And now, when the silver hairs were beginning to make their appearance among the ruddy gold, she would each Christmas take out from its hiding-place in the old-fashioned, brass-bound writing-desk the time-stained envelope, and compare the old-world design within with the modern and more florid cards, and in her heart of hearts she found more beauty in the simple wreath of holly with the couple of robins perched above and the bunch of mistletoe hanging below than in its more ornate followers of the present time.

[Sidenote: Christmas Morning]

It was Christmas morning—an ideal Christmas morning. The frost had been keen the previous night, and the branches of the trees had donned a sparkling white livery. The sun shone brightly, but there was little warmth in its rays, and the snow had crunched and chittered as "sunny Miss Martyn" had made her way over it to the church, smiling and sending bright glances to right and left of her, for there were few in Stourton with whom she was not acquainted. And now, her lunch over—she was going out to dinner that evening—she sat by the fire with a big pile of envelopes and parcels beside her. Her pupils never forgot her, and the day would have seemed incomplete to each one of them without a card despatched to Miss Martyn.

Her bundle was a large one, and took some time to get through; and then the cards had all to be arranged on the mantelpiece. But at length her task was done, and as her custom was, she went to the brass-bound desk standing on a table in the corner, and, taking out the now worn envelope, resumed her seat by the fire.

She had gazed on its contents on many a Christmas day before, but on this particular day—she never knew why—the memory of the sorrow it had caused her seemed keener, and she found the tears were gathering in her eyes, and that one of them had fallen on the edge of the satin medallion bearing the verses.

With her handkerchief she wiped it away, but in doing so a fold of the cambric caught the filagree, and she learnt what she had never known before—that the medallion opened like a little door, and that below it a folded scrap of paper lay concealed.

What could it mean?

With fingers that trembled so much that they almost refused their task she took it out, unfolded it, and, spreading it flat, read the words that long years ago would have meant all the world to her.

How cruel had Fate been to her to have hidden them for so long! But the thought only remained in her mind a moment, being blotted out by the remembrance that he was not heartless, as she had grown to believe.

The faded lines before her laid a strong man's heart at her feet, and begged for her love in return, stating that he had been suddenly called to a distant post, and asking for an answer before he sailed. The writer felt he was presumptuous, but the exigencies of the case must be his excuse. If he had no reply he should know his pleading was in vain, and would trouble her no more; but if, on the other hand, she was not entirely indifferent to him, a line from her would bring him to her side to plead his cause in person. There was more in the letter, but this was its main purpose.

And this was the end of if: two loving hearts divided and kept apart by a damp day and an accidental drop of gum.

No wonder the tears flowed afresh, and "sunny Miss Martyn" belied her character.

She was still bending over the sheet of paper spread out on her knee when, with a knock at the door, the servant entered, saying:

"A gentleman to see you, Miss."

Hastily brushing away the traces from her cheeks, Miss Martyn rose, to see a tall, grey-haired man standing in the doorway, regarding her with a bright smile on his face.

She did not recognise him; he was a stranger to her, and yet——

The next moment he strode forward with outstretched hand.

"Selina Martyn, don't you know me? And you have altered so little!"

A moment longer she stood in doubt, and then with a little gasp exclaimed:

[Sidenote: "Edgar!"]

"Edgar! Mr. Freeman—I—I didn't know you. You—you see, it is so long since—since I had that pleasure."

And while she was speaking she was endeavouring with her foot to draw out of sight the paper that had fallen from her lap when she had risen.

He noticed her apron, and with an "Excuse me" bent down, and, picking it up, laid it on the table. As he did so his eyes fell for a moment on the writing, and he started slightly, but did not refer to it.

"Thank you," she said, and her cheeks had suddenly lost their colour, and her hand trembled as she indicated an armchair on the other side of the fireplace, saying, "Won't you sit down?"

He did so, easily and naturally, as though paying an ordinary afternoon call.

"Selina Martyn, you're looking remarkably well, and nearly as young as ever," he continued.

She raised her eyes shyly, and smiled as she replied, "Do you really think so, Mr. Freeman?"

"Call me Edgar, I like it better; and we've known each other long enough to account for your doing so." He did not give her a chance of objecting, but continued, "I only landed in England yesterday, and you are the first person I've called on. I got your address from my cousin, Mrs. Perry—Maud Elliott that was; she's living in Monte Video, you know; I saw her for a few hours as I passed through. Really, Selina, you're looking prettier than ever, I declare!"

"You mustn't flatter an old woman, Mr. Freeman—well—Edgar, if you wish it. I don't think perhaps there is anything unmaidenly in my using your Christian name. We've known each other a great many years now, as you say."

"We have indeed, my dear lady. And we might have known each other a great deal better if—if—well, if you had only seen your way to it. But there—that's all passed now. And yet——"

"Yes, that's all passed now." And Selina gave a little sigh, yet loud enough for her visitor to hear it, and he moved his chair from the side to the front of the fire as she continued, "Do you know—Edgar—just before you came in I made a discovery—I found something that reached me a day or two before you sailed, and that I had never seen till half an hour ago," and she looked down at her fingers that were playing with the end of the delicate lace fichu she was wearing.

A smile came over her visitor's face, but he only said:

"'Pon my word, Selina, you're a very beautiful woman! I've carried your face in my memory all these years, but I see now how half-blind I must have been."

"You mustn't talk nonsense to an old woman like me. I want to tell you something, and I don't know how to do it."

"Don't try. Let me guess, and you tell me if I'm right."

Miss Martyn did not answer in words, only bowed her head, and he continued, with a glance at the paper lying on the table:

"You once received what you considered a very impertinent letter from me?"

"I don't think impertinent is the right term," replied Selina, not raising her eyes.

"Then, my dear lady, why did you not let me have an answer?"

"Oh, Edgar, I only discovered it a few minutes before you came," and casting aside all reserve, she told him of the unfortunate combination of the damp Christmas morning and the drop of gum that had so disastrously separated them.

Long before the recital was complete her visitor had shifted his chair again and again until it was close beside her own.

"You poor, dear woman!" he exclaimed, as his arm stole quietly round her waist, and Miss Martyn suffered it to remain there.

"Why did you hide your letter inside, Edgar?" she asked quietly.

"I suppose because I didn't want to startle you, and thought you should see the verses first. May I see it now?" he continued. "It's so long since I wrote it, you see."

"Yes, you may see it," replied Selina, without raising her eyes; "but it's all passed now," with another little sigh.

His disengaged hand had secured the letter, and hastily glancing over the writing, he exclaimed with sudden fervour:

[Sidenote: "I'm Waiting!"]

"No, Selina! Every word I wrote then I mean to-day. When I left England years ago it was with your image in my heart, and with the determination that when I was rich I would come back and try my luck again. And in my heart you, and you alone, have reigned ever since. And when after long years I heard from my cousin that you might still be found at Seaton Lodge, you don't know what that meant to me. It made a boy of me again. It blotted out all the years that have divided us, and here I am waiting for my answer."

"Oh, Edgar, we mustn't be silly. Remember, we're no longer boy and girl."

"I remember nothing of the kind. All I remember is that it's Christmas Day, that I've asked you a question, and that I am waiting for the answer you would have given me years ago but for the damp and a drop of gum. You know what it would have been then; give me it now. Dearest, I'm waiting."

And Selina Martyn gave her answer, an all-sufficient one to both.



[Sidenote: Young people, read and take warning by this awful example.]

Whilst Waiting for the Motor

BY

MADELINE OYLER

Her name was Isabel, and she really was a very nice, good little girl—when she remembered. But you can't always remember, you know; you wouldn't be a little girl if you could, and this happened on one of those days when she didn't remember.

Of course Peter forgot too; but then you would expect him to, for he was only a boy, and boys, as I suppose you know, cannot use their brains in the way that girls can.

The two had spent their morning in the usual way, had breakfast, fed the rabbits, said "Good-morning" to the horses, got mother a bunch of flowers from their own gardens (Isabel's turn this morning), seen daddy off, and then had lessons.

You wouldn't have guessed for a moment that it was going to be a bad day; everything had gone well. Peter had actually remembered that Madrid was the capital of Spain, always a rather doubtful question with him; and Isabel had said her eight times with only two mistakes, and they were slight ones.

So you may imagine they were feeling very happy and good, because it was a half-holiday, and, best of all, because Auntie May was coming over with her big motor at three o'clock, to take them back to tea with grandpapa.

I should like you to understand that it was not just an ordinary tea, but a special one; for it was grandpapa's birthday, and, as perhaps you know, grandpapas don't often have birthday parties, so it was a great occasion.

[Sidenote: Presents]

It had taken a long time to choose his presents, but at last they were decided.

Isabel had made him a blue silk shaving tidy, with "Shaving" worked in pink across it. The "h-a-v" of "Shaving" were rather smaller than the other letters, because, after she had drawn a large "S," she was afraid there would not be room for such big letters. Afterwards she found there was plenty of room, so she did "i-n-g" bigger to make up for it.

