that little dog. And you may not eat your brother, you know," she added gravely.

[Sidenote: "Whose Sheep are those?"]

"He, by the Mass! whose sheep are those?" cried a soldier suddenly.

"They are mine, or rather they are my master's; I am taking them back to the farm."

"Why, then, we will spare you the trouble. I hope they, too, are not good republicans," he jested.

"I have called them after your great leaders—but they do not always answer to their names," Rosette assured him seriously.

"Then they are only worthy to be executed. Your knife, comrade," cried one of the men, jumping to his feet. "What, more of them! Six, seven, eight," he counted, as the sheep came through the gap. "Why, 'twill be quite a massacre of traitors."

"Oh, please! you cannot eat them all! Leave me some, that I may drive back with me, else my master will beat me!" implored Rosette, beginning to fear that her chances of passing towards the far distant village were lessening.

"Your master! Who is your master?"

"He is a farmer down there," nodding vaguely as she spoke.

"Hark you! Have you by any chance seen a man bigger than the average skulking thereabouts?"

She shook her head. "There are few big men round here—none so fine as you!" she said prettily.

The man gave a proud laugh. "Ah! we of Paris are a fine race."

Rosette nodded. "My Master is a good republican. You will let me take him back the sheep," she coaxed.

"Why, those that remain," the soldier replied, with a grin. "Sho! sho! Those that run you can follow. Ah, behold!" Rosette needed no second bidding, but started after the remnant of her little troop.

"He!" called one of the soldiers to his comrades—and the wind bore the words to Rosette—"you are fools to let that child pass! For aught we know, she may be spying for the rebels."

As the men stared after her irresolute, Rosette slackened her pace, flung up her head, and in her clear childish treble began to sing that ferocious chant, then at the height of its popularity, which is now the national hymn of France. So singing, she walked steadily down the long road, hopeful that she might yet save the man who was a father to her.

* * * * *

It was almost dusk outside the desolate, half-ruined chateau of La Plastiere. Within its walls the shadows of night were already thickly gathered—shadows so dark that a man might have lurked unseen in them. Some such thought came to Rosette as she stood hesitating in the great hall. How silent the place was! The only noises came from without—the wind sobbing strangely in the garden, the ghostly rustling of the leaves, the moan of the dark, swift river. Ah! there was something moving in the great hall! What was it? A rat dashed by, close to Rosette's feet; then the hall settled again into unbroken silence.

The child's heart beat quickly. She hated, feared, the shadows and the quiet.

Yet she must go forward; she dare not call aloud, and she must find de Marigny, if, indeed, he was still there.

She groped her way to the broad stone stairs. How dark it was! She glanced up fearfully. Surely something up above her in the shadow on the stairway moved. She shrank back.

"Coward! little coward!" she muttered. And to scare away her fear she began to sing softly, very softly, a tender little song de Marigny himself had taught to her.

"Stay thy hand, man! It is Rosette!" cried a voice from above her, shattering the silence. And the shadow that had moved before moved again, and a man from crouching on the step rose suddenly in front of her.

"Why did you not speak? I thought we were like to be discovered, and I had nearly killed you. Curse this dark!"

"Hush!" whispered Rosette. "Hush! you are betrayed! The soldiers are coming. Oh, Papa de Marigny," she murmured, as he came down the stairway, "they are to be here at dusk. Is it too late? I tried to get here sooner, but—it was such a long road!" she ended, with a sob.

De Marigny gathered her in his arms. "And such a little traveller! Never mind, sweetheart, we will cheat them yet," he said tenderly. "Warn the others, Lacroix!"

[Sidenote: Flight]

But Lacroix had done that already. The house was full now of stealthy sounds and moving shadows descending the great staircase. De Marigny, carrying Rosette, led the way across the garden behind the house, towards the river that cut the countryside in half. The stillness of the night was broken suddenly by the neighing of a not far distant horse.

"The soldiers! the rebels, papa!" cried Rosette.

De Marigny whispered softly to one of his companions, who ran swiftly away from him, and busied himself drawing from its hiding-place a small boat. They could hear the tramp of horses now, near, very near, and yet the men seated silent in the boat held tightly to the bank.

Hark! The thud, thud of running footsteps came to Rosette, nearer, nearer, and the man for whom they waited sprang from the bank into their midst.

