And then, as she thought of the sick-room, she remembered her mother. How had she contrived for years not to see that in the daily care of that patient woman there lay the first call for a dutiful daughter?

It was noble to work; and there was a work for every one to do.

But why had she foolishly gone afield to look for occupation and a place in life, when an obvious duty and a post she alone could best fill lay at home? If God would only give her time to amend!

It was a limp, tear-stained, and humbled Claudia who reached home by the first train the next morning.

Her father was alive—that was granted to her. Her mother had borne up bravely, but the struggle was obvious.

A nurse was in possession of the sick-chamber, and Claudia could only look on where often she fain would have been the chief worker.

But the room for amendment was provided. Mr. Haberton recovered very slowly, and was warned always to use the utmost care. Mrs. Haberton, when the worst of her husband's illness was over, showed signs of collapse herself.

[Sidenote: A New Ministry]

Claudia gave herself up to a new ministry. Her mother no longer called for Pinsett; Mr. Haberton found an admirable successor to his trained nurse.

Claudia had found her place, and in gratitude to God resolved to give the fullest obedience to the ancient precept: "If any have children . . . let them learn first to show piety at home, and to requite their parents."



[Sidenote: Women explorers have been the helpers of men, and spurred them on towards their goals. Some such workers are here recalled.]

Famous Women Pioneers

BY

FRANK ELIAS

A great deal has been said and written about the men who, in times past, opened up vast tracts of the unknown, and, by so doing, prepared new homes for their countrymen from England. Park and Livingstone, Raleigh and Flinders—the names of these and many more are remembered with gratitude wherever the English tongue is spoken.

Less often perhaps do we remember that there have been not only strong-willed and adventurous men but brave and enduring women who have gone where scarcely any white folks went before them, and who, while doing so, bore without complaint hardships no less severe than those endured by male pioneers.

To the shores of Cape Cod there came, on November 11, 1620, a little leaky ship, torn by North Atlantic gales and with sides shattered by North Atlantic rollers. Standing shivering upon her decks stood groups of men and women, plainly not sailor-folk, worn by a long voyage, and waiting to step upon a shore of which they knew no more than that it was inhabited by unmerciful savages and overlaid by dense forests. The first must be conciliated, and the second, to some extent at least, cleared away before there could be any hope of settlement.

What pictures of happy homes in the Old Country, with their green little gardens and honeysuckle creepers, rose up in the memory of those delicate women as they eyed the bleak, unfriendly shore! Yet, though the cold bit them and the unknown yawned before, they did not flinch, but waited for the solemn moment of landing.

[Sidenote: The "Mayflower"]

Perhaps a little of what they did that day they knew. Yet could they, we wonder, have realised that in quitting England with their husbands and fathers in order, with them, to worship God according to the manner bidden by their conscience, they were giving themselves a name glorious among women? Or that, because of them and theirs, the name of the little tattered, battered ship they were soon to leave, after weary months of danger from winds and seas, was to live as long as history. Thousands of great ships have gone out from England since the day on which the "Mayflower" sailed from Plymouth, yet which of them had a name like hers?

Tried as the "Mayflower" women were, their trials were only beginning. Even while they waited for their husbands to find a place of settlement, one of their number, wife of William Bradford—a man later to be their governor—fell overboard and was drowned. When they did at last land they had to face, not only the terrors of a North American winter, but sickness brought on by the hard work and poor food following the effects of overcrowding on the voyage.

Soon the death-rate in this small village amounted to as much as two to three persons a day. Wolves howled at night, Indians crept out to spy from behind trees, cruel winds shook their frail wooden houses and froze the dwellers in them, but the courage of the women pioneers of New England never faltered, and when, one by one, they died, worn out by hardship, they had done their noble part in building an altar to Him whom, in their own land, they had not been permitted to serve as they would.

For many years the task of helping to found settlements was the only work done by women in the way of opening up new territory. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries most of our discoveries were still those of the mariner, who could scarcely take his wife to sea. But in the nineteenth came the rise of foreign missions, as well as the acknowledgment of the need of inland exploration, and in this work the explorer's wife often shared in the risks and adventures of her husband.

When Robert Moffat began his missionary labours in South Africa in 1816, he had not only to preach the gospel to what were often bloodthirsty savages, but he had to plunge into the unknown. Three years later he married Mary Smith, who was henceforth to be his companion in all his journeys, and to face, with a courage not less than his own, the tropical heat, the poisonous insects, the savage beasts, the fierce natives of a territory untrod by the white man, and who had to do all this in a day before medicine had discovered cures for jungle-sickness and poisons, before invention had improved methods of travel, and before knowledge had been able to prepare maps or to write guides.

It was the daughter of Mary Moffat who became the wife of the greatest of all explorers, David Livingstone, and who like her mother, was to set her foot where no white men or women had stood before.

Their first home was at Mabotsa, about two hundred miles from what is now the city of Pretoria. But soon Livingstone began the series of journeys which was to make his name famous. With his wife he travelled in a roomy wagon, drawn by bullocks at a rate of about two miles an hour. But they often suffered intensely from the heat and the scarcity of water. Then the mosquitoes were always troublesome, and frequently even the slow progress they were making would be interrupted by the death of one of the bullocks, killed by the deadly tsetse. At other times they would halt before a dense bunch of trees, and would have to stop until a clearing had been cut through.

Such was the life of Mrs. Livingstone during her first years in Africa. For a time, following this, she lived in England with her children, and had there to endure sufferings greater than any she had shared with her husband, for during most of her time at home Livingstone was cut off from the world in the middle of Africa. When he reached the coast once more she went back to him, unable to endure the separation longer.

But, soon after landing, her health gave way. At the end of April her condition was hopeless; she lay upon "a rude bed formed of boxes, but covered with a soft mattress," and thus, her husband beside her, she died in the heart of the great continent for which she and those most dear to her had spent themselves.

[Sidenote: Lady Baker]

An even greater African explorer than Mrs. Livingstone was Lady Baker, wife of Sir Samuel Baker. She was a Hungarian, and married Baker in 1860, when he had already done some colonisation work by settling a number of Englishmen in Ceylon. In the year following their marriage, the Bakers went to Egypt, determined to clear up that greatest of all mysteries to African explorers—the secret of the Nile sources. Arrived at Khartoum, they fitted out an expedition and set off up the river with twenty-nine camels.

One day, as they pushed on slowly in that silent, burning land, they heard that white men were approaching; and sure enough, there soon appeared before them the figures of Speke and Grant, two well-known explorers who had gone out a year before and whom many feared to have been lost. These men had found the source of the Nile in the Victoria Nyanza. But they told the Bakers a wonderful story of how they had heard rumours from time to time of the existence of another lake into which the Nile was said to flow.

The minds of Baker and his wife were fired to emulation. Parting from their newly-met countrymen, they pressed onwards and southwards. They had to go a long distance out of their way to avoid the slave-traders who were determined to wreck their plans if they could.

"We have heard a good deal recently of lady travellers in Africa," said the Times a long time afterwards, "but their work has been mere child's play compared with the trials which Lady Baker had to undergo in forcing her way into a region absolutely unknown and bristling with dangers of every kind."

But after encountering many adventures, the determined traveller and his brave wife at last reached the top of a slope from which, on looking down, they saw a vast inland ocean. No eye of white man had ever beheld this lake before, and to Lady Baker, not less than to her husband, belongs the glory of the discovery of the lake which all the world knows to-day as the Albert Nyanza.

"Thus," to quote an earlier passage in the same Times article, "amid many hardships and at the frequent risk of death at the hands of Arab slavers and hostile chiefs, Baker and his wife forged one of the most important links in the course of one of the world's most famous rivers."

After many further difficulties, the explorers found their way back to the coast, and thence to England. But their fame had gone before them, and everywhere they were welcomed. And though it was Baker who was awarded a gold medal by the Royal Geographical Society, all must have felt that the honour belonged, not less, to his courageous wife.

[Sidenote: Mary Kingsley]

It may be said that Lady Baker was not alone in her journeys. On the other hand, Mary Kingsley, another woman African traveller, led her own expeditions. Moreover, her travelling was often done through territory reeking with disease. At the age of twenty-nine she explored the Congo River, and visited Old Calabar, and in 1894 ascended the mountain of Mungo Mah Lobeh. After her return to England she lectured upon her adventures. One more journey, this time not of exploration, was she to make to the great African continent. In 1900 she volunteered as a nurse during the war, and went out to the Cape. Here she was employed to nurse sick Boer prisoners. But her work was done. Enteric fever struck her down and, before long, the traveller had set out upon her last journey.

The names we have mentioned have been those of famous travellers—women whose work is part of the history of discovery. But there are hundreds of courageous women to-day, not perhaps engaged in exploration, but who, nevertheless, are living in remote stations in the heart of Africa, in the midst of the Australian "never-never," in the lonely islands of the Pacific—women whose husbands, whose fathers, whose brothers are carrying on the work of Empire, or the greater work of the gospel.

Often one of these women is the only white person of her sex for hundreds of miles. Perhaps she is the first who has ever set foot in the region wherein she lives. Yet her courage does not fail. When, as sometimes she does, she writes a book describing her adventures, it is sure to be full of high spirits and amusing descriptions of the primitive methods of cooking and housekeeping to which she must submit. The other side of the picture, the loneliness, the intense heat or cold, the mosquitoes or other pests, the compulsion, through absence of assistance, to do what at home could be done by a servant—all this is absent.

Women may have changed, but certainly woman in the difficult places of the Empire, whether she be missionary, squatter, or consul's wife, has lost nothing in courage, in perseverance, in cheerful or even smiling submission to hard conditions.



[Sidenote: A rural story this—of adventurous youngsters and a pathetic figure that won their sympathy.]