After all, it really didn't matter unless you were very particular; and of course you wouldn't see that the stitches showed rather badly on the inside unless you opened it. Besides, as grandpapa grew a beard, and didn't shave at all, he wouldn't want to look inside.

Peter had bought a knife for him; being a boy, and therefore rather helpless, he was not able to make him anything. He did begin to carve grandpapa a wooden ship, although Isabel pointed out to him that grandpapa would never sail it; but Peter thought he might like to have it just to look at.

However, just at an important part the wood split; so after all it had to be a knife, which of course is always useful.

These presents were kept very secret; not even mother was allowed to know what they were.

Three o'clock seemed such a long time coming—you know how slow it can be. But at half-past two nurse took them up to dress. Peter had a nice white serge suit, and nurse had put out a clean starched muslin for Isabel, but she (being rather a vain little girl) begged for her white silk.

I ought to explain about this frock. One of her aunties sent it to her on her last birthday. It was quite the most beautiful little dress you ever saw—thick white silk embroidered with daisies. Isabel loved it dearly, but was only allowed to wear it on very great occasions.

Well, when she asked if she might put it on, nurse said she thought it would be wiser not to. "You won't be able to run about and climb trees at your grandpapa's if you do, Miss Isabel."

"But I shan't want to," replied Isabel, "for it is a grown-up party, and we shall only sit and talk."

So after all she was allowed to wear it, and with that on and a beautiful new sash her Uncle Dick had just sent her from India, she felt a very smart little girl indeed.

The shaving tidy she had done up in a parcel, and Peter had the knife in his pocket, so they were quite ready, and as they went down to the hall the clock struck three.

Alas! there was no motor waiting; instead there was mother with a telegram in her hand saying that Auntie May couldn't come for them till four o'clock.

What a disappointment! A whole hour longer to wait! What were they to do with themselves?

Mother suggested that they should sit down quietly and read, but who can possibly sit and read when a big motor is coming soon to fetch them?

So mother very kindly said they might go out in the garden.

"Only remember," she said, "you are not to run about and get hot and untidy; and keep on the paths, don't go on the grass."

So out they went, Isabel hugging her precious parcel. She was afraid to leave it in the hall lest mother should see it and guess by the shape what it was, which of course would spoil it all.

They strolled round the garden, peeped at the rabbits and a brood of baby chickens just hatched, then wandered on down the drive.

"Can't we play something?" suggested Isabel—"something quite clean and quiet with no running in it."

Peter thought for some time, then he said: "I don't believe there are any games like that." Being a boy, you see, he couldn't think of one, so he said he didn't think there were any.

[Sidenote: Follow-my-leader]

"Yes, there are," said Isabel, "heaps of them, only I can't think of one. Oh, I know, follow my leader, walking, not running, and of course not on the grass. I'll be leader."

So off they started, and great fun it was. Isabel led into such queer places—the potting-house, tool-shed, laundry, and even into the dairy once. Then it was Peter's turn, and he went through the chicken-run, stable-yard, and kitchen-garden, and then down the drive.

When he got to the gate he hesitated, then started off down the road.

"Ought we to go down here, do you think?" asked Isabel, plodding along behind him.

"Oh, yes, it's all right," Peter said; "we're keeping off the grass and not running, and that's all mother told us," and on they went.

After walking for a little way, Peter turned off down a side lane, a favourite walk of theirs in summer, and Isabel followed obediently.

Unfortunately, for the last three days it had rained heavily, and the deep cart-ruts on both sides of the road were full of thick, muddy water.

In trying to walk along the top of one of them, Peter's foot slipped, and, before he could prevent it, in it went, right over the top of his nice patent-leather shoe.

Isabel, who was following close behind, intently copying her leader in all his movements, plopped hers in too.

"Goodness, what a mess!" said Peter, surveying his muddy foot. "How awful it looks! I think I shall make the other one dirty too, then it won't look so bad."

So in went each clean foot.

And then it was, I am sorry to say, that Isabel forgot to be good. You remember I told you that she did sometimes?

She said: "Now that our feet are dirty, let's paddle, they can't look worse, and it's such fun!" And as Peter thought so too, paddle they did, up and down the dirty, muddy cart-ruts.

Presently Peter's white suit and even his clean tie were spotted with mud, and Isabel's beautiful little dress was soaked with muddy water all round the bottom, and, saddest of all, her new sash was dragging behind her in the water, quite spoilt; but they were so excited that they neither of them noticed how they were spoiling their clothes, or that the parcel with the shaving-tidy in it had been dropped and stamped down into the mud.

They were in the middle of the fun when suddenly they heard in the distance the "toot-toot" of a motor-horn, and, looking at each other in dismay, they realised it must be Auntie May come to fetch them.

"We shall have to change first," gasped Isabel, as they hurried along the road. "I'm afraid we look rather messy!"

Peter said nothing; he was feeling too miserable.

It was a sad sight that met nurse's horrified eyes as she hurried anxiously out through the gates in search of them, having hunted the garden in vain; and it was a very shamefaced little pair that hastened by the big motor at the front door and into the hall, where they found mother and Auntie May waiting.

Isabel and Peter really did feel more sorry and ashamed than I can tell you, and, grievous though it be, mother and Auntie May went to tea with grandpapa, but Peter and Isabel went to bed!



[Sidenote: The story of a hard heart, a little child, and a kind friend.]

The Grumpy Man

BY

MRS. HARTLEY PERKS

It was past nine on a winter's evening. Through the misty gloom a tenor voice rang clear and resonant. The singer stood on the edge of the pavement, guitar in hand, with upturned coat-collar, a wide-brimmed soft hat sheltering his face.

"I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem: Since the lovely are sleeping, Go sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow When friendships decay, And from love's shining circle The gems drop away. When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?"

The well-placed voice and accent were those of an educated man. The words of the old song, delivered clearly with true musical feeling, were touched with a thrill of passion.

The thread of the melody was abruptly cut off by a sudden mad clatter of hoofs. A carriage dashed wildly along and swerved round the corner. The singer dropped his instrument and sprang at the horse's bridle. A moment's struggle, and he fell by the curb-stone dazed and shaken, but the runaway was checked and the footman was down at his head, while the coachman tightened his rein.

The singer struggled to his feet. The brougham window was lowered, and a clear-cut feminine face leaned forward.

"Thank you very much," said a cool, level voice, in a tone suitable to the recovery of some fallen trifle.

"Williamson"—to the coachman—"give this man half a crown, and drive on."

While Williamson fumbled in his pocket for the money, the singer gave one glance at the proud, cold face framed by the carriage window, then turned hurriedly away.

"Hey, David!" called the coachman to the groom. "Give her her head and jump up. She'll be all right now. Whoa—whoa, old girl. That chap's gone—half-crowns ain't seemingly in his line. Steady, old girl!" And the carriage disappeared into the night.

The singer picked up his guitar and leant on the railings. He was shaken and faint. Something seemed amiss with his left hand. He laid his forehead against the cool iron and drew a deep breath, muttering—

"It was she! When I heard her cold, cruel voice I thanked God I am as I am. Thank God for my child and a sacred memory——"

"Are you hurt?" asked a friendly voice.

The singer looked up to see a man standing hatless above him on the steps of the house. He strove to reply, but his tongue refused to act; he swayed while rolling waves of blackness encompassed him. He staggered blindly forward, then sank into darkness—and for him time was not.

When consciousness returned his eyes opened upon a glint of firelight, a shaded lamp on a table by which sat a man with bent head writing. It was a fine head, large and massive, the hair full and crisp. A rugged hand grasped the pen with decision, and there was no hesitation in its rapid movement.

The singer lay for a moment watching the bent head, when it suddenly turned, and a pair of remarkably keen grey eyes met his own.

"Ah, you are better! That's right!" Rising, the writer went to a cupboard against the wall, whence he brought a decanter and glass.

"I am a doctor," he said kindly. "Luckily I was handy, or you might have had a bad fall."

The singer tried to rise.

"Don't move for a few moments," continued the doctor, holding a glass to his lips. "Drink this, and you will soon be all right again."

The singer drank, and after a pause glanced inquiringly at his left hand, which lay bound up at his side.

"Only a sprain," said the doctor, answering his glance. "I saw how it happened. Scant thanks, eh?"

The singer sat up and his eyes flashed.

[Sidenote: "I want no Thanks!"]

"I wanted no thanks from her," he muttered bitterly.

"How is that?" questioned the doctor. "You knew the lady?"

"Yes, I knew her. The evil she has brought me can never be blotted out by rivers of thanks!"

The doctor's look questioned his sanity.

"I fail to understand," he remarked simply.

"My name is Waldron, Philip Waldron," went on the singer. "You have a right to my name."

"Not connected with Waldron the great financier?" again questioned the doctor.

"His son. There is no reason to hide the truth from you. You have been very kind—more than kind. I thank you."

"But I understood Waldron had only one son, and he died some years ago—I attended him."

"Waldron had two sons, Lucien and Philip. I am Philip."

"But——"

"I can well understand your surprise. My father gave me scant thought—his soul was bound up in my elder brother."

"But why this masquerade?"