A moment later they were caught by the swift current and carried out into the centre of the broad river.

"Now, if my plan does not miscarry, we are safe!" cried de Marigny exultantly.

"But, papa, dear one, they will follow us across the river and stop our landing!" cried Rosette anxiously.

De Marigny chuckled. "Providentially the river flows too fast, little one, for man or horse to ford it. The bridge yonder in the field is the only way to cross the river for many miles. And I do not think they will try the bridge, for I was not so foolish as not to prepare for a surprise visit many days ago. Look, little one!" he added suddenly.

Rosette held her breath as away up the river a great flame streamed up through the darkness, followed by a loud explosion, and she saw fragments of wood hurled like playthings high into the air. Some, as they fell again to earth, turned into blazing torches. For far around trees and hedges showed distinctly; the gleaming river, the garden, and the chateau stood out clear in the flaming light.

Round the chateau tore two or three frightened, plunging horses, and the desperate gestures of their riders could easily be seen by Rosette for a moment before their craft was hidden by a turn in the river bank.

* * * * *

Monsieur de Marigny rejoined the loyalists across the river, and, animated by his presence, the struggle against the republic was resumed with great firmness.

Whenever de Marigny rode among his peasant soldiers, he, their idol, was greeted with many a lively cheer, which yet grew louder and more joyful when he carried before him on his horse Rosette, the brave child who had saved their leader's life at the risk of her own.



[Sidenote: A few plain hints to the teachable.]

Golf for Girls

BY

AN OLD STAGER

I veil my identity because I am not a girl—old or young. Being, indeed, a mere man, it becomes me to offer advice with modesty.

And, of course, in the matter of golf, women—many of them no more than girls—play so well that men cannot affect any assurance of superiority. On my own course I sometimes come upon a middle-aged married couple playing with great contentment a friendly game. The wife always drives the longer ball, and upon most occasions manages to give her husband a few strokes and a beating.

However, I did not start out to write a disquisition on women as golfers, but only to offer some hints on golf for girls.

And first, as to making a start.

The best way is the way that is not possible to everybody. No girl plays golf so naturally or so well as the girl who learned it young; who, armed with a light cleek or an iron, wandered around the links in company with her small brothers almost as soon as she was big enough to swing a club. Such a girl probably had the advantage of seeing the game played well by her elders, and she would readily learn to imitate their methods. Of course, very young learners may and do pick up bad habits; but a little good advice will soon correct these if the learner is at all keen on the game.

A girl who grows up under these conditions—and many do in Scotland—does not need any hints from me. She starts under ideal conditions, and ought to make the most of them. Others begin at a later age, with fewer advantages, and perhaps without much help to be got at home.

How, then, to begin. Be sure of one thing: you cannot learn to play golf out of your own head, or even by an intelligent study of books on the subject. For, if you try, you will do wrong and yet be unable to say what you are doing wrong. In that you will not be peculiar. Many an experienced golfer will suddenly pick up a fault. After a few bad strokes he knows he is wrong somewhere, but may not be able to spot the particular defect. Perhaps a kindly disposed opponent—who knows his disposition, for not everybody will welcome or take advice—tells him; and then in a stroke or two he puts the thing right. So you need a teacher.

Generally speaking, a professional is the best teacher, because he has had the most experience in instruction. But professionals vary greatly in teaching capacity, and cannot be expected in every case to take the same interest in a pupil's progress that a friend may. If you are to have the help of a relative or friend, try to get competent help. There are well-meaning persons whose instruction had better be shunned as the plague.

Let your teacher choose your clubs for you, and, in any case, do not make the mistake of fitting yourself up at first either with too many clubs or with clubs too heavy for you.



As to first steps in learning, I am disposed to think that an old-time method, by which young people learned first to use one club with some skill and confidence before going on to another, was a good one. In that case they would begin with a cleek or an iron before using the driver.

The learner should give great attention to some first principles. Let her note the grip she is told to use. Very likely it will seem to her uncomfortable, and not at all the most convenient way of holding a club in order to hit a ball; but it is the result of much experience, and has not been arbitrarily chosen for her especial discomfort.

In like manner the stance, or way of standing when making a stroke, must be noted carefully and copied exactly. In private practice defy the inward tempter which suggests that you can do much better in some other way. Don't, above all, allow yourself to think that you will hit the ball more surely if you stand farther behind it—not even if you have seen your brother tee a ball away to the left of his left foot and still get a long shot.