Poor Jane's Brother

BY

MARIE F. SALTON

Ever since the twins could remember Poor Jane had lived in the village. In fact, she had lived there all her life, though one could not expect the twins to remember that, for they were very young indeed, and Poor Jane was quite old.

Poor Jane did not dress like other folks. Her boots were so large and sloppy that her feet seemed to shake about in them, and she shuffled along the ground when she walked. These boots could never have been cleaned since Jane had had them, and the twins firmly believed that they always had been that queer dust-colour, until one day Nan told them that when they were quite new they were black and shiny like ordinary boots.

Poor Jane always wore a brown, muddy, gingham skirt, frayed and tattered, and the torn pieces hung like a frill from her knees to the tops of her dust-coloured boots. Over her chest she wore a dark-grey woollen cross-over, and on her head was a dirty shawl, which hung down her back, and was pinned across her breast. Little straw-like wisps of straight brown hair stuck out from under the shawl over her forehead and ears. Her face was dried up and shrivelled, and her cheek-bones were so sharp that they tried to prick through the skin.

Poor Jane did not often wash, so her wrinkles, and what Dumpty called her "laughing lines," were marked quite black with dirt. Her lips were not rosy and fresh like mummie's or Dumpty's, but they were of a purple-grey colour, and when she opened her mouth, instead of a row of pearly white teeth showing, there was only one very large yellow tooth, which looked as if it could not stay much longer in the gum.

The twins always thought that she must live on milk, as babies do before they have any teeth, but to their amazement they heard that last Christmas, at the Old People's Tea, Poor Jane had eaten two plates of salt beef.

"Do you think she sucked it?" Dumpty asked her brother that evening when nurse was safely out of the way. Humpty asked daddy the next day at lunch how old people managed to eat when they had only one tooth.

[Sidenote: Humpty's Experiment]

Daddy said they "chewed," and showed Humpty how it was done, and there was a scene that afternoon in the nursery at tea, when Humpty practised "chewing" his bread and honey. And in the end Dumpty went down alone to the drawing-room for games that evening, with this message from Nan: "Master Humphrey has behaved badly at the tea-table, and been sent to bed."



But although the children met Poor Jane every time that they went into the village they had never once spoken to her. That was because she was not one of nurse's friends, like old Mrs. Jenks, whom Barbara, the twins' elder sister, visited every week with flowers or fruit or other good things. Nan considered that Poor Jane was too dirty for one of her friends.

Poor Jane was so interesting because she had so much to say to herself, and, as daddy said, "gibbered like a monkey" when she walked alone.

All day long she would wander up and down the village street, and when the children came out of school and the boys began to tease, she would curl her long black-nailed fingers—which were so like birds' claws—at her persecutors, and would run towards them as if she meant to scratch out their eyes.

Early last spring the twins met with their first real adventure. They had had lots of little adventures before, such as the time when Humpty fell into the pond at his cousins' and was nearly drowned, and when Dumpty had a tooth drawn, and because she was brave and did not make a fuss, daddy and mummie each presented her with a shilling, and even the dentist gave her a penny and a ride in his chair.

But this time it was a real adventure because every one—twins included—was frightened.

The twins had just recovered from bad colds in their heads, which they had passed on to all the grown-ups in the house, and a cold in the head makes grown-ups particularly cross, so the twins found.

Mum came up to the nursery with a very hoarse voice and streaming eyes, but when she saw Nan she forgot about her own cold, and said that Nan must go to bed at once, and have something warm to drink, and put a nice hot-water bottle between the sheets. For a long time Nan said that nothing would make her go to bed, but at last mum, who is very sweet, and of whom Nan is really quite afraid, persuaded her to lie down, and herself brought up a dose of quinine.

It had rained all the morning, but the sun was shining so brightly now that the twins stood looking longingly out of the nursery window, while mummie helped Nan into bed.

"Can we go out, mum?" asked Humpty.

"There is no one to take you out, darling," said mummie thoughtfully; "but it is so nice and sunny now that I think you ought to go. It is too wet to play in the garden, and if you go alone you must promise to walk along the road to the end of the village, and straight back again. Now, remember to walk where it is clean and dry, and keep moving, and do not stop to play with the puddles, and when you come in you shall have tea with me."

"Hooray!" shouted the children; "two treats in one afternoon!"

It did not take the twins long to get ready for their walk that afternoon. They were so excited, for they had never been out alone for a walk before, though, of course, they used to play by themselves in the garden.

Each was inwardly hoping that they might meet Poor Jane, and so they did. As they came out of the drive gate they saw Poor Jane shuffling quickly up the road.

"Let's walk slowly," whispered Dumpty, quivering with excitement, "and perhaps she will catch us up."

In a few minutes the old woman had overtaken them.

[Sidenote: Jane's New Gloves]

All Nurse's injunctions were forgotten. The children stood still and stared, for Poor Jane was wearing a pair of brand new, red woollen gloves! Poor Jane saw them looking, and she crossed from the other side of the road and came near the children. Dumpty gave a little scream of terror, but Humpty caught her by the hand, so that she could not run away.

"Good afternoon," he said; "what nice red gloves you have!"

The old woman looked at her hands with great pride. "Beautiful red gloves," she said, spreading out her fingers. "I had the chilblains bad, so Mrs. Duke gave 'em to me. Beautiful red gloves!" She began cackling to herself, staring hard at the children as she did so. She had brown, staring eyes that looked very large and fierce in her thin face.

"Where's your nuss?" she asked, beginning to walk along by the side of the children.

"Our what?" asked Dumpty, puzzled.

"She means nurse," said Humpty, with great emphasis. "Nan is ill with a cold in her head," he explained, "and mum has just made her go to bed and drink hot milk."

"I often see ye passin'," said Poor Jane conversationally.

"Yes," said Humpty, who was still holding his sister's hand tight, "we often come this way for a walk, and we always see you."

"You always walk this way, don't you?" said Dumpty bravely, though she still trembled with fright.

"Yes, I allus come along 'ere, every day, wet or fine."

"Why?" asked Humpty, who had an inquiring mind.

Then the old woman seized him by the arm. Humpty turned white with terror, but his courage did not forsake him.

"Why?" he repeated boldly.

The old woman pinched his arm.

"Don't you know why I come here?" she asked, her voice getting shriller and shriller; "don't you know why I walk up and down this road every day, fine or wet, through snow and hail?" She lowered her voice mysteriously, and clutched hold of Dumpty, who could not help shrieking. "You're a lucky little miss; you keep your brother as long as you can. Ah! my poor brother, my poor brother!"

"Is your brother dead?" asked Dumpty sympathetically. She was not so frightened now, for although the old woman still held her pretty tight she did not look as if she meant to hurt them.

"No, he is alive! He is alive! They tell me he is dead, but I know better. A circus came to Woodstead" (the little shopping-town two miles from the village), "and he joined that—he had to go; the circus people—they was gipsies most of 'em—forced him—and he 'ad to go; 'e is a clown now."

"A clown!" cried the twins.

"Yus, and they won't let 'im come back to his poor old Jane. They're a keepin' us apart, they're a keepin' us apart!" And her voice died away in a wail. She stopped in the middle of the road.

"Poor Jane!" whispered Dumpty; "poor Jane! I am so sorry"; but Jane took no more notice of them, but went on murmuring to herself, "Keepin' us apart—keepin' us apart."

"Come on, Dump," said Humpty at last; "it's no good staying, she doesn't seem to want us." Dumpty joined him, and there were tears in her eyes. What Poor Jane had said was so very, very sad. The twins had so much to think about now that they talked very little during their walk, but when they did, it was all about Poor Jane and her brother, who was the clown in a circus.

When they got home the children had tea and games downstairs, and altogether it was great fun, but they did not mention their meeting with Poor Jane. That was their secret.

For days afterwards they talked it over and wondered whether Jane would speak to them the next time they met on the road, but when they went down the village again with nurse the old woman passed them by without a sign of recognition.

Three months passed and June had come, and one day Nan and the children went down to the village shop to buy slate-pencils.

[Sidenote: Mrs. Moses' Question]

"Are you taking the children to the circus?" asked Mrs. Moses, the shopwoman.

The twins pricked up their ears.

"When is it?" asked Nan.

"To-morrow, at Woodstead," answered Mrs. Moses; and she showed the children two large bills with pictures on them, of a beautiful young lady with yellow hair, who was walking on a tight-rope, a dark lady balancing herself on a golden globe, a young man riding, bare-back, on a fierce white horse, and a lion jumping through flames of fire, while in the corner was the picture of a clown grinning through a hoop.

"Oh, Nan!" said Humpty, when they were outside, "can we go?"

"I shall ask mummie when we get home what she thinks about it," said nurse, "but you are not to be disappointed or cross if she won't let you."

That evening when mummie came up to bid good-night to the twins in bed they were told that they might go. Nurse had been promised to-morrow off, so that she might have tea with her sister, who lived at Woodstead, but she had very kindly said that she would be quite willing to take the twins with her, and put them into seats in the circus, and then she would come for them at the end of the performance.

The twins were delighted, and almost too excited to speak. After mummie had gone they lay awake thinking.

"Humpty," said Dumpty presently, "what are you thinking about?"

"The circus," answered Humpty promptly.

"And I," said Dumpty pensively—"I have been thinking about Poor Jane."

"I have been thinking about her lots too," said Humpty.

"And oh, Humpty! supposing the clown should be her brother, what should we do?"

"We should bring him back to Poor Jane of course," said Humpty.

"But how shall we know whether he is her brother?"

"He will look like her, of course, stupid," replied Humpty, a little crossly, for he was beginning to feel sleepy.