"It is no masquerade," returned the singer sadly. "I sing to eke out my small salary as clerk in a city firm. My abilities in that way do not command a high figure," he added, with a bitter laugh.

"Then your father——?"

"Sent me adrift because I refused to marry that woman whose carriage I stopped to-night."

The doctor made an expression of surprise.

"Yes, it seems strange I should come across her in that fashion, doesn't it? The sight of her has touched old sores."

Philip Waldron's eyes gleamed as he fixed them on the doctor's face.

"I will tell you something of my story—if you wish it."

"Say on."

"As a young man at home I was greatly under my father's influence. Perhaps because of his indifference I was the more anxious to please him. At all events, urged by him, but with secret reluctance, I proposed and was accepted by that lady whose carriage I stopped to-night. She was rich, beautiful, but I did not love her. I know my conduct was weak, it was ignoble—but I did her no wrong. For me she had not one spark of affection. My prospective wealth was the bait."

Waldron paused, and drew his hand across his eyes. "Then—then I met the girl who in the end became my wife. That she was poor was an insurmountable barrier in my father's eyes. I sought freedom from my hateful engagement in vain. I need not trouble you with all the story. Suffice it that I left home and married the woman I loved. My father's anger was overwhelming. We were never forgiven. When my brother died I hoped for some sign from my father, but he made none. And now my wife also is dead."

"And you are alone in the world?" asked the doctor, who had followed his story with interest.

Philip Waldron's face lit up with a rarely winning smile.

"No," he said, "I have a little girl." Then the smile faded, as he added, "She is a cripple."

"And have you never appealed to your father?"

[Sidenote: Unopened Letters]

"While my wife lived—many times. For her sake I threw pride aside, but my letters were always returned unopened."

The doctor sat silent for some time. Then steadfastly regarding the young man, he said—

"My name is Norman. I have known and attended your father now for a good many years. I was at your brother's death-bed. I never heard him mention a second son."

Philip sighed. "No, I suppose not. I am as dead to him now."

"You are indifferent?"

"Pardon me; not indifferent, only hopeless. Had there been any chance for me, it came when my brother died."

"For the sake of your child will you not appeal once more?"

Philip's face softened. "For my child I would do much. Thank God," glancing at his left hand, "my right is uninjured. My city work is safe. Singing is not my profession, you know," he added, with a dreary smile. "I only sing to buy luxuries for my lame little one."

Rising, he held out his hand.

"You have been a true Samaritan, Dr. Norman. I sincerely thank you."

The doctor took the outstretched hand.

"May I help you further?" he asked.

"I don't see well how you can, but I will take the will for the deed."

"But you do not forbid me to try?"

Philip shook his head despondingly. "You may try, certainly. Matters cannot be worse than they are; only you will waste valuable time."

"Let me be judge of that. May I come to see you?"

Philip hesitated; then, when urged, gave his address, but in a manner indicating that he never expected it to be used.

Dr. Norman, however, was a man of his word. A few days after that chance meeting found him toiling up the steep stairs of block C in Dalmatian Buildings, Marylebone, having ascertained below that the Waldrons' rooms were on the top floor.

"There had need be good air when one gets to the surface here," groaned the doctor, when he reached the top, and paused to recover breath before knocking.

Sounds came from within—a light, childish laugh, a patter of talk. In response to his knock, a step accompanied by the tap-tap of a crutch came across the wooden floor. After some hesitation the door was opened by a pale, brown-eyed child of about seven. A holland pinafore reached to her feet, the right side hitched up by the crutch under that arm, on which she leant heavily. Dark, wavy hair fell over her shoulders, framing a pale, oval face, out of which shone a pair of bright, wide-open eyes.

She remained in the doorway looking up at the doctor.



"I suppose you've come about the gas bill," she said at length, with an old-womanish air, "but it's no use. Father is out, and I have only sixpence. It's my own, but you can have it if you promise to take care of it."

"I'm a doctor, and a friend of your father's," replied Norman, with a reassuring smile.

The child at once moved aside.

[Sidenote: A Real Live Visitor]

"Please come in. I've just been playing with my dolls for visitors, but it will be much nicer to have a real live one."

The room the doctor entered was small, but cheerful; the floor uncarpeted, but clean, and the window framed a patch of sky over the chimney-pots below. A table stood near the window, by it two chairs on which lay two dolls.

"Come to the window," requested the child, tap-tapping over the floor. "Lucretia and Flora, rise at once to greet a stranger," she cried reproachfully to the dolls, lifting them as she spoke.

She stood waiting until Dr. Norman was seated, then drew a chair facing him and sat down. Her keen, intelligent glance searched him over, then dwelt upon his face.

"Are you a good doctor?" she asked.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because father says doctors are good, and I wondered if you were. You must not mind my dollies being rather rude. It is difficult to teach them manners so high up."

"How so?"

"Well, you see, they have no society but my own, because they have to be in bed before father comes home."

"And do you never go out?"

"Sometimes on Sundays father carries me downstairs, and when we can afford it he hires a cab to take me to the Park. But, you see, we can't always afford it," with a wise shake of the head.

"Poor child!"

"Why do you say 'poor child' in that voice? I'm not a poor child. I got broken—yes—and was badly mended, dad says, but I'm not a 'poor child.' Poor childs have no dolls, and no funny insides like me."

The doctor smiled. "What sort of inside is that?"

"Well, you see, I have no outside little friends, and so my friends live inside me. I make new ones now and then, when the old ones get dull, but I like the old ones best myself."

At that moment a step sounded on the stairs; the child's face lit up with a look which made her beautiful.

"That's father!" she exclaimed, and starting up, hastened as fast as her crutch would permit to the door.

Waldron stooped to kiss tenderly the sweet, welcoming face held up to his, then he grasped Dr. Norman's hand.

"So, doctor, you are true," he said with feeling. "You do not promise and forget."

"I am the slower to promise," returned Dr. Norman. "I have just been making acquaintance with your little maid."

"My little Sophy!"

"Yes, father?"

Waldron passed a caressing hand over the child's head.

"We two want to talk, dear, so you must go into your own little room."

"Yes, father; but I will bid goodbye to this doctor first," she said, with a quaint air, offering Dr. Norman a thin little hand.

As the door closed upon her Waldron remarked rather bitterly, "You see I told the truth."

"My dear fellow," cried the doctor, "I did not doubt you for a moment! I came this afternoon to tell you I have seen your father—he sent for me. He is not well. He seems troubled more than his illness warrants. Can it be that under that callous manner he hides regret for the past?"

Philip sighed.

"You must be ever present to his memory," went on the doctor. "It might be possible to touch his feelings."

"How?"

"Through your child—nay, hear me out. No harm shall come to her; I would not propose it did I believe such a thing possible."

"But it might mean separation. No, doctor, let us struggle along—she at least is happy."

"For the present, yes, but for how long? She will not always remain a child. Have you had a good medical opinion in regard to her lameness?"

"The best I could afford at the time."

"And——?"

"It was unfavourable to trying any remedy; but that was not long after her mother's death."

"May I examine her?"

Waldron's glad eagerness was eloquent of thanks.

When Dr. Norman left those upper rooms there was a light long absent on Philip's face as he drew his lame child within his arms.

[Sidenote: Sophy takes a Drive]

In a few days the doctor called again at Dalmatian Buildings, and carried Sophy off in his carriage, the child all excitement at the change and novelty.

After a short drive Dr. Norman said, "Now, Sophy, I have a rather serious case on hand, and I am going to leave you for a little at a friend's, and call for you again later. You won't mind?"

"I think not. I shall be better able to tell you after I have been."

The doctor laughed.

"You see," went on Sophy, with a wise nod of her little head, "you can't tell how you will like things until you try them—now, can you?"

"No, certainly not. So you can tell me how you get on as I drive you home."

"Is this your serious case or mine?" asked Sophy anxiously, as the carriage drew up at a large house in a West-End square.

"This is where I hope to leave you," returned the doctor, smiling. "But you must wait until I find if it be convenient for me to do so."

Dr. Norman was shown into the library, where by the fire in an arm-chair sat an old man, one foot supported on a stool before him. His face was drawn and pinched, and his temper none of the sweetest, to judge by the curt response he made to the doctor's greeting.

"You are late this morning," was his sole remark.

"I may be slightly—but you are fast becoming independent of my care."

An unamiable grunt was the old man's reply.

When a few medical questions had been put and answered, Dr. Norman placed himself on the hearthrug, looking down at his patient as he drew on his gloves.

"You are much better," he said cheerfully.

"Oh, you think so, do you? Well, I don't."

"Yes, I think so. I should like to prescribe you change of scene, Mr. Waldron."

"Want to be rid of me, I suppose. Well, I'm not going!"

"Change of thought might do equally well."

"I'm likely to get it, chained here by the leg, ain't I?"

"Well, change of thought comes by association, and is quite available; in fact, at the present moment I have in my carriage a small person who has given me much change of thought this morning."

"I can't see what good your change of thought will do me!" growled Mr. Waldron.

Dr. Norman regarded him speculatively.