[Sidenote: "Keep your Eye on the Ball"]

Don't think that the perpetual injunction, "Keep your eye on the ball," is an irritating formula with little reason behind it. It is, as a matter of fact, a law quite as much for your teacher as for yourself. And don't suppose that you have kept your eye on the ball because you think you have. It is wonderful how easy it is to keep your eye glued—so to speak—to the ball until the very half-second when that duty is most important and then to lift the head, spoiling the shot. If you can persuade yourself to look at the ball all through the stroke, and to look at the spot where the ball was even after the ball is away, you will find that you not only hit the ball satisfactorily but that it flies straighter than you had hitherto found it willing to do. When you are getting on, and begin to have some satisfaction with yourself, then remember that this maxim still requires as close observance as ever. If you find yourself off your game—such as it is—ask yourself at once, "Am I keeping my eye on the ball?" And don't be in a hurry to assume that you were.

Always bear in mind, too, that you want to hit the ball with a kind of combined motion, which is to include the swing of your body. You are not there to use your arms only. If you begin young, you will, I expect, find little difficulty in this. It is, to older players, quite amazing how readily a youngster will fall into a swing that is the embodiment of grace and ease.

Putting is said by some to be not an art but an inspiration. Perhaps that is why ladies take so readily to it. On the green a girl is at no disadvantage with a boy. But remember that there is no ordinary stroke over which care pays so well as the putt; and that there is no stroke in which carelessness can be followed by such humiliating disaster. Don't think it superfluous to examine the line of a putt; and don't, on any account, suppose that, because the ball is near the hole, you are bound to run it down.

Forgive me for offering a piece of advice which ought to be superfluous and is not. I have sometimes found ladies most culpably careless in the matter of divots. It is a fundamental rule that, if in playing you cut out a piece of turf, you or your caddy should replace it. Never, under any circumstances, neglect this rule or allow your caddy to neglect it. Nobody who consistently neglects this rule ought to be allowed on any course.

A word as to clothing. I have seen ladies playing in hats that rather suggested the comparative repose of a croquet lawn on a hot summer's day. But of course you only want good sense as your guide in this matter. Ease without eccentricity should be your aim. Remember, too, that whilst men like to play golf in old clothes, and often have a kind of superstitious regard for some disgracefully old and dirty jacket, a girl must not follow their example. Be sure, in any case, that your boots or shoes are strong and water-tight.

[Sidenote: Keep your Heart up!]

Finally, keep your heart up! Golf is a game of moods and vagaries. It is hard to say why one plays well one day and badly another; well, perhaps, when in bad health, and badly when as fit as possible; well, perhaps, when you have started expecting nothing, and badly when you have felt that you could hit the ball over the moon. Why one may play well for three weeks and then go to pieces; why one will go off a particular club and suddenly do wonders with a club neglected; why on certain days everything goes well—any likely putt running down, every ball kicking the right way, every weak shot near a hazard scrambling out of danger, every difficult shot coming off; and why on other days every shot that can go astray will go astray—these are mysteries which no man can fathom. But they add to the infinite variety of the game; only requiring that you should have inexhaustible patience and hope as part of your equipment. And patience is a womanly virtue.



[Sidenote: A mere oversight nearly wrecked two lives. Happily the mistake was discovered before remedy had become impossible.]

Sunny Miss Martyn

A Christmas Story

BY

SOMERVILLE GIBNEY

"Goodbye, Miss Martyn, and a merry Christmas to you!"

"Goodbye, Miss Martyn; how glad you must be to get rid of us all! But I shall remember you on Christmas Day."

"Goodbye, dear Miss Martyn; I hope you won't feel dull. We shall all think of you and wish you were with us, I know. A very happy Christmas to you."

"The same to you, my dears, and many of them. Goodbye, goodbye; and, mind, no nonsense at the station. I look to you, Lesbia, to keep the others in order."

"Trust me, Miss Martyn; we'll be very careful."

"I really think I ought to have gone with you and seen you safely off, and——"

"No, no, no—you may really trust us. We've all of us travelled before, and we will behave, honour bright!"