[Sidenote: At the Circus]

They had an early dinner next day, and then Edward brought the pony round to the door, and they set off for Woodstead. Nurse was looking very smart in a black bonnet and silk mantle, and the children felt almost as if she were a stranger. Soon they came to a large meadow, where stood a great tent with steps leading up to it, and a man stood on the top of the steps beating a drum and crying, "Children half-price! Walk up! Walk up!"

There was a nice man inside, who led the children past rows of bare seats, raised one above the other, till he came to a part which was curtained off from the rest. He drew the curtain to one side to let the children pass in, and they saw four rows of comfortable seats with backs, covered with scarlet cloth.

"Yes, these will do nicely," said Nan; "and now, children, you must sit here quietly till the circus is over, and I shall come and fetch you at half-past four."

The children now had time to look about. A large plot of grass had been encircled with a low wooden fence, hung with more red cloth. Inside this ring some of the grass had been taken up, so that there was a narrow path where the horses would canter right round the ring. Quite close to the children was an elegant carriage—wagon-shaped—where the musicians sat, and made a great noise with their instruments. One of the men played the drum and cymbals at the same time. On their right the tent was open and led out on to the meadow, and this was the entrance for the horses and performers.

After playing the same tune through seven times, the band changed its music and began a quick, lively air, and in came trotting, mounted on a black horse with a white nose, a rather elderly lady with golden hair. She did not sit on an ordinary saddle, but on what appeared to be an oval tea-tray covered with blue satin. Behind her followed a serious, dignified gentleman, who was busily cracking a long whip. His name, the twins soon learned, was Mr. Brooks, for so all the performers addressed him.

The lady rode twice round the ring, and on dismounting kissed her hands to the audience in a friendly manner.

"I want to introduce to you, ladies and gentlemen, my wonderful performing horse Diamond. Diamond, make your bow."

Whereupon Diamond—with some difficulty—bent his knees, and thrust his head down to the ground.

The twins were enchanted.

But this was by no means the best of Diamond's accomplishments. By looking at a watch he could tell the time, and explained to the audience that it was now seventeen minutes past three, by pawing on a plank of wood with his hoof three times, and then, after a moment's pause, seventeen times. He could shake his head wisely to mean "yes" or "no"; he could find the lady's pocket-handkerchief amongst the audience, and, finally, he refused to leave the ring without his mistress, and when she showed no sign of accompanying him, he trotted behind her, and pushed her out with his soft white nose.

Next an acrobat came somersaulting in. He did all sorts of strange things, such as balancing himself upside down on the broad shoulders of Mr. Brooks, and tying himself into a kind of knot and so entangling his limbs that it became impossible to tell the legs from the arms.

After he had gone there was a long pause, and then came tottering in, with slow and painful footsteps, an old, old man. He was dressed in a dirty black suit, and wore an old battered bowler. His clothes were almost in rags, and he had muffled up his face with a long black comforter.

A strange hush came over the audience as he sat down in the ring to rest, only Humpty and Dumpty leaned forward eagerly to watch. "It is Poor Jane's brother," said Humpty very loudly.

Mr. Brooks went up to the tired old man. "I am afraid you are very tired, my good man," he said kindly.

"Very tired, very tired indeed, Mr. Brooks," sighed Poor Jane's brother.

"Mr. Brooks!" cried the owner of that name, "how, sir, do you know that my name is Brooks?" And then a wonderful thing happened. The old man sprang to his feet, his rags dropped from him, he tore off the black comforter, and behold! he was a clown with a large red nose, who cried, "Here we are again!"

How the children laughed and clapped, and how pleased the twins were to have discovered Poor Jane's brother!

Oh, the things that clown did! The familiar way in which he spoke to Mr. Brooks! The practical jokes that he played on him! Then in trotted old Diamond to join in the fun, and here was a chance for the clown to take a lesson in riding. He mounted by climbing up the tail, and then he rode sitting with his back to the horse's head. He tried standing upright whilst Diamond was galloping, but could not keep his balance, and fell forward with his arms clasped tightly round the animal's neck. In the end Diamond, growing tired of his antics, pitched him over his head, but the clown did not seem to mind, for before he had reached the ground he turned an immense somersault—then another—and the third carried him right through the entrance back into the meadow where the caravans were standing.

"Humpty," asked Dumpty, "what are we to do?"

[Sidenote: To the Rescue!]

"We must go at once and rescue him," answered the boy.

The twins slipped from their seats, and crept to the back of the tent.

"I think we can squeeze under this," said Humpty, as he began wriggling under the awning. He then helped Dumpty, who was rather fat, and showed signs of getting stuck.

"How cool it is outside!" remarked Dumpty, who had found it hot and stifling under the tent. "I would like to know what is going on, wouldn't you?" she added, as a peal of merry laughter came from the tent.

"We will go back presently," said Humpty; "but we must first find Poor Jane's brother."

There were two or three small tents, and one large one, in which the horses were stabled. Dumpty longed to stop and talk to a dear little piebald pony, but Humpty carried her on till they came to the caravans.

Four or five men were lying face downwards on the grass—worn out and tired. Before the steps of one caravan a group of children were playing, whilst one woman in a red shawl sat on the steps smoking a clay pipe, and holding a dirty-looking baby in her arms.

The twins stole round the caravan, taking good care not to be seen. There was as yet no sign of the clown.

At last they found a smaller caravan which stood apart from the others, and the door was ajar. "Perhaps he is in there," suggested Humpty. "I am going to see." And he ran up the steps and peeped inside.

"Oh, do come, Dumpty!" he cried; "it is awfully interesting."

Dumpty tumbled up the steps.

"Oh, Humpty!" she said, "how lovely!"

It really was a very nice caravan, and spotlessly clean. There were dear little red curtains in front of the window and a red mat on the floor. All over the wall hung baskets made in pretty green and blue straw of all shapes and sizes. On the chair lay a bundle of peacock's feathers.

"These are like what the gipsies sell," remarked Dumpty. A gipsy's basket was lying on the floor, in which were tin utensils for cooking, and two or three saucepans. Bootlaces had been wound round the handle.

The twins were fascinated, and turned everything over with great interest. They found a large cupboard, too, containing all sorts of beautiful clothes—lovely velvet dresses, and robes of gold and silver.

"How dark it is getting!" said Humpty presently; "why did you shut the door?"

"I didn't shut the door," answered Dumpty; "I spect the wind did."

They took a long time in exploring the cupboard. Suddenly Humpty cried, "We have forgotten Poor Jane's brother!"

They made a rush for the door.

"Here, Humpty, will you open it? This handle is stiff."

Humpty pulled and struggled with the handle until he was red in the face.

"I can't get it open," he said at last.

"Let me try again," said Dumpty, and she pushed and struggled, but to no purpose.

For a long time she and Humpty tried alternately to open the door, but nothing that they could do was of any avail.

[Sidenote: Locked in]

"I think it is locked," said Humpty at last, sitting down despondently. He was panting breathlessly, and began to swing his legs.

Dumpty's eyes grew wide with terror, her lips trembled.

"Have they locked us in on purpose?" she asked.

"Yes," said Humpty, "the circus people have locked us in, and they won't unlock the door until they have left Woodstead."

"And then?" asked Dumpty.

"Then they will keep us, and never let us come home again—like they did to Poor Jane's brother, and I shall be a bare-back rider, and you will wear the blue velvet gown, and ride in the processions on the piebald pony."

"And we shall never see mummie or daddy again—or Nan—or Poor Jane," said Dumpty, beginning to cry.

"No, we shall never see them again," answered Humpty, swallowing hard to keep himself from crying.

Dumpty was crying bitterly now, and the loud sobs shook her small body. Humpty looked dismally at his surroundings, and continued to swing his legs.

"Give over!" he said to Dumpty, after one of her loudest sobs; "it will never do for them to see that you've been crying, or they will be just furious."

After a time Dumpty dried her eyes, and went to the window, and drew back the curtains.

"It's getting dark," she said.

Humpty began to whistle. Suddenly he stopped.

"I am getting awful hungry," he remarked.

"We shan't have nuffin' to eat until the morning," said Dumpty.

"Humpty," she continued, "would it be any good if we screamed and banged the door?"

"No," said the boy; "if they heard us trying to give the alarm, they would be very angry, and perhaps they wouldn't give us anything to eat for days—not until we were nearly dead."

"I think we had better go to sleep," said Dumpty, yawning, and began saying her prayers.

In a few minutes both children were lying fast asleep on the floor of the caravan.

* * * * *

"My eye! jest look 'ere, Bill!"

"Well, I'm blowed!" said Bill, gaping open-mouthed at the sight of the two children asleep in the caravan.

"'Ow in the world did they get 'ere?" continued the woman who had first found them. "Wike up! wike hup!" she cried, giving them each a violent shaking.

Humpty began to open his eyes. He stared in astonishment at the people round him.

"Are you the circus people?" he asked.

"Yes, and who are you, we're wanting to know, and 'ow did you come 'ere?"

By this time Dumpty was awake. On seeing the strange faces, she immediately began to cry.

"Don't 'e cry, dear," said the woman; "there's no call to be afraid."

But Dumpty still cried.

"Why did you lock us in?" asked Humpty defiantly.

"I believe they think as 'ow we locked 'em in for the purpose," laughed the woman, and then she explained to them what had happened, how they always kept this caravan locked, for they did not use it for sleeping or living in, but filled it with baskets and tins, which they sold as they travelled through the villages. She told the twins, too, that three policemen were out searching for them everywhere, and had come to make inquiries of her husband, and of the man who sold the tickets, but they could tell them nothing. And in their turn the twins had to explain how it was that they had found their way into the caravan.

[Sidenote: An Early Breakfast]

It was just three o'clock now, and the men were all at work, for by four o'clock they must be on the way to the next town, where they were "billed" to give a performance that very afternoon.