"I wonder if you would do me a favour. I have rather a serious case on the other side of the square, will take me about half an hour; might I leave my small friend here for that time?"

"What! in this room?"

"Why not?"

"Nonsense! You don't mean to bring a child in here!"

"Again I say, why not? She will amuse and interest you."

"Well, of all the——"

"Don't excite yourself, Mr. Waldron. You know how bad that is for you."

"You are giving me some change of thought with a vengeance, doctor! Why should you bring a nasty brat to disturb me?"

[Sidenote: Some Amusement]

"I only offered you some amusement——"

"Amusement be hanged! You know I hate children."

"I know you say so."

Mr. Waldron growled.

"She is not so very small," went on the doctor—"about seven or eight, I think."

"Humph! Young enough to be a nuisance! A girl, eh?"

"Yes."

"Girls are not so bad as boys," he admitted.

"No, so some people think—good-morning." Dr. Norman went towards the door.

"A girl, you say?" growled old Mr. Waldron again.

"Yes; good-morning."

"I say, don't be in such a hurry!"

"I really cannot stay longer at present; goodbye."

Dr. Norman opened the door and stood within it. Old Mr. Waldron fidgeted in his chair, muttering—

"Horrid child! Hate children! Perfect nuisance!"

The doctor partly closed the door.

"I say, have you gone?" cried the old man, glancing round. "Dr. Norman," he called suddenly, "you can bring that brat in if it will be any pleasure to you, and if you find me dead in half an hour my death will lie at your door!"

The doctor at once accepted this grudging concession, and hastening to the carriage, brought Sophy back in his arms.

"What the——" called out old Mr. Waldron when he saw the child. "Is she ill?"

"Oh, no, only lame," replied the doctor, as he placed his burden in a chair opposite to the old man.

"Now, Sophy," he admonished, "you will be a pleasant companion to this gentleman until my return."

Sophy eyed her neighbour doubtfully.

"I'll try to," she replied, and so the doctor left them.

For some time this strangely assorted pair eyed each other in silence. At length Sophy's gaze rested on the old man's foot where it lay in its large slipper on the stool before him.

"I see you are broken too," she said in a sympathetic voice. "It isn't really pleasant to be broken, is it, although we try to pretend we don't care, don't we?"

"No, it isn't exactly pleasant," replied Mr. Waldron, and a half-smile flickered over his face. "How did you get broken?"

"Somebody let me fall, father says, and afterwards I was only half-mended. It is horrid to be only a half-mended thing—but some people are so stupid, you know."

Mr. Waldron grunted.

"Does it hurt you to speak that you make that funny noise?" asked Sophy curiously.

"I'm an old man, and I do as I like."

"Oh! When I'm an old woman may I do as I like?"

"I suppose so," grudgingly.

"Then I shall be an awfully nice old woman; I shouldn't like to be cross and ugly. I don't like ugly people, and there are so many going about loose. I am always so glad I like my father's face."

"Why?"

"Because I have to see it every, every day. Have you anybody whose face you like?"

"No; I haven't."

"What a pity! I wonder if you like mine—or perhaps you would like father's. It does seem a shame you shouldn't have somebody."

"I do very well without."

"Oh no, I'm sure you don't," replied Sophy with deep concern. "You may do somehow, but you can't do well."

"What's your father like?" asked Mr. Waldron, amused in spite of himself.

"My father's like a song," returned Sophy, as though she had given the subject much reflection.

"A song! How's that?"

"Sometimes he is gay—full of jokes and laughter, sometimes he is sad, and I cry softly to myself in bed; but he is always beautiful, you know—like a song."

"And your mother?"

[Sidenote: "It is Lonely Sometimes"]

"I haven't got a mother," replied Sophy sadly. "That's where I'm only half like other little girls. My mother was frightened, and so was the little brother who was coming to play with me. They were both frightened, and so they ran away back again to God. I wish they had stayed—it is lonely sometimes."

"But you have your father."

"Yes, only father is away all day, and I sit such a lot at our window."

"But you have no pain, have you?" Mr. Waldron questioned with interest.

"No," answered Sophy, sighing faintly. "Only a pain in my little mind."

"Ah! my pain is in my toe, and I expect hurts a deal more than yours. What's your father about that he leaves you alone and doesn't have you seen to, eh?"

Sophy's face blazed. "How dare you speak in that voice of my father!" she cried. "He is the kindest and best, and works for me until he is quite thin and pale. Do you work for anybody? I don't think you do," she added scornfully, "you look too fat!"

"You haven't much respect for grey hairs, young lady."

"Grey hairs, why?" asked Sophy, still ruffled.

Mr. Waldron took refuge in platitudes.

"I have always been taught that the young should respect age, of which grey hair is an emblem."

"How funny!" said Sophy, leaning forward to look more closely at her companion. "To think of so much meaning in those tufts behind your ears! I always thought what was inside mattered—not the outside. How much silly people must long to have grey hairs, that they may be respected. I must ask father if that is true."

"I suppose you respect your father?" said Mr. Waldron severely.

"Oh, no," replied Sophy. "I only love him. I think the feeling I have for the gas man must be respect. Yes, I think it must be, there is something so disagreeable about it."

"Why?"

"Well, you see, he so often comes when father is out and asks for money, just as if money grew on our floor, then he looks at me and goes away grumbling. I think it must be respect I feel when I see his back going downstairs."

Mr. Waldron laughed. "You are a queer little girl!" he said.

"Yes, I suppose I am," answered Sophy resignedly. "Only I hope I'm not unpleasant."

When Dr. Norman returned he found the child and his patient on the best of terms. After placing Sophy in the carriage, he came back at Mr. Waldron's request for a few words.

"That's a funny child," began the old man, glancing up at the doctor. "She actually made me laugh! What are you going to do with her?"

"Take her home."

"Humph! I suppose I couldn't—couldn't——?"

"What?"

"Buy her?"

"Good gracious, Mr. Waldron! We are in the twentieth century!"

"Pity, isn't it! But there are many ways of buying without paying cash. See what you can do. She amuses me. I'll come down handsomely for her."

"Well, you must let me think it over," replied the doctor in his most serious manner, but he smiled as he shut the library door.

An evening shortly afterwards Dr. Norman again called on old Mr. Waldron. He found his patient much better, and seated at his writing-table, from which he glanced up quite briskly to inquire—

"Well, have you brought our queer little friend again?"

"Not this time, but I have come to know if you will help me."

"Got some interesting boy up your sleeve this time, have you?"

"No, only the same girl. I want to cure her lameness."

"Is that possible?"

"I believe quite possible, but it will mean an operation and probably a slow recovery."

"You don't want me to operate, I suppose?"

The doctor smiled. "Only as friend and helper. I will do the deed myself."

Old Mr. Waldron growled. "Flaunting your good deeds to draw this badger, eh? Well, where do I come in?"

[Sidenote: Dr. Norman's Proposal]

"Let me bring the child here. Let her be cared for under your roof. Her father is poor—he cannot afford nurses and the paraphernalia of a sick-room."

"So I am to turn my house into a hospital for the sick brat of nobody knows who—a likely tale! Why, I haven't even heard the father's name!"

"He is my friend, let that suffice."

"It doesn't suffice!" roared the old man, working himself into a rage. "I call it pretty cool that you should come here and foist your charity brats on me!"

Dr. Norman took up his hat.

"You requested me to see if the father would allow you to adopt the child——"

"Adopt; did I say adopt?"

"No; you used a stronger term—'buy,' I think it was."

Old Mr. Waldron grunted. "I said nothing about nurses and carving up legs."

"No, these are only incidents by the way. Well, good-evening." Dr. Norman opened the door.

"Why are you in such haste?" demanded Mr. Waldron.

"I have people waiting for me," returned the doctor curtly. "I am only wasting time here. Good-night."

He went outside, but ere his hand left the door a call from within reached him.

"Come back, you old touch-flint!" cried Mr. Waldron. "You are trying to force my hand—I know you! Well, I'll yield. Let that uncommonly queer child come here; only remember I am to have no trouble, no annoyance. Make your own arrangements—but don't bother me!"

So it came to pass that little Sophy Waldron was received into her grandfather's house all unknowing that it was her grandfather's.

He saw her for a few moments on the day of her arrival.

"I hear you are going to be made strong and well," was the old man's greeting.

"Yes," returned Sophy, with a wise look. "They are going to try and mend me straight. I hope they won't make a mistake this time. Mistakes are so vexatious."

"When you are well would you like to live with me? I want a little girl about the house."

"What for? You have lots and lots of people to do things for you."

Mr. Waldron sighed. "I would like somebody to do things without being paid for their work."

"Oh, I understand," replied Sophy. "Well, I'll see how my leg turns out, and if father thinks you a nice old man—of course it will all depend on father."

"Confound it! I forgot the father!"

"You mustn't say naughty words, Mr. Sir," remonstrated Sophy, shaking a forefinger at him. "And you mustn't speak horrid of my father; I love him."

[Sidenote: "Could you Love me?"]