[Sidenote: Off for the Holidays]

And with a further chorus of farewells and Christmas wishes, the six or seven girls, varying in age from twelve to seventeen, who had been taking their places in the station 'bus, waved their hands and blew kisses through the windows as the door slammed, and it rolled down the drive of Seaton Lodge over the crisp, hard-frozen snow. And more and more indistinct grew the merry farewells, till the gate was reached, and the conveyance turning into the lane, the noisy occupants were hidden from sight and hearing to the kindly-faced, smiling lady, who, with a thick shawl wrapped about her shoulders, stood watching its departure on the hall steps.

For some moments longer she remained silent, immovable, her eyes directed towards the distant gate. But her glance went far beyond. It had crossed the gulf of many years, and was searching the land of "Never More."

At length the look on her face changed, and with a sigh she turned on her heel and re-entered the house.

And how strangely silent it had suddenly become! It no longer rang with the joyous young voices that had echoed through it that morning, revelling in the freedom of the commencement of the Christmas holidays.

Selina Martyn heaved another sigh; she missed her young charges; her resident French governess had left the previous day for her home at Neuilly; and now, with the exception of the servants, she had the house to herself, and she hated it.

A feeling of depression was on her, but she fought against it; there was much to be done. Christmas would be on her in a couple of days, and no sooner would that be passed than the bills would pour in; and in order to satisfy them her own accounts must go out. Then there were all the rooms to be put straight, for schoolgirls are by no means the most tidy of beings. She had plenty of work before her, and she faced it.

But evening came at last, and found her somewhat weary after her late dinner, and disinclined to do anything more, except sit in front of the blazing fire in her own little room and dream. Outside, the frost continued sharper than ever, and faintly there came to her ear the sounds of the distant bells practising for the coming festival, and once more for the second time that day her thoughts flew backwards over the mist of years.

She was a lonely old woman, she told herself; and so she was, as far as relatives went, but miserable she was not. She was as bright and sunny as many of us, and a great deal more so than some. Her life had had its ups and downs, its bright and dark hours; but she had learnt to dwell on the former and put the latter in the background, hiding them under the mercies she had received; and so she became to be known in Stourton as "sunny Miss Martyn," and no name could have been more applicable.

And as the flames roared up the chimney this winter night, she thought of the young hearts that had left her that morning and of their happiness that first night at home. She had known what that was herself. She had been a schoolgirl once—a schoolgirl in this very house, and had left it as they had left it that morning to return to a loving home. Her father had been well off in those days; she was his only child, and all he had to care for, her mother dying at her birth. They had been all in all to each other, and the days of her girlhood were the brightest of her life.

He missed his "little sunbeam," as he called her, when she was away at Seaton Lodge—for it was called Seaton Lodge even then; but they made up for the separation when the holidays came and they were together once more, and more especially at Christmas-time, that season of parties and festivities. Mr. Martyn was a hospitable man, and his entertainments were many, and his neighbours and friends were not slow in returning his kindnesses; so that Christmas-time was a dream of excitement and delight as far as Selina was concerned.

[Sidenote: A Bank Failure]

But a break came to those happy times: a joint stock bank, in which Mr. Martyn had invested, failed, and he was ruined. The shock was more than his somewhat weak heart could stand, and it killed him.

His daughter was just sixteen at the time, and the head pupil at Seaton Lodge. She was going to leave at the end of the half-year; but now all was changed. Instead of returning home to be mistress of her father's house, she would have to work for her living, and the opportunity for doing so came more quickly than she had dared to hope.

With Miss Clayton, the mistress, she had been a favourite from the first day she had entered the school, and the former now made her the offer of remaining on as a pupil teacher. Without hesitation the girl accepted. She had no relatives; Seaton Lodge was her second home; she was loved there, and she would not be dependent; and from that hour never had she to regret her decision.

When her father's affairs were settled up there remained but a few pounds a year for her, but these she was able to put by, for Miss Clayton was no niggard towards those that served her, and Selina received sufficient salary for clothes and pocket-money.

After the first agony of the shock had passed away, her life was a happy if a quiet one. Her companions all loved her; she was to them a friend rather than a governess, and few were the holidays when she did not receive more than one invitation to spend part of them at the homes of some of her pupil friends.

She had been a permanent resident at Seaton Lodge some three years when the romance of her life took place.