"And now," said the woman, "you must 'ave a bite of breakfast, and then Bill shall tike you 'ome. What'll your ma and pa say when they see you? they'll be mighty pleased, I guess."

The twins had never been up so early in the morning before. They felt ill and stiff all over from sleeping on the hard floor, and they were very hungry, and cold too, for the morning air seemed chill and biting.

The women had made a fire of sticks, and a great black kettle was hanging over it. The water was boiling and bubbling.

Soon the men left their work and came to join in the meal. They all sat round the fire on the wet grass, and shared the large, thick mugs of tea and sugar, and stared at the little strangers.

All the children were up, too, and rubbed their eyes and tried hard not to look sleepy, but the little ones were cross and peevish. Each child had a large slice of bread, and a piece of cold pork, and even the little, sore-eyed baby held a crust of bread and a piece of pork in his hand, which he tried to stuff into his mouth.

The twins, because they were the guests, were given each a hard-boiled egg. Dumpty was getting over her shyness now, and tried to behave as mummie does when she is out to tea. "Eggs are very dear now," she announced gravely, during a lull in the conversation; "how much do you pay for yours?" How the men and women laughed! It seemed as if Bill would never stop chuckling, and repeating to himself, "Pay for our eggs! That's a good un"; and every time that he said "Pay for our eggs!" he gave his leg a loud slap with his hand. When breakfast was over—and you may be sure that the twins ate a good one, although they did not much like the strong tea, without any milk—the woman said it was time for them to be starting home.

"Please," begged Dumpty, summoning all her courage—"please, may the piebald pony take us?" and in a few minutes Bill drove it up, harnessed to an old rickety cart, and the two children were packed in.

Just as they were starting Dumpty said, with a sigh, to the kind gipsy woman, "Thank you very, very much, and will you, please, tell the clown how sorry I am that I have not seen him to speak to?"

"'Ere I am, young mon—'ere I am!"

It was Bill who spoke. The twins could not believe their ears.

"Are you the clown?" said Dumpty in an awestruck voice; "are you really and truly the clown?"

Bill jerked the reins, and the piebald pony set off at a weary trot. "Yes, missie, I am the clown," he said.

"Where's your nose?" asked Humpty suspiciously.

"One's on my face—t'other's in the dressing-up box," answered the man, with a shout of laughter.

"Then you're not Poor Jane's brother?" said Dumpty.

"Don't know nuffun about Poor Jine—we've got only one Jine here, and that's the monkey, and she ain't my sister, leastways it's to be hoped as she in't."

But although it was disappointing to find that the clever clown was only Bill all the time, the twins enjoyed their drive home, for Bill told them many wonderful tales of his life in the ring, and of the animals which he had trained.

Soon they came to the village, which looked so strange and quiet by the early morning light, with the cottage-doors all shut, and the windows closed and the blinds drawn. Humpty jumped down to open the gate leading up the drive, and there on the doorstep were mummie and daddy, looking so white and ill, who had come out of the house at the sound of the wheels on the gravel to greet them.

[Sidenote: Home Again]

The twins were hurried indoors and taken up to the nursery, and Nan cried when she saw them and forgot to scold. From the window they watched mum and daddy thanking Bill, and giving him some money, and they waved "goodbye" to him, and he flourished his whip in return, gave another tug at the reins, and the old piebald pony cantered bravely down the drive, and they saw them no more.

The twins were not allowed to see their mother, for Nan said that she was feeling ill with a dreadful headache, and it was all on account of their "goings-on"; and after Nan had stopped crying, she began to scold, and was very cross all day.

That evening when the twins were in bed mummie came to tuck them up. But instead of saying "Good-night," and then going out as she generally did, she stayed for a long, long time and talked.

She told them that it was very wrong to have disobeyed nurse, who had told them to stay in the seats and not to go away.

"But," cried Humpty, "we had to try to rescue Poor Jane's brother!"

"Poor Jane's brother!" repeated mummie, looking puzzled. And then the twins explained.

Mummie sat silent for a long time.

"Remember, children," she said at last, "never do evil that good may come—I can't expect you to understand that—but I can tell you a little story."

"A story!" cried the twins. "Hooray!"

"Once upon a time a town was besieged. It was night, and only the sentinels on the walls were left on guard, and told to give the alarm by clanging a large bell, should the enemy force an attack. There was one sentinel who had never done this work before, and he was given the least important tower to guard. During the night a loud bell clanged out, and a soldier came running along the wall to speak to the new sentinel. 'Do come,' he said, 'we want as many helpers as we can get at once, and there will be plenty of fighting.' The young sentinel longed to go with him, and join the fight, but he remembered his duty in time.

"'I cannot leave this tower,' he said; 'I have had orders to stay and give the alarm should the enemy appear, and the town trusts me to do so.'

"'I believe that you are afraid,' said the soldier as he hurried away.

"And this was the hardest of all, and the sentinel longed to join in the fighting to show that he, too, was no coward, but could fight like a man.

"He stood there, listening to the noise in the distance, to the shouts of the enemy, and the screams of those who were struck down. And as he looked below the walls into the valley beyond he thought that he could distinguish men moving, and while he watched he saw a number of soldiers creeping up to the walls, and one man had even placed his foot on the steps that led up to his tower. Quick as thought, the sentinel seized the rope of the large bell that hung over his head and clanged it again and again.

"In a few minutes the troops were assembled, and, making their way down the steep steps, they charged at the enemy, and followed them into the valley.

"Late on the following evening the soldiers returned, but not all, for many were killed—and they brought back news of a great victory. The enemy was routed and the town saved. So you see, children," said mother gravely, "how much better it is to do what is right. If that young sentinel had left his post, even though it were to help the men in the other tower, the enemy would have climbed up those steps and got into the town. You must try to remember this always. You should have obeyed nurse, and remembered that she was trusting you to do what she had said. It was a kind thought of yours to try to rescue Poor Jane's brother, but obedience to nurse should have come first."

[Sidenote: Jane's Delusion]

"But we forgot, mummie," said Humpty.

"What would have happened if the sentinel had forgotten that he was trusted to do his duty, and stay in the tower?"

Humpty was silent.

"And now," said mummie cheerfully, "we will forget all about the terrible fright you have given us, and you must try to remember what I have said. I want to know all about Poor Jane's brother," she continued, smiling; "is it some one you have been imagining about?"

"Oh, no!" cried the twins at once. And then they told her of the conversation which they had had with Poor Jane, and of what she had said about her brother.

"But Poor Jane has no brother," said mummie; "he died long ago. Jane's mind has never grown up. One day, when she was a girl, her mother took her to a circus at Woodstead, and when they came home, after it was over, they were told the sad news that Jane's brother had fallen from the top of a wagon of hay on to his head. He died a few hours later. But Jane could not understand death—she only knew that Harry had gone away from them, and she believed that the circus people had stolen him from the village and made him a clown. Ever since that sad day Jane has gone up and down the village to look for him, hoping that he will come back."

"And will Poor Jane never see him again?" asked Dumpty.

"Yes," answered mummie, with her sweetest smile—"yes, darlings, one day she may!"



[Sidenote: An Englishwoman's adventure in Arkansas, issuing in a great surprise to all concerned.]

The Sugar Creek Highwayman

BY

ADELA E. ORPEN

When Mrs. Boyd returned from Arkansas, I, having myself spent a very uneventful summer at home, with only the slight excitement of a month at Margate, was most anxious to hear an account of her adventures. That she had had adventures out there on those wild plains of course I felt certain. It would be manifestly preposterous to go to Arkansas for three months, and come back without an adventure.

So, on the first day when Mrs. Boyd was to be "at home" after her return, I went to see her; and I found, already assembled in her cosy drawing-room, several other friends, impelled there, like myself, by curiosity to hear what she had to say, as well as by a desire to welcome her back.

"I was just asking Mrs. Boyd what she thought the most singular thing in America," said Miss Bascombe, by way of putting me au courant with the conversation after my greeting was over with our hostess.

"And I," replied Mrs. Boyd, "was just going to say I really did not know what was the one most curious thing in America, where most things seem curious, being different from here, you know. I suppose it is their strange whining speech which most strikes one at the outset. It is strong in New York, certainly, but when you get out West it is simply amazing. But then they thought my speech as curious as I did theirs. A good woman in Arkansas said I talked 'mighty crabbed like.' But a man who travelled in the next seat to me, across Southern Illinois, after talking with me for a long time, said, 'Wal, now, you dew talk purty tol'eble square for an Englishwoman. You h'aint said 'Hingland' nor 'Hameriky' onst since you sot there as I knows on!'"

Mrs. Boyd put on so droll a twang, and gave her words such a curious, downward jerk in speaking, that we all laughed, and felt we had a pretty fair idea of how the Illinois people talk at all events.

"Everybody is very friendly," continued Mrs. Boyd, "no matter what may be their station in life, nor what you may suppose to be yours. I remember in Cincinnati, where I stopped for a couple of days, the porter who got out my box for me saw it had some London and Liverpool labels on it, whereupon he said, with a pleasant smile, 'Wal, how's Europe gettin' on, anyhow?' Fancy a Cannon Street porter making such a remark to a passenger! But it was quite simply said, without the faintest idea of impertinence. In fact, it is almost impossible to say that anybody is impertinent where you are all so absolutely on an equality."

Now all this was interesting enough, no doubt, but what I wanted to hear about was something more startling. I could not really give up all at once the idea of an adventure in the West, so I said, "But didn't anything wonderful happen to you, Mrs. Boyd?"

"No, I can't say there did," replied the lady, slightly surprised, I could see, by my question.

Then, rallying my geography with an effort, I asked, "Weren't you carried off by the Indians, or swept away by a flood?"