Old Mr. Waldron regarded her wistfully. "Do you think you could love me, Sophy?"

The child eyed him critically.

"I like you in bits," she replied. "But perhaps the good bits may spread, then I should like you very much."

Just then the doctor came to take her to the room prepared, where a pleasant-faced nurse was in waiting.

Some hours afterwards, when Dr. Norman's task was done, and poor little Sophy lay white but peaceful on her bed, she looked up at the nurse, saying with a whimsical smile—

"I should like to see the grumpy man."

"And so you shall, my dear," was the nurse's hasty assurance. "Whoever can that be?" she muttered under her breath.

"Why, the grumpy man downstairs," reiterated Sophy.

"Would it be right?" questioned her father, who knelt by the bed, holding a small hand clasped firmly in his own.

"I'll see what the doctor says," replied the nurse, retiring into the adjoining room.

She speedily returned to say that Dr. Norman would go down himself to bring up old Mr. Waldron.

Sophy turned a pale face contentedly to her father.

"Dear dadums," she whispered, "now you will see my friend. He is not such a bad old man, though he does grunt sometimes."

For answer Philip Waldron bowed his head upon the hand he held, and waited.

Soon steps and voices were heard outside.

"Is this the room? A terrible way up! Why didn't you put her a floor lower? Quieter?—oh, well, have your own way!"

The doctor and Mr. Waldron entered. In the half-light of the room the little figure on the bed was dimly visible. Both men paused while the doctor laid a professional hand on the child's pulse.

"She is all right," he remarked reassuringly.

"So you wanted to see me," began Mr. Waldron, looking down at the small head where it lay on the pillow. "How pale she is!" he ejaculated to himself. "I hope they have treated her properly!"

"Quite properly, thank you," replied Sophy, answering his half-whisper. "I wanted you to see my daddy."

Mr. Waldron noticed for the first time the bowed head on the other side of the bed.

"Yes," continued Sophy, following his glance. "This is my daddy, and he wants to help me say 'Thank you.' For Dr. Norman has told me how kind you are, if you are sometimes grumpy."

Philip Waldron slowly raised his head and stood up, facing his father across the bed.

"Philip!"

"Yes, sir."

"Is it possible?"

"I did not intend you should find me here," said Philip, his voice hoarse with emotion, "but it was her wish to see you; and I—I can go away."

He moved as if to leave the room.

"Stay!" came a peremptory command. "I—I have forgiven you long ago, my son; only pride and self-will stood in the way. For her sake, Philip!"

And the old man stretched a trembling hand across the child.



[Sidenote: Some true dog-stories for all who love dogs.]

Dogs We Have Known

BY

LADY CATHERINE MILNES-GASKELL

Some years ago I was the guest of my friends Colonel and Mrs. Hamilton. Besides myself, there was a large Christmas party of friends and children staying in the house. One evening in the drawing-room we all joined in the children's play.

"What would you say," interposed Mr. Hillary, one of the guests, and he addressed the children, "if we were all in turn to tell you stories of all the dogs we have known?"

A little buzz of applause met this proposal, and our hostess, being pressed to tell the first tale, began by saying, "Well, then, I will tell you how I found my little terrier 'Snap.'"

"One day, about two years ago, I was driving into Charleston, which, as you know, is about two miles off. A little distance from the park gates I noticed that my pony carriage was followed by a little white dog—or at least by a little dog that had once been white. It ran along through the black mud of the roads, but nothing seemed to discourage it. On it came, keeping up some ten yards behind my carriage.

"At first I thought we only happened both of us to be going in the same direction, and that it was merely hurrying home; but I was soon undeceived, for to my surprise the little dog followed me first into one shop and then into another.

"Finally I got out again and went into the last. On returning to the ponies I was astonished to find that the poor little wanderer had jumped into the carriage, and ensconced herself comfortably amongst the cushions."

"'The brute won't let me take it out,' said Dick, my diminutive groom; 'it growls if I only touch it, something terrible.'

"'Oh, leave it, then,' I replied, and Snap, as I afterwards christened her, drove back with me, sitting up proudly by my side.

"The next day I went out for a long ride. Without any encouragement on my part, the little terrier insisted upon following my horse. I think we must have gone over a distance of some twenty-four miles, through woods, over fields, and along the high-roads, but never once had I to call or whistle to bring her to my side. My little friend was always just behind me.

"'She be determined to earn herself a good home,' said our old coachman, when I returned in the afternoon and he saw the little dog still following faithfully behind me. I asked him to catch and feed her, but Snap would not trust herself to his care. She showed her teeth and growled furiously when he approached her.

"'More temper than dawg,' murmured our old retainer as he relinquished his pursuit of her. 'Cum, lassie, I'll do thee no harm;' but the terrier was not to be caught by his blandishments, and I had to catch her myself and feed her. To me she came at once, looking at me with her earnest, wistful eyes, and placing complete trust in me immediately.

"One of my friends says, 'Snap is redeemed by her many vices.' What made her confidence in me from the very first most remarkable was her general dislike to all strangers. She hates nearly every one. 'Snap spakes to us all about place,' is said of her by our old gardener.

"Obviously, I am sorry to say, her former master must have been opposed to law and order, for of all human beings she most hates policemen!

[Sidenote: Only Just in Time!]

"She also entertains a strong dislike to ministers of all denominations. Last year when a high dignitary of the Church came to call upon me, imagine my dismay when I saw during our interview Snap, with evil designs, crawling under the furniture to nip his lordship's legs. I was only just in time to prevent the catastrophe!

"The 'nasty sneak,' as my nephew Harry called her when he heard the story, was almost able before I could stop her to fulfil her wicked intentions. Happily, his lordship was unconscious of her inhospitable purpose, and when I caught her up only said: 'Poor little dog! don't trouble, Mrs. Hamilton, I am not at all nervous about dogs.'



"Another time I remember taking Snap to a meeting got up to further the interests of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

"All went well till a clergyman rose and addressed the meeting, when Snap jumped up also, barking ferociously, and tried to bite him. She was carried out struggling and yelping with rage.

"'Yon tyke can't do with a parson,' is the dictum of the villagers when they see her go by with me. Snap is very faithful, very crotchety, distrusting nearly everybody, greeting every fresh acquaintance with marked suspicion, and going through life with a most exalted and ridiculous notion of her own importance, and also of that of her master and mistress."

* * * * *

"Snap's dislike to the clergy reminds me," said Colonel Hamilton, "of a story I heard the other day from my friend Gordon, the artist: You must know that last year the county gave old Vaughan of Marshford Grange, for his services as M.F.H., a testimonial. 'Old V.,' as he is known, has the hereditary temper of all the Vaughans—in fact, might vie with 'Our Davey' of Indian fame. Gordon, as you know, was selected by the Hunt Committee to paint the picture, and he went to stay at the Grange.

"The day after his arrival he went down to breakfast, but found nobody there but the old squire seated at his table, and by him a favourite large lean white bull terrier.

"'Bob,' he declared, looked at him out of the corner of his evil eye, and therefore it was with some trepidation that he approached the table.

"'Swear, man, swear, or say something that he'll take for swearing,' exclaimed his host. 'If Bob takes you for a parson he'll bite you.' The explanation of this supposed hostility on Bob's part to the clergy consisted in the known and open warfare that existed between Vaughan and his parson.

"Some forty years before, the Squire had given his best living to his best college friend, and ever since there had been internecine war as a consequence.

"Poor Gordon was that curious anomaly, an artist combined with the pink of spinsterly propriety; and he could see no humour in the incident, but always declared that he felt nervous during his visit at the Grange lest Bob's punishing jaws should mistake his antecedents and profession.

"But now, Lady Constance, it is your turn, as the children say."

* * * * *

"I have a very clever old dog at home," said Lady Constance, turning to the children, "called 'Sloe.' She was, in her youth and prime, a most valuable retriever, but now is grown too old to do much but sleep in the sunshine. Eddie and Molly were given some time ago two pretty young white rabbits. They looked like balls of white fluff, and were the prettiest toy-like pets you can imagine. One night, unfortunately, they escaped from their protecting hutch.

"Sloe is one of those dogs that cannot resist temptation, and although she has often been whipped and scolded for massacring rabbits, never listens to the voice of conscience. In fact, she hardly seems as if she could help doing so, and appears to think, like the naughty boy of the story, that, in spite of the beating, the fun was too great to forgo.

[Sidenote: Sloe and Duchess]

"Sloe is always loose, but has a kennel to sleep in at nights in the stable-yard. Opposite to her kennel is chained another dog—a retriever—'Duchess' by name, a lovely dog of a soft flaxen colour. This dog on this occasion, it so happened, had not yet been unchained.

"Sloe disappeared amongst the shrubberies, and found there her innocent victims. The poor little things were soon caught, and breathed their last in her ferocious jaws. When Sloe had killed them she did not care to eat them, and, strange to say, she determined not to bury them, but resolved that it should appear that the murder had been committed by her companion, and that Duchess should bear the blame.

"It is said that she is jealous of her companion sharing the favour of her master, and so decided upon doing her a bad turn.