Among the elder pupils at that time was Maude Elliott, whose father's house was not many miles distant from her friend's former home. She had taken a great fancy to Selina, and on several occasions had carried her off to spend a portion of the holidays with her, and it was at her home that she had made the acquaintance of Edgar Freeman, Maude's cousin. A young mining engineer, he had spent some years in Newfoundland, and had returned to complete his studies for his full diploma at the School of Mines, spending such time as he could spare at his uncle's house.

Almost before she was aware of it, he had made a prisoner of the lonely little pupil-teacher's heart, and when she was convinced of the fact she fought against it, deeming herself a traitor to her friend, to whom she imagined he was attached, mistaking cousinly affection for something warmer.

Then came that breaking-up for the Christmas holidays which she remembered so well, when she was to have followed Maude in a few days to her home, where she and Edgar would once more be together; and then the great disappointment when, two days before she was to have started, Miss Clayton was taken ill with pneumonia, and she had to stay and nurse her.

How well she remembered that terrible time! It was the most dreary Christmas she had ever experienced—mild, dull, and sloppy, the rain falling by the hour, and fog blurring everything outside the house, while added to this was the anxiety she felt for the invalid.

Christmas Day was the worst of the whole time; outside everything was wet and dripping, and even indoors the air felt raw and chilly, penetrating to the bones, and resulting in a continual state of shivers. There was no bright Christmas service for Selina that morning: she must remain at home and look after her charge, for, save the invalid, the servants and herself, the house was empty.

But there was one glad moment for her—the arrival of the postman. He was late, of course, but when he did come he brought her a budget of letters and parcels that convinced her she was not forgotten by her absent schoolgirl friends. With a hasty glance over them, she put them on one side until after dinner, when, her patient having been seen to, she would have a certain amount of time to herself.

But that one glance had been sufficient to bring a flush of pleasure to her cheeks, and to invest the gloomy day with a happiness that before was absent. She had recognised on one envelope an address in a bold, firm writing, very different from the neat, schoolgirl caligraphy of the rest; and when her hour of leisure arrived, and over a roaring fire she was able to examine her presents and letters, this one big envelope was reserved to the last.

[Sidenote: Romance]

Her fingers trembled as she opened the still damp covering, and saw a large card with a raised satin medallion in the centre, on which were printed two verses, the words of which caused the hot colour to remount to her cheeks, and her heart to redouble its beats.

There was no mistaking the meaning of those lines; love breathed from every letter, and, with a hasty look round to make sure she was alone, the happy girl pressed the inanimate paper, satin, printer's ink, and colours to her lips as though in answer to the message it contained.

The feeling of loneliness had vanished; there was some one who loved her, to whom she was dearer than all others, and the world looked different in consequence. It was a happy Christmas Day to her after all, in spite of her depressing surroundings; and Miss Clayton noticed the change in her young nurse, and in the evening, when thanking her for all she had done for her, hoped she had not found it "so very dull."

That night Selina Martyn, foolish in her new-found happiness, placed the envelope, around which the damp still hung, beneath her pillow, and dreamed of the bright future she deemed in store for her.

He would write to her, or perhaps come and see her; yes, he would come and see her, and let her hear from his own lips what his missive had so plainly hinted at. And in her happiness she waited. She waited, and waited till her heart grew sick with disappointed longing.

The days passed, but never a word came from the one who had grown so dear to her, and as they passed the gladness faded from her face, and the light went out from her eyes.

At last she could but feel that she had been mistaken. It was only a foolish joke that had meant nothing, and her heart grew hot within her. How could she have been so weak and silly as to have imagined such a thing? She put the envelope and its contents away, and, saddened and subdued, fought bravely to return to her former self.

Miss Clayton made a slow recovery, and when convalescent went for a change to the sea, carrying off Selina with her, for she had noticed the change in the girl, and put it down to her labours in the sick-room.

School-time commenced again, but without Maude Elliott as a pupil; she had gone to be "finished" to a school in Lausanne, and it was months before Selina received a letter from her, and then she only casually mentioned that her cousin Edgar had left them directly after Christmas for a good appointment in Brazil, where he expected to remain for some years.

With that letter the last traces of Selina Martyn's romance ended. It had crossed her life like a shooting star, and had only left a remembrance behind.

But that remembrance never entirely died; its sharp edge was dulled, and as the years went on—and in time she took Miss Clayton's place as the head of Seaton Lodge—she came to regard the unrequited bestowal of her young affections as an incident to be smiled over, without any vindictive feelings.