"No, I was many hundred miles away from the Indian Reservation, and did not see a single Red man," replied Mrs. Boyd; "and as for floods—well, my dear, I could tell you the ridiculous straits we were put to for want of water, but I can't even imagine a flood on those parched and dried-up plains."

[Sidenote: An Adventure]

"Well," said I, in an aggrieved voice, "I think you might have come back with at least one adventure after being away for three months."

"An adventure!" exclaimed Mrs. Boyd, in astonishment, and then a flash of recollection passed over her countenance, and she continued, "Oh, yes, I did have one; I had an adventure with an highwayman."

"Oh!" cried all the ladies, in a delighted chorus.

"See there, now!" said Miss Bascombe, as if appropriating to herself the credit of the impending narrative.

"I knew it!" said I, with triumph, conscious that to me was due the glory of unearthing the tale.

"I'll tell it to you, if you like," said Mrs. Boyd.

"Oh, pray do; we are dying to hear about it!" said Miss Bascombe. "A highwayman above all! How delicious!"

"Was he handsome?" asked one of the ladies, foolishly, as if that had anything to say to it.

"Wait," said Mrs. Boyd, who assumed a grave expression of countenance, which we felt to be due to the recollection of the danger she had run. We also looked serious, as in politeness bound, and sat in eager expectation of her story.

"One day we were all invited to spend the whole afternoon at a neighbour's house. We were to go early for dinner at half-past twelve, stay until tea at five, and then drive home in the evening. The neighbour lived twelve miles away, but as there was to be a moon we anticipated no difficulty in driving home over the prairie. You see, as a rule, people are not out after dark in those wild regions; they get up very early, work hard all day, and are quite ready to go to bed soon after sunset. Anyway, there is no twilight; the sun sets, and it is dark almost immediately. When the day came, Emily (my sister, you know, with whom I was staying) wasn't able to go because the baby was not at all well, and she could not leave him for so long a time. So my brother-in-law and I set off alone, promising to come home early. I enjoyed the drive over the prairie very much, and we got to our destination about midday. Then we had dinner, a regular out-West dinner, all on the table together, everything very good and very plentiful. We dined in the kitchen, of course, and after dinner I helped Mrs. Hewstead to wash up the dishes, and then we went out and sat on the north side of the house in the shade and gossiped, while the men went and inspected some steam-ploughs and corn-planters, and what not. Then at five o'clock we had supper. Dear me! when I think of that square meal, and then look at this table, I certainly realise there is a world of difference between England and Arkansas."

"Why," said Miss Bascombe, "don't they have tea in America?"

"Oh, yes," replied Mrs. Boyd, "we had tea and coffee, any number of cakes and pies, and the coloured man brought up a wheelbarrowful of water-melons and piled them on the floor, and we ate them all!"

"Dear me," I remarked, "what a very extraordinary repast! I think you must have felt rather uncomfortable after such a gorge."

"Oh dear, no," returned Mrs. Boyd, smiling; "one can eat simply an unlimited quantity of water-melons on those thirsty plains. The water is always sickeningly warm in the summer-time, so that any substitute for it is eagerly welcomed."

Mrs. Boyd, lost in the recollections of the appetising water-melons, was clearly forgetting the great point of her story, so I ventured to suggest it by remarking: "And the highwayman?"

"I am coming to that directly," said Mrs. Boyd.

"Well, we started home just before sundown; and as it was very hot, we could not drive fast. Indeed, the horses were in a sheet of lather almost immediately, and the air seemed fairly thick with the heat-rays, and absolutely breathless. Just as we got to the bluff overlooking the Big Sugar Creek, the sun set.

[Sidenote: A Dangerous District]

"'I wish we were on the other side of the creek, I know,' said my brother-in-law.

"'Why so?' said I; 'this part of the country is perfectly safe, is it not?'

"'Yes,' he replied, 'it is pretty safe now, but there are always some rough customers about the bush, and there have been one or two shootings on the Big Sugar. Orlando Morse saw a man on horseback one night just after he had crossed the ford, waiting for him by the side of the road under the trees. But Orlando is an old frontier-man, so he is pretty quick with his trigger. He fired twice at the man, after challenging; whereupon the scoundrel vanished rapidly, and Orlando got safe home.'

"I felt very uncomfortable at this, as you may imagine; still, as I knew my brother-in-law had a very poor opinion of the nerves of Englishwomen, I made an effort to say, as lightly as I could: 'What a very extraordinary country, to be sure! And do you always shoot anybody you may happen to see standing by the roadside of a summer's evening?'

"'Oh no,' laughed Louis; 'we're not quite so savage as that. But you may fire at any suspicious body or thing, after due challenge, if the answer is not satisfactory. That's the rule of the road.'

"After that I began to peer about in the gloom, rather anxiously trying to see if I could discover any suspicious body or thing, but I could make out nothing on account of the gloom, made more complete by the surrounding trees. Besides, we were going down hill very fast; we were, in fact, descending the steep bank of the first creek; then there was a bit of level in the wooded valley, then another stream, the South Fork it was called, then another steep climb, and we would once more be on the high and open prairie.

"'Now, then, hold on tight!' said my brother-in-law, as he clutched the reins in both hands, braced his feet against the dashboard, and leaned far back in his seat. The horses seemed literally to disappear beneath our feet; the wagon went down head foremost with a lunge, there was a sudden jerk and great splashing and snorting, followed by a complete cessation of noise from the wheels, and a gentle swaying to and fro of the wagon. We were crossing the ford with the water breast high on the horses.

"'I'm always glad when that ford is behind me,' said Louis to me, when we were again driving on quietly through the valley.

"'Why?' said I; 'for there's another ford in front of us still.'

"'Oh, the South Fork is nothing, but the Big Sugar is treacherous. I've known it rise twenty feet in two hours, and once I was water-bound on the other side for eleven days, unable to ford it. Emily would have gone out of her mind with anxiety, for the country was very disturbed at the time, only one of our neighbours, who saw me camping there, rode down to the house, and told her where I was, but, all the same——Hold! what's that?'

"I didn't scream; I couldn't, for my heart almost stopped beating with terror.

"'Take the reins,' said Louis, in a quick whisper.

"I took hold of them as firmly as I could, but a pair of kittens could have run away with us, my hands trembled so. Louis got out his revolver; I heard click, click, click, in his hand, and then in the faint light I saw the gleam of steel.

"'Halt! Who goes there?' called Louis, in a voice of thunder. I never heard his soldier-voice before, for ordinarily he speaks in a melodious baritone; and I then quite understood what Emily meant when she told me how his voice was heard above the din of battle, cheering his men on for the last charge at Gettysburg. I strained my eyes to see what it was, and there in front of us, not fifteen yards away, on the side of the road, I saw a man seated on horseback standing motionless, his right arm stretching forward, aiming straight towards us.

[Sidenote: Two Pistol-shots]

"Two livid tongues of flame darted from beside me—two quick reports of pistol-shots rang on the night air, then all was still. I felt the horses quiver, for the motion was communicated to me by the reins I held in my hands, but they were admirably trained animals, and did not move to the right or the left, only the younger one, a bay filly, snorted loudly. Louis sat silent and motionless, his revolver still pointing at the highwayman.

"I scarcely breathed, but in all my life I never thought with such lightning rapidity. My whole household over here was distinct before me, with my husband and the children, and what they would do on getting the cablegram saying 'waylaid and murdered.'

"I thought of a myriad things. I remember, amongst others, that it worried me to think that an over-charge of five shillings from Perkins for fowl, which my husband had just written to ask about, would now be paid because I could never explain that the pair of chickens had been returned. All this time—only a moment or two, you know—I was expecting instant death, while Louis and the horses remained motionless.

"The smoke from the revolver slowly cleared away; a bat, startled by the noise, flapped against my face, and we saw the highwayman seated on his horse, standing immovable where he was, his right arm stretching out towards us with the same deadly aim.

"'If that man is mortal, he should have dropped,' said Louis softly. 'Both bullets struck him.'

"We waited a moment longer. The figure remained as before.

"'I must reconnoitre,' said Louis; 'I don't understand his tactics.' And, to my dismay, he prepared to get out of the wagon.

"'Are you going away?' I asked breathlessly.

"'Yes; sit still—the horses won't stir. I'm going to open fire at close quarters.'

"I thought Louis's attempt at jocularity most ill-timed, but I said nothing. It seemed to me an immense time that he was gone, but he declares that it was not more than a minute and a quarter. Then I heard him laugh quietly to himself.

"'All right, come on,' he said to me. 'Gee, whoa, haw, get up, girlies,' he said to the horses, and those sagacious beasts immediately walked straight towards the spot whence his voice came, without paying the least attention to me, who was holding the reins so tight, as I thought.

"'Well, Milly, I suppose you'll never stop laughing,' was the first thing he said to me when the horses came to a standstill, with their noses almost in his beard.

"'I never felt less like laughing,' I replied, hardly daring to believe that the peril was past and that I was still alive.

"'Our highwayman is an old stump, don't you see?' exclaimed Louis. I looked again and saw that what he said was true; a gnarled tree stump, some twisted branches, a deceiving white vapour, and perhaps, too, our own vivid imaginations, these were the elements which had given birth to our highwayman.

"'I never was more taken in,' said Louis, as he resumed his seat beside me. 'It was the dead image of a man on horseback holding out a pistol. I'll come down here to-morrow and examine the place, to find out how I could have been so silly, but in the daylight, of course, it will look quite different. I shan't ever dare to tell the story, however, for they'll laugh at me from the Red River to the Mississippi, and say I'm getting to be an old fool, and ought to have somebody to look after me!'

"I saw that Louis was ashamed of the mistake he had made, but I was so thankful to be safe that I paid little heed to what he said. The next day he rode down to the Big Sugar Creek, sure enough, to identify the slain, as he said. When he came back, a couple of hours later, he was in high good-humour.