"Prompted probably by this evil thought, she carried her victims one after the other into Duchess's kennel and left them there. The coachman, who was up betimes cleaning his harness, saw her do this. After which the old sly-boots retired to her own lair and went to sleep as if nothing had happened."

* * * * *

"Did you ever owe your life to a dog?" inquired Colonel Hamilton, turning to Lady Constance.

"Oh, yes, I did once," was her reply.

"Some years ago I was given a large dog—half bloodhound and half mastiff. To women and children he was very gentle, but he had an inveterate dislike to all men. There was nothing he would not allow a baby to do to him. It might claw his eyes, sit on his back, tap his nose, scream in his ears, and pull his hair; and 'George,' for such was his name, would sit and look at me with a sort of broad good-natured smile.

"One year we all went up to a shooting-lodge in Perthshire. In the paddock before the house there was a bull. I complained of our neighbour, for I thought he had an evil eye, and might some day do the children some mischief.

"Our landlord, however, would not listen to my complaints.

"'Dinna ye fash yersel,' Geordie,' he said to his herdsman, 'or take notice of what the women-folk say. It is a douce baistie, and he'll nae harm bairns nor doggies.'

"In spite of this, one afternoon I had occasion to cross the meadow, when suddenly I turned round and saw the bull running behind me. He bellowed fiercely as he advanced.

"Happily, when he charged I was able to spring aside, and so he passed me. But I saw that the wall at the end of the field was several hundreds yards off, and I felt, if the bull turned again to pursue me, my life would not be worth much.

"Then I saw my faithful George standing sullenly beside me, all his 'hackles' up, and waiting for the enemy with an ominous growl.

"The bull again turned, but my dog met him, and something of the inherited mastiff love of feats in the bull-ring must have awoke within him, for when the bull came after me the old dog flew at his nose, courageously worried him, and fairly ended by routing him. In the meantime I slipped over the loose stone wall, and ran and opened the gate at the bottom of the field, through which trotted a few minutes later my protector.

"I told my story when I returned to the house, and the keeper promised me that he would speak to the bailiff at our landlord's farm and have the bull taken away on the following day.

"Now, the grass of the paddock being particularly tender and sweet, it was the custom for the 'hill ponies' to graze at night in company with the cows and the bull. The horses and cattle had hitherto done so, without causing any damage to each other; but the morning after my adventure one of the ponies was found gored to death, and an old cart-mare who had been running there with a foal was discovered to be so terribly injured that she had to be shot. It was noticed that the bull's horns were crimson with blood, so there could be no doubt who was the delinquent.

"'The more you know of a bull, the less faith you can put in one,' said our old cowherd to me one day when I recounted to him in Yorkshire my escape; 'and, saving your ladyship's presence,' he added, 'bulls are as given to tantrums as young females.'

[Sidenote: George's Tricks]

"When George was young we tried to teach him some tricks," continued Lady Constance, "but, like a village boy, he 'was hard to learn;' and the only accomplishment he ever acquired was, during meals, to stand up and plant his front paws upon our shoulders, look over into our plates, and receive as a reward some tit-bit. Sometimes he would do this without any warning, and he seemed to derive a malicious pleasure in performing these antics upon the shoulders of some nervous lady, or upon some guest who did not share with us our canine love."

* * * * *

It had now come to my turn to contribute a story, and in answer to the children's appeal I told them that I would tell them all that I could remember of my old favourite mastiff, "Rory Bean," so-called after the Laird of Dumbiedike's pony in the "Heart of Midlothian."

"Rory was a very large fawn mastiff, with the orthodox black mask. I remember my little girl, when she was younger, having once been told that she must not go downstairs to her godmamma with a dirty face, resolved that if this was the case Rory must have a clean face too.

"So the next day, on entering the nursery, I found she had got some soap and water in a basin, and beside her I saw the great kindly beast, sitting up on her haunches, patiently waiting whilst her face was being washed; but in spite of all the child's efforts the nose remained as black as ever. My little girl's verdict, 'that mastiffs is the best nursery dogs,' was for a long time a joke amongst our friends.

"For several years we took Rory up to London, but her stay there was always rather a sad one, for when out walking the crossings in the streets were a great source of terror to her. No maiden-aunt could have been more timid. She would never go over by herself, but would either bound forward violently or else hang back, and nearly pull over her guide. She had also a spinsterly objection to hansoms, and never would consent to be driven in one. On the other hand, she delighted in a drive in a 'growler,' and, if the driver were cleaning out his carriage, would often jump in and refuse to be taken out.

"When Rory followed us in London she had a foolish habit of wishing to seem independent of all restraint, and of desiring to appear 'a gentleman at large.'

"On one unfortunate occasion, whilst indulging in this propensity, she was knocked over by a hansom—not badly hurt, but terribly overcome by a sense of the wickedness of the world, where such things could be possible.

"The accident happened in Dover Street. Rory had strayed into the gutter after some tempting morsel she had espied there, and a dashing hansom had bowled her over. She lay yelping and howling and pitying herself intensely. My companion and I succeeded in dragging her into a baker's shop, where she was shown every kindness and consideration, and then we drove home in a four-wheeler. Rory was not much hurt, but for many days could hardly be induced to walk in the streets again. She seemed to be permeated with a sense of the instability and uncertainty of all things, and never appeared able to recover from her surprise that she, 'Rory Bean,' a mastiff of most ancient lineage and of the bluest blood, should not be able to walk about in safety wherever she pleased—even in the streets of the metropolis.

[Sidenote: Lost in London]

"I recollect we once lost her in London. She made her escape out of the house whilst we had gone for a ride in the park. When we returned from our ride, instead of hearing her joyous bark of welcome, and seeing her flop down in her excitement the last four steps of the staircase, as was her wont, we were met instead by the anxious face of the butler, who told us Rory had run out and could not be found.

"Fortunately, we were not dining out that night, and so, as quickly as possible, we sallied forth in different directions to find her. The police were communicated with, and a letter duly written to the manager of the Dogs' Home at Battersea, whilst my husband and I spent the evening in wandering from police-station to police-station, giving descriptions of the missing favourite.

"Large fawn mastiff, answers to the name of 'Rory Bean,' black face and perfectly gentle. I got quite wearied out in giving over and over again the same account. However, to cut a long story short, she was at last discovered by the butler, who heard her frantic baying a mile off in the centre of Hyde Park, and brought her back, and so ended Rory Bean's last season in London.

"A few days before this escapade I took out Rory in one of the few squares where dogs are still allowed to accompany their masters. Bean had a naive way, when bored, of inviting you or any casual passer-by that she might chance to see, to a good game of romps with her. Her method was very simple. She would run round barking, but her voice was very deep, as of a voice in some subterranean cavern; and with strangers this did not invariably awaken on their side a joyous reciprocity. Somehow, big dogs always ignore their size.

"They have a confirmed habit of creeping under tiny tables, and hanker after squeezing themselves through impossible gaps. Being, as a rule, quite innocent of all desire to injure any member of the human race, they cannot realise that it is possible that they in their turn can frighten anybody.

"I remember on this particular occasion that I was interested in my book, and that when Rory had barked round me I had refused to play with her. For some time she had lain down quietly beside me, when suddenly an old gentleman came into view. He held in his hand a stick, with which he meditatively struck the pebbles of the pathway as he walked along.

"At the sight of him Rory jumped up. She could not resist this particular action on his part, which she considered a special invitation to come and join in a good romp. To my consternation, before I could prevent her, I saw her barking and jumping round the poor frightened old gentleman, in good-natured but ominous-looking play.

"Seeing that he was really alarmed, I rushed off to his rescue, seized my dog and apologised. Wishing at the same time to say something that might somewhat condone her conduct, I said: 'I am very sorry, sir, but you see she is only a puppy,' and pointed to Rory.

"This was not quite a correct statement, as my four-footed friend was at that time about two years old, and measured nearly thirty inches from the shoulder, but, as the old man seemed really frightened and muttered two ugly words in connection with each other, 'Hydrophobia' and 'Police,' I was determined to do all I could to reassure him and smooth down his ruffled plumes.

"However, my elderly acquaintance would not be comforted, and I heard him muttering to himself as he retired from the square, 'Puppy indeed! Puppy indeed!'

"Bean's death was very sad. Two years ago we left her in Yorkshire whilst we went to London. We heard of her continually whilst we were away, and she seemed very flourishing although growing old, till one day I got a letter to say that the old dog was suddenly taken very ill and could hardly move. The servants had taken her to a loose box, given her a good clean bed of straw, and were feeding her with such delicacies as she could be prevailed upon to take.

[Sidenote: Rory's Last Welcome]

"I had a sad journey home, thinking of the sufferings of my trusty old friend. I shall never forget her joy at seeing me once more. The poor faithful creature could not walk, but crawled along upon her stomach to meet me when I entered the loose box, filling the place with her cries of joy. She covered my hands with kisses, and then laid her head upon my knees whilst I sat down beside her. She whined with a sort of half-sorrow, half-pleasure—the first that she could not get up and show me round the gardens as was her wont, the second that she was happy to be thus resting in the presence of her beloved mistress. Around her lay a variety of choice foods and tit-bits, but she was in too great pain to feed except from my hands.