"'I shall not be afraid to tell the story against myself now,' he said. 'What do you think I found in the stump?'

"'What did you find?' asked I, full of interest in this, the only highwayman I ever met.

[Sidenote: The Last Laugh]

"'Sixteen bullet-holes! You see, there have been other fools as great as myself, but they were ashamed of their folly and kept it dark. I shall tell mine abroad and have the last laugh at all events.'"



[Sidenote: Dorothy played a highly important part at a critical period in the life of her father. She begins in disgrace and ends in triumph.]

Dorothy's Day

BY

M. E. LONGMORE

"My costume!" said Dorothy Graham, jumping up from the breakfast-table.

"You need not smash all the china!" observed Dick.

"The parcels post never comes so early," murmured Dorothy's mother. "How impulsive that child is!"

In a few minutes Dorothy came back with a crestfallen air and laid a brown, uninteresting-looking envelope by her mother's plate.

"I might have known he never comes so early, except with letters," she remarked, sitting down again.

"Of course you might," said Dick, clearing the bacon dish, "but you never know anything worth knowing."

"Don't tease her," said Mrs. Graham kindly; "it is not often she gets a new frock."

"A costume," corrected Dick, imitating Dorothy's voice. "A real tailor one—made in Bond Street!"

Mr. Graham rustled his newspaper, and Dick succumbed.

"Why, Dorothy!" Mrs. Graham was looking at her letter. "Dear me!" She ran her eyes quickly through its contents. "I'm afraid that costume won't come to-day. They've had a fire."

[Sidenote: A Fire in Bond Street]

"'Prescott's, Bond Street,'" said Mr. Graham, reading from a paragraph in the morning paper. "Here it is: 'A fire occurred yesterday afternoon in the ladies' tailoring department. The stock-room was gutted, but fortunately the assistants escaped without injury.'"

Dorothy, with a very long face, was reading over her mother's shoulder:

"In consequence of a fire in the tailoring department Messrs. Prescott beg to inform their customers that some delay will be caused in getting out this week's orders. Business will, however, be continued as usual, and it will greatly facilitate matters if ladies having costumes now in hand will repeat the order by wire or telephone to avoid mistakes."

"It's very smart of them to have got that notice here so soon," said Mr. Graham.

"Mother," said Dorothy, swallowing very hard, "do you think it is burnt? After being fitted and all!"

"It is a disappointment," said her mother kindly, "but they'll make you another."

"It's a shame!" burst out Dorothy, with very hot cheeks. "These sort of things always happen to me! Can't we go to Chelmsford and get one ready-made?"

"That's a girl all over!" exclaimed Dick. "Now the man's down, let's kick him!"

Mr. Graham turned his head with a sharp look at Dick, who immediately, getting very red, pretended to be picking up something under the table.

"I didn't say anything about any man!" said Dorothy, appealing all round. "Mother, can't I have a costume from Chelmsford?"

"No, dear," said Mrs. Graham coldly; "this one is ordered."

"Dick is right, Dolly," said her father. "Don't you see it is the people who have had the fire we should pity? And is it not bad enough to have their place burnt, without losing their customers?"

Dorothy sulked. She thought every one was very unkind, and it seemed the last straw when father took Dick's part against her.

It was time for Mr. Graham to go to town. He had eaten scarcely any breakfast, and Mrs. Graham, who had been anxiously watching him, had eaten none at all, but things of this sort children don't often notice.

When he passed his little girl's chair, he put his hand kindly on her shoulder, and the tears that had been so near welled into her eyes.

"Poor Dolly!" Mr. Graham said presently, as he reached for his hat, "everything seems of a piece." And he gave a great sigh.

Mrs. Graham always went as far as the gate with him, and he thought they were alone in the hall, but Dick had followed them to the dining-room door. It was holiday-time, yet Dick was going to Chelmsford for an examination. He had come out intending to ask his father before he went to London for half a crown. Dick was just at the age when schoolboys try to appear exactly the reverse from what they are. He squabbled constantly with Dorothy, though he loved her very much, and now, when he heard his father sigh, he put his hands in his pockets as if he didn't care about anything, and went upstairs whistling.

When Dick got to his room, he took a money-box from the mantelpiece and smashed it open with the poker. He had been saving up for a new bat, and the box contained seven shillings. He put the money in his pocket and ran down again in a great hurry.

"Dick! Dick!" exclaimed his mother, catching him. "Come here! Let me brush your collar. How rough your hair is! Dick, you must have a new hat! You can't go into the hall with that one."

"All serene, mother," said the boy, submitting impatiently to be overhauled. "I can buy a new hat and pitch the old one away."

"How grandly some people talk!" said his mother, pinching his ear. "As if the world belonged to them. Well, never mind, dear boy! If you get on well and pass, no one will remember your hat was shabby. Have you got your fare?"

[Sidenote: A Telegram]

"Oh, mother, how you do worry!" exclaimed Dick, wrenching himself away; "I've got lots of money—heaps!"

He ran across the lawn, and just because he knew she was watching, jumped right over the azalea-bushes and wire fence instead of going out at the gate, and yet the tired look went out of Mrs. Graham's eyes, and a smile crept round her mouth as she watched him.

Dorothy, standing at the dining-room window, saw him go too, and thought how horrid it was of Dick to look so glad when she was so unhappy.

"Boys are always like that," she thought. "They don't care a bit about any one but themselves."

Mrs. Graham came back into the room holding a telegram in her hand which she tore open quickly. Her face went red and then rather white.

"What is it, mother?" said Dorothy eagerly. "Have they arrived?"

"They have been in London two days," said Mrs. Graham, with a curious catch in her breath, and she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "They want me up for a day's shopping. If I had known, I could have gone with father."

Dorothy stood staring at her mother with wide-open eyes. Half a dozen castles in the air seemed tumbling about her head at the same time.

They were expecting her mother's cousins over from America. Dorothy had been chattering about them to the girls at school all the term, and it was in honour of these very cousins she was having her first Bond Street costume. Her mother had not said that was the reason, but Dorothy knew it. She had a sweet, really big hat too, with tiny rosebuds, and new gloves and boots. As a rule her mother was not particular about getting everything new at the same time, but she had taken enough pains this time to please Dorothy herself.

"They do dress children so at Boston," Dorothy had overheard her mother say to Mr. Graham, as a sort of excuse. "I should like Dollie to look nice."

And from that one sentence Dorothy had conjured up all sorts of things about these wonderful cousins. Of course she thought they were coming to stay with them. She expected there would be girls of her own age, and that they would be so charmed with their English cousin that they would invite her to go back to Boston with them. She had talked about them, and thought about them so much that she imagined her mother had told her all this, but really Mrs. Graham, who talked very little, didn't know much about her cousins herself, so she could not have given her little daughter all this information if she had been inclined to.

And now it all seemed so tame. First no costume, then an ordinary wire to ask mother to go up for a day's shopping. They might have come from Surrey instead of America. And two whole days before they wired at all.

Perhaps Mrs. Graham was thinking something of the kind too, for she stood biting her lip, with the colour going and coming in pretty blushes on her cheek, as if she could not make up her mind.

She was just "mother" to Dorothy, but to other people Mrs. Graham was both pretty and sweet.

"I must go," she said at length, "and there is scarcely time to get ready."

"Oh, mother!" cried Dorothy, "can't I come too?"

Mrs. Graham still seemed to be considering something else, and she merely answered, "No, dear," and went quickly upstairs.

Dorothy sank down on the sofa in a terribly injured mood. Nobody seemed to be thinking of her at all. And before she had got over the first brunt of this discovery her mother was back again ready to go, with her purse-bag and gloves in her hand.

[Sidenote: Left in Charge]

"Dorothy," she said, arranging her hat before the mirror of the overmantel, "you may choose any pudding you like, tell cook. Here are the keys"—she paused to throw a small bunch in Dorothy's lap. "Get out anything they want. And Dick won't be in till half-past one, tell her. And Dollie"—there was again that queer little catch in her voice—"it is possible Miss Addiscombe may call this afternoon. I have told Louisa to show her right into the drawing-room without telling her I am out, and come and find you. I want you to be very nice to her, and explain about the Merediths. Tell her I was obliged to go because they only gave me the place of meeting, and I have not their address. I shall be home as soon as possible, between four and five at latest, so do your best to keep her till I come back."

"Did you say Miss Addiscombe, mother?" said Dorothy dismally, yet a little comforted by having the keys, and with the thought of choosing the pudding, "I don't think she's likely to call."

"I said Miss Addiscombe," Mrs. Graham answered decidedly. "Do you understand what I wish you to do, Dollie?"

"Yes, mother," said Dorothy, subdued but mutinous.

Then she ran after her to the hall door.

"Mayn't I ask some one to spend the day, mother?" she called, but Mrs. Graham was almost at the gate, nearly running to be in time for her train, and did not hear her.

* * * * *

Mrs. Graham came home looking very white and tired. "Did Miss Addiscombe call?" were the first words she said.

Louisa, who was bringing in the tea, looked meaningly at Dorothy, and went out without speaking.

"Oh, mother!" said Dorothy, "I am so sorry, I had been in all day, and Helen Jones just asked me to come to the post with her, and when I came back there was a motor at the door, and——"

"She came!" exclaimed Mrs. Graham. "And you did not give her my message! Oh, Dorothy!"

Her tone was almost like a cry of pain. Dorothy was startled. "She wouldn't wait, mother, and—and of course it was strange she came to-day when she hasn't called for ages and ages! I didn't think she would, or I wouldn't have gone," she explained.

Mrs. Graham did not argue the point. She lay down on the sofa and closed her eyes. Dorothy longed to ask her about the American cousins, but did not dare. Presently she poured out a cup of tea and brought it to her mother.

"If you take some tea you will feel better, mother," she said softly.

"If I had asked Dick to do something for me he would have done it, Dorothy," said Mrs. Graham bitterly, and without seeming to notice the tea she got up and gathered her things together. "I have a headache," she said. "I am not coming down again. Father will not be home to-night, so you can tell Louisa there will be no need to lay the cloth for dinner. I don't wish any one to come near me." And she went out of the room.

Poor Dorothy felt dreadfully uncomfortable and crestfallen. She had been alone all day, and it did seem such a little thing to go to the post with Helen Jones, who knew all about her costume, and quite agreed with her that it was a 'horrid shame' for people to be so careless as to have fires, when they had the charge of other people's things.

Louisa had scolded her, and been very cross when she came in, but Dorothy really saw no reason why it mattered very much what Miss Addiscombe thought. It wasn't like mother to mind anything like that so much.

Dick came in about half an hour later. He had been home to dinner, and had gone out again to a cricket match.

"Mother has gone to bed," said Dorothy rather importantly. "She doesn't want to be disturbed, and you are not to go to her. She's got a headache, and father isn't coming home."

[Sidenote: Dick's Strange Silence]

Dick looked at her very hard, and without speaking went straight upstairs, listened a little, and opened his mother's door. "He is a tiresome boy!" thought Dorothy; "now mother will think I never told him."

Louisa brought in a poached egg, and some baked apples as he came down again.

"Cook says it's so late, you had better make it your supper, sir," she said.

"Mother wants a hot-water bottle," answered Dick; "she's as cold as ice. I think you or cook had better go up and see about her. Perhaps she'd better have a fire."

"A fire in August! Oh, Dick, how ridiculous!" exclaimed Dorothy.

"All right, sir," said Louisa, taking the indiarubber bottle he had brought down; "don't you worry."

Dick took a book, and planting his elbows on the table, seemed to be reading; in reality he was blinking his eyelashes very hard, to keep back tears.

Dorothy thought the whole world was going mad. As far as she knew the only trouble in it was her own.

"Aren't you going to take any supper, Dick?" she said plaintively.

Dick pushed the egg and apples away, and cutting himself a hunch of bread, went out of the room without speaking.

"Every one is very polite to-night," thought Dorothy. However, she sat down, ate Dick's egg and helped herself to apples with plenty of sugar, and felt a little comforted.

At eight o'clock she went up to bed, glad the tiresome, miserable day was at an end. She trod very softly, but her mother heard her and called her in.

Dorothy was glad, for she spoke in her natural voice and not at all as if she were angry.

She was still dressed and lying on the bed, but her hand, which had frightened Dick by being so cold, was now burning.

"I spoke hastily to you, Dollie," she said. "You didn't know how important it was. I am going to tell you now, dear, for it may be a lesson to you."

Dorothy stood awkwardly by the bed; she didn't like her mother to apologise, and she didn't want the lecture which she imagined was coming.

"Father," said Mrs. Graham, "is in a very bad way indeed. I can't explain to you all about it because you would not understand, but a friend he trusted very much has failed him, and another friend has been spreading false rumours about his business. If he doesn't get enough money to pay his creditors by Saturday he must go bankrupt. Miss Addiscombe was a friend of his long ago. She has not been kind to him lately, and she has always been rude to me. I didn't tell father because I knew he would not let me, but I wrote and told her just how it was, and asked her to let bygones be bygones. I was hoping so much she would come, and if she came she would have lent him the money. She has so much it would mean nothing to her. Then I was disappointed in London. I thought Mr. Meredith would have been there—he is rich too—and my cousin, but he is not over at all: just his wife and daughter, and they are rushing through London. They were so busy we had scarcely time to speak. I half wonder they remembered my existence."

"Oh, mother!" protested Dorothy; and then with great effort: "You could go over to-morrow to Miss Addiscombe, or write, mother; she would understand."

"No, dear. It is no use thinking of it. To offend her once is to offend her always. Besides, I am tired out, and there are only two more days. I have told you because I didn't want it to all come quite suddenly, and you are so wrapt up in yourself, Dollie, you don't notice the way Dick does. If you had told me he had passed, Dorothy, when I came in, I should not have felt quite so bad."

"But I didn't know, mother," said Dorothy. "Dick didn't tell me. Has he passed?"

"Whose fault was it, Dollie? He came home to dinner and found you all alone. Did you ask him how he had got on?"

Dorothy hung her head. Mrs. Graham kissed her. "Well, go to bed and pray for dear father," she said. "It is worse for him than for any of us."

Dorothy felt as if she were choking. When she got to the door she stood hesitating with her hand on the handle.

"I have a hundred pounds in the Bank, mother, that grandma left me. Father can have that if it would be any use." She had made the offer with an effort, for Dorothy liked to have a hundred pounds of her own. What little girl would not? But her mother answered peevishly: "It would be no more use than if you offered him a halfpenny. Don't be foolish."

Dick's door was open and Dorothy went in.

"Isn't it dreadful, Dick!" she said. "What is bankrupt? How much money does father want?"

"About fifteen hundred," said Dick savagely. "It's all that old Pemberton backing out of it. Father wanted to get his patents to Brussels, and he's got medals for them all, but it cost a lot of money and now they are not bought. So the business will go to smash, and he'll lose the patents besides, that's the worst of it!"

"Dick," said Dorothy wistfully, "don't you think it would be better if father attended to his proper business and stopped inventing things when it costs so much?"

Dick sprang up with blazing eyes.

"You little brute!" he said, "go out of my room. No, I don't. Father's the cleverest and best man in the world. He can't help being a genius!"

[Sidenote: The Last Straw]

This was Dorothy's last straw; she went away and threw herself, dressed, on her bed, sobbing as if her heart would break. And only this morning she thought she was miserable because her new dress had not come.

Dorothy cried till she could cry no longer, and then she got up and slowly undressed. The house was very still. A clock somewhere was striking ten, and it seemed to Dorothy as if it were the middle of the night. She was cold now as her mother had been, but no one was likely to come to her. She felt alone and frightened, and as if a wall had descended between her and Dick, and her mother and father. Among all the other puzzling and dreadful things, nothing seemed so strange to Dorothy as that Dick showed better than herself. He had gone up to mother when he was told not, and yet it was right (even Dorothy could understand that) for him to disobey her, and she had just gone to the post, and all this dreadful thing would come of it. Dorothy had always thought Dick was such a bad boy and she was so good, and now it seemed all the other way. She was father's girl, too, and father was always down on Dick, yet—her eyes filled when she thought of it—Dick was loyal, and had called her a little brute, and mother said it was worst of all for father.

She knelt down by her bed. Until to-night Dorothy had never really felt she needed Jesus as a friend, though she sometimes thought she loved Him. Now it seemed as if she must tell some one, and she wanted Him very, very badly. So she knelt and prayed, and though she cried nearly all the time she felt much happier when she got up.

"I am so selfish. I am so sorry. Please help me!" was the burden of poor Dollie's prayer, but she got into bed feeling as if Jesus had understood, and fell asleep quite calmly.

In the morning Dorothy awoke early. It was scarcely light. It was the first time in her life she had woke to sorrow, and it seemed very dreadful. Yet Dorothy felt humble this morning, and not helpless as she had done last night. She felt as if Someone, much stronger than herself, was going to stand by her and help her through.

[Sidenote: Dorothy's Project]

Lying there thinking, many things seemed plain to her that she had not understood before, and a thought came into her head. It was her fault, and she was the one who should suffer; not father, nor mother, nor Dick. It would not be easy, for Dorothy did not like Miss Addiscombe, and she was afraid of her, but she must go to her.

Directly the thought came into her head Dorothy was out of bed and beginning to dress. And that mysterious clock which she had never heard before was just striking five when she stole like a little white ghost downstairs, carrying her shoes in her hand, and unbolting the side door, slipped out into a strange world which was still fast asleep.

Miss Addiscombe lived ten miles away, but Dorothy did not remember anything about that. All her thought was to get there as soon as possible. One thing, she knew the way, for the flower-show was held in her grounds every year, and Dorothy had always been driven there. It was a nearly straight road.

* * * * *

About ten o'clock that morning a gentleman was driving along the high-road when he suddenly pulled up his horse and threw the reins to the groom. It had been quite cool when Dorothy started, but now it was very hot, and there seemed no air at all. A little girl in a white frock was lying by the roadside.

He stooped over her and felt her pulse, and Dorothy opened large, startled blue eyes.

"What is it, my dear?" he said.

"I am dying, I think," said Dorothy. "Tell mother I did try."

He lifted her into his trap and got in beside her, telling the groom to drive on, and wondering very much. Dorothy gave a great sigh and began to feel better.

"I think it is because I had no breakfast," she said. "Perhaps I am dying of hunger."

The gentleman smiled, and searched his pockets. After a time he found some milk chocolate. Dorothy would rather have had water, but he made her eat a little. Then he took off her hat and gloves, and with a cool, soft handkerchief pushed back the hair that was clinging about her damp forehead and carefully wiped her face.

"You'll feel better now," he said, fanning her with her hat, and putting it on again, as if he had never done anything but dress little girls in his life.

Dorothy smiled with a great sigh of relief, and the gentleman smiled too. "Now tell us all about it," he said in a friendly way. "Where do you live, and where are you going?"

When Dorothy told him he looked very much surprised, and at the same time interested, and before she knew what she was about, he had drawn from her the whole story, and the more she told him the more surprised and interested he became.

"What was the name of the friend who failed your father?" he said at last, but Dorothy could not remember.

"Was it Pemberton?" he suggested.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Pemberton," said Dorothy. "At least, Dick said so."

"You don't happen to be Addiscombe Graham's little daughter," he said with a queer look, "do you?"

"Father's name is Richard Addiscombe," said Dorothy doubtfully.