"Poor dear Bean! she looked at me out of her great solemn eyes. Those dear loving eyes; with only one expression shining in them—a daily, hourly love—a love in spite of all things—a love invincible.

"During those last few days of her life Rory could not bear to be left alone. Her eyes followed me tenderly round and round the stables wherever I went. Although constantly in great pain, I shall never forget her patience and her pathetic conviction that I could always do her some good, and she believed in the miracle which I, alas! had no power to perform. The veterinary surgeon who attended her said she was suffering from sudden paralysis of the spine, and that she was incurable. This disease, it appears, is not very rare amongst old dogs who have lived, not always wisely, but too well."

"Do tell us about some other dogs," cry the children as I cease speaking. I search my memory, and then turn to the group of little faces that are waiting expectantly for me to begin, and continue:

"Amongst the various breeds of dogs that I have come across personally, I know of none more faithful than the little fox-terrier is to his first devotion. He is a perfect little bantam-cock to fight, and never so happy as when he is in a row. 'The most unredeemed thing in nature,' was a true remark I once heard made of one; and yet there is no dog more devoted to his master, or more gentle to the children of his own household.

"I remember a little white terrier of my mother's, a celebrated prize-winner, and of the old Eggesford breed, called 'Spite.' Before I married she was my special dog, and used to sleep in my room. For years afterwards, although a general pet, whenever I returned to my old home she would prefer me to every one else, and, when old and blind, would toddle up the polished oak staircase to my room, in spite of being terribly afraid of slipping through the carved bannisters. She never forgot me or wavered when I was with her in giving me the first place in her affections.

"I have heard that the first of this noted strain was given many years ago to my father as a boy by 'Parson Jack.' It seems that the terriers of Parson Russell were noted in the days when the manners and customs of the parsons of the West were 'wild and furious.'

"A parson of the 'Parson Froude' type called upon him one evening in the dusk, to say that he had brought his terrier to fight 'Parson Jack's' in a match.

"My father's old friend, as I have often heard him tell the story to my mother, sent down word that he would not fight his dog because he 'looked upon dog-fights as beastly sights,' but if his brother clergyman would come upstairs, they would clear the tables, and he would take his jacket off, and they would have some rounds, and see which was the best man, and he who won should keep the other's dog.

[Sidenote: "Parson Jack"]

"When the fight was fought and won, and when 'Parson Jack' came off victorious, he claimed the other terrier.

"'And don't yu goe for to think, my dear,' he would add, turning to one of us children, as he ended the story, and speaking in broad Devonshire, as he often did when his heart kindled at the memory of the county in the old days—'don't yu goe for tu think as my having a set-tu zhocked the people in my parish. My vulk were only plazed to think as parsan was the best man of the tu, and if a parsan could stand up like a man in a round in they days, er was all the more likely to zuit 'em in the pulpit on Zundays.'

"Once every year 'Parson Jack' used to come and dine and sleep at my old home to keep his birthday, in company with my father and mother. At such times we as children used to come down to dessert to hear him tell stories in his racy way of Katerfelto, of long gallops over Exmoor after the stag, or of hard runs after the little 'red rover' with Mr. Fellowes' hounds."

"What dogs have you now?" inquired Mrs. Hamilton.

"Amongst others, a large St. Bernard," is my reply—"Bathsheba, so called after Mr. Hardy's heroine. Not that she has any of that young lady's delicate changes and complications of character, nor is she even 'almighty womanish.'

"Our Bathsheba is of an inexhaustible good temper, stupid, and wonderfully stolid and gentle. She is never crusty, and is the untiring playmate of any child. The 'Lubber fiend' we call her sometimes in fun, for she seems to extend over acres of carpet when she takes a siesta in the drawing-room.

"'Has she a soul?' inquired a friend who admired the great gentle creature. 'I fear not,' was my reply; 'only a stomach.'

"Besides Bathsheba, we have a large retriever called 'Frolic.' He and Bath are given sometimes to running after people who go to the back door; they never bite, but growl, and bark if it is a complete stranger.

"On one occasion, an Irishman who had been employed to do some draining met with this hostile reception. ''Tis gude house-dogs,' said my guardian of the poultry grimly.

"On hearing that the Irishman had been frightened, I sought him, expressed to him my regrets, and said that, though big, the dogs were quite harmless. With ready wit he retorted: 'Begorra, it isn't dogs that I am afraid of, but your ladyship keeps lions.'"

* * * * *

"Just one more story," cry the children as I cease speaking, and Mrs. Hamilton points to the clock, as their bedtime is long past. After a few minutes' pause, I continue:

"The other day I was told of a little girl who attended a distribution of prizes given by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

"She had won, you must know, a book as a reward for writing the best essay on the subject given, and, with the other successful children, was undergoing a viva voce examination.

"'Well, my dear,' said the gentleman who had given away the prizes, 'can you tell me why it is cruel to dock horses' tails and trim dogs' ears?' 'Because,' answered the little girl, 'what God has joined together let no man put asunder.'"

An explosion of childish laughter follows my story, and then the little ones troop up in silence to bed. I sit on, quietly looking into the fire, and as I sit so the voices of my friends seem to grow distant, and I fall into a reverie.



[Sidenote: A Cornish story of a girl's sorrow.]

Daft Bess

BY

KATE BURNLEY BELT

Up and down the little pier they paced in quarter-deck fashion, each with his hands tucked deep down in the pockets of his sea-blanket coat, and his oilskin cap pulled well over his ears.

They were very silent in their walk, these three old men, who had watched the breakers come and go at Trewithen for over sixty years, and handled the ropes when danger threatened. Trewithen Cove had sheltered many a storm-driven ship within their memories, and there were grave-mounds in the churchyard on the cliff still unclaimed and unknown that had been built up by their hands.

Up and down, to and fro they went in the face of the flying spray, in spite of the deepening mist that was creeping up over the darkening sea.

Benjamin Blake—once the handiest craftsman in the cove—was the first to break the silence.

"'Tis a sa-ad night at sea, mates!" he shouted, and the roar of the waves nearly drowned the sound of his voice.

"Iss, tu be zure, Benjamin Blake!" shouted Tom Pemberthy in answer, "an' 'twill be a ba-ad job fer more'n wan boat, I reckin, 'gainst marnin'!"

Then Joe Clatworthy, whose opinions were valued highly in the settlement of all village disputes, so that he had earned for himself the nickname of "Clacking Joe," stood still as they once more turned their backs on the threatening sea, and said his say.

"A tell ee wot 'twill be, mates," he said solemnly and slowly. "You mark my wurrds ef it dawn't cum truthy too,—there'll be terble loss uv li-ife out there tu-night," and he waved his hand towards the blackening sea, "an' us'll hev tu dig a fuu more graves, I reckin', cum marnin'!"

"The Lard hev murcy!" said Benjamin Blake, and the three resumed their walk again.

Half an hour afterwards they were making their way along the one little street of which Trewithen boasted to their homes; for a storm—the roughest they had known for years—had burst overhead, and a man's life is a frail thing in the teeth of a gale.

* * * * *

At the top of the cliff and beyond Trewithen churchyard by the length of a field there stood a tiny cottage, in which lived Jacob Tresidder, fisherman, and his daughter Bess.

"Daft Bess" the children called her as they played with her on the sands, though she was a woman grown, and had hair that was streaked with white.

She was sitting now by the dying fire in the little kitchen listening to the storm without; the hands of the grandfather clock were nearing the midnight hour, and Jacob Tresidder lay in a sound sleep upstairs hearing nought. She was of the type of fisher-maid common to the depths of Cornwall. The soft rich colouring of her skin reminded one more of the sunny south, and her big brown eyes had always a glow in them.

To-night they were more luminous than ever as she sat by the fire watching the sparks flicker and die, as if the dawn of some hidden knowledge were being borne to them on the breath of the storm. The roar of the sea as it dashed up the face of the cliff seemed to soothe her, and she would smile and turn her ear to catch the sound of its breaking on the beach below.

And yet, seven years before, "Daft Bess" had been the brightest and prettiest girl in Trewithen, and the admiration of every lad in the country round! And Big Ben Martyn, who had a boat of his own, had been the pride of every girl! But he only cared for Bess and she for him. All their lives they had been together and loved,—and a simple, truthful love can only produce its own affinity, though in its travail it pass through pain and suffering, and, maybe, the laying down of life!

Ben Martyn was twenty-five, and his own master, when he asked Bess, who had just turned twenty, to be his wife.

"The cottage be waitin', Bess, my gurrl!" he whispered as they sat on the cliff in the summer night; she knitting as usual, and he watching the needles dart in and out. They were very silent in their love, these two, who had been lovers ever since they could paddle.

"'Tis so lawnly betimes!" he pleaded.

And Bess set his longing heart at rest.

"So soon as vather can spare I, Ben," she said; and she laid her knitting on the rock beside them, and drew his sea-tanned face close down beside her own. "Ee dawn't seek fer I more'n I seek fer ee, deary!" and kissed him.

Thus they plighted their troth.

[Sidenote: One Dark Night]

Then came the winter and the hard work. And one dark stormy night, when the waves rose and fought till they nearly swept Trewithen out of sight, Ben Martyn was drowned.

He had been trying to run his boat into the shelter of the cove and failed, and in the morning his battered body lay high and dry on the quiet beach among the wreckage.

For weeks Bess lay in a high fever; and then, when the strain was greater than her tortured mind could bear, and she had screamed loud and long, something snapped in her brain and gave relief. But it left her without a memory, and with the ways and speech of a little child.

Her mind was a blank! She played with the seaweed and smiled, till the women's hearts were like to break for her, and the words stuck in the men's throats as they looked at her and talked.

"She be mazed, poor maid!" they said gently lest she should hear them. "'Twould break Ben's heart ef ee knawed 'ur was so!"

That was seven long years ago. And to-night Bess seemed loth to leave the fire, but sat hugging her knees in a restless fashion, and staring at the blackening embers in a puzzled way. A tremendous blast struck the cottage, and nearly shook the kitchen window out of its fastenings. The wind came shrieking through the holes in the shutter like a revengeful demon, and retreated again with a melancholy groan.

It pleased Bess, and she hugged her knees the tighter, and turned her head and waited for the next loud roar. It came, and then another, and another, till it seemed almost impossible for the little cottage to hold out against its fury!

Then "Daft Bess" sprang from her seat with a cry of gladness, and ran out into the night!

Along the path of the cliff she ran as fast as her bare feet would carry her, struggling and buffeting with the wind and spray till she reached the "cutting" down to the beach.

It was only a broken track where the rocks sloped and jagged a little, and not too safe at the best of times. She tried to get a foothold, but the wind was too strong, and she was driven back again and again. Then it lulled a little, and she began to descend.

Half-way down there was an ugly turn in the path, and she waited for a gust to pass before taking it. The wind was stronger than ever out here on the front of the cliff, but she held tight to the jagged rock above.

Round it swept, tearing loose bits of rock and soil from every corner, till her face was cut by the sharpness of the flints!



Close against the cliff it blew until she was almost breathless, when the rock she clung to gave way, and she fell down and down!

* * * * *

Jacob Tressider was awake. He had heard a noise like the breaking of delf in the kitchen below, and he wondered if Bess had heard it too. He got out of bed and dressed himself, and then came down the ladder which did service for a staircase to see what was amiss. The flags in the kitchen were strewn with broken plates, and the front kitchen door swung loosely on its hinges.

[Sidenote: No Answer!]

He called Bess, but there was no answer! He went into her room, the bed was untouched since day! Then he pulled on his great sea-boots and cap and went out to look for her.

The day was dawning when they brought her in and laid her on the bed of her little room more dead than alive. She was soaked through and through, and the seaweed still clung about her hair. Jacob Tresidder stood watching her like a man in a dream as she lay there white and silent.

"Us be mighty sore fer ee, so us be!" said old Benjamin Blake, who had helped to bring her home. "But teddin fer yew nor I, Jacob, tu go fornenst His will." And he went out crying like a child.

There was a slight movement of the quiet figure on the coverlid, and Jacob Tresidder's heart stopped beating for a moment as he watched his daughter's brown eyes open once more! They wandered wonderingly to where he was, and rested there, and a faint smile crossed the dying lips.

Then he bowed his head between his hands as he knelt beside her, for he knew that God had given her back her memory again; and his sobs were the sobs of a thankful heart.

"Vather!" she whispered, and with an effort she stretched the hand nearest to him and touched his sleeve. "'Tis—all right—now—I be gwine—tu—Ben."

The dying eyes glowed with love; then with a restful sigh the life passed out.

* * * * *

They had battened down the last spadeful of new-dug earth, and once again there was a storm-bred mound in Trewithen churchyard.

The three old comrades stood together in silence looking down on it, making little or no attempt to hide the sorrow that was theirs.

Then Tom Pemberthy said, drawing his hand across his tear-dimmed eyes: "Us'll miss ur simple wa-ays, sure 'nuff!"

But it was given to "Clacking Joe" to speak the final words ere they turned their faces homewards.

"'Twas awnly right that we laid ur 'longside o' Ben! When ur was a little chile ur shrimped with 'n! an' when ur was a gert maiden ur walked out with 'n! Please God, ur'll be the furrst tu spake tu 'n—cum the aftermath!"



[Sidenote: A seasonable chant, possibly useful for recitation purposes.]

A Spring-time Duet

BY

MARY LESLIE

1st Maiden. "Oh, Spring is here, the golden sun Has routed Winter's gloom!"

2nd Maiden. "Good gracious! Jane has not begun To scrub the dining-room!"

1st Maiden. "And now the first sweet buds appear, Symbolic of new hope."

2nd Maiden. "I didn't say 'carbolic,' dear, I want the yellow soap."

1st Maiden. "Like nectar is the morning dew, Its purity divine Refreshes all the earth anew."

2nd Maiden. "Ah! here's the turpentine."

1st Maiden. "And crystal webs shine bright, as though Spun on some fairy loom."

2nd Maiden. "A spider's web? I didn't know; I'll run and fetch the broom!"

1st Maiden. "Blooms Nature scatters, fresh and free, From out her treasure-house."

2nd Maiden. "I'll dust this cupboard thoroughly."

Both together. "Oh, horrors! There's a mouse!"



[Sidenote: A Canadian boy and girl together were at one moment as happy as youth and health could make them, and at the next in imminent danger of their lives.]

Out of Deadly Peril

BY

K. BALFOUR MURPHY

What on earth had happened to Gladys Merritt?

In the course of a few short weeks the girl was transformed from the merriest, most light-hearted creature into one often thoughtful, silent, and serious. The question then was, Why had she suddenly changed completely? Many guessed, but only two knew the real reason.

Barrie, where Judge Merritt lived, lies at the head of lovely little Lake Simcoe, in Western Ontario, Canada. In summer the lake is blue as the heavens above, the borders of it are fringed with larch and maple that grow right down to the rippling edge and bow to their own reflections in the clear waters beneath, while on its glassy surface can be seen daily numbers of boats and launches, the whole scene animated by merry voices of happy folks, with picnic baskets, bound for the woods, or others merely seeking relief from the intense heat on shore. Work is finished early in the day in the Colonies, and when school is over and the scorching sun begins slowly to sink to rest, social life begins.

But in Canada winter is long and extremely cold. With the fall of the beautiful tinted leaves that have changed from green to wonderful shades of red, purple, and yellow, Canadians know that summer is gone and that frost and snow may come any day, and once come will stay, though an unwelcome guest, for at least seven or eight months.

Now the young folks in Barrie relished this long spell of cold—to them no part of the year was quite so delightful as winter. What could compare with a long sleigh drive over firm thick snow, tucked in with soft warm furs and muffled up to the eyes—or tobogganing in the moonlight down a long hill—or skimming over clear, smooth ice—or candy-making parties—or dances, or a dozen other delights? What indeed? On every occasion Gladys seemed to be the centre figure; she was the life and soul of every party.

[Sidenote: The "Bunch"]

She was an only child of wealthy parents. Her home was beautiful, her father indulgent, her mother like a sister to her; she was a favourite everywhere, loved alike by rich and poor. Together with two intimate friends and schoolfellows, the girls were commonly known as the "Buds," and they, with half a dozen boys, were called the "Bunch" throughout the town. They admitted no outsider to their circle. They danced together at parties, boated, picniced, skated, sometimes worked together. There was an invisible bond that drew the group near each other, a feeling of sympathy and good fellowship, for the "Bunch" was simply a whole-hearted, happy crowd of boys and girls about sixteen to nineteen years of age.

Winter was at its height. Christmas with all its joys was past, church decorations had surpassed the usual standard of beauty, holidays were in full swing, and the "Buds" were in great demand. The cold had for five weeks been intense, and the barometer on the last day of January sank to fifteen below zero. Snow had fallen but little, and the ring of merry, tinkling sleigh bells was almost an unknown sound. Tobogganing of course was impossible. But as Gladys philosophically remarked one day, "Where could you find such skating as in Barrie?"

Great excitement prevailed when the moon was full, for the lake, some nine miles in length, was frozen from end to end, with an average thickness of three feet, and to the delight of skaters, was entirely snow free. Of course parties were the order of the day. Such a chance to command a magnificent icefield might not occur again for a long, long time.

The "Bunch" instantly decided on a party of their own, and chose a glorious night for the expedition. It consisted of the "Buds" and three boys. For some time all went well, but Gladys's skate needed tightening, and before it was satisfactorily done, the other four were far away, and Harry Elliott was left as sole protector to the girl.

Their conversation was mainly about school concerns. The boy was in a bank, the girl in her last term at the High School.

"If only I could work at something after I'm finished! What shall I do with my life when I have no more lessons? I think everybody should do something; I shall soon be tired of lazing through the days."