"Well, the best thing you can do now is to come home with me and get some breakfast," he said. "It is no use going to the Park, for I have just been to the station, and Miss Addiscombe was there, with all her luggage, going off to the Continent."

Poor Dorothy's heart sank like lead.

"Oh, dear!" she said, "then it's been no use. Poor father!" and her eyes filled with tears.

The gentleman did not speak, and in a few minutes they drove in at the gates of a beautiful country house, and he lifted her down and took her in with him, calling out "Elizabeth!"

A tall girl, about eighteen, came running to him, and after whispering to her for a minute, he left Dorothy in her charge, and went into the room where his wife was sitting.

"I thought you had gone to town?" she said.

[Sidenote: Mr. Lawrence's Mistake]

"Providentially, no," he said, so gravely that she looked surprised. "Do you remember Addiscombe Graham, dear?"

"Has anything happened to him?" said Mrs. Lawrence. "I have just been reading about him in the paper; all his life-saving appliances have had gold medals at the exhibition. What is it, Edward? Of course, I know you are a friend of his."

"A Judas sort of friend," said Mr. Lawrence. "Do you know what I've done? I've nearly landed him in the Bankruptcy Court. Pemberton told me a few weeks ago he had promised to give him some spare cash that would be loose at the end of the year, and I persuaded him to put it in something else. I said, 'Graham doesn't want it, he's simply coining over his inventions,' and I thought it too. Now it appears he was counting on that money to pull him through the expenses."

The tall girl took Dorothy upstairs to a beautiful bathroom, got her warm water, and asked if she would like a maid to do her hair.

After a little while she came for her again and took her into a very pretty room, where there was a dainty little table laid for breakfast.

"When you have finished," she said, "just lie on the sofa and rest. I am sorry I can't stay with you, but I must go and feed the peacocks."



Dorothy took a little toast and tea, but she did not feel so very hungry after all, and for a time was quite glad to lie down on the couch. Once or twice she got up and looked out of the window. Her girl hostess was moving across the lawn. She had evidently been feeding the peacocks, and was now gathering flowers. How pleasant all this wealth and comfort seemed to Dorothy! And then, by comparison, she was feeling so miserable!

Everything was quite quiet in the house save for the telephone bell, which kept sounding in the hall. Then she heard Mr. Lawrence calling out: "Are you there? Look sharp! Yes, to-day. Money down! Do you understand?" Then he would ring off and call up some one else. Last of all his voice changed from a business tone to a very friendly one. "Are you there? What cheer, old chap? That's all right! I'll see you through. Two o'clock, Holborn Restaurant."

Dorothy could not hear what was said on the other side. How surprised she would have been if she had known the last conversation was with her own father!

Then a very kind-looking lady came in and kissed her. "The motor is round," she said. "I'm so glad to have seen you, dear. We all admire your father very much."

Dorothy felt bewildered but followed her out, and there was a lovely motor, and her friend in it!

"You won't faint by the way this time," he said, "eh? Now, if you can keep your own counsel, little lady, you may hear some good news to-night."

They were tearing along the level road already, and almost in a flash, it seemed to Dorothy, they were passing the church of her own village.

"Oh, please let me get out!" she said to Mr. Lawrence in an agony. "If mother heard the motor she might think it was Miss Addiscombe, and be so disappointed. You have been kind, very, very kind, but I can't help thinking about father."

He let her out, and waving his hand, was soon off and out of sight. Dorothy walked slowly and sadly home. It seemed as if she had been away for days, and she was half afraid to go in, but to her surprise nothing seemed to have happened at all. Only Dick came rushing out, and, to her surprise, kissed her.

[Sidenote: A Heroine]

"I say, Dollie!" he began, "where have you been? You gave me an awful fright. Don't tell any one I called you a brute."

"Is mother frightened?" said Dollie. "I—I meant to help, but I've done nothing."

"How could you help?" said Dick, surprised. "Mother stayed in bed; she is only getting up now."

A boy came up with a telegram. Dick took it and after holding it a moment tore it open.

"Oh, Dick!" expostulated Dorothy, "opening mother's telegram!"

But Dick threw his cap high up in the air, and shouted "Jubilate!" Then he rushed up the stairs, Dorothy timidly following.

This was the wire:

"See daylight. Meeting Lawrence at Holborn Restaurant.—FATHER."

"Don't shut Dorothy out," said Mrs. Graham, holding the yellow paper, and with tears of joy standing in her eyes. "Why, my little girl, how pale you are! I wish I had not told you. You need never have known. Mr. Lawrence is just the man."

"Oh, mother!" said Dorothy, springing into her arms, and beginning to laugh and cry at once, yet happier than she had ever been in her life before. "But if you hadn't told me it couldn't have happened."

When Mr. Lawrence and father came down together that evening and the whole story was told, Dorothy, to her surprise, found when thinking least about herself she had suddenly become a heroine, even in the eyes of Dick.



[Sidenote: A very unusual hunting episode, that nearly ended in a tragedy.]

A Strange Moose Hunt

BY

HENRY WILLIAM DAWSON

Some years ago, while living in Canada, in a village situated on the bank of a large river, I was a spectator of a moose hunt of a most novel and exciting character.

That you may the better understand what I am going to relate I will first introduce you to our village Nimrod.

As his real name is no concern of ours I will here give him his popular nickname of "Ramrod," a name by which he was well known not only in our village but for a considerable distance around. It was conferred upon him, I suppose, because he walked so upright and stiff, and also perhaps because he at one time had worn the Queen's uniform.

A queer old stick was Ramrod. He knew a little of most mechanical things and was for ever tinkering at something or other, useful or otherwise as the case might be. He could also "doctor" a sick cow or dog, and was even known to have successfully set the broken leg of an old and combative rooster.

His mechanical turn of mind was continually leading him to the construction of the most wonderful arrangements of wood and iron ever seen. In fact, his operations in this direction were only held in check by one want, but that a great one, namely, the want of a sufficiency of cash.

[Sidenote: A Mystery]

Now for the greater part of one spring Ramrod had shut himself up in his woodshed, and there he was heard busy with hammer and saw all day long, except when called forth by the tinkle of the little bell attached to the door of his shop, where almost anything might have been purchased.

Many were the guesses as to "what can Ramrod be up to now?" And often did we boys try to catch a glimpse of what was going on within that mysterious shed; but in vain. Ramrod seemed to be always on the alert, and the instant an intrusive boy's head appeared above the first dusty pane of the small window by which the shed was lighted, it was greeted with a fierce and harsh gar-r-ar-r-r, often accompanied with a dash of cold water, which the old fellow always seemed to have in readiness.

But one day as a lot of youngsters were down on the river bank preparing for an early swim they were startled by the advent of another lad, who, with scared looks and awful voice, declared that Ramrod was "making his own coffin," and that he, the boy, had seen it with his own eyes.

The rumour spread, and many were the visits paid that afternoon to the little shop by the river.

But Ramrod kept his secret well, and baffled curiosity had to return as wise as it came. Ramrod was determined that his work should not be criticised until completed. He had evidently heard the saying that "women, children, and fools should not be allowed to see a thing until finished."

At last one day the great work was completed, and turned out to be, not a coffin, but what the happy builder called a boat. But to call it a boat was a misnomer, for the thing was to be propelled not by oars but by a paddle.

And certainly through all the ages since the construction of the ark of Noah was never such a boat as this. It would be impossible to convey in words a true idea of what the craft was like. Perhaps to take an ordinary boat, give it a square stern, a flat bottom without a keel, and straight sides tapering to a point at the bow, would give an approximate idea of what the thing actually was, and also how difficult to navigate.

The winter had been unusually uneventful. Nothing had happened to break the cold monotony of our village life, so that when one day an excited and panting individual rushed up the river bank screaming out "A moose, a moose in the river!" it was only natural that we should all be thrown into a state of ferment.

Some who possessed firearms rushed off to get them out, while others ran along the bank seeking a boat.

As, however, the ice having only just "run," the boats and punts ordinarily fringing the river were still all up in the various barns and sheds where they had been stowed at the close of navigation, their efforts were in vain, and they could only stand fuming and casting longing eyes at the now retreating moose.

For of course the animal had turned as soon as he perceived the hubbub which his appearance under such unusual circumstances had created. Instead, therefore, of crossing the river, it now made for an island which was about half a mile out in the stream.

It had a good distance to swim, however, before it could accomplish that, and in the meantime preparations were being made a short way up the river which promised serious trouble for Mr. Moose.

Of course, you may be sure that Ramrod had caught the excitement with the rest of us, and was equally desirous of the capture of the moose. But he was a modest man and would let others have a chance first.

After a little while, though, when it became evident that unless something was done pretty soon the moose would escape, it was noticed that he became graver, and that his face wore a puzzled look of uncertainty.

[Sidenote: Ramrod's "Coffin"]

All at once, however, the doubt vanished, and Ramrod started off towards his house as fast as his long stiff legs would carry him.

When he emerged he bore in one hand an ordinary rope halter, with a noose at one end, just such a halter as was used by all the farmers for securing their horses to their stalls. In his other hand was a paddle, and with these harmless-looking implements he was about to start in chase of the moose.

Quickly proceeding to the river bank, he drew out from beneath a clump of bushes the "coffin," and, unheeding alike the warnings of the elders and derisive shouts of the youngsters, elicited by the appearance of his curious-looking craft, he knelt down in the stern and set out on his perilous adventure.

But he had not gone far before it was seen that something was wrong.

The boat had a will of its own, and that will was evidently exerted in direct opposition to the will of its owner.

It went, but how? No schoolboy ever drew a truer circle with a bit of string and a slate-pencil than that cranky craft made on the placid surface of the river each time Ramrod put a little extra strength into his stroke.